“I plan to become—”
“For God’s sake, didn’t I tell you to keep still?” Sounding angry now, Miss Mabel went on with her quiet muttering. “So, perhaps you think you’ll set up house somewhere and Roy will come by every couple of months, like a clockwork. You’ll pretend that your husband is out at sea, or a drover on the trail, and you’ll bring up a litter of children all on your own, perhaps working in a store to make ends meet, happy in your part-time marriage...” Miss Mabel straightened by the bedside and her tone grew brusque. “There, all done now.”
Celia looked up. “Why would you mock such a dream?”
“I’m not mocking your dream, if that is what you are dreaming of. I’m trying to warn you that reality might turn out different.” Miss Mabel clipped the lid back on the jar. When she turned to deposit the jar on the bedside table, Celia caught the glint of tears in the older woman’s eyes. Understanding hit her with a jolt.
“You did it,” she said in a low voice. “You chose that kind of life and something went wrong.”
Miss Mabel hesitated. She fingered the lace at the end of her sleeves, then seemed to shrink as she let out a long, shaky sigh. “His name was Jim Rowland. He was wanted for a stagecoach robbery. Not for murder. Never murder.
“For seven years, we lived like that. Every time someone spotted him, we moved on, to some other town, just to make sure. We had a little boy...Johnny...and then, one night, when Jim came to see me, there was an incident in town...a fire at the livery stable. Jim stopped to help, and in the light of the flames someone saw his face, recognized him from a wanted poster.
“They came for him before dawn. We had a small cabin on the outskirts of town. Just one room, with a sleeping loft above. The posse rode up outside, holding lighted torches, and they yelled for him to come out, his hands held high. We’d always agreed that if that ever happened—if the law caught up with him—he’d give himself up without a fight.
“So Jim called back to say that he’d come out, he would just get his clothes on first. We had been in bed, and we were naked. But the men in the posse were drunk and trigger-happy. They decided it was a ruse and stormed the cabin. They fired at Jim while he was balanced on one foot, pulling on his trousers.”
A shiver ran through Celia. “Dear God. Did he die?”
Miss Mabel shook her head from side to side, silent tears streaming down her face. “Not from the bullet. They took him to a doctor. Kept him alive, just so that they could hang him with all the pomp and fanfare that goes with those occasions. But my little boy died. Some of the men who burst into the cabin were firing their pistols in the air, just for the fun of it. Johnny was sleeping in the loft. A stray bullet hit him. I found him in the morning...after...after the men in the posse had finished with me and tossed me back on the cabin doorstep.”
Celia lifted her hand toward the weeping woman, not quite touching—a comforting gesture that in its very futility summed up the helplessness of any consolation against the memory of such pain, such loss and suffering. “Oh, Miss Mabel,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t help. Being careful might.” With a snap of her spine that made her green satin gown rustle, Miss Mabel appeared to collect herself. “I’m not in the habit of spilling my grief out to strangers, but you need to be warned. Don’t choose such a life, unless you have the guts to watch your man die. Unless you have the guts to be branded an outlaw’s woman and be treated with the lack of respect it invites.” The older woman got to her feet and took a step toward the door. “Get dressed now. You’ll need to ride out as soon as you’ve had your breakfast.”
As Celia watched Miss Mabel go, she caught a movement in the corridor outside, heard a muffled greeting. Then Roy walked into the room. The grim expression on his face told Celia that he had been listening, had heard Miss Mabel talking about her past—a past that might be an indication of what they could expect in their future if they were foolish enough to seek a shared life.
* * *
Celia didn’t try to engage Roy in conversation as they took their leave, got on their horses and rode off into the maze of red rock canyons. The narrow passages that scored the barren plateau branched off, petered out and bisected one another, like a labyrinth. Despite the confusing trails, Roy appeared to know his way to the hideout, although sometimes he had to pause and study the symbols chiseled into the rock.
When the sun was directly overhead, they paused for lunch. Roy lifted Celia down from the saddle. She could feel a new tension in him, could read the bleakness in his expression. For an instant, she clung to his shoulders and asked the question that weighed on her mind.
“Do you regret bringing me with you?”
“No.” Roy stepped away to rummage in his saddlebags and spoke with his back to her. “There is no point in regretting the past. It can’t be changed. But I worry about the future. That I may have some influence over. And as soon as you’ve collected the money you’re owed I want you out of here.”
“But—”
He turned to face her. “No buts, Celia. From now on, you obey orders.”
“I...” Her words petered into silence. There was an edge to Roy’s manner she found unsettling. Perhaps it was what lay ahead, their arrival into the outlaw camp, but instinct told her it was more. Something troubled him. She had sensed the change in him after he had overheard her conversation with Miss Mabel, when the older woman had talked about the tragic death of her husband and young son.
“All right,” she said quietly. “I shall obey.”
And she would obey. And she would ride out, leaving Roy behind. But before they said their farewells, they would make plans for how she could keep in touch with him, to let him know how she was managing their joint investments. It might be merely a business relationship, but she would relish that small bond, that sense of togetherness.
* * *
Frowning, Roy scanned the trail ahead. Hearing Miss Mabel talk about the horrors of her past had stirred the ugly memories. It had been the first hanging he’d ever witnessed. Afterward, he’d been sick on a street corner, shaken by the cruelty of the occasion, racked with pity for the grieving widow. The thought that such a fate might one day befall Celia if he tried to hold on to her filled Roy with a grim determination to send her away. With enough money to use as a starting stake for her financial speculations, she would be safe, could build a comfortable life for herself, isolated from the dangers of the outlaw life.
However, apart from the past horrors and future uncertainties, another worry churned around in Roy’s mind—the curious fact that Lom Curtis and his men had not ridden out to Miss Mabel’s Sunset Saloon in weeks. It made no sense. And, as if trouble had to come in packs of three, how would Celia react to learning the truth about her father?
His nerves increasingly on edge, Roy led the way deeper and deeper into the ragged canyon breaks. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was already sinking in the sky, they entered a narrow gorge. A rifle shot echoed in the air. Roy pulled Dagur to a halt. From the top of a tall buttress ahead came a coarse shout, “Who goes there?”
“Roy Hagan. Red Bluff Gang.”
“Wait there.” Two more rifle shots shattered the quiet.
Surprised, Roy wheeled his mount around and faced Celia. “This is not normal practice. Be careful. Something is going on. Stay behind me.” He pulled one of his pistols out of the holster and wheeled Dagur around again, pointing the horse in the direction of the hideout.
Hoof beats drummed in the distance, slowing down as a rider entered the gorge from the opposite end. A gleaming bay gelding with four white socks pranced into sight. In the saddle, the rider sat proudly, dressed all in black, a silver band gleaming in his hat.
Roy holstered his gun, twisted around to call out to Celia. “It’s Dale Hunter. He’s a friend, a good friend. No need to worry.”
Dale trotted over. Lith
e and dark, he had a wedge-shaped face and green, catlike eyes that never missed a thing. He wore his jet-black straight hair long enough to skim his shoulders. His handsome looks came from his mother’s well-connected Creole family, but to protect his identity he liked to pepper his speech with Spanish, passing for a Mexican.
“How are you, amigo. Got yourself a wife?”
“No.” Roy glanced back at Celia. “She’s a lady. Not for the likes of us.”
Dale Hunter grinned. “Speak for yourself.” His expression grew serious. “Where you been, amigo? No one knew what happened to you.”
“Got laid up. Lom Curtis put a bullet in me. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Didn’t have the time. Lom Curtis is dead.”
Dead. A thrill went through Roy. If Lom Curtis was dead, it might be possible to break away from the Red Bluff Gang. All those dreams that had seemed unattainable before suddenly appeared much closer, perhaps even within reach.
“Don’t think you can dance on his grave,” Dale Hunter went on. “The man from Prescott has arrived to impose order. He goes by the handle Mr. Smith. Wears a wig and a fake beard, so ill-fitting it must be his intention to make everyone aware he’s in disguise.” Dale’s dark eyes flickered over to Celia. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the senorita? If you ain’t marrying her, I might take her off your hands.”
Roy couldn’t help but laugh at Dale’s carefree prattle. “Her name is Celia Courtwood. And, as I already told you, she’s not for the likes of us. She has some business at the camp, and when that is taken care of she’ll ride out again.”
Dale feigned disappointment. Then his expression sharpened. “I can’t be seen talking to you for too long, so I’ll be quick. Lom Curtis got into an argument with Big Kate and hit her so hard she fell against a rock and cracked her skull. Miss Gabriela tried to intervene and Curtis let her taste his fist. The big Swede, Andersen, got mad. He shot Lom Curtis and claimed Miss Gabriela for himself. Two weeks later, Mr. Smith appeared. You recall how we used to puzzle where Lom Curtis went every Friday? I reckon he rode to the nearest telegraph office and wired a report to Prescott. When no message came through, Mr. Smith knew there was trouble in paradise and came out to do a bit of housekeeping.”
“Is he paying the men their cut?”
“You won’t believe this, but he acts like an accountant, keeping books and asking the men to sign a receipt when they collect their share from the take.”
“Do you think he might allow me to cash in and pull out?”
Dale made a sour face. “Forget it. He is worse than Lom Curtis ever was. Why do you think he keeps such careful records? If he can’t kill you, at least he can get you convicted so you’ll spend the rest of your days at the penitentiary.” With a mocking salute, Dale Hunter turned his horse around and trotted off, leaving his warning hanging like a dust cloud in the air.
* * *
As they rode out of the gorge, Celia caught a glimpse of the rifleman standing at the top of the tall buttress. Short and stocky, he appeared unkempt, dressed in tattered clothing. The way his eyes followed her, like a raptor stalking its prey, sent shivers up her spine.
They emerged into a narrow, almost-treeless valley with a creek running through the center. At first glance, it might have appeared to be an ordinary ranch. A single-story main building. A bunkhouse. A cook shack with tables and benches beneath a canopy. Two small cabins. Beyond the buildings, at least two dozen horses pranced in a row of pole corrals.
And men. There were men everywhere. Standing. Sitting. Strolling. Smoking. Talking. And staring. Staring at her, as if they had never seen a woman before.
Celia stiffened in the saddle and gritted her teeth to hide her fear. From the corner of her eye, she surveyed the scene. Upon a closer look, the sense of normalcy vanished. All the men were heavily armed. And it was not ranch chores that occupied them, but gambling and drinking. Only a few were busy with productive tasks: cleaning their guns, mending their tack or seeing to the necessities of existence, such as cooking and chopping firewood.
Dale Hunter stood waiting for them outside the main building. He waved them over and gestured for them to dismount. “Mr. Smith is inside. I’ll take care of your horses.” He moved closer to Roy, lowered his voice. “I’ll see you after you’ve talked to him.”
Her muscles sore after the long ride, Celia stretched her legs. She followed Roy’s example and handed Baldur’s reins to Dale Hunter. Before leading the horses away, he nodded at her and touched the brim of his hat, a gentlemanly gesture that seemed out of place in this gathering of rough, lawless men.
Celia turned to Roy. “Shall I wait outside?”
His expression grew guarded. “You’ll need to come inside with me...and Celia...if you hear something startling, something you find impossible to believe, don’t argue. Just play along. Afterward, I’ll explain. I promise to answer all your questions. Only don’t speak now, in front of Mr. Smith. This is very important.”
Roy’s grave tone added to Celia’s unease. She searched his expression for some hint, some clue of what he expected her to learn, but she found none, only a blank mask that made her instincts riot. She wanted to ask, get the answers before facing the outlaw leader everyone seemed to fear, but the look in Roy’s single blue eye warned her to hold her tongue.
“I understand,” she said quietly. “I will keep quiet.”
“Good,” Roy replied. He turned around and strode toward the entrance.
The house, built of adobe brick, had no porch, but their boots made an ominous click on the stone patio by the front door. Her heart pounding, Celia listened to Roy knock on the thick oak door. She caught a flash of metal and realized a rifle barrel had been pointing out through a slit in the panel. An instant later, the door swung open. The thick timber panel was hinged outward, making it harder for an intruder to ram it down.
The man who opened the door held the rifle level in the crook of his arm, and behind him another man had his pistol out of the holster. Both stepped forward. Celia watched Roy exchange a greeting with each of them.
“Glad to see you’re alive,” said the taller man. Despite the friendly comment, the man’s expression held no joy, his tone no warmth.
The stocky one with square features nodded to Celia and introduced himself as Zeke Davies. Appearing unsure of himself, he cast a nervous glance at the open doorway behind him and moved out of the way to invite them to enter. “Mr. Smith is waiting.”
The house, although neatly constructed, was bare inside. The parlor contained a low wooden table and a pair of crude, homemade armchairs. The windows had no glass, only shutters, which were closed now, allowing in limited daylight. When the man with the rifle closed the front door, they were pitched into near darkness.
“This way.” Davies picked up a lit lantern from the table. He guided them across the room to a closed door and paused to knock on it.
“Who is it?” a voice called from the other side.
“Hagan. Has a woman with him.”
“Take his guns.”
Celia could feel her heart thudding, could feel a dampness coating her palms as she watched Roy unbuckle his gun belt and hand over his pair of pistols. The light from the lantern threw leaping shadows on the walls, creating a confusing, hellish atmosphere that made her fears escalate.
“I’ve got his guns,” Davies called out.
“And the woman?”
Davies flustered. “Ma’am...I’m sorry.” He stepped forward and gingerly patted at her velvet skirts, checking for a firearm hidden beneath. Even in the darkness, Celia could see the mortified flush on the man’s face, could feel the respect in his touch. It occurred to her that Roy might not be the only outlaw with a sense of honor and decency.
“I carry no weapons,” she informed him. “No gun, no knife.”
Davies finished his search and stood straight. “The lady
is clean.”
“All right,” the voice from the other side of the door called. “Let them in.”
The lock clicked, and the door inched open. A big man filled the gap, holding a pointed pistol at waist height. Slowly, he eased backward and swung the door wider. With a small jerk of his gun barrel, he invited them to enter.
The room was equally lacking in daylight, the air stale with smoke and sweat and the lingering odors of consumed meals. The only furniture was a huge desk, a chair behind it and a safe in the far corner. Two lanterns hung on the wall, positioned so that they left the face of the man sitting behind the desk in shadows.
Wasting no time on introductions, Mr. Smith—for the man behind the desk could be none other—launched into questioning Roy about his injuries and how he had recovered from them.
While Celia listened, she studied Mr. Smith. Lean, with the proud carriage of a soldier, he bore the stamp of authority. Between the black beard attached to his chin and the hat brim pulled low and the thick spectacles that shielded his eyes, it would have been impossible to make out his features, even in broad daylight.
Whoever Mr. Smith was, he was going to a great deal of trouble to protect his identity, however, from his voice Celia surmised that he was likely to be well past his youth. The cultured tone and the vocabulary he used revealed him to be an educated man.
He gestured at her. “And the woman...?”
“She is Miss Courtwood,” Roy replied. “The bank teller’s daughter.”
Mr. Smith directed his attention to her. As he turned his head slightly, the lamplight glittered on the lenses of his spectacles, giving Celia a glimpse of the coldest, cruelest gray-green eyes she had ever seen. He tipped his hat to her, and his hair peeked into view, allowing her to determine it to be light brown and wavy. Unless, of course, he was wearing a wig beneath his hat, to complete his disguise.
“Miss Courtwood,” he said. A gentleman’s greeting.
She gave a brief nod to acknowledge the courtesy but offered no reply.
The Outlaw and the Runaway Page 15