Lions and Lace

by Meagan Mckinney

  “You’re a genelman now, Pete. We got money. We don’t ride shotgun no more. Soon as we get to St. Louie, we gonna buy us some clothes and be genelmen once and fer all.”

  “We ain’t got no escort, just the driver and the shotgun. What if we get stopped? This is Sioux territory. And them Cheyennes, everybody knows they’re all riled up—”

  “Noble’s spittin’ distance from here. They don’t need you, Pete. That’s what we paid ’em fer. And what you gonna do when we get on that there locomotive in St. Louie? Try and push it fer ’em?”

  “Aw, Pa,” Pete groaned. He gave an embarrassed glance in Christal’s direction; then, as if he was glad for her veil, he turned to the window, appearing to scout for braves.

  Indians. Her scalp tingled every time anyone even said the word. In the territory she’d crossed she’d heard bloodcurdling stories about the Kootenai, Flathead, Shoshone, Blackfoot. They were horrible stories, stories that gave her nightmares. But nightmares weren’t so bad when one was living a nightmare. She wasn’t afraid of Indians.

  Then the coach stopped.

  At first no one knew what had happened. There was just a silence, a stagnant pause that held nothing but the flavor of anxiety. A pair of boots thudded against the top of the stage, but Christal realized that was only the man who rode shotgun shifting position.

  “Why have we stopped?” Mr. Glassie asked, clutching his bureau and looking around as if someone inside the coach would know the answer.

  “We ain’t s’pose to stop at Dry Fork.” The grizzled man in the blue vest frowned, then poked his head out the window. He opened his mouth to shout at the driver, but for some reason the words collapsed in his throat. When he drew back inside the coach, the muzzle of a rifle was pointed directly at his nose.

  Christal gripped her purse until her knuckles were white. Suddenly all those stories of Indians and outlaws came back to her with an immediacy that left her stunned. Her mouth went dry. Through the mist of her veil she saw the preacher slam his Bible shut, shock, not inebriation, slackening his features. Pete looked as if he were foolishly about to take on whoever held his father at gunpoint. Outside, she heard the horses stamp, nervous with strangers in their midst. A second later the sound of a scuffle battered the top of the coach. There was a sudden silence; then a rifle thudded to the ground.

  A hand, a very un-Indian grimy white hand, reached inside the coach and unlatched the door. Christal drew back in fear. A scuffed boot came up to rest on the threshold, and its owner leaned on his knee. “Howdy, folks.” The man smiled, showing a mouthful of bad teeth. He was unshaven and dirty, with mean dull eyes that quickly surveyed the passengers. When he saw his threat registered, he laughed.

  “Is this a holdup?” Mr. Glassie gasped, holding his miniature bureau like a shield.

  From behind the black veil Christal watched the outlaw, her heart hammering in her chest as if it would break free of her corset.

  “Cain!” the outlaw shouted, lowering the rifle. “They want to know if’n this is a holdup!” He laughed again and pulled his bandanna over his face to mock them.

  “See here,” Mr. Glassie blustered, but before he could get out the words the outlaw was pulled aside and another took his place.

  Christal had never seen such a man before. As an outlaw, he looked much like the other one, taller perhaps and more broadly built, but he was unshaven, with several days’ growth of dark beard on his chin. His shirt was dusty and worn, a faded scarlet bandanna was tied around his neck, available to cover his face should the need arise. But he was different, memorable, more dangerous than the other man. His eyes made her heart stop. She had never seen such steely eyes, eyes that made it feel like January in July.

  “Men outside,” he grunted. Those eyes turned to Christal, pinning her to her seat. She knew he couldn’t see her face beneath the veil, but that was small comfort as she squirmed beneath the chilling gaze.

  To her relief he turned away to direct the male passengers. Her shoulders slumped after the assault of that stare, and she expelled the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

  “Is this a holdup?” Mr. Glassie persisted, unwilling to remove himself from the coach until the situation was clearer. “As you men can see, we’ve a lady on board. We can’t just trot off this coach and leave her behind without someone—”

  “I said men outside.” The outlaw with the cold gray eyes shot Mr. Glassie a glance of ice. The salesman didn’t need more than that to convince him to relinquish his bureau and get out of the stage.

  One by one, they filed out. Pete kept a defiant look on his face, as if to say “I ain’t afraid of you.” His father looked anxious, as if he’d come so far only to have all his dreams dashed in a robbery. From the window Christal looked at the preacher. His hands were shaking as he held them over his head. Her own hands were slick with cold sweat as she held on to the window.

  She looked in the distance, hopelessly seeking help. The bridge at Dry Fork was obviously where these outlaws had been hiding as their target had rolled toward them. Christal spied their horses tied beneath the bridge. She counted five.

  “… am a representative of the Paterson Furniture Company of Paterson, New Jersey, and my company shall hear about this outrageous treatment, my good fellows!” Mr. Glassie announced as the first outlaw searched him for weapons. The second, the one with the steely eyes, patted down the old man’s blue vest while Pete glared.

  “I’m a poor man, a poor man, mister,” Pete’s father chanted while being searched. “Ain’t no need in stealing from me ’cause I’m a poor man.”

  “No weapons, Cain,” the first outlaw called out.

  Cain, the man with the steely eyes, nodded. He lifted up Pete’s coat. Finding a six-shooter stuck in the waistband of the boy’s jeans, he took it and pushed the boy aside.

  “Listen up.” Cain shot a couple of times into the air. Everyone gave him full attention, including the driver and the man who rode shotgun, who were now on the ground. “You men’ll be walking the rest of the way. Just follow behind the stage.” Cain looked to the two riders who were bringing the horses up from the Dry Fork bridge. “The boys’ll see you get there.”

  “Where?” Pete asked bravely.

  Cain shot him a stare. “A town called Falling Water. You ever heard of it, kid?”

  Pete hardened his chin. “Sure. It’s a damn ghost town. Nobody been there for years.”

  “That’s right. But you’ll be there.”

  “You kidnapping us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Christal clutched the door, waiting for the answer. She wondered whether this was merely a simple robbery, or something more complicated and sinister. Her mind played out one scenario after another. The worst was that somehow, some way, she’d been found by her uncle.

  “The Overland Express has its payroll coming in Tuesday. We’re holding you all for ransom.” Cain stuck the kid’s six-shooter into the waist of his own chaps. “You men walk behind the stage. If you get outta line, Zeke here’s got permission to bullwhip you.” The man named Zeke edged his sorrel toward the group. In his right hand was an enormous, wicked-looking whip, the kind that could easily flick the skin from a man’s back.

  Christal watched the numb horror seep into the other passengers’ expressions. She was frightened, but she took consolation in knowing that her uncle wasn’t behind any of this. If Baldwin Didier had found her, she wouldn’t live to see tomorrow. With these outlaws, she had some chance.

  “You can’t hold us that long! Tuesday’s four days away!” Mr. Glassie exclaimed, obviously thinking of his accounts.

  Cain shrugged, obviously not caring.

  “Who are you, my good man, that you think you can do this to us?”

  “Macaulay Cain.”

  Pete gasped. “Macaulay Cain! Macaulay Cain was hanged in Landen over a month ago!”

  “Some say that.”

  “And some say Macaulay Cain got out of
the hangin’ and met up with the Kineson gang. Is this here the Kineson gang?” the boy’s father inquired, dread on his face.

  “It could be, and if you’re right, you’d best not be causing trouble.” Cain’s words were so low, Christal wouldn’t have been able to hear them if he weren’t standing right next to the stage. The menace that edged the man’s raw voice sent a chill down her spine. She quickly saw she had been too confident. These men were outlaws. They’d done awful things, perhaps even killed men. They were wanted, desperate. And she was a woman alone.

  Another man rode up from the bridge. Leading the last two horses by their reins, he hitched the two to the coach and fell in with Zeke. Christal was nearly hanging out the window when Zeke pushed the six men, including the driver and the shotgun, to the back of the coach where she could no longer see them.

  Christal bit her lip and resumed her seat. If there were two horses hitched, one of them belonged to the outlaw who would be driving the carriage. That left one other gang member either to walk or … to ride in the carriage with her.

  A sudden overwhelming panic seized her, and she wanted to run out of the coach and fall in with the other passengers. She didn’t want to be alone in the stagecoach. More than that, she didn’t want to ride with one of the outlaws, particularly the one with the cold gray eyes.

  “You better treat that widow right. We ain’t gonna stand for you mistreatin’ her,” she heard Pete demand from behind the carriage. His words tugged at her heart. He was brave to say such things. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had cared about her welfare.

  The sound of a high-pitched laugh crawled down her spine. “She’ll be all right. She’s going to ride with me.”

  “I’ll be riding with her.” A second voice brooked no debate.

  There was a long, resentful pause before the other outlaw said, “Sure, Cain. You go ahead and get a peek at her. She’s probably too old to fiddle with anyway.”

  The coach creaked as the iron-clad wheels waited to roll again. The number of horses had doubled, and there was that much more jangling of harnesses. Zeke cracked the bullwhip, but it must have been for intimidation because none of the passengers cried out. Still, the sound reverberated over the open prairie like a gunshot.

  Christal’s heart hammered with dread. She had a small muff pistol in her purse, so named because ladies in London carried such miniature guns hidden in their muffs when they were forced to walk through less than savory neighborhoods. But she had only been able to afford the pistol because it was more than fifty years old and carried only one shot, unlike the modern repeating gun. It would be foolish for her to reveal the gun now, in the coach surrounded by outlaws. Her only chance was to swallow her fear and wait. So she clutched her small grosgrain bag and watched the door open.

  The outlaw named Cain jumped in, rifle and all. He slammed the door behind him and knocked twice on the roof with the butt of his rifle, and the stagecoach lurched to a start. Without acknowledging her, he slouched down on the dusty velvet seat opposite, kicking Mr. Glassie’s prized bureau to the center of the coach so he could stretch his legs out on it.

  She stared at him through the veil, her blood thrumming with fear. He rested his rifle across his knees, drawing her eyes to the length and power of his legs. He wore chaps, the leather rubbed smooth along the inside of the thighs from long hours in the saddle. The brass spurs lashed to his boots irreverently scarred the fine wood of the bureau. He was dirty, covered in dust and sweat. His presence filled the carriage with the scent of fired gunpowder, which stained his hands and shirt. She expected a bad animal-odor from him, as she would have from that first outlaw who had the rotten teeth. Instead there was a musky kind of man smell to him that repelled her and intrigued her at the same time.

  It was hot in the carriage. The sun was now at high noon, and the dust kicked into the window with a new ferocity. Christal longed to pat away the perspiration on her face, but she didn’t. She kept her hand on her purse, her palm curved against the pistol’s curled handle, and watched him covertly from behind the veil. The sweat trickled down her temples and between her corseted breasts.

  He stared out the window, rubbing the sweat from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he pulled at the faded scarlet bandanna, untying it so that he could wipe his face.

  She gasped. The man’s neck was circled with an angry ragged scar. She could think of only one thing that could give a man a scar like that.

  That cold, steely gaze riveted on her. He touched his neck and flashed a cynical smile, revealing strong white teeth.

  He leaned toward her. “You ever felt the noose around your neck, ma’am?” His laugh was rumbling and husky.

  Unconsciously, her hand went to her neck. The other hand, the hand with the scar hidden by her black glove, curled as if to protect itself. She swallowed, not wanting to think of her past, of Baldwin Didier. Her uncle wanted to dance on her grave. He would have seen her hanged if he could have. Instead she’d been spared by her youth. She’d been in Park View Asylum until three years ago.

  The outlaw sat back and perused her black-clad figure. Without warning, he raised his rifle and pointed it at her. Her heart stilled. She waited for him to pull the trigger, but he put the muzzle beneath her veil and began to lift it.

  Her gloved hands gripped the barrel to stop him. She needed the protection of the veil. Just looking into those eyes told her so. She didn’t want him to see her face. She didn’t want to be that vulnerable.

  She slapped at the gun, but he held it firm. Suddenly trapped by the terror of the looming muzzle, she stared at him, still hidden by the gauzy black material.

  He tipped up the veil. In a flash, the netting was up and off her face.

  Surprise and appreciation flared in his eyes. He clearly didn’t expect what he saw, a blond nineteen-year-old girl whose eyes clashed defiantly with his.

  He didn’t say a word. They stared at each other for one long moment, each assessing the other. She was afraid, but experience had taught her never to show fear. She presented a face as haughty and cold as a marble statue, an easy task for a girl bred of the aristocracy of Knickerbocker New York. He stared right back, an enigmatic expression in his eyes.

  She turned her face away and gazed out the window, dismissing him as she might a servant.

  He placed the barrel against her cheek and forced her to turn her head back to him.

  Her eyes glittered with anger and fear. She met his gaze once more. His eyes were as cold and steely as the smooth rifle barrel laid across her cheek. Then he did the strangest thing. Slowly he lowered his rifle. Her heart lurched when he reached over, but he did so only to cover her face once more with the veil. He sat back, gave her one inexplicable glance, and again looked out the window, absorbed in thought.

  “Why did they hang you?” she gasped.

  He turned back to her, his gaze slamming into hers as if the veil were no longer there. She believed his every word. “’Cause maybe I needed hanging.”

  She drew back against the seat, her fear a small choking sound in her throat. His smile was both mirthless and satisfied. Then he resumed looking out at the wide stretch of prairie as if she were no longer there.

  Chapter Two

  The ride became hilly as they headed west and the flat prairie of sage and wheatgrass grew vertical into forests of lodgepole pine. Through the open window, Christal could hear the other passengers grunting and cursing to keep up with the stage, but as the terrain grew difficult, their voices became more and more faint. Until silence reigned.

  The stage climbed into the threshold of the Rockies. Granite peaks iced with snow towered in the distance, and atop one particularly steep incline of the road where the backbone of mountains melted into sky, Christal swore she could see into heaven. But the going was difficult, and she had little time to be in awe of her surroundings. The coach lurched and lunged along an ill-used path, and she spent most of her attention clinging to her seat in fear she might l
and on the floor, or worse, in the outlaw’s arms.

  Finally, the stage lurched to a stop. She stole a glance out the window; all she could see were more pines, more boulders, and the rocky trail ahead, pitted and gorged by the weather. Frightened, she turned accusing eyes to the outlaw sitting in front of her.

  Cain removed his booted feet from Mr. Glassie’s prized bureau, hardly disturbed by the rough ride. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he threw open the door and motioned for her to get out of the stage.

  Half of her was desperate to scramble out to see if the other passengers had caught up, but the other half didn’t want to move and risk releasing her grip on the handle of the pistol inside her purse.

  “I don’t see your feet moving, ma’am.”

  She stared at him. Even through her veil, she could see those amazingly cold eyes. Bravely, she stepped out of the stagecoach.

  To her surprise they were in a town. There were three buildings ahead, two of them decrepit and skeletal, blue sky peeking through the walls like pieces of a puzzle. The third had once been a saloon, but the top of its false front had long ago tumbled to the ground and blocked the entrance. She raised her hand to shut out the sun’s glare. A sign still hung over the saloon’s swinging doors, so full of bullet holes it was illegible. The sound of rushing water from the gorge behind the saloon was the only clue to her whereabouts. They had said they were taking them to a ghost town named Falling Water. Clearly they had arrived.

  She turned to look at her captor. None of the other passengers was visible down the dusty road, but three men with shotguns appeared from behind the saloon. Cain stared at them, his expression unreadable.

  “Where are the rest?” one of the men asked, an outdated Sharps rifle crossed over his chest, ready.

  Cain jerked his head in the direction of the road. “Coming.”

  The men let out a holler, then picked their way forward through the fallen planking, their uneasiness melting into jubilation.