by Penny Hayes
Yellowthroat
Penny Hayes
Chapter One
Margarita Sanchez endured the jostling of the mud-wagon with strained patience, motion-sick and longing to be anywhere but a prisoner of its interior. The wagon's six passengers, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee within the box-like structure, their feet propped up uncomfortably on the overflow of lumpy canvas bags of printed matter and express packages from the rear boot, sweated profusely.
With the heavy downpour of this morning, the stock tender at the last swing station had harnessed six mules to the vehicle, a light weight canvas-topped coach that could handle the worst of roads, even one thick with mud like this road. Those continuing further north would not ride the heavier and more comfortable Concord stage again until the roads were dried out by the sun and beaten relatively firm by wide-rimmed wheels. But coach travel, whatever its conditions, would not be troubling Margarita much longer. The next station, now only a few miles away, would be her last coach stop.
Margarita Sanchez was considered by some to be a handsome woman; by herself, plain. Of medium height, she was slender and strong, trimmed down to bone and muscle from the past two years of Spartan living and hard riding. Black shiny hair, pulled tightly behind her ears into a bun, surrounded an oval face with smooth skin of olive cast. Whenever she laughed or was angered, her dark eyes flashed with sparkling clarity; her sooty lashes and eyebrows accented their penetrating look. A thin nose was almost too long but a feature that she liked about herself. Full lips, now pressed tightly together, concealed even white teeth. The blue satin dress she wore rustled slightly as she crossed her legs in an attempt to relieve tired knees held too long in one position.
She closed her eyes against the glare of the bright afternoon sun and started to rest her head against the back of the hot leather seat, but the brim of her small blue bonnet interfered. She removed the hat, placing it in her lap, then once again closed her eyes and leaned back. Absently she reached up and rubbed a slender finger against a slight scar which split the hairs through the center of her right eyebrow, the small disfigurement the result of a fall as a youngster against a metal bucket. As a child she had rubbed the itching wound as it healed, and now the gesture was old habit. She licked her lips and teeth and then nearly hit her tongue as the mud-wagon hit a deep pot hole, jolting all the passengers into full wakefulness. The travelers exchanged impatient mutterings before again settling down.
Trying not to disturb the woman next to her, Margarita readjusted her position slightly to lean more comfortably against the wagon's side. Glad this leg of her journey was almost over, she gazed at the rocky terrain, at prickly pear cactus dominating the landscape. Soon she would be able to saddle up and ride in unbound freedom back to the meadow nestled within the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, yet another week's ride from the swing station where her horse was stabled and her gear stored. She could have continued further north by coach, but a saddle suited her better. Besides, whenever going home to Carizaillo, in old Mexico, she must never appear at her mother's house on horseback.
Unlike returning to the meadow, the trip to Carizaillo to visit her family was never as tiring nor as long. She was unfailingly filled with anticipation and excitement as she conjured up thoughts of her mother's face lighting up, her brothers and sisters gathering tightly around her to watch wide-eyed and silent as she pulled from her purse American paper dollars and gold and silver coins. The coins would be passed reverently from hand to hand to be fingered and fondled and bitten into for authenticity. Her mother would say again, "You should not give away your money, Margarita. You will need it to start over." And Margarita would answer as always, "I have plenty. The ranch brought in plenty when I sold it." And again she would cringe inside at the lie.
After the early death of her father, her brave and generous husband had sent money to her family. Margarita had many times thanked God that Seth Merrill's horse had needed water that day on his way to Saucillo to buy cattle. Her mother had fed him and her father had talked for hours across the table to him about cattle and horses, speaking in broken English; Seth had responded in passable Spanish. It was clear that Seth only half listened to her father's monologue; he was casting longing eyes toward Margarita. He had stopped several more times in her village after that, and within the year he and Margarita had married, had bought two thousand acres of land in New Mexico, had begun their own ranch.
This time in Mexico, Margarita had spent two weeks with her family, bursting with pride as she helped her mother and sisters buy whatever food they wanted and needed, and new clothes and shoes. She had been able to shut out thoughts of her own dark life, behaving just as any woman might who was still unmarried and living at home, helping with the cooking and cleaning and the raising of the little ones.
The wagon came within sight of the swing station, bringing Margarita back to the present. Groans of grateful relief came from within the stage as it rolled to a stop. The passengers stiffly disembarked and stretched their cramped legs.
Margarita stood aside waiting for the stock tender to exchange teams. In fifteen minutes the mud-wagon was again on its way, without her, its passengers once more captives of their cramped cabin on wheels.
"I'll want my horse now, Tom," she said to the tender.
Tom had been at the station as long as Margarita had been traveling through, occasionally passing an hour talking with her while she delayed her ride north. He had learned to accept the strange behavior of the lady who was brave enough to ride alone. He had been a big help to her from time to time, carelessly revealing information about the stage line. Today, however, she wished to be on her way immediately.
She headed inside the long, low adobe building the station master and stock tender called home, to change into riding clothes. Wearing black pants, a white shirt, and heavy black boots and spurs, Margarita exited the building, carrying saddlebags stuffed with her finery and hard tack in one hand, her coat and wide-brimmed hat in the other.
"Gonna eat some vittles before you go?" Tom asked.
"You call that smelly old salt pork and corn dodgers vittles, Tom, and I'm going to shoot you for lying to me."
He laughed and held the reins of her big stallion as she lashed the bags and coat to the rear of the saddle. She paid him with a gold coin then took the reins and mounted up. Donning her hat she gently spurred the horse forward, her mind already calculating how much money she thought she and her friends might take from the next group of Anglos, the job now only two weeks away. An almost pleasurable hatred flowed through her veins.
It had been Anglos that night who had wantonly killed her husband and stolen all that she and Seth had built together. She vowed that as many of the wretched dogs as possible would pay for what they had done. To do that she would rob them at every opportunity, and kill them if necessary, to replace what they had taken. Man or woman, it did not matter. With deep satisfaction she would continue to take their treasures from their shaking fingers. They would cringe beneath her threatening pistol.
She kicked her mount into a lope. The meadow suddenly seemed more like home than home, and too far away.
Chapter Two
High on the driver's seat, the stagecoach's guard sat slumped forward across a Winchester .44, its threat cut off by a bullet through the man's right side. The driver of the coach held his arms high in the air, the reins of the six-horse team still clutched in his hands, looking like carelessly strung telegraph wire.
Inside the stage sat four men and a woman. "My God," uttered one of the men. His lips were white, his face gaunt as he mopped sweat from his neck and brow. The others averted their eyes from the pallid stranger who, like the rest, had regretfully elected to take the early morning stage to Santa Fe.
&n
bsp; The rising sun reflected dully off the barrels of the four masked bandits' pistols. They held their skittish horses in check while a single outlaw jumped from his stallion and pulled open the door of the coach with a vicious yank.
"Get out," he commanded gruffly, and gestured at the travelers with a careless flip of his wrist and a curt motion of his gun.
Each passenger obediently exited, then stood silently beside the stage. While the bandit hastily searched them with rough hands.
"Hurry up," snapped another gunman to the rummaging bandit. His big horse pranced restlessly beneath him making it difficult to keep a steady barrel on the victims.
"Shut up," Margarita whispered harshly. She knew the wisdom of saying as little as possible. Someone might later recognize their voices — her voice — and discover a major clue to this band's identity. After all, how many women were outlaws? Only Belle Starr over in the Oklahoma Indian Territory. Since that put Starr too far east to be a suspect, the law would be looking for another woman, and Margarita sure as hell didn't want them looking for her. And if she had to keep her mouth shut, then the boys damn well better do the same.
The man plundering the passengers had purposely waited to search his final victim. The woman stood unflinchingly as he deliberately mauled her, soiling her dress, his large calloused hands sliding over her shoulders, across her breasts, and down her thighs. Even though she had remained quiet, as had the other travelers, she had not shown the fear that they had. Forced to turn over the money she had hidden in the cleavage of full breasts, she unbuttoned the front of her dress with a steady hand as the highwayman eyed her lustfully.
She slapped the small roll of bills into the palm of his rough hand and hissed, "Bastard!"
Laughing carelessly, he stuffed the money into a cloth sack.
She spat into his face.
Unexpectedly humiliated before the others, the thief loudly cursed the woman, forgetting Margarita's early warning to keep his mouth shut. His hands full of booty, he clumsily grabbed his victim, and kissed her roughly on the mouth through his dirty, stained bandanna.
A sharp blow across his head brought the bandit to his senses. A rider spoke quickly and with sharp command. "Cut the team loose. Then mount up. We're finished here."
Without argument the robber turned to obey, holstering his sidearm and drawing a large knife from a boot sheath to slash the straps from the horses. Margarita rode near the woman to see that she was all right.
Never before had she felt an iota of concern over a cursed Anglo. Except for Seth, she had never before seen one who had displayed such bravery. She hated to admit it, but the courageous lady was to be admired.
Of medium height and slender build, the American woman was graceful in movement, even in her agitated state. The only visible evidence of her unease were the long, thin fingers playing nervously against the sides of her plain brown dress and the dusty blue eyes, above prominent cheekbones, that flashed angrily at her tormenters. Unlike most western ladies who hid behind parasols and sunbonnets against northern New Mexico's pounding summer sun, she was lightly tanned, the color lending her face a healthy glow. Shiny blonde hair, whitened by the sun at the temple, was worn parted in the middle and wound about her head in thick glossy braids and adorned with a small white hat decorated with a simple plume. She was tall and slender and stood with severe pride before Margarita. With deliberate motion, she carefully rebuttoned her dress.
The men of the gang scattered the team far and wide, slapping ropes and sweat-stained hats against their thighs to get the big animals moving. Dust billowed up behind the frightened horses in their efforts to escape the charging men. The outlaws gathered together a short distance away, waiting impatiently for Margarita as she looked fixedly upon the passenger who stood stock-still, glowering defiantly.
"Do you want to kiss me, too, desperado?" The strong voice challenged Margarita. The lady looked fearlessly into Margarita's black eyes.
Undisturbed by her words, Margarita thought: You owe me, foolish Anglo. And I will collect every peso of it before I am through. She looked at the rest of this group cowering before her, fearing for their worthless lives, and waited for the anticipated rage to grip her as it always did after a robbery. As it did, she felt gratified.
She glanced for a final time upon the lady who had the courage of the angry bull smoldering in her eyes. Surprisingly, Margarita felt no vehemence within her soul toward the beautiful traveler as she did for the others. Perhaps it was the woman's bold spirit. Disturbed by the softening in her, Margarita whispered fiercely, "Bah!" and kicked roweled spurs into the sides of her horse.
Heading directly northwest for the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the bandits rode rapidly over the hill they had earlier descended to take the stage by surprise, and in seconds were out of sight.
* * *
In another hour it would be dark. Already stars were beginning to twinkle in the clear early evening sky. The wind was unusually warm tonight, almost hot, and the dust from the horses' thundering hooves pounding the dry earth rose into the air, sticking to the outlaws' sweating skin.
Margarita ignored the grit that flew into her eyes, the grime that scratched the back of her neck beneath the dirty, red bandanna worn loosely about her throat. Her hat, tied with a rawhide thong around her neck, flew behind her, freeing hair that had been worn carefully tucked out of sight during the holdup. More dust and dirt clung to a heavy, loose-fitting coat worn over a white long-sleeved cotton shirt. The dust worked methodically into every crease and fold of her heavy black pants. Calf-high boots worn over the pants trapped uncomfortable heat within, swelling the feet that had worn them for so many endless hours. But soon she and the others would be safe; soon she could shed these filthy clothes and rest. She rubbed a finger across the scar in her eyebrow and felt the grit on her skin.
Through the seat of her pants and the insides of her legs, she felt Billy Black give an added burst of strength on this long hard ride back to the hideaway as the jet black courses drew nearer and nearer to home. He laid back his ears as she spoke to him, and she reached forward to give the powerful stallion an encouraging firm pat on his sleek neck, dark and foamy with sweat.
For the past two days, they had traveled northwest as fast as possible, resting only during the hottest part of each day, climbing ever higher into the mountains through the Sangre de Cristo's steep foothills, threading their way through dense forests of pine, fir, and spruce thick enough to conceal cold, clear lakes and bubbling trout streams, and where elk, deer, bear, and mountain lions roamed freely. The mountains towered above them, ever beckoning to the tired outlaws as they drew nearer and nearer to home.
Almost to their final destination now, the riders pulled to a slow trot as they reached the bedrock of Carrico Creek that twisted and turned through the hills. Having reached this part of the stream, they knew their tracks would be lost to lawmen and bounty hunters. They traveled up the creek's center for a mile where the bed lay clean and free of soil or loose stones and pebbles, leaving no telltale signs floating downstream indicating their direction of travel.
They left the creek fifteen minutes later, cutting directly west to Lost River Canyon where ice cold water ran forcefully between steep walls of rock, some walls a few hundred feet high and others more than a thousand. The powerful torrent began miles above where the bandits entered, then continued south from there, to meet the Conchas River.
For the next twenty minutes the outlaws wound their way upward over an ancient and narrow trail along the river's edge as water roared through the gorge sending welcomed droplets of deliciously cool spray and mist over their sweating bodies. They came to a widened area where a tall thick growth of sturdy shrubs grew along the length of the canyon for a half mile or so. Midway in the brush, they rode directly into it and in seconds completely disappeared from sight.
Margarita remembered back to just a little over two years ago, to their initial entry into the narrow refuge they
now entered. That day, as they waited for the posse to catch up to them, they had all been ready to die rather than be taken alive. The four outlaws had huddled together like cornered animals, hidden behind the bushes, six-guns drawn, hammers back, ready to blast away the very moment that the posse made its way around the bend in the creek. But by sheer chance, only moments before the posse would reach them, one of the men had spotted a hole behind the brush. A rapid inspection showed it to be wide enough for a horse and rider to enter, and one by one the bandits had ridden single file into the opening, the final bandit carefully brushing away their telltale tracks. Once inside, they found that the hole opened into a canyon. As they continued to ride deeper and deeper into it, the posse had passed right on by, continuing to follow the old trail, never suspecting what had happened to their prey.
Safe within the walls of the steep canyon once more, Margarita could finally relax as she and the others continued their upward journey. No longer did she feel the need to frequently glance over her shoulder as she had when they first discovered this escape. No longer did she expect to feel at any moment the impact of a bullet knock her from the saddle. This was a secure place, a place she trusted would never be found.
As the outlaws followed the increasingly wider crack, the earth rose higher and higher until the trail gradually opened out into an uncommonly large, grassy meadow concealed from the valley below by pines and cedars growing along its steep edge, creating a natural fence.
It was an unusual spot, well protected by its position, but no so high itself as to be barren. At two thousand feet it was rocky to be sure, but the plentiful sweet clover and surprisingly dense grass was belly-high, making it possible to pasture stock here. More pine and cedar grew thick and tall against and up the mountainside behind the meadow until, hundreds of feet above, the trees petered out, turning into scrubs, windblown and poor.