by Penny Hayes
Deep in thought about the group's present method of operation, she concluded that they would be wise to change their habits, something she had been reflecting over for a couple of weeks now. Too many stagecoaches had been hit by them lately; seven since last fall. Their good fortune could not continue forever. She would suggest a bank holdup or a train robbery — far from here.
This area was getting too dangerous. If they continued to push, even their secure hideaway would no longer be secure. Eventually it would be discovered — by luck, just as they themselves had found it, if for no other reason.
She walked over to the cistern positioned against the foot of the westside cliff and rinsed her plate clean beneath its overflow. Leaning over its edge, she sucked water into her mouth, feeling the icy cold liquid slide down her throat, slice through her chest, then enter her belly. She had just taken another big mouthful when she heard Sam call to her from the doorway of the men's cabin.
Wiping her dripping mouth on a cotton sleeve, she waved indicating that she had heard him. Leaving the plate on the log by her cabin, she joined the others already gathered at the table.
She could never adjust to the heavy unpleasant aroma these men emitted. In the small room it seemed to permeate the air and everything within. As much as she had loved Seth, she had never gotten used to his smell, the oppressive male muskiness of him. At times, it had seemed to very nearly clog her nostrils, especially during their most intimate moments.
She flopped on the edge of a cot as Bert asked, "Well, who has an idea, here?"
"There's a stage comin' through Windwhistle Pass next week that ain't a regular," Sam commented. "Found that out from a girlie for a brooch." Grinning as if he had performed some noble deed on the group's behalf, he noisily sucked on a small stick.
Margarita looked at the floor so that he would not see the loathing in her eyes for the way he used women and openly bragged about it. It made no difference that Sam was her protector from time to time.
Bert struck a match on the heel of his boot, the movement causing his silver spur to jingle, a pleasant sound strangely out of place in these crude surroundings. Smoke from a rolled cigarette clamped tightly between his teeth rose in a thin, blue line as he lighted it. "Got any other ideas?" he asked.
Margarita sat up from her slumped position. "No more stages. There have been too many this past year."
The men looked her way but did not interrupt. During planning, each member had an equal voice and so the rest listened to the woman speaking now.
She continued, "We must change our territory or our method. How many wanted posters did you see on your way to Sourdough?"
"Quite a few on the way," Bill replied. "Nary a one on the way back." He laughed at his own joke.
Frowning, Margarita said scornfully, "Ripping them down does nothing. Everyone still looks for a four-member gang in this area. We should move to new territory. This means giving up the meadow. Otherwise a bank or a train would be all we should go after. For a while at least. And far from here — on fast horses."
"You know, boys," Bert agreed, nodding thoughtfully, "she's right. But I'm not for givin' up the meadow. Okay, no more stages. That's exactly what the law's lookin' for — stagecoach robbers."
"Go for the train, then," Sam proposed.
"Too much work," Bill grunted.
"Then it's the bank," Margarita told them.
"Hell, no," Bill argued. "Too many people to see you by daylight. Too many cowhands at night. There must be somethin' easier we could do."
Perturbed that he would not readily accept the bank as their next target she said, "I never thought you were a coward, Bill."
He was on top of her in an instant. "You little bitch," he snarled only inches from her face. Rough, hairy hands clutched at her throat to squeeze the life out of her. A knee pressed painfully into her chest, driving her into the cot.
Suddenly the pain lessened; the wild-eyed outlaw's hands were ripped violently from her throat. Sam had yanked him off her chest and unceremoniously thrown him to the floor.
"That bitch better keep her yap shut," Bill raged through gritted teeth, "or I'll kill her." His eyes bulged with hatred as he rose unsteadily to his feet and moved to a stool. Margarita struggled to breathe.
Bert reached out and dealt Bill a stinging slap across the mouth. "Shut up, damn you! We're here to work, not fight. I'll beat the shit outta the two of you," he warned, glaring at them both. "We'll do as Margarita said: hit a bank. Margarita, you go on up to Colter. The railroad runs through there, it's a cattle pickup. That'll mean big money in the vault. See if it makes sense to take the bank, and how we can do it. Find out what's goin' on."
Still gasping for breath, unable to speak, Margarita pulled herself up into a sitting position and nodded, rubbing her bruised throat. She would be glad to go to Colter. It would be a relief to be parted from these animals so soon again.
She walked — almost staggered — back to her cabin.
She sat on the edge of her bed. One day she would deal with Bill. He would be made to pay the same way those she helped rob had paid. He would feel every unkindness he had ever put her through.
By contrast, Bert's easy agreement about robbing a bank had surprised Margarita. Colter was a five-day journey northeast of here. Apparently he had been thinking the same thing as she: it was time to put distance between the hideout and their next job. At times Margarita almost admired Bert's judgment.
She went outside to sit on the log, letting the warmth of the noon sun beat against her back while she thought through what she must do to prepare for tonight's journey; the clothing she would need, the right amount of food, plenty of extra ammunition in case she ran into trouble, and lastly, the horse she could most afford to give up. There would be no suggestions made by the others, no last minute advice. Certainly no wishes of good luck would be offered.
She packed a pair of saddlebags in the afternoon, then lay down until evening, speaking to no one. Just before the moon rose, she buckled on her gun belt and mounted up. Her horse and the lonesome creaking of saddle leather were her only companions as she left the meadow behind and entered the canyon which would take her to the valley below.
It was completely black within the canyon's walls, and she wisely let her mount pick his own way down the trail. She listened to water fall to the floor of the chasm, its near vertical sides selfishly squeezing out the heavily mineralized fluid drop by single drop, and the lonesome clip-clop of the horse's shoes echoing against the walls with each step. Always cold and damp, and doubly so at night, the wind blowing up from the bottom of the winding path forced her to draw her hat low over her face and pull her thick coat tighter around her.
The uncomfortable pressure of the collar against her still tender throat brought memory again of Bill's hands wrapped around her neck. Why, she wondered as she rubbed her scar, were men so rough? Why did they lie and cheat and steal and kill? Women didn't do those things. Not many women, that is. And she hadn't killed anyone yet. But she acted out of revenge. What revenge did the rest of the gang seek? None that she knew of. They were motivated only by greed.
Her mind sought images of a kind man, one like her father who had treated her well. She could think only of Seth. His kindness was why she had married him. But even he had not taken time to find out how she thought or what she thought about.
Women should live together, she decided as her horse continued to seek his way cautiously down the trail. Men should be there only when needed: to father children, to ride the range, to do the heavy work. Otherwise, they should stay away.
But, Margarita told herself, the women couldn't keep each other warm at night. A woman couldn't fill another with love until her mind was gone and her soul was stolen. Unexpectedly, the image of flinging herself off her horse and into the arms of the Americano woman popped into her mind.
A pleasurable tremor passed through her, and she hung her head and closed her eyes against the c
anyon's inky blackness, concentrating fiercely on the sounds around her; the dripping water, the angle at which the horse traveled, the feel of her collar against her throat, the slight pain that it caused.
But then her mind insisted: a woman would never hurt another woman, as Bill — and other men at times — had hurt her; not deliberately — not knowingly.
"Damn it!" she muttered fiercely, and began to hum a tuneless song so that she would not think anymore.
In half an hour she left the narrower canyon for the larger one, the fast pace of its water sounding ten times as loud at night as it did in the light of day. Prudently, she pulled her horse to a halt. It wouldn't pay just to dash out through the shrubs and onto the trail. Even now, someone could be hiding nearby. But in a few moments she decided she was safe and began the four-day journey she would take on horseback before switching to stagecoach.
An experienced lone horsewoman from countless past surveys, she was unafraid. She had learned to read signs well and knew instinctively when danger was near. She traveled only by night and slept by day, hiding just before the break of dawn among trees or within a small gulch or dry arroyo. She drank from cold streams and ate pemmican and beef jerky, confining herself to a dry camp, not chancing discovery through smoke from a fire. And when she started out again the next evening, she never left a mark that she had been there.
She traveled north for two nights before crossing Tequesquite Creek. The third night, she crossed Ute Creek, then cut directly northeast. Early into her fourth night on the trail, she saw the distant lights of Dusty Springs, the first town she must enter to carry out her plan.
In the gloom of night, she barely made out a pile of rocks in an open area, silhouetted some distance to her right. Riding over to it, she wished the moon were more helpful, but clouds had moved in to block its light almost completely.
She dismounted to study the rock pile from all sides. Yes, it would do. She found a stout stick long enough to poke among the rocks, searching for a hiding place free of rattlers and large enough to jam in the saddle, bags, and blankets. When she found a good spot, she breathed a sigh of relief, whispering a quiet prayer of thanks that she hadn't disturbed any night creatures. One bite by a rattler or a scorpion and she would be finished right where she stood.
She stripped the horse of everything. She hugged his neck and leaned against his warm body. "Go home, Dusty," she said, not knowing if he would or not. She slapped his rump and listened to his hoofbeats recede into the night. Turning to her tasks, she forced her bridle and saddle in between the wide crack she had chosen earlier. From the saddlebags she pulled out a dress, stockings, underwear, shoes, handbag, a small hat. She stripped quickly, shoving her men's clothing into the bags, then donned the women's attire, shivering in the dark.
Jamming the saddlebags in with the rest of the gear, she rolled a rock over the opening, grunting and straining with the effort. She found a few dead pieces of shrubbery and threw them on top of the rock. Using tumbleweed, she brushed away her tracks. From the light of the moon revealed through parted clouds, the place looked as natural as she could make it. It would have to do.
She shook the wrinkles and dust from the skirt of her dark blue dress and smoothed its snug fitting top against her body. She combed her hair, tying it in a bun at the base of her neck. Throwing a woolen shawl across her shoulders, then pinning on the hat, she felt she was ready. The small handbag over her arm, she began the walk toward town a good mile away brushing out her tracks with a tumbleweed she dragged behind her.
She kept a careful watch all around. It wouldn't do for a lady to be seen strolling alone outside the town's limits at this hour.
Arriving at the outskirts of Dusty Springs forty-five minutes later, Margarita entered the town and casually stepped onto a wooden sidewalk as if she had merely been taking in a breath of fresh air at the far end of the street. The worst that might happen was that the sheriff would think her a lady of the night, which was likely with her crumpled clothing. When she got to a hotel she would let the dress hang overnight to help rid it of some of its wrinkles.
She began to search for the nearest cafe. There she could probably learn when the stagecoach would leave for Colter. Once aboard, there would be no problem traveling. She would be just another passenger.
She passed closed shops and open saloons. Mounted men in wide brimmed hats and rough garb, wearing low slung pistols, rode in groups, dismounting to enter the already jam-packed public houses. Others stood in clusters speaking Spanish or English, talking and spitting and rolling cigarettes, their loud laughter filling the air. She heard a shot or two, a tinny piano as she walked by a saloon's batwing doors. Somewhere off on a side street someone strummed a mournful guitar.
Entering a small cafe empty of customers, she sat at a table near the door. The red and white checkered tablecloth had countless stains on it, and the windows' matching curtains were heavy with dust. A tired looking waitress came from behind the counter to take her order.
When her late night supper arrived, Margarita asked about the stage.
"Seven in the morning," the waitress replied uninterestedly. "Front of the bank."
Margarita thanked her and began to eat a thick steak and boiled potatoes, relishing her meal, paying no heed to the dirt on the rim of the coffee cup. She had dined under far worse conditions than these, and it had been days since she had had a decent meal.
She took a room at the town's only hotel, ignoring the clerk's sneer. She knew what he was thinking. A woman with no luggage wasn't taking a room to sleep.
She lit a bedside lantern and walked over to the room's single window to pull down a torn shade. She removed only her hat, shoes, and dress, giving the garment a good shake before hanging it on the back of the yellowed, paint-chipped door. She squatted uncomfortably over the chamber pot, not daring to sit on it, certain the thing hadn't seen a rinsing in a month.
She chose to sleep in her underwear and stockings rather than let the dingy gray sheets touch her skin. Finally settled, she turned out the lantern. Sleep softened the hard lines around her eyes and mouth, and she dreamed of nothing.
Chapter Four
The land between Dusty Springs and Colter began to change to a gentler, more rolling terrain. Although there were still stacks of rocks scattered across the land and tall mountains in the distance, there were also many more trees. Fewer gulches had to be crossed by bridge, indicating less soil erosion here than south of Dusty Springs and all the way back to the meadow.
But it was still a hot, dusty ride for Margarita and the two male passengers. The four-mule team pulled the stagecoach rapidly over the rough road, bouncing and jostling them throughout the long, uncomfortable day. Rolling down the canvas curtains had not deterred the grit which seeped into the coach, seeking out the tired travelers. Dirt flowed in through the windows, flying everywhere. The leather seat made Margarita's back and bottom sweat unbearably, and she longed to be rid of the binding pettiskirt and dress and high-buttoned, tight-fitting shoes.
During their only stop Margarita skipped eating lunch at the crude swing station to find a tree to hide behind before vomiting, so motion-sick had she become. Her traveling companions offered their sympathies but she ignored them, suspicious of their kindness.
With the stage rolling once more, she lapsed into a tired doze as the swaying and shaking vehicle finished its final twenty miles.
Arriving in Colter at dusk, Margarita went immediately to the nearest hotel. With only sleep on her mind she was unable to admire the surprisingly large sprawling town with its wide main street and one and two-story buildings.
Unlike last night's hotel, this one was clean, offering a pleasant second-story room with two windows facing the main street. The room contained a comfortable bed with clean linen, a simple stand and dresser, and a single chair. On the dresser was a bowl and a pitcher filled with fresh water. Three lamps sat about, and Margarita lit them all. Wearily she scrubbed away the day's
dust, doused the lanterns, then lay down nude without covers in spite of the chill in the air.
Bert had once mentioned that he had been to Colter, but Margarita had not imagined that the place was this big — a bigness due, no doubt, to the railroad's shipping cattle north, from all around New Mexico Territory.
Already situated on the Beaver River, this town with a railroad was certain to survive and grow. That meant big money flowing into the area. If the bank were to be robbed, the gang would probably do very well.
Further thoughts of her own potential wealth were cut off mid-stream as blessed sleep soon claimed her tired mind.
Margarita woke to a loud knock on the door. "Your bath, ma'am," a male voice called.
It took her a moment to recall where she was, that last night she had ordered a bath for this morning. She jumped up and wrapped a blanket tightly around herself and padded to the door to let in a young man who dragged with him a large galvanized tub. "I'll be right back with the water, ma'am," he told her, politely avoiding looking at her. A few minutes later he returned with two other big boys, each carrying large oak buckets of hot water.
After they had emptied their burdens, Margarita thanked them, then closed and locked the door. She dropped the blanket to the floor and stepped into the tub to sink contentedly into the steaming water, to soak away the days of travel and dirt from her body. She sat with propped knees, her eyes closed, her head resting on the tub's edge until the water began to lose its heat. Then she quickly scrubbed down, rinsed, and only reluctantly climbed out.
She stopped briefly at the desk to have the tub removed, then walked out into a sunlit day. Hitching rails in front of whitewashed saloons with large, gaudily painted signs hawking their attractions were already lined with horses. Men's and women's apparel shops and stores with high false fronts were open, selling hardware, guns, footwear, and housewares. Mounted riders rode by, along with buggies and wagons drawn by single horses or teams. Mexicans, Anglos, and Indians crowded the sidewalks. Businessmen stood talking in small groups. Ladies in colorful dresses with parasols draped casually over their shoulders strolled by. Hurrying cowboys intent either on business or pleasure passed her, politely tipping their hats. Delicious odors of cooking food drifted her way as she walked by several eating establishments, some simple, others a bit more grand. The ringing of the smithy's hammer sounded to her left as she wandered to the furthest end of town where four branching streets held a few more small shops with the proprietors' homes built directly above. There were well kept wood sidewalks the entire length of the main street, and stone walks in front of some of the side shops.