Journey to Yesterday

by Madeline Baker

Addy Mae nodded. “It’s all over town, ‘bout you and him,” she said, her voice edged with jealousy and resentment.

  “What’s all over town?”

  Addy Mae shrugged. “You know, how you’re sleeping in his room, and not alone.”

  A wave of color swept up Shaye’s neck, heating her cheeks. Blast that hotel clerk and his big mouth. “We’re not sleeping together,” she retorted. It was the truth and a lie, she thought. They had slept together but they hadn’t slept together, not that way. Not yet.

  “Are you in love with him?” Addy Mae asked.

  “Yes,” Shaye replied quietly. Just like every other woman in town.

  “Well, get in line,” the waitress said. “What can I bring you?”

  Shaye ordered chicken and dumplings and a cup of coffee. Sitting back in her chair, she listened to the conversation around her while she waited for her lunch to arrive. As expected, most of it concerned Alejandro, and whether he was guilty or not. From what she overheard, most of the men were of the opinion that, while he might be capable of killing in self-defense, he wasn’t capable of murder. No one seemed to believe he was capable of killing a woman.

  “Ah, Miss Montgomery.”

  Shaye looked up to see Philo Richardson striding toward her. He cut a dapper figure in a dark blue pinstripe suit and black bowler hat cocked at a jaunty angle.

  “Hello, Mr. Richardson. Would you care to join me?”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Removing his hat, he hung it on a peg, then sat down across from her. “How are you holding up?”

  “All right, I guess. I’m worried about Rio.”

  “Ah, yes, Rio,” Richardson remarked with a shake of his head. “His arrest made the front page this morning. I can’t believe he did it.”

  “He didn’t do it! I know he didn’t.”

  Richardson nodded. “I’m quite sure he’s innocent, my dear, and that the judge will find him so.”

  Suddenly on the brink of tears, Shaye shook her head. “He’s going to hang.”

  “Now, now.” Philo covered her hand with his. “We have to hope for the best. Judge Krinard is a fair man.”

  “You don’t understand!” Shaye exclaimed.

  Richardson observed her for a moment. His instincts, honed over thirty years as a newspaper man, told him she knew more than she was telling. He moved his chair closer to hers, then glanced right and left to make sure no one was listening. “What is it?” he asked quietly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He drew back as Addy Mae approached the table with Shaye’s order. “Hi, Philo, honey,” she crooned. “Can I get you anything? I saved a slice of apple pie for you. Modean just made it this morning.”

  “That’ll be fine, Addy Mae. And a cup of coffee.”

  “Black, with two teaspoons of sugar,” Addy Mae said. “Just the way you like it.”

  The girl was a natural born flirt, Shaye mused as she watched the waitress walk away.

  Addy Mae returned a few minutes later with Philo’s pie and coffee. “Anything else I can get for you, honey?” she asked.

  “Not just now,” Philo said.

  She gave his shoulder a playful squeeze, then hurried off to clear one of the other tables.

  Shaye stared at her plate, her appetite gone. How could she even think of food when Alejandro was in jail?

  “You’ve got to eat,” Richardson said.

  “I can’t.”

  Philo looked around the room, which was getting more crowded by the minute. “We can’t talk here.” He took a bite of his pie and smiled with pleasure. “That Modean’s one helluva good cook. If she wasn’t already married, I’d marry her myself. Why don’t you come by my office later this afternoon? Say about five?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’ll be there if you decide to tell me what you know, or think you know.” He finished his pie, drained his coffee cup, and stood up. “Try not to worry,” he said, reaching for his hat. “There’s only been one hanging in Bodie since I’ve been here, and he deserved it.”

  Shaye smiled weakly. Delving into her bag, she withdrew a dollar and dropped it on the table, then left the dining room.

  At a loss for something to do, she went for a walk. Needing something to occupy her mind, she studied the houses she passed, wondering if she would recognize the house Clark McDonald was staying in if she saw it.

  For the first time, she wondered what was happening in her world. Her parents would have worried when she didn’t show up and she didn’t answer her phone. And what about her editor? She was due back at work in three days, assuming twenty-four hours in the past was the same as twenty-four hours in the future. What would Frank think when she didn’t show up, didn’t call? She had tickets to a play at the end of the month. Her rent was due the first of September.

  She frowned as a new thought occurred to her. What if time in the past didn’t unwind at the same speed as time in her world. She might have been gone for months, or only a few moments. If she made it back home, no one would ever believe her, she thought, and then smiled in spite of herself. If she ever made it back to her own time, the first person she wanted to see was Clark McDonald. He would believe her.

  By accident or design, she wound up at the Odd Fellows Hall at three o’clock.

  Going inside, she took a seat in the back. A rough-hewn pine coffin rested on the floor. There was no grieving family at this service, only a handful of working girls wearing their most subdued dresses. She was surprised to see Dade McCrory sitting off to one side, hat in hand.

  Reverend Warrington presided here, as well. However, where his words had been filled with comfort and hope for Moose’s family, his eulogy for Daisy held little hope for a better world in the afterlife due to the “ill-fated road she had chosen to follow”, and while he never came right out and said her soul was “bound for hellfire and damnation” he inferred it with the tone of his voice and his solemn expression. Every word was, Shaye thought, a less than subtle warning for the doves who were sobbing none too quietly.

  When the service was over, the same glass-sided black hearse carried the casket to the cemetery. She would, Shaye knew, be buried in Boot Hill with the other prostitutes who had died, many by their own hand. She remembered reading that most of the women who pursued that line of work died young. Many became opium addicts.

  Shaye stared after the hearse, wondering if she was in some way responsible for Daisy’s death.

  “Well, well, if it’s isn’t Valverde’s woman.”

  She turned to see Dade McCrory smirking at her. He was looking prosperous in a dark blue pinstripe suit that was obviously new, as were his boots and hat. A diamond stickpin sparkled in his cravat.

  She wanted to ask him why he had killed Daisy and how he had the nerve to attend her funeral, but some inner voice warned her to say nothing. Turning, she started walked back toward the hotel.

  “Tell Valverde I’ll be at the hanging,” McCrory hollered. “Right up front, where I can watch him squirm.”

  Shaye forced the gruesome image his words conjured from her mind. She had more important things to think about. Like where to get hold of a gun. And what was the best time of night to make a jail break.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She needed a gun. Buying one shouldn’t be much of a problem, she mused, since everyone in town seemed to carry at least one. And, unlike modern-day Los Angeles, Bodie had no waiting period.

  Walking down Main Street, she turned left on Green. She passed the Boone Store and went into Westlake’s Gunsmith Shop. Ten minutes later, she left the store, a derringer tucked inside her reticule.

  Back at the hotel, she tossed her shorts, tee shirt, underwear, Nikes and socks into her backpack, as well as a change of clothes. She packed the shirt Alejandro had left in her room, too. It seemed a shame to leave all her new dresses behind, but there was no way to take them with her.

  She glanced around the room, making sure she had packed everything she had brought with her from the
future, then went to the window and stared down into the street. She was going to miss Bodie, she thought with some surprise. Even though she had only been here a short time, there was something about the town, both present and future, that appealed to her. She would miss Spooner and Digger and Henry, Philo Richardson, and even Miss Sophie, and that was odd, she thought, because she didn’t really know any of them very well. She was going to miss the noise and the crowds and the sense of always being on the brink of discovery.

  Changing into one of her cotton everyday dresses, she grabbed her reticule and after putting the derringer under the mattress, she left the hotel. At the dry goods store, she bought a black skirt and a dark print shirtwaist. “All the better for blending in with the night,” she mused as she paid the clerk.

  From there, she crossed the street and went to The United States Bakery and Chop Stand. Inside, she bought two loaves of bread and a dozen assorted rolls. Leaving the chop stand, she went to West and Bryant’s grocery store and bought a jar of jelly and some canned goods, a hunk of cheese, a dozen apples, some hard boiled eggs.

  She was on her way back to the hotel when she passed a candy store. Pausing, she looked over the assortment of hard candy displayed in large glass jars, thinking she would give anything for a dark chocolate Milky Way or a Baby Ruth. In the end, she bought a bag of salt water taffy and a bag of peppermint sticks.

  Once again, she felt a twinge of regret at the thought of leaving Bodie. Everyone was so friendly. Even the miners, as tough a bunch of men as she had ever seen, treated her politely, tipping their hats, holding doors for her, calling her ma’am.

  She bought a satchel to hold her purchases and made her way back to the hotel.

  In her room, she put her backpack and the satchel near the door, took off her boots, and settled down on the bed with a newspaper to wait.

  * * * * *

  Alejandro paced the jailhouse floor, his restlessness growing. The sheriff had come in earlier to bring him his dinner and let him know that his trial was set for tomorrow morning. He lifted a hand to his throat. According to Shaye, he had been hanged on August twelfth. He swore under his breath. She’d also said he would be arrested on the ninth, but today was only the fifth. If she was wrong about that, she could be wrong about the twelfth, too. Damn!

  He went to the window, his hands wrapping around the bars as he stared out into the night. His old man had always predicted he would meet a bad end. Resting his head against the bars, he closed his eyes, his mind going back in time, back to those long summer days when he had spent his summers with his mother’s people. He had loved the Lakota way of life, where every day was a new adventure. He had learned to hunt and track with the other boys, how to survive off the land, how to skin game. His grandfather had told him the stories of Coyote the Trickster. His life would have been far different if he had gone to live with his mother’s people when he left home, he mused ruefully. He would have become a warrior instead of a gambler. He wouldn’t be locked in a cell accused of killing his ex-partner. Daisy. Who had killed her, and why? McCrory was the obvious answer.

  He opened his eyes, his hands tightening around the bars. Dammit, maybe he was blaming the wrong man. Maybe he should be blaming himself for Daisy’s death. If he hadn’t sold his share of the Belle to McCrory, none of this would have happened.

  Muttering an oath, he began to pace the floor again. “I don’t know what you’re planning, Shaye,” he murmured, “but you’d best do it right quick.”

  * * * * *

  It was a little before three in the morning when Shaye left the hotel carrying her backpack and satchel. She had changed into the dark shirtwaist and black skirt, tied her hair back in a ponytail, laced up her Nikes. The gun, pulled from under the mattress, felt heavy in her skirt pocket.

  The town was as quiet as it ever got as she made her way toward King Street. In the background, like the heartbeat of the city, was the ever-present sound of the Standard Stamp Mill, punctuated by an occasional shout of raucous laughter.

  No lights burned in the jail.

  Two men speaking rapid Chinese hurried past her on their way to Chinatown.

  The pounding of her heart drowned out every other sound as she neared the jailhouse window. What would happen if, instead of freeing Alejandro, she was caught? Would they put her in jail, too?

  She thrust her fears to the back of her mind and concentrated on the task at hand. She had to get Alejandro out of here. Now.

  But how? That was the question that came to mind as she put her hand to the door knob, and discovered that it was locked. How could she have been so stupid? Of course, it would be locked! Damn! She supposed she could knock on the door, but what business could she possibly have at the jail at this time of the morning?

  What would MacGyver do? Reaching into her backpack, she found her wallet and withdrew her VISA card and slid it, very carefully, between the doorjamb and the edge of the door. There was a lot of room and she wiggled the card up and down until she freed the latch. Success! She smiled as she shoved her credit card back in her pack. She just hoped there wasn’t also some sort of bar in place.

  Hardly daring to breathe, her heart pounding wildly, she took hold of the handle and gave a careful push, blew out a silent breath of relief as the door opened.

  Taking a step inside, she glanced around the room. In the faint light filtering through the open door, she saw a potbellied stove to her right, the jail cells to her left. There was a large desk directly in front of her, with a chair behind it. Beyond the desk, she could just make out the shape of a man sleeping on a cot. And sleeping soundly, she thought, if his snoring was any indication.

  A key, she thought, she needed the key to the cell door. On tiptoe, she crossed the floor toward the desk, grimacing when one of the floorboards creaked beneath her foot. She paused, fearful of being discovered, then moved on. She ran her hand lightly over the desk top, encountering papers, a tin mug, a set of handcuffs. But no key.

  “Shaye!”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Alejandro peering at her through the bars.

  “Where’s the key?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. Try the top desk drawer.”

  Moving as quietly as she could, she moved the desk chair out of the way.Biting down on her lower lip, she eased the drawer open. She was searching the contents as quietly as she could when she heard the cot squeak. She froze, her heart pounding wildly.

  “Who’s there?” There was the scent of sulfur as the sheriff struck a match. Light from a stub of a candle filled the room.

  “Dammit, woman, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  She searched her mind for some plausible reason.

  The sheriff frowned at her as he swung his legs over the side of the cot. “Speak up, what are you doing here? Are you in trouble?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Well, which is it?” He glanced at the door. “How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”

  “Oh, hell,” Shaye muttered, and sticking her hand in her skirt pocket, she withdrew the derringer.

  The sheriff looked momentarily astonished, and then he laughed. “You’re Rio’s gal, ain’t ya?” he asked, and laughed again.

  “What’s so funny?” Shaye demanded.

  The sheriff gestured at the gun in her hand. “Hell, gal, you can’t hit anything with that popgun.”

  “Maybe not,” Alejandro said, “but I don’t think I can miss with this.”

  The sheriff looked at Alejandro, his face suddenly pale.

  Perplexed, Shaye glanced over at Alejandro, surprised to see him holding a revolver. “Where did you get that?”

  Alejandro pointed at the chair she had moved away from the desk. The sheriff’s holster, now empty, had been draped over the back. “Damn, Shaye, I can’t believe you brought a derringer to a jail break.”

  “Well,” she retorted, “it’s my first one. I’ll do better next time.”

  “Right,” Alejandro said dri
ly. “Next time. Get the key.”

  Shaye looked at the sheriff. “Where is it?”

  “I ain’t sayin’.”

  “And I’m not asking you again,” Alejandro warned.

  The sheriff snorted. “What’re you gonna do, shoot me? Go ahead. Somebody’s sure to hear the shot and come arunnin’.”

  “It won’t matter to you, you’ll be dead. Anyway, I don’t think anybody will pay any attention. Boys have been setting off left over firecrackers all night.”

  Shaye glanced from Alejandro to the sheriff. For all his bold talk, the lawman didn’t look very confident. She didn’t blame him. There was a hard cold look in Alejandro’s eyes that she had never seen before.

  “Open the damn door,” Alejandro said.

  The sheriff hesitated a moment. Shaye could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Apparently decided that Alejandro meant what he said, the sheriff reached into his pocket, withdrew a large brass key, and opened the door.

  Alejandro motioned the lawman into the cell. “Face the wall. Shaye, bring me the handcuffs on the desk.”

  Slipping the derringer back into her skirt pocket, she did as he asked.

  Taking the cuffs, Alejandro handed her the sheriff’s gun. “If he twitches, shoot him.”

  She held the gun in both hands while Alejandro handcuffed the sheriff’s hands behind his back, securing him to one of the iron bars.

  “If you run, it’s the same as saying you’re guilty,” the sheriff remarked.

  “Shut up.”

  “Think about what you’re doing, Valverde. If you run, they’ll hang you for sure when they catch you.”

  “I didn’t run the last time, and they still strung me up,” Alejandro muttered. Removing the lawman’s kerchief from his neck, he stuffed it in the lawman’s mouth. That done, he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and exited the cell. Shutting the door, he turned the key in the lock. He buckled on the sheriff’s gunbelt, took the revolver from Shaye’s hand and slid it into the holster. “Come on,” he said, taking her by the arm, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Outside, he dropped the key into the horse trough, shrugged into his coat, and then headed for the stable.