Sahara Splendor

by Charlotte Hubbard

  In only minutes, she was seated in the driver’s box between Luther and Fergus, and they were on their way again. The regular Spade Express coach had stopped to see what the problem was—much to Roxanne’s embarrassment—and the two freight wagons had caught up to them; so now they were a small parade proceeding along the dusty, hard-packed trail at a steady trot.

  Mr. McGee, who’d quickly cleaned up the mess and freshened the carriage with a wintergreen solution, seemed unruffled by the incident. “Miss Jennifer’s a queasy one herself,” he confided with a smile. “‘Tis why we keep emergency supplies on board, as well as crackers and tins of food, which are stored beneath yer seats. I wouldn’t tell Mr. Jenkins about them, though, unless ye want them to disappear.”

  Sahara chuckled and gazed around at vast fields of corn swaying like an ocean of green in the breeze. Up here the ride was smoother, and she savored the companionable silence Mr. Bean and the driver were sharing. Perhaps she should’ve listened to McGee and not invited Roxanne, Mitchell, and Phineas to share her coach, but it seemed absurd to bounce around in it all by herself when her passengers were crammed into a carriage hip to hip, knocking knees with the ones seated on the center bench.

  As though he sensed what she was thinking, Fergus cleared his throat. “I admire yer concern for yer customers’ comfort,” he began, “but if yer riders’re to keep on schedule for meetin’ other stagecoaches, they’ll need to be boardin’ the regular carriage. The stops we’ll be makin’ with supplies and the payroll will slow us down considerably.”

  She nodded. “I’ll discuss it with them at the first station. Thank you for seeing to all these details, Mr. McGee. You must think me horribly inept and ignorant of my business.”

  “Ye’re doin’ fine, Mrs. Spade. And please call me Fergus,” he added with a grin. “Makes me feel far older’n I’d like, when a pretty young woman like yerself refers to me as a mister.”

  Was that a dimple in his cheek? She was guessing he was thirty—Bean was somewhat older, and found this conversation terribly inane, judging from the way he was rolling his eyes.

  “All right, Fergus,” she replied. “And since we’ll be traveling many miles together, I hope you gentlemen’ll call me Sahara. This journey will last a lot longer than my marriage did, you know.”

  The Scot chuckled his approval.

  “And it seems, in my excitement, I didn’t even ask about whether the station keepers’ pay got loaded,” she said sheepishly. “I hope we don’t have to turn around—”

  “That’s Mr. Bean’s job,” the driver reassured her. “After Madigan authorizes the withdrawal from the bank, Luther fills the strongbox and is responsible for its safety. Many’s the time he’s put himself at risk durin’ Indian uprisin’s and—well, I don’t want to frighten ye. But Bean could tell ye some hair-raising tales about this Smoky Hilltrail.”

  “I wish he would. I love a good story,” Sahara said, smiling at the bearded man in buckskins beside her.

  When Luther gave her only a cursory glance before gazing back over the passing farmland, McGee laughed. “Don’t take it personally. He’s quiet around women he doesn’t know—even women he does know. Says they distract him while he’s watchin’ out for trouble. Sometimes hints that they bring the trouble on themselves, but he doesn’t mean anythin’ by it.”

  Out here where only the brown ribbon of road interrupted the gently rolling farmland, Sahara doubted Bean’s watchfulness was necessary. Now and then they passed a simple farmhouse with outbuildings, set back from the road and flanked by corrals and wagons, but the overall tranquility of the landscape for miles in every direction was a balm to her soul. If Luther Bean was a private sort, his company would be a welcome relief from quarrelsome Phineas Jenkins and the Pruitts, who meant well but reminded her of scared rabbits.

  Sahara breathed deeply of the pure prairie air and couldn’t help smiling at the endless, crystal blue sky and the way the breeze was trying to unpin her hair. For the first time in years, she felt free—no back-breaking chores, no bothersome brother to answer to…

  She felt McGee watching her and smiled at him.

  “Ye look very much at peace, Sahara, as though ye’re at one with yer surroundin’s and at home on this

  coach,” he said in a voice that was quiet, yet easily heard beneath the steady pounding of the team’s hooves. His expressive gray eyes lingered on hers, eyes that sparkled with silver when his gaze deepened.

  “The stage sways, almost like a cradle,’5 she answered dreamily. “Or maybe it’s all this fresh air. It’s very relaxing.”

  “It’s partly the carriage.” Fergus gave her a subtle wink and then watched the road ahead of them. “Unlike other vehicles, the body of a Concord coach is suspended on thick leather straps called thoroughbraces. They cushion the shocks of these rutted roads, and they make the horses’ job easier, as well. This is the finest overland carriage made, and with the extra comforts Horatio ordered on this one—not to mention me expert drivin’,” he teased, “ye’ll enjoy the finest ride across the plains to be had at any price. No braggin’, just fact.”

  Sahara giggled, aware of how her skirts rustled against Fergus’s thigh, and of how the swaying of the coach brought their shoulders together ever so subtly and rhythmically, and of how the Scot was studying her…letting his gaze follow the curve of her jawline to pause upon her lips. If this kept up, the miles between way stations would pass very quickly indeed.

  The stomping of Bean’s boot against the front of the driver’s box startled her out of her daydreaming. The express agent’s body went stiff against her left side as he grabbed his shotgun in deadly earnest, all the while staring at something to the south of them.

  Squinting, Sahara could make out a cloud of dust surrounding three or four galloping horsemen who were so tiny she could barely distinguish one from another. Luther obviously took his job to heart, because no one could possibly guess the intent of these riders at such a distance. They were rolling along open prairie now, without a farmstead or human outpost of any kind breaking the horizon, and her heart began to thud. Thank God the four wagons were together, manned by brawny, experienced drivers, or she might feel extremely vulnerable. Maybe even scared. It was now apparent that the riders could only be charging toward them because nothing else merited such breakneck speed.

  “Trouble, Luther?” McGee inquired.

  “Maybe.”

  The driver sat straighter, his flirtation forgotten as he watched the six black horses ahead of them. “‘Tis about seven miles to the station. I’m guessin’ the team still has power enough to outrun them, if it’s Indians.”

  “It’s whites. Four of them.”

  Sahara’s relief lasted only seconds. Luther was cocking his gun, still peering intently at the approaching horsemen.

  “Save it. We may need the speed if they don’t have sense enough to back off.” Bean turned to glance briefly at the driver. “Be ready to circle around behind the freight wagons and protect the passengers—and Mrs. Spade,” he added dryly. “I’ll defend the strongboxes. Probably a false alarm, but we’d better show them We mean business.”

  “Right,” McGee replied. “Just give the word.”

  He’d hardly shut his mouth before a bullet whistled by them, and then another. From inside the coach came a mewling scream, and then Mr. Jenkins’s reedy voice. “What the deuce is going on? Were those bullets?”

  “Get back inside and shut up!” Bean barked, “unless you’d like to be mincemeat for tonight’s pie. Wheel it around, Fergus. Let the others see what we’re doing.”

  Sahara watched, spellbound, as the man in blue corduroy sat absolutely still while the reins in his hands remained as slack as they’d been the entire ride. Yet the lead team of proud, black horses turned sharply to the right, and moments apart, perfectly timed, the swing team and then the wheelers followed, until they were headed back toward the red Spade Express coach in a graceful arc.

  But it was no time for compliments o
n McGee’s driving skill. Little Mitch was wailing now, and the yips and hoofbeats of their attackers were clearly audible; and Sahara had never felt more frightened—or exhilarated—in her life.

  Chapter 12

  “We’ll get ye inside the coach as soon as we’re behind the freight,” Fergus was saying in an urgent burr. The horses whinnied and snorted as he pulled them to a halt behind the ribbed canvas tops of the two supply wagons. Tom and Charlie had already positioned themselves, their rifles trained on the rapidly approaching bandits, while the second Concord coach pulled in behind Sahara’s. The three drivers and the express messenger exchanged terse instructions until another volley of shots drowned them out, and they fired back.

  “Get in there, now! And don’t stick yer nose out till we say it’s safe!”

  McGee had hopped to the ground and was gesturing for her to follow, but Sahara paused. The four outlaws were almost upon them, disguised by their hats and bandannas, and the dust clouds from their horses formed a choking brown blizzard around them. Suddenly a hand closed around her wrist. She toppled into her driver’s arms and was then boosted inside the coach.

  “Stay put,” Fergus ordered as he let the leather curtains on the outside of the stagecoach roll down over the windows. “Men the likes of these probably, recognize Spade’s private carriage and’ll be more determined to clean us out. But don’t ye worry—Luther and I know just how to handle them.”

  Sahara had landed against the upholstered seat beside Roxanne Pruitt, more perturbed than scared. This was her coach, and how dare they close her up inside it as though she were some helpless little—

  “Oh my God, oh my God, we’ll all be killed!” Roxanne wailed as her son began to cry. “Wendell will be waiting at the station, wondering why we don’t show up, and we’ll be lying dead on the prairie!”

  “And that caterwauling would drive any outlaw to shoot in here first!” Jenkins snapped. “If you don’t shut that boy’s mouth—”

  “That’s enough—both of you!” Sahara quickly took the quavering Mrs. Pruitt into her arms and then pulled Mitch against her as well, to muffle their hysteria. The hoofbeats and profanity were punctuated by gunfire on all sides of them. The coach lurched as somebody leaped over the luggage rack and began shooting, his boots clattering on the wooden roof above them.

  The air was muggy, and the scents of wintergreen and gunsmoke and their own fear threatened to stifle her. Nothing was more frustrating than sitting in this dim, curtained carriage, unable to see the battle raging around them while mules brayed and men scuttled for cover. Roxanne was sobbing quietly into her shoulder, and little Mitch was burrowing between them, whimpering like a small, pathetic animal. Sahara sighed, wondering how much longer it would take her six men to put the bandits out of business.

  Then she scowled at Phineas Jenkins, whose secretive movements had produced a pearl-handled pistol. “You put that thing away!” she commanded in a terse whisper. “This is no time for some citified reporter to play the hero!”

  He wasn’t listening, so she fumbled under her petticoats and brandished her derringer. “I said put it down! You don’t stand a chance out there, and you’re frightening Roxanne.”

  “I refuse to sit by while those outlaws use my luggage for target practice,” Jenkins replied in a tight whine. “Your men have them outnumbered, yet still they’re firing away!”

  The door of the stagecoach was yanked open, and Sahara instinctively pointed her pistol at the man who was staring in at them. His hat was the color of the dust swirling around him, and when he lowered his bandanna she gasped. “Madigan! What the hell are you doing here?”

  Dan looked pointedly at her weapon until she lowered it. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”

  His low chuckle infuriated her, and she let go of the Pruitts to give him a piece of her mind—until she realized the gunfire had ceased and the air was clearing behind him.

  “There’s something you’d better see out here, Sahara.”

  What was the meaning of this? They’d been under siege for several minutes while all she could think about was losing her men to a band of thieving desperadoes, and here, from out of nowhere, was Dan Madigan. He flashed her a teasing grin, offering a hand so that she could step out of the stage.

  Luther, Tom, and Charlie had their shotguns leveled at the four outlaws, who were lined up alongside one of the freight wagons with their hands above their heads. They were a ragtag lot: two spindly boys, a stockier fellow with a scar along his jaw, and—

  “Bobby! Bobby Caldwell, you—” Sahara stalked over to stand in front of him. “What kind of a bad joke is this? I got you your horse back, so now you’re using it to hold up stagecoaches? My stagecoaches? Of all the—”

  “I didn’t know we’s gonna—”

  “Shut up and stay put. Hands high!” Luther ordered when Caldwell made a move toward her.

  She waved off her expressman and glowered up into her brother’s freckled face. “You know I had good reason to let you go, Bobby—for taking on airs, like you planned to manage the—”

  “Talk about airs!” he countered. “Here ya are in that fancy coach, like some queen on parade, and ya cain’t even gimme a job! After all the years I watched after ya, like I promised Mama! Sent me packin’ without so much as a by-your-leave, and—”

  Sahara felt him striking her soft spot, just as she sensed the eyes of her passengers were widening as they drank in every word: Mrs. Horatio Spade and her bandit brother, who claimed she forced him into a life of crime by disowning him. Phineas Jenkins was undoubtedly taking notes on this story.

  “Don’t be feelin’ too sorry for him till ye check the horses they came in on,” Fergus McGee said quietly. “All but one have a familiar brand.”

  She let out a disgusted sigh and walked over to the four lathered mounts the other stage driver was holding. Sure enough, all but Bobby’s bay had the outline of a pointed bulb, like a spade from a playing card, emblazoned on their backsides. Not only had they held up her stage, but they’d stolen her horses to do it!

  Back she headed to Bobby, her face aflame. “I suppose it was your idea to supply your buddies with the best mounts you could steal—”

  “NO! I was only—”

  “—and now you have the nerve to bellyache to me about getting fired!” She could still feel the passengers and her men watching her, waiting to see how the nation’s wealthiest express line owner handled her contrary brother out here on the endless Kansas prairie. And she could practically hear Jenkins’s pen scratching across a page…

  Sahara turned to her dust-covered, sweat-soaked men, controlling her voice. “Did somebody get their weapons?”

  “Right here,” Underwood piped up. “Along with their ammunition and knives.”

  “Fine.” She looked over the bedraggled bandits, shaking her head. “You boys are a sorry lot, but you’ll look even sorrier walking back to whatever holes you crawled out of. I’m reclaiming my horses—and yours, Bobby—and we’ll deposit your arms at Fort Riley and telegraph word to the law about this little episode. Was anybody wounded?”

  As she looked around at her drivers and express messengers, they all shook their heads. The outlaw band looked grimy but unharmed.

  “Good. Poor shots like you four have no call to carry guns anyway, but if you want them that badly, you can reclaim them at the fort. I wouldn’t want a reputation for stealing somebody else’s property,” she added wryly. “We’ll be on our way now. If I see any of you again, you’ll answer to the nearest marshal or the army. Hear me?”

  The three strangers nodded, glaring, but Bobby’s face made the rest of them look downright grateful.

  “Go on now! You heard the lady—start walking!” Bean snapped as he shooed them with his rifle. “You’re damn lucky you’re not food for the vultures, because you will be next time I see you!”

  They started down the trail, going east at a ragged trot, except for Bobby, who stomped off while
sending her evil looks over his shoulder.

  “Hope your socks don’t have holes in them!” Underwood called out. “Hate to see you boys get blisters!”

  The chuckle that went through the passengers relaxed them all, and soon the two stages were off again, followed by the freight wagons. Roxanne and her son had remained huddled in their seat, so when Jenkins reclaimed his spot, Sahara sat down beside the Pruitts while Dan slid in across from her. For several minutes there was only the creaking of the coach and the dust floating by the open windows, kicked up by the team’s steady trot.

  Then Madigan cleared his throat. “He’ll be back, you know.”

  “Bobby?” Sahara asked with a short laugh. “I’m counting on it. We’re both too stubborn for our own good, but I don’t owe him a thing, dammit! None of this would’ve happened, had he not been playing poker drunk that night.”

  The two adult passengers were following their conversation, their faces alight with curiosity, until Sahara realized they must be even more confused than she was about how the attempted robbery came to an end. “This is Dan Madigan, manager of the Spade ranch south of Atchison,” she said, “and Dan, this is Roxanne Pruitt and Mitchell, bound for Denver and a new life with her husband. You’re seated by Phineas Jenkins, a journalist from St. Louis.”

  Madigan exchanged greetings, and then they lapsed into silence again. Mitch, who was studying him gravely, took his thumb from his mouth. “Did you stop those bad bandits from shootin’ us to pieces, mister?” he asked in a high, plaintive voice.

  Dan chuckled. “Well, I guess I came along at the right time and saw you were having some trouble.”

  “From out of nowhere…as though you might’ve been riding with them,” Sahara commented.

  Straightening his legs until his boots nearly met her feet, he leaned back and eyed her with a sly, unreadable expression. “We’ll discuss it later, Mrs. Spade. Hard to tell which side a person’s on sometimes, even after the dust settles.”