Sahara knew not to fall for his ruse, yet something about this Indian made her lean over the luggage rail to stare at him. Why hadn’t his friends grabbed him up when they retreated? Surely they wouldn’t leave him, dead or alive, at the mercy of riled-up white men.
And when his huge, feathered war bonnet slipped off sideways, she had her answer. “Bobby Caldwell, I swear to—what the hell’re you doing here?” Bean and Fergus were warning her to stay put, but she scrambled down and stood over him, her fists buried in her hips. “You better have a damn good reason for attacking my stagecoach again, mister!”
By now the driver, Madigan, and Luther Bean were around her and Fergus held his lantern up to confirm her identification. Sure enough, the crushed curls were dark auburn, and the fierce stripes of war paint camouflaged freckled cheeks. In the voice she’d recognized moments earlier, he was stammering, “I—I cain’t find no work—”
“Did Ben Holladay hire you?” Luther demanded, his gun leveled at Bobby’s head. “We’ve heard he paints up his employees to attack his competitors’ coaches and scare off their business.”
Caldwell stared sullenly at him. “Yeah, I’m workin’ fer Holladay,” he spat. “Satisfied?”
“Ye’ll not be collectin’ yer pay, then,” Fergus piped up. “I’m fetchin’ the rope, Luther. Only one way to be sure this traitorous bastard doesn’t come at us again!”
As Sahara glanced nervously at the circle of lamplit faces, her breath caught in her throat. There was a grove of trees a short distance from the road, but surely they weren’t going to—
“Please! You can’t hang him!” she blurted. “He may be a bandit—and a damn poor one—but he’s all the family I’ve got!”
Bean sneered. “Mrs. Spade, the only way to keep such worthless vermin off our backs is to string him up.”
“I’ll be responsible for him!” she cried. “I know what he wants, and I—I’ll—”
“Surely you’re not going to pay him,” Madigan said in a terse whisper. “There’ll be no end to it. It’s blackmail in its most basic form.”
“I’ll handle it!” she replied with a pointed glare. “This is a family matter, and I’ll not have any of you interfering! Now get me something to wrap his arm up with. We can’t have him bleeding all over my coach!”
Her last words assured Madigan that she hadn’t lost all sense of perspective, yet Caldwell reeked of trouble as though a skunk had shot him with it. Sahara’s plea for her brother’s life was touching, considering all Bobby’d done to her, but he knew damn well her compassion was wasted on this no-account, two-bit criminal.
Fergus was returning with a black leather bag he’d fetched from the driver’s boot, and he had a length of rope dangling in his hand. The Scot looked no more pleased about Sahara’s sisterly devotion than he or Bean were. “He’s trouble, lass—”
“Through and through,” Sahara agreed as she took the medical supplies from him.
“—and what with the welfare of payin’ passengers to consider, I feel I should advise ye to ... take precautions,” Fergus stated stiffly. “ Tis a crime to attack a stage contracted to carry mail for the government, and—”
Sahara scowled. “This is my private coach, Fergus. The mail went on the regular run.”
“Aye, lass, but ye see—”
“I suggest that after you bind that wound, we tie Bobby’s arms to his sides,” Madigan said quietly. “He can ride on the roof, where Bean and I can keep an eye on him. No sense in upsetting poor Mrs. Pruitt and Jenkins by allowing him inside. God knows the headlines he could write about this!”
She suddenly felt drained. The two freight wagons were rumbling into view, and all eyes were focused intently on her…and for some reason she felt like her men knew something they weren’t telling her, but she was too exhausted to confront them about it right now.
“All right, we’ll tie him up,” she said with a sigh. “We can decide what to do with him later.”
Chapter 19
“Yer concern touches me, Sary.”
“As well it should!” she muttered in the same sardonic tone Bobby was using. They’d stopped at the next station for a short rest and an early breakfast, and she’d carried a plate of venison steak and biscuits with honey out to where he was seated beside the stagecoach, handcuffed to a wheel. “I had a mind to let my men string you up last night, but I wanted some questions answered.”
“Such as?”
Sahara reminded herself that her brother was always surly in the morning, and that his wounded arm couldn’t be improving his temper much. “Why the hell did you attack us again?” she asked in an exasperating whisper. “It makes you look really stupid, you know? Were those the same worthless friends who helped you last time?”
“Nope.”
Sahara rolled her eyes as he shoved half a honey-drenched biscuit into his mouth and swallowed it. “Their loyalty was heart-warming. Were any of them real Indians?”
“Yeah, and they was bent on takin’ some scalps if any of yer men got close enough,” he replied slyly. “It’s a bloodthirsty bunch I run with these days.”
“Why?” She paced around him so that she didn’t have to watch him eat as though Mama never taught him any manners.
“Maybe there’s money in it. Or maybe I’m tryin’ ta get yer attention, little sister.”
She whirled around to face him. “Who’s paying you?”
Bobby crammed a large chunk of venison into his mouth to spite her, making her wait several moments while he chewed it. “Holladay. Like I told Bean.”
“That’s a lie and you know it! If there’s one thing you do worse than playing poker and robbing stages, Bobby Caldwell, it’s telling lies.”
Her brother shrugged. “Think what ya want. I sure got my thoughts about what you and Madigan was doin’ on that stage roof,” he said with a snicker. “Hell’s bells, Sary, yer like some alley cat in heat if ya let ‘im at ya whiles the others ain’t ten feet away! Next thing, you’ll be lookin’ like ya swallowed a punkin seed.”
Her toe sent his breakfast plate flying. “You’re a fine one to judge moral character, big brother,” she jeered, and then she strode off to fetch her own food—and to escape the barbs that were pricking her a little too close to home. What a fool she’d been to let Madigan coax her onto the roof! Everyone on the face of the earth must’ve seen them.
“That’s no way ta treat family!” Bobby called out. “Gomes a time that cow-eyed Madigan hitches his ass ta somebody else’s wagon—like Jenny Spade’s, maybe—you’ll be wishin’ yer ole brother was around ta look out for ya!”
Sahara smiled smugly. What he didn’t know—about Dan’s relationship to Jennifer, and about him being her own partner—was just one more reason to discount all of Bobby’s bluster. It was a sure bet a tycoon like Ben Holladay would hire better help if he were truly after her or her business. Who was paying her brother and that turn-tail bunch of braves? It was still a mystery, but she’d pester him like a flea in his longjohns until she found out. Surely, during the remaining 250 miles to Denver, she could make him tell the truth.
The hours and the miles became more grueling. Being cooped up inside the coach with irascible Phineas Jenkins and the two weary Pruitts wore on Sahara until she thought she’d scream, but Fergus McGee insisted they were still in country notorious for its Indian troubles. Trying to pry some answers out of Bobby was like milking a rattlesnake. Dan was riding on the roof—in case her hair-brained brother took a notion to jump off the moving coach—and he was having no better luck at getting a confession out of his prisoner than she did.
Near the Monument station they saw rocks rising out of the prairie like tombstones placed there by ancient gods, with one that resembled a human head—the Kansas Sphinx, the station keepers called it. Farther along, at Pond Creek, her employees proudly gave her a tour of the underground tunnels that connected the house to the barn and to the rifle pits, which were dug large enough for two men and protected by a huge slab o
f rock held off the ground by short logs. Spencer repeating rifles and Henry breech-loaders that could fire eighteen shots were kept at the ready in each of the pits, and from these strategic quarters, her men could protect the stock and the station from Indians, who went on the warpath often in this area.
Ironic that the redskins are leaving us alone now, Sahara thought each time she glanced at her handcuffed brother. She and Madigan made the final army delivery at Fort Wallace, and after they passed through the Blue Mound station, named for the acres of cottonwoods that looked like a smoky-blue hill from a distance, they were in the Colorado Territory.
“We’ll be drivin’ rougher roads as we start the climb toward the mountains,” Fergus commented when they stopped at the next station. “Ye’re lookin’ a bit weary, lass. Shall we spend the night?”
The thought of sleeping in a real bed after short nights in a blanket on the ground—or fitful evenings spent drowsing while sitting upright, being jerked awake—sounded heavenly. Sahara glanced at Roxanne and Mitch, whose fatigue was smudged in purple beneath their dust-reddened eyes, and almost agreed. A hot bath in a tub would benefit them all, too, and she wondered how Bean and her driver remained alert on what little sleep they snatched between shifts at the reins.
“Let’s keep moving,” she said with a sigh. “We won’t sleep soundly, and a delay of eight or ten hours will only prolong our arrival in Denver.”
Fergus nodded as he opened the coach door so that they could board again. “Would ye like to ride in the box? Twill make the road less bothersome for ye…and Bean’s not the talker you are, either.”
The coaxing of his accent made her smile at the swarthy Scot, yet she declined.
“We’ll forge ahead, then. Another day or so’ll bring us to the mile houses—fine hotels, some of ‘em—and perhaps we’ll stop,” he replied kindly. “Mrs. Pruitt’ll be wantin’ to clean up to meet ‘er man…and surely one of us can wrestle that disgustin’ Phineas into a tub, as well.”
A tired laugh escaped her, but once they were on their way, Mr. Jenkins’s foul odors weren’t funny. Sahara let Roxanne and her son have the seat behind the driver’s box so that they could curl up for a nap now and then. Their appreciation was heartfelt; but it put the malodorous reporter within five feet of Sahara, and as the day wore on, she sorely wished the last few stations had been able to offer them fare other than beans and more beans.
At least his scribblings kept him from starting arguments. Now and then she stole a glance at his notebook, but his angular scrawl was impossible to decipher. Blots of black ink attested to the increasing roughness of the road, yet he wrote on with a zeal that seemed inspired by some driving need to express himself.
It gave her time to ponder what she’d do with her brother when they got to Denver. Tired as she was, Sahara was tempted to slip him a large wad of bank bills in exchange for the promise that he’d never come within sight of her again. People could’ve been killed during his foolhardy attacks!
But he deserved to be punished for horse thieving and attempted robbery. If she paid him off, Bobby wouldn’t have sense enough to stay away from her, and he’d be cocky about being placed above the law. Madigan would toss his shiftless butt in jail and let him rot—and Dan’s viewpoint was more objective than her own.
But dammit, she couldn’t overlook the fact that she now had millions of dollars at her disposal while her brother had nothing. Poverty and back-breaking ranch labor hadn’t strengthened his character: they’d merely driven him to dubious means of taking what he thought the world owed him. Perhaps she could find it in her heart to forgive his rebellious stunts, and to share the wealth his last-ditch poker bet had brought her into, and yet—
“Son of a bitch!” Jenkins muttered when the coach struck a particularly deep rut. He jammed the cap back onto his pen and slapped his notebook shut with a vehemence that startled Mitch out of his nap. The boy began to howl, his voice as shrill and desolate as a coyote pup’s, while tears raced down his puckery face. Roxanne’s shushing did no good, and Sahara sighed inwardly when she realized this racket would end only when he’d cried himself back to sleep.
“Shut up!” Phineas snapped. “Stop that bawling or I’ll stop it for you!”
The reporter’s command only provoked little Mitch to wail louder, and his poor mother appeared so exhausted she could barely coax him onto her lap. He was flushed and sweaty and protesting her efforts with piercing shrieks, when Jenkins brandished his revolver.
“Goddammit to hell, I’ve had all I can take of that child!” he roared. “Shut his mouth, or I’ll stop this coach and have you put out on the roadside!”
Sahara had seen him fishing in his waistband, and the sight of the pearl-handled pistol aiming at the Pruitts sent her lunging over Jenkins’s lap with the protective instincts of a mother lion. Before he realized what was blocking his view, she grabbed his arm and pointed the weapon out the coach’s window.
“Get ahold of yourself!” she rasped. “That’s a mother and her son, for God’s sake, and you’re not about to murder them!”
Phineas’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. He was clearly as surprised as Sahara herself was by this sudden turn of events, but before he could say anything she was launching another verbal attack.
“What’s happened to the sophisticated, world-wise man of letters going west to further a journalistic mission?” she demanded. “You’re no more in control of yourself than Mitch is! And furthermore, you smell worse than three weeks’ garbage left to rot in the sun! Fergus!” she called out the window. “Fergus, stop the stage! We’ve got trouble.”
The coach jerked to a halt so suddenly that she tumbled off the reporter’s lap, but she picked herself up as Bean, McGee, and Dan leaped down to throw the door open. The sight of the burly, bearded express agent and
his double-barreled shotgun made Phineas Jenkins drop his pistol with a whimper.
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out here, lard-ass!” Luther ordered. “I figured you for trouble the minute Mrs. Spade invited you along, and I’ve had my fill! You’ll walk from here.”
The reporter gasped when Bean prodded his midsection with the shotgun, his bulk quivering as he hurried outside. “I only wanted some peace and quiet from—”
Madigan reached in to grab the gun he’d dropped, glancing at the silent, wide-eyed Pruitts. “You two all right?” he asked as Jenkins babbled on behind him.
“Yes, we—he could’ve shot Sahara!” Roxanne gasped. “He was pointing at poor little Mitch, and he had us both so frightened that—”
“Well, he won’t do it again,” Dan assured her as he backed out of the coach. He turned to see Luther Bean’s weapon aimed at the reporter, whose pudgy hands and wrists extended far beyond his suit sleeves as he struggled to keep his hands up.
“What do you want to do about him, Sahara?” Madigan asked. “I have no qualms about leaving him alongside the road with his luggage. Maybe the next stage’ll take pity on him. And maybe it won’t.”
“Please!” Jenkins sputtered. “I—I didn’t intend to—I’m so exhausted, I—”
“Ye’re a hazard to us all!” McGee interjected, “and since ye can’t be trusted to ride like a civilized—”
“But the pistol’s not even loaded,” Phineas confessed dolefully. He let out his breath with a wheeze that sounded like a blacksmith’s bellows. “I—I couldn’t have hurt anyone. I was merely trying for…some peace and quiet.”
Madigan quickly checked the gun’s chamber and sighed disgustedly. “You’re the poorest excuse for a man I’ve ever seen, Jenkins. None of us will miss your whining, I promise you that.”
Phineas Jenkins looked embarrassed enough to cry, and when Sahara saw Luther Bean swing himself up over the luggage railing to throw down the reporter’s luggage, she sighed tiredly. “You can ride on the roof,” she muttered, “but when we get to the next station, you’re waiting for another coach. If that doesn’t suit you, you’ll walk fro
m here.”
“Thank you,” the reporter gushed. “I—I don’t know what came over me!”
Sahara did: it was the same lay-down-and-die weariness they were all suffering from. A normal ride to Denver took six days; but by visiting with her station keepers and allowing the freight wagons to keep up, she’d extended the trip by another six, and she now understood why McGee had warned her against taking on passengers. The only thing she cared about seeing at this moment was a bed.
“—and I won’t forget about this huge favor, believe me, Mrs. Spade.”
She managed a purposeful grin. “I’m counting on that, Mr. Jenkins. Get on up to the roof now. The sooner we get going, the sooner we all sleep.”
Chapter 20
Their arrival at the Twelve Mile House lifted their spirits. Taverns such as this one dotted the last stretch of road along Cherry Creek into Denver, giving weary travelers a chance to clean up and rest before entering town, and Fergus’s recommendations proved accurate. John and Jane Melvin’s hospitality was legendary—and tonight being Saturday, they were bringing in a band, hosting a dance and a feast. Jane had been baking and cooking for the past three days to prepare, so the aromas of roasted meats, cakes, and fresh breads wafted through the entire inn.
After pulling the curtains against the mid-morning sun, Sahara snuggled gratefully between the clean-smelling sheets and sank into a deathlike slumber. Several hours later a tapping at the door awoke her, and she sat groggily on the side of the bed. “Yes? Who’s there?”
The door adjoining the Pruitts’ room opened enough to allow Roxanne to peek in. Her blond hair was disheveled, and she still looked tired; but she managed a smile. “Mr. Madigan’s having a tub and hot water brought up for us,” she said in a hushed voice. “Since Mitchell’s still asleep, I thought you’d like to bathe first. The dinner and dance begin in an hour.”
She’d slept the day away! With a sleepy-eyed smile she thanked her pale friend, and minutes later she watched two of the tavern’s staff carry in the tub and buckets of steaming water. As Sahara soaked, and then washed her grimy hair, she heard movement in the room on the other side of hers, where Madigan was staying. Days had passed since their tryst atop the stage, and the thought of dancing with her dapper partner washed away her resentment like the bath water eased her aching muscles. He’d proposed, after all, and she’d said yes. It was time to talk seriously, now that they were almost to Denver.
Sahara Splendor Page 20