A Wanted Man

by Linda Lael Miller

  "Do you really think so?" Lydia asked, in a breathless tone, her eyes wide.

  "Sure I do," Gideon answered. "She's coming all this way to get you, and that means she wants a girl to raise."

  "I hope she's not like Mabel," Lydia said.

  Lark sniffled and dried her eyes on the cuff of her dress. Straightened her back. Lydia would be safe with Miss Baker, almost surely, and she'd be fed and clothed. Was it too much to hope that the woman would love Lydia as well?

  "I don't figure she could be like Mabel," Gideon mused.

  "How come?"

  "Well, because she's your aunt. That means she's got to be a little bit like you, anyhow. Maybe she's even a lot like you. And you're real nice, Lydia, so she must be, too."

  "What if she's mean, though?" Lydia fretted.

  "Then you just send me a letter," Gideon said staunchly. "I'll come right down to Phoenix, first thing, and fetch you back here to live with Miss Morgan." He turned his head, looking at Lark. "It's all right to promise that, isn't it?"

  Lark could barely speak. "Yes, Gideon," she managed. "It's all right."

  He turned back to Lydia. "See?"

  "I don't know how to write," Lydia said, worried again. "I mean, I can write some, but my letters go every which way."

  Gideon must have smiled, because, suddenly, Lydia smiled, too. "If Miss Morgan will give me a sheet of paper and an envelope, I'll write the letter for you. Make out the envelope and put a stamp on it, too. Then, if you ever have any trouble with anybody, all you'll have to do is mail the letter. Soon as I get it, I'll be coming for you."

  After some searching—given that she was a fugitive, living under a partially assumed name, she didn't write letters—Lark produced a sheet of tablet paper, along with a pencil. The envelope was Mrs. Porter's.

  She stayed close, watched over Gideon's shoulder as he wrote, "Please come and get me right away" in large block letters, slanted forcefully to the right. He read the message to Lydia, who nodded her approval, then carefully folded the paper, tucked it into the envelope and addressed it to himself:

  Gideon Rhodes, Deputy Marshal

  General Delivery

  Stone Creek, Arizona Territory

  Lark purloined a stamp from Mrs. Porter's supply and gave it to Gideon, who licked the back of it and ceremoniously pressed it to the envelope with the pad of his thumb.

  "What if you aren't here when the letter comes?" Lydia asked.

  "Somebody will forward it on to me, wherever I am," Gideon replied, with the kind of certainty only the young could offer so readily.

  Lydia grasped the letter tightly. "When I grow up," she said, her gaze searching Gideon's face, as if to memorize his every feature, "can we please get married?"

  Gideon patted Lydia's small hand. "If you still want me then," he replied easily, "we'll tie the knot. Chances are, though, you'll forget all about me, and when you're old enough, and pretty enough to have your pick of suitors, you'll marry somebody else."

  "I'll never forget you, Gideon," Lydia said solemnly.

  And neither will I, Lark thought. Neither will I.

  The ride to Flagstaff seemed longer this time, being so soon repeated, and when Rowdy, Sam and the major got to the railroad depot, it was full dark. Little splashes of lantern light stretched along the train tracks as men rode back and forth, ferrying women and children into town, then turning right around to head back out for more.

  Clearly, there had been a robbery, and maybe something even worse.

  Reston materialized out of the gloom to greet them as soon as they rode up—Sam first, then the major, then Rowdy, who was the last to dismount.

  "They dynamited the tracks," Reston reported gravely.

  Rowdy stiffened inwardly. He'd never known his pa to use dynamite, but there was always a first time. If a train was moving fast enough, it might roll right through a blaze laid on the tracks, even with logs the size of whiskey barrels.

  "Anybody get hurt?" Sam asked Reston. He had to be thinking about an experience he'd had with a train down in Mexico, Sam did. God Almighty, Rowdy hoped this robbery hadn't been a calamity like that one.

  "Nope," Reston replied, his gaze straying, measuring, to Rowdy, before shifting back to Sam. "No injuries to speak of, beyond a few bruises. Folks were scared, though, and they were a long time out there before we got to them. Soon as the train was late, though, we sent riders out to investigate."

  The major scanned the darkness, as though he could see all the way to that train, stranded out there in the dark and cold. "I suppose the robbers were masked," Blackstone said, resigned.

  Reston nodded. "According to Mr. Whitman—he owns this railroad and we brought him back among the first of the passengers, thinking he might have a heart attack, he was in such a dither—the leader had blue eyes and rode a black gelding. That's about all we know."

  Rowdy's stomach pitched, then rolled over backward.

  Blue eyes, striking enough to be memorable to a frightened old man.

  A black gelding.

  Payton Yarbro.

  Damn if the old bastard hadn't lied through his teeth when he'd said he'd given up robbing trains. And when he'd claimed he was headed for Mexico, too.

  "The old feller's over at Ruby's right now," Reston said. "You might want to talk to him yourselves."

  "That can wait," Sam replied, "until after all the passengers have been brought in."

  "We're almost done with that," Reston told Sam, but he was looking at Rowdy again. Probing at him in a way that made the small hairs rise on the back of Rowdy's neck. "No sense in wearing out your horses. Or yourselves."

  Sam considered, then nodded. "Ruby's?" he asked.

  Reston nodded. "Your friend here knows the way," he said, before peeling his eyes off Rowdy's hide. To Rowdy it felt like some of the skin came away with his glance.

  Sam looked Rowdy's way, very briefly but in some depth, then mounted up again. Rowdy and the major followed suit.

  After he'd shaken off the effects of Reston's stare, Rowdy turned his thoughts to what little he knew about the robbery. Two details, that was all he really had. And all he really needed.

  If he could have found his pa right then, he'd have done it. Handed the lying son of a bitch over to the rangers without batting an eye.

  The lights of Ruby's Saloon glowed in the gloom as they rode up, but the piano wasn't playing. Out front, Rowdy, Sam and the major dismounted and found places for their horses.

  Autry Whitman held court in the middle of the big, smoke-blued room, his white hair standing on end. A black man sat at the same table, as did Ruby herself, but everyone else kept their distance, staying on the periphery, lining the bar and claiming the far tables.

  Whitman exuded power—and righteous wrath. He looked like some Old Testament prophet, and kept clenching his fists and mumbling, while Ruby, looking pale and jumpy, tried to ply him with free whiskey.

  Rowdy knew what was going to happen. Knew there was no way to avoid it. So he resisted the urge to pull his hat brim down low over his eyes.

  Sam was the first to speak. "Mr. Whitman," he said, evidently needing no introduction, "my name is Sam O'Ballivan. I'm an Arizona Ranger. This is Major John Blackstone and Rowdy Rhodes."

  Whitman's stony gaze moved from Sam to the major to Rowdy, and stopped with a lurch as jarring as a train coming fast onto a gap in the tracks.

  The old man narrowed his eyes.

  "That's him," he said, flushing dangerously and starting to his feet.

  Rowdy stood his ground, didn't move or speak.

  He felt Sam and the major looking at him.

  Whitman half rose, then sat down again, heavily. Shook his head, as if suddenly confused.

  "It couldn't have been him," Ruby said evenly. "He was in this saloon when that train was robbed."

  "Those blue eyes," Whitman murmured.

  "Lots of people have blue eyes," Sam said quietly. But he glanced thoughtfully at Ruby, then turned his attention back t
o the railroad mogul, skipping over Rowdy entirely. "Do you know what time it was when the train was robbed, Mr. Whitman?"

  "Ten-thirty," Whitman said, with an accusing look at the black man. "I'd just looked at my watch, to see how late Esau here was, serving up my breakfast."

  Esau looked mighty uncomfortable, and didn't speak.

  "At ten-thirty," Ruby said, "Mr.—Rhodes was right here in this saloon. I remember him because of the badge."

  They were on dangerous ground, and Rowdy hoped Ruby knew that and would tread lightly. If she said Rowdy was her stepson, Sam and the major were sure to make the obvious connection. Then they'd want to know all about Jack Payton. And what Ruby didn't tell them they could learn by questioning anybody on the street.

  Again Rowdy silently cursed his father. For robbing trains. For living a decade in one place, and a very public one, at that. For the pure, reckless arrogance of using his famous first name as part of his alias.

  And then there was Gideon. He'd stood there in Mrs. Porter's kitchen, right after he'd shown up in Stone Creek, and said his name was Payton, not Rhodes. No one had commented at the time, or since, but Rowdy knew the landlady wouldn't have missed something like that, and neither would Lark.

  Lark.

  Rowdy ached inside. He didn't know which would be worse—leaving her behind with a hasty explanation or none at all, or seeing the look in her eyes when he was arrested for things Rob Yarbro had done.

  Robert Yarbro. That was the name on all those Wanted posters, but in its way, it was as much an alias as Rowdy Rhodes.

  Whitman studied Rowdy afresh. "He wasn't as tall as you are," he said.

  For the space of a heartbeat, Rowdy didn't know what the man was talking about.

  "Were you here today, Rowdy?" Sam asked quietly. "In this saloon, I mean?"

  Rowdy nodded.

  Gideon had been with him, when they'd all met up on the road earlier, outside Stone Creek. Suppose Sam and the major or—God forbid—Reston, decided to question Gideon?

  Rowdy was an experienced liar, a thing he wasn't proud of but nonetheless had to acknowledge, at least to himself. Gideon, on the other hand, was bound to slip up.

  He was just giving silent thanks that Reston was still at the depot, when the man crashed through the swinging doors.

  "We found one of them," he said. "He was facedown in the snow, shot through the forehead. Pockets stuffed full of other folks' money."

  Having made this announcement, Reston turned and went out again.

  Rowdy, Sam and the major all followed, with Autry Whitman not far behind.

  The body was draped over the back of a horse.

  Rowdy knew immediately that the corpse wasn't his pa, but there was something familiar about the man's form, just the same.

  Reston stepped up, got the dead man by the hair of his head and lifted, so the lights of Ruby's Saloon fell on the blood-streaked face. The bullet hole was small and neat, except for the dried blood dribbling down from it.

  Bile scalded the back of Rowdy's throat as he looked into the sightless eyes of a man who'd once been a trusted friend as well as an in-law.

  It was Chessie's younger brother, Seth Alden.

  -15-

  "I kind of hoped this Porter fella would show up for his own birthday party," Gideon confided to Lark, as the afternoon wore on toward evening. He'd just enjoyed his third slice of cake, and the honor of blowing out the candles had gone to Lydia.

  Mai Lee and Hon Sing had left the table, Mai Lee to begin cleaning up after their early supper, Hon Sing to return to Jolene Bell's saloon. Mrs. Porter had gone down to the root cellar, after murmuring about some errand there, and Lydia, full of cake, had already been carried to bed.

  "I believe Mr. Porter is dead," Lark whispered back to Gideon.

  Gideon frowned. "Why would anybody throw a shindig for a dead man?"

  "I have no idea," Lark said.

  "Maybe he's not," Gideon mused quietly. Like his older brother, he apparently enjoyed a puzzle. "Dead, I mean. Maybe he's just away someplace, and Mrs. Porter figures he might come back anytime, and expect a cake for his birthday."

  Mai Lee turned then, and cast an uncomfortable glance over one shoulder, but if she knew anything about Mr. Porter's whereabouts, be they above- or be-lowground, she revealed nothing.

  It was cold, musty and dark in the root cellar—Lark had been there earlier in the afternoon herself, to fetch a jar of pickled beets for supper—and she couldn't imagine what her landlady might be doing down there. She'd been gone at least fifteen minutes, and Lark was getting worried.

  "Perhaps I'd better check on her," she said, starting to rise. Only her dread of the place, she realized with some chagrin, had kept her from going earlier.

  Gideon got up. "I'll do it," he said.

  "I'm going, too," Lark said.

  "Take candle," Mai Lee contributed, with a little shudder. "Dark like grave."

  Lark found a candle in the pantry, along with a small box of matches, and she and Gideon made for the cellar, reached by way of a trapdoor in the far corner of the kitchen, opposite the cookstove. Dank air rose from what was essentially a hole in the ground, like the cold breath of some subterranean creature.

  Lark shivered, handed the candle and matches to Gideon, and let him descend the steps first.

  "Mrs. Porter?" she called tremulously, over Gideon's shoulder. Lark couldn't recall if her landlady had taken a lantern or a candle when she'd gone down into the dirt chamber earlier, but if she had, the flame had gone out.

  There was no answer.

  Gideon reached the bottom of the steps and stopped so suddenly that Lark nearly collided with him. The light from the candle he was holding wavered eerily against the damp, root-laced walls. A mouse skittered, somewhere out of sight.

  "Mrs. Porter?" he said. "Ma'am? Are you—"

  Lark strained to see around his broad shoulder—and spotted Mrs. Porter standing pressed into a corner, under a frieze of cobwebs, her eyes huge. She had brought a lantern—she clutched it in both hands—but the flame had guttered out.

  Mrs. Porter blinked several times, as though coming back to herself from some great distance and arriving with a visibly jolting impact. In the next instant, though, she offered a fitful, distracted little smile.

  "I was right," she said cheerfully. "There were no more walnuts. We used them up at Christmas."

  Gideon handed the candle back to Lark, who hovered on the third step from the bottom, and went to Mrs. Porter. Took her gently by the arm.

  Again Lark was reminded of Rowdy.

  And for some new reason she couldn't have defined— she knew only that it had nothing to do with missing the dance, or the tear in her bloomers—she wished him back from Flagstaff with such an intensity that it wouldn't have surprised her if he'd materialized before her eyes.

  Well, it wouldn't have surprised her immediately, anyway.

  "You feeling all right, ma'am?" Gideon asked respectfully, at the same time steering Mrs. Porter toward the cellar steps.

  "I could do with a dose of my medicine," Mrs. Porter admitted, sweetly confused again. "And perhaps a little rest."

  Lark stepped back out of the way, glad to be above the kitchen floor again, away from the spiders and the cold and the inevitable mice. Waited as Gideon ushered Mrs. Porter up the steps, with the easy competence of those who are used to being strong.

  Mai Lee and Lark escorted the landlady to her room on the second floor, each supporting her by an arm.

  "My medicine," Mrs. Porter murmured, upon entering.

  Mai Lee nodded and took a brown bottle from the bedside stand, which was illuminated by a beam of moonlight, while Lark helped Mrs. Porter to lie down on the bed.

  With the older woman settled, Lark lit a lamp, watched as Mai Lee administered a dose of what was surely laudanum, which Mrs. Porter raised herself half off the mattress to receive.

  Across the bed Mai Lee's and Lark's gazes caught, held, broke apart.

&nb
sp; Lark unlaced Mrs. Porter's shoes and removed them, then covered her with a blanket, found folded at the foot of the bed.

  Having never been in the room before, Lark stole surreptitious glances, here and there, taking in the heavy velvet drapes, the massive furniture, the cold stone fireplace. She saw an exquisite mantel clock, its case of painted china, and numerous knickknacks. But there were no photographs or paintings and no visible evidence that Mr. Porter, or any other man, had ever shared these quarters.

  Still, Lark felt strangely anxious, as though the master of the house might step out of one of the shadowy corners and demand an explanation for their presence, hers and Mai Lee's.

  "I'll just close my eyes for a few moments," Mrs. Porter said, with a benign little sigh. Perhaps she was used to the heavy, almost ominous atmosphere of that room—and it was equally possible, of course, that Lark was merely imagining these disturbing aspects.

  Mrs. Porter was soon snoring.

  Leaving the lamp burning, Mai Lee and Lark slipped out of the room, moving as quietly as they could, Mai Lee pulling the door shut behind them.

  "How long has Mrs. Porter been taking laudanum?" Lark asked, when they were alone in the corridor.

  Mai Lee sighed. "Long time," she said. "Not take Hon Sing's medicine. It better. Have herbs, brought all way from China."

  They moved toward the rear stairway, leading down into the kitchen.

  Lark thought of Hon Sing's glistening needles, and the way he'd used them so skillfully to help Lydia. Mrs. Porter probably wouldn't have submitted to that treatment, any more than she would have taken the herbs, and it seemed a shame to Lark.

  "Mai Lee," she said, suddenly able to keep the question back any longer, "what happened to Mr. Porter?"

  Mai Lee's eyes widened. "He gone," she whispered.

  "Dead?"

  Mai Lee shrugged. "Not know. One day, here when Mai Lee make breakfast. Put on hat and go to bank. Not see again."

  "You must have heard something," Lark insisted, but carefully, thinking of Mai Lee's celebrated ability to gather all the local news and bring it straight home to Mrs. Porter. "Surely people talked, and if there was a funeral—"