by Lee Collins
James was still looking at her.
"I'm sorry," she said, unable to meet his eyes. "I appreciate your hospitality and your assistance. That just wasn't the answer I was hoping to hear." James opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. "No, really, it's all right. I will figure out a way to avenge my parents on my own. Your information about spirit mediums will be very useful, I'm sure. There must be someone in this country that isn't opposed to working with a woman."
Standing, she dropped James a perfunctory curtsey and turned to leave. Her hand was on the doorknob when his voice stopped her.
"I may know someone."
She paused, not turning. "Another of your scholars?"
"Quite the opposite, in fact."
Did she hear a hint of laughter in his voice? It was enough to make her turn and look at him. "Who, then?"
Instead of replying, James stood and crossed over to his desk. Refilling his glass from the bottle, he raised a silent toast in the direction of the afternoon sun. The golden liquid disappeared down his throat, and he turned back to her. "Another woman."
THREE
The young girl looked up in confusion. Her mother stood over her, gently shaking her awake. The girl blinked sleep from her eyes. She smiled sleepily, but the hard look on her mother's face did not soften. Her mother's hair fell in black waves over her shoulders, its glossy sheen catching the soft light peeking through the door.
The girl sat up, confused and frightened. Her mother should be smiling. She always smiled in the morning while they were still warm, before they had to go out into the cold. She would always wake the girl with a smile and a piece of corn-meal bread. That day, her mother had no bread and no smile. She was serious and sad, and that made the girl afraid.
Sunlight filled the small room as the blanket covering the door was pulled to one side. The girl's father stepped up beside her mother and looked down. The girl held her breath, clutching at her blanket with small, strong fingers. She knew something was different. The faces her parents wore told her. But what could upset them? They were the biggest and smartest people she knew. Her father was a singer, a man of the spirits; he knew a lot and told her about things when she asked. Her mother was strong and kind and pretty, a source of comfort when the boys in the village told stories of monsters to scare her. Her mother didn't fear the witches they spoke of, so why was she afraid now?
"Come," her father said. "We must go."
"Where?" the girl asked.
"I do not know," her father said. Beside him, her mother was making a face like she was trying not to cry. It was enough to bring out the young girl's tears.
"Hush," her mother said. "No need for that. Be brave for us."
The girl sniffed back her tears and bit her lip. She could be brave like her mother. To show it, she lifted her arms, and her mother picked her up. The girl's father bent to retrieve the blanket, and the girl grabbed at it greedily. He smiled then, but he didn't look happy.
Stepping over to the entrance, he pulled the blanket aside and walked through. The girl's mother followed, carrying her securely. The girl kept one arm curled around her mother's neck and the other around her blanket as they left the warmth of their home and stepped into the cold winter air.
There were a lot of men outside. Some of them she knew, men from her tribe, but most of them were strangers. They wore funny clothes and had skin the color of the soft fur on a rabbit's belly. They carried metal sticks that they pointed at the people from her village. She saw her friend's mother throwing some corn cakes into a basket. Other women were wrapping clothes in blankets. Men loaded bundles onto fuzzy grey donkeys.
One of the new men came riding up on a horse. He yelled something that the girl didn't understand, and the other pale men began moving toward the villagers.
The girl felt her mother's arms squeeze her tightly. "He says we must leave now," her father said.
Victoria clasped her handbag in front of her, gloved fingers absently working their way back and forth over the top. Behind her, the city of Denver carried on its daily life with fervor. Horses clipped and clopped along the cobblestone streets, carrying riders or drawing carriages and buggies behind them. Around their massive hooves, dogs barked and scurried in motley packs. Mothers hung out of secondstory windows, calling to their children in the streets to wash up and be careful and don't forget to pick up an extra loaf of bread for their visiting cousins. In the distance, the harsh call of a locomotive echoed into the blue sky. Underscoring the other sounds was the steady patter of feet in shoes and feet in boots and feet in nothing at all.
The city had taken her by surprise when she'd first arrived. Arranging the train from New York had been a simple enough affair, and the coach had been comfortable despite James Townsend's warnings. She changed trains twice, once in Cincinnati and once in Kansas City, her luggage cared for by pairs of young bag boys who kept stealing glances at her as they worked. She gave them each a smile and a tip when they finished, their faces telling her that they would have just as easily taken a kiss in place of her money.
When the locomotive had finally pulled into Denver, she had stepped out of the train car and sucked in her breath. In the distance, marching beyond the quaint city skyline like an army of blue giants, a line of mountains glowered at her. Beneath their proud peaks, curving slopes of green and brown ended abruptly in jagged cliffs, sheared and cauterized like an amputee's limbs. They sprawled across the western horizon from end to end, fading into the haze hundreds of miles away. She had never seen anything so frightening or magnificent in her life.
Now the city hid them from sight, but she could feel them lurking somewhere beyond the quaint buildings. She imagined the ground beneath her feet suddenly losing its balance and tilting upward, sending her tumbling toward the mountains like a pebble on a drawbridge. The entire city would slide downward, the screams and crashes drowned out by the horrible rumbling of the earth as it came undone.
Victoria shook her head. She had to get a grip on herself. No use adding to her real worries with imagined ones. Taking a breath, she focused her gaze on the golden cross that crowned the church in front of her. It was modest, perhaps three yards tall, but had its own understated appeal. The gold shone brightly in the morning sun, throwing shafts of light on the buildings across the street. Beneath it, saints watched the world with solemn eyes, their windows set into walls of brown stone. Such a modest church might have suited a small town in England, but it seemed at home among the crude buildings that surrounded it.
She walked up to the front door and pulled. The slab of wood, richly stained, refused to budge. Planting her feet, she wrapped both hands around the handle and leaned back. A breath of incense swirled around her as the door finally opened.
Once inside, the darkness of the foyer blinded her for a moment. She stood still, breathing in the scents of tallow and incense and candle smoke while her eyes adjusted. Carpet the color of wine spread out beneath her feet. Ahead of her, an arch opened into the small sanctuary. She took a few tentative steps through it, careful not to let her feet make any noise on the carpet. The room beyond was still and dark, but the saints still watched her from their windows. Candles flickered like stars along the rows of pews and around the altar. At the far end, a crucifix hung from the ceiling, the savior watching over this house of saints. A purple sash hung down from his arms, adding an air of royalty to the man carved in eternal agony.
"Welcome, child," came a voice near the altar. "Please, come in."
A nun robed in black and white stepped down from the dais and stood at the end of the aisle, her hands clasped in front of her. Victoria crept toward her, a sudden shyness slowing her steps. Having been raised Protestant, she felt out of place in this church, as though her mere presence angered the faces in the windows. The nun's face was kind and wrinkled, and she focused on that. She even offered the older woman a smile as she came nearer.
"I am Sister Alice," the nun said.
"Victoria Dawes," Victoria r
eplied, dropping a curtsey.
"You're from England?" Sister Alice asked.
Victoria nodded. "I've only just arrived in Denver. I'm from Oxford, originally."
"What brings you to the house of God?"
How to answer that? Victoria looked down at her hands for a moment, biting back the first answer that appeared on her tongue. Catholics and their pride. She swallowed before looking back up. "Well, I'm looking for someone, and I was instructed to begin my search here."
Confusion deepened Sister Alice's wrinkles. "A member of the clergy?"
"Not exactly," Victoria said, "although I believe this person has worked closely with the priesthood in years past. Her name is Cora Oglesby."
"Can't say I've heard of her," Sister Alice replied. "What work did she do?"
Doubt began creeping into Victoria's thoughts. Had James Townsend been mistaken? "Well," she said, "as I understand it, she is a sort of bounty hunter. One of those rough-and-tumble gunfighters that populate the American frontier."
"That's strange. I don't know what need the Church would have of a bounty hunter. You said she worked for our parish?"
"To be honest, I'm not sure." Victoria watched the nun's confusion with a sinking feeling. "I'm working on information I received from an Oxford scholar who claims to have worked with this woman in the past. I have very urgent business with her, and he advised me to ask the Catholic clergy to help me find her."
Sister Alice gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, child. Can't say I've ever heard of any bounty hunter working for the Church, especially not one who's a woman."
"Is there anyone you might ask?" Victoria said.
"Father Baez may know," Sister Alice said, "but he's probably still asleep."
"I know it's terribly rude to ask, but could you see if he would speak with me?" Victoria unconsciously twisted her fingers together. "It really is dreadfully important."
Sister Alice looked off to her right for a moment. Victoria could almost see the scales balancing in the nun's head as she weighed the request. If Sister Alice refused to help her, Victoria would chain herself to one of the pews until this Father Baez appeared. If he couldn't help her, she would just have to move on to the next city.
"Well," Sister Alice said, turning back to her, "I don't normally like to bother him, but since you've come all this way, I suppose I can go check on him. Don't expect much, though."
"Thank you so much," Victoria said.
The nun nodded. "Have yourself a seat," she said, pointing to a pew. "I'll be back soon."
Victoria sat, the wood creaking slightly under her. Sister Alice disappeared through a door on one side of the altar, her habit vanishing into the shadows beyond.
Leaning back into the pew, Victoria folded her hands in her lap. She tried to imagine what her father or mother would say if they found her in such a place, waiting to hear whether or not a Catholic priest knew where to find an American bounty hunter. She shook her head and smiled. It really did sound absurd, and that she was traveling alone made it all the more so.
Still, she had reason to believe she could follow through with what she'd started. After all, she'd managed the trip across the Atlantic with little difficulty. It had taken the Jewel of Scotland just over two weeks to make the passage. Victoria spent much of her time aboard in her cabin, searching histories from her father's collection for any references to black shucks. When her eyes grew tired, she would venture above deck to watch the ocean swell beneath the ship. Spring storms blossomed on the horizon, dark and menacing, but the Jewel slid by them without incident.
When she'd made port in New York City, she gave the immigrations office slight pause. They were unused to a woman traveling alone, but in the end they'd waved her through. One of their officers had pointed her in the direction of the rail station, and she'd easily found a coach to take her through the maze of streets. Grand Central Station had been grand indeed, and the endless press of bodies took her breath away. Once she'd regained her head, she found a train bound for Denver and bought herself a ticket. Indeed, the hardest part of her journey had been adjusting to the coarse way Americans had of speaking.
Echoing footsteps pulled her back into the present. Looking up, she saw Sister Alice emerge from the doorway. A man entered with her, clutching her arm in one hand and the head of a cane in the other. Victoria rose to her feet as they approached.
"Victoria Dawes," Sister Alice said, "may I present Father Emmanuel Baez."
"The honor is mine," Victoria said, extending her hand.
The priest released his hold on Sister Alice's arm and kissed the young woman's hand. Drawing himself up as straight as he could, he looked at her and smiled. "A pleasure, my dear."
Sister Alice guided him to the pew and helped him to sit. Victoria took a seat nearby, careful to maintain what she considered a respectful distance. The priest leaned back against the pew, his white hair and beard seeming to shine above his robes. He looked at her again, and she could see a spark in his dark eyes. "Now, then," he said, "Sister Alice tells me you have some business with me."
"Yes," Victoria said. "I don't want to waste your time, so I'll come straight to it. I'm looking for a woman named Cora Oglesby."
Father Baez's eyes went wide, and he drew in a deep breath. "There's a name I haven't heard in years." He smiled then, a thin line beneath his beard.
"So you know of her?"
"Of course." The priest cleared his throat and sat upright. "She and I have a history. Not a very happy one, but a good one."
"Do you know where I might find her?" Victoria asked.
Father Baez started to answer, then paused. "Might I ask why you want to find her?"
"I have urgent business with her," Victoria answered, trying to sound as harmless as she could.
The priest considered that, then turned to Sister Alice. "Would you excuse us for a moment, sister?" Taken aback, the nun stood to her feet, nodded, and stalked across the dais. Once she disappeared through the side door, Father Baez turned back to Victoria. "Cora Oglesby deals in some very dark business, young lady. I pray you'll forgive my reluctance, but not everyone who knows about her has benevolent intentions."
"I understand," Victoria said. "It's precisely her dealings in those dark matters that caused me to seek her out. I need her help, you see."
The white eyebrows twitched. "Oh?" Victoria nodded and looked down, unsure if she should elaborate. Father Baez gently touched her hand. "You don't need to worry about telling me, child. We priests are used to keeping secrets," he said, eyes twinkling.
Victoria smiled. Her tale was outlandish, she knew, but if this priest really did know this Cora Oglesby, perhaps he wouldn't be a stranger to outlandish tales. She recounted her encounter with the black shucks on the road, the death of her parents, and her meeting with James Townsend. A tremor crept into her voice as she spoke. She'd only told the story in its entirety once before, and hearing herself say it aloud again drove the reality and horror of it that much closer to her heart.
When she finished, Father Baez nodded, stroking his beard with one age-spotted hand. Victoria watched him, keeping her hands still with no small effort. "Well," he said at length, "it does certainly sound like Cora's kind of job."
Victoria's breath left her lungs in a rush. "So you'll help me, then?"
He nodded. "I'll tell you what I know, but I'm afraid I haven't heard from her in a good while. Nearly four years, I think."
"Any information at all would be wonderful," she said, her eyes alight.
"Cora can be a difficult woman to find," Father Baez said, "so remember that as you search for her. When I knew her, she was never content to stay in one place for long, but certain events may have calmed her spirit a little."
"What events?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he replied. "A shepherd must keep the secrets of his sheep." When she nodded, he continued. "Before she left Denver, Cora told me that she planned to use her most recent bounty prize to open a p
rinter's shop."
Victoria was dumbfounded. "A print shop? What would a woman like her want with a print shop?"
"Maybe age has slowed her down like it has me," Father Baez said. "You should count yourself lucky if it has."
"Why? Is she dangerous?"
"The Cora I remember could shoot the ears off a squirrel from fifty feet away, but she never turned her guns on anyone without reason as far as I know. She may be wild, but she's not a murderer or a train robber. Still," he added, looking at her with the same twinkle in his eye, "I wouldn't suggest making her angry."
The earth shimmered beneath the desert sun, submerging the horizon in pulsing, hazy waves. Victoria smiled to herself as she watched the miles roll by outside the window. She had come prepared to face the legendary heat of the American West. Reaching down beneath her seat, she patted her parasol with a gloved hand, reassuring herself that it was ready for her. One could never be too cautious when entering such extreme climates, after all.
Much like the mountains of Denver, the vast emptiness of the desert was alien to her eyes. Minute upon minute, hour upon hour, the trained sped across the sun-baked land, and still it did not end. She had been surprised to see anything at all growing out of the ground here, yet plant life carpeted much of the surrounding land. True, the shrubs seemed barely able to cling to life, their leaves a mottled yellow-brown or missing altogether, but still they persisted. Friendly cacti reared their heads above the scrub brush to wave at her with one or two arms as they kept watch over the endless miles.