by Erin Bowman
Goddammit, she’s right. On the off chance she’s telling the truth, well, I’d be a fool to keep running. I could get the gunslinger’s name or, better yet, him. He could live right in town. I could have the prize in my grasp when Crawford catches me. My fleeing won’t look suspicious if’n I have the killer. It’ll look brave, daring, loyal. I do this one final job, and then I’ll be free, truly. ’Cus I know sure as hell, they ain’t gonna quit coming for me.
“The girl who hired the gunslinger—what’s her name?”
“Thompson?” Vaughn says, only it comes out a question.
“You think, or you know?”
“I’m pretty certain.”
“Where’s she live?”
“If I tell you, you have to let me go.”
“Yeah, yeah. You tell me where I can find the girl, and I’ll let you go, but only if you give yer word you won’t go running to the Law.” I spit in my hand and hold it out. She stares at my palm. I can almost hear the gears churning in her head. Is making a deal with the Rose Kid smart? No. Is she putting the Thompson girl in danger even if all I’m after is the hired man? Prolly. When a Rose Rider touches yer life, even with the slightest brush, it only leads to bad things.
“Do we have a deal or don’t we?”
“All right,” she says finally. She spits in her palm, and we shake.
“So where’s she live?”
“Lived,” she corrects. “She lived on Granite Creek, first homestead past Fort Whipple, big mesquite out front.”
“Lived! You saying she’s dead?”
“No. She moved, barely a month before we left for Yuma. Father said she was headed for Wickenburg.”
I slam the coach door shut, fastening it in place.
“What are you doing?” Vaughn shouts. “We had a deal! You said I could go. “
“Yeah, but I never specified where or when. A ride to Wickenburg’ll kill these poor horses, and besides, I think yer lying. I think you intend to alert folk in Prescott, and then I’ll be caught between the capital and Wickenburg, lawmen bearing down on me from both directions.”
Plus, heading directly into Crawford’s arms, which ain’t where I’m fond of being.
Vaughn appears at the window, color draining from her cheeks. “But you gave your word.”
“And I’ll honor it if yer word proves true. Yer either lying, meaning you’ve already broken our deal and I don’t got to do nothing, or you sit there quiet and patient while I ride into town and confirm yer story, and I’ll let you go after that. Now, what’s the Thompson girl’s first name?”
“Funny,” she says, “but I don’t feel all that inclined to help you further. Perhaps you should have asked that before shutting me back in my cage.”
“What’s her name, Charlotte?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What’s her goddamn name?”
Silence.
I stare at the patterns painted on the stagecoach door. I consider kicking it and slapping it and cursing at the heavens, but there ain’t time for tantrums. I climb back into the driver’s box and, once again, flick the reins.
The horses wind outta the mountains, listless and weary.
Even from a distance, the city is bustling, perhaps on account of the new year. Folk on foot are congregating on a street running ’long the east side of the courtyard plaza. There’s folk on horseback too, and in carriages. I swear I can make out uniforms, and the muzzles of long rifles glinting in the sun. The pounding of drums and the pomp of trumpets reaches me, even at a distance.
Whatever’s happening, it’s the perfect cover.
Word of the gang’s escape from Wickenburg prolly ain’t made it here yet, and with all the fanfare, no one’s gonna notice one extra stagecoach rolling into town, not even one operating off the schedules and running a team that looks damn near beat.
Vaughn don’t make a peep as we roll in. Maybe she were being honest after all and knows if she just stays quiet a bit longer, I’ll be setting her loose. I turn a corner, staying a block west of the commotion so I can find a good spot to ditch the coach and carry on alone. A pair of young boys dart ’cross the street, startling the horses and nearly getting themselves trampled.
“Sorry, mister!” one of the kids shouts.
“Hold up!” I say, stopping the team. “What’s the commotion for?”
“Don’t you know? It’s the Prescott and Arizona Central! It’s finally here.”
“They finished last night,” his friend says, “and are gonna lay the final tie today, then drive the last spike while everyone’s watching. Yer gonna miss the procession.”
They race for a cross street.
“Hang on. You boys know the Thompson residence? Long Granite Creek?”
They look at each other and shake their heads. “No, sorry, mister. Don’t know any—”
The door to the coach bursts open with a kick from Vaughn. She stumbles out, hands still bound, and hurls something my way. I duck instinctively, and a rock strikes my shoulder—jagged and sharp. Prolly she used it to saw at the leather strip on the door till it were frayed enough that a good kick sent it ripping. She goes tearing up the street, the undergarment rope trailing behind her like a stringy veil.
The two boys stare.
“My sister,” I explain, cursing myself for not resecuring her ankles after letting her pee. “She ain’t right in the head.”
The boys shrug, seeming to buy it.
And that’s when Vaughn decides to start shouting. “Help! It’s the Rose Kid—Reece Murphy! The Rose Kid’s in town!”
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
Charlotte
I expect him to put a bullet in my back, but it never comes. I keep running as fast as my legs will carry me.
Over on Cortez Street, the procession has started, led by a band trumpeting out a fanfare. Loud, boisterous cheering joins in and happy salutes are fired, drowning out my cries for help. The crowd moves north, heading for the depot.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find the Rose Kid has urged the horses to action. They’re tired, but they’ll catch me. I cannot outrun a team of horses, even drained ones. I reach the southwest edge of the plaza and turn right, sprinting for the procession. I pause only to loop my hands over a picket of the plaza’s iron fence, using the point as a wedge against my leather bindings. They’ve been secured with a simple square knot, not unlike the bow one puts in a shoelace, and once I push the picket point between the two crossed sections of leather and pull back, the knot gives. I wriggle my wrists back and forth, and then the binding falls away, the undergarment rope trailing with it.
I’m free.
I race on, the stays digging into my flesh with every stride.
“Help me,” I gasp as I burst onto Cortez and enter the throng of citizens. “The Rose Kid. He’s here. He’s going to kill me.”
I’m passed along like a leaf caught in a current, bumping from shoulder to shoulder as the happy townsfolk move north with the procession. My begging is but a whisper compared with the merry band and cheering. What appears to be a small militia of uniformed men from Fort Whipple fires off salutes, and I become just another boisterous face in the sea of winter jackets.
Desperate, I push through the crowd and stumble into the street, where a string of carriages bring up the rear of the parade. Men grin from drivers’ seats, and townsfolk wave from the windows.
“Charlotte!” a voice snaps. “What in the blazes are you doing?”
I twist toward the voice, and there she is. Mother, sitting in one of the final carriages, her eyes wide with astonishment. She signals for Uncle Gerald’s son, my cousin Paul, to slow the carriage. When the wheels creak to a halt, she throws open the door.
“Get in.”
“Mother, listen. The Rose Kid. He’s here. I need to find the sheriff and—”
“Charlotte Vaughn, get in the carriage this instant.”
I glance toward the courthouse. The coach and the K
id are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he gave up his pursuit in favor of running. The entire procession is focused on the depot at the end of Cortez, and he will likely be able to slip through town unnoticed.
I scramble into the warmth of Mother’s carriage.
She stuffs her hand back in her muff and fixes her gaze on me firmly through the black veil that hangs over her eyes. Her hair is pinned back severely, her mourning obvious from head to toe: black wool dress, black winter cape, black boots. She does not have to say a single word for me to know she is furious.
“I’m so sorry, Mama. I know you told me to stay home, but I thought that if I secured a job with Mr. Marion’s press, with any press, maybe I wouldn’t be a hindrance and Uncle wouldn’t be able to use me to pressure you into marriage. But then the train was robbed, and I—”
“Robbed?”
“It was the R-Rose Riders,” I stammer, everything crashing into me with a force I have not yet felt. “The Law captured half the men in Wickenburg, too. They had them, on account of me, and the devils still broke loose. And I was caught in the stagecoach, and the Rose Kid trapped me, and I couldn’t get away until—I need to find the sheriff. I made a mistake, Mama. I made a deal for freedom and told a story that was based in fact, and now I worry that another innocent soul will be in danger.”
I collapse into her lap, draw one quavering breath after the next as she gathers me in her arms.
I never should have used the Thompson name in my story. I should have made something up. But I’d feared the Rose Kid might consider my words a farce, as he did, and then where would I have been?
But now he’ll find her.
Her father truly was hanged, but according to anyone who remembers the unfortunate affair, the Thompson girl claimed there was no rose symbol on his person. She went to stay with a family friend for a few weeks and then returned to continue caring for her homestead alone. That’s it. It was the minds of curious schoolchildren who jumped to the Rose Riders, who thought stories of revenge and gunslingers sounded thrilling. But there’s no proof to any of it. And she never moved to Wickenburg, as far as I’m aware. I made that part up. I tried to send the Rose Kid where I knew he’d be trapped, and he didn’t take the bait.
“Charlotte.” Mother brushes tears from my cheeks. “Are you hurt?”
I look up at her. There is a sheen of water in her eyes. She’s finally noticed that I’m without shoes and is staring at my bare feet.
Am I hurt? I am sore and cold and tired and hungry, and my chest throbs from the loose stay, but I know this is not the type of hurt she is implying. I shake my head.
“Good, good,” she murmurs, patting the back of my hand.
“How did things go with Uncle?” I ask when I’ve composed myself.
“About as well as I thought they would. We discussed the will over a private dinner last night, and he was furious to learn he was left nothing. He took my purse and has had me under lock and key since. Paul’s been assisting. As far as the boy’s aware, I’m trying to keep his father from his fair share of the mine.”
“He’s despicable. Aunt Martha is surely tossing in her grave.”
“She married your uncle for money, and now he’s trying to force a marriage with me for the same reason. I can’t say she’d judge him too harshly.”
The carriage jostles to a halt. We’ve arrived at the depot. The crowd cheers and whistles outside, calling for the driving of the last spike.
“Let me slip out,” I offer. “I’ll find the sheriff, a lawyer—anyone who can help.”
She shakes her head. “Everyone is preoccupied with the celebration, and sadly, Paul would drag you back to the carriage before you were within spitting range of a deputy.” She leans in, so close the coarse fiber of her veil tickles my nose. “But I saw Mr. Douglas while we waited for the procession to start. Do you remember him? He was a good friend of your father’s, an attorney. I asked him to stop by after the ceremony, help explain the will to Gerald. If we are patient, if we do not act rashly, this will all be over by late afternoon.”
I marvel at her strength. How her chin is held high, how her voice does not quaver or tremble. Despite all that has befallen her, how our world has spilled its innards in the span of a few days, there is not a seed of doubt in her expression.
I do not know when my mother became so fierce. Perhaps she has been this woman all along and I just never bothered to see it.
I watch the ceremony from the carriage, leaning out one window while Mother leans out the other. She’s given me her cape, which I’ve draped over my knees like a blanket, fingers and toes curling into the heavy material.
Though it is only midmorning, I wouldn’t be surprised if the temperature crawls to above sixty later in the day. I can feel the sun on my cheeks. Its warmth is blissful after the long, hard night spent in the Rose Kid’s coach. I try to remind myself that even if he seeks out the Thompson residence, no one is likely to be at home while the gala is held, as all of Prescott and even the surrounding mining and ranching communities seem to have packed into the streets. I can alert authorities after the gala, or even have Mr. Douglas alert them if Uncle refuses to let me visit the sheriff’s at the close of the celebration.
Raucous cheering pulls me from my thoughts. The mayor has hammered a gilded spike into place, and two locomotives are chugging onto the site—the F. A. Tritle and the Pueblo, whistles screaming and bells ringing. The militia fires off what must be a hundred-rifle salute, maybe more.
The shots echo, skirting over the valley and into the mountains, bouncing off Thumb Butte, which throws the sound back to us on the streets. These mountains have long since looked down on the city of Prescott, a place of great promise, of bustling lives. For twenty years the townsfolk have been discussing the possibility of a railroad, and now the Prescott and Arizona Central has finally reached the capital. It may have been built on a shoestring, but the people of the city are bursting with pride.
The engines hiss to a halt. As children climb onto them, cheering and waving, the first speaker ascends the grandstand and hushes the crowd. “This is a happy day,” he exclaims, “which connects us by rail to the outside world. We have just reason to feel proud of this occasion, and the advantage which it will confer should be duly appreciated.” He is followed by men of all walks—bankers, donors, esteemed townsfolk of Prescott and beyond, the commander of Fort Whipple, and even the railroad director himself. They all prophesy the same great future. Today marks a great epoch in the progress of Arizona, the brightest era ever inaugurated. We stand at the dawn of greatness, destined for prosperity and growth.
How I wish Father could have seen this.
When the speakers are finally finished, the platform clears, but the crowd does not. Cheering and merry chatter continue, but they fade, then become almost illusional as a figure moves into the frame of the carriage window. He blocks out the sun, and though he is wearing a dapper jacket over a fine suit, a silk scarf knotted at his throat, and a Homburg hat atop his head, there is no mistaking that I am still a prisoner, still trapped in a cage.
“Charlotte, my dear niece,” Uncle Gerald says, smiling wickedly. “So nice of you to join us.”
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Reece
When Vaughn runs for the crowded street and the noise of the procession, I know instantly it’s a lost cause. Too many people, too many guns, too many lawmen, and a whole goddamn militia. I don’t stand a chance at catching her in the crowd she’s racing toward, nor do I fancy getting myself snatched when I’m so close to freedom. So I let her run. I weren’t never gonna shoot her to begin with, and by the time she gets someone’s attention, pulls them away from the ruckus, I aim to be long gone.
The hell with her story and the gunslinger that mighta killed Boss’s brother. The hell with all of it. I’m flying north.
I tug the reins, keeping the team on the west side of the courthouse plaza and moving at a fair clip, not fast enough to draw att
ention, but not exactly dawdling neither. I stare up at the courthouse. Even from the rear, it’s intimidating, towering over most of the surrounding businesses and structures. It’s square in shape, built with bricks and a roofline that boasts a tall steeple with a clock face on each side. I squint as I look into the sun. More than half past ten. The edges of the plaza are fenced off, and there’s ample space for sprawling and strolling, plenty of room for townfolk to come and watch men like myself hang when we’re found guilty of our crimes.
I’d be in that building right now if it weren’t for Crawford springing me free. Crawford saved my hide, and now I’m running from him. It’s easy to feel I owe the gang something when I ain’t with ’em. When I don’t got their dark deeds unfolding before my eyes. When I ain’t subject to Boss’s deceptions and threats.
Stop running, Murphy, I hear him say. Come back, son. We’re missing you.
I do stop, but only to unhitch the team. Putting a palm to their flanks, I find the horse that’s breathing easiest, then use the stagecoach wheel as a leg up so I can mount the steed. With a quick nudge of my heels, we’re moving again.
A block east, the masses are crammed before a grandstand at the depot. Two trains come chugging in, pulled by screaming engines, and the crowd goes wild. Rifles salute. The whole valley seems to echo, and I thank the heavens for this tiny stroke of luck, ’cus no one looks my way as I pass by.
It don’t take more than a few miles for me to realize I’ve made a mistake.
I ain’t had nothing to eat since the prickly pear, and my stomach’s grumbling something fierce, plus my throat’s gone scratchy on account of not drinking much neither. Worse still, I’m so tired I can barely keep my balance on the steed. My thighs burn from the effort.
I ain’t sure who’s more beat—me or the horse.
I shoulda stolen a mare in town, stolen a bite to eat, too, but I were too fearful Vaughn’s shouting might put men on my tail.