They found Ma Jones’s Boarding House five minutes later. The big two-story structure looked more like a house than a hotel, but the weathered sign hanging on the wire fence encircling the weedy yard verified its identity. A blonde girl of about fifteen or sixteen sat on the glider on the open front porch, reading an illustrated newspaper. She wore a blue gingham housedress with a soiled apron, and she was barefoot. She lifted her toes, then her heels, as she moved the glider slowly back and forth.
As Clark and Marina approached, she tilted her head and squinted her eyes, scrutinizing them boldly.
“If you’re here for the hangin’, you’re a day late,” she said.
“We’re not here for the hanging,” Clark said grimly, indicating his disapproval of the popular spectacle.
“Hey, I didn’t hang the guy,” the girl said with a chuff. She appraised Marina coolly, then went back to her newspaper.
Clark led Marina through the door, into a dark, cool lobby in which the smells of noon lunch lingered. The floor was bare wood. Faded, threadbare couches and mismatched chairs sat about the room on frayed rugs. An old man as thin as a buggy whip dozed in a chair before the window overlooking the porch.
Clark went to the desk and rang the bell several times, looking around with annoyance. A thin, gray-faced woman appeared in the doorway opening to his right, toting a broom. Breathing heavily, sweat beading on her lip, she cast an angry glance through the window, where the blonde girl could be seen swinging in the glider and reading her newspaper.
The woman scowled. “Ruth Agnes, you lazy—!” She looked at Clark and Marina. “What can I do for you? The hangin’ was yesterday, you know.”
Clark told her they wanted a room and, if possible, two baths. When he’d signed the register, the woman yelled from behind the scarred counter to the girl in the hammock, “Ruth Agnes, you put that trash away and start the boiler for baths!”
Clark said to the woman, “A friend of ours should be joining us shortly, within the next day or two. I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know when he arrives. His name is Jack Cameron.”
Through her bifocals, the woman scrutinized Clark’s ornate signature in the register book. “You’re friends of Jack’s, are ye?”
Clark heard the screen door squeak open and slap shut. “You’re friends of Jack’s?” the blonde girl echoed.
“Yes,” Clark, said, taking a better look at the young woman. She was not beautiful, to be sure, but she had a china-doll’s face, with a slightly upturned lip, and she did a rather splendid job of filling out her dress.
“When’s he coming?” she asked.
“I hope soon.”
“Stop with your questions, Ruth Agnes, and get to work!” the woman told the girl.
“I’m on my break!” Ruth Agnes shot back.
“Not anymore, you’re not!”
The girl stuck her tongue out at the woman and stomped down the hall to the rear of the hotel. A screen door opened and shut.
“And get some shoes on!” the woman yelled. She produced a key from one of the cubbyholes behind her and dangled it in front of Clark. “Room five.” She glanced over the desk. “Where’s your bags?”
“We had some trouble on the stage,” Clark muttered by way of explanation. He took Marina’s arm and led her to the stairs.
Their room was stale with the smell of old cigarette smoke and sweat, and it was nearly airless. It was furnished with a sagging brass bed, two simple chairs, a wardrobe, and a stand topped with a marble washbasin and pitcher. The towel hanging from the stand looked as though it hadn’t been changed since the last person had checked into the room. Flies droned behind the windowshades.
Clark moved to the window facing the street, opened the shade, and heaved and cursed until he’d gotten the window open. Marina sat on the bed, which squeaked with her weight, and looked around. She was so tired she wanted to cry, but she knew she couldn’t sleep.
So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. She was beginning to wonder if she wanted the gold as badly as she’d thought. But then she thought of her daughter at Piro Alta, and she knew she had to endure. She had to get the gold. There was no other way she could get Marlena back and give her a real life.
Clark stood staring out the window, blocking the light. Flies buzzed and bounced behind the shade of the other window. He turned finally, and faced Marina.
“Bachelard and his men … did they … harm you?” he asked tightly, as though the thought had been on his mind for a long time and he wasn’t sure how to ask it, or whether or not he wanted to hear the answer.
Marina looked at him. A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but she repressed her anger at his callous disregard for her feelings. She knew that she was little more than a spoilable commodity to him; she’d recognized Clark’s superficiality when she’d first met him. It had not mattered then and it should not matter now. He’d gotten her out of a bad situation, and he had the resources necessary to help her find the gold and get her daughter back. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, not of love, though she had hoped that at some point love would grow.
She realized now that there would never be any love, and the thought filled her with anguish.
“Not in the way that you mean,” she said, barely able to conceal her disdain.
“They didn’t …?”
“They did not rape me,” she said abruptly, wanting the conversation to be over.
Clark looked into a corner of the shabby room and sighed with relief. Marina lay back on the bed and turned to face the wall, tears welling in her eyes. After several minutes, Clark lay down beside her and rested his forehead against her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his relief plain in his voice.
Inwardly she recoiled from his touch. They’d made love only a handful of times since their sedate private wedding in Prescott, where Adrian kept an office with two other land and mine speculators. She’d tried to please him, because she knew it was her job as his wife—it was an unspoken part of their agreement—but it had been getting harder and harder to feign passion for him, a cold, superficial man forever trapped in his prim Southern past. Holding himself above and apart from others, he gave little of himself, and made love with as much compassion as a dog.
The thought of spending the rest of her days with him made Marina feel as lonely as she’d ever felt in her life, but that’s exactly what she would do. She’d dress up his wretched life in return for his liberating her from her uncle and adopting her daughter.
But she couldn’t give herself to him now. Maybe later in the evening—but not now. Dios, not now …
“I see,” he said with a sigh, getting the message. He moved away from her, jerking the bed, and got to his feet. “I’ll go out and get us a clean change of clothes. Why don’t you bathe and tidy yourself … for later.”
Then he was gone.
Marina lay there in the gathering shadows of the afternoon, staring unseeing at the faded purple wallpaper, thinking of her life before the Apache attack on her family’s rancho … the dances and the parties and the long rides across the playa with her dear friend Magdalena, the segundo’s daughter … the long summer afternoons she’d spent alone with a book in the wind cave behind the stables and across the sandy stream she’d pretended was a moat encircling her own private castle.
She’d never felt more alone than she did now.
She wondered if her heart would ever be light again … if she would ever again find pleasure in the simple things of this life.
CHAPTER 12
THAT NIGHT JACK Cameron rode into Contention City under a skyful of stars.
He’d rested only three times since leaving the gorge where he’d left Perro Loco, and he hadn’t eaten anything but his two remaining strips of jerked beef. He’d drank nothing but water. He was craving a stiff drink, food, and sleep, and he intended to pursue them in that order.
But first he wanted to find the officer in charge of the Army detail from Fort Bowie, and tell him what
had happened.
He was hoping he’d be able to get the reward money in spite of his not having proof of Loco’s demise. It could be a tricky situation, he knew, and it all depended on which of the blueshirts was here. If it was a man he knew personally, Cameron thought he’d get the money. If not … well, then he might have some fancy talking to do.
He dismounted his buckskin at the livery barn, slipping out of the saddle with a weary groan. Every muscle in his body ached, and his knuckles were still sore from his fight with the Indian. His skin was burned raw from sun and wind, and his eyes felt like they’d been gone over with sandpaper.
He led the horse into the barn, where he found the hostler, a short, wiry Mexican whose shaggy black hair was flecked with hay, and negotiated a price for stabling, feed, and a rubdown. He asked the man if he’d seen Hotchkiss and the others. He had, and Cameron felt relieved.
He threw his saddlebags over his shoulder and shucked his rifle from its boot, then asked, “You seen any blueshirts in town, Alvin?”
“Sí,” the Mexican said as he loosened the buckskin’s latigo, giving Cameron a curious frown. “They hang around here giving the Mexican girls a hard time. Someone’s going to get shot if they mess too long with the wrong girl, Jack.”
“Where they been doing their drinkin’ and … and diddlin’?”
“The Dew Drop. They waitin’ for you, Jack?”
“I reckon.”
“You join up again, fight the Apache?”
“That’ll be the day,” Cameron said with a grunt.
“Will they go now? Give us Mex boys a chance with the senoritas?” Alvin grinned.
“I reckon. Thanks, Alvin.”
“See ya, Jack. Tell the blueshirts good riddance for me, huh?”
Cameron didn’t ordinarily frequent the Dew Drop. It was run by a Swede who treated his girls roughly but got away with it because most were orphans who had nowhere else to go. The Army boys liked to frequent the spot whenever they were in town, so they could tell their friends back in Iowa and Illinois what screwing a Mex girl was like.
It was a little adobe building with a second story constructed of rough lumber. The yard was a confusion of ladderback chairs, horse troughs, and chickens. A big saguaro stood sentinel by the low-slung door, its needles silvery with reflected starlight. Pigs grunted in the thatch-roofed barn behind the place. The air smelled of homemade corn liquor and a variety of manures, and Cameron could hear bedsprings getting a workout in the second story.
Inside was dusky with smoky lamplight. There was no music. Four cavalrymen sat playing cards. A fifth sat in the corner with a girl on his knee, brushing his mustache with a small comb. She gave little giggles as the man spoke to her in low tones.
Cameron moved into the room slowly, the saddlebags draped over his left shoulder, rifle in his right hand. The Swede stood behind the bar, his big, rawboned face ominous in the shunting shadows, his fists on the bar. He stared at Cameron but said nothing. He knew how Cameron felt about him. For that reason, he didn’t care for Cameron, either.
The age of the man with the girl on his knee told Cameron this was the soldier he was looking for—that, and the bars on his shoulder. The others in the room didn’t look like they were shaving yet. The card game came to a halt. The pounding and singing of the bedsprings above them stopped.
In the silence, Cameron asked the man in the corner, “You in charge of these men?”
The man only now noticed him. He dropped his knee and the girl almost fell, then gained her feet with an angry complaint. She didn’t look much older than twelve. Pointy little breasts pushed against her low-cut, lace-edged dress.
“Git,” the soldier told her. “You Cameron?”
Frowning, the girl slouched away. The Swede said something to her in a brusque, low voice, and she slipped through a curtained doorway and disappeared.
“That’s right,” Cameron said.
“Well, well,” the soldier said, “you’re overdue.”
Cameron walked to the man’s table, assessing the officer’s blunt face, his broad nose, deep-set eyes, and red hair the texture of corn silk. He wore captain’s bars on his shoulders, and something told Cameron they’d been there a long time—and would likely still be there when he died or retired. Probably he had a chip on his shoulder, as well, and wasn’t picky about showing it.
Cameron cursed to himself. Of all the lousy luck—why couldn’t they have sent Gretchel or McCaig? He wasn’t going to get his money, but he sat down anyway.
“There was a problem,” Cameron said, a tired sigh rattling up from his chest. He dropped his saddlebags on the floor and slapped his knee, watching the dust billow. “The Indian got away from us. I tracked him and killed him, but I don’t have proof. He fell into a canyon.”
The soldier watched him for several seconds. Finally he said, “You want a drink?” and indicated the half-full bottle on the table.
“No.”
“Well, if you don’t have any proof the Injun’s dead …”
“You could take my word for it.”
“That wouldn’t be very businesslike, now, would it?”
There was the sound of boots on stairs, and Cameron saw a uniformed young man appear at the bottom of the stairway at the back of the room. The private looked around sheepishly and joined the other soldiers at the table near the bar. One of the men gave a soft whoop and jumped to his feet, making his unsteady way to the stairs.
“You pay first,” the Swede said. He hadn’t moved from his position behind the bar. The soldier handed over some cash, walked to the bottom of the stairs, then ran up the steps. The other men snickered.
The officer watched with a bemused grin. His eyes were drunk and watery.
“Why don’t you take my word for it?” Cameron said. “Ask any officer at Bowie. I always get my man.”
“You couldn’t have climbed down and cut his head off?”
Cameron shook his head. “Not if I wanted to climb back out again. The walls of that canyon were sheer rock for twenty feet.”
“Well, I ain’t here to pay for air. If I don’t have proof that renegade’s dead, you ain’t gonna get your money.” The man smiled grimly and spread his soft, freckled hands. “Sorry.”
Cameron felt a surge of anger. “Why don’t you ride out and see for yourself?”
The man wrinkled his nose. “’Cause that ain’t my job.” He turned to the Swede. “Send her back.”
“Corona,” the Swede yelled.
“You’re a horse’s ass, Captain,” Cameron said.
What burned him most was that he knew the man was right. It was not the soldier’s job to ride out and verify the kill. Either Cameron had proof, and got his money, or he didn’t.
He knew it should be enough that the Indian was dead—the Blue Rock Valley would no longer be haunted by Perro Loco—but Cameron had been banking on that money to get him through the winter. His ranch was not yet established, and he was still trying to bring his first herd to market fat. His larder was down to a few pounds of sugar and some wild game, maybe half a bag of Arbuckle’s.
The officer crinkled his eyes with a scowl. “And you’re nothing but a goddamn saddle tramp.”
The girl returned and resumed her seat on the soldier’s knee. He gave her a lascivious grin, dismissing Cameron.
Cameron stood up, shoving the chair back with his legs. It went over with a bark. Cameron picked up his saddlebags and rifle and headed for the door, feeling humiliated and angry and just plain shit-upon.
“Stay for a drink?” said the Swede, enjoying the display.
“Kiss my ass,” Cameron growled, and stepped out the door.
CHAPTER 13
CRESTFALLEN AND MORE tired than he’d ever been, Cameron left the Dew Drop and headed east down the dimly lit main street of Contention City, vaguely in search of food, liquor, Jimmy Bronco, and Bud Hotchkiss.
He wasn’t sure which he wanted first. He knew Hotchkiss and Jimmy were wondering about him. Maybe
he’d run into them somewhere on his quest for food and drink. He didn’t have the energy to make them the sole objects of his search.
Lamplight glowing through its big plate-glass window led Cameron to the Silver Dollar Gambling Parlor and Pleasure Emporium. The place wouldn’t have been hard to find if he were blind, for raucous player-piano music and the whoops and laughter spilling from its doors made it the loudest place on the street.
A crowd of Mexican and American cowboys from area ranches spilled out the doors. The smelly, unshaven men in dusty trail clothes stood hipshot or leaning against the horses at the hitch rack, or against the posts holding up the wood awning over the boardwalk, making up for a week or more of solitary silence on the range. They clutched soapy beer mugs in their sun-dried fists; cigarettes drooped from between their lips or smoldered between their fingers.
“Hey, Jack,” one said, “where you been keeping yourself?”
“Stuck to a saddle,” Cameron grumbled as he weaved his way through the crowd, the saddlebags on his shoulder making it less than easy.
“Hey, Jack,” another man yelled above the din, “ol’ Hotch said you was after Loco. Ye git heem?”
Cameron stopped and looked around. A tall, long-faced man in a sweat-stained white shirt and suspenders held his gaze. It was Leroy Maxy from the Double T. “Hotchkiss, you say? Where is he?”
The man gave a nod, taking the cigarette from between his teeth, and gestured inside the saloon. “Dirty shame about Pas,” he said grimly.
“Sure is,” Cameron agreed.
He pushed his way through the batwing doors that had been tied back to let in what little breeze there was, and looked around for Hotchkiss. It took him several minutes, squinting through the smoke and pushing through the crowd, to find him. The old graybeard was sitting at a table near the middle of the room.
Jimmy Bronco sat at the same table. Another man was there, as well—an old Army buddy of Bud’s who had lost his mind as well as his left arm in an Indian battle, and who now delivered the Contention City Weekly Bugle and did other odd jobs around town when he managed to dredge up a wit or two.
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