Arizona Gold

by Maggie James

  Then there were the numerous jerry-built structures and shacks where brothels operated inside.

  Like all boomtowns, Tombstone had its reputable section, which was, literally, one side of Allen Street, the main thoroughfare. Decent shops and restaurants occupied the south, while the saloons and gambling and dance halls claimed the north—right where Ryder headed.

  Soiled doves—prostitutes—stood in doorways and leaned out of windows as they boldly called out early invitations for pleasuring. One called Ryder by name, and his eyes raked over her as he tried to recall having met her. She had big breasts, a tiny waist, and long, shapely legs. Her cheeks were bright with orange rouge, her lips painted the color of blood. With her hair piled on her head in ringlets and caught with a feathered comb, she looked like all the other prostitutes that worked the streets from the flimsy shacks.

  “You don’t remember me,” she said, hands on her hips as she swayed from side to side in a disappointed rhythm. “And we was so good together, too. The name’s Bonnie. And I remember yours”—she gave a lusty wink—“’cause I thought it fit you perfect the way you rode me hard, Ryder. I loved every minute of it, too.”

  “Now, come on in,” she pressed close, looping her hand through his arm. “I’ll give you two for one.”

  “Sorry.” He extricated himself. “But I’ve got some business to see to.”

  Her lower lip dropped in a mock pout. “Well, try to come by when you’re done. For you, the offer will still be good.”

  He said he might, knowing all the while he wouldn’t. He had too many other things on his mind.

  He passed a section where higher-class establishments were situated. Pausing at the window of the Cosmopolitan Hotel’s Maison Dorée restaurant, his mouth watered when he read the menu of beef brisket and ham cooked in a champagne sauce. Supper for him would be boiled beans and bacon for six bits at Dawson’s Saloon.

  At Dawson’s, he asked the bartender if he knew of a faro dealer named Opal.

  “Oh, yeah. Everybody in Tombstone knows Opal. She’s the best dealer and caller in town. Works at the fanciest place, too—the Oriental Saloon. It’s owned by Wyatt Earp. He’s the brother of the city marshal—Virgil Earp.”

  The bartender went on to eagerly share the story, “She lost her man a few months back, and she ain’t been holdin’ forth as many hours as she used to.” He snickered. “You aimin’ to try and win at faro tonight?”

  “I aim to try to win at something,” Ryder responded quietly, smiling to himself to think how it would be nice to luck up and learn something about the location of his father’s gold strike, or a clue to his murderer…something.

  He finished his supper and went directly to the Oriental Saloon.

  It was crowded and noisy, air thick with the smell of whiskey, sweat, and perfume. But it was also a truly fancy place; the decor, stunning. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, and the shelves behind the great carved mahogany bar were lined with a variety of whiskey bottles and expensive glassware. Paintings of enticing, buxom, nude women adorned the walls along with huge gilt-edged mirrors.

  Saloons got shot up plenty in Tombstone, but Ryder knew the Oriental was in less danger because of the Earps. He spotted Virgil, wearing the badge denoting his position as city marshal, making himself quite visible as he walked about keeping an eye on potentially rowdy customers.

  The faro area was a busy place, with three people running it—a dealer, a lookout, and a case keeper, who was sitting at the table with a device that looked like an abacus, which showed what cards had been played.

  Opal Grimes, he learned by hearing her name called, was the woman working as dealer. She was older than he had expected and not particularly pretty. Her bright red hair, however, was striking, and her blue eyes might have softened her hardness had they not been dulled with what could only be grief.

  Unlike the other girls around in bright, flashy, low-cut gowns, Opal was more sedate, in dark blue velvet with a high neck and long, tapering sleeves. And she was all business, her attention focused on conducting the game.

  Ryder watched and listened as a man who had just won called out to Opal, “Hey, gal. If you’ll take me home with you tonight, I’ll split my winnings.”

  She did not respond. Nor did she look at him.

  The man standing next to the amorous winner laughed and jabbed him with an elbow. “There ain’t enough money in all of Tombstone to buy Opal. Don’t you know that, Barney? She’s a one-man woman, fer sure.”

  “Only her man just got hisself killed,” Barney irritably snapped. “And she might be lookin’ for another, so mind your own business.”

  At that, Opal raised angry, scathing eyes. “Both of you got big mouths. Now, are you gonna play or flap your jaws?”

  “They better play,” someone else yelled. “I didn’t come here for no foolish chatter.”

  “Nobody tells me what to do!” Barney, who had been sitting down, leaped to his feet. His chair fell with a clatter, and all around more toppled over as men hurried to get out of the way of brewing trouble.

  Another man suddenly stepped from the smoke and shadows of a corner just behind Opal. In a deep, ominous voice, he barked out, “You’d best shut your pie hole and get the hell out of here, boy, or you’re gonna wake up in hell.”

  Barney whirled on him, hand inches from his holstered gun but making no sudden moves that might trigger a draw before he was ready. “Who the fuck are you, and what’s it to you? He’s runnin’ his mouth at me, and—”

  “And you’d best shut up,” Barney’s companion said uneasily. “That’s Nate Grimes, Opal’s brother. He’s a gunfighter, and he’ll kill you without battin’ an eye if you mess with his sister.”

  Ryder tensed, ready to get out of the way should there be any shooting.

  Barney’s Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed hard. Carefully, he shifted his hand from his side to hold it in front of him in a pleading gesture. “Hey, I didn’t mean no disrespect. I’ve always thought Opal was a looker, and—”

  Nate Grimes brusquely cut him off. “I think you’d best just leave, Big Mouth.”

  Nervously licking his lips, Barney gathered up his tobacco pouch and winnings and retreated with a conceding nod.

  Opal, furious, turned on her brother. “You had no business doing that. I don’t need you hovering over me like a vulture.”

  “Hell, somebody’s got to look after you,” he mumbled, drifting away.

  The excitement over, the faro game resumed.

  Ryder found a table where he could keep an eye on Opal without being obvious about it, and the night wore on.

  A few fights erupted, but Virgil Earp was able to keep the peace. Every so often shots would ring out from somewhere else in town, and he would rush in that direction to see if he was needed. Most of the time it was a drunk cowpoke kicking up his heels, but around midnight there was a gunfight in the street and both men involved were killed.

  Ryder sipped his beers slowly. Time passed. Finally, around three o’clock in the morning, he saw Opal begin to put her gaming tools away—the spinning device known as the goose, along with the numbered balls. Only a few men were still playing, and they grumbled, but she declared she was tired and quitting for the night.

  When she left the saloon a short while later, Ryder was waiting in a dark alley across the street. She never knew that he followed her to her shanty at the edge of town, for he knew well the silent way of the Apache.

  Once he saw where she lived, he melted into the night to retrieve the Indian garb he kept hidden in the not-too-distant hills.

  A white man might not be able to persuade her to tell all she knew…but an Apache would.

  It was another night when Opal could not fall asleep. Thinking about Wade kept her wide awake and staring into the darkness for long, miserable hours. She missed him terribly.

  Bothering, also, was how Wade’s niece was on her way West. She had sent a telegram advising approximately when she would arrive by stagecoach.
She was bringing her half of the map, she said, in hopes that between the two of them they could figure out the location of the gold mine.

  A few weeks after the telegram, Opal received the letter Kitty had written earlier. In it, she told about her mother dying and how she had nowhere else to go except to join Wade and would be leaving soon.

  Opal felt bad for the girl and knew in a way how she felt. After all, Opal had no family except Nate, and he was a big pain in the butt, always getting drunk and causing trouble. Oh, he made like he was so devoted to her, because she was his sister, but the truth was, he only came around wanting money. They were not close and never had been.

  Wade hadn’t liked him, either. He said he was too possessive of her and didn’t like his mooching. They had not got along, and it had made Opal so happy when Wade promised that once he had enough ore dug he would marry her and take her to California to live. Nate wouldn’t have dared follow after them, and Opal hoped it would make him settle down and get married himself, maybe.

  But it was not going to happen, she cried to think. She would never get out of Tombstone, because where would she go and what did it matter, anyway, with Wade dead?

  Tossing and turning, she finally got out of bed and poured herself a stiff drink from the bottle of whiskey she kept hidden from Nate. There was a hole in the wall behind the stove he did not know about. Concealed there also was the telegram from Kitty. Opal was keeping it to remind her of the date she was expected. She planned to meet the stagecoach when it got in; the girl would not know a soul. But Opal did not want Nate to know about the girl’s coming, because she was uncertain as to what he might do. He had never approved of her being with Wade and probably wouldn’t like her having anything to do with his family.

  The whiskey took effect, and she curled beneath the covers once more, eyelids heavy. And, as she drifted away, she decided maybe it was not a bad thing that Kitty Parrish was coming, after all. She would love her because she was Wade’s kin. Perhaps they would be close, like mother and daughter, and having Kitty around would be like having a part of Wade, and…

  She slept.

  Then awakened with a start.

  Someone was in the room with her. She could make out a figure looming over her.

  Anger overrode fear as she surmised that it could only be her brother. “Nate, how dare you come sneaking in like this and scare me to death—”

  Terror was a ramrod up her spine as she felt something cold and sharp pressed against her neck and heard the husky, whispered warning, “Scream and you die.”

  The first light of dawn was creeping around the edges of the shuttered window above her bed. With eyes so wide she could feel the skin tearing at the corners, she saw the Indian holding the flint knife at her throat.

  His face was painted in streaks. She could not distinguish all the colors but saw red mostly, with a long black swath down his nose.

  He leaped, effortlessly, up on the bed to squat and straddle her. Leaning into her face and still pressing the knife, his breath was hot, harsh. “Tell me what I want to know, and I will let you live.”

  He relaxed the pressure of the blade to allow her to whisper in capitulation, “Yes. Anything. Just don’t hurt me, please…”

  The Indian sank back on his haunches. His hair was pulled back from his painted face by a rag across his forehead. He wore only knee-high moccasins and a breechclout. “You were Wade Parrish’s woman. He told you. about his gold—gold that belongs to the Apache. Where is it?”

  “I…I don’t know,” she stammered. “I swear it. He never told me exactly…somewhere in the mountains around the San Pedro.”

  “There was a map.”

  She licked her lips nervously and tried not to swallow, because she could feel the sharp flint threatening to slice into her flesh. “I…I never saw it. I mean…I never saw all of it. Only part. Not enough to tell where they were digging.”

  She had to swallow, and winced as she felt her skin tear beneath the blade, ever so slightly. “Please…,” she begged between clenched teeth. “You’re cutting me.”

  He pulled the knife back a bit. “Where is the part of the map that your man gave to you?”

  Stunned that he knew it had been divided, she managed to say, “I don’t have it anymore. He had a niece…back East…and he told me if anything happened to him to send everything I had of his to her. And I did. There was a little money, too. I don’t have that, either.”

  “I want only the map.”

  “But I told you—I sent it to his niece. And I can’t draw it from memory, and it wouldn’t mean anything without the rest of it, anyway. He and Dan—that was his partner—they drew it tricky, so nobody could look at half and guess where the ore was. So it wouldn’t help you, even if you had it. Now, please”—tears spilled down her cheeks—“don’t hurt me. I’ve told you all I know. I swear it.”

  He disappeared so quickly that, for one crystallized moment, Opal actually wondered if he had been there at all or if it were a horrible, horrible nightmare.

  And then the moment of paralyzed astonishment passed, and she began to scream, over and over again.

  Ryder heard the sound echoing as he stealthily escaped into what was left of the night.

  Back in his hideaway he changed into trousers, shirt, and boots. Holster and gun replaced knife and case. Then, Indian garments stowed away till the next time they were needed, he washed the war paint from his face in a nearby stream. That done, he bedded down to sleep for most of the day.

  That night he returned to Tombstone and the Oriental Saloon. He bought a drink and helped himself to the free supper on the bar—boiled eggs, spiced pigs’ feet, and pieces of spit-roasted chicken.

  As he ate, he listened to excited talk about the wild savage that had sneaked into town the night before, intending to rob everyone’s favorite faro dealer. He was after her man’s gold, it was being said, only he didn’t find any. Nate Grimes was up in arms and swore if the red-skinned son of a bitch dared come back, he’d be ready.

  Ryder’s sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. He was deeply tanned, but there was little about him that looked Apache. Neither did he sound like one, having learned how to speak without a native accent—except when he did so on purpose, like when he had spoken to Opal Grimes. His father had seen to it he was educated in white ways, just as his mother had wanted him to learn those of the Chiricahua Apache.

  He kept an eye on Opal and could tell she was nervous. Her face was pale, drawn, and her hands had a slight tremor.

  He knew, without a doubt, it would take her a long time to get over her fright.

  He also knew she had been hiding something from him.

  Nate Grimes hovered nearby, casting suspicious glances about. It was as though he expected the savage Apache to appear at any second.

  Finally satisfied that everyone was busy for the night, Ryder returned, unobserved, to Opal’s shanty.

  During raids on white settlers in the old days he had learned to take a homestead apart and discover every imaginable hiding place. He had no trouble finding Opal’s. It seemed many people favored stashing things behind a stove.

  There was not much. A half-full bottle of whiskey and a gold nugget.

  He picked up the nugget for closer scrutiny. He knew very little about gold ore but thought it was good quality. Large, too. Probably worth several hundred dollars. He put it back. He had not come to steal gold.

  Disappointed, for he had searched the rest of the shanty and not found anything significant, he was about to turn away when a piece of paper caught his eye. He dared think it might be the map but saw it was only a telegram.

  Curious as to why Opal would bother to hide it, he began to read, and, once more, hope surged within him like a mountain stream in a flash flood.

  It was from Wade Parrish’s niece. She was on her way to Arizona and would arrive in only a few weeks.

  And she was bringing her half of the map with her.

  Chapter Three


  Kitty ached from head to toe and had never felt so tired in her life. Sleeping on a stagecoach, she had quickly discovered, was next to impossible.

  In the past three weeks, the only time she’d had any rest was stretched out on the floor of a home station. Normally, the stagecoach did not stop overnight, but there had been times when bad weather forced them to do so. Passengers, however, were not given the luxury of the bunk beds reserved for stage drivers, conductors, and express messengers changing runs.

  Kitty kept to herself. When she did talk to anyone, she was careful to make her voice deep, lest she sound like a girl. The name she was using was Kit, a masculine abbreviation of her own.

  As it turned out, everyone mostly ignored her, not only because of her surly manner but also her unkempt appearance. Her hair was long, deliberately unruly, and fell across her face. She wore frayed overalls and a tattered shirt, with a gun and holster strapped about her waist. Big, masculine boots were laced on her feet, and she kept her felt hat pulled down over her eyes.

  Kitty did not really mind being somewhat ostracized. She was still grieving over her mother and did not want to be bothered. Other than that, she was concerned only with reaching Tombstone, Arizona, without incident. There she would find Opal Grimes, who would, hopefully, provide her with a place to stay till she could find work…or Daddy Wade’s gold mine. Her intent was to offer Miss Grimes half if she would help her find it. As for any kin of Dan McCloud that might have a claim, Kitty would share with them, as well. After all, they needed her half of the map—as she needed theirs.

  “Get off of me, damn it.”

  Kitty jumped as the passenger seated across from her in the coach, Seth Barlow, yelled at another passenger, Sarah Humphries. She had dozed off and slumped against his shoulder. In the past few days, Seth had become increasingly irritable, constantly griping and grumbling and getting angry at the slightest irritation.

  Sarah, face red and embarrassed, straightened herself and squeezed as far away from him as she could. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”