“Good-bye, Hawk, and be careful. Hug and kiss Maggie for me.”
“I will, the instant I see her. Good-bye, ma’am.”
After mounting Diablo to head for the train depot to attempt to catch up with his wife, Hawk told himself he had been right not to divulge certain facts to Maggie’s mother which might have evoked mistrust and silence: the return of the wedding ring and badge, and Ben’s involvement in his family’s murders. All he could think about now was getting to Maggie fast.
At dusk, Catherine was sitting in a rocker on the porch, daydreaming about the baby she was carrying and about her daughter’s surprise marriage. She could hardly wait for their impending reunion so they could share their good news and she could get better acquainted with her son-in-law. It would be wonderful to have a second child and a first grandchild in the same year. She warmed with affection as she recalled the sound of Hawk’s voice and look in his eyes when he spoke of Maggie, exposing great love for her. She was praying that Newl would be understanding and forgiving toward all of them when alarming news arrived. Within ten minutes, a doctor was being summoned for an emergency …
Chapter
Seventeen
As Maggie—her shoulders covered by a railroad blanket to ward off the nippy mountain air—strolled beside the meandering rails with Blaze’s reins in her grasp to give the animal exercise, she wondered if this impulsive trip was doomed. Only twenty minutes out of Las Cruces, a rider had chased them down and compelled them to reverse their direction to return for important freight which hadn’t been loaded. That delay had added two hours to the scheduled journey, a slow route because it traversed mountains, hills, and the Jornada Del Muerto, a long stretch of desolate wilderness. Then, before they reached the halfway point at Engle, a water and shipping point and a base for miner’s supplies and entertainments, they had encountered fallen rock and uprooted trees blocking the tracks.
With the terrain too dangerous at that hour to walk in search of help, they had sat there until they were missed in Engle and someone had been sent to check on them. That rider had gone back for assistance and tools before the lengthy clearing process began.
Maggie heard the thudding of axes and gnawing of saws against fallen trunks and limbs, the rumbling of rocks as they were rolled away, and swishings of branches as they were dragged aside. A lack of moonlight forced the workers to depend on lanterns and fires in order to perform their labors, which slowed the procedure even more. Often, they would halt to rest and drink water or warm their chilly hands near a blazing campfire.
Both as a money-making venture and kind service, the owner of a restaurant at Engle that stayed open all night hired down-on-their-luck prospectors to help him bring food and drinks to stranded passengers in exchange for a free meal. After the small group arrived on horses and mules, Maggie—who had stayed close to the train in the shrouding darkness—returned Blaze to the stock transportation car and went to purchase a late supper.
At two o’clock on Friday, May eleventh, Maggie checked into the Windsor Hotel in Socorro. She was fatigued from insufficient sleep, wanted a hot bath and delicious meal; she’d realized it was too late to head out for Albuquerque on horseback that afternoon. She was amazed and pleased to find such a large and charming place to stay. The oblongshaped structure was three stories high with many chimneys rising above its flat-topped roof, and the exterior trimwork was artistically carved. The interior had a mixture of carpeted floors, polished hardwoods, and area rugs. The walls were a skillful blend of wainscotting, painted surfaces, and exquisitely designed paper patterns. The furnishings were of fine woods, with chairs and sofas covered in striking fabrics and colors. As she glanced around, she could hardly believe she was in the middle of nowhere, situated far from other large towns and almost nestled between mountain ranges.
Maggie saddled Blaze and took the roan for a ride before stabling her. They walked on a road west of town which traveled to the Billings Smelter and stamping mill for silver and gold mining companies, its towering round chimney sending forth thick and dark smoke toward a serene blue sky. A constant flow of wagons going to or from the enormous structure while hauling ore to be processed or while making deliveries to town for shipment on the Sante Fe Railroad provided ample safety in numbers.
Maggie—clad in a simple but flattering day dress—made sure she didn’t ride too far before turning Blaze back toward Socorro. The surrounding area was picturesque with its mountains, hills, abundance of cottonwoods and pines and other types of timber, and the meandering Rio Grande River. On elevated sections, she saw ranches, vineyards, orchards, and farms where wheat, corn, and fruits appeared to be the major crops. As with other locations of that kind, miners, cowboys, drifters, swindlers, and other advantage-takers frequented the town where they traded, gambled, drank, played cards and other games, and visited “soiled doves.”
Maggie made sure Blaze was tended at a nice stable, and would be ready for her to leave for Albuquerque at sunrise.
“It ain’t safe for a lady to be riding that road alone, ma’am,” the worried owner said. “We get all sorts of ruffains in this territory.”
Maggie explained she had no choice as she alleged she was heading there to do journalist work and it was the only way to reach the town.
The man motioned to a group of horses in his corral and said, “They belong to a unit of soldiers who’ll be riding that way at dawn, heading for Sante Fe. See that captain sitting in a rocker on the billiard hall porch?”
Maggie looked at the man in an Army uniform and nodded.
“If I was you, ma’am, I’d go ask if I could ride along with them; I’m sure he’ll oblige. They came from Fort Craig, about thirty-four miles south of town on the tableland right of the river; you passed her on the way here. This area’s been cleared of hostile bands, but we get renegades riding through ever so often, and get our share of outlaws; so soldiers still have to protect the north/south route along the river. You go ask him, ma’am.”
“I will, sir, and thank you for the information and help. I’ll see you at sunrise. Please take good care of Blaze for me.” Maggie watched the man send her a genial smile as he nodded his head.
“Don’t you go worrying about that roan, ma’am; she’s safe with me. I ain’t lost a horse yet. I give ‘em clean stables at night, a clean corral by day, the best feed and hay around, and plenty of clean water. You won’t be sorry you left her in my care.”
Before she headed to the Windsor Hotel, Maggie crossed the wide dirt street and approached the officer. As she introduced herself, he stood and removed his hat and nodded at her, which implied to her he was a gentleman with manners and respect. She related her fabricated ruse and what the stable owner had told her and asked the captain if she could accompany the troop to the next town.
“We’d be honored to escort you to Albuquerque, Miss Malone. We strike out at dawn like he said, so meet us at the corral, ready to ride.”
“Thank you, sir, that’s very kind of you.”
“If my wife or sister was stranded in the wilderness, I’d hope some man would offer them protection and assistance.”
Maggie felt guilty about having alleged her travel companion was laid up in Las Cruces with a broken leg and she had a scheduled appointment to keep, but felt she had no choice except to mislead the officer. “If he were a gentleman like you, sir, I’m certain he would. I’ll see you at sunrise at the corral. Thank you, and I’m deeply grateful you’ll help me out of this bind.”
Maggie was relieved when the captain and his men bid her farewell on Sunday and rode onward for Sante Fe, as it prevented the kind officer from discovering her deception. As she placed her belongings on her bed, she smiled as she recalled his compliments about her not slowing them down. She had enjoyed conversing with him about his family and the territory during their long journey and as they camped last night. She was pleased that none of the men had spoken or behaved improperly toward her. The trip had passed without incident and placed her closer
to her target: Ben Carver near Sante Fe, where she’d head tomorrow.
She ate a midday meal, took a bath, and washed her hair. She sat in a chair by an open window in her hotel room to help her long and thick locks to dry faster in the mid-eighty degree air and gentle breeze. Before reading a dime novel, she gazed at the contrasting landscape and local sites.
From a genial couple who had insisted she join them at their table for Sunday dinner, Maggie had learned that Albuquerque was situated on a flood plain created by the Rio Grande River and was bordered by the granite-covered and forested Sandia Mountains on the east and mesas on the west. Fields irrigated over sixty years ago were abundant and fertile. The town was mainly populated by a mixture of Anglos, Hispanics, and Indians. Its growth and prosperity had increased after the coming of the railroad in. ‘80. The San Felipe de Neri Church anchored the center of “Old Town” in its plaza. “New Town” was located a short distance away, with a mule-drawn streetcar traversing the center of Railroad Avenue. Legendary gunslingers and outlaws had visited there; colorful tales included one about Billy the Kid. When crime rose and justice was too slow to suit some citizens, vigilantes had dealt out their own punishments in the form of midnight lynchings.
When she had remarked on how clean the town was, she discovered that past ordinances still influenced people’s behavior. Her dinner companions quoted her one as an example: “All houseowners or heads of families within the city limits … shall have especial care that their servants do not cast dirty water, sweepings, ashes or kitchen residue in front of the plaza, roads, streets, or alley-ways.” How marvelous it would be, she had thought, if all towns enforced such ordinances.
As Maggie fluffed her hair to help it dry, she recalled how Hawk’s fingers had played in her long light brown tresses. She missed him something fierce, loved him deeply, and ached over the breach he had created between them. She yearned to be held in his embrace and to taste his sweet lips on her. As she reminesced on their weeks together, she couldn’t imagine how she had misjudged him so badly. Had he remained consumed and controlled by hatred and a hunger for revenge? Or had those natural feelings changed after meeting her? She wondered if the worst mistake of her life was in leaving him behind without asking for an explanation or by falling in love with and marrying him. How could she ever forget him and what they had shared? How long would this feeling of anguish and misery last? What if she was the one who was wrong?
Will you try to find me, my enchanting husband? If so, for what reason: love or to continue your quest for Ben? Whatever your explanation, will I be able to trust you again? If Ben is innocent, please don’t come after me and him and force me to take action to halt you from harming him.
The dilemmas involving Hawk and Ben plagued her mind all afternoon. She needed the truth in both situations. She decided that if Hawk didn’t come after her, she would locate and go to see him as soon as she resolved the predicament concerning her stepbrother. The only way she could get on with her life and healing was by facing the truth, whatever it was.
To distract herself, she thought about Abby and her mother; she longed to see and talk with both of them. Somehow she must prevent either or them from being implicated and jeopardized by her deed in Yuma, as well as the Mercers. Ben Carver was influencing every facet of her life and problems, she concluded, and he must be dealt with fast.
Hawk traveled as rapidly as possible to catch up with Maggie. A lengthy telegram he had received in the last town clarified the situation for him and revealed what must have provoked his wife’s flight. He wished he hadn’t involved other agents in his assignment, but he had needed the information about her they provided. He surmised that Maggie knew somebody had been checking on her at the boarding school, in Virginia, and in Texas; and she had suspected it was him. Fortunately, his superior and other agents assumed he had requested those studies to make sure she was trustworthy since she was a crucial part of his current mission.
Yet, it was the other two parts of the message that distressed him. Maggie must have tried to have him investigated, and had been told via her boss he wasn’t a U.S. marshal. Despite the fact the Carlton Agency was a reputable company, the sources Howard had approached for answers had duped him out of the necessity to keep Hawk Reynolds’s cover shielded. It was evident that Maggie believed he was only a bounty hunter and tracker, and a man out for revenge at any cost or sacrifice. She could even doubt that their marriage was for real, just as she doubted being made his deputy.
Even if that damaging “evidence” wasn’t enough to emotionally hang him in her eyes, he worried, Berk Barber had ambushed Newl Carver days ago, most likely to extract Ben’s location from him. Following his own visit to Maggie’s mother, he had asked for a nearby agent to be assigned to observe Carver to make sure Newl didn’t warn Ben of a marshal’s impending arrival. That agent had reported that he didn’t know if Berk had extracted the truth because Newl hadn’t regained consciousness from his wounds since being found Thursday afternoon beside a trail near Tucson. Now, Newl was being treated at home where he’d been taken after he was recognized, and Hawk could imagine Catherine’s anguish.
He was thankful they had been given an enlightening clue. Berk had hired an old prospector—who, for meals and board, did odd chores around town and at the Paradise Club—to watch Newl and to report to him in his camp outside of town if Newl made any trips, which he had done last Thursday morning. Berk had sworn that Newl wouldn’t be harmed; the breaking of that promise had provoked the old man to tell the sheriff who was responsible. As soon as the agent learned who the shooter was and reported his name, the motive was clear. Hawk was all too cognizant that Berk, if he rode hard and fast, would reach the secluded cabin before or simultaneously with Maggie …
He didn’t know how he could survive losing the last person he loved to another vicious Barber. If Berk or Ben harmed a single hair on his wife’s cherished head, Hawk vowed, he wouldn’t rest until he hunted the culprit down and killed him with his bare hands!
Maggie deboarded the train on a spur from the Lamy junction which was eighteen miles south of Sante Fe. She claimed Blaze and went to a cafe nearby to eat before riding into the wilderness to seek Ben. She didn’t go into the plaza in order to avoid being sighted by the captain or one of his men, as soldiers from old Fort Marcy were now quartered there.
It was relatively quiet at that time of day. Most of the residents—especially the Hispanics and longtime peaceful Indians—followed the routine and custom of afternoon siestas or less demanding tasks inside the cooler confines of their homes and shops, a fact she had been told at the cafe as its owner and servers prepared for the respite.
After she skirted the occupied section, expansive vistas opened up to her line of vision. The highest elevations of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains were still capped by snow, offering a vivid contrast against the dark blue overhead and lush green below their white peaks and descending crevices. Knowing it would be cooler as she climbed into the foothills, she had a wool jacket across her lap, ready to don when necessary. She passed a large and lovely hacienda where a prosperous charro and his wrangling vaqueros relaxed beneath shade trees, talking and smoking and gaming.
While staying alert and having her weapons at the ready, Maggie rode into the forested hills north of Glorietta Mesa. As soon as it appeared to be safe, she took cover and changed clothes in a rush. To disguise her sex, she tucked her hair beneath a dark Stetson and donned Levi’s, a dark cotton shirt, brown leather vest, and boots. Then she continued her journey.
Every time she heard a suspicious noise, Maggie concealed herself until either the rider or wagon passed her location on the dirt road. She had gotten fairly accurate at judging distances, so she knew when to start looking for the landmarks to indicate she was to veer into the woods. She smiled in relief as she sighted the huge and oddshaped hardwood amongst pines, the pointed peak of a mountain kissing its right shoulder.
Since the sky had clouded after she left Sante Fe and ob
scured the sun’s position as a directional reference, she used a compass to guide her southeastward. She crossed a stream with a large boulder on the left bank. She followed the remainder of Newl’s instructions and saw the cabin, a tobiano paint—a white one with brown splashes—tethered to a scrub at its corner. She assumed Ben was staying prepared to flee in a hurry, because the animal was saddled and loaded. She frowned as she recalled being told Ben’s paint had been left in Tucson after his arrest, because that meant either Ben had sneaked to see his father ensuing his escape or Newl had sneaked to see his son; that defiance of her warnings irritated her.
She dismounted, removed her hat, and shook her hair free. She knocked on the door and called out, “It’s Maggie!”
“It’s unlocked; come on in.” She heard Ben’s response after a short delay, recognizing his voice from their short meeting in Yuma.
Maggie pushed open the door and entered the cabin. She froze as she simultaneously saw Ben bound to a chair to her right and heard an icy voice from behind her say, “Turn around real slow, woman, and hand over that pistol.” Though he was trying to mask it, she read anxiety in Ben’s green eyes and tight expression. She heard the squeaky door close and the bolt slide into place as she turned to stare into the hardened expression of Berk Barber. The first thought to race through her mind was that the notorious ruffian looked more like Ben’s brother than Pete’s. She saw his narrowed gaze give her a quick scrutiny, then lock on her hopefully controlled one. Her heart thudded in her chest and apprehension flooded her mind and body, reactions she struggled to master and conceal.
Maggie decided to bluff him by asking in a southern accent, “Who are you? Why is Ben tied up and why are you pointing a weapon at me?”
“Well, little sister, seems you came at a lucky time for me.”
Maggie realized from his taunting remark that Berk knew who she was, or who he thought she was. She remembered—too late—that Ben’s paint was an ovaro—brown with white splashes. How strange, her mind scoffed, that these two men who resembled each other so strongly had chosen the same breed of horse, their only difference being in opposite markings. “I don’t understand,” she murmured, trying to sound unenlightened and feminine, though her garb and weapons probably belied her attempt.
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