Ghost Bandits of Sonora (Elizabeth Crowne)

by Robert Isenberg

  “Reservation?”

  Elizabeth smirked. “Do we really need one?”

  Orville smirked back. “Not hardly. How long?”

  “Let’s start with tonight.”

  Orville rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “Not a lot of other places to stay.”

  “Good point,” said Elizabeth. “Make it a week.”

  Elizabeth signed their names into the ledger and handed over a wad of cash. The register rang, and the drawer popped open. Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice the small denominations stacked on one end, the empty spaces on the other.

  “Low season?” she offered.

  “Well.” The receptionist pinched a nit from his vest. “Ezra’s seen better days.”

  Elizabeth lingered a moment. When Orville didn’t elaborate, she snatched up the key. She and Maude turned toward the staircase, but after a few steps, Elizabeth paused.

  “By the way,” she said, “what did this place used to be?”

  Orville looked startled. “I’m sorry?”

  “There’s a plaque by the front gate. But it’s so worn, I couldn’t read it.”

  The man grimaced, then cleared his throat. He leaned forward and looked both ways. Assured that no eavesdroppers were hiding in the empty lobby, he whispered, “You didn’t hear it from me. But it used to be a sanitarium.” Then he pressed one hand against his chest and held the other in the air. “But it’s not haunted, I promise.”

  Elizabeth batted her lashes. “I believe in a lot of things, Orville. But ghosts aren’t one of them.”

  Orville didn’t share her good humor. He just stared, and his expression withered.

  “Ma’am,” said Orville, “this town will change your mind.”

  Elizabeth heard a soft knock. She pulled open the door to reveal a glum-looking bellhop. He was probably 18, hunched over, with dark hairs above his lip that strove to be a mustache. The bellhop said nothing, just pushed the service cart into Elizabeth’s room. Maude flinched at the sight of him and retreated to the corner. The boy turned his vacant eyes to Elizabeth, then gestured toward one of the beds.

  “Right there is fine, thank you,” directed Elizabeth.

  The bellhop lifted the serving tray and placed it on the still-folded blanket. He lifted two polished plate covers, revealing a pair of charred steaks with medleys of vegetables. Elizabeth pressed a nickel into his sweaty palm and grimaced her gratitude. The boy creeped away, shutting the door behind him.

  “This place…” Maude shook her head.

  Elizabeth plucked a limp sprig of asparagus from her plate and studied it. “Go on.”

  “It gives me the willies.”

  “Just a little rough around the edges, is all.” Elizabeth dropped the vegetable into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “You’ve been a real sport, Maude. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”

  Maude flushed. “Duty calls.”

  “So it does.” Elizabeth pointed lazily at the entrees. “Better dig in, Maude. It’ll get cold.”

  The room felt dusty and dispirited. The once-colorful carpets had faded, and the light blankets only exaggerated the mattresses’ lumps. An electric fan stood on the narrow sideboard, circulating dry air. A single watercolor painting was nailed to the wall, an uninspired landscape of the Grand Canyon. Even the sheets of wallpaper were unevenly pasted.

  Maude sat on the edge of the bed and ruminated over a piece of steak. At last she said, “Have you ever met this Sheriff… what was his name?”

  “MacAuley,” Elizabeth said. “And no, I haven’t. To be honest, I have no idea how he heard of me. I’ve rarely even crossed the Mississippi.”

  Maude smiled shyly. “Your reputation precedes you, Elizabeth!”

  Elizabeth harrumphed. “Famous in Ezra, Arizona. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

  Maude watched the setting sun, and despite the powerful evening heat, she felt a chill run through her. That merciless orb had pummeled her all day, singeing her arms and shins. Yet after all the abuse, the sun’s gradual retreat behind the mountains made her anxious.

  Maude stole a glance at Elizabeth. The uncannologist unfolded a sheet of paper on the sideboard, and she read it again for the hundredth time. Usually, Maude admired Elizabeth’s determined nature. For two years, she had served as her friend’s assistant, typing missives, packing luggage, running errands. They had scavenged the darkest corners of Pittsburgh; they had traveled to New York, England, France, and Transylvania. Through it all, Maude had quietly thrilled at Elizabeth’s curiosity. When her employer dove giddily into danger, Maude held her breath and followed suit.

  But there was something about this arid valley that tinged Maude with dread. She had never dreamt of deserts, the way she once dreamed of Manhattan and Paris. Now that she had spent a day crossing the Sonoran wastes, she missed Pittsburgh more than ever. The terrain was too open, the sky too big and clear, the heat too volcanic. This was not a landscape she imagined possible in this epoch; the primal rocks and spiny plants belonged to the world of dinosaurs. Here, automobiles and frilly curtains looked out of place, like a tiger in a top hat.

  Maude giggled to herself.

  “What’s so funny?” said Elizabeth, not unkindly.

  “Oh, just a silly thought.”

  “Yes?”

  “A—tiger in a top hat.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Have some ice water, Maude. The heat’s getting to you.”

  Maude took a long breath through her nostrils. She watched the sky cool from orange to violet.

  “That’s not all,” she murmured.

  Chapter 2

  Maxwell Robins heaved open the steel door and stepped into the jail. There wasn’t much room in there—just a narrow walkway and three dismal cells. Robins took his time; he stepped past the first two, which lay empty. At the final cell, he leaned his full weight against the bars, drew out his tin of chewing tobacco, and jammed a wad into his cheek.

  Someone stirred beneath a blanket. A hand pushed the fabric aside, and a face emerged. The man was young and blond, with puffy red cheeks and full lips. He was surprisingly handsome, well coifed, but also ragged from the night before. The top buttons of his shirt had disappeared, replaced by scraggly threads. As he sat up in the cot, the young man noticed the unfastened suspenders tangled around his hips.

  “What the…?” He looked up to see the wall of bars, and Deputy Robins leaning against them. “How…?”

  “I reckoned you wouldn’t remember,” Robins grumbled.

  “Remember? What should I remember?”

  “Lookee here,” Robins said. “You ain’t a local, I can tell. And that’s fine. I see a lot of you fellas. Play some cards in a speakeasy. Spend a week roping cattle at a fancy dude ranch. I don’t blame you. Hell of a time, I’m sure. But if you’re gonna play cowboy, you ought to drink like one. And son, I don’t think you have the stomach.”

  “They said…” The young man dug fingers into his forehead. “They called it white mule…”

  “I’m sure they did,” said Robins, spitting a jet of tobacco at the floor. “Anyhow, seems you tried to ride a horse last night.”

  “A… horse?”

  “Yep. Saw the debacle myself. Grabbed the saddle, stuck your foot in the stirrup—and fell right back on your ass. Saddest sight I ever saw.”

  “Did I?” The young man shook his head. A belch blew through his slack-jawed mouth.

  “So that’s why you’re here,” Robins went on. “Partly, you’re a danger to yourself. But mostly, I wanted you to save a little face.”

  Before the young man could absorb these words, Robins unlocked the door and slid it open. The young captive saw the opening in the bars; he searched Robins’ face for permission; then he struggled to his feet. He staggered dizzily across the cell and hustled down the hall.

  “Best you find yourself another town!” Robins called after. “Ezra’s no place for greenhorns!”

  Robins didn’t smile much, but he was tempt
ed in that solitary moment. The Ezra jail was a quiet place. A few nights a week, some fight would break out, and he’d have to drag a pack of roughnecks into custody. But the Sheriff usually let them free at dawn. Robins had seen his share of travelers—yokels headed south to pan for gold, drifters hitching rides, and yes, tycoons’ sons learning how to lasso steers. They all found trouble, and they always walked away a little wiser. Not much serious, though. Robins sometimes joked that Ezra had the least-used courthouse in America.

  The Deputy stepped through the metal door and pulled it shut. When he turned around, two women were standing before him.

  They were newcomers, he could tell. Robins knew every resident in Ezra by name, and even a few of the Mexicans camped out near the mines. What’s more, they were city girls, probably Easterners, with pale skin and finishing-school posture. The one was skinny and bashful; she wore a tan cotton dress, and her dark pageboy was half-hidden beneath a floppy hat. A canvas bag was strung across her torso, and she anxiously clenched its strap. The second woman stood slightly closer, knees spread, arms akimbo, like a referee. She wore a black dress and woven cloche hat; her hair was cut into a fashionable bob and her perfect jaw jutted with confidence. Robins didn’t mind growing old, but for once he wished he was a few decades younger.

  The deputy snatched the Stetson from his head and ran fingers through his thinning hair. He nodded to his guests and said, “Morning, ladies. How may I help you?”

  “Good morning,” said the second, stepping forward. “We’re here to see Sheriff MacAuley.”

  Robins froze. A shiver shot through his spine. As his tongue moved thoughtfully inside his mouth, he remembered the tobacco in his cheek. He sidestepped toward the Sheriff’s desk, where he found a copper spittoon, and he emptied the remaining sludge into its depths. Then he scratched his chin and said, “Actually, I think you’re a-looking for me.”

  “Am I?” retorted the woman. “How do you know?”

  “Because,” said the Deputy, “not long ago, I believe you got yourself a telegram. Telling you about some strange doings here in Ezra. Ain’t that right?”

  The woman squinted at him. She was slight, but also spirited, he could tell. Robins could sense her intelligence, the same way he might sense the heat of a wood stove. Despite his stoic veneer, giddiness swept through him.

  “That’s right,” said the woman. “And how would you know that?”

  “Well, Miss Crowne,” sniffed Robins. “I’m the one who sent it.”

  After a few hundred paces in the morning light, Elizabeth realized what Robins reminded her of: a giraffe. He was tall, more than six feet, and his body leaned forward, just like the ungulate mammal. He even moved with the same stiff-legged rhythm, a stride both long and slow. Robins eased his way down Main Street, with Elizabeth and Maude on either side. He continued to gaze at the ground with penitent eyes, as if looking up might offend a passerby.

  “So what’s the game?” Elizabeth huffed, struggling to keep pace. “Why pretend the telegram was from the Sheriff? Why not sign it yourself?”

  Robins said, “Well, I doubted you’d cross the whole country because some old deputy asked you to. Telling some harebrained tale about skeleton riders and townsfolk with their skin burned off. You’ve heard more than your fair share, I’m sure.”

  “What makes you think a sheriff would lend any more credence?”

  Robins shrugged. “Well, y’all are here, ain’t you?”

  Elizabeth scowled at this logic, but she let it pass. After a few steps, she said, “Where are we going, then?”

  “To see the Sheriff,” Robins replied.

  “But why, if he didn’t send the telegram?”

  “He would have.” The words came fast, a flare of emotion. But then Robins reached for his tobacco tin and dug out another wad. “That is, he would’ve wrote it himself. If things were different.”

  Before Elizabeth could press him, she spied their destination—an old building, the size and shape of a schoolhouse, painted pure white. A cross hung above the entryway. Two women stood outside, dressed in starched white uniforms. Their hair was pressed beneath white caps. When the nurses saw strangers approach, they dropped their cigarettes and crushed them into the brown grass.

  “Morning, Deputy,” said one. “Here to see the Sheriff?”

  “How do?” Robins replied, declining to meet their eyes. “Sure am.”

  “I’ll take you to him,” said the second nurse.

  “Relax, Ma’am,” Robins directed. “I know the way. You enjoy yourself some sunshine.”

  The building seemed bigger on the inside. Two rows of beds were pressed against opposite walls, leaving ample space in between. Most of the beds were empty, the sheets tautly tucked beneath thin mattresses. Tall glass windows admitted sunlight, which was tempered by cottony curtains. The facility seemed antiseptic enough, except for the flies that buzzed in circles and congregated on breakfast trays.

  For an instant, Elizabeth thought back to medical school. She had never liked the labs or surgery rooms, and she had yawned her way through anatomy lectures. But ten years later, she felt a pang of nostalgia. She glanced at a pallid old woman lying beneath her blanket, eyes closed and mouth agape. She saw a boy fidgeting in his bed, coughing throatily as his mother patted his back. Elizabeth had to repress her instincts—to probe, to cross-examine, to diagnose.

  Robins raised a finger to his lips. Elizabeth looked beyond him, at the corner bed. The patient lay squarely on his back; he was dressed in a hospital gown, like the others. But his face was covered in bandages; so were his hands. There were openings for his ears, nose, and mouth, but none for his eyes. Next to his bed stood a small, wheeled table. The top was empty, except for a dozen glass vials.

  Morphine, Elizabeth noted.

  Robins leaned over the bed and whispered, “Sheriff? You awake?”

  The patient didn’t respond. Elizabeth watched his chest, which barely moved. The ward was silent, except for peripheral whispers. Elizabeth looked at Maude, whose expression was bewildered and sad; then at Robins, whose crow’s feet looked even deeper around his rheumy eyes. Robins pursed his lips together, as if wringing the anguish from his face. Stolid as the old Deputy seemed, Elizabeth could sense his tender feelings for the Sheriff. What was it, exactly? A fatherly desire to protect him? A brotherly mourning? A lawman’s affection for his partner?

  At last, the Deputy sighed. He ushered Elizabeth and Maude away from the bed, and they quietly crossed to the other side of the ward. Nurses nodded at them with polite indifference. When they reached the entrance, Robins lowered himself onto the front steps. He rested his arms on his knees and fixed his eyes on the row of quiet buildings.

  “Them riders,” he said. “They knew what they was doing. The whole robbery didn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  Elizabeth crouched low, her face the same level as Robins’. “What happened here, exactly?”

  “That’s the problem, Miss Crowne—I hardly know. I was at the jail, when I heard the commotion. By the time I grabbed my gun, it was too late. They’d stole the money and rode off. I tried to ask questions, but everyone was too shook up.”

  “Do they remember anything?”

  “Most folks saw the bandits riding down Main Street, about seven-thirty in the morning. Said they was five or six in all. Their faces looked like skulls, like I wrote you. But they each remember it a different way. Most of ’em was smart enough to hightail it out of there. The only ones who saw the riders up close was the women in the bank. And…” Robins took a long breath. “Frankly, none of them made it out.”

  “In the telegram—you said there was red smoke,” Elizabeth coaxed.

  “Something like that. But see, it wasn’t smoke exactly. The way it looked—it was different.”

  “The texture, you mean?”

  “That’s the word.” Robins nodded distantly. “More like powder. It was like somebody had cut open a whole bag of flour and blowed it everywhere. It hung in
the air for a while. Not much breeze in these parts.”

  “Did it burn you?”

  “It was hard to breathe, that’s for sure. Felt like razor blades. My eyes hurt, too. And I wasn’t even in it. I was there just long enough to…” He cleared his throat. “Just long enough to pull the Sheriff to safer ground. But the cloud stuck around. Took days to clear out. We rounded up some volunteers, but they couldn’t even collect the bodies, the air was so bad. Even a week after, Main Street was doggone empty.”

  “And that was three weeks ago, now?”

  “Roundabout.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. “What do the locals think? They must have their theories.”

  Robins nodded. “Half the town says it was Mexicans, dressed up for Day of the Dead. The other half think it was real-live ghosts, riding their stallions through the mouth of Hell.”

  “How about you?”

  “Well,” said Robins, “I’ve seen a lot of strangeness, in my sixty years, and I have my own superstitions. And maybe it was some Mexicans. Wouldn’t be the first time. But if I was a gringo looking to rob a bank, I’d be inclined to dress as bandito as possible, if only to throw off the scent.”

  “I’d buy that,” agreed Elizabeth. “But I’ll bet the masks served a double purpose.”

  “Gas masks, you mean?”

  “That’s right. It’s one thing to hide your identity. But they’d need a breathing apparatus to survive—whatever it was.” Elizabeth harrumphed. “Well, as long as we’re getting the grand tour, we might as well see the scene of the crime.”

  The bank was a husk of its former self. The glass had been removed from the windows, leaving only bars. The door was propped open, along with the iron gates. The little desks were cleared of papers and slips. No one stood at the teller stations.

  The place might have looked peaceful, except for the spray of blood on the far wall. The dense scarlet stains were stark against the manila plaster. She could even see the tiny holes where bullets had blasted through the flimsy architecture. She frowned at the floors as well; someone had clearly tried to mop the tile, but Elizabeth could still discern the pink smears that had once been human ichor.