“No hurry, as long as I get there in one piece.”
“We should be leaving in thirty minutes.”
“Good. I’ll go out and sit on the porch where it is still cool.”
“Sorry about the delay, sir.”
“No problem,” Bowen said and went outdoors to take a seat on the bench that lined the front of the office. He lit a cigar and sat back to consider the situation. At the corner of the building, a drummer who apparently must be another waiting passenger stole a snootful of whiskey from a small flask. Then, acting secretive, he pocketed it.
A stout woman in a too-tight corset came huffing and puffing up the sidewalk to the office door. Bowen guessed her to be in her thirties.
“Has it gone?” she asked, out of breath.
“The stage?” Bowen asked.
“Yes—”
“No, it is going to be late.”
“Well, praise the Lord. I just knew I had missed it. Whew, you mean the one going to Prescott?” She wiped her sweaty brow with her palm and shook her head as if to get her bearings. Then, using the reflection in the window, she reset the wide-brimmed hat, decorated with lace and ribbons, on her head. She fussed with some resistant stubborn strands of her brown hair, using the window image for a guide.
“You going to Prescott?” she asked, not looking at him, still having trouble with her breathing.
“Yes.”
“I’m Mamie VanKirk. I live up there.”
“Oh … Major—I mean Gerald—Bowen.”
“Military man, huh?” There was a peevish set to her lips.
“Retired military man,” he Corrected her.
“You live in Prescott?”
“Yes.” He asked the woman what she did.
“I own the Bar TF Ranch. You heard of it?”
“No. My wife, Mary, and I are new to the area. We moved there about six months ago.” Quite unusual for a woman to own a ranch, but she looked capable of handling things.
“You’ll have to bring her to the dances we have out at the schoolhouse. Folks come from miles and miles on Saturday night. A little dancing never hurt a soul, did it?”
“I don’t think it did.”
“Sure never killed me. Well, Major, since we’re going to be passengers together all day and night, tell me about your military career.” She hiked up her dress like it was nuisance and took a place on the bench beside him. “There ought to be enough time to get in the whole thing.”
Bowen wondered about Miss VanKirk. She had the brassy ways of some madam, yet despite her fashionable dress and hat, she looked like a woman trapped in a costume she didn’t feel comfortable or accustomed to. It would be an interesting trip home.
He explained his career in brief and she nodded with interest at his telling about officers’ school and the early war. Polite as she acted, he decided she could recite his whole story back to him without a stumble. He felt better when the stage pulled up and relieved him of any further talk.
Once on board and moving down the streets of Tucson, Mamie, Miss or Mrs., was not to be without knowing and continued to pry things from him. She also shifted and tugged at the oppressive corset, which he decided must be binding her. To be polite, he hid his amusement at the woman’s obvious difficulty and discomfort.
“When we get to Maricopa Wells”—she leaned over closer to him and lowered her voice—“I will need your expert assistance.”
“Mine?” he asked. What did she want?
“You are a married man?”
“Yes. Happily, thank you.”
She looked perturbed at the drummer, who was drunk enough to hum hymns to himself in the opposite seat. Then she made a face. “I can’t wait that long. Undo this damn corset for me.” She scooted around and turned her back to him.
“Well, go ahead, I’m certain you’ve seen a woman’s undergarment before,” she said after a moment.
He looked at the coach ceiling for help, then began to undo the small buttons down the back of the dress. Mamie sat up straight and bounced on the bumps in the road. With stiff fingers, he undid some more.
“Go ahead; you have to unbutton the whole damn thing.”
“The whole thing?” the drunk drummer asked in his stupor.
“You shut up and look the other way or I swear I’ll throw you out the door.” She pointed an accusing finger at the man like a pistol.
“Yes, ma’am.” The drummer swallowed hard and covered his eyes with his sleeves.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Major, will you please hurry? I’m about to die.”
He wouldn’t bother to tell Mary about this episode. then he became tickled. Actually she might even laugh about it too. At last the pinkish-colored corset became exposed. He panicked at the sight of the closure. Why, it was shoelaced from the middle of her back clear down to her hips.
“Unlace it. Will you please hurry?”
“I am. I am,” he said and began to pull the lacing out of the eyelets.
When he was halfway down her back, the corset opened like an eggshell and she let out a great gasp. “Thank God.”
“You want me to stop?”
“Heavens, no! I want out of this bear trap.”
His hands full of the string, he managed to separate the last vestige and then leaned back from her to politely look away.
“Close your eyes; I’m getting rid of this damn thing.”
He gazed out the window. Soon he began to feel her wiggling on the seat as she wrestled with the undergarment. At last she flung it on his lap with a loud, “There. Button me up, please,” she added, holding the dress to her sides with her elbows.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, ignoring the white skin with the red marks like whip lashes across her back. The dress buttons proved hard to catch and he fumbled in his haste. The task at last completed, he settled back. “That’s it.”
She twisted back around. “Thank you. You’re a true gentleman.”
They both dropped their gaze to the pink corset upon his lap. She grabbed it and raised it up. Then she flung it out the open window among the passing saguaros and catclaw.
“The damn dumb salesperson who sold me that ought to be shot, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I do, Mamie.”
“Hell, I guess the truth is I’ll never be a fashion figure, will I?”
Bowen felt trapped. Had it not been for the drunk drummer asking if he could look now, he might never have escaped her insistence for an answer.
They both laughed at the drummer instead.
Sam T. stepped down from the stage and looked around at the territorial capital. He assisted Julia and smiled at her exclamation. “It’s a pretty place. I thought it would have cactus all over.”
“I don’t even see any here,” he said, admiring the tall ponderosa pines scattered around on the hillsides. New houses and businesses were being built around existing ones and the sounds of hammers and saws rang in the crisp mountain air. In a westerly direction, he could see an unusual thumb-shaped butte sticking up.
“Mrs. Riley?” A corporal stepped forward and stood at attention.
“Yes, Corporal?” she said.
“Good. I’m here to get your things and get you, ma’am.” Then he turned red from embarrassment over his choice of words.
“Well, corporal, my trunks are coming from Ash Flat by freighter, but I do have a small bag.”
“You will be in safe hands,” Sam T. said, seeing the young soldier’s sincerity. “That freighter should be here in the next day or so with our trunks.”
“The stage lines don’t haul such things,” she explained offhandedly to the young man.
“Yes, ma’am. I will wait at the coach for you.” He snapped to attention, then turned and went to the waiting carriage across the street.
“I am saddened to part with you, Sam. You’ve been a fine companion to me the entire trip. Thank you.”
He nodded. “You take care, Julia. If I can ever help, you be sure to call on me. Major Bowen will
know how to get in touch with me.”
“Perhaps you will attend a military function at Fort Whipple and we can meet again.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled at her. Damn, this proved harder than parting with Shirley.
“Maybe she will write you,” she said as if she knew his thoughts.
“Maybe. Good luck, Julia.” With an emptiness inside him, he watched her go to the conveyance as the corporal assisted her into the seat. He waved, then took his valise and headed for the saloon on the corner. A good stout drink might clear his head.
Mahoney’s Saloon. Common Irish name as any. He pushed through the doors and looked over the crowd at the bar. Then he walked to about midway, dropped his suitcase on the floor and nodded to the bartender.
“Gawd almighty, Captain Mayes. Sure’n as the devil, it’s you!”
“Mahoney?” He shook hands with the ex-noncom and blinked in disbelief at the man.
“You look wonderful, Captain. Wonderful.”
“You look damn good yourself. Did every old cracker in the Tenth retire up here?”
“Major’s here.”
“I know. I came to see him.”
“Damn, what’ll you have? Rye?”
“Yes, and make it a double.”
“I will. Hey, boys,” Mahoney shouted, brandishing the bottle of bond. “Here’s me old captain from the days in the war. A finer officer they never commissioned, and we rode the toughest damn detail in the world. Keeping the bloody telegraph wires up from Missouri to Fort Smith.”
“Hey, here’s to soldiers, blue or gray,” someone shouted and glasses flew in the air for a toast.
“May those days be forever silent,” Sam T. said.
“Amen.” Then everyone drank.
“Where does the major have his office?”
“He’s retired.” Mahoney frowned and acted taken aback by the question. “He’s got a house up on the hill. Go three blocks up the hill, and then halfway on the right you will see a nice white picket fence with a goat inside.”
“He has a goat?” Sam T. batted his eyes.
“No, but the goat thinks so.” Mahoney laughed and poured him a second double.
“That’s all I need. Even for old time’s sake.” He had to report to Bowen halfway sober anyway.
“You get some time, you come back. We can talk about the old days.”
“I’ll sure do that. I need a few cigars.”
Mahoney shoved the humidor glass at him; then, when Sam selected two, he refused to let him pay. “I owe you more than few cigars, Captain.”
On his empty stomach, Sam T. felt the liquor, but he decided the walk would help burn some of the alcohol from his system. Suitcase in hand, he started up the steep street. A mockingbird scolded him. Some sassy blue jays fluttered overhead. He noticed a large, fine house to the left. Either a banker or mine superintendent owned the place. They had a black yardman cleaning up things. Must be a very rich person’s house, so palatial.
He felt someone watching him as he made the climb. Whoever it was, the person was at a second-story window and all he could see was a shadow on the curtains. Oh, well, some old maid or grandmother snooping on him. Unfazed, he continued up the hill to the third street and turned south.
The white-fenced yard was festooned in sweetpea vines. He decided this bungalow must be the major’s house. Then he looked up and noticed a white goat tethered on a rope bleating at him from the hillside across the street. Mary’s goat, no doubt, and he smiled.
“Captain Mayes!” she shouted and ran to the front door when he knocked. “It has been a long while.”
He hugged the gray-haired woman and removed his hat. “Great to see you, ma’am.”
“Have you eaten anything lately?” she asked, looking him over.
“No. Is the major home?”
“He’s gone to Tucson to arrange some things, but he will be back tomorrow or the next day. Said for you to take a room and he would hurry back. Come inside and let’s find you some food. You look wonderful.”
“Feel great. Excited about this job he has for me.”
“Well, I’ll let him tell you about it.”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Good, because I don’t.” Then she laughed. “Oh, the things you men get into.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She served him tasty leftovers and then offered him two kinds of pie, peach and apple. He took a slice of each and made her laugh.
Between bites, he listened as she told him about Governor Sterling and his log mansion. She went on about the library society that the local wives had recently founded and the women’s group in the Methodist church.
“Who owns that big mansion I saw coming up the hill?” he asked, starting on the peach pie first.
“That is the Harrington House.” She sounded taken aback.
“Oh,” he said absently. “Harrington must have lots of money.”
“It is a parlor house,” she said in a lowered voice.
He almost choked on the pie and spluttered out an apology.
“It is all right. A Mrs. Devereaux lives there.”
“Well …” He wiped his mouth on her cloth napkin. “She must have a good business.”
“I suspect she does more when the legislature is in town. Then there isn’t room behind that high fence to hide all the rigs.”
“I would think so,” he said and started on the apple pie. “I see your famous goat is grazing across the road.”
“Couldn’t find its owner and couldn’t keep it out of my flowers.” She made a rather peevish face.
Sam smiled as he sipped on his second cup of fresh ground coffee she fixed for him.
“You never married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Shame,” she said and smiled. “Oh, please don’t mention the marshals or Gerald’s part in it around Prescott. He can explain. But it is very secretive.”
“I’m sure he will, and I won’t tell a soul.” He came very close to telling Mahoney about his job. Good thing he hadn’t and called it only a visit.
After eating, he headed off for a boardinghouse she recommended: a two-story establishment west of the creek and up the hill behind the governor’s mansion. He promised Mary to return the next day, to see if the major had returned and to move the goat for her.
The walk back downhill was pleasant. A fresh breath of the turpentine-smelling pines hung in the air. He skirted a few loose milk cows grazing along the street and went past the Harrington House. This was some fancy whorehouse, similar to the ones they had in Denver, Kansas City or Chicago. Sure enough, very ritzy for a frontier outpost like Prescott.
A matronly lady came to the door of the boardinghouse on his first knock.
“Mrs. Tremble is my name. Don’t put up with drunks and loud snorers. Pay a week in advance and it costs four bucks a week for bed and two meals a day, breakfast and supper. Get your own lunch pail, I don’t fix them.”
Sam T. studied the woman. Tidy-looking and in her fifties, but he figured she could handle a rowdy one or whatever came her way.
“That’s a room of my own?”
“No, that costs two bucks more.”
“And if I don’t take meals?”
“Well, you have to eat someplace.” Hands on her ample hips, she glared back at him. “My cooking ain’t that bad.”
“Didn’t mean to offend you, but I have to travel a lot.”
“I understand. You won’t be here to eat that much, then?”
“Exactly.”
“Five a week and you can have a private room,” she surrendered. “Where’s your things?”
“A freighter is bringing my trunk down from Ash Fork. Stage line wouldn’t haul it.”
“They get too damn independent and the railroads will replace them.” She gave a bewildered shake of her head. “They will.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He paid her five for the first week. She stuffed it in her dress front and with effort led him u
p on the second floor. The room smelled stale from being closed; with some effort she opened the window sash to let in some fresh air.
The room contained a bed, two chairs and a small table, a dresser and small rack to hang his clothes.
“Supper will be served in two hours,” she said. “Come down and eat. Need to meet everyone. You’re going to be here steady, I’ll throw in a few meals. Don’t wag your tongue about it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He looked around when she left the room, then sat on the bed. Settled in Prescott at long last. He wondered about the secret part of the job. Must be some sort of undercover law work the major needed done. No matter. So far he liked what he saw of Arizona. It wasn’t that different from Denver in climate and, despite Shirley’s prickly-cactus comments, he had yet to see much more cactus here than they had in Colorado.
Ella Devereaux turned from the curtain after observing him again. Stranger in town, a big man dressed in a suit and wearing a Boss of the Plains hat. He carried a valise, so he was new. She could hardly make out his face. He went up and came back in an hour. Time enough to visit someone or inspect something. She drummed her fingernails on the polished top of the small table. She had business to take care of.
She went down the hallway and into Lily’s room. The small brunette sat on the edge of her bed dressed in a cotton shift and looked up with a soft, “Hello.”
Ella went to the window and studied the alley behind the barn. Her plan needed to work. It was the best one she had yet.
“That young man who works in the telegraph office …” She let her voice trail off on purpose. The girl knew his name well enough; Ella saw how her eyes shone whenever he dropped in. They never fooled her.
“You mean Brad Townsend?”
“Yes, he’s kind of sweet on you, isn’t he?”
“I guess so, Missy.” She wrinkled her pug nose at the notion. “But he don’t make enough money to come here very often.”
“What if he came every week? On a weeknight, of course.”
“He couldn’t afford it.” She dropped her hairbrush on the bed and sighed out loud. “I’d sure like it, though.”
“He would too, wouldn’t he?”
“I think he would,” she said coyly.
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