by Mark Henry
A blast of cold air tore through the narrow dining car when the conductor poked his head inside. His face was flushed, his hat dusted with snow.
“Sorry to bother you folks,” he panted as if he’d just run the length of the train. “But Mrs. Cobb, have you by chance seen that man you said looked ill earlier?”
Hanna shook her head. “It’s just us,” she said. “I’m hearing an awfully good story, though. You should take a rest and join us.”
“Wish I could,” the conductor said, setting his jaw. “But I need to find that fellow. I’ve had a bucketful of complaints on him, but he keeps giving me the slip.” The door shut as he withdrew his head to continue his search.
“Brrrr.” Hanna leaned across the table to take Clay’s hands. “It’s freezing in here. Come now, I still don’t know how you three got together and came to know your good Captain Roman. Finish telling me about how you got to Arizona. I wish I could have been there.”
“So does Clay.” Maggie grinned.
CHAPTER 20
1878
Arizona
“You ever notice how that gal of yours has a knack for pickin’ the routes with the best grass for her horse?” Clay let his boot swing free of the stirrups as if there weren’t a dozen rattlesnakes per square yard that might spook his horse and dump him on his hind parts. “You sure she hadn’t been this way before?”
Trap grunted. Over the past few weeks he’d grown accustomed to having Clay Madsen along, even come to count on him when they spotted signs of a Comanche raiding party or any of the dozen other dangers they faced on the trail. For the most part, the brash Texan was an easy keeper, content to yammer on about whatever might be running though his mind at the moment, happy to hear himself talk as long as Trap gave him an occasional grunt or nod to show he hadn’t gone to sleep.
Maggie had stayed south when she left Missouri, just nicking the northwest corner of Arkansas before she turned due west into Indian Territory.
Trap felt certain they would be able to catch her in the wide-open country of the Texas Panhandle, but she always stayed a step or two ahead. By the time they crossed into the high country in northern Arizona, Trap felt like they were getting close.
For weeks, there had been no sign of Drum or the remaining Van Zandt and his dog.
“You certain we’re still on her trail?” Clay asked the same question about every three days. Trap assumed it was when the boy’s mind ran dry and he needed time to reload new ammo for his dissertations. On these occasions Madsen required more than a grunt.
“Pretty certain,” Trap said. “She’s a sly one. I’m able to follow her, but I have to go slow. She’s an expert at blending in with game trails or old Indian roads.” He was on the ground now, looking at a spot where a set of new tracks joined Maggie’s in the red earth.
“Looks like a wagon,” Madsen said, nodding down from the back of his horse.
Trap nodded. “Stagecoach maybe. Whoever it is, there are three riders following it.” He ran his hand over the parallel lines in the ground.
“Maybe outriders,” Clay shrugged. “Guarding a payroll or something.”
“Maybe,” Trap said. He took off his hat and squinted at the blazing sun overhead. It beat down like an unrelenting forge. “Stage throws up a lot of dust. Look how it’s settled here in the wheel tracks and all of these hoofprints.” He toed another set of tracks off to the side. “Not as much dust in these. I’m thinking they came along sometime later. . . .”
A low whine echoed across the barren earth, barely audible behind a long jumble of red sandstone and cactus ahead on the trail. Clay and Trap looked at each other.
“What was that?” Trap said. He shaded his eyes with his hand and stared toward the rocks.
Clay gathered up the reins and speared both boots into the stirrups. “I ain’t certain,” he said. “But I think it was a gunshot.” His hand drifted toward the pistol at his belt.
So far, the boys had eluded contact with much of anyone but a stray cowboy or two. Following the gunshot was sure to change that.
Trap climbed back into the saddle. “Whatever it was, it came from the direction Maggie’s headed. Might as well check it out, we’re going that way anyway.”
* * *
The boys nearly stumbled onto the robbery before they knew what was going on. Trap drew his gelding to a skittering stop. Clay’s blue roan plowed into him from behind.
“. . . when we find an innocent girl out here all by her lonesome like this, we got to do somethin’ about it.” A raspy voice came from around the red rock outcrop in front of them.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it, our hands are tied,” another, higher voice cackled. “We got to do somethin’ about it. It’s almost a law out here.”
“I am Pilar de la Cruz,” a fiery female voice spit. “My father is Colonel Hernan de la Cruz of the Mexican cavalry. He will surely hunt you all down for this outrage. Poor Gerardo did nothing to deserve being shot.”
“Pilar de la-la-ti-da Cruz,” the cackling voice said again. “Ain’t that somethin’? We done captured the daughter of a real live Mexican cavalry colonel.”
“You boys shut up and drag her outta the coach,” another voice said. This one was calm and in complete control.
Trap looked at Clay and held up three fingers.
The Texan already had his pistol out. “It was four months last week since I left home. I guess I been good as long as can be expected. I’m sure wishin’ you had a gun about now,” he whispered.
Trap drew the bone-handled knife and took a better grip on the reins. “Me too,” he said. “What do you think? Can you shoot all three without hitting the girl?”
Clay shrugged. “I won’t know until we ride around the rock and take a look. For all we know, there could be another ten of them who haven’t said anything.”
“Stop it!” Pilar de la Cruz screamed. “Take your filty hands off me.”
“Careful, Buster, she’ll cut you,” the raspy voice snapped. There was a yowl from Buster and a laugh from the other men.
Trap set his teeth. Attacking at least three bandits with nothing but a knife in his hand was a foolish endeavor and he knew it, but he couldn’t very well let Clay do all the work by himself.
“That’s enough,” the calm voice said. “You listen to me, your little highness; I don’t give a mule’s dirty ass if your daddy’s the potentate of your stinkin’ greaser country, you got no choice in the matter. My compadres are in need of a little company.” The voice grew in volume and timbre as he spoke. “Now get out of the damned coach or I’ll shoot you in the gut. It won’t bother the boys a speck if you got a little hole in your belly.”
Clay settled his hat firmly. “I do believe I’ll shoot that one first,” he whispered.
As the two boys gathered their reins to charge, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air high in the sandstone above them. Trap shivered in spite of himself. The cry came again, echoing like a banshee scream from one of his father’s stories, through the cactus and sheer cliffs above them. Trap fully expected to see either the devil himself or a whole party of Apache warriors swoop down at any moment.
The black gelding bolted around the rock in the excitement and Madsen’s roan followed.
Three men stood by the coach. One of them went for the pistol at his belt and Madsen sent a bullet through his chest. The pistol slipped out of his hand and he tumbled out of the saddle as his wild-eyed horse squirted out from under him. Trap grabbed the animal’s reins as it went past.
The remaining two men stood with their hands above their heads, frozen in time on the ground beside the coach and their intended victim. Dressed like gamblers, they looked out of place in clothes too fancy for desert travel. Closer inspection showed their dirty faces and hands didn’t quite match up with the rest of the outfits they’d likely stolen from unsuspecting travelers on the trail.
When the men saw they were being faced by two boys, they both relaxed a notch. The one nearest Clay grinned.
>
“What do you aim to do now, kid? You think you can take both of us before one of us gets you?” He tipped his head toward Trap, then shot a nervous glance at the rock above. Beads of sweat dotted his grizzled upper lip. “Your partner there don’t even have a gun. And even if you do kill us, you’ll still have them Apache to deal with.”
Clay kept the pistol pointed at the pair. Trap slid a Winchester out of the dead outlaw’s saddle scabbard, worked the lever, and leveled it at the rough talker.
Clay sighed. “We just can’t let you boys bother a poor innocent girl out here all by her lonesome like this.” He mimicked the man’s gravel voice. “Our hands are tied, you no-account bastards.” Clay dipped his head. “Señorita de la Cruz, I apologize for my harsh choice of words there.”
The Mexican girl smiled. “Think nothing of it, kind sir.”
Trap heard a skittering of rocks from above and chanced a look. In the low sun, he could just make out a shadowed form working its way down a narrow trail. When the lone form dropped below the rim and into the shadows, he could see it was no Apache war party.
It was Maggie.
“Don’t look now, boys,” the outlaw with the cackling voice whispered. “But the Injuns are sending a squaw down to cut our cojones off. Shoot me if you have to, but I aim to kill me at least one more redskin before I die.” He grabbed for the pistol at his belt.
The man’s head exploded like a ripe melon and Trap levered another shell in the Winchester. The second outlaw got his gun out and ran for the safety of the coach. Both boys cut him down and he pitched headlong into the sand.
When the smoke cleared, one horse was down and bleeding in the traces while another wild-eyed beast stood blowing and shaking beside its fallen companion. Three outlaws lay dead on the ground. An ashen-faced Pilar de la Cruz trembled as badly as the surviving horse.
Clay saw to comforting the young woman while Trap spurred his gelding over the rocks and dismounted. Maggie slid down the mountain and into his arms.
The shock of finally seeing her mingled with the feeling in his gut. He’d never killed anyone before, and it made him go hollow inside at the thought of it. Then he looked at Maggie and the hollowness filled up to overflowing.
CHAPTER 21
“Your hair,” Trap said. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of Maggie’s hand.
She gave him a self-conscious smile and ran her fingers through her short locks. “Drum decided I needed to look more like a white woman.” The smile faded and she set her jaw. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll not cut it again. Not for Drum, not for anyone. I’d die first.”
“Oh, Maggie darlin’,” Clay said from the coach where he’d sidled up to a dazed Pilar de la Cruz. “You say that now, but poor ol’ Trap would rather have you plumb baldheaded as not to have you at all.”
Trap nodded toward Madsen. “He says pretty much whatever pops into his mind.”
“Well, it’s the damned truth and you know it.” Clay pretended to sulk for a moment, but couldn’t keep it up with Pilar at his arm. “Your little friend is not near as talkative as I am, but believe me, he’s easy to read when it comes to you. We been trackin’ you for so long now I feel like I know you already.”
Maggie’s dark eyes glistened. “You were tracking me?” She looked back and forth from Clay to Trap.
“Doggone right he was tracking you,” Clay said. “This boy’s like a danged hound when it comes to findin’ you.”
A party of six Mexicans in civilian dress clattered over the sandstone with rifles drawn and wary looks on their faces. They rode with the tight formality of soldiers. Pilar put her arm around Clay to show he was friendly and waved at a young man in the lead. He had a thin mustache and brooding black eyes. A wide sombrero fell back on a leather string around his shoulders. He kept his gun trained on Clay and appeared to want to shoot him on general principles.
“Norman,” Pilar cried. She spoke to him in rapid Spanish.
Norman reined his bald-faced sorrel to a clattering stop. He lowered his rifle grudgingly after Pilar repeated herself.
“I told him you saved my life,” she said out of the corner of her beautiful mouth. “May I present Captain Norman Francisco Garza of my father’s cavalry command. They are my escorts on my trip to the United States.”
Garza dipped his head slightly and spoke to Pilar in Spanish. His tone was polite, but strained.
Trap’s mother spoke Spanish and he’d learned a little as a child. From what he could pick out of the conversation, Pilar had slipped away from the rest of the group to do some exploring on her own. The captain could barely contain his anger and embarrassment that his charge had gotten away from him and almost gotten herself killed.
Trap wondered if Clay could see this man harbored strong feelings for the commander’s daughter. If he did, it didn’t slow him down.
Madsen stuck out his hand. “Clay Madsen out of Bastrop, Texas,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain Garza. I assume you will be escorting the young lady back to safety. I’d be happy to accompany you and assist if . . .”
“That will be most unnecessary, Señor.” Captain Garza turned to Pilar. “Señorita de la Cruz, we must be going. Your father expects us back in three days time. I do not wish to disappoint him.” He broke into clipped Spanish again and Pilar nodded her head.
“Might I see you again, Señor Madsen?” she said while Garza’s men tended to the body of the fallen driver, cut the dead horse from the traces, and hitched one of the saddle horses to the coach.
“I’ll be in Arizona for some time, I believe,” Clay said. He took her hand in his and gently kissed the back of it. Trap marveled at the simple act and wondered how Madsen knew to do such a thing. “I would say you can count on seeing me again, ma’am. Wild horses or a whole unit of Mexican cavalry couldn’t keep me away.”
Pilar smiled and handed him a slip of paper. “Perfecto.” The words clicked off her tongue. “You may find me at this address. Please consider this a formal invitation to come call on my father and me at any time you find convenient.”
Garza spurred his horse up and opened the coach door from the saddle. “Pilar,” he said curtly, holding the door ajar. The stern look he gave Clay Madsen was as much a challenge as Pilar’s little scrap of paper had been an invitation.
* * *
Clay fell into a blue depression as soon as Pilar and her entourage rumbled out of sight. He vowed to hunt her as hard as Trap had hunted Maggie—a feat that shouldn’t prove too difficult since he had her address.
Only the sight of the dead outlaws’ firearms helped bring the young cowboy out of his love-struck stupor. He stood beside a dusky, jug-headed horse and picked through the saddle kit. He whistled under his breath when he slid a rifle out of its sheepskin scabbard.
“I do believe this is the most handsome rifle I’ve ever set my eyes on.” Madsen ran a hand over the rich wooden stock. “A .45-90 buffalo Sharps. You can shoot .45-70s out of these too.” He threw the gun up to his shoulder and sighted down the thirty-two-inch barrel. “I feel like we just saved her from a life of crime.” He cocked his head to one side, like he was trying to drain something out of his ear.
Trap looked at Maggie. “He does that sometimes when he’s thinking on something important.” Through all the talk, he’d not moved an inch from her side.
“Seems like a good man.” Maggie giggled at the funny faces Clay made while he pondered. “How long has he been with you?”
“I’ve got it.” Madsen slapped his leg and let his head bob back to a more natural angle. “I’ll call her Clarice.” He held the rifle up to Trap and Maggie. “She weighs as much as a small pony, but I always did like my lady friends on the beefy side.”
Clay lowered the gun slowly and stared into the pink glow in the west. The drawn look of melancholy washed over his face again. There was a catch in his voice. “You ever feel like you’re riding off from your one true love?”
Trap looked at Maggie and smiled.
; “I guess I have,” he said.
CHAPTER 22
Van Zandt squatted next to his brindle dog and let a handful of sand sift through his fingers. “She ain’t far now,” he said, spitting a slurry of tobacco juice onto the ground. Remnants of the brown goo dribbled down his chin.
“That’s the same song you’ve been singing for the past three weeks.” Drum took off his hat and mopped his brow with a dirty rag from his back pocket. His oily look had taken on a wilted appearance, like a piece of fatty bacon left too long in grease not quite hot enough to cook it.
Van Zandt rubbed his dog behind the ears. “Ol’ Zip knows we’re close. Tracks don’t stay too long in this wind and sand. If we don’t get ourselves kilt by Apaches, we should have her by tomorrow night.” He squinted up at Drum. “How do you aim to get her back to Missouri once we catch her?”
Drum patted the thick leather reins against his thigh and thought about his answer. Take her back after all this? That was a funny notion. He’d be lucky if the church would let him return at all after he left without giving any notice. Of course, that idiot Mrs. Tally had surely given a full report of what she’d seen, no doubt blowing everything out of proportion as if Maggie Sundown was a white girl.
The sun throbbed against Drum’s head with a vengeance and threatened to boil his brain. He squinted through the endless waves of sand and stone and heat and tried to keep his eyes from crossing. He’d sweated through his clothes many times over, and his rump was chaffed raw from weeks in the saddle on a gimpy horse.
This little Indian tramp had not only run off with his favorite horse. She’d stolen his career, his comfortable life, and his reputation. No, she’d not be going back to the school. Neither of them would.
Drum had seen the fight in the girl’s eyes before, when she’d bitten him. It warmed him inside to think of it. He hoped she fought again this time. It would make what he planned to do all the sweeter. And, in the end, it would make it easier to kill her.