by Jane Toombs
Monique tried to catch George's eye so she could somehow warn him this wasn't his quarrel. Why had he come here instead of riding for help once he saw the problem?
"I'll be Goddamned,” Campbell said again. “A bloody Limey. Why don't you just ride off on your horse to someplace where it's safe to play soldier? We got men's work to do here. You're liable to get hurt bad."
"I intend to count to three,” George said. “If I still see either of you two blighters at the end of that time, I'm afraid I won't be responsible for the consequences."
Monique's mouth dropped open momentarily. He was either foolishly brave or completely foolhardy. Maybe both. Whatever he was, she didn't want to see him hurt.
"Don't, George,” she said. “Campbell's a killer. I saw him shoot down a man in cold blood."
"One,” George said.
"You'd best listen to the lady,” Campbell told him. “You're gonna get yourself killed."
"Two,” was George's answer.
"I'll keep him covered,” Campbell said to Russ. “You get the women."
As Campbell raised his rifle, Monique gasped in fear. Chai peeked from behind her with a muffled sob.
"Three,” George said. He was smiling as he kicked himself free of his saddle and crouched behind his horse so quickly that the shot from Campbell's rifle missed him completely.
Monique heard another shot and another. Russ spun from his horse and fell face first to the ground. Campbell, low over his horse's neck, smoking rifle in hand, rode directly at George.
As George's horse bolted, Campbell fired. Monique couldn't see what was happening though the dust and smoke. The tang of powder stung her nose. Another shot was fired. Campbell fell. He scrambled along the ground toward the trunk of a pine, still holding his rifle. Where was George? Monique seized Chai's hand and, crouching, the two ran through the trees.
Still another shot was fired. Monique turned and saw Alex Campbell stagger back. The big man dropped his rifle and sat down, a startled look on his face. Russ’ horse danced sideways, dragging Russ, whose foot was caught in a stirrup.
George Guildford, a pistol in each hand, stepped cautiously from behind a pine. Campbell sat staring up at him, his rifle a yard from his booted foot. When George circled behind him, Campbell struggled to rise. Monique drew in her breath, expecting him to lunge for the rifle. George grasped Campbell's shoulder and yanked him backward onto the ground where he stared up at the Englishman as George picked up the rifle, holding it in the crook of his arm.
Monique breathed a long sigh of relief. “Stay here,” she told Chai. She ran across the pine needles to George's side. “Are you all right?"
"A trifle fatigued,” he said. “I haven't done this much riding or this much shooting in anger since the Crimea, and that was some years ago. I'd be obliged to you, Miss Monique, if you'd take a look at the gentleman hanging by his foot from the stirrup. I'm sorry, I know it's not woman's work, but this chap at my feet still has a nasty glint in his eye so I can't chance leaving him."
Monique nodded. Russ’ horse had stopped among the trees, and Russ lay on his back, one leg raised to the stirrup. He didn't move as she approached.
"Steady, steady,” Monique murmured to the horse.
The gelding shied away at first, finally letting her come close enough to stroke his neck. Glancing down, she saw Russ’ eyes staring skyward with the blank look of death. She tugged his boot free of the stirrup and Russ’ leg dropped to the ground.
After tethering the horse, she returned to George Guildford. Chai had ventured from the shelter of the trees and stood a few feet behind him, watching him intently as he examined Campbell's wound. Monique knelt on the pine needles at George's side.
"Russ is dead,” she told him.
He nodded as though he'd expected as much, then said, “I take it you know this gentleman."
"His name's Alex Campbell."
Campbell, eyes closed, moaned. His sandy hair and beard were streaked with dirt. He clasped his left side and, between his fingers, Monique saw the dark red of blood.
"Last year,” she said, “the night my friend Philippe was killed, Campbell abducted me and brought me to Chinatown, where he tried to assault me. I threw a lamp at him, started a fire and, with Chai's help, managed to get away.” She paused. “Is he dying?"
"Not bloody likely, if you'll excuse the word. From what I can see, he suffers only from a flesh wound."
Campbell opened his eyes. “Hurts,” he muttered. “Hurts like hell.” Despite the cool of early evening, sweat stood in droplets on his ashen forehead.
"Who sent you after the Chinese girl?” George asked him.
Campbell shook his head.
"He works for Van Allen Reid,” Monique said. “Van Allen must have sent the two of them to bring Chai back to Virginia City. Van Allen probably owed Chai's master a favor."
"She belongs to Han Ku. He owns her,” Campbell said. He looked at George. “Damn it, man, do something to stop the bleeding."
George offered Monique a pistol, asking, “Do you know how to use one of these?"
"Yes. Philippe taught me."
"Good. Keep it trained on him while I unearth an old shirt to use for bandages.” He handed her the gun before rising and walking to where his horse stood under a tree. Monique looked from the gun in her hand to the fallen Campbell. Moving completely out of his reach, she drew back the hammer with her thumb and aimed the barrel at his left eye.
"For Christ sake, woman, what're you doing?” he muttered, cowering away.
She smiled. “You're right. Not there.” She lowered the barrel until it pointed toward his groin. I promised I'd kill him, she told herself, and, by God, I will.
"I never harmed you.” She could hear the fear in his voice.
"You intended to. You would have.” She gripped the pistol with both hands, touched the trigger.
"The Frenchman.” Desperation tinged his words. “Your friend. I know who killed him."
"Who?” she demanded. A suspicion burgeoned in her mind. Before he could answer she cried, “You killed him. You killed Philippe. Those men you were with at the saloon lied to protect you."
"No, not me. Swear you won't use that gun and I'll tell you."
Monique grimaced with distaste at his cowardly bargaining, hesitated and finally nodded. “All right, I won't. Tell me."
"Russ. Russ done it."
She scowled at him. “You heard me tell George that Russ was dead. Now, because he's dead and can't speak for himself, you're putting the blame on him."
"I swear to God it was Russ."
"Why would Russ want to kill Philippe?"
"Reid paid him to. I don't know the reason. Something your friend found out that Reid didn't want him to blab about. Reid paid Russ a hundred in gold to kill the Frenchy."
"Van Allen Reid?” Monique shook her head in disbelief. She didn't care for Van Allen, but it was hard to imagine he'd order Philippe killed in cold blood. Not the man she'd willingly slept with, the man whose body had joined with hers.
"You might be sweet on him, but that don't change the truth none,” Campbell muttered.
A twig snapped behind her. Monique whirled to find George standing a few feet away. “He claims Van Allen Reid had Philippe killed,” she said. “Russ over there was the one who stabbed him."
"Take the damn pistol away from her,” Campbell said. “She was gonna kill me. Or worse."
George shrugged. “She undoubtedly has good reason.” He brandished strips of white cloth at Monique. “I tore up a shirt. You can use these for bandages."
"No. I won't touch him.” She turned and walked a few feet away, looking at the red-tinged clouds in the west rather than at Alex Campbell.
"I do,” she heard Chai tell George. “I take care him."
After a few minutes George joined her, gun still in his hand. He kept his gaze on Campbell as he asked Monique, “You know this Reid?"
"Yes,” she admitted. “He's a—I thought he was sort o
f a friend of mine. I can't believe he paid to have Philippe killed. A hundred dollars?"
"Enough of a price to tempt men like these two into doing the job. Unless Mr. Campbell's lying."
Monique sighed. “No. I'm afraid he's more than likely telling the truth, except about Russ. I think Van Allen Reid sent Alex Campbell to kill Philippe, and he did. He's lying now because Russ is dead, making it easy to cast the blame on him."
"That does make sense,” George said. “Now, if you'll keep an eye on Mr. Campbell, I'll round up the horses so we can take these two blighters and Miss Chai to the nearest settlement."
Monique nodded. As she waited, pistol in hand, for him to return, her first stunned disbelief in what Campbell had told her turned to anger. Hadn't Philippe said something to her before he was killed about suspecting a scam was in process where prospectors were somehow being fleeced out of their findings? If Reid was behind that, and he knew Philippe suspected him, she could well imagine Van Allen ordering him killed.
Fury thrummed in her. At Reid. And Jeremy, too. If it hadn't been for Jeremy, she and Philippe never would have come to Virginia City. If Jeremy hadn't abandoned us in San Francisco, everything would have turned out differently. Philippe would be alive, and I'd be with Jeremy.
Some of her anger spilled over onto Laura McAllister. Laura Johnston now, with her holier-than-thou Presbyterianism.
Monique shook her head. She was blaming the wrong woman. She, herself, was to blame for believing Jeremy in first place. Believing him? What had he ever promised her in words? Actually nothing. Philippe had quoted something about love being blind and, imagining she was in love with Jeremy, she certainly had been blind.
A young girl's fancy, nothing more. Mary's fancy. Monique was older and wiser. It was time for a new beginning, not with Jeremy, because that would never be. Alone, then? There was no one else, was there?
Hearing the creak of leather, she looked up to see George returning with the horses.
Not long after, they set off in the gathering darkness with George in the lead, Chai mounted behind him, hanging onto his waist, Alex Campbell next, hands bound behind him, and Monique following. Because hers was a sidesaddle, Chai had been unable to share her horse. Bringing up the rear was Russ’ horse with his dead body draped over the saddle.
Monique urged her mount ahead until she was beside George. “I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't come to help us,” she said. “Chai and I both thank you from the bottom of our hearts."
"She's already indicated that. Actually, I had no choice but to help since my ambuscade was partially responsible. With the stage already stopped, those two blighters had no problem seizing Miss Chai."
"Chai told me she jumped out of the stage after we left, determined to follow me. They must've been riding behind the stage, seen her and followed her into the woods."
"A logical deduction. Another thing, you mustn't forget I owe you a great favor, you and Miss Astrid, because you didn't tell the truth about what happened at the parlor house."
"Whatever your reasons,” Monique said, “You were magnificent when you stood up to Campbell and Russ. I was afraid for you, afraid they'd kill you."
"Do you care whether they did or not?"
"Yes. Yes, I care very much."
His face reddened and he dropped his gaze. Monique had spoken spontaneously, but she now realized how true her words were. She did care for George, much as she'd cared for Philippe. She suspected, though, that George's feelings toward her might be very different from Philippe's.
They rode for a time in silence as the forest darkened around them. Looking up through the branches of the pines, Monique saw the evening's first star.
George had evidently followed her gaze because he said, “When I was a boy in England, we always wished on the first star. I've made my wish. Have you made yours?"
Remembering her earlier thoughts, she nodded. A new beginning, that was her wish. A new beginning for her business enterprises in Virginia City and, more importantly, a new beginning for her life. Without Jeremy. Or Van Allen Reid.
The Chinese girl peered at her from behind George. “Chai make wish on star?"
"I don't know why not,” Monique told her.
"But you can't tell anyone what you wished,” George said. “If you do, it has no chance of ever coming true."
"No come true anyway.” Chai's voice was sad.
"I fear the chances of mine coming true are slight as well,” George said.
Mine will come true, Monique told herself.
"You mentioned you fought in the Crimean War,” Monique said to George. “I'm afraid I know little about that."
"I had that honor, though the campaign was a miserable one. We fought in the wrong place at the wrong time, under the leadership of incompetents. Well-meaning incompetents, but incompetents all the same. Still, it was in the Crimean War that I perfected my stratagems."
"May I ask what they are?"
"If I were to devise a motto for myself, I believe it would read, ‘Persistence and surprise, these two.’ You'll find, Miss Monique, that I can be quite persistent. And those two blighters"—he glanced back to indicate Campbell and Russ—"discovered I'm capable of springing a surprise."
"I'll admit I was surprised. When I saw you in that Confederate uniform, I didn't know what to think."
"Admit it, you put me down for a fool, as Mr. Campbell and his friend did. They couldn't believe that someone masquerading as a military man might actually possess some of the attributes of one. Of course, they were wrong. If I'd been rash enough to meet them otherwise, face to face, the results might well have been different."
Monique shook her head. “I don't think so."
"Only man with heart of dragon can kill dragons,” Chai said. “You Dragon Heart."
"Miss Chai,” George said, “I'm honored that you think so. If ever again you need a champion to slay dragons for you, I insist you call on me."
Chai giggled.
An hour after sunset they arrived at Demming's, a small way station on the coach road across the Sierras. To Monique's surprise, she found the stagecoach had dropped off her bag and Chai's there. George, apparently, had thought of everything. He made arrangements to have Russ’ body returned to Virginia City, while Chai changed Alex Campbell's blood-soaked bandages. When she finished, George had a short conversation with Campbell.
After he finished, he joined the two women at the supper table. “Mr. Campbell has agreed to seek out a doctor in Placerville,” he told them. “I suspect he won't be returning to Virginia City for some time, if at all."
"How did you manage that?” Monique asked. “Did you threaten him?"
"I used a much cruder method. I offered him more money than he gets from Reid."
Which had to mean George Guildford was a wealthy man. He'd paid men to help him stage a fake hold-up, as well as paying off the driver and conductor of the Well Fargo coach. Now he'd given money to Campbell to stay clear of Virginia City. Perhaps the boys hadn't been funning when they introduced him as the Honorable Sir George Guildford.
In the morning, he met them on the porch of the inn, his Confederate uniform replaced by black trousers and frock coat. “I'd like you to come with me,” he said to Monique. “I'd intended it as a surprise, but now I see I'll have to tell you what I had in mind. I meant to give you the gift of a week's time in the most beautiful spot in the world. A week away from Virginia City, away from the hurly-burly of business, of men, of roistering miners. A week of peace."
Monique smiled. “You tempt me."
"I'll be the perfect host. No more, no less, I promise you that."
"No stratagems? No surprises?"
"None. Persistence, perhaps, but nothing more. Chai, of course, is free to go on to San Francisco, if she so chooses. I'll be happy to pay for someone to escort her safely there."
Chai looked from Monique to George and back, before lowering her eyes. “I go you,” she said.
"With us?�
�� Monique asked. “But I haven't agreed to go anywhere."
Chai looked up at her, and Monique realized the Chinese girl already understood she was going to accept George's offer.
"Well,” she told George said briskly, “that being the case, we'll both go with you."
He nodded, but she thought he looked somewhat disappointed. “I would have been happy if you'd come alone, Miss Monique, but now I'm doubly happy to have both of you with me.” After a moment he added, “Miss Chai, why don't you collect your bag and Miss Monique's?"
Chai bowed and hurried inside.
As soon as they were alone, George grasped Monique's hand and raised it to his lips for a moment. “You must realize it's you I want to be with. No one else."
"I don't frighten you?” As soon as she spoke, she regretted the words.
"You're referring to Miss Astrid. I admit she's a heroic figure of a woman. A warrior queen Viking. Striking, but not who I'd choose. You, Miss Monique, do startle me at times, but you don't intimidate me. I'm unused to women who aren't afraid to enter the business world, women who consider themselves equal to men."
"I'm as good as anyone,” she said, “man or woman."
He smiled. “That, I suspect, is what piqued my interest from the first. I asked myself, are her unique ways all they seem to be? Could they be the same as mine, today, when I donned that Confederate uniform—a stratagem of some sort?"
She chuckled. “What do you suspect I might be without my uniform?"
"A young and beautiful woman, certainly. A desirable woman who doesn't know what she wants from life. Perhaps a woman who's convinced herself she dislikes men, when in reality...” He left the thought unfinished.
"That's not true,” Monique cried. “It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I don't need anyone. I've gotten along all right so far without a man, and I'll keep on getting along without one."
"'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”
Monique's reply was cut off by Chai's reappearance with the bags. George led three horses from the corral, and they rode along a trail through the pines. About a half-hour later, they came out of the forest and Lake Tahoe burst upon them in all its blue glory.