My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains

by Susan Page Davis

  The coach swayed as the driver and shotgun messenger climbed to the box. With a slight jerk, they set off.

  The older man leaned toward the young woman and spoke to her in low tones. Freeland seemed to recall Will saying that her uncle traveled with her. He must be her guardian. He figured they were nearly forty miles out of Tucson, and this was desolate territory into which he was taking her. Did it pull up unpleasant memories for her?

  As they rolled along, traveling into barren land populated only sparsely by Indians, Dix relaxed and closed his eyes, leaning back in the corner of the seat. Freeland, however, became more alert. The sooner they reached Prescott, where Dix would be tried for his crimes, the better.

  Chapter Three

  At the third way station, they stopped long enough for all of them to eat a hasty meal. It wasn’t much—beans, cornpone, and fried bacon, but it filled their stomachs.

  To Freeland’s relief, all of the passengers except the young woman and her guardian were leaving them. The tenders switched out the canvas-covered wagon for a sturdier rig. He puzzled over its shape and then realized it looked like the ambulance wagons used during the war. The owner must have found a bargain somewhere.

  Freeland felt easier with fewer fellow passengers. Dix had behaved himself so far, not causing any trouble beyond the ordinary discomforts Freeland experienced when shackled to a felon. The seats were more comfortable, and they had a solid roof over their heads. They sat as before, two facing two. The sun was high, and the temperature had risen to where it would be unpleasant if they were jammed too tightly together.

  The older man spoke up as soon as they were underway again. “I’m Silas Holden, and this is my niece, Carmela Wade. It seems we are to enjoy each other’s company a bit farther, gentlemen.”

  Freeland nodded. “I’m Deputy Marshal McKay, and this is Dix. Heading for the capital.”

  “Ah.” Holden eyed the short chain that linked them and said no more.

  After a nod of acknowledgment, Miss Wade gazed out her window, looking ahead and to the side of the trail. Freeland let his thoughts wander. He’d be home in less than a week. He hoped so. A lot could go wrong while he was away.

  About an hour had passed when the young woman spoke. “Those mountains are striking. Is there a name for them?”

  Freeland leaned past Dix and looked. Off in the distance, several stark mountains seemed to jut up suddenly from the harsh land. He had ridden out there a couple of times, chasing thieves who thought they might be a good place to hide.

  “Folks call those the Superstitions, ma’am.”

  Her eyes flickered. “What a charming name. May I ask how it came about?”

  Freeland shrugged. “Because of the Indian tales, I suppose. The Apache say there’s a hole in those mountains that leads to the underworld. The wind that blows all the time through here and causes sandstorms comes from there, if you believe it.”

  “How interesting.”

  Encouraged, Freeland went on. “The Pima have a legend, too. They say there was a great flood. One of their shamans was saved from drowning by making a hollow ball out of spruce gum. He and his wife stayed in it during the flood and landed on top of Superstition Mountain—the big one there.”

  Miss Wade’s delicate eyebrows arched. “A native Noah?”

  “Something like. They say that after they climbed out of the gum ball, they were the parents of all the Pima who live here now.” There was a lot more to the tale, but Freeland couldn’t see spinning it out all afternoon.

  Miss Wade smiled. “Thank you for telling me.” She adjusted her hat and settled against the back of the seat. Freeland didn’t suppose anyone could sleep in this heat, what with creaking and bouncing over the desert, but soon she appeared to be doing just that. Her guardian slouched as well, letting his hat slip down over his brow, and Dix leaned back in the corner. He was soon breathing regularly, except for an occasional snort.

  Freeland stayed alert. Dix was the sort of man who would feign sleep and take advantage as soon as you quit paying attention.

  A bugle blast jerked him to alertness three hours later. Some of the drivers carried horns and sounded them to announce their arrival.

  “We must be getting to the station,” Miss Wade said.

  “It’s about time,” Holden replied. They had barely spoken during the journey, and Freeland supposed his presence and Dix’s had muzzled them.

  They drove up to the low adobe building, but no one waited in the yard. No tenders came out with fresh horses. The driver, Dwight Herder, climbed down and opened the door.

  “Folks, I don’t know what’s going on here, but something doesn’t feel right. The station agent usually meets us and has a fresh team ready. I suggest you all stay in the stage while Tom and I check on things.”

  Beside Freeland, Dix stirred and yawned. “Got troubles, have we?” He extended his arms to stretch his muscles, and Freeland’s left arm went with them. Holden stared at the handcuffs. Miss Wade turned her face toward the window.

  Dwight shut the door, and the passengers all looked at each other.

  “I hope nothing’s wrong,” Miss Wade said.

  Holden leaned past her to peer out the window. “Just relax. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  “Will we be in Prescott by nightfall?” she asked.

  Holden hesitated, so Freeland said, “No ma’am.”

  Dix sat up straighter. “We going up Black Canyon?”

  Freeland shook his head. “Wickenburg way. It’s a little longer, but it’s easier and more traveled. We won’t be there much before dawn, but I expect we’ll get our supper at one of the way stations.” Barring any serious trouble, he thought. Their driver was right—something felt out of kilter here.

  “So, we’ll reach the capital tomorrow?” Miss Wade persisted.

  “Yes ma’am; that’s the plan. Most likely not long after noon,” Freeland said. He’d made this trip before, and the schedule was loose of necessity.

  Through the window, Freeland saw Dwight walking back to the coach. He opened the door.

  “Well, folks, the station seems to be deserted. Now that’s not good. If outlaws or hostile Indians are active in the area, it may be a while before we can get to the next stop.” He eyed Freeland keenly, and Freeland nodded.

  Silas Holden scowled at the driver. “We’re going on with these horses? Shouldn’t we hole up here and wait for someone else to come through?”

  “No sir,” the driver said. “I don’t recommend that. Tom and I are bound to keep moving if we can. Besides, the next stage won’t come along for two days.”

  “Are there any horses here?” Freeland asked.

  “Nary a one, so we can’t replace our team. This one’s tuckered out. We’re going to water them and give them a half hour of rest, and then we’ll go on. I’m sorry there’s no meal waitin’ for you, but the necessary is out back. Just keep your eyes open, folks. Tom and I think we’re alone here, but we could be wrong.”

  The shotgun rider stood guard outside the outhouse while each of them took a turn inside. Miss Wade emerged with her cheeks flaming. Freeland had to accompany Dix inside, which was no treat. When they came out, they found Miss Wade and her uncle near the well.

  “The driver brought us a tin basin, so we could wash up,” Miss Wade said. “And the well water is sweet. That in the bucket is fresh.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Freeland said. Somehow, he and Dix worked around the handcuffs to wash their hands. Freeland lifted the dipper to drink, and Dix managed with his left hand.

  They waited uneasily in the shade of the station building, exchanging only a few words and watching the road. The shotgun rider climbed to the roof for a vantage point but came down after a few minutes, saying he would bake to a crisp if he stayed up there.

  Finally, the driver hitched the team up again. Freeland wished he had the free use of both hands and could help him. The crusty man fastened the last line, took his hat off, and wiped his brow on his slee
ve.

  “All right, folks. Let’s get out of here.”

  They boarded and settled into the same seats they had held before, with Miss Wade and Holden facing Freeland and Dix. Freeland’s stomach felt hollow, and he hoped it wouldn’t rumble loud enough for the other passengers to hear. He ought to have put some jerky in his carryall.

  Dwight set the horses off at a slow jog. “It will take us twice as long at this pace,” Holden said after a mile or so.

  “Maybe so,” Freeland conceded. The driver was no doubt saving the horses in case he needed a burst of speed.

  “This man going to prison?” Holden nodded toward Dix.

  “His trial is in Prescott.”

  Holden nodded. “They need to build railroads out here. Railroads and telegraph wires.”

  “I expect that will take a while,” Freeland said, gazing out at the empty desert. Now that the war was over, there was no money to build things like railroads. The West needed time to recover.

  “I had to write months ahead to schedule my niece’s performances in the major towns, and we’ll have to set up additional ones along the way if we hope to pay our expenses.”

  Little more was said over the next two hours, but at last the driver halted the team without blowing a blast on his horn.

  Smelling smoke, Freeland put his head out the window. The remains of a building smoldered in the twilight.

  The driver jerked the door open. “Looks bad, Marshal.”

  “They’ve burnt the station?” Freeland asked.

  “Looks that way. We’ll take a look-see. You folks wait.”

  Freeland nodded and touched the butt of his revolver.

  “Maybe you should get loose of me,” Dix said.

  Freeland didn’t even glance his way. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Dix chuckled.

  Freeland watched intently as Dwight Herder and Tom, the shotgun rider, cautiously approached the ruin. When Tom leaned over something on the ground, Miss Wade caught her breath. At the same instant, Freeland realized what Tom had found.

  Miss Wade turned away from the window, her gloved hand at her lips. A few minutes later, the driver came to the coach.

  “Two men dead. There’s one fellow who’s still alive. One of the tenders here. He said they were attacked by a large band of Apache.”

  Miss Wade gasped and looked not to her uncle but to Freeland, her eyes wide and her lips trembling.

  “What do you want to do?” Freeland asked.

  “We have to go on.”

  “Should have stayed at that last place,” Holden said.

  “I say we go on.” The driver looked hard at Holden. “If we wait here, we’re targets.”

  Freeland wondered if the stage was carrying a payroll in its treasure box. Keeping a somewhat arbitrary schedule didn’t seem enough for Dwight’s urgency. But surely they would have a military escort if they were carrying valuables. Whatever his reasons, the driver seemed determined to get them to safety. That was probably best for the girl.

  “What about the horses?” Freeland asked.

  “We’ll have to rest them again. Four hours, at least. I suggest you all try to sleep.”

  “If you can find a secure place for me to handcuff my prisoner, I’ll help you bury the dead,” Freeland said.

  “Fair enough, and I thank you.” Herder turned away.

  Holden looked at the rest. “Well, I’m getting out. I’m certainly not sitting in this box for four hours while the horses graze.”

  He climbed down. “Come on, Carmela.” He handed his niece out of the coach.

  “Well?” Dix demanded.

  “We wait until the driver finds a place for you.”

  “Oh, come on, McKay! Where am I going to run to?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out.”

  They sat another five minutes, until the driver returned. “There’s a couple of wheels off a wagon you could cuff him to. I doubt he could drag them far.”

  Freeland tugged Dix’s arm with the handcuffs. “Come on.”

  They walked behind the burned-out station, to where the driver had found the wheels. Freeland eyed them dubiously and took out the key with misgivings.

  “Where we going to be working?” he asked.

  “Yonder, I reckon.” Dwight pointed near the corral fence, half of which had been destroyed by the fire.

  With his help, Freeland positioned the wheels and ran one handcuff through the spokes of both. He fastened Dix’s wrists together and left him there, cursing.

  Freeland and Dwight met up with the shotgun rider near the coach. He had unharnessed the team and picketed them.

  “We found a few supplies,” Tom said. “Most of it’s ruined or stolen, but they must have dropped some. I asked Miss Wade if she and her uncle can put together something for us to eat when we’re finished.”

  They had also found a usable shovel in the rubble. Freeland, Herder, and Tom took turns digging as darkness fell. They had just finished burying the two dead men when Mr. Holden came toward them.

  “The last one’s died, I’m afraid.”

  Herder sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d take a turn with the shovel, Mr. Holden?”

  “I fear my heart wouldn’t stand it.” Holden walked away.

  “I’ll do it,” Freeland said.

  Tom picked up the shovel. “You had the last turn. You two go fetch him over here. And make sure he’s really dead. I don’t trust that dandy’s judgment.”

  He was dead all right. Freeland took a letter from the man’s pocket. If it was from family, he might be able to get word to them that their son had died.

  At last it was done. They walked back to the stagecoach. Someone had started a small fire between it and the corral. Apparently Holden had found enough fuel for Miss Wade to cook some bacon and a passable cornmeal mush, which she prepared in a blackened pot.

  Dwight brought a lantern from the stagecoach, lit it, and hung it on the side of the coach to give them more light while they ate.

  Freeland watched the young woman with interest as she used a paddle to dip out a portion of mush onto a tin plate. She was quiet and competent, wasting no motions. Was this her natural attitude, or had she learned this serene efficiency in her time with the Indians?

  She brought him a serving. “I’m sorry we have no flatware, Mr. McKay.”

  “I’ll manage. Thank you.” He looked toward where Dix was manacled to the wheels. “Do you have some for the prisoner?”

  “My uncle took him some earlier, though he didn’t wish to.”

  Freeland smiled at that. The skin on his lips cracked. “I’m glad he took it, not you.”

  “I would have, if he’d refused.”

  “You have a kind heart, Miss Wade.”

  It wasn’t the tastiest meal Freeland had ever had, but it filled his belly. It felt good to be free of the prisoner.

  “Might as well rest,” Herder said. He lay down on the grass beyond the blackened fire line and closed his eyes.

  Freeland walked out of the circle of lantern light, over to where he’d left Dix. The prisoner appeared to be sleeping, and the handcuffs were still doing their job. It seemed a good time to catch a few winks, but Freeland ambled around the grounds instead, watching the horizon. Tom was also watchful, while Holden sprawled in the grass and Miss Wade had taken refuge in the stage. Freeland put out the lantern to save fuel and resumed walking.

  On his fitful rounds, he stopped once to talk to Tom.

  “What do you figure our chances are, really?”

  Tom squinted toward the black bulk that was the distant mountains. “Depends on if the next station’s been hit. We can’t go much farther than that with these horses. We’ll have to stop there—or somewhere—longer if we can’t get fresh animals.”

  Freeland nodded.

  “I don’t like it,” Tom said.

  “None of us do.”

  Tom spat in the grass. “I’m glad you’re along, Marshal.�
�

  “I’ll be right there with you if you need me.”

  Tom nodded then eyed him keenly. “Just between you, me, and the hitchin’ post, we’re carrying gold. The stage line took pains to keep it quiet, but that treasure box is about full.”

  Freeland was silent for a moment, considering that information. “You couldn’t get an escort?”

  “Nope, nary a man.”

  “You’re sure nobody knows about it?”

  “Can’t never be sure. Someone might’ve heard us requesting a detachment. But the Apache don’t know. They wasn’t who we was worried about when we set out.”

  “Trust God we don’t have to deal with them.”

  “Besides that, I allow Mr. Holden’s carrying a lot of cash. They had a big audience last night.”

  “You’re right. Let’s hope those Apache have moved on.” Freeland walked toward the roadway, thinking and scanning the horizon all around, where the dark earth met the edge of the star-strewn sky. The treasure box was no doubt bolted to the floor of the driver’s boot, which made it harder to steal. If they did fall into an Indian attack, he would try to save the people first, not the treasure, that was certain. But he might not have the chance to save either.

  Two hours later, Tom roused the sleepers. While he and Dwight hitched the team, Freeland once more cuffed himself to Dix and took him to the coach. Miss Wade and her uncle were already inside.

  They rode in silence, with the horses walking most of the way. The night wore on as the coach creaked and rattled over the road. Miss Wade sank low on the seat, and her eyelids drooped. Such a pity her face was so disfigured. Freeland’s mind wandered back five years. What had made her cry that night? She seemed fine now. He wished he could tell Will he had seen her. He dozed fitfully, even though he didn’t mean to.

  A distant shout came from outside, jerking him awake, and gunfire erupted. Dwight yelled to his team and popped his whip. Dix sat up, blinking.

  “What in tarnation?”

  Miss Wade’s huge eyes glittered in the gray before dawn. “We’re under attack!”

  Carmela tensed, gripping the handle of her purse with one hand and a leather strap hanging near the door with the other. The coach rocked and jerked as the tired horses lumbered along. Gunfire cracked right over her head, and she assumed Tom, the shotgun messenger, was returning the interlopers’ fire.