The deputy marshal drew his sidearm and leaned over to see out his window, pulling his prisoner across the seat with him. Uncle Silas braced himself and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew a sheaf of paper money and shoved it down his boot top, leaving only a few bills in the wallet, which he then stuck back into his inner coat pocket. She didn’t have to ask why. They had been robbed once before after a performance, and Uncle Silas lost his entire wallet full of money. Now he carried the bulk of their proceeds in a money belt at his waist and enough for immediate expenses in his wallet. Even so, he wouldn’t want to lose more than was necessary. He would give the outlaws only enough to convince them he wasn’t holding back.
Carmela’s right hand went instinctively to the hem of the fitted jacket that matched her traveling dress. The rolled up bills she had sewn into it before they left New England three months ago were secure. If the worst happened, they would not be utterly destitute.
The prisoner’s shrewd gaze was on her, and she jerked her hand away. She must be more careful.
“Indians or outlaws?” Uncle Silas asked grimly.
“I’m thinking outlaws,” McKay replied.
Carmela wondered on what he based his conclusion. Was it the sound of the guns or the lack of wild war whoops?
The shooting continued around and above them. What would they do if the outlaws shot the horses? Her hand ached from clinging to the leather strap.
“Giddup!” The whip popped again, but the coach was slowing.
Crack!
McKay had fired his revolver out the window, and the sound exploded inside the coach. She clapped her hands to her ears and sent up a silent prayer for mercy.
The stage slowed even further, and a heavy thump sounded on the roof above her. She looked to Uncle Silas in alarm. He had produced a tiny gun from somewhere within his clothing, a derringer he had purchased in Boston during their wartime travels.
“Steady, my dear,” he said. “I’m sure—” His eyes flew wide open, and his mouth rounded into a silent exclamation. He dropped the gun and clamped his hand to his side.
“Uncle Silas!” Carmela leaned over and pulled back the folds of his coat. Blood seeped between his fingers. “No, no! Uncle Silas!”
She looked across at the deputy marshal, who was hurriedly reloading his revolver.
“My uncle is shot.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” He sounded tired.
Carmela raised her chin and looked out the window. The coach was no longer moving.
Chapter Four
Throw yer guns out!”
Carmela flinched. McKay looked over at her and then outside.
“Hurry up,” came the gravelly voice.
The deputy hesitated but then tossed his revolver out. Carmela could scarcely believe he had given up so easily.
The door was yanked open. It flew back and banged the side of the coach.
“Git out.” A man holding a revolver squinted in at them, his eyes dark orbs above the bandanna covering the lower part of his face. Just behind him stood a second man with his rifle trained on Deputy McKay.
McKay climbed slowly down the step and waited while Dix followed him.
“Well, well,” the first robber said when he saw the handcuffs. “You got another peashooter, Deppity?”
“No,” McKay said.
“Then just git you over there.”
The large man leaned into the coach, his bulk throwing the interior into deeper shadow. “Lookee here. Get out, lady.”
“My uncle is hurt,” she protested, determined to stay with Uncle Silas.
“I said git out.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” He grabbed her ankle and yanked her toward the door.
Carmela gasped and grabbed the sides of the opening. “Unhand me, you brute!”
“Take it easy, J. J.,” the second outlaw said. He was standing back but pointing his rifle toward her.
The one called J. J. let go of her but stared at the expanse of leg he had revealed. Carmela glared at him and pulled her skirt down as she sat in the doorway of the coach.
“How dare you?” She made her voice as scathing as possible.
“Git out,” J. J. repeated.
Resigned to obey, Carmela eased out the rest of the way and climbed down unsteadily. The sooner they gave these thugs what they wanted, the sooner she would be able to help Uncle Silas.
Deputy McKay, who stood with Dix, the two of them with hands in the air, shot her a sympathetic look. Her head started to whirl when she realized a third robber was holding the pair at gunpoint, and Tom, their shotgun rider, lay lifeless on the ground. She turned to look for Mr. Herder. He was up on the driver’s box, his empty hands skyward. Another masked man held the lead horses’ heads, and a fifth one was climbing up beside the driver.
She looked again toward McKay. Would any of them survive this? She suspected Tom was dead, and Uncle Silas had a serious wound, perhaps mortal if they didn’t get him aid soon. The deputy didn’t return her gaze. He was too busy watching the road agents, maybe counting their weapons and figuring their chances at zero. At least, that was Carmela’s impression. Five armed men versus a disarmed driver, a young woman, and two able-bodied men chained together. Deputy McKay must be frustrated beyond belief. If he weren’t shackled, he might be able to do something, but she couldn’t count on him. She resigned herself to losing her belongings.
“Stand over there,” J. J. said.
She walked over on shaky legs and took up her stance beside McKay.
“You all right?” he murmured.
She nodded. He was talking about physical wounds, not insults.
J. J. pulled a sugar sack from his pocket and opened its mouth. “Drop your money in here.”
“I got nothin’,” Dix said.
McKay worked his free hand into his pocket and brought out a couple of silver dollars. He dropped them into the sack.
“Got a watch?” J. J. asked.
McKay shook his head.
“Your turn.” The outlaw moved in front of Carmela, holding out the small sack. She opened her handbag and put the three dollars and change she had carried in it into his bag without making eye contact.
“Jewelry?”
She hesitated then reached up with trembling hands to unclasp the chain of her necklace. It wasn’t very valuable, just a piece of pretty turquoise she had bought in Tucson. She found it hard to breathe, let alone undo the tricky hook. Would they leave when they had it, so that she could rush to Uncle Silas and tend his wound?
“Hey,” the robber on the stage cried, and a gun went off. Two more reports followed. Her hands still on the clasp at the back of her neck, Carmela was shoved rudely to the ground. She landed in the dusty red clay and lay still for a moment, her heart racing and her ears ringing.
Sounds of a door slamming, harness creaking, and hoofbeats reached her.
“Throw him off,” a man yelled.
She sat up and stared toward the stagecoach. It was moving swiftly away, in the direction they had been heading. She supposed one of the outlaws was now on the box, because the driver lay in a heap a few yards from her, where the coach had stood a moment ago. Three horsemen raced after it, one of them leading a riderless horse.
“Mr. McKay!” She shoved herself to her feet and whirled toward him, but Dix was bending over the inert form of the deputy.
“Is he shot?” she asked.
Dix flicked a glance at her. “He’s right bad, miss.”
The outlaws must have shot him, Carmela surmised. Either he or the driver had made a move of resistance. McKay had probably tried to distract the other robbers when the driver pulled a hidden gun, and was shot for his pains. There was no one left to help her.
“My uncle!” She hoisted her skirts and ran after the coach, terror driving her. “Stop!”
They were too far away, and she knew they wouldn’t stop for her anyway. She stood gasping as the sun rose in splendor. Rivulets of sweat rolled o
ff her forehead and mingled with her tears.
Slowly, she turned and walked back toward Dix. He was patting the deputy’s pockets.
“Help me with him, missy.”
“What can I do?” She approached cautiously, dashing a tear from her cheek.
Dix straightened with something in his hand. Carmela stared at it. A derringer, just like Uncle Silas’s. She looked into his flinty eyes, and a flash of understanding passed between them. Dix had scooped up Uncle Silas’s gun when it fell to the floor of the coach and McKay was distracted, either by the outlaws outside or his reloading.
She swallowed hard. “Did you shoot him?”
“No ma’am, not me. In fact, I don’t think he’s shot at all.”
How could that be? But if it was true, maybe Dix wouldn’t shoot her either.
“You’ve got two good hands, missy. The deppity’s got the key to this bracelet in his pocket. Get it out now.”
His voice was smooth, almost slimy.
She shuddered.
“Why should I?”
“Because I can’t do nothin’ chained to him. He’s dead weight.”
Still she hesitated.
“And because I’ll kill you if you don’t. Now, come closer.”
She clamped her teeth together. “You back off.”
He laughed and then moved back as far as he could from McKay, his cuffed arm extended.
“I won’t bother you if you do what I say. Go on.” He waved the derringer a little, indicating for her to approach.
Carmela dropped to her knees beside the deputy. Her heart leaped when she saw his chest rise and fall.
“He’s breathing.”
“Course he is. He’ll be all right in a while. But I’ll be gone.”
She began to take hope. If Dix ran off, who cared? She would stay here with McKay, and when he came to, they could figure out what to do. So what if his prisoner escaped? They would both be alive.
She patted McKay’s pockets gingerly and felt the key in one. She reached in with two fingers, found a loop of string, and pulled it out with the dangling key.
Dix grinned. “Atta girl! And now, if you’ll be so kind, unlock this side first.”
Carmela wasn’t sure this was wise. What if Dix broke his word? He could grab her as soon as he was free and do whatever he wanted with her. Handcuffed to McKay, he couldn’t move very far.
“Now!” Dix aimed the derringer at her face.
If he killed her, he would eventually get himself unshackled, Carmela knew. Even if she first threw the key out of his reach, he could drag the deputy’s body to it. She could run away with it, but where to?
Kneeling beside him, she fumbled with the key, trying not to touch Dix’s hand. The bracelet clicked open, and she sat back on her heels as he pulled it off his wrist.
“What’s that?” Dix raised his head and peered into the distance.
“What?”
Before she could rise and look where he was gazing, Dix bent and slid the empty bracelet over her own wrist. She caught her breath and tried to jump away, but he clicked it shut. He stood back and chortled, holding up the key.
“Well now, ma’am, you have yourself a pleasant mornin’.” He swept off his hat and made a courtly bow, then turned away.
“What? Wait!”
“Sorry.” He turned backward as he walked away from her. “I got a horse to catch.”
Carmela stood and strained against the handcuffs and McKay’s weight. In the distance, she could make out a saddled horse with its head down, looking for something to browse between the scattered cacti.
“Please,” she called. “Don’t leave me here like this. If he doesn’t wake up, I could die.”
“Someone will come out looking for us when the stage doesn’t show up on the other end of the line,” Dix said. “Adios.” He walked toward the loose horse.
Carmela could do nothing but watch him. Her heart hammered, and fractured prayers began to form in her mind. Heavenly Father, help us! Don’t let him leave me here!
Maybe that was the wrong prayer. Maybe she should be glad Dix was leaving.
The horse snorted and jerked its head up, eyeing the approaching man suspiciously. Dix paused and held out a hand toward it. The horse turned and trotted over a rise and out of sight. Dix plodded after it.
Carmela exhaled and looked around. The body of the driver lay about ten yards from her, and the shotgun messenger a little farther. From where she stood, she couldn’t see any movement of breathing. McKay, on the other hand, let out a soft moan.
She knelt and studied his face. His lips were dry, and he took shallow, steady breaths.
“Mr. McKay? Deputy?”
His eyes remained closed.
She couldn’t see any blood on him. Was Dix right, and he hadn’t been shot? Then why was he lying here senseless? She pushed back his pale hair and ran her fingers cautiously over his scalp. On the left side of his head—the side that had been nearest the prisoner—he had a large, tender bump. She didn’t want to hurt him further, but she probed it gently and took her hand away. No blood.
“That lowdown skunk.”
She settled down to sit more comfortably. They could be here awhile. The sun had risen fully above the horizon now, so that way was east. They’d been headed mostly north, and somewhat west, toward Wickenburg. How long before the stage line’s people there started a search?
Her stomach growled, and she rubbed it with her free hand. Twenty-four hours ago, they had been eating breakfast in Tucson. Would she ever see food again? She pushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from her updo. All of her extra clothing was gone, with the stagecoach and Uncle Silas. The small hat she had worn on the stagecoach wouldn’t protect her from the sun.
She peered all about. Nothing moved. The vast panorama she had enjoyed earlier from her window now seemed harsh. She couldn’t see anything edible, though an Indian might be able to find nourishment in some of the cactus blades or fruits. Even those were out of reach. With McKay at the end of her right arm, she was like a horse picketed in one place.
The authorities would want to know what happened, she told herself. She went back over the recent events in her mind. The ambush, the horses slowing down and stopping, the noises on the roof. Tom, the shotgun messenger, had been shot first. A stray bullet had come through the coach door and struck her uncle. Where was he now? As she reviewed things, she realized that the one outlaw who might have seen Uncle Silas was probably the one who had been shot in the final skirmish. The others had tossed him inside the coach and driven off with it. They might not even know they had Uncle Silas in there, too. What would they do with him when they discovered him?
For some reason, driver Dwight Herder had tried to make another play against the robbers, and they had shot him. That was when she was pushed to the ground. Who had shoved her? She was standing closest to the deputy. She looked down at his placid face. Had he meant to push her out of harm’s way when the firing resumed? That noble gesture had cost him dearly, she decided. That must have been when Dix managed to get hold of a rock and hit him with it. He didn’t shoot him, though he had the derringer. He didn’t want to take any chances of being left attached to a dead man. He probably didn’t want to use his only bullet up either. Things had turned out rather well for Dix, she decided.
Carmela shivered. Maybe she was the one who would wind up shackled to a dead man. She certainly hoped not. She wished she had some water to splash in McKay’s face, or at least to wet his lips. Panic started to rise inside her, and she shoved it down. Lord, let him live! And show me how to help him. Losing her head certainly would not help.
She looked again toward where Dix had disappeared and thought about the horses. One of the road agents had driven the stagecoach when they fled. Why? Did they want the baggage? If they searched Uncle Silas’s body, they would find his money belt. But were there other valuables on the stage that she didn’t know about? A chest full of gold or silver coin would be too heavy t
o carry away on horseback. Maybe that was why the driver had tried to make one last stand.
That loose horse … it must belong to the outlaw who had been shot. It ran off, and they hadn’t bothered to catch it, though they had led one horse away, probably the new stagecoach driver’s mount.
The sun beat down on her. Carmela rolled from kneeling to a sitting position and arranged her skirt. When Mr. McKay woke, maybe he would know how to get the handcuffs off. If not, this could get downright embarrassing.
His breathing continued, slow and steady. Maybe he had slipped from unconsciousness into natural sleep. She touched his shoulder.
“Deputy McKay, can you hear me?” She shook his shoulder. “Please wake up.”
No response. With a sigh, she drew her knees up, tucked her skirt and petticoats around her, and laid her free arm across her knees as a pillow for her head. She let her right hand rest on the ground, next to McKay’s shackled left hand.
The breeze from the Superstition Mountains might be what saved them. At least they wouldn’t bake outright in the heat of the day. She closed her eyes and resumed her silent prayers. All she had now was the faith her parents had taught her so many years ago, and now it seemed very small. Giving in to exhaustion, she lay down on the ground next to McKay, being careful not to touch him.
The sun stood high in the sky when she awoke. She lifted her hands, and the hot metal of the handcuffs seared her skin. She gasped and laid a fold of her skirt over the cuffs.
McKay appeared to be still sleeping. His face was sunburned, and she touched her own. Her skin tingled and burned beneath her fingertips. She leaned over and adjusted his hat so that it shaded most of his face.
She sat up and lowered her head to her knees again, in an attempt to shield herself from the sun’s rays. Off and on, she whispered a sentence or two of prayer. How long could they survive the heat and the burning sun?
My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains Page 4