“Did he make arrangements for you in Prescott?”
“I don’t know.” Her gaze slid off toward the jagged mountain peaks edging the valley. “He wrote a letter, but with no telegraph lines out here, I have no idea whether the townspeople expect us or not, or whether they have set up a lecture. They generally do, but it’s all so …”
“Primitive?” he asked.
She smiled faintly. “It is a bit provincial. Uncle Silas is usually able to draw a crowd for us, however, even if we enter a town unannounced.”
“The miners and ranchers out here crave entertainment,” Freeland said. “I imagine you can have an audience without too much trouble. If you still want one.”
Her lips twitched. “I would like nothing better than to drop the ruse of my captivity. However, I don’t know how I should live if I did. The money I gave Mr. Grant was nearly the last of my hoarded coins.”
“You’re a nice young lady,” Freeland said. “Decent, polite. We should be able to find a place for you to stay until we determine what’s become of your uncle.”
“Thank you. That’s reassuring.”
He gave her a quick boost into the saddle and mounted his dust-covered bay. As they jogged along up the valley, he tried not to think about Carmela’s future. Instead, he thought about Dix. If the marshal didn’t find him where they’d left him, or close to it, they would focus on tracking the outlaw gang. Maybe he would be able to hunt for Dix after they settled that issue.
His headstrong thoughts veered back to Carmela and the moment he had touched her cheek. He’d been tempted to kiss her, of all things. In the scorching heat, with many miles ahead of them, he’d been thinking of romance.
His involvement with Carmela had gone beyond satisfying Will’s request, he realized. He didn’t just want to see her safe. He personally cared what would happen to Carmela now. The depth of emotion he’d felt back there near the creek alarmed him. After all, he would probably never see her again after he found her a place to board in Prescott. He would let the marshal take her whatever news they learned of Mr. Holden.
The sun was setting as they rode into the capital, their horses’ steps dragging.
The town had tripled in size since the last time he’d been there. Already the noise from the saloons dominated the atmosphere.
“Stay close,” Freeland murmured. “There’ll be a blacksmith closer to the governor’s house.”
Without mishap, he led Carmela past the street that was no more than a long string of saloons. They caught glimpses of restaurants and boardinghouses, a hotel, several stores, and even a newspaper office where the Miner was published sporadically.
“It’s a city,” she said in amazement. “I thought it would be like Wickenburg.”
“Ranchers and farmers are moving into the valleys,” Freeland said. “Still a lot of trouble with the Indians though. The mining companies trying to build stamp mills are attacked nearly every day.”
“Why? Are the tribes angry that so many whites are moving here?” Carmela asked.
“Partly. Mostly they want to steal the livestock. Hundreds of horses and mules have been stolen in this area over the past couple of years.”
At last they arrived in front of the governor’s house. The solid log cabin was larger than most other buildings in town, two stories high, with room for a detachment of soldiers to bed down.
“It’s built for a fortress if need be,” Freeland told her. After he presented his badge to the army private at the door, they were shown inside.
They met the governor in a large and rustic inner room. The plain board floor and walls were decorated with rugs and pictures that lent an air of civilization.
“Welcome, Deputy,” Governor McCormick said when the soldier announced him and Carmela. “Miss Wade. My wife and I are at dinner with Captain Johnson, who is here from Fort Whipple. Will you join us?”
Freeland glanced at Carmela, who was gazing at the dining table and the beautifully gowned woman who sat there.
“I’d be lying if I said we weren’t hungry,” Freeland said. “We’ve been traveling all day on a scant meal in Wickenburg. We’re sorry to interrupt your dinner though.”
“Nonsense,” the governor said. “We were just about to begin.”
Mrs. McCormick rose and came toward them. “Good evening. I do hope you’ll join us. Miss Wade, would you like to freshen up first?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Carmela said. “I would like it more than I can say. This dust …” She glanced down at her discolored skirt.
“Isn’t it awful?” Mrs. McCormick smiled and guided her to a door at one side of the room. “Come right this way, my dear.”
“Have you had truck with the marshal?” McCormick asked Freeland.
“Yes sir. He’s gone after the band of highwaymen that’s terrorizing the stage line below Wickenburg. Unfortunately, some Apaches have also been at work there. Two way stations were attacked, one of them burnt. The agents and their men were killed. All the stock was run off of course.”
“What a pity,” the governor said.
The captain had joined them. “You’ll have to tell us everything over dinner, Mr. McKay.”
“Yes,” McCormick said, “But first, I allow you’d like to wash up.”
Captain Johnson summoned the private and detailed him to show the visitor where the men habitually cleaned up. When he re-entered the room a few minutes later, Freeland was glad to see that Carmela had returned. Her hands and face were clean, and she had combed her hair and shaken most of the dust out of her clothing.
After the governor offered the blessing, they were served a plentiful meal of roast beef, biscuits, corn, and applesauce, followed by a spice cake almost as tasty as the one Freeland’s mother baked now and then. When his third cup of coffee was poured, he sat back in satisfaction. Carmela smiled timidly at him from across the table. She, too, looked sated.
“Now, tell us about your adventures,” Mrs. McCormick said. “I’m very curious as to why you are traveling in these parts, Miss Wade.”
“She was under the protection of her uncle,” Freeland said. “Unfortunately, he was driven off in the stagecoach when the robbers took it, bleeding from a gunshot wound.”
“Oh dear.” The hostess’s distress showed on her lovely features. She turned to Carmela. “Forgive me, Miss Wade. I did not mean to make light of your ordeal.”
“Not at all, madam. You couldn’t have known,” Carmela said.
Freeland recounted their journey from Tucson, not elevating himself or leaving out his regrettable loss of his prisoner. He mentioned Carmela’s reason for traveling as if it hardly mattered, and skipped over the more personal bits that he thought might embarrass her—notably, Windle’s advances to her—but emphasized her pluck and perseverance during their difficult journey.
“Amazing,” the governor declared when he had finished.
“My dear,” Mrs. McCormick said to Carmela, “you must be exhausted. Do you have lodgings?”
“We hoped you and your husband might be able to recommend a quiet boardinghouse,” Carmela said.
“There’s one two streets over.” Mrs. McCormick looked toward her husband. “Mrs. Finney.”
“Sure,” the governor said. “Mrs. Finney’s a good sort. I’ve recommended her to ranchers bringing their families into the valley. You want to get as far away from Whiskey Row as you can. Otherwise, the noise from the saloons will keep you awake all night.”
“I believe we heard the beginnings of it as we rode in,” Freeland said.
“You’d best keep your head down. With the marshal out of town, you might be called on to help the local lawmen.” Governor McCormick pushed back his chair. “I wish we could put you up here, but with Captain Johnson’s detachment of soldiers, we’ve little room and less privacy.”
“I can send a few men to escort you to Mrs. Finney’s,” Johnson offered.
“That would be most appreciated,” Freeland said.
Mrs. McCorm
ick stood, and Carmela and the men did likewise.
“Miss Wade, since you’ve lost your luggage and the daylight’s gone, let me loan you a few things to make your overnight stay more comfortable.”
“Thank you so much.” Carmela’s eyes filled with gratitude.
“Excuse us, gentlemen.” Mrs. McCormick led Carmela out of the room.
“Bad business, with her uncle,” Captain Johnson said, gazing after the women and shaking his head.
“Yes,” Freeland said.
“You don’t expect to get him back alive, do you?” the captain asked.
“Well, I …” Freeland knew it was unrealistic to expect Silas Holden to survive his wound, or for the outlaws to let him live if he did. “I didn’t like to dash Miss Wade’s hopes.”
“Of course not,” McCormick said. “You never know out here. Whiskey, gentlemen?”
“No, thank you,” Freeland said. While the other two men filled their glasses, he sipped the last of his coffee and thought about Carmela. What would become of her now? She had no money and no one to look after her. But he couldn’t stay here. He had to rejoin the marshal. A pang of guilt stabbed him, but he pushed it aside. He was responsible for losing the prisoner, and if there was any way he could recapture Dix, he needed to do it. If he could help bring in the outlaw gang as well, all the better. That meant Carmela Wade was far down his list, and he didn’t like that.
“I guess I can take you in.” Mrs. Finney stood in the doorway at her boardinghouse and looked Carmela up and down doubtfully, her gaze lingering on her chin. “Seeing as how a lawman brung you and you been robbed and all.”
“Thank you,” Carmela choked out.
The woman looked sturdy but dour, her gray-streaked hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her dress was of well-worn, dark gray linsey-woolsey, with a gathered skirt and fitted basque. Her face bore the wrinkles of a middle age made hard by labor. Apparently there was no Mr. Finney now, and Carmela suspected the landlady worked long hours to keep up her reputation for one of the few respectable boardinghouses in town.
“If you put in a bill for my lodging to the marshal, I’m sure he’ll pay it as soon as he gets back,” Freeland said.
Carmela didn’t assume anyone would pay her bill. “I’ll be frank. I don’t have much left,” she confessed. “Less than a dollar. I ask for your mercy until I am either reunited with my uncle or find another way to get on.”
“Well, you can stay a couple of nights on that, dearie. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Let’s get you into bed, eh?” Mrs. Finney turned and shuffled to a small table that held several candlesticks. She took one and lit it from the oil lamp that brightened the otherwise stark front room. No plush cushions or upholstered chairs here. The décor was strictly frontier practical.
Carmela didn’t care. All she wanted tonight was a bed. After the large meal at the governor’s mansion, she was certain she would sleep well.
The boardinghouse was all one level except for a loft. Mrs. Finney handed the first candle to Freeland and lit another.
“Sir, I’m afraid all the rooms are full but one, and I’ll give that to this young lady. But you may sleep in the loft with the three freighters who are up there now. I suppose you haven’t any bedroll.”
“No ma’am,” Freeland said.
She sighed and walked to a large cupboard near the steep stairs leading above. Throwing open the door, she gestured toward stacked blankets and linens. “No pillows left, I’m afraid. There’s a few straw ticks up there on the floor. You should be able to find one unoccupied.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Freeland pulled out a blanket and headed up the stairs holding his candlestick carefully.
Carmela felt sorry for him, but she was too tired to spend much thought on his sleeping arrangements. Mrs. Finney led her down a corridor, off which doors issued on one side, six in a row. They walked all the way to the end, and the landlady opened the rough pine door.
“Here you are. Small but more comfortable than what the deputy’s getting, and secure if you bar the door inside.”
“Thank you.” Carmela stepped in. The candlelight revealed a single spool bed, probably brought on some settler’s wagon. The footboard was scarred and the varnish worn off in several places, but it was a proper bed.
“This mattress is all right,” Mrs. Finney said. “Not the best, but it should do you.”
The bed was made up with real sheets, and an extra blanket was folded across the bottom end. A small pillow in a linen case lay at the head end.
“I’m sure it will be more than adequate. Thank you.”
Mrs. Finney nodded. “I’m up before sunrise, to cook for folks who want to get on the road. I don’t know when the deputy wants to leave, but if you wish to sleep in, feel free.” She picked up the metal pitcher from the washstand. “I’ll bring you some water for washing. The necessary is out back. There’s a door beside the kitchen that leads out there.”
“Thank you.”
When she had left the room, Carmela took the candle to the washstand. The steel basin was painted with chipped white enamel. No good china in Mrs. Finney’s boardinghouse. She didn’t mind, really. It must be hard to get hold of the basic furnishings and implements out here.
A small framed mirror hung over the washstand. She held up the candle and stared at her sunbaked face. Her skin tingled, but she focused on the hated tattoos. Freeland was right: they had faded somewhat, and they looked fainter on one side than the other. She could only imagine how horrible her face looked in bright daylight.
She put her fingers to her cheek and winced. Maybe when her sunburn peeled, the ink would come off with it. The thought of Uncle Silas insisting on re-inking her markings while her skin was this tender made her shudder.
Mrs. Finney tapped on the door.
“Got your water, dearie.”
Carmela hurried to open the door and take the pitcher from her. “Thank you very much.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. Do you want to go to church in the morning?”
Carmela blinked. “It’s Sunday?”
“Yes. I walk to the Baptist mission church. It’s not far.”
Carmela hesitated. The idea of attending church appealed to her—all too often she and Uncle Silas were on the road Sundays, or sleeping in after a late evening performance. But did she want people to see her like this, all sunburned? They would stare, as always, at her face, and it was not a pretty sight.
“I’m feeling a bit sun sick.”
Mrs. Finney nodded. “I’m not surprised. You took a lot of sun, and it shows. No sense mincing words. Would you like some salve?”
“You have something that will help?” Carmela asked eagerly.
“A concoction I make from aloe plants. Works for burns, and I think it would ease your pain some.”
“Thank you. I honestly didn’t know if I’d be able to sleep, with my skin so tight and painful.”
“I’ll get it.”
The landlady shuffled away down the hall. She was very kind. Maybe—if she was still here next week—Carmela would go to church with her next Sunday. She walked to the mirror again. How much would the tattoos fade by then? Should she re-ink them?
She heard Mrs. Finney returning with the aloe medicine. In a flash of decision, Carmela knew she would not renew the markings on her face—not ever.
Chapter Twelve
On his way south again, Freeland swapped his horse out in Wickenburg with Grant, taking the one the marshal had loaned him and Carmela. He pushed the animal to get back to Price’s way station as soon as possible.
Price, Windle, and Jerry held their ground at the station, as watchful and skittish as when he had left them.
“The stage from Wickenburg came through this morning, with six outriders to protect them,” Price told him in the yard when he rode up at sunset.
“I guess that’s the way to go for now,” Freeland said.
Price spat on the ground. “Yeah, but it’s expensive for the stage company. Th
ey can’t keep that up forever.”
Since there was no new word from the marshal, Freeland decided to sleep there and head out at dawn. He had ridden all day, and Price still had no animals he could swap for. His horse needed a good rest.
He fidgeted after supper. He wanted to get on with it and catch up with the marshal. At least he’d succeeded in bringing Price word from Prescott that the line’s owner would be down the following day to assess damages.
“He hopes to leave new workers at the two stations that were attacked and replenish the livestock,” Freeland said. “Of course, they’ll have to rebuild the one that was burnt. I got the idea he plans to do that right away.”
“Is he sending any reinforcements here for us?” Price asked. “I’d like to have two or three more men here, just in case, and we really need another tender when the stage is running regular.”
“He didn’t say so.” Freeland could understand the man’s concerns, but with company employees coming through with extra guards and a crew working at the burned-out station, he doubted Price’s place would be hit.
In the morning, he pressed onward. The place where the stagecoach was attacked and stolen was obvious. Two crosses made of cactus stems lashed together marked graves. Marshal Duffield and his men must have taken time to bury the driver and shotgun rider.
Freeland stood for a moment gazing at the markers. When this was over, he’d try to replace them with wooden ones, so the graves wouldn’t be lost and forgotten. The two men deserved to be remembered. He closed his eyes and prayed silently.
Lord, thank You for those two brave men. I trust they’re with You now.
He sighed and opened his eyes. The sun’s rays were heating up now, and they reached through his thin cotton shirt to disturb his already burned skin. Time to move on.
He was about to swing into the saddle when he noticed a small cairn of stacked rocks. Curious, he walked over and carefully took it apart, one stone at a time. Between the bottom two was a small piece of folded paper. He opened it and squinted at the penciled words. The sun dazzled his eyes, glaring on the white paper, but he made out, “McKay—go south. JD.”
My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains Page 11