My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains

by Susan Page Davis

  Freeland smiled. The cairn was for him, and the message was written by the marshal.

  He mounted the horse and followed the tracks of the posse southward. Now and then he could read the stage’s tracks, too, where the ground was soft, but mostly it was rock or hard-packed dirt. They hadn’t kept to the main road between Wickenburg and Tucson but had gone off on a course of their own through the desert. Must have a hideout of some sort out there, or maybe they knew a shortcut.

  He wondered how Carmela was doing. Mrs. Finney was a good sort. She would take care of the girl. Freeland had told her privately that he would see she was paid for Carmela’s stay if the girl’s uncle wasn’t able to do it. Mrs. Finney had fed him a wondrous breakfast before he rode out, and she loaned him her departed husband’s canteen and pistol.

  “Don’t you worry about Miss Wade,” was the last thing she said to him. “Just you watch your back trail.”

  Freeland swiveled his head as he rode and looked behind him. Nothing but barren, hot, cactus-studded desert. Even so, the thought of Carmela’s encounter with the Apache brave who rode out of the Superstitions made him shudder. He gazed off toward the mountains in the far distance. He could barely see the highest peak from here, and soon they would be completely out of sight.

  Carmela rose late, a bit ashamed of herself for sleeping in. She dressed quickly in the extra clothing Mrs. McCormick had given her and went to the dining room. It was empty and the table clear, but she could hear sounds of water pouring and dishes clinking from the kitchen. She tiptoed to the open door and peered in.

  “Hello, dearie.” Mrs. Finney, her arms up to her elbows in an enameled dishpan, smiled at her. She lifted her dripping hands from the water and wiped them on a linen towel. “Fancy some breakfast?”

  “I’m so late, I doubt I deserve any,” Carmela said.

  “Nonsense. Sit down at the table, and I’ll bring you something.”

  Carmela obeyed. She had met a wide variety of landladies and hostesses in her travels. Most boardinghouse proprietors had strict hours about breakfast and wouldn’t serve it to latecomers. Some would leave out a few biscuits and slices of bacon. Few offered Mrs. Finney’s brand of graciousness.

  She looked down the long table with its empty chairs, and part of her wished Freeland had stayed. The other part was glad he had gone.

  Mrs. Finney came in with a loaded plate. Carmela feasted her eyes on the mounds of eggs, fried potatoes, and ham.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Coffee? Or I’ve got tea or a bit of milk to spare.”

  “Milk? I’d love to have some.”

  Mrs. Finney smiled. “I have a milch cow that a neighbor keeps for me. She calved a month ago. Mr. Rowland milks her every morning and brings me part. I let him keep some. But unless I’m making custard that day, I usually have too much.”

  “I don’t often get it when we’re traveling,” Carmela said.

  She bowed her head and said grace while Mrs. Finney fetched her a glass, adding a special petition for Freeland. Keep him safe, Lord. The last thing she wanted was for him to go looking for Uncle Silas and get killed for his pains. Of course, he would look for his prisoner first. But the posse might have found Uncle Silas already.

  She looked up as Mrs. Finney set the glass beside her plate. “How long do you suppose it will be before we hear from the marshal or Mr. McKay?”

  “I couldn’t say, child. News travels slowly across the desert, and men even slower. Mr. McKay told me some about your journey this morning before he left. Your survival is nothing short of a miracle.”

  “I know.”

  Mrs. Finney was eyeing her face critically, and Carmela put a hand up to her chin. A comment about the tattoos would come; one always did.

  “Is the aloe salve helping?”

  Carmela blinked, touched by the kindness in Mrs. Finney’s voice.

  “Why yes, I think it is. I slept quite well last night.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Mrs. Finney went back to the kitchen, and Carmela made short work of her breakfast. When she had scraped every bite from the ironstone plate, she took it, with her fork, knife, and tumbler, to the kitchen.

  “May I help you with the dishes?”

  “Heavens, dearie, you’re a guest.”

  “I know, but you must have a lot of them, and … well, I told you I don’t have funds. I’d like to make up for that as much as I can.”

  Mrs. Finney pushed back a strand of her graying hair. “All right. There’s an apron over there, on the hook by the back door. I’ve done up the breakfast things, but you can wash your own dishes and keep up with me as I do my baking.”

  “That sounds like fun.” It had been years since Carmela had worked side-by-side with a woman in the kitchen, and she found herself enjoying the work and the conversation. The kitchen grew warmer than she would have liked as the landlady built up the blaze in the stove’s firebox to cook her cottage pudding for tonight’s dinner, but Carmela expected that and didn’t complain.

  As she worked, Mrs. Finney divulged tidbits about her other boarders, the luncheon menu, the governor, and his wife—“They met on a steamboat, of all places!”—and the young minister who would preach at ten o’clock.

  “Oh, I forgot about church.” Carmela truly had. “Isn’t it ten yet? I slept frightfully late.”

  Mrs. Finney looked toward a small anniversary clock sitting on the top shelf of her pantry. “It’s half past nine. I should get ready. Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

  Carmela hesitated, craving to hear God’s Word, but then remembered how the people would stare.

  “Thank you, but I think I’d best stay in today. Perhaps next week.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Finney took off her apron and hung it up. “Would you mind adding three sticks to the stove in an hour?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Only three sticks, mind. I don’t want those potatoes overdone.”

  “What about the pudding?” Carmela asked.

  “It should be done just before I go. If it’s not, I’ll let you keep an eye on that, too.”

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Finney was off, wearing a light, silvery shawl over her black bombazine gown. Carmela had a feeling the lady wouldn’t be seen in public—at least not at church—out of her mourning attire. She would have to ask how long since Mr. Finney had passed.

  A man appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Breakfast all done?” He looked sleepy and a little bleary-eyed, but he jerked alert and eyed her critically. “Who be you?”

  “I’m Miss Wade. Who are you?”

  “Buck Chard. Been boardin’ here six months, when I’m not on the road freightin’.”

  Carmela nodded. “I’m also staying here. I arrived last evening, and Mrs. Finney asked me to watch her cook fire while she’s at church. I believe there’s coffee in the pot on the stove, and I can fix you something quick.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Buck seemed to know his way about the kitchen, and he snagged a thick mug from a cupboard and poured himself coffee. “Where you from, missy?”

  Carmela had located the cast iron skillet and carried it to the stove. “New England.”

  He nodded. “You been west of here though.” His gazed focused on her chin. “Are those Yavapai markins?”

  “I—I’ve never been a hundred percent sure what tribe …” Carmela let the familiar lie trail off. She couldn’t bring herself to say, “I was with.” If she didn’t stop lying now, when would she?

  Buck grunted. “They kept you long enough to brand you theirs. How long were you with ’em?”

  “I …” The words gagged her. She whirled to get the eggs. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Buck’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Sure. Well, I’ll be at the table. Thanks for getting my grub.”

  She nodded, and relief washed over her as he left the room. As long as the ink remained, people would wonder. She’d had to be careful in her lies for so long, needing always to be
consistent. Now she would have to be as careful in telling the truth.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she swiped her apron across her face. Lord, I don’t know what to say. Teach me what words to use.

  Freeland saw their dust long before he could make out the horses of the posse or the men riding them. He urged his horse into a lope. They spotted him, and one rider detached from the group and rode back to meet him.

  Benny Lassiter, another deputy marshal, grinned when he got close enough to recognize Freeland.

  “Well, howdy. Took your time.”

  Freeland shook his head. “I’d like to see you ride all the way to Prescott with a civilian in your care, then apprise the governor of the situation and inform the stage company of its losses, then get back to the site of the holdup and track you down here any sooner. Oh, I admit I did stop long enough to sleep a few hours in Prescott and again at Price’s station.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Lazing around to sleep.” Benny laughed.

  “What have you got?” Freeland asked.

  “We think the outlaws have a hideout somewhere close by. So far we haven’t located it, but we have found tracks more than once.”

  “See anything of my prisoner?”

  “You mean your former prisoner?”

  That tasted sour in Freeland’s mouth. “Well, yeah. Dix.”

  Benny shook his head. “He wasn’t where you left him. I reckon he woke up and walked away under his own power. We took a quick look around, but we couldn’t pick up his sign, and we didn’t want to take time to look for him. Figured we’d best go after the gang first. The desert will take care of Dix.”

  “Maybe. But we might never know.” Freeland squinted ahead to where the marshal and his men were spreading out in ones and twos on each side of the trail. “So what now?”

  Benny pointed back along the trail Freeland had ridden all day. “We caught sight of the stagecoach’s tracks a couple of times. Haven’t found where they took it off the trail, so we’re assuming it’s ahead of us. Of course, there were plenty of rocky places they could have gone, but it’s hard to take a coach over terrain like that and not leave any evidence.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No. Can’t ever be sure.”

  Freeland nodded. They might have missed something, but with Duffield and seven other men on the chase, most of them experienced trackers, that seemed unlikely. They started their horses jogging along toward the posse.

  Freeland pushed his hat back. “I thought you’d have gotten farther.”

  Benny shrugged. “We’ve had to go fifty miles south with the stage and ride back, and we’ve checked every side canyon and ravine since we crossed the Salt River. It takes time.”

  “Isn’t there a settlement down here?”

  “Yep,” Benny said. “Some ranches. A few miners down here, but not so many as up around Wickenburg and Prescott. They’s some over near Fish Creek. We might head there, unless we find some sign soon.”

  They reached the posse, and Marshal Duffield welcomed Freeland. “I’m not sure but we’re wasting our time,” he said dourly. “If there wasn’t a payroll and a wounded passenger involved, I’d give it up and tell the stage company to cut its losses.”

  “You don’t think we can find where they’re holed up?” Freeland asked.

  Duffield gritted his teeth. “I’d like to say we can, but we’ve got nothing yet. The question is, how much time do we spend on it?”

  As night fell, they came to a small settlement that was more of an encampment on the bank of a sluggish stream. Half a dozen tents and a couple of huts made up the hamlet on Queen Creek.

  While the others made camp and prepared coffee and supper, the marshal took Freeland with him to question all the men in the tent town. When they had gathered around, Freeland patiently described the stagecoach and team, the outlaws, and Mr. Holden.

  “I didn’t see no stagecoach,” one man said, “but a couple of fellows came through here yesterday. Said they’d been to Florence, on the Gila.”

  The marshal and Freeland nodded.

  “Well, they’d got a few supplies, but they were jumpy. Said a horse had been stolen in Florence. They hoped somebody was heading their way and would travel with ’em.”

  “Could be the outlaws made a visit there,” Freeland said.

  “Maybe.” Duffield took his hat off and shoved his hand through his hair. “That’s a ways. I hope we don’t have to go that far.”

  “I mighta seen somethin’,” another man offered.

  “Yeah?” Duffield turned to him.

  “Some kind of wagon tracks, about two miles up this creek. They crossed the water. Lot of animals. I wondered where in the world they were headed with a wagon out there. Could be your missing stagecoach.”

  “Thanks,” Duffield said. “We’ll check it out in the morning. I don’t s’pose you’d ride along and show us where the tracks are?”

  “I could, but if you ride upstream, you’ll see it.”

  They thanked him and went to the posse’s campfire.

  “Better’n nothing to go on,” Benny said when he heard their tale.

  “That’s what I figure.” Duffield reached for his tin cup and held it out for coffee. “After you eat, men, get a good rest. We head out at dawn.”

  They set out before the sun sent its first rays over the desert, while the air was still cool enough for comfort. They skirted rocks and ridges, finally descending to the streambed and splashing through the water the last quarter mile. The miner was right. The vehicle’s passage was obvious, with deep wheel ruts carved into the soft clay along the bank.

  “It’s them,” Freeland said, eyeing the width of the wheel rims and the distance between them.

  “Horses, not mules.” Duffield was gazing down at the rounded hoofprints. “You said they had a team of horses, right?”

  Freeland nodded grimly. “Four horses in harness when we were attacked.”

  “All right, let’s go.” Duffield raised a hand and gestured for the men of the posse to follow him southward, away from the creek.

  They jogged along for two hours, stopping now and then to examine faint traces of the coach’s progress. The outlaws’ horses, along with those of the team, left a clear trail. Freeland was concentrating on the imprints when Benny, up ahead, gave a sharp whistle.

  He and the marshal rode up to Benny, and the other men bunched their horses up behind them. In the distance, a lone rider moved slowly toward them.

  “Think it’s a trap?” Benny asked, drawing his sidearm.

  “I dunno,” Duffield said. “Sit tight for a minute.”

  While they watched the horseman, Freeland scanned the landscape around them, looking for signs of other men lying in wait. He couldn’t see anything that didn’t belong, or any movement other than the oncoming horse and a meadowlark it flushed from a clump of thorny brush.

  Recognition hit him in an instant, and he straightened in his saddle, squinting at the rider in the bowler hat to be certain. He glanced at the marshal.

  “That’s Holden.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The closer the rider came, the lower he slumped over the horse’s back. He had no saddle. The horse walked slowly, and when it passed a wisp of vegetation, it halted and stretched its neck toward it. Holden didn’t respond.

  “Come on.” Freeland lifted his reins and urged his horse forward. When he was ten yards from the rider, he slowed his mount and shouted, “Mr. Holden!”

  Silas Holden raised his head and blinked. His face was burned scarlet, and his clothing was tattered and bloody. He grimaced as he focused on Freeland. “Deputy?”

  “Yes sir.” Freeland rode up beside him. “Where are the outlaws?”

  Holden started to twist in the saddle but moaned and inclined his head instead. “Back there. I got away from them, only because they’d been drinking hard last night. I was afraid they’d come after me and kill me before I got back to civilization.”

  “You
were wounded when they hit the stagecoach.” Freeland gazed at his gory shirtfront as Marshal Duffield and the others rode up to them.

  “Yes,” Holden said. “Thought I was about to meet my maker, but I felt stronger these last two days, and I was able to pull myself onto the horse by climbing on the tongue of the stagecoach.” His eyes sharpened as he turned his gaze back to Freeland. “Are you going after them? Because I want my money back.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Freeland said. “Don’t you want to know what’s happened to Miss Wade?”

  Holden stared at him for a moment and then dropped his gaze. “My niece. Is she …?”

  “She’s safe, sir,” Freeland said.

  Marshal Duffield pushed his hat back, and Freeland hastened to do the honors. “Mr. Holden, this is the territorial marshal, and these other men are part of the posse looking for the outlaws that robbed the stage.”

  “Howdy.” Duffield nodded. “We’ll take a look at your wound, and then we’d appreciate it if you’d show us where the gang is hiding.”

  He set four men of the posse to watch Holden’s back trail. One of the townsmen from Prescott, Ed Parker, settled Holden on a blanket on the ground and had him uncover the gunshot wound on his left side.

  “Nasty, but it’s healing,” Ed noted. “It must not have hit any vital organs, or you wouldn’t be walking today.”

  “I trust you’re right,” Holden said, “but the pain is fierce.”

  “We’ll get you to a doctor to check you out as soon as we can,” the marshal said. “Meanwhile, we’re this close to the outlaws’ nest, and we’ve got to strike.”

  “It’s two or three miles back.” Holden squinted up at him. “Honestly, Marshal, I don’t know if I could stay on the horse’s back to ride that far again.”

  “We’ll give you a saddle.” Duffield turned his head and called, “Benny! Throw your saddle on Mr. Holden’s horse. You’ll have to ride bareback until we sort out those road agents.”