“Well, I surely look forward to getting’ to know you better,” Carver said with honesty in his voice. “It sounds like you might have some mighty fine tales to be sharin’ around a campfire.”
“I most certainly do!” Honor said, bowing her head. “Soon I believe the opportunity shall present itself as I do believe the plan is once we are into the valley,” she continued, “we shall be stopping for the night to rest up and go full force in the search for the Fenwicks in the morning. I find I would surely welcome that.”
“A rest would do us all some good,” Carver agreed beside her, “especially those of us who have been riding all the way from Cavendish.”
“Well, I surely hope that we can find somewhere that might have a waterhole of sorts. I love the West, but I have never been one for dealing with the way the dust clings to you as it does. I could easily envision myself relaxing in some water …”
Honor deliberately paused, glanced at Carver and raised an eyebrow seductively. “… and preferably … not alone,” she concluded.
Carter blinked, unsure of whether he had just heard what she was saying correctly. Was she implying …? He thought quickly. Could his fortune have turned so favorable to have dropped this colored beauty right out of the sky for him? He, however, didn’t have time to formulate an appropriate response to her suggestive statement because ahead of them, Catalina suddenly emerged from the pack of men and arced her horse around until she was riding next to them, a look of concern gracing her face.
“Cattie? What is it? What is wrong?” Honor asked instantly.
“It’s Jamison’s man from the Double J, Winston. I’ve looked over the entire group. He’s gone, Honor Elizabeth. He’s done vanished!” Catalina declared.
***
Unknown to them and the entire posse, ahead, on the northern butte of the twins, a group of six men stood at the edge of the cliff, the hot wind blowing their unkempt hair while sand stuck on their unshaven faces as they stared out across the plain. Two men were closer to the edge than the others and one of them held a beat up old telescope pressed to his eye. He had curly red hair, tumbling out from under his grey hat. The man was muscular, sporting wide shoulders and thick clothed by a plain and very worn jacket. Just beneath the eye that he had on the telescope, there was a brownish scar shaped like a lightning, the result of a brawl up in Laredo many years ago.
Moments before the sun had dropped beyond the distant mountains eliminating the glare and he had been afforded a clear view of the approaching dust cloud. He lowered the telescope and looked at the man closest to him, his voice too coarse to miss. “Fuckin’ hell. Looks like Donnie was right, Chet,” he fumed.
His brother, Chet, a shorter, burly man, spat on the ground and shook his head in agreement. “Our brother usually is, Foster,” he sighed, having a vague idea what had been seen beyond through the telescope. The other men drew closer to both of them and began to talk at once, asking what Foster had seen.
“A large cluster of men out on the plains!” Foster said, shrugging his wide shoulders. “Just came off the mountains, it would seem, coming from the general direction of Cavendish Township.”
“Could only be a posse,” Chet chirped in as Foster collapsed the battered telescope they routinely used in scoping out herds of cattle for rustling. “Like I said before, Donnie was right. When Bishop got left behind, he sure as hell would have sold us out to the law! I never did trust that man. He was half Mexican, after all.”
As Chet spat on the ground again, Foster shook his head at the thought of the man who had probably betrayed them. “Well, I’m sure he got himself a rope neck tie, anyway,” he gritted his teeth. “That was a string of bodies we left behind including that fool sheriff who challenged Donnie.”
“What are we going to do?” one of the other men asked suddenly.
“Just what we planned,” Foster insisted. “That’s why Donnie left us here and went with the others back to my mother’s place. You ride like the wind and tell them the valleys got company that needs to be exterminated. We’ll remain here until after they pass. It’s a long ride from Cavendish.
Chet lit up a cigar that he plucked from his pocket and picked up where Foster had left off after inhaling a long drag. He was a cattle rustler, murderer and a born liar but when he opened his mouth he uttered some of the truest words he had ever spoken.
“They are sure to set up camp, and when they do, we’ll get them from all sides. Their bodies are gonna be so full of lead that the vultures will be breaking their beaks on them when they are pecking away at their carcasses!”
****
Far below in the approaching dust cloud unknown to the posse they had just become their own version of the six hundred of the famed Light Brigade now charging headlong into to their very own valley of death.
CHAPTER 12
* * *
Cassandra Wilde was on the road to becoming extremely agitated. The hours that she had spent stuck in the windowless room on the second story of the home of Thaddeus Thornway had been excruciating to a woman of action like herself.
After pacing the room more times than she could count, she finally slumped down in a corner and looked about the room yet again. There wasn’t much to see. Actually, there wasn’t anything to see. The room was completely empty save for herself, and the thing was that it wasn’t the exception, it was the rule. When Connors and Davenport had first hustled her into the house, she had expected to see elaborate furnishings like she had seen at Thornway’s office. The house, after all, was on what had to be a prized piece of real estate. It sat on a tree-lined street in the heart of Lake Bliss alongside other well-to-do homes. Once through the door, however, she had been quite surprised.
When the trio stepped out the foyer of the home off to her right, she saw a living room. Everything appeared normal there. Thornway did have some nice furniture within it. However, looking to the left, she saw what might have been a dining room, but the room was completely barren.
Prodding her up the stairs, on the second floor, they passed by several empty rooms where the motif was the same—vacant without a single stick of furniture, let alone any personal effects. Even the windows had been boarded up with the exception of a large bedroom that spanned the front of the house but that only had a small bed, presumably slept in by Thornway. The two windows that faced the street still held beautiful stained glass worked on, no doubt, by the late Betsy Thornway. Cassandra had been not so gently shoved into a room in the back of the house. It too had boards hammered into place where she had guessed was once a fairly large window.
The Spartan nature of the house puzzled her because clearly, Thornway was a man who liked fine trappings based on his office at the post office and the living room. So what was going on here? The mystery when she was first placed in the room had kept her mind from thinking about her absent six guns back in the travel case.
The fact that Thornway hadn’t shown up demanding to know why a woman who claimed she didn’t know “shit about shootin’ irons” carried two very mean-looking ones in her suitcase. At least that was going her way. The long wait she had spent as a “guest” in Thornway’s house was beginning to make her regret not, at least, taking a shot at freeing herself from Connors and Davenport on the way over to the home.
Suddenly, deep in thought, she heard a door open and close from downstairs and the muffled sound of men speaking. This was quickly followed by the sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs. Cassandra was on her feet at the sound of the door unlocking. When it swung open, four men stepped in.
Davenport was among them, standing next to two new equally looking disreputable type characters. The fourth man, though, was the anomaly. He was a polished looking man, done up in a suit and a fashionable straw hat on his head. He had a Van Dyke beard that was a mixture of ginger and white and he had a twinkle in his eye as he walked over to her.
“Miss Marla! A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I believe I have you to thank for the extra coin in my p
ocket due to your failure to arrive as scheduled. Cornwall Corday at your service!”
He bowed theatrically before her. He had spoken to her in a refined British accent right down to the word scheduled coming out sounding like, “sheduled”.
“Ah, the safe cracker,” Cassandra said dully, his identity no surprise to her.
“Safe cracker!” Corday bristled. “My dear lady, I am the Lord of Locksmithing! My calling card!”
He produced a card from his vest pocket and handed it to her and it did indeed bill him as the Lord of Locksmithing.
“I wasn’t aware criminals carried callin’ cards,” Cassandra said with a grin.
“It is for my legitimate business back in that sceptered isle of Great Britain,” Corday explained with a proud undertone. “During my visits to the colonies … well that’s when I get to practice my somewhat less than above board employment opportunities. It helps pay for my wonderful villa I have in India. With what Mister Thornway is paying me for this job, I shan’t need to take any more of these for a good couple years. I am already planning my departure for the sub-continent for an extended stay in Bombay.”
Cassandra smiled and for a second, found herself having a brief flash of sympathy for the man. He had it all planned and now, she was going to be the one to foil his grand plans. Instead of relaxing on some veranda on the other side of the world in the months ahead, he would be sitting in an Arizona jail. It was going to be quite the letdown. All in all, it was too bad. He seemed quite charming, but a criminal was a criminal and it was her life’s calling to put them out of business.
“I stand corrected,” Cassandra mumbled, keeping her plans to herself.
“So, I am to understand you shall be providing the distraction while these ah … gentlemen and I are busy attending to the safe of Mr. Blake?” Corday asked.
“That’s the plan I was given,” embracing her role, Cassandra rubbed her hands together gleefully, just to convince all four of them how eager she was to get started.
Corday bowed his head at her, seeming satisfied. “Mr. Blake shall be destitute before this night is over, but at least, he shall enjoy the company of a woman of such a high magnitude of beauty,” he commended with a grin.
“I thank ya!” Cassandra said courteously, grinning back at him.
"Well, it’s time to get a move on,” Davenport interjected. “Blake is gonna be expecting his tart from the Cloverfield whore house, and we don’t wanna keep him waitin’.”
“What happened to your partner, Connors? Feedin’ time at the zoo and he didn’t wanna miss out?” Cassandra asked.
“Mr. Thornway needed him back at the office,” Davenport snorted. “So he sent these other boys to come along to help.” The two men just grunted at her, at least letting her know they had eyes on her.
Corday used up the time to look around, a frown settling on his face. “I say! What is with this house?” He cleared his throat. “It’s nearly empty and almost all the windows are boarded up!”
“Mr. Thornway has fallen on hard times,” Davenport replied with a shrug. “Had to sell nearly everything he owned. Right down to Betsy Rose’s stained-glass windows. Connors and I helped remove them and boarded up the holes left behind! Mr. Thornway ain’t gonna have to worry about money woes after tonight if the two of you do your jobs like you are supposed to!”
“You shall have no worries about my performance,” Corday rocked back on his heels, nodding his head. “I shall perform my task as admirably as always!”
“You … I suppose there ain’t nothin’ to worry about with you,” Davenport smirked, looking at Cassandra. “All you got to do is spread them fine legs of yours long enough for us to get that fortune out of Corky’s safe. Don’t take much skill to do that.”
“I thought you said it was time for us to be on the move?” Cassandra tossed her head, her blonde locks swinging over her shoulder, ignoring him.
A few minutes later, everyone piled into a carriage and set off down the road. They turned on Main Street and passed by the post office. Davenport waved to Connors who was standing out front of the office next to a carriage. A wheel lay on the ground behind it. Further down the street, they passed the dance hall and Cassandra momentarily stewed.
She could hear the sound of applause from within as someone finished singing. She had so wanted to perform one of her favorite songs before the assembled crowds. Since she wasn’t going to be able to, she softly began to hum the tune of the very popular song during the Civil War called Lorena.
The roughnecks gave her a look but said nothing, and as the carriage rolled down the street, she could see they actually were enjoying it. Hardly the crowd she had envisioned when she stepped onto the stage for Lake Bliss earlier in the day, but they would do.
Before long, she found they had arrived at the edge of town and stopped at the bottom of a hill. A winding driveway circled the hill that lead to the front of a very impressive looking home with a mansard roof gracing it.
“Would you look at that!” Cassie called out.
“One of the finest homes in town,” Davenport said with a snort. “Corky can sure as hell afford it.”
“Yes.” Corday concurred. “From what I understand, Mr. Blake’s father was one of the consortium of men who saw the potential of flooding this valley to create Lake Bliss. Those men made a fortune off it, especially with the hotel in the middle of the lake.”
“You walk the rest of the way, whore,” Davenport suddenly interjected, stopping the carriage. “We can’t be seen pulling up and letting you out. We’ll sneak up in a bit. Accordin’ to Thornway, the safe is in the office on the first floor. Don’t waste time. Get him upstairs and fuckin’ you as soon as possible!”
“I doubt he will need little encouragement with a beauty such as Miss Marla here,” Corday whistled.
“A whore is a whore,” Davenport grumbled.
“And I sure bet a whore is the only kinda woman that’s ever had your little dick in her hand,” Cassandra snorted at his rudeness. “By the looks of you, there is no way you would get any without payin’ out for it.”
Davenport’s face went red under the light of the gas lamps that burned at the foot of an elaborate staircase leading straight up the hill. Without any further words, though, Cassandra stepped out, hiked up her dress and began making her way up the steep staircase.
As she neared the top of the staircase to her left where the stairs ended, she saw a massive circular shape mounted on two saw horses. The closer she got, she recognized it as a section of what must have been once a huge tree—probably a couple hundred years old to achieve the four-foot girth. As she reached the top, she saw in the dim light on the side facing the house that it had been painted as some sort of target with a huge circle of red paint at the center. Darkened shapes were sticking out of it. As intriguing as it was, Cassie paused and swung her eyes to take in the view of the house.
So far, there were two things that she found most notable about it. Stemming from the second floor was a veranda adorned with flower boxes that were filled with brightly colored species. The entry into the home from the terrace appeared to be accomplished through two French doors. She could just make out their top panes of glass from her vantage point. The French doors, she would later discover, were like all the windows she could see—more of Betsy Rose’s stained glass, and like the work she saw in Thornway’s office, they all depicted various sailing ships. The one thing she couldn’t make out was an odd-shaped looking device that stood on the balcony’s dead center. There simply wasn’t enough light from the gas lamps for her to distinguish it.
Shrugging eventually, she turned and looked downhill to see that the carriage with escorts and the “Lord of Locksmithing” had moved somewhere out of sight in anticipation of their raid on Blake’s home. Wishing to do a quick reconnaissance of her surrounding, she rounded the side of the house and emerged on a back patio.
She cast her gaze around, letting it fall on a boat house and a dock at the base o
f a sweeping hill that descended from the back of the house to the lake. Her eyes then raised and finally came to rest on a hotel that sat on what had once been the high point of the center of the valley. It was now the centerpiece of the man-made lake when the consortium had damned up the tributary of the Rock River and flooded the once arid valley.
Catching her attention on the lake, she saw the lights from a small steam-powered ferry, chugging its way across the half mile that separated the island from the town. Cassie gave a small smile, remembering how Lijuan and Honor Elizabeth had told her of their adventure the prior year when they had helped a pair of cousins achieve their goal of running the same ferry operation she was now looking at.
That, of course, made her think that during the time that Honor and Lijuan were engaged in that particular exploit, they weren’t the only ones. She and Cattie simultaneously were having their very own adventure as they had found themselves smack dab in the middle of a range war in the distant and snowy Colorado countryside.
As she made her way back to the front of the house, Cassandra felt her heart ache just a little. She missed her sisters. There were no better times in her life than when it was the four of them all together fighting the good fight like they had done in Beacon. She would be glad to get back to Cedar Ledge once this was all over and be with them again.
Time to get at it then, she finally thought and rapped on the big door with a knocker that was a miniature ship’s anchor. The door itself featured a lovely depiction of what she immediately recognized as a whaling ship. When she had lived in Philadelphia working as a Pinkerton, she had a brief fling with a well-to-do lawyer. They had taken a trip together back to his hometown of New Bedford and while there, he had shown her around a whaling ship captained by his brother. Ultimately, she had found the tour (and the man’s brother) far more interesting than the man squiring her about. He had redeemed himself later in the bedroom, but not enough for Cassie to continue any long-term relationship.
Wilde-Fire: Wonder Women 0f The Old West (Half Breed Haven Book 1) Page 16