THE BEARDED YOUNG STAGECOACH DRIVER held the door for Mrs. Vanessa Dawes, who was attired in a black dress, hat, and veil. Her luggage had been loaded on the coach, and the time had come for her departure from Shelby. She took one last look at the residents who’d come to see her off and the scattered ramshackle buildings that dared call itself a town. She’d already said her farewells, and the only thing to do was climb aboard. “Thank you,” she said softly to the driver as she stepped into the cramped interior of the coach.
It smelled of tobacco, whiskey, and perfume, and she saw a traveling salesman with a toothy grin and big ears sitting near the window. He made room for her, and she smiled in gratitude as she dropped daintily beside him. She gazed out the window at the townspeople waving and blew them a kiss, like a visiting dignitary. The driver climbed onto his perch, grabbed the reins, and pushed the brake forward. “Giddyup.”
Harnesses creaked, horses’ hooves struck the ground, and the stagecoach lurched forward. Vanessa looked at the shacks passing her window as her mind filled with jumbled memories. She’d come to town on the arm of one man, married another, and now was a widow. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The stagecoach approached rows of canvas army tents at the edge of town, and she remembered the afternoon when Captain Turner had visited her out of the blue. He’d told her that her husband, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, had been killed in action against the Apaches and was buried in an unmarked mass grave somewhere near the Mexican border.
“Are you a native of this area?” asked the salesman with a wet grin.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.”
The salesman tipped his hat. “Sorry.”
People deferred to ladies in black veils, and Phyllis planned to make the most of it during her stagecoach ride. A tall, lanky cowboy sat opposite her, fast asleep, mouth hanging open, a bottle of whiskey lying like a baby in his lap. To his left sat an elderly man who looked like a judge, banker, or politician. On the other side of the cowboy slept a young girl with pale skin, in a gingham dress, and she had the shopworn look of a working girl. Young love, Vanessa mused cynically.
She still didn’t know what to think about the sudden demise of the late Lieutenant Dawes. They’d been together such a brief time, they barely knew each other. Now she was on her way to Austin, to confer with a lawyer on matters pertaining to her inheritance. The lieutenant had accumulated a fair sum during his lifetime, thanks to a bequest from his grandfather plus his own intelligent investments over the years. She’d also get a widow’s pension from the army, and she’d never have to sing in another saloon for the rest of her life.
The stagecoach rumbled onto the desert, followed by its cavalry escort. Vanessa leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. It was going to be a long trip, but soon she’d be rich again. She’d always known, even during her darkest hours, that she’d prevail. When the money was hers, she’d return to South Carolina and buy the old family plantation.
She saw herself on the wide veranda of her ancestral home, entertaining guests as in the days before the War of Northern Aggression. She’d invite the cream of Charleston society, and the last of the scalawags would be thrown out of office by then, she was certain. Yes, the South will rise again, and I’ll rise with her.
Her distinguished guests would dance into the night, tables would groan with rare delicacies, and the band would play fine old Dixie tunes, but something was missing from the dream, and she didn’t quite know what it was. Occasionally she caught glimpses of a tall young man in black jeans, a black shirt, and a black hat with silver conchos strolling among the revelers, an insouciant smile on his face, his eyes a-twinkle with mischief. She’d heard that he was wanted for killing a federal marshal in a rough border town and was riding hard for Mexico when last seen. She thought of him alone in the desert, running like a hunted animal against all the odds. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t forget his cowboy grace and theological speculations. Sleep well, my darling boy, she whispered softly. Perhaps someday our paths will cross again.
Mr. Simmons sat at the counter of the post office in Morellos and looked at the pile of letters spread before him. The shipment had just arrived on the stage from Fort Stockton, and it was time to sort the envelopes. Mechanically, he picked them up and placed them in their appropriate slots. It wasn’t a bad life, though sometimes he got headaches from reading too much fine print.
He came to an envelope that said:
DUANE BRADDOCK
General Delivery
Morellos, Texas
The address was written in a woman’s hand, and the envelope carried the faint trace of perfume, and was postmarked Shelby. Simmons dropped the envelope into the box that contained other letters addressed in the same handwriting to Duane Braddock, General Delivery. The postmaster was tempted to open them but had controlled his curiosity thus far. I guess I’ll have to send ’em back someday, he thought philosophically. The Pecos Kid don’t live here no more, and it don’t look like he’s a-comin’ back.
Big Al Thornton awakened in the night due to faint sobs down the hall, as his daughter cried herself to sleep yet again. He stared at the ceiling and frowned because all his vast holdings—ranch, herd, and wealth—couldn’t buy happiness for the person he loved most.
He figured that she’d get over Duane Braddock after a while, but weeks passed and she didn’t seem to be pulling out of her sorrow. She usually held up fine during the day but wept pathetically into her pillow every night. Big Al ground his teeth in frustration. He’d rather get skinned alive by Apaches than hear his daughter cry.
A fancy lawyer had quashed all proceedings initiated by the late Lieutenant Dawes, but now the Pecos Kid was in new trouble. He’d killed a federal marshal in Morellos, and American officials were negotiating with Mexico about sending the Fourth Cavalry after him.
He’s probably livin’ in a cave with coyotes and rattlesnakes, but one day he’ll get lonely and that’s when they’ll catch him. I thought he was a-gonna be my son-in-law, but he’ll end up with a rope necktie, if they don’t shoot him first. It’s a damn shame ‘cause he was a good, hard-workin’ cowboy.