“Now I know where I’ve seen you before,” Claire said with a look of recognition on her pocked face. “You rode in with that man who arrested the Coyote Kid.”
Dolly considered the coffee cup on the table before her. She saw see no reason to deny it. She nodded quickly. “Yes.”
She felt the woman’s eyes studying her intently. “Are you working for the law, too?”
How should she answer her? Dolly blinked in confusion. “You, I mean, the man that I rode in with … He’s not Mr. Arnold. It … it’s very complicated.”
The woman’s slow nod only added to her frustration. Looking Claire in the eye, she finally confided, “John Wesley Michaels, the man I rode in with, is an officer of the territorial courts. I’m his cook.”
“Oh, you cook for him?”
“Yes,” she said with some relief. “I also herd and hold horses,” she added with a wry smile.
“I see. He isn’t your husband—” Claire broke off, her face flushed with obvious embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry. I remember now. The Kid shot your little boy, didn’t he?”
Dolly nodded and tried to keep her gaze on the coffee cup. Sharing her loss with another woman made it more real, and caused tears to well up in her eyes. Until this moment, she had put her grief in a deep hole in her heart, protecting it and hiding it from the world, but nothing could contain it. She fought hard, but quickly the sorrow surfaced.
“It was such a terrible thing,” Claire said softly. “I knew the Kid before he became a killer.”
“Oh?” Dolly struggled to regain her composure so she
could do the job that John had sent her to do. This woman had known the Kid before—how well?
“Yes. He worked for a rancher then. Chester and I stopped on a big ranch where the Kid worked. He was some sort of a guard against folks homesteading the ranch land.” Claire looked away, a faint smile on her face as if the memory pleased her. “We were almost out of supplies and money when the Kid first showed up. Of course, he was Bobby Budd back then. Bobby told me that his job was to move people off the land. He gave us some money, so … well, we could go on,” Claire said haltingly. “But that was before he went on to this shooting business.”
“Yes.” Dolly nodded. “I’m sure that he wouldn’t be that nice now.”
Claire looked toward the front window, a dreamy smile on her face. “But he was nice … then.”
It did not take someone with a great imagination to know that there was more to the story than Claire was telling her. Dolly sipped her coffee, then spoke quietly. “Did he recognize you?”
“No.” She avoided looking at Dolly as she spoke. “I’ve taken trays of food over there, but he doesn’t give any sign that he knows me.”
“I suppose he’s been on the run a long time.”
“Yes.” Claire shook her head sadly. “I would never have thought that he would turn out this way.”
Filled with suspicion, Dolly vowed to keep a close watch on the woman. There were too many gaping holes in Claire’s story, and it did not require a shrewd mind to guess at the lapses.
“I … I’m sorry, Mrs. Arnold, but I have to take those prisoners their meal now.”
“Dolly,” she corrected her with a friendly smile. “Let me pay you for the coffee.”
Claire shook her head as she rose from the table. “No, Dolly. It’s my treat. You know, that newspaperman would really like to talk to you about how you helped capture the Coyote Kid.”
Dolly was shocked by the idea. “Oh no, Claire. I—I couldn’t talk to a … a man about the matter. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. I have to hurry. I hope you’ll come again.”
“Yes, thank you.” Dolly looked toward the kitchen area. “That Indian girl is very attractive.”
“Yes, she seems to have no family,” Claire confided. “She hired on for very little pay. Well, Dolly, goodbye for now.” Claire moved gracefully away from the table to the kitchen.
Dolly rose, her curiosity piqued. As she stood and smoothed her dress, she once again took a moment to study the Indian. Had she ever seen her at Ben’s store? Many Indians came by and traded there, but she couldn’t recall ever seeing her before.
Shrugging inwardly, Dolly walked toward the door and went outside in the sunlight.
At the dry-goods store, she selected some baking soda. She really didn’t need it, but it gave her an excuse to be in the establishment, where she could watch the street. The merchant allowed her to browse unaided through some bolts of material.
She took up a position near the window so she could observe the jail as she fingered the various dress material. She noted Deputy Neal leaving the jail a few moments after the sheriff arrived. Down by the saloon, a swamper came outside and leaned sleepily on a broom. He was a grizzled-bearded old man. Dolly recognized the type. They usually worked for free lunches and a few drinks, then slept in the storeroom of the saloon.
Having grown weary of spying, since she had learned nothing that would help John, she moved to the counter and paid for her baking soda.
“Didn’t find a piece of fabric to suit you?” the storekeeper asked politely.
“No, not today, but I’ll be back again.”
“Fine, come look all you want. You new here?”
“Yes.” She smiled and quickly hurried outside to escape
further questioning. Already she grew tired of wearing a dress and the shoes she had stuffed her feet into pinched her toes. But since she could not sit on the bench outside the store and whittle like some old man, she supposed she had better head back toward the campsite. It seemed to her that being a woman was inconvenient at times.
Walking carefully past the houses at the edge of town, she sighed in relief on reaching a grassy slope. Seating herself on the ground, she removed her shoes and wiggled her freed toes in relief. Then, barefoot, she walked back to camp.
She was glad when she caught sight of their campsite. Her gray mare and Thomas were grazing across the small stream. There were no signs of John or Jacob.
Dolly quickly located her jeans and shirt in the pannier then moved to her willow-walled dressing room. A few minutes later, feeling more comfortable, she busied herself with the campfire. The gun on her hip was a reassuring companion.
Perhaps, she mused, she should start some kind of meal. He would be home sometime. Home? It was sure something that she could think of a shady grove of young ponderosas as home. Laughing softly at her thoughts, she began to put together a meal.
When John Wesley had left that morning he had taken the road east. The way consisted of two narrow dry ruts that wound through the small checkerboard farms fronting the wagon-track scars. In the cool of the morning, John studied the farmsteads and the lay of the land.
He noticed a woman hanging out some laundry. Remembering Dolly’s request, he reined the gelding up the path to the house and removed his hat.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
She turned and squinted at him in the sun. “Oh, good morning. May I help you?”
“The name’s John Wesley Michaels, ma’am. I noticed your brindle cow and wondered if you had any butter to sell?”
She nodded. “I’ll have some later,” she said as she hung a man’s shirt on the rope line. “I still have to chum it. Will you be passing this way again later?”
“Yes. Is your husband around?”
“No.” She hung out a soggy pair of jeans. “I’m a widow, Mr. Michaels.”
“Oh, sorry. I was judging by the washing.”
The woman looked at the laundry, then at John Wesley, her eyes suddenly alert. “Th … they belong to that prisoner Bobby Budd. He needed someone to do his washing. I have taken the task upon myself.”
“I see, Mrs … . ?”
“Beth Parker.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Parker. I’ll stop by later for that butter.”
“It’ll be ready.”
He speculated about the woman as he rode away. She seemed pleasant enough, but she had acted odd about the Kid’s laundry. Almost defensive, he decided. He wasn’t sure if she had assumed the role of a martyr or if she actually knew the Kid. It was something to keep in mind.
He rode past the farms and onto the rangeland. The high country, studded by an occasional stand of pines, rolled away.
Later, he topped a ridge. The mountain air was clear, except for a few clouds that resembled ripened cotton bolls. In the road ahead, he spotted a disabled wagon. Three men labored with one of the wagon wheels. Perhaps they would have some information that he could use.
John short-loped his horse down the grassy incline. As he neared the wagon, he could see that a large load of freshcut boards were stacked on the rig. John reined up beside them and greeted the men.
“Good afternoon. You fellows having trouble?” The pungent odor of resin from the lumber assaulted his nostrils.
The eldest man looked up. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s two more. Me and the boys were counting on us having a payday
today. We got this lumber sold in Snowflake, but we’ll be two days getting the wagon fixed.”
“You must have a sawmill,” John said conversationally.
“Sure do. You need some lumber cut, mister?”
“No, not today.”
“The name’s Jeremiah Tombs. This here,” he said, indicating the two younger men, “is Ned and Radford, my sons.”
“How do.” John dismounted and extended his hand. “My name’s John Wesley.”
The men all shook his hand, then the father spoke. “What manner of business are you in, John Wesley?”
“I work for the courts.”
“Hmm,” Tombs commented, “I thought you was some kind of preacher; you could pass for one.”
“No,” John said with a laugh. “I’m not a preacher, but I could use your help. Have you seen anything of a bunch of cowhands or ranchers riding this way?”
“No, why?”
“To be frank with you, Mr. Tombs, I’m concerned that some of the Coyote Kid’s friends may be planning to break him out of jail.”
Tombs nodded. “Well, the boys and me ain’t seen or heard nothing like that. I was in Poker Town a couple days ago. Never heard a word down there, except that the Kid was captured in that bar. Oh, they’re saying that he shot two men south of there.”
John frowned at the new information. “Who were they?”
“A squaw man by the name of Nat Milner and his half-breed brother-in-law. And the fellow who rode with the Kid got it too. Leo somebody. They brung their bodies down to Poker Town.”
John frowned in thought. So, the Kid had been telling the truth about his partner. “Did Sheriff Rogers go down there and investigate the shootings?”
Tombs laughed as if John had made a joke. “No way. He has a rancher down there who wears a badge. And another who’s the magistrate. They held court in the saloon,
if you want to call it that. Said it was obviously a case of self-defense.”
John’s teeth clamped down hard at the information. “Who were these ranchers that posed as the law?”
“One was Cy Edgar. He’s a kind of law around Poker Town. He’s got a crony by the name of Tom Howard who has a magistrate’s license.”
John knew how that system worked. Those kind of men were the result of the lack of law that ranged the West. Their existence was one of the reasons the governor had appointed a secret security force. The thought caused him to recall the letter he had found in Sheriff Rogers’s office. Major Bowen had explained how sheriffs passed favors out to their political supporters in the form of badges and magistrate licenses. Any big backer could become a lawman if he knew the right people. It was a tyrannical system that had little to do with real justice.
John pulled his grim thoughts back to the present. He watched the two strapping Tombs boys unhitch the team.
“Mr. Tombs, I would appreciate it if you hear anything to send me word. Will you?”
“I sure will, John Wesley. You’re the one who brought in the Kid, ain’t you?”
He nodded. “But that’s not the important thing. What is important is the fact that he’s in jail, and I want him to stay there to stand trial.”
“By Gawd, John Wesley, you’re as modest as a preacher. Me and the boys surely will keep our eyes peeled.”
“I’m camped north of Snowflake on the first stream to the west.”
“I’ll send word if’n we hear anything. Good luck to you, sir.”
He thanked the man and mounted Jacob. As he passed the front of the wagon, he said goodbye to the sons. The lumbermen would be his allies. Before this matter with the Kid was over, he knew he would need all the friends he could find. There was a chance that some of the Kid’s
rancher buddies would band together to get him out of jail.
Riding along back to Snowflake, John tried to piece together every possible means of a jailbreak. Nothing shaped in his weary mind. All his ideas led to blind canyons with sheer walls.
When he rode up the lane to her place, he absently noted that Mrs. Parker had taken all her clothes off the line. He dismounted and tied the gelding to the fence. When he heard the door opening, he turned.
“I have the butter here in a jar for you, Mr. Michaels.” She moved out on the porch as she spoke. “You do have a place to keep it cool?”
“I’m sure my, er … the woman does,” he stammered in confusion, instantly regretting his slip.
“Tell your missus that I would like to meet her. You folks must be new around here.”
He nodded helplessly. The woman had trapped him. He paid her for the butter and hurried back to his horse.
When he reached town, he immediately noticed that a crowd had gathered on the porch of the jail. He rode up to the saloon porch trying to see and stopped short.
“What’s happened?” he demanded of the gray-whiskered swamper.
“The prisoners have been poisoned. Two of ’em are dead, and the other two are sick as horses.” The old man interrupted his speech to spew a brown stream of tobacco from his wrinkled mouth. “It’s like the colic. Yes, sir. Two died and them others are sicker than a dog.”
John fought down a fiery rage inside him and asked, “Who died?”
He dismounted, his hand still holding the jar of butter. Hitching the horse with one hand, he looked at the man impatiently.
“That Kid and the big one, Gar, are bad off. But hell, I reckon they’re too damned mean to kill.”
Turning sharply on his heel, John strode toward the jail. He forced his way through the crowd on the porch and stopped in front of Neal, who was cradling a Winchester.
“Oh, come in, Mr. Michael.”
“Thanks, Neal. Is Sheriff Rogers here?”
“Yeah, him and the doc both.” He stood aside for John to enter the jail.
Inside, John noted how haggard Rogers looked. Another man, who was holding a coffee cup, turned toward him.
“Doc, this is John Wesley Michaels. He’s the one who brought the prisoners in.” The sheriff looked warily at John. “They’ve been poisoned. In my own damned jail. And I ain’t sure how in the hell it happened,” he admitted in a defeated tone.
“Doctor, is the Kid dead yet?” John asked curtly.
The doctor swallowed his coffee and shook his head. “He’ll probably survive. Him and the big whiskey peddler weren’t as bad off as the others were. Maybe they didn’t get as much poison, or maybe their systems are stronger. The others only lasted a few hours. It was some kind of fast-acting poison.”
“Well, just what kind of poison was it?”
The doctor sighed. “That’s the problem. We don’t know, but we think it was some Indian stuff.”
“Indian?”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said. “Some squaw went to work for Claire yesterday at the cafe. Claire provides the meals for the prisoners.”
John nodded as he recalled the conversation with the lumberman about the shooting of the squaw man and Indian in Poker Town. “Was this woman living with a white man and a half-breed over south of Poker Town?”
The sheriff nodded with obvious reluctance. “Some squaw man and a half-breed.”
“And,” John said, glaring at Rogers. “You knew those men were killed by the Kid?”
“I heard something like that,” Sheriff Rogers said evasively.
John fought the anger growing inside his chest. He was not letting this lawman get off that lightly. “Sheriff Rogers, three men were shot, not two days’ ride from here. Your
specially appointed deputy up there held an inquest in a saloon, and the whole episode was swept under the rug. You knew about that, didn’t you?”
“What in the hell are you getting at?” Rogers’s face reddened in outrage.
“Just that I’m holding you responsible for the death of those prisoners. You and your so-called law are accountable.”
“It was a mistake! They made an error in judgment. Hell, Michaels, it’s a wonder that Neal wasn’t killed, too. How in hell was I supposed to know about the squaw?”
John sighed, never bothered to answer Rogers, and turned toward the doctor. “The Kid going to be well enough to stand trial?”
“It’s too soon to tell, but I expect he’ll recover.” The doctor looked at John and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “You know, it’s a funny thing. Over three weeks ago this Kid and another man came to my place. He was blinded by some bad whiskey he’d been drinking. That blindness seems to have completely healed.” Under John’s steely gaze, he hastily added, “’Course, I didn’t know at the time it was the Coyote Kid.”
After removing his hat, John ran his fingers through his hair. “The Coyote Kid poisoned by an Indian,” he said in disgust. Was she hired to poison him to keep him from talking or had it merely been an act of revenge? They might never know.
“Well,” Rogers commented sullenly, “the whole world’ll know about it in a day or two. That newspaperman, Rawlings, is already writing a story about it.”
Feeling frustrated by the careless law system, John glanced at the jail cells and then at the sheriff. “Sheriff, I’ll be back. You better double the guard here.”
“What the hell for?” Rogers demanded belligerently.
“The Kid has a lot more enemies than just one Indian squaw.”
Rogers agreed glumly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be goddamn glad when this whole thing is over.”
John Wesley never replied as he stalked past Neal. He ignored all the questions that the crowd shouted at him. Rogers was the politician, let him answer their questions.
Mounted on his horse, John noticed that he had been carrying the jar of butter all this time. He almost laughed at the absurdity. As he took one last look at Sheriff Rogers, the man was making placating gestures with his hands as he tried to silence the crowd.
As the horse picked his way up the path to the camp, John heard the other horses nickering at their approach.
Dolly waved and came to meet him. “Well, John Wesley, you’ve returned,” she said as she took the reins.
He nodded and waited until he dismounted and faced her to say, “They poisoned the prisoners today.”
“Who did?”
“An Indian woman.”
She was shocked. “Not the same Indian woman who was at the cafe?”
“I guess.” He frowned at her in puzzlement. “Did you see her?”
She nodded. “Claire, who owns the cafe, said this Indian girl just showed up, was looking for work and willing to do it very cheap. Did they arrest her?”
“Not yet. They can barely mount a two-man guard at the jail.”
“Will we … will you go after her?”
“I really can’t afford to leave here in case the ranchers try something. Although I haven’t seen anything of them, they could still be on their way here.”
“I can’t believe that girl poisoned the Kid.”
“Well, he’s not dead yet, him and Gar. But the other two didn’t last very long. The doctor thinks the Kid will probably recover.”
She looked at him with a frown, uncertain whether she was glad the Kid hadn’t died so that he could stand trial, or if she would have preferred him to suffer in agony by slow poisoning. Too, she could not believe the Indian woman she had seen earlier was a murderess. But she had
had no way of knowing what was in the squaw’s mind. Despite telling herself that, Dolly somehow felt that she had let John down. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the guilt.
“I have some food ready,” she said in a subdued voice. “Oh, I see that you got some butter.”
“Oh, yeah.” He gave her the jar, relieved to have it off his hands. Noting her unusually depressed expression, he felt a flicker of compassion. Most women did not affect him one way or another. But she was a different matter. If nothing else, he felt that they had almost become friends. At least they shared respect for each other. Being friends with a woman was a totally new concept for him, but he was surprised to admit he was not averse to the feeling. She was the first woman he had ever really trusted—what she said he believed. He closed his eyes; some things were just too complicated, like their relationship.
The Kid felt too groggy to even raise his head off the iron bed. His mind wallowed in a deep fog and his guts felt on fire. Curled up in a ball on the bunk, he considered his depleted condition and how it had all happened. He could hardly believe that the Indian bitch had poisoned him. That damn Silver Bell had drank his whiskey and laid him. She belonged to those two rustlers that killed poor Leo. God, he missed Leo. If only Leo was alive, he wouldn’t be rotting away in this stinking cell.
A violent eruption began inside his stomach, causing him to rise weakly to vomit. He was denied even that small comfort. Nothing was forced from his stomach. Nothing but the powerful depleting action that gagged him. A putrid stench rose in his nostrils and he lay back exhausted by his efforts.
Two of the whiskey peddlers had died, their bodies hauled away like yesterday’s chamber pots. Gar was reduced to a growling, twitching mound on his bunk in the next cell. It was a shame, he lamented, that the son of a bitch wasn’t killed, but he was a hard case. And now that
Gar had been moved to the adjoining cell, he was too weak to reach through the bars and choke him to death. He surmised that he and Gar had not taken in as much poison as either of the other two. Who knew why they had been spared?
His plan to escape was still intact. The letter to Maria asked for her help. He had borrowed paper from that reporter and now his note to Beth was hidden in the pockets of the dirty pants that would be sent to her for washing. Soon he would slip a note to Claire with the same request for help as the other two. Surely, she hadn’t been in on the plot to poison him. He did not think she would do that, not when he had helped her long ago.
Now, he needed sleep and plenty of it. If he didn’t strangle on his own gagging, he would make it another day. God, he could sure use some good strong whiskey to soothe his sore throat. The poisoning episode seemed as though it had taken place days ago, not merely earlier that day. And that stupid Deputy Neal had wondered if it had been part of an escape attempt. The Kid smiled to himself. Actually, Neal wasn’t too far off, the Kid admitted. If he hadn’t been so damned sick, he just might have taken a chance to make a break for it in the confusion. That damn copper-hided bitch needed to be taught a lesson. Oh well, tomorrow he would feel better. Maybe he’d get some kind of sign from one of the women he had written to for help. He just had to get through this night without dying.
At the Harrington House in Prescott, Ella Devereaux laid her plans well. Waddle won several pots while gambling that evening and he came back to Harrington house, roaring drunk, well after midnight. She had waited up for him.
“There you are—” he slurred, and swung his arms around loosely. “Had us a real streak of good luck tonight, darling. I got money in all my pockets.” He grinned foolishly and she stepped in close for fear that he would fall down.
“My girl—” he mumbled and hung on to her. Supporting
his weight hurt her injured ribs, but she wanted him upstairs in his bed, not retching in her fine parlor.
“I’m coming, missy,” Strawberry said, raising her skirt in her hands and charging down the stairs.
“Yeah, I like redheads.” He smiled and dropped his head as if he had passed out, hanging between the two women.
“How did he ever get home?” Strawberry hissed.
Ella shook her head. This was the drunkest he had been since he came to Prescott. The two started up the stairs supporting him between them.
“You know I won lots tonight,” he confided to Strawberry, while they strained to haul him up to the second floor.
“That’s nice.” She looked at the ceiling for help.
“Both of you getting in bed with me?” He giggled, then snorted through his nose.
“Sure,” Ella said, “if you’re man enough.”
“I damn—sure—am.”
“You sure are,” Strawberry said to soothe him.
At last they reached the head of the stairs and both girls were breathing heavily. One of the other girls peeked out of her door, but Ella’s disapproving shake of the head made her slam it shut.
Minutes later they dumped him on the bed. He groaned and passed out.
“Get his clothes off quick,” Ella said. “I want him to think he had a party up here.”
“Sure,” Strawberry said, tugging on his coat sleeve. Together they stripped it off him. Then, while Ella planted some of the counterfeit bills in the large roll she took from his coat pocket, Strawberry took off his shoes and more bills floated out of them.
“I’ll put a few in there, too,” Ella said, bending over to pick them off the floor. Though it hurt when she leaned over to reach for the scattered money, she felt so confident her plan would work, the adrenaline numbed her.
Soon they had him undressed. Buck naked, he lay sprawled on top of the bed, his arms spread out. The trace
of black hair that grew down the middle of his chest and stomach outlined his stark white skin. He was so vulnerable, so defenseless, she wanted to smash him with a chair, stab him a thousand times, even shoot him with her .22, again and again. She drew a deep breath up her nose. How had she ever loved him?
Oh, for the innocence of youth.
“What else do we need to do?” Strawberry asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Nothing my dear, nothing. He’ll do it all by himself tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t you like to be here when it happens?”
“Yes, but I’ll hear the story over and over again in my parlor.”
“You think it will work?”
Tired of looking at his pot-bellied anatomy, Ella motioned her toward the door, and blew out the lamp. “Yes, it has to.”