“If that Indian girl isn’t a ghost, I don’t know what she is. We haven’t spoken to one person who has seen her,” Dolly said with a scowl of disapproval as they rode toward camp. All their searching of the countryside surrounding Snowflake had produced nothing.
“No, she’s not a ghost, just elusive,” John commented. “The major once told me that an Apache could hide from an army and even escape from them though completely surrounded.”
“Hmm. Well, we can’t surround her, ’cause we can’t even find her,” she grumbled.
He looked over at her, mildly amused. “You must be telling me you’re tired.” He bit back the comment that she looked weary, as well.
“No, I’m not tired,” she said defensively. She scowled at him from beneath the brim of her hat. No doubt he was planning to ditch her again. All he needed was one little excuse, and he was back on his soapbox. “I’ll still be in this saddle until you’re ready to call it quits.”
“Mrs. Arnold—”
“Mrs. Arnold!” she mimicked him acidly. “I’m damn tired of ‘Mrs. Arnold.’ You called me by my given name once and it didn’t kill you!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, startled by her sudden outburst.
“No, John Wesley, you are not getting off that easy. The name is Dolly. Say it, Dol-ly!”
“Dolly,” he mumbled. His eyes stared ahead as he rode. The name did not fit her, but he admitted silently that he had been thinking of her as “Dolly” for some time now.
“Oh, forget it,” she retorted angrily. “You aren’t interested. And I damn sure would have a hard time putting up with you.” She put her heels to the gray and raced ahead.
He exhaled hard and shook his head. For a long moment, he tried to retrace the conversation, wondering what had set off her fiery temper. He honestly did not know what he had done wrong. She was one of the few people that he felt comfortable with, but if he told her that, she might take it the wrong way. Besides, he thought, frowning, he wasn’t sure he would know how to phrase the words so they sounded respectful.
By the fourth day after the poisoning incident, the Kid felt back to normal. He was once again playing checkers with Neal through the bars of the cell.
“They ain’t caught that murdering Injun yet, have they?” he asked the deputy.
“No. But that lawman, Michaels, and Mrs. Arnold have been scouring the country for her with no luck.”
The Kid moved a checker, his mind not on the game. “Where did that Mrs. Arnold come from originally?”
Neal shrugged as he jumped two of the Kid’s pieces. “Some say she just showed up at Arnold’s Store a few years ago. I heard that she was a saloon girl before, but I reckon folks are just guessing about that part.”
“She ain’t bad-looking,” the Kid said. Neal had him in a bad position on the board. Almost as sorry as his position in jail. Beth Parker had probably found his note by now. Claire had taken hers without a sideways glance and pushed it inside her dress. And that wimpy Rawlings reported that he had mailed his letter to Maria.
Neal smiled at the Kid’s careless move. “Yeah, she’s a good-looking woman. Your mind ain’t on the game, Kid. Must be on Mrs. Arnold.” Neal swept the board clear of Bobby’s checkers with his next move.
“Yeah,” the Kid said, “let’s quit for a while. Besides, I need to go out back.” He cast a glance over at Gar. The whiskey pedlar was asleep. It was a period of time that the
Kid savored because he was spared hearing the man’s grumbling.
Neal pulled the keg back that held the checkerboard. He shouted at the new guard, “Check the street, Whipple. The Kid’s coming out.”
Every trip to the privy was now a suspenseful journey for him. The smelly, fly-buzzing frame outhouse was the key to his freedom. When someone delivered that gun in the slot above the door, the Coyote Kid would be able to escape. He would be rid of those damn leg irons that made him shuffle. He would ride to the country of the señoritas.
Rattling his chains, he scooted along in the gap between the saloon and jail to the unpainted privy. Behind him, armed with a shotgun, Neal marched with a glint in his eye.
Despite their friendly games, he knew that Neal would shoot him if he had to. It was his job.
He opened the outhouse door, trying to control his thundering heart. He pulled the door shut, then reached over the ledge above the door. His fingertips touched something familiar, the cool metal of a pistol. A shout of triumphant laughter nearly escaped him.
In a swift movement he checked the gun, relieved to see it was loaded. Then he raised his pant leg and shoved the pistol inside his boot. It was a small revolver, but just right for his needs. He did not have time to gloat over his success. He must make plans.
He unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. No longer would he be a condemned dog on a chain. At last, he had the means of deliverance. Seated on the raw boards, he planned his escape while a hoard of flies buzzed in the breathless interior. The old Coyote Kid would soon be on the prowl again, howling his lonesome song and riding for Old Mexico like a prairie fire. He just had to decide when to make his move. There would be a right time to make a break for it, but he must plan every step very carefully.
Wearily they dismounted and unsaddled their horses at the end of another uneventful day. Dolly’s bones ached while
she stripped out the latigos. She glanced over at John. His endurance amazed her. When he set out to do something, he certainly stuck to it.
“We keep coming up with nothing,” she complained. A quick inspection of the camp told her that the carefully banked fire was out. “Maybe, we’re looking in the wrong places.”
“Where else would you look?” he asked, then added, “Oh, your fire seems to be out.”
“My fire? Well, it’s your damn fire, too. I’m going to go take a bath in the stream. You can build it or eat raw food.” She grabbed a flour-sack towel and stormed off. She felt gritty, and the smell of horse in her nose was so strong that it burned her nostrils. Maybe a bath would soothe her flaring temper. Everything irritated her. She needed to escape from John, as well, maybe even from her own thoughts.
Concerned about her obvious distress, he dared not follow her. He busied himself turning the horses loose to graze, knowing that they were so weary they would not leave the area. That chore completed, he decided to rebuild her fire while she was gone. It might help her get back to normal. She had been edgy for two days and he suspected he knew the reason. In a short while, the “Kid business” would be over. They would have to return to a normal life—go their own separate ways.
Hunkered down on his boot heels, he soon had tinder burning in the firepit. The flames licked at the small pile of needles and twigs. The time they’d spent together tracking down the Kid had consumed both of them like a raging fire. He nodded his head as he considered the matter of what was wrong with her. She didn’t want that fire to die.
The Kid had considered his options. He tried to conceal his impatience. It was time to get out of the jail. Sheriff Rogers was gone somewhere, and he’d overheard Neal tell Whipple that Marshal Michaels was off again looking for the squaw.
Whipple was a dour-faced man whom the sheriff had hired to help Neal. Some dumb farmer, the Kid figured, would be easy to run over. He planned to coax Neal into a game of checkers, then with the gun, get the keys that the deputy carried, and let himself out of the cell. Then he would release Gar. As much as he disliked him, he knew he might need his assistance to pull off the jailbreak. At the moment, Neal was gone to take Gar to the outhouse.
The Kid quickly pulled up his pants leg. He glanced around to be sure that Whipple was not at the door. Hastily, he double-checked the small-caliber pistol, reassuring himself that it was loaded. He returned it to his boot and dropped his pants leg over it.
The damn leg irons were at the ankles of his boots, but he would soon be free of them. Seated on his bunk, he daydreamed of a blue sky above him and freedom.
Neal returned the grumpy Gar back to his cell. Bobby watched the deputy put up his shotgun.
“You ready to get beat again, Kid?” Neal asked. The deputy smiled as he set up the checkerboard in front of the bars.
“Sure am.” The Kid seated himself on the nail keg and scratched his leg. His gaze was on the deputy, who was placing the checkers on the board. A quick glance in that direction assured him that the cell-block door was closed. There was no sign of the other guard.
“Where’s Whipple?” he asked casually.
“Oh, he’s gone to order something at the store.”
The Kid nodded. Then in one lightning sweep, he stuck the pistol in the deputy’s face. “Don’t try anything, Neal. I ain’t wanting to kill you. Just give me the keys, careful like, and don’t try nothing.”
“Where in the hell—?” The threat of the pistol silenced Neal.
“Shut up. The keys, damnit! Where’s the leg iron keys?”
His face white, Neal woodenly handed over the cell keys. “Sheriff Rogers has the ones to the leg irons in his pocket.”
“Shit,” the Kid swore and rose to insert the key into the lock. It clicked with a sound that thrilled him. But Neal, who was still seated, made a move. A fatal one for his holstered gun. It pained the Kid to pull the trigger. He hadn’t wanted it this way.
The gun barked in the Kid’s hand, and Neal pitched over on his back. Outside the cell, the Kid looked at Gar’s shocked face.
“Get me out, Kid. I’ll help you,” the big man begged.
It was good to hear .the bastard whine, the Kid noted with satisfaction. The chains restricted his steps as he hurried to the door and unlocked Gar’s cell.
Gar held his own leg chain in his hands and looked at Bobby. “What now?”
“Whipple’s out of the office. Get Neal’s gun. We’ve got to find a blacksmith,” the Kid said as he shuffled down the hall. “There’s no keys here for these leg irons.”
“Oh, hell,” Gar swore in disgust.
No one in the office. “Grab a shotgun,” the Kid ordered. “Whipple and the whole damn town will be here after hearing that shot.”
“Yeah. Hey, Kid, here comes he now!” Gar shouted. He picked up a shotgun and dragged his chains to the door. There was one blast from the shotgun. The Kid glanced up in time to see Whipple bowing over from the shot and crumpling to the street.
Frantically, the Kid searched through the sheriff’s desk, but could not find the keys. “Is there a blacksmith’s shop here?” he asked as he loaded a Colt .45 from Rogers’s desk. He jammed the revolver in his waistband, and quickly drew down a Winchester rifle from a rack. The chamber was loaded.
“No, I don’t think there’s a smithy close. Seems he’s at the edge of town,” Gar said. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Trying to open the safe,” the Kid said, his hand on the set handle under the combination. “It’s got my guns and money. The damned thing’s locked.”
“Come on, Kid. Let’s just get some horses and ride.”
“You know what your problem is, Gar?” The Kid ducked down to see out the window and examine the street. No one was in sight. The notion filled him with confidence. A smile formed on his lips. “You’re in too much of a hurry. Ain’t there a saloon next door?”
“Yeah, but what are you up to now, Kid?” Gar sounded edgy.
“We’ll go over there, and get us a drink. I’ll sign for the drinks and Sheriff Rogers can pay them back when he returns. It’ll be credit.”
“You’re crazy. I want out of this town now!” Gar shouted in wide-eyed disbelief.
The Kid picked up the leg iron chain in his left hand, and the Winchester in his right one, then he shuffled past Gar. To hell with that grisly lunatic; he was having himself a drink.
Gar tagged along. “This is crazy, Kid.”
“Wait, Gar. We need to get these damn chains off. We can’t ride a horse like this. There ain’t one damn horse out there in the street to ride anyway. And if you call me crazy one more time,” the Kid threatened, “I’ll blow your brains out.”
Gar shook his head. “I want to get the hell out of here.”
“We will, we will. Just stay calm,” the Kid assured him as they entered the saloon.
“Hey!” he shouted at the bartender. “Get those hands on the bar. And you!” The Kid turned toward a swamper. “Old man, go get us an axe and find us two saddled horses. Wait a minute.” He turned back to the shaking barkeeper. “Pour him a drink first. He needs it.”
“And drink it fast,” Gar said sourly. He had positioned himself by the door so that he could watch the street.
“Bring an axe first, before you get those horses,” the Kid ordered the swamper, who was spilling whiskey as he lifted the glass with his trembling hands. “And tell them at the livery that no one will get hurt. We’ve got money in the sheriff’s safe to pay them. We ain’t crooks.”
“Bullshit!” Gar swore. “You just hurry, old man, or I’ll blast your ass off.”
“Gar!” the Kid shouted. “We ain’t killing innocent people. Give him time to go get it. He’s working for me.”
Gar swore under his breath. “Bartender, bring me a bottle of whiskey.”
The Kid nodded assent, and the saloonkeeper hurried to comply. Casually, the Kid lifted the bottle that remained on the counter. He drank his first draught, then sighed in satisfaction. It was good whiskey. Real good.
“The swamper’s coming back with the axe,” Gar said.
“Good. He can chop off these chains, and we’ll worry about getting the cuffs off our legs later.”
It required several whacks by the nervous man to separate the chains. Gar was growling impatiently, but soon his leg irons were separated.
The Kid stood nearby, the bottle of whiskey in his hand “Now, Gar, you cut mine.” He turned toward the swamper. “Now go get us two good horses and saddles, old man: Tell the livery man we’ve got the money to pay for them.”
“Holy shit, Kid. Just tell him to go get some damn horses. We’re wasting time. Besides, it’s clouding up like it’s going to rain.”
The Kid shrugged. “A little rain ain’t going to hurt.” He laughed aloud. The rain would aid them in their escape by erasing their tracks. The Kid stood with his feet wide apart so that Gar could chop his leg iron chain in two. The third whack brought a rattle of separated chains—it was sweet music. Soon he would be free. There would be plenty of time to shoot Gar later. For the moment he still needed him.
“What do you figure, Kid?” Haggard-looking, Gar tossed the axe aside. “There ain’t no one in the street. Where’s that old man?”
The Kid shook his free legs. The chains on the cuff rattled, but he was free at last. “He’ll be back, if you didn’t scare him out of his wits.”
“I see him. He’s coming with our horses.”
“Gar, get all the bartender’s money, but count it out. We ain’t common thieves. Let me know how much there is so I can give him an IOU against my money in the sheriff’s safe.”
Gar frowned in disgust. “The hell with you and your goddamn ideas.” He stood by, watching impatiently as the bartender counted out the money.
The Kid scowled at Gar’s barely restrained impatience. He was not Leo, although he was as good at worrying as Leo.
“S-seventy bucks,” the bartender stuttered.
“I’ll make a chit on paper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you coming?” Gar asked, as he stuffed some of the money in his pocket.
“Sure, Gar.” The Kid signed the paper that the bartender laid on the bar. “You collect your money from Sheriff Rogers, savvy?”
“Yes, sir, Mister Kid.”
“Put another bottle of whiskey on my bill. You want one, Gar?”
“Hell, no. I can drink later. Let’s go.”
“Oh yes,” the Kid said as an afterthought. “Give the old man a bottle on me.”
Outside in the sunshine between the clouds, they mounted the horses. When he reined his around, he noted how Whipple lay on his back in the street. Dead. The shotgun blast had made a great black-red hole in his chest. Frantically, Gar rushed off lashing his poor horse in a frenzy and the Kid booted his horse after him A final look around, and he tipped his hat, smiling. Goodbye, Snowflake.
It had begun to rain. A grumble of thunder complained, giant clouds boiled in the sky. Dolly had covered the pack supplies and pulled on an oil slicker over her own clothing in preparation for the storm.
John had built the fire up to burn through the approaching
summer shower. “It’s going to be really raining in a bit,” he prophesied.
“Yes, I can smell it already.” Dolly smiled, welcoming the rain.
He sat down on a log in his slicker. “Wish I had a tent for you.”
“That would have been nice. I might even have let you sit in it.” She poured coffee in an enamel cup and handed it to him. “I would have called it Dolly’s Tent, and you would have had to call it that or sit out in the rain.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She drew a deep breath and poured herself a cup of coffee. He called her “ma’am” just to aggravate her. Who did he think he was?
As the rain began to increase, a man on horseback rode up the creek toward their camp.
“It’s Doc,” John said. “Something must be wrong in Snowflake.”
“What could be wrong now?” she asked.
He shook his head, then rose and moved forward to greet the man. “Hello, Doc. Get down and have a cup of coffee.”
The doctor waved the offer away. “Kid’s broken out of jail. He killed Neal and Whipple, the new deputy. Him and Gar hightailed it out of here a while ago. I sent word with a boy to notify Sheriff Rogers. Then I rode up here myself to get you.”
News of the escape and the dead lawmen was a slap in the face for John. Raindrops drilled the rubber-coated slicker and blurred his vision.
“I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes,” he said. “Doc, I’m sure sorry about all this. Did they have outside help?”
The physician wearily shook his dripping hat. “Danged if I know.”
“Good enough,” he said and grabbed up his saddle.
“I’m going with you,” Dolly said and raced off to capture their horses. Raindrops ran down her face as she hurried down the grassy slope. The Kid was loose and had
killed some more innocent people. Would he ever be stopped?
She returned with the animals. He saddled hers without an argument.
“I’ll cinch it,” she said, “saddle yours.”
“Fine. Get some jerky; we may be gone a while.”
She nodded in response to his request. Her wet fingers fumbled as she threaded the latigo through the rings. That deputy Neal was the best one of the bunch; his death caused a pain in her heart.
“I was afraid of something like this,” he said grimly. “I would bet he got help from an outsider.”
She looked at the doctor, who had dismounted and stood huddled in her canvas coat waiting for them. “Did he?”
“I don’t know much about it. When I got back from seeing Mrs. Murphy, the bartender came and got me. Said there was nothing I could do for the two dead men, and wondered what they should do with all the officials out of town. We sent the boy to get word to Rogers and I rode up here. Things are a mess.”
Lightning blazed across the sky and more thunder boomed over their head. Involuntarily, Dolly ducked, clutching the reins to the startled mare in her fist. A cold chill ran down her spine. A real fear of what lay ahead for them filled her thoughts as she climbed in the saddle to ride to town.
They rode into Snowflake in a light drizzle. A dozen riders wearing slickers sat on horseback in front of the jail. Sheriff Rogers turned his horse and came over to meet with John.
“Did Doc tell you what happened here?”
“Only that the Kid and Gar escaped. How did they do it?”
“I ain’t sure. Neal was shot in the cell block. Whipple was gunned down in the street. We can’t find out if they had any help.” Rogers glanced at Dolly, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. “This posse ain’t no place for a woman.”
“Dolly’s coming along,” John stated, his voice brooking
no refusal. She felt warmed by the tone and his casual use of her given name. Although she felt clammy cold under her slicker, her goose bumps magically disappeared. John Wesley had actually defended her right to be there.
Ella Devereaux opened the front door and smiled at the man standing in the lamplight. “Major Bowen, so nice of you to drop by.” She stepped back to admit the straight-backed man in the brown business suit. He removed his hat and came inside.
The piano music and voices from the parlor drifted into the entry hall. She graciously pointed to the adjoining room where they could talk in private. He nodded and took her bidding.
“Have a seat. Will you have something to drink?” she asked, going to the decanters on the buffet.
“Whiskey’s fine.” He set his hat aside and took a seat on a stuffed chair with rosewood arms.
“You want your whiskey straight?” She held up the fine crystal tumbler.
“That would be okay, Mrs. Devereaux.”
“Ella, call me Ella,” she said, her back to him as she fixed the drink.
“Yes, Ella. Regarding this Ash Waddle?”
“You did find the counterfeit money on him and arrest him?” Her heart stopped. She turned with his drink in her hand.
“U.S. Deputy Marshal Burke did and has him in custody.”
“Good,” she said, looking up toward the ceiling squares in gratitude. At last, Ash Waddle was out of her life. She handed Bowen the glass. He was nice-looking, handsome for a man past fifty. But shorter than she had imagined him when she had watched him from her apartment window trek up and down the hill.
“I also discovered there is a murder warrant for his arrest back East as you suggested. So I doubt you will see him again. Why did you contact me and not Sheriff Strope?”
She swept her dress under her and took a chair opposite him. “Major, we—you and I have been at odds in the past. But the word is out about your marshals—that they get the job done.”
“Thanks,” he said, uncomfortable at her praise. “Yes, but counterfeiting is a federal offense and the U.S. Marshal’s office handles such cases.”
“Major, my daddy always said ‘Don’t get a boy when you need a man.’ I have a trunk upstairs full of those bills that is Waddle’s property.”
“I’ll tell Burke and he’ll come relieve you of it.” He sat back in the chair as if finally appraising the room. “You said we had been at odds?”
“Yes. Quite frankly, I spied on you.”
“I like frankness, Ella. From now on, let’s be more frank with each other. I have an agency to run, you have a business that no doubt depends on the trade of many important men. There should be some middle ground we can attain here.”
“There will be,” she promised, meeting his cold gaze.
“Excellent.” He rose to his feet and handed her the empty glass.
“Want another?”
“No, but it was damn good whiskey.” A sly smile creased his thin lips.
They both laughed and she showed him out. For a long moment she considered the man. The major and his marshals would be a force in the territory’s future. She had done the right thing by joining forces with him. When at last she closed the door after him, she wanted to shout. With a tug to pull up her dress front, she charged into the parlor and shouted, “Break out the free champagne. Drinks are on me!”
Ella could see the luster in Strawberry’s green eyes. The “we did it” look on her face told all. Ella threw back her head and gave a yell: “Wahoo!”