Arizona Gold (3 page)

Ryder tensed, ready to get out of the way should there be any shooting.

Barney’s Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed hard. Carefully, he shifted his hand from his side to hold it in front of him in a pleading gesture. “Hey, I didn’t mean no disrespect. I’ve always thought Opal was a looker, and—”

Nate Grimes brusquely cut him off. “I think you’d best just leave, Big Mouth.”

Nervously licking his lips, Barney gathered up his tobacco pouch and winnings and retreated with a conceding nod.

Opal, furious, turned on her brother. “You had no business doing that. I don’t need you hovering over me like a vulture.”

“Hell, somebody’s got to look after you,” he mumbled, drifting away.

The excitement over, the faro game resumed.

Ryder found a table where he could keep an eye on Opal without being obvious about it, and the night wore on.

A few fights erupted, but Virgil Earp was able to keep the peace. Every so often shots would ring out from somewhere else in town, and he would rush in that direction to see if he was needed. Most of the time it was a drunk cowpoke kicking up his heels, but around midnight there was a gunfight in the street and both men involved were killed.

Ryder sipped his beers slowly. Time passed. Finally, around three o’clock in the morning, he saw Opal begin to put her gaming tools away—the spinning device known as the goose, along with the numbered balls. Only a few men were still playing, and they grumbled, but she declared she was tired and quitting for the night.

When she left the saloon a short while later, Ryder was waiting in a dark alley across the street. She never knew that he followed her to her shanty at the edge of town, for he knew well the silent way of the Apache.

Once he saw where she lived, he melted into the night to retrieve the Indian garb he kept hidden in the not-too-distant hills.

A white man might not be able to persuade her to tell all she knew…
but an Apache would
.

It was another night when Opal could not fall asleep. Thinking about Wade kept her wide awake and staring into the darkness for long, miserable hours. She missed him terribly.

Bothering, also, was how Wade’s niece was on her way West. She had sent a telegram advising approximately when she would arrive by stagecoach. She was bringing her half of the map, she said, in hopes that between the two of them they could figure out the location of the gold mine.

A few weeks after the telegram, Opal received the letter Kitty had written earlier. In it, she told about her mother dying and how she had nowhere else to go except to join Wade and would be leaving soon.

Opal felt bad for the girl and knew in a way how she felt. After all, Opal had no family except Nate, and he was a big pain in the butt, always getting drunk and causing trouble. Oh, he made like he was so devoted to her, because she was his sister, but the truth was, he only came around wanting money. They were not close and never had been.

Wade hadn’t liked him, either. He said he was too possessive of her and didn’t like his mooching. They had not got along, and it had made Opal so happy when Wade promised that once he had enough ore dug he would marry her and take her to California to live. Nate wouldn’t have dared follow after them, and Opal hoped it would make him settle down and get married himself, maybe.

But it was not going to happen, she cried to think. She would never get out of Tombstone, because where would she go and what did it matter, anyway, with Wade dead?

Tossing and turning, she finally got out of bed and poured herself a stiff drink from the bottle of whiskey she kept hidden from Nate. There was a hole in the wall behind the stove he did not know about. Concealed there also was the telegram from Kitty. Opal was keeping it to remind her of the date she was expected. She planned to meet the stagecoach when it got in; the girl would not know a soul. But Opal did not want Nate to know about the girl’s coming, because she was uncertain as to what he might do. He had never approved of her being with Wade and probably wouldn’t like her having anything to do with his family.

The whiskey took effect, and she curled beneath the covers once more, eyelids heavy. And, as she drifted away, she decided maybe it was not a bad thing that Kitty Parrish was coming, after all. She would love her because she was Wade’s kin. Perhaps they would be close, like mother and daughter, and having Kitty around would be like having a part of Wade, and…

She slept.

Then awakened with a start.

Someone was in the room with her. She could make out a figure looming over her.

Anger overrode fear as she surmised that it could only be her brother. “Nate, how dare you come sneaking in like this and scare me to death—”

Terror was a ramrod up her spine as she felt something cold and sharp pressed against her neck and heard the husky, whispered warning, “Scream and you die.”

The first light of dawn was creeping around the edges of the shuttered window above her bed. With eyes so wide she could feel the skin tearing at the corners, she saw the Indian holding the flint knife at her throat.

His face was painted in streaks. She could not distinguish all the colors but saw red mostly, with a long black swath down his nose.

He leaped, effortlessly, up on the bed to squat and straddle her. Leaning into her face and still pressing the knife, his breath was hot, harsh. “Tell me what I want to know, and I will let you live.”

He relaxed the pressure of the blade to allow her to whisper in capitulation, “Yes. Anything. Just don’t hurt me, please…”

The Indian sank back on his haunches. His hair was pulled back from his painted face by a rag across his forehead. He wore only knee-high moccasins and a breechclout. “You were Wade Parrish’s woman. He told you. about his gold—gold that belongs to the Apache. Where is it?”

“I…I don’t know,” she stammered. “I swear it. He never told me exactly…somewhere in the mountains around the San Pedro.”

“There was a map.”

She licked her lips nervously and tried not to swallow, because she could feel the sharp flint threatening to slice into her flesh. “I…I never saw it. I mean…I never saw all of it. Only part. Not enough to tell where they were digging.”

She had to swallow, and winced as she felt her skin tear beneath the blade, ever so slightly. “Please…,” she begged between clenched teeth. “You’re cutting me.”

He pulled the knife back a bit. “Where is the part of the map that your man gave to you?”

Stunned that he knew it had been divided, she managed to say, “I don’t have it anymore. He had a niece…back East…and he told me if anything happened to him to send everything I had of his to her. And I did. There was a little money, too. I don’t have that, either.”

“I want only the map.”

“But I told you—I sent it to his niece. And I can’t draw it from memory, and it wouldn’t mean anything without the rest of it, anyway. He and Dan—that was his partner—they drew it tricky, so nobody could look at half and guess where the ore was. So it wouldn’t help you, even if you had it. Now, please”—tears spilled down her cheeks—“don’t hurt me. I’ve told you all I know. I swear it.”

He disappeared so quickly that, for one crystallized moment, Opal actually wondered if he had been there at all or if it were a horrible, horrible nightmare.

And then the moment of paralyzed astonishment passed, and she began to scream, over and over again.

Ryder heard the sound echoing as he stealthily escaped into what was left of the night.

Back in his hideaway he changed into trousers, shirt, and boots. Holster and gun replaced knife and case. Then, Indian garments stowed away till the next time they were needed, he washed the war paint from his face in a nearby stream. That done, he bedded down to sleep for most of the day.

That night he returned to Tombstone and the Oriental Saloon. He bought a drink and helped himself to the free supper on the bar—boiled eggs, spiced pigs’ feet, and pieces of spit-roasted chicken.

As he ate, he listened to excited talk about the wild savage that had sneaked into town the night before, intending to rob everyone’s favorite faro dealer. He was after her man’s gold, it was being said, only he didn’t find any. Nate Grimes was up in arms and swore if the red-skinned son of a bitch dared come back, he’d be ready.

Ryder’s sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. He was deeply tanned, but there was little about him that looked Apache. Neither did he sound like one, having learned how to speak without a native accent—except when he did so on purpose, like when he had spoken to Opal Grimes. His father had seen to it he was educated in white ways, just as his mother had wanted him to learn those of the Chiricahua Apache.

He kept an eye on Opal and could tell she was nervous. Her face was pale, drawn, and her hands had a slight tremor.

He knew, without a doubt, it would take her a long time to get over her fright.

He also knew she had been hiding something from him.

Nate Grimes hovered nearby, casting suspicious glances about. It was as though he expected the savage Apache to appear at any second.

Finally satisfied that everyone was busy for the night, Ryder returned, unobserved, to Opal’s shanty.

During raids on white settlers in the old days he had learned to take a homestead apart and discover every imaginable hiding place. He had no trouble finding Opal’s. It seemed many people favored stashing things behind a stove.

There was not much. A half-full bottle of whiskey and a gold nugget.

He picked up the nugget for closer scrutiny. He knew very little about gold ore but thought it was good quality. Large, too. Probably worth several hundred dollars. He put it back. He had not come to steal gold.

Disappointed, for he had searched the rest of the shanty and not found anything significant, he was about to turn away when a piece of paper caught his eye. He dared think it might be the map but saw it was only a telegram.

Curious as to why Opal would bother to hide it, he began to read, and, once more, hope surged within him like a mountain stream in a flash flood.

It was from Wade Parrish’s niece. She was on her way to Arizona and would arrive in only a few weeks.

And she was bringing her half of the map with her.

Chapter Three

Kitty ached from head to toe and had never felt so tired in her life. Sleeping on a stagecoach, she had quickly discovered, was next to impossible.

In the past three weeks, the only time she’d had any rest was stretched out on the floor of a home station. Normally, the stagecoach did not stop overnight, but there had been times when bad weather forced them to do so. Passengers, however, were not given the luxury of the bunk beds reserved for stage drivers, conductors, and express messengers changing runs.

Kitty kept to herself. When she did talk to anyone, she was careful to make her voice deep, lest she sound like a girl. The name she was using was Kit, a masculine abbreviation of her own.

As it turned out, everyone mostly ignored her, not only because of her surly manner but also her unkempt appearance. Her hair was long, deliberately unruly, and fell across her face. She wore frayed overalls and a tattered shirt, with a gun and holster strapped about her waist. Big, masculine boots were laced on her feet, and she kept her felt hat pulled down over her eyes.

Kitty did not really mind being somewhat ostracized. She was still grieving over her mother and did not want to be bothered. Other than that, she was concerned only with reaching Tombstone, Arizona, without incident. There she would find Opal Grimes, who would, hopefully, provide her with a place to stay till she could find work…or Daddy Wade’s gold mine. Her intent was to offer Miss Grimes half if she would help her find it. As for any kin of Dan McCloud that might have a claim, Kitty would share with them, as well. After all, they needed her half of the map—as she needed theirs.

“Get off of me, damn it.”

Kitty jumped as the passenger seated across from her in the coach, Seth Barlow, yelled at another passenger, Sarah Humphries. She had dozed off and slumped against his shoulder. In the past few days, Seth had become increasingly irritable, constantly griping and grumbling and getting angry at the slightest irritation.

Sarah, face red and embarrassed, straightened herself and squeezed as far away from him as she could. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Seth growled, “Just keep away from me. I know what you’re after—a husband, and I wouldn’t have a bony old bag like you. So leave me alone.”

“But I wasn’t…” She fell silent, blinking back humiliated tears.

The man sitting next to her, Lloyd Pendergrass, said, “Pay no attention to him. Mr. Barlow has a touch of
stage craziness
, I’m afraid.”

Seth angrily demanded, “Who are you calling crazy, mister? I got a right to ride this stage without some husband-hunting old maid throwing herself at me.”

Sarah gasped. “Oh, Mr. Barlow, I’m not doing that, believe me. And I’m not an old maid. I’m a widow. I told you that. I’m going to El Paso to teach on the reservation and make a new life for myself. I still grieve for my late husband, and—”

“And don’t waste your breath,” Violet Proby, the woman next to Kitty, said with a sneer. “He’s just hoping you
are
after him. Hell, he’s been trying to feel of me ever since we left Waco.”

“I most certainly have not.”

“Oh, yes, you have.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. You’re nothing but a painted-up hussy, and—”

Lloyd Pendergrass yelled, “Stop it. Both of you. God, but I’m sick of all this bickering. Will we ever get to El Paso?” He poked Sarah with his elbow and nodded to the space between Kitty and Violet. “Why don’t you just move over there so you’ll be sure not to touch the old grump?”

Sarah blinked and looked at Kitty uncertainly. “I…I don’t think there’s enough room.”

Kitty was staring out the window, refusing to be a part of it all. She knew she was the reason Sarah did not want to switch seats—she did not want to be next to her.

Lloyd said, “Then change places with me. I certainly won’t fall asleep and lean on him.”

Sarah shook her head. “No. I’ll stay awake. We should be stopping soon.”

Seth gave a snort. “I sure as hell hope so, because I’ll ride on top before I’ll spend another day with you idiots.”

Kitty had heard Mr. Barlow say he was going all the way to Tombstone, while the others were getting off in El Paso. If no one else boarded, it would mean she would be alone with him the rest of the way, and, Lord, how she dreaded that.

Not only had the passengers been friendlier in the beginning, but the trip had been pleasant. They would stop every twelve miles or so at what was called a swing station, to change horses. Those stations were little more than a stable and a granary run by a couple of stock tenders. Stops were longer at the home stations, which were forty to fifty miles apart. Besides bunks for the line’s employees there was a dining room and a stage and telegraph office.

Food had been good back then, too. They would be served things like fried ham and potatoes, stewed veal, canned tomatoes, peas, and rolls and butter. Moving on, however, they had to subsist on two pitiful meals a day—fried salt pork of dubious age, corn dodgers, dried fruit, and bitter coffee with no sugar or milk.

They’d had good stages at first, too—Concords, which were the finest, almost eight feet long and five feet wide, with seats upholstered in the finest leather, and wood paneling with polished metal fittings. Curtains were also made of leather, which could better absorb the wind and rain.

Horses were nicer then, too, but as they left behind settled farms and breeding ranches, half-wild stock was pressed into service. Squealing, biting mustangs, barely broken, were forced into harness.

So, as the journey wore on, passengers became increasingly uncomfortable. There was a critical lack of sleep and the misery of close quarters and tedium. Legs swelled, muscles cramped, joints throbbed, and tempers flared.

Kitty knew Lloyd Pendergrass had been quite serious when he said Seth Barlow had a touch of stage craziness. It was a recognized malady of the West, and sometimes passengers became violent and actually had to be thrown off the stage in the middle of nowhere to keep them from harming others.

She sneaked a glance at Mr. Barlow. He was plenty mad, she could tell. His eyes were stormy, his face was red and puffy, and with one hand he was noisily popping the knuckles of his other.

Violet suddenly cried, “I wish you’d stop that, you old goat.”

“And I wish you’d kiss my ass, you strumpet.” He raised his hand as though to hit her.

At that, Lloyd Pendergrass lunged for him.

Sarah Humphries screamed as she was mashed back in the seat, caught between them.

“Atta boy, Lloyd!” Violet was bouncing up and down and beating her knees with her fists. “Teach him not to talk that way to a lady. Beat his ass.”

Seth landed a punch on Lloyd’s chin, and Lloyd grabbed him by his throat as they fell on top of Violet and Kitty.

“Somebody make them stop,” Sarah screamed, hands covering her face.

Then she screamed louder as the stage hit a bump, knocking the fighters back into her, and she was struck in the face by a swinging boot.

Finally, the driver realized what was going on and began to rein in the horses.

But before he could come to a complete stop, Kitty saw the sudden glint of steel as Seth pulled a knife from his boot. In a flash, she drew her pistol. Firing inside a stagecoach might be dangerous, but she knew what she was doing and had to take the chance. Swiftly aiming, she pulled the trigger and shot the knife out of Seth’s hand just as it began a downward arc toward Lloyd’s chest.

The explosion was like a cannon in such close quarters. Smoke filled the cabin, making everyone gasp and cough.

Violet yelled that she was deaf.

Sarah fainted.

Lloyd threw himself against the door at his back and toppled onto the ground.

Seth fell right behind him.

Rufus Ward, the driver, leaped from his box. “What in thunderation is goin’ on back here?” His gun was drawn.

Lloyd scrambled to his feet, knocking dirt from his coat and trousers before pointing at Seth, who had made no move to get up. “Him. He’s stage crazy. That boy”—he nodded toward Kitty, who was still in her seat—“if he hadn’t shot that knife out of Barlow’s hand, he might’ve killed me.”

Rufus looked down at Seth. “Is that true, Barlow? You pull a knife on Pendergrass?”

Seth made a hissing sound. “I’ll cut them all if they don’t leave me alone. The women are throwing themselves at me, and Pendergrass is taking up for them, and him”—he pointed at Kitty—“he’s the worst. He tried to kill me.”

Pete Dorcas, the guard, looked down from where he stood in the box. Shotgun in hand, he laughed and said, “He’s a damn good shot, too. Blew that knife outta your hand without a scratch.” Leaning over, he directed his voice to the inside. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that, boy?”

Kitty did not respond.

Pete shrugged at Rufus. “I don’t think I’ve heard him say a word since we took over.”

“He never speaks,” Lloyd said. “But he saved my life.”

Rufus grunted. “Well, it’s a good thing he had a clear shot, or he might’ve killed somebody.”

At that Kitty could not resist snapping, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have fired.”

Everyone looked surprised that she had spoken, then Rufus allowed, “No, I don’t reckon you would have.”

Violet had got out of the stage and was standing with her hands pressed to her ears.

Rufus shouted at her, “You’ll be fine in a while, miss. It just takes time to get the ringing out.” He glanced inside and saw Sarah had collapsed. “She’ll be fine, too.”

After asking Lloyd to see if he could bring Sarah around, Rufus called to Pete to throw down the handcuffs. “I’m not taking no chances before we get to El Paso.”

Seth fought against the cuffs, and Pete finally had to jump down from the box to help subdue him.

“A gag would help,” Violet snapped as he was wrestled back into the coach.

Rufus assured her that if he heard one more foul word or threat out of Seth, he would personally ram his bandanna in his mouth…all the way to his lungs.

With a black look of resignation, Seth settled into grudging silence.

When they were under way again, Lloyd held out his hand to Kitty “Thanks for saving my life.”

Fearing he now felt a sense of kinship and would want to make conversation, she ignored his outstretched hand and returned to her vigil at the window.

With a sigh, he left her alone…as did everyone else.

The home station in El Paso was a welcome respite to Kitty for many reasons. She was able to find a private place to take a bath and had time to wash her overalls and shirt and allow them to dry in the Texas heat without anyone seeing her undressed. There was also good food and plenty of cold milk and even a cot in an obscure corner.

She did not realize she had slept for so long till Rufus shook her awake and said they would be rolling soon.

“You were tired, so I let you sleep,” he said, sitting down on the side of her cot as he rolled himself a smoke.

She fought the impulse to shrink away from him. After all, it was supposed to be just two men talking and not mattering that one of them was in bed.

He struck a match, lit the cigarette, and took a deep draw before confiding, “I slept quite a spell, too. Thought I had a couple of days to rest up before the northbound stage got here—that’s the run I was scheduled for. But word’s come they busted a wheel and they’re running late. Then the driver that was supposed to take the run on into Wilcox and Tombstone got himself killed in a gunfight in a Mexican cantina.

“So…” He shrugged and took another draw. “I’ll be taking the stage on to Arizona. Drivers are supposed to change every station, but there ain’t nobody else. I’m just hoping for relief along the way, but I’m afraid there won’t be any.”

She wondered why he was telling her his troubles and decided it had to do with the shooting incident. Still, she did not want to get close to anyone and remained silent.

After a moment, he looked down at her and laughed. “You’re a strange one, Kit Parrish, but you oughta do all right out here. You keep your mouth shut, so it’s likely you’ll stay out of trouble. Knowing how to use that gun will help, too. Tombstone is a rough and dangerous place.” He stood. “Best get up and moving, boy. We’re leaving soon as we eat breakfast.

“Afraid we got some shitty horses, too,” he said on the way out. “Crazy, half-broke mustangs. It’s them or nothing, though. Shortage of horses. With a hundred miles to go, we’ll probably wind up with mules before it’s over.”

Kitty dressed quickly and joined him in the dining room along with the new guard, Hank Wallace. Antelope steak, eggs, and hot biscuits were served, along with coffee and milk. She ate as much as she could hold knowing that with the rest of the way so rugged and barren they would be lucky to get bologna and cheese and tins of herring or sardines at the few and far-between stations.

She was having one last helping of biscuits and honey when a commotion erupted in the corral adjacent to the station house.

Rufus and Hank kept eating, but as the noise of horses whinnying and men shouting and cursing continued, Kitty raised from her chair.

“Nothing to worry about,” Rufus said around a mouthful of fried egg. “Just the Mexican vaqueros trying to get harnesses on them half-broke mustangs. They’ll whip ’em into settling down, though.”

Kitty heard the sound of leather striking horseflesh and cried, “They shouldn’t do that. You don’t have to hit a horse to get him to do what you want.”

Rufus and Hank exchanged startled glances as she strode angrily from the room, then hurried to the window to watch as she stormed into the corral.

Kitty marched right over to the vaquero wielding the whip and jerked it from his hand. “You don’t have to beat a horse to break him. There are other ways to persuade him—like being gentle.”

The vaqueros looked at each other, then at Kitty and broke into gales of laughter.

“Then do it,” the one she had wrested the whip from challenged as he pointed to the stamping mustangs, their nostrils flared and eyes wild with rebellion. “We will see how the
gringo
would do it.”

Kitty spent the next few minutes patting the horses and talking to them in soothing tones. Then, when they had stopped their agitated prancing about, she ran her hands along the straps to confirm her suspicion that they were too tight. True, a team had to be firmly harnessed in order to perform as a unit, but a good driver could handle pairs of loosely hitched animals separately. And Rufus, she had seen, was a good driver. He had just made the error of allowing someone else to take care of his horses.