Vengeance Road (3 page)

But I'll do right by Pa, too. I'll go see Abe. Maybe he'll even know what Pa was spooked by and who I'm up 'gainst. Maybe I can head off informed rather than blind.

I hunker into my blanket. First thing tomorrow, I'll go see Abe. But I ain't staying. Pa never made me promise to stay.

The horses sleep, but I don't. All night I keep a hand on my pistol and my senses sharp. Only thing I hear is Pa chiding in my ear.
Wickenburg, Wickenburg, Wickenburg. If anything ever happens to me, you go see Abe in Wickenburg.

I think I hate Abe, and I ain't even met him yet.

I ride south with the dawn
and don't look back. Not at the burnt house or Granite Creek or even the streets of Prescott as I tear through 'em.

Soon I'm entering the Bradshaw Mountains, the world going green round me. The shrubs get denser and the trees more vibrant. Pines sprout up as we climb, thicker and taller and making it difficult to see if there's trouble waiting ahead.

The trail I'm following has been used by prospectors and settlers traveling to Prescott for well over a decade, plus the stagecoach. Freighters come by this pass too, taking goods over the mountains by wagon once they unload from steamboats 'long the Colorado. I seen 'em winding into town like sluggish snakes—Murphy wagons loaded up with barrels of whiskey, and bags of flour and salt. It's been a while since Apache raids were a guaranteed occurrence, and I can't remember the last time a freighter lost a haul to a burnt wagon on account of Indians, but I still got a hand ready to draw my pistol or rifle. This is the kind of route where unsuspecting folk can get cleaned dry.

“You'll let me know if you hear something I don't, won't you, girl?” I says, patting Silver 'long the neck. I got my chest wrapped tight again, and I'm hoping I look like a boy to anyone I cross. Not that one boy can't be gutted as easily as one girl, but a girl trekking through the Bradshaws by her lonesome sure's gonna stick out more. Hell, I'll be safest pretending I'm a boy the rest of my life. The frontier ain't for the faint of heart, and it certainly ain't kind to women. Sometimes I think the whole world's 'gainst us.

I look back at Libby, who's trailing me and Silver with her head somewhat droopish. She's older now—Pa had her longer than he had me—but I weren't 'bout to leave her behind to starve. Besides, her and Silver get on like a pair of old maids. If Libby makes it over these mountains, I think she'll fare all right on the plains.

The trail winds higher, and by midday I ain't seen nothing but a shining view of the downward slope of the Bradshaws and the valley that waits to the south. The Hassayampa leads the way, cutting through shrubs and brambles, looking dry from my perch even when I know right well the water don't go underground till closer to Wickenburg.

Hassayampa.
The river that flows upside down.

I ain't fond of having to follow it. Indians like the water. Crooks like the water.
Trouble
likes the water. The sooner I get to Wickenburg, the better, and it ain't a short ride. I'll be lucky if I make it to Walnut Grove by dusk. Still, I ain't pushing the horses hard through this pass. Not where the trail is rough and roots crop up and a busted ankle will strand me like prey for vultures.

The descent is even slower than the climb. The heat's rising and the landscape's drying up. Shrubs start to outnumber the pines, and soon the land's looking more parched than fertile. When the trail levels out 'longside the Hassayampa, the dry creek bed's twice as wide as the narrow trickle of water running south. I let the horses drink while I eat a bit of jerky from my pack.

When I look back at the mountains, I swear I see someone crouched on the trail, so far off that they're nothing but a speck of tanned skin. I pull my rifle from the saddle scabbard and the figure lurches upright, disappearing into the vegetation, graceful like a deer.

I click my tongue for Libby and turn Silver south with hair raised on the back of my neck. How long were that Indian tracking me? I didn't hear a sound in them mountains—not beyond my own horses' shoes and the wind rustling Ponderosa needles.

We gotta move. We gotta fly.

I put my heels into Silver and hope Libby can keep up.

Walnut Grove is the saddest little town I's ever seen.

The center's made up of only a few buildings, two of which are saloons. A half-dozen settlers have set up homesteads where the land is level enough to allow it, and they're the only things that look promising in the community. Most of the vegetation here ain't higher than my hips, and tilling this earth don't look like much fun. It's all sand and bone-dry dirt.

I reckon the place were buzzing once. All these abandoned mining towns were. When prospectors first descended on Arizona Territory, they dug and drilled any which place till they struck gold. Then, no matter how small the lode or weak the vein, they'd file a claim, sell the rights to the supposed “mine” to some wealthy pioneer businessman, and move on in search of a new one. I reckon them rich folk eventually started realizing not all claims are equal, or even worth their time, 'cus sorry excuses for mining towns like Walnut Grove crumpled. The prospectors rolled out. Communities dried up like creek beds, till all that remained were the folks too lost to go elsewhere. The mining towns to survive were the ones with substantial gold, like in Wickenburg, or places like Prescott, held strong by decent farming land and the fact it were our capital once and is again now.

I tie Silver and Libby outside the dingier of Walnut Grove's two saloons and push through the doors. Inside, there's a bartender and three patrons: Two wide men and a lady wider than the both of 'em put together. She's sitting on a piano with her skirt hiked up so high I can see the garter above her knee. One of the men plucks out a song on the ivories while she sings boldly outta tune. I tip my hat at her like the gent I'm pretending to be and walk up to the bar.

“What can I do you for?” the bartender says, pouring himself some whiskey.

“Just a touch of information, I hope.”

He sips his drink and it leaves his handlebar mustache dripping like a cattle dog come outta a river.

“I's wondering if you could help me find someone in Wickenburg,” I says. “Goes by Abe.” Just in case someone
were
after Pa, I figure it's best to be asking things in Walnut Grove, where there ain't no one of consequence, 'stead of a bustling mining town like Wickenburg.

“Abe?” the bartender parrots. “Josie, you knew an Abe, didn't ya?”

She stops singing and the man quits plucking keys.

“Abe ain't worth yer time, boy,” she says. “Have a drink and join us. You know ‘Rose of Alabama'? Play it, Claude. You know that's my favorite.”

Claude goes back to stroking the keys, and the three of 'em howl like coyotes.

“I ain't in town for a singsong,” I says. Or more like shouts. “I'm looking for Abe.”

Josie hops from the piano and hits the floorboards with a thunder. By the time she saunters up to me, I's decided that she could kill me by sitting on me.

“You just might be the prettiest boy to come through town all decade,” she says, eyeing me up and down.

I knew I shoulda roughed myself up more, patted my face with dirt or even given myself a cut or two. I make a note to drop my voice more in the future, speak deeper and lower.

“I reckon I might remember where Abe's place is for a kiss.” Josie offers me her cheek.

“I reckon you might be overestimating how badly I wanna find him.”

I turn away and the men hoot in the corner. Josie laughs too, deep and rich.

“Aw, heavens, boy. I ain't been turned down in a coon's age.”

“I'll take that drink,” I says to the bartender. He pours it. This is turning into a damned disaster.

“Last I knew, Abe was on the outskirts of Wickenburg,” Josie says. “His place'll be the first you pass when you ride into town. Claude—Claude! Back to it,” she says. “Oh, brown Rosey”—Claude joins in on the keys—“Rose of Alabamy . . .”

The trio squawk on together.

“Quite a concert you got yerself,” I says to the bartender.

He grunts and downs more whiskey.

“Say, I'm trying to catch up with a friend.”

“Abe. We know.”

“Nah, someone else. He likely rode through yesterday. Has a crew with him and a scar beneath his right eye.”

Claude hits a wrong key and the song crashes to a halt behind me. The bartender's expression goes so sour, you'd think I pulled my Colt on him. He reaches below the counter and brings out a shotgun as though I have.

“You go on and get,” he says, jabbing the barrel at me.

I hold my hands up. “I ain't even paid for my drink.”

“It's no matter. Just get. Yer kind ain't welcome here.”

“My kind?”

“The Rose Riders,” he says. “Now, you's got till the count of ten to get outta my place before I fill you with this lead plum.”

He starts counting, and I back out calm as ever. I tip my hat at Josie in the corner, who's still staring.

“Thanks for the concert, miss,” I says. Then I push out the saloon doors and hop on Silver.

The bartender and the trio step outside to watch me ride out, and even with a shotgun aimed at my back I can't keep a grin from creeping onto my face.

'Cus my so-called friend came through this way, and now his gang's got a name.

I'm one step closer to tracking his yellow ass down and sending him to rot in hell.

'Bout five miles outside Walnut Grove, I realize I'm in a bad place.

The sky's losing its color and there's another twenty miles or so between me and Wickenburg. I'm gonna have to make camp for the night.

I ride till I find a small gully bordered with shrubs and prickly pear. I lead the horses off the trail and throw both sets of reins round the branches of a short mesquite tree. Then I run back to the trail and look down at the potential camp. Silver's ears are still visible, but in the dead of night nobody's gonna be looking this way. And I certainly won't be visible once I'm lying on my bedroll.

I get a small fire crackling, and as I scarf down some jerky my thoughts drift back to what the bartender said.
The Rose Riders.

I think that's Waylan Rose's band, notorious for robbing stagecoaches all 'cross New Mexico. As gold strikes started cropping up in Arizona, the posse came west, preying on the lines between mining towns and looking to clean out treasure boxes full of fresh ore. I know it 'cus I overheard Bowers complaining 'bout Rose once, even though Prescott ain't been booming with prospectors for at least a decade now. I thumb my lip, trying to wager what mighta brought Rose north of his normal routes and to Pa.

I make sure my coals are scattered long before the sky goes dark. As the evening cools, I hunker into my bedroll and watch the bats swooping in the last bit of twilight. The sky's so big, I swear I could swim right into it.