by A. W. Hart
Reno was awakened by pops like a small revolver would make. Sara? From the building lights across the street, he could see pretty well in the room. Her dress and purse were gone. He threw the sash open and leaned out the window. There was a crowd gathering below.
“Where’s the woman with the reddish-blonde hair?” he yelled down.
“Only ones here are a wounded guy and two dead ones. Somebody said a man in a suit did the shootin’ to save some gal and then carried her off toward the docks.”
“Damn,” Reno said, possibly for the first time in his life. Somebody in a suit made off with Sara, and I was sleeping on the job, he thought as he pulled pants on over his union suit and strapped on the Slim Jim holsters for the little .32 revolvers. He tucked the dagger sheath in the back of his belt where it wouldn’t be seen under his jacket.
He and Apache ran downstairs and pushed through the crowd as he sprinted toward the riverboat dock. A sternwheeler was leaving, and he yelled for it to wait. It did not.
As he arrived at the dock, it was picking up speed southbound, the stern wheel digging into the brown Colorado as it sped toward its terminus near Baja California and Sonora.
A couple of freight masters were still on the dock.
“When is the next riverboat south?” he asked almost in a panic. He knew his sister was aboard the departing riverboat.
“Tomorrow at noon,” one said.
“Is there another port of call for the boat before Sonora?”
“Nope. She’s going straight through with a couple rooms for passengers, but she’s mainly a freighter.”
“Is there a parallel road I could ride along and catch up with it?” he asked.
“Only if you leave right now and ride like the wind, son. There is a point in about ten miles. Cain’t miss it. They might stop for you or might not. It’s a gamble,” the old chief stevedore said.
“I don’t have a choice. Where can I buy a fast horse?
The man pointed toward a livery. Reno had not seen it in his rush.
“Beat on the door and yell for ‘Horace,’ and he’ll wake up and rent or sell you something.
Reno thanked the man and ran as fast as he could toward the livery. The crowd where Sara had been taken had broken up, and half were between him and the livery.
“Your girl done be gone, city boy. Why don’t you hang around and buy us all a beer in her honor?” one asked.
“No, sir. I gotta go get her. Please excuse me,” Reno replied.
There were several of them, and the first two grabbed him. The “city boy” caught the first one with a roundhouse right and decked him. He kicked the second one in the worst possible place, and he doubled over. An application of the quickly drawn S&W Number Two to the back of the head as the man bent holding his crotch put him out. The final three moved in as Reno fired the gun and slashed, wishing for his more manly Bowie knife. Apache growled and bit.
Reno did not trust the power of the .32, so he shot two men in the eye. The small lead pill penetrated to the brain, and they ceased to be a threat. Two dead and one groveling, holding himself. Still a threat. Reno stuck the revolver in his ear and fired. End of threat.
He and the black dog went on to the livery and beat on the door. The owner responded. Reno told him his problem. He said he needed a horse right away.
“If you need to get on at the point, and I know it well, you will be leaving my horse there to come home by himself, unless somebody grabs him first.
“I got a better deal for you. How ‘bout I hitch two fast horses to a buggy and take you there as fast as a horse can run? If you get on, I come back here. If they don’t stop for you, we both come back, and you take tomorrow’s steamboat. Twenty dollars on the barrelhead.”
Reno stuck out his hand with a twenty-dollar gold piece in it. They shook, and the man hastily hooked up to fine-looking geldings to a fast buggy. They took off along the Colorado within ten minutes.
As they passed a lit building, Reno was able to read his father’s pocket watch. He had taken it off scavengers after the killers had gone through Kiowa Springs. The steamboat had a twenty-minute head start. He told the driver, who said they could still beat the boat to the point. He drove well and fast, the wheels sliding out on fast curves.
After forty minutes, they passed the riverboat, steaming at full speed.
They arrived at the point. There was a small dock. The driver got out, and as soon as the sternwheeler came into view, began to swing his buggy lantern in an arc. The whistle on the boat responded, and they heard the engine slow.
“Thank you, sir,” Reno said, giving the man a five-dollar tip. He went out on the dock.
The stop was fast and efficient. It pulled in without tying up. A short gangplank was extended, and Reno and Apache scampered up. He paid the purser the ticket fee and spoke to him as the boat pulled off and began to pick up speed.
“My sister has been taken by a man in a dark suit. She has long blonde hair with a reddish tint. About your height and medium build. She was wearing a dark green dress. She got on at Hardyville an hour ago. Where is she now?” Reno asked.
The purser said, “Son, I welcomed everyone aboard this vessel. No young woman of the description you just gave me came aboard. Nobody close. Maybe she’ll be on the next boat. I don’t know.”
“Did Mr. Cudgel Holmes or his cousin come aboard tonight?” Reno asked.
“Mr. Holmes rides the boat several times a week. He did not come aboard, nor did the man who looks like him, who may be the person you call his ‘cousin.’ Mr. Holmes always takes the noon boat to Sonora, never this one we call the Midnight Express.”
“Then I need to get off.”
“Can’t do it. We are already underway. Not enough room to turn around, and we can’t back against the tide. You are stuck with going to Sonora. But you bought a room,” he said, handing him a key, “so go up and enjoy it.”
Reno nodded and turned for the wide stairs leading to the upper deck where the rooms and a small restaurant were. The wheelhouse was alone on a deck above.
What will happen to Sara while I am gone? he wondered. I have really jumped the gun and messed up. If she is not on the noon boat tomorrow, I’ll have to get on and retrace my steps back to Hardyville and start over. Way late.
He walked around the corridors on the upper deck, getting a feel for the boat and checking for potential threats. Mainly, he saw a mixed group of men drinking in the bar and restaurant combination, and a few outside their rooms smoking. Nothing else of interest. He unlocked the door to this room and went in to worry.
The riverboat’s stern wheel was turning at maximum revolutions, and they were making good headway down the Colorado toward the marshlands where they would dock. Then it was a quick trip to Sonora by wagons. Depending on the number of non-worker passengers, there might be a buggy or two.
As the disconsolate Reno slammed his door and the lock clicked, a smoker standing outside a room several down turned. The man walked around the corner of the upper deck, feeling the rushing breeze off the bow as the boat motored on.
He tapped on a door.
“Who is it?”
“Thad.”
Thad heard a key turn, and the door cracked. Cudgel Holmes stood there with a big .44 Dance Confederate revolver pointed at him. At least the hammer was not back.
“The steamboat man did good, Boss. I’d have believed him myself. The boy is going to wait and see who gets off the noon boat tomorrow. If it ain’t you and the blonde, he’s gonna get on it and return to Hardyville. I think you got this new dancer for your show all sewn up.”
“Thad, I don’t know who these two are, but they give me a strange feeling. I’m wondering if you and a couple of the boys ought to call on the boy about two in the morning and throw his butt in the river. What do you think?”
“I think it would be a good idea. He’s dressed like a dude, but he’s a strappin’ fella. He might put up a fight, and he’s got a big dog,” Thad said.
“Wait a minute.” Holmes disappeared into the room.
He returned with three five-dollar gold pieces.
“This might make for a nice meal in Sonora for you guys after you give the kid and his dog the toss. Remember, though, don’t let my men get drunk, so don’t go spending it on celebrating. Y’all are on call to me when I need you, and I don’t want anyone unable to operate.”
At nearly two o’clock, three men quietly turned a key in Reno’s door. He did not hear it, but Apache woke him with a growl. The three men rushed in.
Apache latched onto the right wrist of the first and bit down hard. The man let out a yell, and the dog got a better purchase on him. The second man hit Apache with a short club, and he went down. This gave Reno time to reach for his revolvers.
But before he could bring them into action, the two other men began to beat him. He was unconscious quickly, taken by surprise from a dead sleep. As the first man grasped his wrist to stop the bleeding, the other two searched Reno’s coat and found his new gentleman’s wallet. It had his folding money in it, and one stuck it in his waistband to share later.
Reno had been sleeping in shirt, braces, pants, and socks, and so he would be dressed as the entered the Colorado River.
Another passenger staggered up from the bar.
“Whaz goin’ on here?” he asked, trying to make sense of what he saw through a drunken haze.
The man with the club applied it to his noggin overly hard and he fell, either dead or with a major concussion. Two lifted him up, relieved him of his wallet, and dropped him over the rail into the cold Colorado. The limp body of the dog was next, followed by Reno.
Nobody heard the splashes of three bodies hitting the river above the engine noise.
Several hours earlier, Sara awoke in a cold warehouse. She was still wearing the green dress. She did not feel any pain other than around her head and jaw, where she had been beaten unconscious. The lack of pain elsewhere told her she had not been assaulted like her sister and Miss Bernard had. At least for now.
As her eyes cleared, she saw Cudgel Holmes and several other men talking. She was tied hand and foot and gagged. A cleaner bandanna would have been nice, she thought. Sara decided to play unconscious longer and learn as much as she could.
“What you gonna do with her, Boss? She’s a looker,” one of the men said to Holmes.
“She’s for the dance review at Club Sonora,” he answered.
“I’d keep her for me,” the man said.
“You grew up with me. Were with me all through the war. When did you ever see me exhibit interest in a pasty blonde? Not my taste. But the audience down in Sonora will love her. I will turn her over to Dona Felicia to gussie her up, then Don Luis to teach her how to dance.”
“The little guy gives me the creeps,” the man said.
“Well, Thad, he is a good burlesque choreographer. I want our shows to be professional. Throughout the West, there are shows with dumpy old soiled doves who cannot keep time with the music. Our audiences include landowners. Spanish men of refinement. They deserve better. My reputation in Mexico requires it. My own country, the Confederacy, is no more. I do not care what the Yankee country thinks of me. The more our adopted country does, the more I can pay you,” Holmes said.
“Works for me, Boss,” Thad said, and the others nodded in agreement.
“We will want to board her ahead of any other passengers. I may ride the noon boat, but I own the late-night one. Get a long duster or one of the Confederate greatcoats from one of the guys. We will walk her aboard big as day. Hiding in plain sight. Well, as plain as midnight can be. Once aboard, we’ll re-tie her ankles and gag her again. Just sit her in a spare corner in my stateroom. If she acts up, I will smack her until she stops. I reckon any bruises or split lips will heal before she learns her routines and sets foot on my stage.”
“Ain’t she taller and a bit skinny compared to the others?” one of the guys asked.
“She is taller. May have to make her a headliner instead of making the revue line uneven. I will ask Don Luis for his take. On the skinny angle, it’s hard to tell until we get her in a properly fitting costume. They help some when it’s fitted just right, Fred,” Holmes said.
“Boss, you think you will loan her out to good customers like some of the girls?” Thad spoke up again.
“It’s always an option. Let’s see how it all works out.”
An hour before the paddle wheeler left, Thad draped a long coat with a hood over Sara’s head and untied her feet and hands.
Holmes took her hand gently, then began to squeeze harder and harder until she cried out.
“What’s your name, Blondie?”
“My name is the last thing you will hear when my brother blows your brains across the desert.”
He squeezed almost hard enough to break her fingers.
“I repeat, what’s your name? I can continue doing this and worse all the way to Sonora if you like,” Holmes said.
“It’s Sara.”
“Well, Miss Sara, here’s how it’s going to be. You will walk arm in arm with me to and onto the riverboat. You will greet the captain and purser, and we will climb the stairs to my stateroom. There, you will be restrained again and not move until you get to Sonora. Once we arrive, we will repeat, except you won’t need the greatcoat. You will walk off, happy to be in beautiful Mexico. Act up, and you will get a job involving making many dirty, smelly men very happy. Understand?”
She nodded sullenly. Come on, Reno. What’s keeping you? And why the dickens did I go out alone to get two stupid sodas? This is all going very badly, Sara thought.
6
The cold Colorado River awoke Apache instantly, and he clawed his way to the surface. He swam against the current to a floating body. One sniff and he knew it was not anyone he cared about. Another splash nearby caused him to turn.
This one was face-down in the water, too. Apache swam to it, and before he got there, he knew it was Reno. He barked as he swam, but Reno did not respond.
Taking his secondary master behind his beloved Sara by the collar, he began to swim toward the shore. Since Reno was face-down, it was lucky it was close.
He dragged Reno’s body as far as he could up onto what was actually a sandbar and not the shore. But while wet, it was not over half an inch deep.
Apache butted at Reno with his head and licked his ear. Finally, Reno moved. He rolled over and gasped. Then, he rolled back over and threw up everything he had eaten recently. He crawled on all fours to the edge of the sandbar and washed his mouth out in the current. There was a body stuck on a snag a few feet into the current. Reno splashed in and got it and began to drag it to the sandbar. Apache helped.
The man was dead. Since there was no rigor mortis or damage from bumping off the bottom, boats, or snags, Reno figured he had been thrown in near the time he had.
The man had a coat on. Reno checked it for a wallet for some sort of clue to his identity. None there. Like Reno’s dress pants, the man’s pants had no pockets.
Reno’s, however, had a leather bag with all of their gold and silver coins inside his hip, hooked to where his suspenders buttoned. And they were still there.
The man was burlier than Reno, but his coat would be passable. His feet were bigger, but wearing his and Reno’s socks would make them work until replacement boots could be found.
He was not wearing a gun, or if he had been, the murderers had lifted it. But they’d missed the mid-size eight-inch blade Bowie in his boot, complete with sheath. Reno did not miss it, although not having to walk to back to Hardyville barefoot was the best find.
It was ten miles to Hardyville, and many more on to Sonora. It was unclear to Reno whether there was even a path the whole way. He should make it in time to buy a gun and make the noon riverboat. He stood over the man’s body and recited the Lord’s Prayer quickly.
Man and dog began the trek back north along the river.
Reno thought along the fast walk. He needed
guns, enough for him and Sara—this time, ones with power. At least .36s, and.44s would be better. He hoped he could get them in Hardyville, but was worried he might have to go all the way back to Prescott.
Reno walked through the night and arrived at Hardyville around dawn. The freight and transportation center never seemed to sleep. His first stop was a supply store. After all, guns were supplies to him, and apparently to others. The variety was not vast, but he still bought four used Colt .36 Navies like his father’s gun and James’s. He got paper cartridges pre-loaded with ball and powder, caps, and a couple of extra cylinders.
He also found a .32 Remington Elliot four-shot derringer and bought it. He had several boxes of .32 rimfire cartridges in the room. He picked up a canvas coat, a pair of used rider’s boots in his size, and a used Stetson-style hat. He also found a small leather money bag like the one hooked inside his pants and bought it for the derringer. They did not have a modern Winchester 1866, so he bought a war-surplus .56 Spencer cartridge carbine and went back to the hotel.
The carbine, liked by President Lincoln, was a repeater almost as powerful as the .58 single-shot muzzle-loaders of the war, but faster and handier. He knew he would put it to good use in getting Sara back.
He ate and calmed down. He would get her back, no matter how many bodies he had to step over to do it, but he would do it coldly and calmly. He would not rush in. After all, in Proverbs 14:16-17, it said, A wise man fears and shuns evil, but the fool is hot-headed and reckless. He who is quick to become angry will commit folly, and a crafty man is hated.
Reno would not be hot-headed or reckless, nor would he commit folly. He would just fight his way to his sister and kill anyone blocking him. He patted Apache on the head. He knew he had a loyal partner in his quest, one who had pulled his drowning body to safety.
At noon, a quite different-looking young man boarded the steamboat downriver to Sonora. He was booted and wore a Western hat instead of a derby. His coat was a rider’s, and it was open to draw two revolvers, their rigs crossed. The right gun was under his right hand, facing back. The left was butt-forward for either a cross-draw or left-hand draw. He carried a carpetbag and the Spencer carbine. There were, unknown to onlookers, no clothes in the carpetbag, only ammunition and guns for his sister. Where he was going, shooting was on his mind. Dressing up was not anywhere in his thoughts.
