by A. W. Hart
Reno bought a passage but not a room. He decided it was a nice day, and the recent unexpected expenditures had made buying anything unnecessary unwise. He went to the front of the upper deck and sat on the carpetbag, back against the wheelhouse wall and rifle across his knees. He watched the Colorado coming hard at the bow of the boat, splashing a bow wave and causing the shallow-draft vessel to rear up and down like a bronco.
The warm wind hit his face, and the occasional bow spray made it up to where he was sitting as he thought. About wishing he had a vest to stick a few coins in instead of the bag hooked to his suspenders. About not being able to find a left-handed holster so he could have his normal double cross-draw. About how he would find her in a big town where he did not speak the language. And most of all, about his sister. If it was not for her constant quips chiding him, she would be the perfect trail pard. But even with the quips, he did not know of one who would be better. He had to save her. His pa sitting up there in heaven with Ma required it. He did, too. He pledged to her as God pledged in Hebrews 13:5, I will in no way leave you, neither will I in any way forsake you.
I’m coming, Sara, and I am bringing the wrath of God with me.
The paddlewheel steamboat arrived in Sonora’s marshlands, traveling as far as was navigable. Due to the lack of passengers on this run, there was no stage, so Reno and several others climbed into the back of a wagon and rode into town. One of the passengers commented the ride was included in the price of the steamboat ticket.
He asked if anyone was getting a hotel room. Several were, and he followed them and listened to how they asked for a room. He tried his best, and the clerk responded, “How long you need the room?” Reno held up seven fingers, not really knowing how long his stay would be. He paid for three nights in advance.
The room had a good lock. He was hesitant to leave the carbine, Sara’s new revolvers, and their ammunition. He also did not know the laws in Mexico about walking around on the streets with guns in plain sight, but he really did not care about any law that got in the way of retrieving his sister in one piece.
The other big concern was asking around about Cudgel Holmes. If his gang was here, who else was on his payroll? He knew from talking to some freighters on the steamboat about the rebellions and varied police authorities during the time in Mexico. He was not sure whether the Federales, the Rurales or the Army policed Sonora, or all of them.
Reno figured his best bet for questions about gringos was Americans with a skill, such as stevedores, mechanics, miners, and the like who were less likely to be under Holmes’ influence, and perhaps Sonoran shopkeepers who spoke English.
Reno observed people while he walked around. None of the locals he saw packed guns. Many of the Americans did. There were occasional uniformed men with rifles walking the streets. He was not sure whether they were police or soldiers. They did not pay any particular attention to him and his obvious six-guns.
He drank a lot of sarsaparilla, as they called it in Sonora, while hanging around and asking questions. Along the way, he learned what he had pronounced “sassparila” was made from Mexican roots, much like root beer. It seemed a white Americano ran a business called Club Sonora on the outskirts of town. He and a number of associated men lived in a large house behind the club, which featured dining, drinking, and burlesque style music and dancing. There were shows every night but Sunday.
Reno reckoned not having Sunday shows wasn’t because of Holmes. He had every reason to believe the Americano was not religious. He believed it was because the Sonorans were.
He was in the crowd the next day when the noon steamboat came in and saw several men with Stetsons and long dusters get off. None of them looked like a disguised Sara or Holmes from his vantage point. However, it paid off when he followed them from a distance and learned Club Sonora’s location. Reno watched as they skirted the club and went into a large hacienda-style house in the rear. Those were places he would have to become very familiar with. He did have a nagging fear, though. What if Holmes wasn’t the kidnapper? He had not seen Holmes or Sara yet. What was happening to Sara in the meantime, and under what circumstances?
About the time Reno was trying to locate Cudgel Holmes, James Butler Hickok was walking into the US marshal’s office in Santa Fe.
“Howdy, Deputy. A couple of my young friends said you helped them. I’m mighty afraid they are biting off considerably more than they can chew,” the scout said.
“If you are talking about them Avenging Angels, the Bass twins, they was here. I’m guessing your name is Hickok, right?” the chief deputy said.
“James Butler Hickok,” he said, sticking out his hand to shake.
“How’d you meet them kids?”
“It’s a long story. Short version is, I like them a lot. I have a long history going back to the war with Cudgel Holmes. I’m even carrying some lead he put in me and left me to bleed to death. I always hoped we’d meet on a deserted street so I could give it back to him in kind.”
“Like I told those two, he is reputed to have headed to Prescott.”
“What can you tell me about him?” Hickok asked.
The chief deputy handed over the wanted poster.
“He’s killed some women, and they’ve included rape in each murder. Sometimes, he sets the place he killed them on fire, so there’s arson, too.”
“I’m a little confused about the murder and rape bit,” Hickok said.
“Wal, I think they were piling it on a little, but it don’t offend me none. Looked like they was consensual from the crime scenes and he murdered them afterward. No sign of violence. Bed turned down, two empty wine glasses, and a half-empty bottle. No chairs turned over or signs the women fought him. They done it, and he shot them.”
“So, one murder was here?”
“It surely was, Wild Bill. My own niece. Mind you, she was a little frisky, but not a bad girl. He’s a presentable man. Clean fingernails, well-dressed, trims his black beard and puts pomade on his hair. I believe he is what women like. He charms them, wines and dines them, takes them to bed, and then shoots them goodnight.”
He continued, “The Bass boy talks like a preacher. The girl don’t say much. She’s deep. I believe she’d kill before he would.”
“She’d have the mind to kill before him, but he’s so quick he’d be blazing away while she was coldly considering. I’ve seen good shootists, and he’s among the best. But Holmes is more experienced and less moral. Holmes will kill him. Reno Bass might even get off the first shot, but he’d die in the exchange. I aim, no pun intended, to step in front of Holmes first. Hardin could take him,” Hickok said, referring to John Wesley Hardin, “and I could. Nobody else comes to mind who could.”
“I believe you. If you respect Holmes’s abilities so much, I’d worry for the boy, too. And I’d hate to see Missy take lead.”
“Me, too, Deputy. It’s nigh five hundred miles to Prescott. How long a jump do they have on me?”
“I believe they was here about six days ago, left the next day. Riding hard, it’s a bit over two weeks on the trail to get to Prescott. The way ain’t bad, but she’s long.”
Hickok thought aloud. “So, they ought to get to Prescott a week before I do. They are still on the trail now. They may stay there a day or two, then go to Hardyville for a time, then take the riverboat. Maybe. They still have to find Holmes. He’s wanted in Arizona Territory too, according to this poster, so he will stay scarce. I don’t know what their detective abilities are. I might make it in time if I push hard.”
“I saw the mule you rode up on. He trail-worthy?” the chief deputy asked.
“Better’n any horse I ever rode, Chief. Almost as fast as a horse, can go all day, and eats whatever’s growing where I am. He can be a little ornery, but he knows who is boss,” the scout said, adding, “Which why so many scouts ride mules. Now, my friend Bill Cody is a celebrity. He’s got to be seen on a white stallion for his public. Not me. I want a dependable gun, and a beast of burden that is
, too.”
“Well, thanks for the information. I’d better hit the trail so my arrival might make some difference. Not only is he dangerous, but we can also be sure he has a bunch of gun thugs on his payroll,” Hickok said.
“Be careful and ride hard. Nobody better’n you to help them kids. If you get there in time,” the old lawman said.
Hickok mounted the mule and rode out of town. People stopped and stared, but nobody said anything. His reputation was a stone-cold killer. The reality was quite different unless you riled him.
He rode until dark each day, and rose at dawn and repeated the cycle. At villages and towns, he replenished his food supplies with biscuits and jerky, preferring cold camps whenever possible. No fire to attract attention. Less evidence he had been there. James Butler Hickok was one of the best, most experienced scouts in history, even at only thirty years old. Others of his ilk already had streaks of white in their beards. He would be lucky to live long enough to get gray. There was always the gunslinger who wanted to say, “I outdrew Wild Bill.” There had already been several who had tried. They now resided in Boot Hill.
Sara thought her new life as a captive must be like going to a really strict girls’ school. Maybe a Catholic one, where Dona Felicia was the head nun. Perhaps it was like the female version of a male being in the Army. The girls were fed well. They were provided clean shift dresses every several days. Dona Felicia called them chemises. The shifts were thin, and brief enough they would not be tempted to sneak out. They were far too scant for public wear.
Hot water was provided for baths, and they were expected to stay clean and well-groomed. There were several girls per room in the hacienda. The two newest girls, Sara and Sally, had a one-bed room together. If other girls showed up, Sara suspected they would move another bed in.
The important thing was they were not made into loose women. The club and residential hacienda were not a bordello. Sara did not have much familiarity with such places, but she knew some men paid money to be with loose women. Strangers with strangers. How disgusting, she thought. The bordello threat always loomed over their pretty heads, though, as a part of the enforced discipline.
Sara asked Sally about herself and the other girls. Sally whispered, “We aren’t supposed to talk about where we came from. Wait until we are in bed tonight and everyone’s asleep. I will tell you my story and what I know about the others, okay?” Sara nodded. Tonight would be informative and maybe give her good information to use in putting Cudgel Holmes away if they took him alive, which was highly unlikely.
Sara never lost sight of their mission or of her confidence that Reno would rescue her. In the meantime, she determined to fit in and learn everything she could.
She thought the passing days were repetitive, though not boring. The dance part was fun.
Sara initially worried about dancing around in what was essentially see-through underclothes. Would it be uncomfortable for her, even among other girls? She found it was not. Even having Don Luis there did not bother her. She suspected if they all danced in their birthday suits, Don Luis would not bat an eye.
He was a taskmaster, but even after the first day, she could see each of them improve. She gathered, and hoped to verify tonight, the girls were all relatively new.
All were Americans. None had an identifiable regional accent. All spoke English as their first language, though several, who looked like they might have a Latin heritage, would occasionally converse with Dona Felicia in Spanish.
Nobody seemed to be worried about being prisoners. Sara would have to ask Sally about it.
The girls, aged about fourteen to seventeen, were expected to rehearse and exercise daily. They were expected to be highly professional and attractive for their nightly performances. The chorus line had a couple of extras, usually new girls, as standbys in case of illness or “delicate” times of the month.
She would try to find out if any of the girls were lent out to clients. So far, nobody had admitted to it. She had the sense they were valuable, trained commodities, not soiled doves now or in the past. As long as they were happy, pretty, and danced well, Holmes made money. Even his cousin, Thad, and the thugs around him kept a distance from the women and were careful about even licentious glances. She had to give it to her quarry. Holmes ran a tight ship.
Sara wondered about poor Reno. He must be beside himself with worry and fear by now. How could he find and save her? He did not know where she was, and even if he found out, he would stick out like a sore thumb in Sonora with his guns and blond good looks. And his total inability to speak Spanish.
But many times in the past, Reno had risen to the occasion and saved her. She had complete faith he would now. She just had no idea how. Sara feared it might come down to her saving herself if he did not show up soon.
Dona Felicia told her she would be trying on a couple of outfits. They would be modified by a seamstress to fit her exactly.
Before the fitting, she sat and rested. The girls rehearsed in their chemises. Don Luis coached their dancing, and she heard singing from another room.
The choreographer was a thin, short man. Don Luis was demanding and loud, with a high-pitched voice and a Spanish accent. At least all the interaction with the girls was in English. He would make them do the same routine over and over until he thought it was perfect.
She found him quite irritating and wanted to smack the hell out of him.
Sara had a plan, though, and slapping her instructor did not fit in it. How she developed it contrasted her and Reno’s temperaments.
She was the logical one. She took things as they came. If someone crossed her, she killed them and never looked back.
Reno, on the other hand, was deeply pious. To a fault, she thought. He looked at everything with a religious bias she simply did not have.
He was slow to draw, but fast as hell when he did. She remembered Wild Bill Hickok’s comment to him: “You are quick with your guns. Don’t let your religion slow you down because if it’s time to draw, the time to think about it has already passed.”
She knew she was a tad slower on the draw, but equal with her accuracy. But she did not hesitate, and when it came time to pull leather, she got the job done.
All these things considered, Sara decided to play along with Dona Felicia and Don Luis. She would be the best dancer they had. She would gain their trust. And if Reno did not rescue her, she would escape on her own when the time was right. She did not know when it would be but was confident she would recognize the time when it came.
Dona Felicia called her into the dressing room and told her to remove her chemise. She stood like she had come into this world as the older lady circled her and eyed her like a piece of beef.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Good long legs. Trim and fit. Not much on the top yet, but we can improve the décolleté with the costume,” she said to herself. Sara did not say anything, as she had promised herself. Play along, though you think you are fine up there, she thought.
“Maria, get me a size four dance outfit,” Dona Felicia ordered.
Maria, a small, quiet woman with a sweet smile, brought a royal blue outfit, and the older woman gestured for Sara to put it one. She did, and Dona Felicia pulled here and tucked there. Sara thought it was too high at the bottom and too low at the top. Having agreed with herself, she looked in the full-length mirror in the dressing room and thought she looked like a million dollars. Or pesos, as it were.
In an era when seeing a lady’s ankle or heavens, her calf, was considered highly risqué, this outfit was over the top. She could even see the arrow scar on her left bottom cheek. She thought it added an air of adventure. Dona Felicia thought it should be covered with makeup.
The next thing to go on was makeup, for the first time in Sara’s life. It was heavy stage makeup for viewing from a distance. Then came the headdress. It was a tall hat, sparkling with paste diamonds. This is actually fun, Sara thought. Like playing dress-up, but in a naughty way.
She reali
zed, thinking back to bathing in creeks and other things, she might actually be a naughty person. It gave her a rare smile, the one she usually saved for Reno. But once, maybe, she had given it to Wild Bill. She was not sure. Probably, though.
Dona Felicia had her try on high-heel lace-up shoes until she found ones she could dance in comfortably, then had Sara walk. No problem. The heels were about the same height as the riders’ boots she lived in. The older woman was prepared to give her suggestions on walking but watched her natural cougar-like glide across the floor. She had an innate grace and fluidity of movement, so Dona Felicia left it alone.
Dona Felicia called Don Luis in to teach Sara some dance steps. He named a song for the trio in the bandbox to play and danced around the room like he wanted her to. She almost laughed at how silly he looked, but again controlled herself and concentrated.
Sara mimicked him and danced behind him. This was quite different than the hoedowns after Kansas barn-raisings. The music was prettier and more formal, but the beat had a stirring, sensual air to it. It was written and played to do exactly what it was prompting the girl from Kansas to do—dance in a way to scandalize. To show off by moving what the costume didn’t by itself. As she allowed herself to be carried away in the moment, she thought of Reno. He would love watching this dancing, thinking about Scriptures the whole time and asking forgiveness for liking it. And if he knew it was his sister, he might die right then and there of mortification. She smiled again as she danced. This time it was an evil smile.
Don Luis taught her how to bump her hip out with the bump sound of the clarinet and drums and her chest on the other side with the next bump. It gave the burlesque touch and was very provocative. Oh, poor Reno.
