by A. W. Hart
She could do this. The funny thing was, she thought she would thoroughly enjoy it until circumstances allowed her to be rescued.
Reno walked the streets of Sonora. The uniformed men with rifles were watching him now. Perhaps they thought he was casing a bank for a robbery or something. He may have to downplay the Colt Navies. He suspected Holmes’ gang members knew who he was and were watching him while he was watching them. Maybe, since he strongly felt Sara was there but had no idea where, he would pull a dodge on them. Take the steamboat back to Hardyville, pick up the horses and Thunder, and ride back, entering Sonora from a different direction. Maybe he would camp outside town. At least, he would use a different hotel to mix things up. This was a bad situation for him. He was worried sick about his sister and did not know what to do about it.
Reno sensed she was in Holmes’ hacienda behind the club. It was walled off better than Fort Dodge. Maybe he and Apache could sneak in there at night, but where to look for her?
He thought more and dismissed the idea of taking the boat to Hardyville and riding back with their small remuda. Once he got Sara, the sternwheeler would be the fastest and most efficient way back. He doubted the Mexicans had any navy boats they could use to chase the steamer. If he had to be a pirate and take over the boat at gunpoint and shoot his way back to Hardyville, he would.
Reno was sitting in a chair in front of his hotel. Apache was at his feet. Reno took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He knew he was thinking all over the map. Not many of his ideas made much sense. He was just throwing meadow muffins against the barn wall. Nothing was sticking. He had to focus on ideas with a probability of working, without getting Sara hurt.
Maybe he should clean up and go to the club. He could eat dinner there and see a musical show. Okay, he was doing it again. It was not going to be a musical show. It was going to be a girlie show. And that was what he really wanted to see anyhow. And look for Sara, of course.
The hotel clerk told him the times for dinner and the show, as well as the price. It was well within his budgeted daily expenses. He and Sara had made a lot killing God’s scourges. Thank heaven for the leather bag hooked inside his pants.
He ordered a beef sandwich and gave it to Apache with some water. He used the pitcher and bowl to clean up. He had been trying to cultivate a mustache but it was not particularly visible yet, so shaving was not on his to-do list before the show.
Taking the two gun belts off, he threaded the holsters off and hooked the belt around his middle pretty tightly. He stuck both Navies in by the back side of his hips, butts forward. He checked them. They were secure, and according to the reflection in the room’s mirror, did not tent in the back of his jacket. He also had the Bowie from the dead man in the river hidden in his boot. The derringer was in his coat pocket, as well as two loaded cylinders for the .36s.
He looked in the mirror in his room. He looked like a young man going to a musical show, not a bounty-hunting gunfighter. Well, a girlie show, he once again admitted to himself. It might have music. He had only been to one, and his sister had dragged him out of there in front of everyone. He would have put the embarrassing incident from his mind, but he wanted to remember the images of those women dancing around almost in the altogether.
Reno walked over to the club. He walked into the restaurant and ordered coffee and chicken. It was Mexican-style with black beans, corn, and hot peppers. It was different from anything he had ever eaten in Kansas, but not bad, except his tongue burned a bit. He bet the spice sold more beer for them. Reno sipped from his mug. The beer was cold and very good. He took a larger swallow and smacked his lips.
Just before he finished, men started to move toward the theater portion of the building. It had comfortable felt seats, and nobody had to stretch up to see. It was significantly different than his previous show a year or so ago.
Reno kept watching for Holmes and for Sara. He knew if he saw them in this crowd, he could not start shooting and rescue her. At least he would know where she was and be able to plan a rescue for later. Several men in suits came in together and sat in premiere-looking seats. Reno thought the one who had a dark beard was probably Holmes. He did not see Sara anywhere.
A master of ceremonies came out and welcomed everyone in Spanish first and English second. He said their dancers were famous the world over. Reno had not just fallen off the turnip wagon. Famous Sonora over, maybe. The world? Mule droppings. The man introduced the band leader, who bowed to the audience.
Then the gaslights were lowered in the theater. The band started up, and maroon felt curtains matching the chairs started to open.
There they were. Dancing girls. Poised, ready to dance. They had on little costumes with bare legs and low cut tops. It was scandalous, but Reno watched anyway. Maybe he’d pray later.
The music sped up, and the dancing did too. The dancers were twirling and spinning and prancing. Reno convinced himself it was artistic expression, not ungodliness.
He leaned forward and watched, remembering to glance at the crowd periodically.
Amid applause, a single figure walked out. She was a tall redhead, and Reno thought she was almost as beautiful as Isabelle Mando, or Sara even.
The music dropped to a slow, soft timbre, and she began to sing Lorena, a song made popular during the war. Reno believed when he got to heaven and heard angels, they would sound like this girl. The whole audience was silent, listening to her. When she finished, every man jumped to his feet, clapping and yelling, “Huzzah.” or something similar in Spanish. Reno joined them.
The chorus line came back out for a final dance number, and their costumes were more abbreviated yet. Reno leaned forward in his seat, as did most of the audience.
At the end, most of the men went to the bar. The small group with the man he thought was Holmes did also. Reno returned to his hotel room and checked on Apache.
Reno convinced himself that since Sara was probably there, he needed to be there each night until he saw an opportunity to spirit her away. There was no question about it.
Wild Bill Hickok was pushing the Army mule hard and had made up some of the time gap between the twins and him. Like Sara and Reno, he had crossed the Continental Divide and still had the Little Colorado River to ford. He had seen Indians several times, but none gave chase. He was glad of it. He did not have time to spare to get to Arizona Territory and help his young friends before it was too late. His largest problem was finding water when his canteens went dry. He was transiting high-mountain desert. He anticipated he would make Prescott in another week and begin his search there.
After getting his degree, Cudgel Holmes had migrated to San Francisco. He’d worked for restaurants and hotels, but found his real niche in entertainment in the monied and sophisticated city. He eventually put together shows, especially music and dance reviews. He became proficient in catering entertainment to particular clienteles and was able to appeal to differing tastes. He quickly learned how far he could push female dance revues.
And he developed the skills necessary to negotiate and move shows from place to place. His shows were much more advanced in the way he produced and moved them than traveling circuses.
He had grown up in a townhouse in Baltimore. His father was an abusive man, but he had taken the time to teach his older son the “manly” arts, such as shooting, boxing, and fencing. He was an exporter, and had met Holmes’s striking mother in Madrid. She’d taught him Spanish and also the more gentile things. Things like how to woo lovely ladies.
In many ways, his beautiful mother had been more abusive than his father. He both worshiped and hated her. When courting ladies and visiting with less honorable women, he always seemed to choose dark beauties who favored his mother.
After textbook courting, meals, and wine, he was a gentle, considerate lover—until the end, when he killed them. He moved from state to state to territory. The pursuit of most crimes ended at the state line, which was convenient for him. He was good at hiding the evidence. The w
arrants the twins had were his only ones, but he deserved fifteen more.
It was a lonely business, considering he was surrounded by beautiful people. He threw himself into it and found solace in the pursuit, conquering, and murder of the occasional dark-haired vixen. He had no remorse, guilt, or afterthoughts. Friedrich Nietzsche would have called Holmes a sociopath.
Those activities continued throughout the war. Though most of Maryland went with the north, his sympathies lay with Dixie. He became a spy. Like his fellow agent, Wilkes Booth, he moved between Baltimore and Canada, seldom slipping below the Mason-Dixon Line.
Towards the end of the war, however, he was sent west. It was there his activities were interrupted by a long-haired Yankee spy named Hickok. They finally met one day in a field outside Abilene. Holmes won the draw and left Hickok bleeding badly on the ground. Never one to second-guess himself, Holmes figured leaving the Yank alive just meant he would have another opportunity to shoot him.
Cudgel Holmes met with his management team at ten o’clock in the morning. It consisted of his restaurant and bar manager, the leader of his twenty-seat orchestra, Dona Felicia, Don Luis, and his cousin, Thaddeus Holmes.
He ran his business like any other executive, whether the business was a bank, a railroad, or a big New York hotel.
Each gave his or her update. The third person was Dona Felicia.
“This new Sara,” she began, “shows real promise. Cleaned up and in costume, she is gorgeous, by far the prettiest in our company. But I have seen something we need to talk about. She feels the music—and Don Luis, add to this if you wish—moves naturally on her own. She dances best wearing nothing but her chemise. I wonder if we should push our costume limits to the edge for her. Maybe use creative lighting for more restricted audiences. She could quickly become the star attraction.”
“Yes, Don Cudgel, it is as Dona Felicia says. This girl has a natural wildness and sense of freedom when she begins to dance. It is unlike anything I have ever seen on a civilized stage. Maybe like a jungle person,” the choreographer said.
Holmes thought for a moment, then spoke.
“Could the two of you coach her and work up lighting sufficient to have her as a headliner in several days?”
“We would have to push her hard, but I believe so,” Dona Felicia said. Don Luis nodded.
“I have just received word a large, prestigious club in Hermosillo has agreed to our show next week. They have their own orchestra and men for the footlight and spots. We would have several days for you to work with them before the first show. We have enough wagons for the costumes and the girls. I will hire two coaches for us. Thad, you pick four of your best guns and be our horse outriders on the trip. Everyone should pack for, say, two weeks.”
There was excitement around the table. Hermosillo was a large, sophisticated place. This was big-time entertainment.
Reno, his guns hidden, walked around town with Apache. He did not see anything. He walked over to the club and circled carefully around back. He took up a position behind a tree on a small rise.
He saw some girls from the dance review sitting in a little garden. A wall prevented passersby from seeing them. Reno and Apache had a partial view. They wore their thin chemises. One was taller and had strawberry-blonde hair. It was Sara.
Reno’s first thought was to draw both guns and rush in. He had seen armed men patrolling every time he had watched the club and the hacienda, including today. He dismissed the idea. For now.
The girls, including Sara, had gotten up from the several benches and were going in.
“Apache, call Sara,” Reno said, putting his hand on the black back.
Apache barked, then did an almost-howl.
Sara looked up instantly. Reno flashed the face of their father’s pocket watch in the sun. He saw her stop and look hard. She knew they were there. She walked in, continuing to look in their direction. Before she disappeared, she smiled at them. Then she was gone.
Finally. His intuition was right. Reno let out a sigh of relief and patted the dog’s head. They better leave, in case one of the guards had heard the dog bark or seen the flash in the sunlight. Reno smiled as he walked back to the town’s center. Now, to plan a rescue. It was at least five to one, maybe more, but nothing compared to the Devil’s Horde. He could do this. He had to do this.
Once in Sonora, Holmes and his men tended to stay at the club or the adjacent hacienda. They had almost Army-like discipline. Reno wished he could pick off one or two at a time and lessen the odds against him, but he was not sure how to do it. Maybe after the show, some would come to a saloon in town. If he could entice one to walk up the river at gunpoint, perhaps a fast application of Mr. Bowie’s favorite knife would work. He did not know which way the body would flow, and if it would be found. Disappearing forever would be the best, he thought.
Reno skipped dinner at the club and just bought tickets for the review. Again, Holmes and a small entourage of dangerous-looking men came in and were seated just before the show started.
There was a fanfare, and the master of ceremonies came out, again addressing the audience in Spanish first and English second.
“Gentlemen, we are proud to announce our troupe has been asked to perform at the Teatro Central in the beautiful city of Hermosillo for two shows. We will premiere a new routine and an exciting new star. We will return home on Monday two weeks from yesterday and premiere the show on this, our very own stage. Now, without further ado, let us relax and enjoy.”
The music started, and the lights dimmed. The curtain opened, and the lights rose to show the dancers as they began to move flirtatiously across the stage. Reno did not see Sara, so he concentrated on the dancers. He really did like them.
At the end of the show, some of the men in Holmes’s small group meandered off. He saw three of them going toward the bar in town and followed.
While they were in the bar, he walked to the nearby marshland. The river was too far from town for body disposal without a wagon. The marsh might work, though. There were some deep holes with water in them.
He went back to the bar. The three men were drinking beer, which was a good sign. One would have to relieve himself eventually. Reno would follow him out.
Forty minutes later, he watched one of Holmes’ men walk out back. Reno followed.
He eased up behind the man, who was standing next to the privy. By about mid-stream, he loudly cocked his revolver. The man froze.
“I need some information,” Reno said in the dark. “Where exactly are you keeping the new tall, blonde girl?”
“What’s it to you?” the man asked gruffly.
“Oh, just your life. Nothing more.”
“In the south end of the hacienda. There are rooms for the girls.”
“Are they guarded?” Reno asked.
“At night. Why?”
“I’m asking the questions here. Does Holmes go in and visit the girls?”
“Naw. They are an investment to him, not playthings,” the man replied.
“When are you leaving for Hermosillo?”
“Tomorrow morning. Early,” he said.
“Okay. I have my Colt revolver pointed at the middle of your back. Set your gun down on the ground, and not in the puddle you just made,” Reno commanded.
The man did as he was told.
“Now, let’s walk quietly toward the marsh to your left. Do it now.”
Reno scooped the revolver off the ground as he followed the man.
At the marsh, Reno directed the man to the biggest and what appeared to be the deepest pond.
“Stand at the edge.”
The man stood at the water’s edge, and Reno slammed the butt of the man’s revolver down on the back of his head. His knees buckled and Reno hit him again, splitting his skull. He touched the man’s neck. No pulse. He rolled him into the water. Once the man was floating face-down, he pushed him toward the middle. He bubbled a little bit, then it stopped.
Reno looked at the revolver
. They could always use another gun, but it was too distinctive and would tie him back to this death. It was a Confederate Tucker & Sherrod revolver from Texas. He had never even heard of them, so it was unusual. He walked to the next pond and tossed it in.
“Come on, Apache. Let’s go back to the hotel. One a night seems like a good pace. He might sink, or they might think he fell in if they don’t look to close at the back of his head. Guess I should have checked for money to make it look like a robbery, huh? Oh, well.”
They skirted the marsh and came out far from where they had gone in. They avoided the bar area and walked back to the hotel the long way.
As Reno laid in bed, Apache snoring at the foot, he thought a lot.
He thought he ought to pray for forgiveness for his lustful thoughts each time he went to the revue. He thought about murdering the man tonight when he was not sure he was one of the scourges of the devil. Probably was, but maybe not.
Reno mainly gave thanks for seeing Sara and knowing she was okay and him signaling he and Apache were there. She would know he was working out a plan to rescue her.
He thought of the first part of 1 Peter 1:13-14, which said: “Therefore prepare your minds for action.” The verse sure applied to his situation now. He fell asleep before he could prepare much more, though.
He went to the closest livery stable early and got a horse for the ride to Hermosillo. On one of his walks around Sonora, he had bought a leather carbine scabbard. It could be used on a horse but also had a removable end cap and carrying handle for when he was on foot.
Reno went back to the hotel and tied the carpetbag to the back of the saddle and hooked the scabbard on under the fender. He left the leather end cap off so he could pull the Spencer in a hurry.
He picked up some food and water to take and mounted up about eight. He did not want to show up near the hacienda too close to the troupe’s departure.
