Legend

by D. V. Berkom

  She took her time, enjoying the scenery and keeping a watchful eye out for renegades but the trip was uneventful. As the sun sank low on the horizon creating a brilliant purple and orange sunset, she climbed a slight rise. Below her stretched Fort Huachuca.

  Recently re-designated from a camp to a fort, Fort Huachuca was situated at the base of the Huachuca Mountains. Established in 1877 to defend against the Chiricahua Apache and secure the border with Mexico, the fort’s strategic location assured its continued existence: the tactical advantage of the Huachuca Mountains at its back, good visibility in the other directions, plentiful trees, and fresh water.

  Claire waited until darkness fell before she rode into camp and asked to see the commanding officer. She didn’t remove her hat or bandana in an attempt to remain anonymous in a fort filled with soldiers. The captain in charge glanced at her papers and then directed her to the jail where Peters was being held.

  “You’ll find Sparks there, too,” the captain said. “Be warned, the man is about as friendly as a rattlesnake.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” she replied, deepening her voice.

  She made her way to the jail—a square rock building with slat iron bars for cell doors. The darkened interiors of each cell obscured her ability to see inside.

  In the light of a lantern under a nearby mesquite, a broad-shouldered man lifted a saddle onto one of two horses and cinched it tight. The second horse had already been loaded as had a mule standing next to it. Additional provisions lay at the man’s feet.

  Not wanting to startle him, Claire cleared her throat to announce her presence. The man turned to see who was there, squinting in the darkness.

  “What do you want?” he asked. He was tall and lean with a beard and dark, longish hair that curled at his shirt collar. Claire figured his age was anywhere from late twenties to late thirties. Hard to tell with folks who lived their lives outside.

  “Are you Harrison Sparks?”

  He nodded, a wary look clouding his face. The butt of a Colt .45 stuck out from his gun belt and he wore a bandolier slung over his shoulder. A pair of worn leather boots sporting Mexican spurs graced his feet. An oilcloth duster hung from a nearby branch.

  Claire pulled out the governor’s letter and handed it to him. “I’m to ride with you to Tucson.”

  Sparks took the letter from her and held it up to the light to read. The lines around his eyes deepened. “Says here I’m supposed to give you all due respect and privilege.” He handed back the paper. “With all due respect you need to get your skinny ass back to where you came from and leave me be.” Sparks picked up part of his provisions and slid them into a saddlebag.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Sparks, I’m coming with you.”

  His back to her, Sparks’ shoulders went rigid. “Not a chance in hell,” he growled. He went for his Colt and spun in place. His gaze dropped to the pistol already in her hand.

  “I’m sorry.” Claire injected as much sarcasm into her tone as possible. “You were saying?”

  His expression guarded, Sparks glared at her before re-holstering his gun. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  Claire decocked the Peacemaker. “That’s right. You didn’t.”

  “Kinda young for this type of work ain’t you?”

  “That’s rich, coming from someone of your advanced age.” She almost laughed out loud at the look on his face. Apparently she’d struck a chord.

  Sparks resumed packing. “You sound like you ain’t even passed puberty yet.” He let out a frustrated sigh and rounded on Claire. “Dammit, kid. Just because you got friends in high places don’t mean you get to endanger my life.”

  Claire narrowed her eyes and stepped toward him, forcing him back. The tree got in his way and he stood his ground.

  “Watch your mouth, Sparks,” she said, jabbing her finger into his chest, her anger cresting. She’d about had enough of bullheaded men. “I’m as good or better shot as you are, which means I’ll probably save your skinny ass, so go to hell.” She glared at him, her breath coming fast.

  Scowling, Sparks brushed past her. “Let’s settle this once and for all.”

  Claire squared her shoulders and spat back, “Fine with me. The sooner the better.”

  Sparks breezed past the guards and stormed into the captain’s quarters. The captain looked up from his paperwork in surprise. “Mr. Sparks, Mr. Whitcomb.” He nodded at them both. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “What the hell’s the meaning of the governor’s request?” Sparks snarled. “You know I work alone.”

  Seething, Claire retorted, “The governor requires me to accompany Mr. Sparks and the prisoner to Tucson.” She nodded at Sparks, who looked like he was struggling mightily to keep his temper in check. “This jackass is trying to prevent me from carrying out my assigned duties.”

  The captain sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. He nodded at Claire and held out his hand. “Let me see the letter again.”

  Claire handed the paper to him and crossed her arms as he read it. She glared at Sparks, but he ignored her, his eyes front and his fists clenched.

  “Says here you’re to treat C. Whitcomb with all due respect.” The captain refolded the document and handed it back to Claire. “Sorry, Harry. Like it or not Whitcomb here is going along.” He shrugged. “Hell, man. It’s only a couple of days. You could do with the company. It’s not like Peters is a good conversationalist.”

  Sparks snorted. “I don’t need help. And I don’t want any, either.”

  The captain gestured at Claire. “Says in the letter that Whitcomb’s a crack shot and cool as a cucumber under pressure. I’d venture that those are good qualities to have when you got bandits or renegades on your heels.”

  Sparks crossed his arms, clearly unconvinced.

  Claire rolled her eyes. “We’re wasting time. The sooner we get on the road the farther we can travel before daylight.”

  The captain looked at Sparks. “He’s right, Harry.”

  Harry pulled in a deep breath and exhaled in disgust. “I won’t give up any of the reward,” he warned. “I captured Peters, fair and square.”

  “Nobody’s saying you have to share the money, Harry.” The captain shook his head, the lines around his eyes pronounced in the glow of the lamp. “Did you even read the damn letter? Whitcomb’s being paid through the governor’s office and only gets the money if you both deliver Peters to the train alive.”

  At the captain’s words Sparks’s demeanor transformed and his shoulders inched down. He shifted his weight. “Fine.” He turned to Claire. “You’d best keep up. I’m not waitin’ on you.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Harry.” Claire gave him a scathing look. Harry snorted, turned on his heel, and left.

  Claire turned to follow him out but stopped when the captain cleared his throat.

  “I sure hope you’re as good as that letter lets on,” the captain warned. “You’ll need to be.”

  Claire touched the brim of her hat in acknowledgement and walked outside.

  The ride to Tucson had just gotten a lot longer.

  Chapter 13

  They left without incident, traveling several miles in silence. The night sounds—insects buzzing and chirping, a coyote’s lonely howl—were all around them. Claire enjoyed watching the bats swoop through the air hunting for insects, and the occasional coyote slide past on its quest for prey.

  For his part, Peters didn’t attempt to converse with either Harry or Claire for the first dozen or so miles. His wrists bound tight to the saddle horn, he kept to himself and appeared to doze fitfully. Occasionally Harry pelted him with rocks to keep him awake, to which the prisoner took umbrage, but that was the only sign of life from the outlaw.

  To Claire’s surprise Sam Peters was small in stature and might have been considered handsome if a person didn’t take into account his murderous ways. He wore his blond hair slicked back, and he had a quick, intelligent gaze set beneath a high forehead. At the fort, h
e’d studied Claire long and hard as Harry secured him to his horse and only spoke to her once when he asked her name. Claire told him to call her Whitcomb.

  Riding in the cool of the night had a different quality than that of the daytime—instead of the blazing sun they navigated by the blue light of a half-moon. The deep shadows played tricks on Claire’s eyes, revealing places an outlaw or renegade could lie in wait to ambush them. Claire remained alert for anything that might signify movement and kept her fears to herself.

  No sense giving either of them reason to taunt her. She could just hear Harry chide her for being nervous after her boldness back at the fort.

  Along the way they stopped to water their horses at a small creek and stretch their legs. Peters said he needed to piss, and Harry insisted on guarding him. Claire would be expected to take her turn when the time came, and she was willing, but it looked like Harry decided to assert his influence over the prisoner.

  Fine with her.

  The issue of her own relief caused Claire a brief moment of consternation. Doing her business in the dark was one thing—her inability to pee standing up wouldn’t be noticed and thus no commentary would be forthcoming. But during the daylight hours she’d be stuck. She vowed to go as long as possible without either of them finding out she was female. She had no illusion they’d treat her differently once that little secret was out.

  The horizon lightened, signaling the approaching dawn. Dark clouds gathered in the distance near a range of low-lying mountains. A blustery wind whipped up, bringing with it the smell of rain. Harry spurred his bay, taking Peters by surprise when Peters’ horse, connected to Harry’s by a lead, bolted after him. The mule brayed its objection as it trotted behind Claire.

  By the time they reached the foot of the mountains the rain had started. Harry dismounted and Claire did the same. He untied Peters from his horse, then tied the prisoner’s wrists together and led both him and the horse up the rocky incline. Claire, Rose, and the mule followed, carefully avoiding the loose shale.

  Two-thirds of the way to the top they came to a wide ledge. At the back stood a deep cave with a good-sized overhang carved into the sandstone. A shallow pool of water graced the entrance, and the three horses bent their heads to drink. Claire removed the bag of feed she’d bought in Tombstone. When Rose finished drinking her fill Claire took her under the overhang, pulled off her saddle, and fed the mare.

  Harry bound Peters’ ankles and settled him inside the cave out of the weather, then came back out and saw to the other animals. Not a word had been spoken between them.

  I could get used to this, Claire thought.

  She rummaged through her saddlebag and found some Johnnycakes and a package of jerky, which she offered to Harry.

  “Much obliged.” Harry nodded, taking the food. He dropped his bags on the ground before sitting nearby.

  Claire glanced behind them at Peters. “Shouldn’t we offer him some?”

  Harry gave her a look. “Murderers get squat, far as I’m concerned.”

  “You mean to starve him?” Claire didn’t see how that would work, since the order to bring him in didn’t give the option of dead.

  Harry snorted. “If I had my druthers I’d kill the bastard right now.” He ripped off a piece of jerky with his teeth and chewed. “But no, I ain’t going to starve him.” He reached inside one of his saddlebags for a piece of hardtack, which he tossed to Peters. Harry turned to Claire and asked, “Better?”

  Claire gave him a dry stare. “Much.” She scanned the horizon as she ate, looking for riders who might have followed them. So far there were none. “Think we evaded them?” she asked, keeping her voice low so Peters wouldn’t hear.

  Harry shrugged. “For now, maybe.”

  After their meager lunch Claire found the book by Mark Twain she’d purchased in Tombstone and settled in to read. Harry ignored her and Peters and stared morosely at the rain.

  “Once the rain stops I could try my hand at hunting,” Claire said. “We passed some javalina tracks.”

  Harry’s brows drew together, reminding her of the storm. “I don’t plan for us to be here the whole damn day.”

  “Oh? I figured you wanted to keep traveling by night.”

  Harry shook his head. “We’re only staying until the storm passes. I don’t like to waste time.”

  “Well, then. That puts a different cast on things.” She shrugged and opened her book again. “I’ll wait until we’re on our way. Be more critters closer to nightfall anyway.”

  Still scowling, Harry gave her a curt nod. He stretched his legs in front of him and crossed his arms, getting comfortable.

  “Why don’t you rest while I keep watch?” Claire suggested. “At your advanced age you need more sleep than the rest of us.” A loud snort came from inside the cave, indicating Peters overheard.

  Harry scowled and raised his middle finger. Claire grinned.

  About an hour later Claire had put her book away and was combing Rose, thinking about new ways to conceal her pistol, when an ungodly sound jolted her out of her reverie. After a quick search she traced it to Harry, fast asleep near the cave entrance. She walked over and kicked his foot. When he didn’t wake she kicked harder. Still, he didn’t stir.

  “Harry.” She shook his shoulder but he remained asleep, snoring like a locomotive. “Harry,” she urged, “wake up. Renegades.” Perhaps the possibility of Indians, however remote, would snap him awake.

  He answered with another loud snort and then whistled through his nose. She stood back, wondering how to rouse him, when Peters called out.

  “Holy key-rist. I bet they can hear him all the way to Texas.”

  He had a point. She knelt next to Sparks and lightly slapped his cheeks. Still no response. She tried a bit more force, but that only managed to interrupt the snoring before it started again. Finally Claire slapped him hard with her open hand.

  “Wha—what’s that?” Harry bolted upright. Claire leapt out of the way, barely dodging his flailing arms.

  He shook his head and looked up at Claire. “What the hell you lookin’ at?” he growled.

  Claire crossed her arms. “You’ve got quite a snore there, Harry.” She nodded toward the cave. “Peters thought maybe someone was strangling a moose.” Snickering could be heard from inside. Claire stifled her own laughter.

  Harry was not amused. “Mind your own business, Whitcomb.”

  “I’m serious, Harry,” Claire said, her voice stern. “You could sleep through a stampede. I couldn’t hardly wake you.” She frowned, adding, “How in God’s name have you not lost every fugitive you captured?” A prisoner could easily slip away while Harry was sound asleep. He’d never know.

  Harry climbed to his feet and glared at her. “Like I said, mind your own damn business. I done just fine without you riding my ass.” He stomped over to the opposite side of the ledge and proceeded to relieve himself.

  Vexed, Claire shook her head as she turned to peer into the cave. “You doin’ all right in there, Peters? Need some water or anything?” As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the prisoner’s silhouette became solid.

  “Thanks, but I’m doin’ fine. Better’n ol’ Harry there.”

  This time Claire didn’t join in his merriment. How was she going to get Harry to stop snoring? She didn’t like their odds of evading Peters’ gang if he continued.

  They resumed their journey once the storm passed. While Harry remained quiet, Peters got talkative.

  “So what’s your story?” he asked Claire. “Why’d our esteemed governor choose you to guard me?” He grinned at her. “You his nephew or somethin’?”

  “I never met the governor,” Claire answered truthfully.

  “By the looks of things you’re kinda wet behind the ears.” Peters narrowed his eyes. “You gonna tell me how you got the job? It ain’t like I’m your average outlaw.” The proud look on his face told her all she needed to know about him.

  Claire shook her head. “Right time, r
ight place I guess.” She glanced at Harry who didn’t react although she could tell he was listening. “I guess the governor didn’t think quite so highly of you as you seem to.” She turned in her saddle and gave Peters a sympathetic smile. “To be honest you’ll need practice to hold a candle to the outlaws I’ve known.”

  That elicited a chuckle from Harry. Peters studied her again, a calculating look on his face. To Claire he appeared to be working out who she was. Let him try, she thought.

  He’d be wrong.

  Chapter 14

  They made good time and after nightfall set up camp next to some cottonwoods near a swiftly running creek. Claire collected wood and started a small fire to cook the rabbits she’d shot with her bow earlier that afternoon. Harry couldn’t hide his surprise when she made the kills, commenting on her ability with the bow and arrow. She shrugged it off, saying she’d gotten lucky.

  After dinner Claire checked Rose for burrs and gave her a thorough combing before she retired near the crackling fire. A pack of coyotes howled in the distance. The moon rode low in the sky, telling her it wasn’t especially late yet. Harry hobbled the horses and the mule so they could graze, and bound Peters to a nearby tree. He took a seat near the fire, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and settled against a downed cottonwood.

  “I’ll be expectin’ you to keep first watch,” he said.

  “I figured.” Claire didn’t mind. Being alone allowed her to relax after a day in the saddle. She stared into the fire and thought about Doc, and Wyatt, and all the people she’d met in Tombstone. Soon, her mind turned to where she wanted to go after this job was finished. She was feeling restless. San Francisco was a possibility—she’d heard good things about the bustling city. Or, since it was getting near springtime, maybe she’d check out Deadwood in the Dakotas. She might even run into Calamity Jane while she was there. She’d like to have a drink with the sharpshooter someday.