When the woman had gone, Serena stood with her hands clasped before her. The widow O’Hare seemed nice, and no doubt she meant well, but she was wrong on one point. There was reason for haste. She might trust Ward Dunbar if she pleased; Serena, however, had no wish to remain for long the recipient of his casual patronage. The expression in his eyes, the tenor of his words before he took his leave, had held too much the sound of a warning fairly given. She did not intend to ignore it.
Hours later, as she walked the streets of the town, Serena was not nearly so confident. She had met with nothing in her quest for employment except curt dismissals, or else leers and attempts to fondle her or cajole her into dark back rooms. The situation was much as Mrs. O’Hare had said. There were too many people for the positions available.
One by one the stores closed as the light faded. The boardinghouses and hotels were still open, however, and Serena had turned her hopes toward their shining lights. The results were depressingly the same. There was nothing for her. One old harridan, standing in the rear door of a rundown rooming house, had eyed Serena’s slender frame and asked if she had any experience in warming beds. For one instant Serena, standing in the cool night air, had thought she was speaking of some necessary task, then the meaning of the woman’s snide query became obvious. She had lost no time in getting away from that place.
The night deepened. The board sidewalks emptied except for knots of aimless, rough-looking men who called suggestively after her as she passed. As much as it went against the grain to admit defeat, Serena knew she must call an end to her search. As the hour advanced she was becoming more conspicuous. No decent woman ventured abroad this late. Her wisest course would undoubtedly be to make her way back to the O’Hare boardinghouse and take stock of her position.
She was so tired. She must have walked for miles, stood before countless dusty counters waiting for the attention of the proprietors of every manner of establishment. Though the quick bath she had indulged in before changing her clothing had freshened her spirits for a time, the weariness of the long day spent in the makeshift saddle of the pack horse had crept back, increasing her exhaustion. She should have eaten before she set out, as the widow had suggested. She had been too excited, too determined to prove to herself that the woman was wrong. She had been so certain that if she offered herself for hire someone must accept her sacrifice. How wrong she had been.
She had walked far. She had thought the street she was on was the one on which the widow’s establishment stood. If so, there was no sign of it. The houses around her seemed far too grand to be its neighbors, in fact. She must have taken a wrong turn.
She halted, slowly swung about. From the dark shadows behind her there came a scraping sound. Serena went still. A moment later a cat meowed and padded toward her to rub against her skirts.
Serena let out her pent breath in a shaky laugh. Giving the thin animal, scarcely more than a kitten, a quick pat, she began to retrace her steps. The cat followed a short distance, then suddenly hissed and shied away, disappearing into the black night at a run. Serena walked on more quickly.
In the dark nothing seemed familiar. She would have to choose another street and hope for the best. Ahead of her was a main thoroughfare with its softly glowing streetlamps. From there she should be able to find her bearings.
She turned a corner. Coming toward her along the board sidewalk was the squat shape of a man. He passed beneath a street lamp, a massive figure, bearded, dressed in a plaid lounge suit, celluloid collar, and a bowler that made his head look small for his body. Most of his weight was in his upper torso, for his legs were not overlong. By contrast, his hamlike hands at the ends of his arms swung near a level with his knees. As he neared, Serena saw that she held his attention. Moving as far to the right as she could, she averted her face. As he came closer, her breathing quickened. It seemed she could feel the intentness of his stare. He came on, a rolling swagger in his stride and his heavy shoes thudding on the boards. He seemed to take up the entire sidewalk, shouldering along with no intention of giving way for her. Skin prickling in some primitive reaction of warning, Serena veered to step into the street.
“Hey, wait, girlie! Where you going in such a hurry?” He reached out to close his enormous fingers around her upper arm, snatching her to a stop.
Serena smothered a small scream as she was thrown off balance. She braced against the pull upon her arm with one hand on his barrel chest. An animal heat rank with the acrid smell of liquor, stale sweat, and Florida-water cologne radiated from him. Her voice tight and a little high, she said, “That’s none of your concern. Release me at once!”
“Now why would I want to do that? You’re the best-looking piece I’ve seen all night. Be nice to old Otto and we’ll have ourselves a fine time.”
“No, I can’t.” Sickness rose inside Serena and her arm felt numb.
“Why? My money’s as good as anybody’s.” A black scowl wrinkled his forehead, pinching his small black eyes closer together. He gave her a shake that jerked her head forward.
Protesting her innocence was useless. Ward Dunbar had not believed her; why should this man? In desperation she cast about in her mind for some other excuse. “Please,” she said, “someone is waiting for me.”
“Let ‘im wait. I ain’t had a tasty morsel like you in a long time and I’m right ready to rip into it. I know a place along here that will let us have a room for an hour or two.”
“No! No — not now.”
“I don’t think you heard me right, girlie. I got something for you, and you gonna get it whether you want it now or not.”
He took a step, dragging her with him. Serena twisted, digging in her heels, clawing at the enormous hand that held her. Without stopping, the man shifted his grasp to her waist, clamping her to his side so that her feet left the ground. His grip crushed her ribs, driving the air from her lungs. A red mist rose before her eyes as she tried to kick, to drive her elbow into his chest, to draw in enough air to scream. He laughed, and as though her resistance excited him, wrapped his long arms about the lower part of her body, sinking his fingers into the soft curve of her hip.
Through the roaring of the blood in her ears, Serena thought she heard the pound of running footsteps. Abruptly the man who had called himself Otto staggered as he was shoved from behind, He let her go, and she felt herself falling. He stumbled over her legs with a roared curse, flailing around to face his attacker. Serena scrambled from under him in time to see him stagger under a blow to the side of his bullet head. The bowler flew off, revealing a straggling fringe of hair around the bald dome of his skull.
“Get up, woman,” came a harsh, well-remembered voice above her. “I have delivered you from this son of Satan, and will now take you back into my fold like a lost sheep.”
In disbelief Serena stared into the grimly smiling face of Elder Greer. “You,” she whispered.
“When I was told that you had arrived at last, I had to come for you, in spite of the tale that you were with another man. I saw you and followed you to find out the truth. It was God’s work that brought me to you in your hour of need.”
It was a mistake for the Mormon to turn his attention from the man he had struck. With a bull-like roar, the miner charged at the elder, drew back an enormous fist, and drove it with bone-crunching force into his face. The older man was flung back, his arms and legs flopping. He hit the wooden sidewalk with a crash and lay moaning, the blood oozing dark and red from his nose and mangled lips.
Frozen horror gripped Serena for a long instant. Otto, the victor, grunted in satisfaction and swung to take a lumbering step toward her. There was bloodlust in his porcine face and a cruel grin on his formless mouth.
Serena rolled, scrambling to her feet. Vaguely she was aware of an open tilbury coming toward them at a fast clip, running before a cloud of dust. The giant of a man seemed to neither notice nor care in his need to get his hands on her. The chance of help from the driver of the carriage was slim, but it cou
ld not be ignored. She angled her retreat toward the street.
Suddenly a long arm shot out. She sprang back, stumbling as her foot left the sidewalk. The sausage-like fingers of the man called Otto snagged the loose weave of her shawl, closing on the thin material of her dress as his hand clamped bruisingly on one breast. With a throat-rasping scream, she threw herself to one side. She heard the rending sound as the bodice of her dress parted, then she was free, spinning to leave her shawl in his clutches. She swung to run.
A man shouted. Carriage horses reared screaming, wall-eyed above her, their ironshod hooves flashing about her shoulders. Something struck her side, and she was knocked sprawling in the dirt of the street. Before she could regain her breath, hard hands bit into her waist, hauling her upright. With dust in her mouth, she kicked backward, squirming, struggling in a crazed mixture of terror and disgust.
A hard cracking sound exploded over her. The man who held her gave a howl of pain. The sound came again, and she was released, shoved away as with a bellow of rage Otto turned to face this new menace.
It was Ward Dunbar. He stood in the street with his legs spread, a tall figure resplendent in the satin-edged black of evening dress. The whiteness of his shirtfront shone with a pale gleam in the dim light. In his hands he held a carriage whip, while behind him lay a silk top hat, as though he had lost it as he leaped from the tilbury.
The carriage backed as the horses shifted. Ward swung his gaze to the driver still on the seat, a Negro in a uniform of livery. Assured that he was going to be able to hold the nervous team of matched grays, Ward turned his hard stare once more in their direction.
“Dunbar, what’s the idea of you butting in on my game?” Otto demanded. There was rage in his eyes as he nursed a red welt on his face, but his voice held an undertone of respect.
Ward Dunbar flicked the man a glance, his face set in lines of grim contempt. Turning away, he held out his hand. “Serena,” he said.
She took a hesitant step toward him, and then as the other man made no move to stop her, moved in a rush to the gambler’s side. His free arm closed around her, and at his touch, a racking shudder ran over her. With trembling hands she tried to pull the tattered edges of her bodice over the white curves of her breasts that swelled above her chemise. It could not be done. Though her shawl lay only a few feet away, where Otto had dropped it, she could not bring herself to leave the gambler’s protective hold to retrieve it. She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself in an effort to still her trembling. With a quick movement Ward tossed the carriage whip to the Negro driver and shrugged out of his coat to wrap it about Serena.
“So that’s the way it is,” Otto exclaimed, throwing back his head. “Hell, how was I to know? I seen her on the street and figured she was fair game.”
“Your mistake,” Ward said, his voice like steel. “Make it again and I will horsewhip you within an inch of your life.”
An ugly look came and went in the man’s eyes. He lifted one hand as if in token of faith. “I got your point, Dunbar. Thing is, I done took me a liking to this girlie here. I gotta know what she is to you. What I mean is, is she something special you mean to keep for yourself, or are you taking her up to Pearlie? If you mean to set her up in the parlor house, I’d be willing to pay big for the first chance at her.”
Serena was not certain just what a parlor house was; still, she could guess. Instinctively she pressed closer to Ward Dunbar’s side.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but she is mine.”
“I’da damned sure never laid a hand on her if I hadda knowed that,” Otto said, a crafty sound in his low voice. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, though. This ain’t gonna set too well with Pearlie, you coming back with another woman.”
“It won’t, will it?” Ward drawled, an odd inflection in his tone before he gave a shrug. “You let me worry about Pearlie.”
His arm tightened around Serena. It seemed to her that his embrace had become more possessive since he had claimed her as his. She wanted to deny his words, but something in his manner prevented her. The hulking man seemed willing to accept Ward’s authority now, and yet there was no way of knowing what he might do if he thought Ward had cheated him of his prey for no good reason.
“I’ll do that,” Otto said with a slow nod. “But if Pearlie yells too much, or if you ever get tired of that fine piece there—”
“It’s not very likely,” Ward said, his voice hard and impatient, cutting across the other man’s words. He turned back toward the carriage, urging Serena toward the steps. As she climbed up, there came a weak cry from the direction of the board sidewalk.
“Serena!” Elder Greer cried, struggling to one elbow. “Don’t go. Come to me! Help me!”
Serena turned to stare at the fallen Saint, seeing his blood-streaked face, the gnarled hand he held out to her.
“Serena!” the Mormon called again, his voice weak. “I tried to save you. Don’t go.”
The grip of Ward’s hand was firm under her elbow. “Don’t look back,” he said.
An instant later she was on the seat, squeezed between Ward and the driver. The gambler shifted to put his arm around her, making more room on the seat. The driver yelled at the grays, snapping the popper of the whip about their ears. The tilbury jerked forward.
Anger brought the elder swaying to his feet, increased the power of his lungs. “Whore!” he shouted after her, staggering along the board walk. “No-good slut! Temptress! Bitch! Jezebel!”
Serena pressed her hands over her ears, and closing her eyes, pressed her face into Ward Dunbars shoulder. She did not look back.
4
They rattled along the dark streets, swinging around corners, bumping over rocks, slowing as they climbed, speeding as they reached the downgrade. The driver spoke to Ward and he replied; Serena did not hear. Her body felt sore, as if she had been beaten, and inside her was a hard knot of apprehension that would not loosen even now, when she knew she was safe. The night air brushed coolly over her face and stirred the dark mass of her hair. The man who held her absorbed the swaying and the jolts, imparting the warmth of his body to her chill skin. Serena did not move.
The tilbury slowed and came to a stop. They sat silent. Serena took a deep, shuddering breath and with great effort forced herself to sit erect. They were pulled up before a small building with the words “Florence and Canon City Railroad” emblazoned across the front, and the initials F&CCRR picked out in gold on its glass door. Despite the late hour, a light shone inside, and men wearing the green eyeshades of clerks moved to and fro. A half-dozen other men lounged on the platform some distance away.
There was no sign of the train. The empty rails stretched away into the darkness beyond the sleeping town. A number of freight cars sat on the siding, however, along with empty ore and cattle cars, and an impressive Pullman-type car colored a dark blue and decorated with brass fixtures and scrolled moldings bright with gold leaf.
“What is it? Why are we stopping here?” Serena inquired, her glance wary and a flush across her cheekbones as she sat stiffly holding Ward’s coat about her. She had thought she would be taken back to the boardinghouse.
As she spoke, the Negro driver got down, secured the horses at a hitchrack, and moved toward the private railroad car. Taking a key from his pocket, he inserted it in the door, climbed the steps, and disappeared inside. Within seconds a light bloomed, outlining heavy drapes over the windows.
“Nathan Benedict, the man I met this evening for dinner, owns a fair share of the F&CCRR. He offered me the use of his private railroad car on the run up to Cripple Creek. It will be coupled to the train from Denver coming through tonight, and will make the return trip back to Colorado Springs for Nathan’s use tomorrow.”
“I see. It — it should be comfortable for you.” The palms of her hands stung where the fine granite gravel of the road had gouged into her skin as she caught herself when she fell. She stared in surprise at the stains of blood that appeared.
<
br /> “I can think of worse ways to travel.”
“What about your horses?”
“They’ll be loaded on a cattle car. I turned them into the corral where they are holding the other livestock bound for Cripple Creek earlier this evening.”
“And the carriage?”
“Nathan’s property, too.”
Her queries had been idle, something to hold him near while she thought of a diplomatic way to put the most crucial question. Before she could find the words, Benedict’s driver emerged from the railroad car and came toward them.
“All ready, sir,” he said. Face impassive, he stood to one side, waiting for them to alight.
Ward stepped down and turned, ready to assist Serena. She stared at him with her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
“There’s no need for me to get down here,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“There is every need.” The night wind ruffled his dark-brown hair as he stood watching her. The look in his eyes was patient, yet unyielding.
“I — I would prefer to return to the boardinghouse.”
“Nathan gave strict orders for his man to return the carriage to the Antlers Hotel at once to take his other guests home.”
The Negro man cleared his throat. “That poker game the gentlemens was playing will last another hour or two, sir. Mr. Benedict wouldn’t mind if I—”
“There’s no need,” Ward repeated, his voice hardening. “That will be all,” he added, and flipped a coin in the man’s direction. The driver caught the spinning disk. Staring down at it, rubbing it with his thumb, he gave a slow nod and moved away to stand at the horses’ heads, crooning to them in a soft voice.
Serena’s gray-blue eyes were dark as she stared down at Ward. “I don’t know what you are suggesting, but I must get back to the boardinghouse. Mrs. O’Hare will wonder what has become of me.”
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 93
