“Economical,” I remarked.
“I don’t know why you put up with that man, Elena.”
“Sometimes I wonder myself. Well, at least it will get us to San Francisco. I suppose that’s really all that matters.”
Millie looked up at the guard. “Sixty if he’s a day,” she observed. “Do you suppose he knows how to use that rifle?”
“Let’s hope he won’t have to.”
“They say the Black Hood bandit and his gang are somewhere in this area. I must confess, I’m a tiny bit worried.”
“About bandits?”
“The Black Hood in particular. I—I didn’t plan to tell you this, but Frank said the bandit was in town last night. He came to see you dance. Frank said the man sat in one of the balconies that overlook the stage.”
“That’s absurd. He wouldn’t dare show himself.”
“Frank swears it’s true. He says Black Hood and four of his men came in the rear entrance just as the lights were going down and slipped up the back stairs to a box. They were armed with guns. The box was already occupied, but the bandits held the occupants at gunpoint throughout the performance, while their leader sat and watched you dance.”
“I—I did notice that one of the boxes was curtained off last night. I thought it was—rather unusual.”
“They slipped out the way they’d come just as you were taking your final bows,” Millie continued. “No one knew anything about it until an hour or so later when the men who’d paid for the box finally managed to kick and stomp enough to attract attention. They were found squirming around up there on the floor, tied up and gagged. Frank knows one of them. That’s how he got his information.”
“How did they know it was the Black Hood gang?”
“The leader didn’t make any effort to conceal his identity. He was dressed all in black and wore a heavy silk hood over his head, just like in those posters we’ve seen tacked up. The men said he spoke in a soft, raspy whisper to disguise his voice. They were terrified. It was them, all right, no doubt about it.”
“I wonder why they’d take such a risk?”
“To see you, luv. Why else?”
“Well, now that they’ve seen me,” I said, “I doubt that we have anything to worry about. Our money’s safely in San Francisco by this time.”
“But they don’t know that,” she pointed out. “Besides, you’ve still got your jewel case. I can’t help wishing that guard were a little younger.”
Millie thrived on drama and excitement, but I could tell that she was genuinely concerned. Black Hood was a notorious figure, already a legend in these parts. He had been marauding this section of California for over two years, eluding the law with diabolical skill. Many claimed he was a prominent citizen who took to the road in order to maintain his high standard of living. Others claimed he was a Russian whose lands had been confiscated. He had staged over seventy successful holdups, and there was a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for his capture. His coming to see me perform had been risky indeed, but he was celebrated for his boldness. He was also known for his gallantry toward the ladies, and he didn’t prey on defenseless women. I decided not to give it any more thought.
The driver and the hotel clerk had finished fastening our bags on top of the coach. The guard sat on his perch, idly stroking his rifle. Three men on horseback galloped down the street, slinging mud in every direction. A great commotion broke out in the saloon across the street. Guns were fired. A man came sailing backwards through the swinging doors and toppled onto the wooden walkway. A blond giant in shirtsleeves and apron stepped out to observe his handiwork, scowling fiercely down at the man he had knocked unconscious. The Chinese laundryman and his wife were having a violent argument. Pots and pans clattered. It was only nine o’clock in the morning.
“It’s not Paris,” Millie observed.
“Or New York or Boston, for that matter. San Francisco will be better.”
Millie didn’t reply. She was too busy staring at the man who strolled lazily toward us carrying a battered leather bag. He was very tall, very lean, with a loose, lanky build that somehow suggested wiry strength. His sandy brown hair was sun-streaked, and his amiable brown eyes were half-concealed by heavy lids that gave him a sleepy look. His nose was sharp, his cheeks lean and taut, and his mouth was a wide pink slash, crooked at one corner. He wore scuffed brown boots, tight tan breeches and a faded beige cotton shirt printed with brown flowers. A lethal-looking pistol rested on his right hip in a leather holster as scuffed as his boots. It had obviously seen years of service.
“Pardon me,” he said, addressing the driver. “You wanna tie this up there, too?”
As the tall man hoisted the bag on top of the coach, the driver looked hesitant. The stranger smiled. He was probably in his early thirties, and he wasn’t at all good looking, but there was a casual self-confidence and an aura of indolent sensuality about him that many women would find extremely appealing. Millie was giving him a careful inspection, hands on hips, a defiant look in her eyes.
“This is a private coach,” she said.
“Goin’ to San Francisco, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact it is.”
“Then it’s the right coach,” he informed her.
His voice was soft and lazy, slightly slurred, with that distinct, enchanting flavor indicating he came from the Deep South. I loved the sound of it, but Millie wasn’t at all pleased with this tall intruder with his floppy, sun-streaked hair and sleepy demeanor.
“You can just take that bag right back down!” she told him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. You got it fastened up good?”
The driver looked at the stranger, then eyed his gun and scrambled onto the front seat beside the guard. The guard hadn’t so much as glanced at any of us. He continued to stroke his rifle and stare fixedly into space.
“Reckon we might as well climb in, ladies,” the stranger said.
“Now you just wait a minute!” Millie snapped. “I told you this was a private coach.”
“Reckon you did,” he drawled.
“In case you don’t know it, this is Elena Lopez, and I—”
“And you’re Millie,” the man said. “Fella told me about you. Said you’d probably give me some lip. Said I should bust you one if you got too uppity. Might do it, too.”
Millie gasped, but there was a certain gleam in her eye as she sized up the man. I suspected that she just might have met her match. The stranger smiled his crooked smile and turned his attention to me, ignoring her completely.
“Saw you dance last night,” he remarked. “I’m mighty proud to be accompanyin’ you to San Francisco. Fella offered to pay me—wanted an extra guard along—but when he told me who I’d be ridin’ with, I wouldn’t take his money. I was plannin’ to go to Frisco anyway.”
“I assume you’re referring to Mr. Duke?”
“Cocky English fella. Dressed like a dude. I didn’t catch his name. He acted like I shoulda known it already.”
“That’s Anthony, all right.”
“Do you have a name?” Millie snapped.
“Bradford, Ma’am. James Bradford. My friends call me Brad.”
“Well, Mister Bradford, I suggest you climb up there with the driver and the other guard. You certainly aren’t going to ride inside with us.”
“That’s exactly what I’m plannin’ to do,” he replied, ignoring her hostility.
He opened the door of the coach for Millie, who gave him a furious look and climbed inside, swishing her skirts defiantly. Bradford grinned and, taking my hand, helped me inside with great gallantry. I sat beside Millie and placed the jewel case at my feet, and Bradford took the seat facing us, pulling the door shut behind him. I was beginning to like him. But he was the first man we’d met in California who hadn’t been immediately captivated by my audacious companion, and Millie didn’t like that at all. She was prepared to sulk. I found it amusing. Bradford stretched his long legs out and folded his arms across his chest, hi
s eyelids drooping, his wide mouth curling in that amiable, crooked smile.
The driver yelled and cracked his whip, and the coach lurched forward as the wheels pulled out of the mud. Millie toppled sideways, revealing another two inches of bosom as her bodice slipped down. Bradford appeared not to notice. She gave an exasperated sigh and straightened back up, brushing her skirt as though to erase the small black polka dots, determined to draw attention to herself. Bradford’s lids drooped lower, leaving only a slit of eye visible as he rested his head against the tattered green velvet padding. Indolent, sensual, indifferent, Bradford presented a definite challenge to the minx at my side.
Jostled along, we made our way down the muddy street, wheels sinking and slipping, sloshing the thick brown mire as the horses strained forward. Before long the town was behind us, and we were passing the gold fields. The mining sites were depressingly ugly, a blight on the gorgeous countryside, but it was gold that had made California, bringing countless thousands to what had been primarily a Spanish territory with a few trappers, explorers and White Russians mixed in. California had become part of the Union less than three years before and was still an infant as far as statehood was concerned.
Soon the road grew firm and hardpacked, and the horses moved along at a faster clip, the wheels skimming noisily, the ancient coach shaking from side to side. It was terribly uncomfortable at first, but I soon got used to the motion and paid no attention to it. Bradford seemed to be asleep, resting head and torso against the padded seat, legs sprawled out in front of him. Millie was simmering, planning a new tactic, no doubt. I gazed out at the countryside, so unlike any I had ever seen before. There was coarse gray-green grass with patches of brown, slender trees whose twisted limbs spread hazy shadows and, in the distance, bare redddish-brown mountains that took on a gold hue in the sunlight. Beyond the mountains was the vast Pacific Ocean. California and its stark beauty was somehow magical and invigorating to me.
The carriage rolled over a particularly nasty rut and bounced heavily. Millie let out a cry and grabbed the window sill for support, golden curls falling across her cheek. Bradford lifted his heavy lids part way, gazed at her with pointed lack of interest and then shifted position, burrowing his broad, bony shoulders deeper into the cushion, his arms still folded across his chest. Millie pursed her lips, sat back angrily and shoved the curls back into place.
“I wonder how long we’ll be in this thing?” she asked querulously.
“Should get to San Francisco late afternoon, early evening,” Bradford said, not bothering to open his eyes.
“I’m hungry,” she complained. “I don’t suppose any arrangements have been made for lunch.”
“We’ll come to a way station around noon,” he drawled. “There’ll be food there.”
“I must say, he’s certainly stimulating company.” Millie turned to me, and announced, “If there’s anything I hate, it’s a shiftless, dim-witted male, particularly one who looks like a scarecrow!”
“Millie!” I scolded.
Bradford’s lips curled with the faintest suggestion of a smile, but he gave no other indication that he had heard her insulting remarks. For once at a loss with a male, Millie pouted in silence, and as the coach continued to shake and sway I found myself thinking of Anthony. I was provoked with him for hiring such an ancient coach in order to save a few dollars, but at the same time I was touched and pleased that he had been willing to hire an extra guard. It must have done his heart good when Bradford refused to take his money. Knowing Anthony, I doubted that he had insisted too strongly.
Anthony was probably arranging my welcome to San Francisco at that very moment, setting things up, placing placards all over the city, recruiting the newspapermen. There would be crowds, music, fanfare, the inevitable little girl in white frock who would hand me a bouquet of roses. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the Governor of California appeared as well. I was lucky to have such an efficient manager, I reflected. How right I had been to let him bring me to America. In many ways the past two-and-a-half years had been the most exciting in my life, at least professionally. In Europe I had been a celebrity, true, but here in America I had been treated like visiting royalty, welcomed with exuberant gusto wherever I appeared. Good-humored and easygoing, the Americans had been prepared to love me, and my notoriety seemed to delight them.
An hour passed, an hour-and-a-half, and Bradford still hadn’t opened his eyes. The coach rattled over a bridge spanning a small, shallow stream and moved laboriously up a slope. Millie looked at me, then glanced out the window. Suddenly she placed a hand over her heart and let out a very effective shriek, causing Bradford to leap up and crack his head on the roof.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh dear! I thought I saw some men in masks riding toward us, but,” she added sweetly, “I see now that it was only a group of trees.”
Bradford, who had whipped his pistol out of its holster, replaced it and sat back down, his expression exceedingly grim. Millie glowed with triumph as he rubbed the top of his head. She smiled a smile that should have earned her a resounding smack across the mouth. Bradford looked as though he were contemplating one.
“I really did think I saw some men,” she purred.
“I’m not amused.”
“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself,” she taunted. “But I’m relieved to see you have good reflexes. I guess I’m just on edge,” she continued. “I’ve heard so many stories about the Black Hood gang, you see, and I’m absolutely terrified.”
Bradford smoothed his hair back, eyeing her with considerable displeasure.
“This is their territory, isn’t it?”
“They are supposed to have a hideout around here, yes,” Bradford said, “but I don’t think you have anything to worry about, not from them at least. Black Hood and his crew only rob the exploiters.”
“You sound as though you admire him.”
“Reckon I do in a way. He’s something of a hero to a great many people. He strikes back, you see, hits the big money men where it hurts ’em the most.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired.
Bradford looked at me and frowned, trying to find just the right words to express himself. “Poor folks, dreamers, workers, they came to California in search of gold. Most of ’em didn’t find it, of course. They put down roots and dug in and settled the place, buyin’ up land for next to nothin’, and then the big money men moved in. They began stealin’ the land through legal shenanigans, stealin’ the gold mines, too.”
He paused and brushed a floppy wave from his brow, still searching for the right words. “Most of the gold was discovered by independent prospectors, poor, uneducated men who had nothin’ but strong backs and determination. They found the gold and staked their claims, and then the men with the power came in with their teams of lawyers, cheatin’ the miners who were too ignorant to protect themselves. There’s a lot of money in California. Most of it belongs to twenty or so men who’ve never touched a pick, never worked a piece of land in their lives. Those’re the ones Black Hood robs.”
“Next you’ll be telling us he robs the rich to give to the poor,” Millie declared.
“He’s helped a lot of people,” Bradford admitted. “He’s given money to families who were about to have their homesteads sold out from under ’em by the exploiters. He’s no saint. He’s a vicious outlaw who’s going to be caught and hung one day, but a great many folks’re cheerin’ him on.”
“I’m still terrified,” Millie claimed. “I’d just as soon talk about something else.”
But Bradford had said his piece and wasn’t inclined to talk any more. He folded his arms across his chest again, burrowed his shoulders back into the cushion and let his eyelids droop again. Bradford, I suspected, was playing his own little game, deliberately trying to provoke Millie, and she sensed what he was doing. Smiling to herself, she settled back, perfectly willing to bide her time. When we finally stopped to eat an hour later, she carefully ignored him.
The way station was a small, primitive building that looked as though it had been built to withstand Indian attacks many years ago. A plump Mexican woman in white peasant blouse and soiled red skirt served food at two battered wooden tables. Millie and I sat at one, while Bradford joined the driver and the guard at the other. The three of them talked together in low voices, eating their beans and tortillas while a dark-eyed Mexican lad took care of the horses. After we finished eating, Millie and I strolled under the trees surrounding the building, grateful to be free of the jostling motion of the coach, if only temporarily.
Millie was exceptionally cheerful as we resumed our journey. She had, to all appearances, lost interest in James Bradford and addressed all her remarks to me. After a while she lapsed into a pensive silence that was most becoming, if hardly typical. Bradford studied her through narrowed eyes, definitely intrigued but stubbornly determined not to show it. Millie was going to give him a hard time in San Francisco, I feared, for I had no doubt that the two of them were destined to see a great deal of each other in weeks to come. Bradford looked as though he could discourage any competition with ease.
Another two hours passed as the horses moved along at an unhurried pace. The coach rocked with monotonous creaks and groans. The road wound through an area studded with huge golden-tan boulders, some as large as houses, vivid red wildflowers glowing in scattered clumps beneath them. Thin, sparsely leaved trees traced pale shadows over the rocks. The sun was high, a bright silver ball in the blue-white sky. It was very warm and dusty. My maroon satin gown with its rows of fragile black lace ruffles was going to be in a sad state by the time we reached San Francisco.
Bradford had the best idea. He seemed to be fast asleep, and Millie was gazing thoughtfully out the window. As the coach crossed a dry, rocky riverbed I leaned back against the cushion and closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, for when the coach lurched to an abrupt halt I sat up with a start. There was a loud yell, then a deafening explosion as a gun went off. Bradford leaped up, pistol in hand. Millie gasped and seized my arm. Bradford started to open the door. A long, slender rifle barrel, thrust savagely through the open window, jabbed him in the stomach.
Dare to Love Page 42
