by Jill Gregory
“What do you know about this man?” she asked Tom in an unsteady voice.
“Not much, really. They say he hails from Texas, like Wes Hardin, and is considered one of the most dangerous hombres in these parts. He’s like lightning with a gun, so I hear. He’s only twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old, but he’s killed more’n a dozen men already, and I reckon there’ll be a lot more. Bryony, what is it? Why are you so interested in Logan, and why are you lookin’ at me so funny?”
“I’m sorry,” Bryony murmured, glancing down at her hands. “You must all think me quite odd.”
“No, my dear, we don’t think you odd at all,” Dr. Brady said reassuringly. “But won’t you tell us what’s troubling you?”
She met his gaze with eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “Jim Logan is the man who killed my father,” she whispered.
There was a brief, shocked silence. Even Mrs. Oliver and Diana stared at her in amazement. Martha Scott was the first to speak.
“How horrible for you, honey. I’m awfully sorry. We won’t talk about it any more. You just try not to think about it, for I’m sure those thoughts bring you a lot of hurting.”
“Yes, I do want to forget about it.” Bryony took a deep breath. “I just hope this awful Jim Logan has left the territory. I think that if ever I encountered him, I’d be tempted to try to kill him myself!”
“Don’t even think about that,” Dr. Brady said soothingly.
“He’ll probably be long gone from Arizona by the time you get there,” Tom put in. “You’ll never have to lay eyes on him, and we shore won’t talk about him any more.”
Bryony was relieved when they changed the subject, but as their quiet conversation flowed about her, she couldn’t help thinking about the man who’d shot her father. This gunfighter Jim Logan sounded like a terrible man—a man representing everything she loathed: violence, brutality, lawlessness. Yet there was one thing she couldn’t understand.
Why had he shot her father? What possible quarrel could her father have had with a professional gunman? She fretted over this for some time, but eventually gave it up. There was no use speculating about it; after all, she knew nothing of her father’s affairs in Arizona.
Perhaps Judge Hamilton would be able to enlighten her when she arrived in Winchester. There had to be an explanation.
When the stagecoach at last crossed the border from New Mexico into Arizona, Bryony stared with fascination at the terrain of her new home. She’d expected to find Arizona a stark, barren desert, void of color or life, but instead, she was amazed to discover that it was a land of spectacular beauty and contrasts. Spring had already waved its magic wand, and the result was a breathtaking panorama.
Silhouetted against a brilliant sapphire sky were towering mountains veiled in a pale lilac mist, their jagged peaks topped with snow. In the distance were immense pine forests, looming high above rolling green foothills and sweeping, sand-swept plains. There were deep purple canyons and rocky mesas, and the fresh, clear scent of spring filled the air, laced also with the sweet aroma of pine trees and orange blossoms.
She saw desert flowers bursting with color, and cactus blossoms of infinite variety. Paloverde, ironwood, and saguaro cactus were everywhere, decorating the desert.
And this magnificent landscape teemed with life. The passengers frequently caught sight of galloping antelope herds, of white-tailed deer, and foxes, and badgers, and once, Bryony insisted, a herd of elk upon a rocky bluff. She no longer missed the tranquil Missouri countryside, for this glorious wilderness was far more exciting.
As the stagecoach advanced further and further into the territory, the much-discussed threat of Indian attacks became frighteningly real. They were in Apacheria, the domain of Cochise, the Apaches’ most fearsome and menacing of chiefs. At every relay station where the stage halted to change horses, reports of Indian unrest were rampant, causing the passengers to glance uneasily at each other as they heard the driver summon them back to the coach. Everyone wished nervously that this stage of the journey was over, but they kept most of their fears to themselves—with the exception of Mrs. Oliver and her daughter, who screamed in alarm at every bump in the road or noise in the night.
When at last the day of Bryony’s anticipated arrival in Winchester arrived, she heaved an inward sigh of relief. For her, the danger would be over once she disembarked from the stagecoach into the waiting company of Judge Hamilton. And though the other passengers were all continuing on to San Francisco, their danger would also dwindle very soon, for the roughest portion of the journey was almost completed. So it was with a lifting of spirits that everyone boarded the dusty stagecoach after breakfast that morning, eager to pass through the remaining dangerous terrain as quickly as possible.
Bryony had taken special pains with her appearance that day, wanting to make a favorable impression on Judge Hamilton and the other citizens of Winchester. She’d found a tiny clear brook near the relay station where they had breakfasted, and stealing away for a few moments, she’d rinsed some of the dust and grime of the journey from her face and arms and throat, delighting in the cool, sparkling water. When she returned to the station, she’d changed her dress in a small dingy back room, her fingers flying as she fastened the tiny pearl buttons on her frock. Then, feeling fresh and pretty in the soft lavender gown adorned with dainty buttons and a flattering, rounded neckline, she had carefully lifted her heavy mass of black hair off of her neck and arranged it becomingly atop her head, securing it with pearl hairpins.
For a final touch, she had tied a lavender ribbon about her throat, and fixed in its center the lovely cameo brooch that had belonged to her mother. The brooch was very old and very valuable, and Bryony only wore it upon special occasions. This day seemed special. It was the beginning of a new life for her, and she wanted everything to be perfect. With the brooch in place, her spirits soared, and she joined the other passengers to finish the last stage of the journey.
“We shall miss you, my dear,” Dr. Brady told her, shortly after noon. “It won’t be the same, traveling on without you.”
“And I shall miss you—all of you! Especially the children,” she added, smiling warmly at Hannah and Billy, who beamed at this compliment.
Martha tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. “I don’t know how I’ll manage them without you, Bryony. You’re a wonder with the little ones.”
“Hmph!” Mrs. Oliver snorted from her seat at the rear of the coach. “I hope you can manage without her. This journey has been tiresome enough, without having to put up with any additional disturbances!”
“Now, now, let’s not start this again,” Dr. Brady interrupted hastily.
“The young ‘uns have been behaving better than some of the grown-up passengers, it seems to me,” Tom remarked meaningfully, his blue eyes glinting. He was no longer intimidated by the Oliver women—constant contact during the past fifteen days had banished all inhibitions, and he seemed to derive great pleasure from standing up to them.
When Mrs. Oliver grasped the intent of his comment, she afforded him considerable gratification by clamping her lips tightly together and flouncing indignantly back in her seat.
“Don’t be upset, Mama.” Diana flashed Tom a contemptuous glance. “We won’t have to endure such rude company much longer. Soon we’ll be in San Francisco with Papa, and we can forget the indignities we’ve suffered on this wretched journey.”
“Yes, if we ever arrive safely, without being murdered by savages!” her mother replied plaintively.
She had no sooner finished speaking than a frenzied commotion sounded from outside the coach. The previously peaceful afternoon exploded with the thunder of horses’ hooves, accompanied by wild yelling, and a series of deafening shots that rang out in rapid succession. The horses screamed in terror, then the stagecoach lurched to a rocking standstill, hurling the passengers from their seats.
Bryony lifted herself from the dusty floor of the coach to peer out the window, and what she sa
w made her catch her breath in fright.
“Indians!” Mrs. Oliver shrieked. “Indians! Indians! We shall all be killed!”
Diana, too, began to scream hysterically.
“Oh, hush!” Bryony whispered. “There are no Indians! We’re being held up by highwaymen!”
Dr. Brady stared past her. “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said in a low tone as four masked riders converged upon the halted stagecoach.
Bryony’s hands grew cold and clammy. She wiped them nervously upon her skirt. Danger had struck only a few short hours from Winchester and safety. Her mind was racing, wondering what the highwaymen would do. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. She frantically snatched the cameo brooch from the ribbon at her throat. Those men must not see it, or they’d undoubtedly steal it away from her.
Quickly, she buried it deep inside her reticule, desperately hoping she wouldn’t be searched. A frightened sob rose in her throat, but she choked it back, ordering herself to try to remain calm. She must not have hysterics like those odious Oliver women. She must try to be strong.
“Everybody out! Git out!” A man’s thick, coarse voice suddenly bellowed from outside. “And hurry it up! We got no time for playin’ games, and we’ll shoot anyone who makes a false move!”
Chapter Four
One by one the passengers filed out. They huddled in a small group beside the driver, who had dismounted and was now spitting angrily into the road. “You fellers are barkin’ up the wrong tree!” he exclaimed, shaking his shaggy head. “We don’t got no strongbox on this trip, jest passengers. You kin look fer yourselves.”
“Shut up!” The leader of the highwaymen aimed his revolver in a threatening way at the driver. “We’ll take what we can get. These here passengers look mighty well off to me, and I’m sure they won’t mind sharing some of their valuables with us poor banditos.”
The other three outlaws snickered loudly at this remark, though the sound was muffled by the thick scarves they wore across their faces, hiding all but their eyes. Bryony shivered as she looked at them, but it was the leader who really made her flesh crawl. He was a burly, barrel-chested man with a shock of gold hair showing beneath his black sombrero, and his eyes, as they roved swiftly over the group of passengers, were a bright, wicked blue. They rested on her suddenly, and a light sparked in them, a quick gleam of interest as he looked her up and down in a bold, leering way.
“Well, now, we’ve got a real little beauty here!” he declared to his companions, then dismounted heavily from his horse.
Bryony shrank closer to Dr. Brady, who stood beside her, and he placed a trembling arm about her shoulders. “It’s all right. They... they just want our money,” he whispered in a voice that was meant to be reassuring, but which revealed the extent of his own uncertainty and fear. His hand on her shoulder tightened protectively as a tremor shook her body.
“Hey! Old man! No more talkin’ unless you’re talked to!” A bandit wearing a red scarf glared warningly at the doctor.
The leader approached Tom and Martha, who were standing very close together, with little Hannah and Billy clinging tearfully to their mother’s skirt. Tom’s face was pale, but he showed no other signs of fear as the highwayman poked the gun into his ribs.
“Say, now, farmer, where you headin’ with your missus and those two kids?”
“California.”
“California? You don’t say. Well, now, that’s real nice. But I don’t suppose you’ve got much cash on hand, do you? You don’t look to me like a wealthy man.”
“No. I don’t have much.”
“How much you got?” the leader demanded.
“Maybe forty-five dollars, that’s it,” Tom replied in a quiet voice, as beside him Martha began to sob.
“Forty-five dollars! You hear that, boys? We’ll be living high off the hog on forty-five dollars, won’t we?”
He gave a great, bellowing laugh, and waved the gun carelessly at Tom. “You keep your damn forty-five dollars, amigo. You need it more than we do!” Stepping past the Scotts, he approached Dr. Brady.
“Now, this fellow here, seems more our type. I bet you have a few pesos on you, pardner, don’t you?”
Without a word, Dr. Brady removed his wallet and handed it over to the burly highwayman, who rifled through it and then gave a low whistle.
“Wal, this is more like it! And I reckon you’ve got a nice gold watch inside that fancy vest you’re wearing. Hand it over, on the double!”
The doctor complied quickly, breathing a sigh of relief as the highwayman sauntered past both him and Bryony to confront the Oliver women, who cowered in abject terror against the stagecoach.
His shrewd gaze raked over Mrs. Oliver and her daughter for a long, thoughtful moment. “You ladies sure look like you’ve got a bundle of loot.” He grinned and waved the gun at them. “Let’s do this polite-like. Pass it over!”
Sobbing, they surrendered to him what appeared to be a considerable sum of cash. But this didn’t satisfy the highwayman—he immediately demanded their jewels.
“Please, won’t you let us keep something?” Mrs. Oliver pressed her diamond-studded necklace to her throat. “Don’t take our jewelry as well as our money...”
“Shut up!” he roared, and with a sudden, lunging motion, tore the necklace from her throat. “And give me those rings you’re wearing! I’ve got a real hankering for pretty baubles!” He turned to Diana and gripped her arm ruthlessly.
“What about you, blondie? Those pearls you’ve got around that skinny neck of yours are mighty pretty, but I don’t reckon they’re worth your life, so you’d best give them to me without any back talk or I might get mad. And I’m awful mean when I get mad.”
As Diana thrust the pearl necklace into his waiting hands, a furious cry rose from her throat.
“What about her?” she demanded, pointing a shaking finger at Bryony, who stood rock-still beside Dr. Brady. “She’s got a cameo brooch worth more than any of these pieces, and it’s hidden inside her reticule! Why don’t you take that and leave us alone?”
Bryony gasped at Diana’s words, and her entire body froze as the burly, gold-haired outlaw strode over to her and stared harshly down into her pale face.
“Is it true about that brooch she mentioned?”
Bryony couldn’t speak. Her body had turned to ice and she could only tremble as the high--wayman’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s your name, little filly?” he demanded. When she still said nothing, his hand shot out to grip her wrist in a brutal hold.
“Answer me!” he barked.
Dr. Brady tried to push the man away from Bryony, but the outlaw rounded on him furiously and delivered a crashing blow to the doctor’s chin. Down he went with a grunt of pain, and Bryony immediately knelt beside him.
“Dr. Brady, are you all right?” she cried, as the doctor’s eyes rolled dazedly in his head.
“One more move like that and he’ll be dead.” The highwayman loomed over them with his leveled gun. He yanked Bryony roughly to her feet. “I asked you your name, girl, and I want an answer!”
“My name is Bryony Hill—if it’s any of your business!” Fury overtook her previous fear, making her long to claw at her tormentor, to rake his leering face with her nails. “And don’t you dare touch this man again!”
She drew herself up very straight as she met the outlaw’s stare, but he only laughed at her enraged expression.
“You’re a real fighter, aren’t you, little filly? Well, I’ll tell you what. As a reward for bein’ so pretty and so brave, we’re goin’ to take you along with us! How do you like that?”
Fear surged through her. “You can’t... mean that!”
“Sure I do. Don’t I, boys?”
There was a chorus of laughing agreement from the other masked men, who’d never dismounted from their mustangs, but who were still pointing their weapons at the captured passengers and driver.
The leader again grasped Bryony’s wrist.
“C
ome along now, like a good girl.”
“No! Please!” She struggled against his grip. “Please don’t take me with you! You can have the cameo!”
“We’ll have you and the cameo!” he growled, and began dragging her relentlessly toward his mount, while the other bandits trained their guns on the horrified passengers.
“Here now, let her alone!” Tom Scott implored desperately, while Martha sank, weeping, to her knees.
“Please, don’t hurt her!” she pleaded. “Let her stay with us!”
Dr. Brady, struggling painfully to a sitting position, added his gasping voice to their pleas, but the highwaymen paid no attention.
The barrel-chested leader shoved Bryony over to his horse, but when he attempted to hoist her into the saddle, she whirled and fought with him, clawing, kicking, and biting like a tigress. The other masked riders chortled gleefully as their leader struggled with the wisp of a girl who was putting up such a fight.
Finally, he wrapped his arms about her slender body so that she was helplessly pinioned, and tossed her into the saddle. Mounting behind her, he kicked his horse into a gallop, and took off. The others followed, brandishing their weapons in the air as they left the shocked stagecoach passengers beside their dusty vehicle.
The outlaw gang rode swiftly over the rough terrain, in a hurry now to reach the safety of shelter where they could divide up their spoils. And they were in a hurry for something else, too. The girl. She was part of the reward for this day’s work. Each of them meant to enjoy her before the long night was over.
Bryony clung desperately to the saddle horn as the outlaw leader’s horse scrambled wildly up twisted mountain paths strewn with boulders and thick mesquite shrubs. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she and the band of highwaymen headed deeper and deeper into the rugged mountain wilderness.
She was a prisoner—a prisoner of this ruthless outlaw band. It had all happened so quickly that she could barely believe it was really true, but the heavy pressure of the bandit leader’s hulking body against hers, and his hot breath down her neck, was proof enough. Where were they taking her? What were they going to do?
