Good turned and waited.
"What's your last name? I never heard."
"I'm good enough." Then he left the jailhouse, feeling as if a weight had been lifted. Being out of a job didn't bother him, not when he no longer worked for a son of a bitch like Legrande. He had heard of a bunch of foreigners up north wanting a scout. He could do that because he was more than good enough.
The Lovely Swindle
"You'll be killed," Amanda Baldridge said quietly, urgently. She reached out and put her hand on Henry Canfield's, then pouted just enough for him to cool down a mite. He wasn't a man to be crossed, much less told he was wrong by a woman. He wore his gun slung low on his hip, as if he were a gunslinger.
Amanda knew he wasn't any kind of shootist by the way he handled the gun once it came free of the hard leather holster. An instant's hesitation, a tiny fumble, his eyes flickering off the target to his hand and back—no, the scrawny man who hardly came up to Amanda's five-foot-seven height boasted about skill he lacked. She had to keep him alive long enough to get what she wanted.
Her pout turned into a tiny smile just for him. She batted her china blue eyes and patted her hair back into place with a self-conscious gesture that she had practiced for so many years she had forgotten the first time she noticed how men got distracted when she did it. Shifting on the hard chair, she looked around the restaurant. For a town as large as El Paso, few people came into this establishment to eat their midday meal. It might be too hot for anyone to venture forth, but folks had to eat somehow.
"Dammit, Amanda, you're getting me all confused. If I don't go in with my gun blazing, those guards will cut me down."
"You scare them and they'll be sure to fire on you. I've told you how to do it." She looked out into the dusty street running along one side of the plaza. Commerce in the border town on a Friday afternoon had turned into a trickle. It had to be the heat, that and the Mexican notion of taking a nap about now. Siesta, they called it.
For her part, she wouldn't sleep until Canfield successfully robbed the bank north of the plaza up on Oregon Street. She disliked the town, but it was better than Fort Worth and its Hell's Half Acre, with lawmen and pimps jostling each other's elbow for supremacy. A girl couldn't make a decent living there. When she tried, a Texas Ranger decided he wanted to make her an example. Keeping a mile and a day ahead of the weather-beaten old man with the silver star pinned crookedly on his vest had kept her on the move for close to a month. She thought she had lost him in Fort Griffith, but he had shown how wily he could be. Only a clever feint with a train and a stagecoach had let her cross the burning West Texas desert to reach the border.
Taking refuge across the Rio Grande had been a possibility, but she disliked the notion of living on beans and tortillas, even for a few months while the Ranger found someone else to occupy his waking moments. Her smile grew a little larger as she thought the Ranger's dreams might be of her. She filled both his day and his nighttime.
"What're you grinning like that for?" Canfield turned his ugly face to hers and leaned forward so he was only inches away.
His heavy stubble, the scar on his right cheek and the way his lip was partly cut away, from some knife fight he had lost, she guessed, all disgusted her. She smiled even more and lightly touched that rough cheek. He was burning up, or maybe it was only because her fingers were so cool. She stroked and he growled, more like a big dog than a man.
"You're so sweet, Hank. I want this to work. For you. For us."
"I know what I'm doing. A pretty little thing like you can't know what it's like to rob a bank."
"You're right. I don't, but I see things. I listen and hear things that can make this so much safer."
"You know for a fact them guards go out back around three?"
"They have a bottle of whiskey hidden there. The bank president doesn't let them drink in front of the customers. I'm not sure he even knows they toss back a few. He thinks they are just napping. Siesta," she said, letting the word roll off her tongue. It summed up everything wrong with this town. Who napped when there was money to be had?
"So you'll put a Mickey Finn in their booze?"
"When they pass out, you go in. There'll be no one to stop you from robbing the bank. You won't get shot." She moved her hand from his filthy cheek. "You won't have to shoot anyone, either."
"I'm raring to go. Let's do it now."
"In an hour, my darling. In an hour. At three."
"We can spend the time over at the hotel. You got a real fine room with a feather bed."
"I just want you be sure you have our horses ready for the escape. Clean your six-gun. I need to get the chloral hydrate." She saw him frown and felt even more contempt for his ignorance. "The knockout drops. I have to sneak into the alley and put it into their bottle."
"I'm going in at three on the dot," he said.
"Not a second before. And you will meet me at the livery stable? The one over on Montana Street?"
"I'm looking forward to spending the money on you. We're gonna live it up, girl. You wait and see. I'll show you a real good time."
"I know you will, Hank. I know you will."
She stood and hastily left, giving her bustle just enough wiggle to hold his attention as she left him to pay. The food had been plain, but good, but why waste her money when Hank was so willing to show what a real man he was? Amanda cut down one street, waited to see if she was followed, then dashed to her hotel where a man sat in the lobby, anxiously waiting for her. She beckoned to him, and they went upstairs to her room. The bartender left in five to return to his saloon, and it took her less than twenty minutes to shuck off her clothing, get into riding clothes and then stuff her sparse belongings into a carpetbag.
Hurrying to keep to her schedule, she found the alley behind the bank, drugged the guards' whiskey hidden under a pile of rags, then went to the stables to wait for Henry Canfield and the money from the robbery.
The distant gunfire warned her that the trigger-happy man had shot up the bank before the guards had a chance to pass out from the drug. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Law in the border town was corrupt but harsh when roused. If Canfield had killed anyone, there might not be far enough to run. If her description was sent out, she had a Ranger itching to arrest her. The sound of pounding boots against the dry street caused her to open her eyes.
Canfield ran as if the devils of hell nipped at his heels.
"Let's ride." He panted so hard she barely understood him. "We got to clear out fast."
"Did you shoot anyone?"
"A guard. He was all woozy from that Mickey Finn you gave him, but he was built like an ox. He must have took a sip when a long pull would have put him out entirely."
She cursed her bad luck as she passed over the reins to the lying Canfield. There hadn't been time for the guard to sample even a sip of the whiskey. With a quick hop, she mounted and looked around. The Rio Grande meandered along its lazy course to the south. Getting across before the town marshal came after them provided an appealing plan. She pointed east.
"We can get to the Hueco Tanks stage depot before sundown," she said.
"Mexico. We got to get to Mexico."
He carried a gunnysack she had given him for the money. The way it bulged told her more than one rancher's payroll had been in the bank, waiting for the drovers to come in for their monthly hoot and holler. If she didn't go with Canfield, she would lose it all.
She bent over so her lips lightly brushed his cheek.
He followed her when she rode east. The desert became more brutal with the late afternoon heat. Dunes towering twenty feet on either side of the road provided sand for the wind to sluggishly drift and cover their tracks. She got her bearing when they had ridden for fifteen minutes, then cut away from the road and went south. Canfield laughed in delight.
"I was right, wasn't I? We got to get over the border. We're crossing at Isleta and getting into Mexico after all. Wait till you taste some pulque. You're going to lov
e getting soused on it."
She saw an ocotillo with a white rag fastened onto one spindly stalk. Canfield didn't. She rode between two dunes and away from the road. She stepped down and used her bandanna to wipe away the river of sweat pouring down her forehead. After such discomfort, she deserved a long, cool bath and being pampered at some high-class hotel.
"Why're you off your horse? They'll be after us before we know it."
"That means you don't know it already?" The voice came from the direction of the road.
Amanda reached into the folds of her skirt and touched a derringer but didn't pull it out. Standing in the sandy valley between the dunes, blocking their escape back to the road and eventually to the south and Mexico, stood a man with a star on his chest—and a double-barreled shotgun aimed squarely at Canfield.
"Who the hell are you?" Canfield demanded.
"You move toward that smoke wagon on your hip and I'll leave your body scattered out across the sand for the buzzards. If the ants and vinegaroons don't eat your dead flesh first, that is."
"That's a federal marshal," Amanda said, moving away from Canfield. "How'd you catch us so quick?"
"Now, ma'am, let's say it was a matter of luck." The lawman gave her a broad wink. This distraction was all it took for Canfield to go for his gun.
She had misjudged Canfield's speed and accuracy. He drew and fired in the time it took the man he faced to swing the shotgun back on target and squeeze both triggers. The roar of the Peacemaker in Canfield's hand was drowned out by the thunder from the shotgun. Canfield staggered and crashed to the ground, flat on his back and arms outstretched.
Amanda grabbed the man's horse and pulled the gunnysack free. The weight of the greenbacks and coins inside told her he might have stolen several hundred dollars. She slung it over her horse's rump and tugged on the reins so it followed her to where the other man sat doubled over.
He looked up as she approached.
"Amanda, darlin', he got me. I feel all liquid inside."
"Oh, Arthur, it wasn't supposed to be this way."
"I know," the fake lawman said, reaching up to her. He died before he got his arms around her.
Amanda backed away. She didn't want blood on her clothing. Nothing was going right. Canfield shouldn't have shot a guard in the bank, and now her double cross had fallen apart. She and Arthur would have split the money and gone their separate ways, as they had agreed. It had been good finding a man driven by greed as much as she was. There hadn't been any need to use her feminine wiles on him, and now he was dead. The only bright spot was that she no longer had to split the money with him.
She settled down in the saddle and started to ride back to the road. Mexico wasn't appealing, but it was safe. She might even learn some Spanish and find herself a rich ranchero.
The bullet ripped through her sleeve but didn't cut skin. She swung about and saw Henry Canfield sitting up and trying to take aim on her. The six-shooter wobbled and forced him to use both hands.
"Damn you, you murderin' bitch."
The front of his shirt was torn and bloody from the shot he'd taken. Amanda couldn't believe Arthur hadn't loaded his shotgun with 00 buck, but he might have mistakenly used birdshot. Calculations sizzled in her head. She could soothe Canfield, but he was too badly hurt to pursue her. She bent low and put her heels to the horse's flanks and shot away.
A single bullet came after her but missed by a mile.
She rode south until the horse pulled up lame, forcing her to walk with both her carpetbag of clothing and the gunnysack stuffed with money. How she could cross the river so burdened she had no idea, until another solution presented itself. Southern Pacific railroad tracks stretched toward the southeast in one direction and followed the river and back toward El Paso to the west.
Amanda sat on a splintery crate left by the railroad crew and decided she would get on the next train, no matter what direction it was headed. A train going down toward San Antonio would be better since she wouldn't have to go back through El Paso on her way farther west. She doubted anyone at the bank could identify her, but then she had made too many mistakes. The guards ought to have keeled over from the chloral hydrate and hadn't. She had figured Canfield would get an itchy trigger finger, and he had, but Arthur shouldn't have died.
A deep vibration shook the rails and the ground. She bent over to touch the tracks, quivering in anticipation of an approaching train. As she straightened a bullet tore past her head. Startled, she looked up in panic. Clinging to his horse, barely able to ride without falling off, Henry Canfield took another shot at her from a distance close enough for her to see the pain and determination etched onto his face. Blood caked his chest and his hands shook. And he wasn't giving up. That was another mistake on her part. She had pegged him as a quitter.
She reached for her hidden derringer, but at this range her aim with the short-barreled gun was no better than Canfield's.
A whistle sounded, startling her anew. Steaming hard from the southeast came a train. She hunkered down, judged distances and knew it would be close. Canfield's horse reared. He fought to stay in the saddle when the train whistle screeched again and the sound of wheels screeching against steel rails filled the air.
She gathered her belongings and waited for the train to come rushing past. Her arm passed through the handle on the carpetbag, forcing her to hang onto the gunnysack with her left. The train flashed past. She started running and grabbed with her right. Her fingers missed a handhold. Car after car whizzed past. Amanda ran harder and still couldn't build enough speed to get a good grip.
All of sudden her feet left the ground and she smacked hard against the side of a car, stunning her. Then she felt herself being drawn up into a freight car. Gasping for breath, she flopped face down in the car, keeping the gunnysack filled with the bank's money under her. She wiggled away when hands grabbed for her, then kicked out and thrust the gunnysack behind her so she could reach for her derringer. Amanda faced a filthy, skeletal man whose bony fingers matched those of the Grim Reaper.
"I ain't gonna hurt you, missy. You don't know squat about jumpin' a train. I was jist helpin' out."
"Thanks," she said, sitting up. She leaned against the money, noticing the lumps caused by the coins. Finger on her derringer's trigger, she said, "Is there anyone after you?"
"Me? Naw, maybe some railroad bull out to beat anyone they find sneakin' aboard. From the way you was hurryin' right along, you got plenty of folks on your tail." He canted his head to one side, examining her posterior pressed into the splintery wood floor.
Amanda could shoot him and be safe. Instead, she said, "You're the most precious thing ever, saving me like that. You risked your life to pull me aboard."
He scratched his head, then smiled. Many teeth were missing. The ones that remained had turned black.
"Reckon so. I never thought of myself as all that heroic."
"Where's this train headed?"
"Best I can tell, it'll go north once it reaches El Paso. That means Denver, maybe, or Colorado Springs. Or it could only go to Pueblo, take on steel and head back down to El Paso."
"North," she said, nodding. That suited her fine. The element of randomness made it impossible for Canfield to follow her. How he had survived Arthur's shotgun blast was a thing of pure luck, but if he continued pursuing her he would certainly find a fraction of an ounce of lead in his head. Her grip tightened on the derringer.
"I ain't headin' in no particular direction. Me and you, we can share this car. I'll show you how to avoid the bulls. They're sure to check the freight cars once we get to a siding in El Paso."
"That's so kind of you," she said. Amanda moved the gunnysack under her so she could sit on it.
She pushed the old man from the freight car a mile from El Paso.
By the time the train screeched to a halt, she had changed into a decent dress. It took only a few minutes to sweet talk the man working the siding switch, find the depot, get a ticket and be on her way to
Colorado Springs. Riding for only a few miles in the freight car convinced her she preferred to travel in style.
Amanda shifted uncomfortably on the couch, trying to get a better look at the mirror across the hotel lobby. She had been in Colorado Springs for three days, taken a room in a fine hotel and had dined well enough to put the rigors of the trip from El Paso behind her. Not finding a likely subject for her attentions bothered her a little, but now the sense that someone watched her wore on her every waking moment. The night before she had slept sitting up in the chair at the foot of her quite comfortable bed, thinking to snare whoever spied on her.
All she had gotten was a stiff neck and a strained muscle in her back. The lobby was tastefully decorated, if a bit sparsely, and any ruffian off the street would stand out. The young clean-shaven room clerk wore an impeccable uniform, even if he had trouble fixing the bow tie properly. The few men and women who passed through the lobby never gave her a second glance.
The sense of being watched grew until she about cried out in frustration. Living by her wits as she did developed a strong sense of survival. Everything now cried out for her to act rather than ponder her situation.
She patted down the crinkly folds of her dress. The first day in Colorado Springs she had sewn her ill-gotten money into the skirts. Wandering about clutching a gunnysack only drew attention. Her carpetbag and spare clothing remained upstairs in her room, which had been let until the end of the week.
Standing, she walked sedately across the lobby and again cast a quick glance at the mirror. For the briefest instant she saw a well-dressed man standing in the door behind her. He would have been beneath notice save for the way he ducked back as she went to the desk and spoke to the clerk.
"I will go to my room now," she said.
"Right away, Miss." The dutiful clerk handed over the key.
"Please check. I believe I'm paid up through the end of the week?"
"Yes, Miss, another four days."
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