by Janet Dailey
CHAPTER 21
THE ARMY AMBULANCE CLATTEIED TO A STOP IN FRONT OF the low adobe building. Hannah cast one last glance over the two trunks, two crates, and satchel to make sure all of her luggage was there and ready to be loaded, then walked to the door. As she stepped outside, she heard a bellowed order: “Column left! By twos!”
In unison, the mounted riders on the parade ground wheeled their horses to the left, pairing up with precision while the company guidon fluttered with the motion. A patrol was leaving on a routine scout, a sight she wouldn’t see anymore. Jake Cutter was at the head of it. She recognized his long body sitting deep in the saddle, and Hannah realized how automatically she looked for him. No more. The heart-lift she’d felt when she saw him became a tugging twinge of regret.
His head turned in her direction and she lifted a hand, waving it slightly. Although she was too far away to see, she was almost certain that he smiled as he threw her an acknowledging salute. It briefly warmed and reassured her. She watched the column ride to the main gate and saw Cutter turn in his saddle to look back. He held that position until he disappeared from her sight. Only then did Hannah, feel the straining of something inside, and the ache it left. She knew the route the patrol would take away from the fort: along the Silver City road, then north into the rough breaks in the mountains. In her mind, she rode with them for a little of the way until someone cleared his throat to gain her attention and she noticed the two enlisted men standing a few feet away, waiting for instructions.
“My things are inside—five pieces.” She started for the ambulance, then stopped as she saw Stephen walking toward her. She adjusted the strings of her reticule and waited for him to speak. She had nothing more to say.
“Hannah, I’ll ask you one last time to stay.”
She smiled wanly. “That’s very generous of you, Stephen.” She moved past him toward the ambulance.
His warning voice called after her. “If you leave now, I won’t take you back again.”
Unassisted, she climbed onto the seat. “Good luck to you, Stephen.” She couldn’t hate him for being what he was, anymore than she had been able to hate Lutero for what he’d been. She was saddened when he wheeled away, too proud to face her rejection of him.
As her luggage and boxes were loaded into the rear, she sensed the eyes watching from the windows along Officers’ Row, but no one came out to ask where she was going. She no longer felt any obligation to go to the trouble of telling them.
When the army vehicle rolled out of the fort twenty minutes later, it was flanked by an escort of four troopers. The stretch of road between Fort Bayard and Silver City was a favorite ambush site of the Apaches, so a state of alertness reigned among the riders as they traveled down the road.
The sun was making its morning climb into the high blue sky, throwing its heat onto the parched Southwest. The tight coat of Hannah’s traveling suit was hot and confining, and the dust boiling up from the double hitch of mules swirled into the military wagon to sting her eyes and occasionally choke her. Absently, Hannah held onto the seat of the bouncing ambulance, indifferent to the jolting discomfort of the ride.
With her eyes narrowed to screen out the rolling dust and the glaring sun, she looked north at the line of rising mountains thrusting into the sky, the Pinos Altos range—the mountains of the Tall Pines and the south-em extension of the Mogollons. The patrol was somewhere in them—and so was Jake Cutter. Hannah examined her decision, and knew that if she had any regrets about leaving, they centered on him. She shut her mind to the memory of the wild run of feeling she’d known in his arms, its depth and power, and shifted to a more comfortable position on the seat, bracing her feet against the bouncing jar of the wagon.
She felt no sense of elation at being free at last, only a kind of relief. She was undaunted by the prospect of being on her own; if anything, she looked forward to the challenge of it.
Silver City was a bustling mining town high in the foothills of the Pinos Altos Mountains. At the beginning of the decade, a small Spanish village had been built on the site and called San Vicente de la Ciénaga, St. Vincent of the Marsh. Then silver was discovered in the Mogollons, and the town boomed and became the seat of Grant County, New Mexico Territory.
The main street was alive with activity, teams of horses pulling wagons, horses and riders, and people walking. The rank: odor of manure polluted the ah, its smell intensified by the hot sun. It was a noisy place, with its rattle of harness and chain, cracking whips, and cursing voices. Hastily constructed wood-fronted buildings lined the street, and the businesses they contained catered heavily to the mining trade, with the emphasis on pleasure. Gambling halls and saloons outnumbered such legitimate business establishments as banks, general stores, and freight offices.
The mulatto driver turned to ask, “Where’d you like us to take you, ma’am?”
“The Silver City Hotel.”
The two-story structure had initially been given a coat of whitewash; but the constant dust had already dulled it. The soldier hauled back on the reins, stopping the mule team in front of it and setting the brake before he hopped down to give her a hand out of the ambulance. Hannah paused for a moment, sensing the town’s fevered character, the excitement of the silver boom. Few women could be seen on the street, and she was conscious of the attention she attracted. Two of the soldiers dismounted to unload her belongings as she walked into the hotel.
A thin young man wearing wire-rimmed glasses straightened attentively when she approached the desk. “May I help you?” he inquired with studied formality.
“I’d like a room, please.” She pulled on the fingers of her glove to remove it.
“If you’ll sign the register, I’ll see what we have available.” He pushed the open book toward her and handed her a pen, then turned to the row of boxes behind the desk. “How long will you be staying with us?”
“I’m not sure.” Hannah dipped the pen in the inkwell and signed her name. “I’ll let you know.” “Your room will be the second one on the right at the top of the stairs.” With practiced ease, he turned the register hook around so that he could covertly glance at her name as he handed her the key. “Here’s your room key . . , Mrs. Wade.” The desk clerk noticed the two soldiers carrying one of her trunks into the lobby. A startled expression came over his face as he looked again at her; she could almost see the click of recognition. “Mrs. Wade?” He appeared flustered and uncertain. “Your husband is Major Wade... at Fort Bayard?”
“Yes.” Hannah folded her fingers around the room key.
“Ma’am,” he began awkwardly, “this is a respectable hotel—“
“I am relieved to know that.” She smiled across his attempted protest. “There aren’t many decent places a lady can stay in this town. It’s good of you to reassure me.”
His mouth was open, but he seemed incapable of speech. Before he could recover, Hannah moved away from the desk and walked to the stairs. Raising the hem of her skirt a few inches, she climbed the steps, followed by the soldiers with her trunk.
An hour later, Hannah poured water from the pitcher into the basin and rinsed the dust from her face and hands. As she patted her skin dry, she thought about her next step. She had some cash, monies left from her aunt’s legacy, but it would only be enough for room and board for a week and stage fare to another town. Even if she had wanted to ask Stephen for money, there had been none to give her. No army payroll had been sent to the fort in more than three months, and with all the entertaining, household expenses, servants’ wages, and the moving costs each time Stephen was transferred, they had never been able to save very much. So first of all, she had to raise some more money. She removed a pouch from her satchel and looped the strings of her reticule over her wrist, then left the room to venture out into the streets.
The general store was jammed with the assorted tools and equipment of the mining trade—picks and shovels, canteens, pack saddles, and a variety of other items, plus the usual cloth goods and
food supplies. Her bustled skirt swept against them as Hannah threaded her way through the jumble of goods to the counter. Half a dozen men lounged about the store, all of them roughly dressed, most of them unshaven, and two of them wearing the heeled boots of the cowboy.
It was busy behind the counter. A thatch-haired boy of not more than fifteen with protruding buck teeth was darting back and forth from shelf to counter, filling an. order. An older man was painstakingly rechecking the total of a bill. The man had a full head of dark hair, but his muttonchop whiskers were hoary white, accenting his florid, apple-red cheeks.
“I’ll take these peaches, Homer.” A dirty slouch hat shaded the face of the unkempt man who spoke and plucked a tin from the shelf. The flushed and harried proprietor nodded and added the figures again, including the price of the peaches in the total. The customer cut open the tin with his knife, stabbed a peach with the point of the blade, and jammed it whole into his mouth. Hannah stood patiently waiting her turn.
“Be with you in a minute, ma’am,” the man promised after a hasty glance at her fashionable attire.
“Thank you.”
After a brief haggle over the amount owed by the peach-eater, the account was paid, and Homer, the proprietor, turned to Hannah. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. May I help you?”
“I hope you can.” She opened the pouch and spilled its contents onto the counter. A strand of matched pearls, ruby earbobs, a topaz brooch, and a gold locket lay in a tangle with others of her better pieces. “I have some jewelry I’d like to sell. How much would you offer for it?”
The comers of his mouth were pulled grimly down and his hands stayed on the edge of the counter, not reaching to inspect any of it, not even the pearls. “I’ll give you fifteen—make it twenty dollars for it.”
“For what?” Stunned by the low amount, Hannah tried to guess which piece he meant.
“For all of it.” His hand made an uninterested sweep over the pile of jewelry.
“You can’t be serious. It’s worth at least twenty times that.” She picked up the pearls that had belonged to her mother. “These alone are—“
“—very expensive. Yes, I know.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, silencing her protest. “What would I do with them?”
“Sell them, of course. The silver strike has made this town rich. Outside the freight office, I saw bars of silver stacked on the sidewalk.”
“There’s more poor than rich. And even the ones with money aren’t spending it on gewgaws and fripperies. Now, I’d buy all the tools and equipment you could bring me.”
“But surely—“
“Lady.” He stopped her again. “They aren’t buying gold and silver around here. They’re looking for it. As fine as those pieces are, there’s no market for them. I oughtta know.” He reached under the counter and lifted out a strongbox. Inside there was a glittering mound of jewelry. “Prospectors are always trying to sell me something to get a grubstake. I’ve got gold watches, silver watches, chains, wedding rings, watch fobs, lockets—and here’s a diamond stud pin some gambler gave me for a poker stake.” He showed her the sparkling gem, then closed the strongbox and set it back under the counter. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but twenty dollars is the best I can do.”
“No, thank you.” Hannah refused firmly even though she believed him. “I want to sell it, not give it away.” She began gathering up the jewelry and putting it back in the velvet pouch. The gold locket slipped from her fingers and fell on the counter, snapping open to reveal oval pictures of herself and Stephen.
“That’s a nice locket.” The proprietor picked it up and glanced at the pictures. “Your husband?”
“Yes,” she replied, and reached for the locket.
“He looks familiar to me.” He studied the picture thoughtfully; then a smile broke across his ruddy face. “Of course, it’s Major Wade from Fort Bayard. I’ve seen him in town a time or two. Last year it was when his wife—“ He caught himself and stared at her. “You’re Mrs. Wade.”
“Yes.” Hannah took the locket and dropped it into the pouch with the rest. “Since you aren’t interested in purchasing my jewelry, perhaps you could use more help to work in your store. I am quite strong, so lifting heavy things wouldn’t be a problem. My writing is very legible, and my skills with sums are good if you require help keeping the account books.”
“I don’t have any openings at the present.”
After his reaction upon learning her identity, she had anticipated his answer. It was the stigma of the Apache again. She smiled with cool politeness. “Thank you for your time.”
As she turned to leave, Hannah caught a glimpse of a dark-skinned woman over by the ready-made clothes. For an instant, she thought it was Cimmy Lou even though she couldn’t see her face, but too many things were on her mind to wonder what Cimmy might be doing here. The passing distraction was forgotten the minute she walked out of the store.
From there, Hannah made the rounds, stopping at every place of business that might be interested in buying her jewelry. The result was more of the same ludicrous offers, which she chose to reject. At this point, her circumstances were not so dire that she felt forced to accept less than what was fair.
Late In the afternoon she returned to the hotel, hot, tired, and frustrated. She went to the desk to get her key. The young clerk didn’t see her walk up, too engrossed in the newspaper he was reading; “Husband Slays Apache Rival” announced the headline. She pressed her lips together in a tight, angry line.
The pages rustled together. “Mrs. Wade!” The newspaper was quickly shut and folded to conceal the headline. “Would—would you like your key?”
“Where’s the newspaper office?” Her hands had a stranglehold on her drawstring reticule and the pouch.
“The newspaper office?” His voice cracked on a squeaky note. “Just down the street.”
She thanked him and left the airless hotel, venturing again into the broiling heat of the dusty and rank-smelling street. Dodging horses and assorted drawn vehicles as well as the piles and puddles of animal excrement, Hannah crossed to the other side.
Hy Boler was sitting at his desk, his jacket on the chair back and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. The buttons of his vest were nearly pulled apart by the way the material was stretched to fit around his solid paunch. Perspiration glistened on the bald spot on top of his head, ringed like an open horseshoe with thick hair that grew into his Dundrearies.
A stack of newspapers sat on a table just inside the door. Hannah grabbed one from the top of the pile as she walked by it and went straight to his desk. Belatedly he heard the sharp sound of her footsteps and turned. He stood up to greet her, rolling down his sleeves.
“Did you wish to buy that, Mrs. Wade?” He wryly indicated the newspaper in her hand.
Hannah tossed it on his desk. “I don’t even have to read that story to know that you distorted the facts!” Her low voice vibrated with the anger she felt.
“Well, well, I see you do have a temper to go with that red hair.” He picked up his jacket and put it on, shrugging his bulk into it.
“How can you write this kind of tripe? Don’t you realize what this can do to people? Let’s forget the way my reputation has been ruined and the outcast I’ve become. All this notoriety has damaged Stephen’s career. It’s destroyed our marriage—“
“Have you left him?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” Hannah stopped abruptly, checking her outburst of temper. “I suppose you’ll write about that next,” she accused in a steadier voice. “How will the headlines read? ‘Wife Leaves Husband After Slaying of Apache Lover, perhaps.”
“Too long.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that what you write can hurt someone? Surely you know it’s true that the pen is mightier than the sword. Your stories can bias people’s opinions. Don’t you care?”
“Come with me.” Hy Boler took her arm and led her to the door. “Look out there. The Silver Slipper, Andy’s Saloon and Gambling Hal
l, Lucky’s Place, the Hard Rock Saloon, Old Blue’s . . .” He read the names of the many saloons and sporting establishments that lined the street, not even bothering with the little signs that sported only the simple words “Beer,” “Whiskey,” and “Girls.” “Most of the people in this town can’t read. And those who can don’t want to read about what goes on in Congress—unless it has to do with mining, cattle, or Apaches. They want to rub elbows with danger and excitement. That’s why they’re here. My business is to sell newspapers, so I give them what they want.”
“What about me, Mr. Boler? After what you’ve printed, how am I supposed to find a decent job so that I can work and support myself?” she demanded.
“Why don’t you go back to your husband where you belong?” he suggested.
“But I-don’t belong there. Maybe I don’t belong anywhere, but I’ll have to find that out.” Her determination was stronger than ever as she turned and left the office to return to the hotel.
Cimmy Lou clutched the bundle of store-bought clothes tightly to her middle as she skirted the houses on the edge of town and drifted close to the mesquite and creosote brush. When she reached the faint trail leading into it, she stopped and checked to make sure no one was watching her, then slipped down the path, running a few yards until she was out of sight of anyone passing by.
She hurried along it, not liking the scurrying sounds she could hear on either side of her. In her haste, she missed the brush-covered entrance to the high-walled gully and had to double back. A faint smell of smoke was in the air, which worried her. She wiggled past the thorny branches that hid the camp. Bitterman stood well back in the gully, his hands clamped over the noses of their horses to silence any whicker.
“Any trouble?” He quickly came to her and took the bundle from her arms, carrying it to the small circle of dying embers and ash.
“No.” Cimmy Lou followed him, eyeing the fire with misgiving. “I thought we weren’t gonna build a fire in case the Apaches saw the smoke.”
