“He’s in the saloon, having his supper. When he’s finished, he’ll take your father to Prescott for a trial. It is a full moon tonight, light enough to travel after sunset.” Mr. Grosser replaced his hat on his head and turned to go. “Miss Celia, you’ll need to come quick if you want to see your father. I’m here against the sheriff’s orders. He does not want you to talk to your father, in case he might use you to pass a message to his accomplices.”
“Use me?” Her voice grew shrill at the incongruity of it. “To pass a message? To his accomplices?” Never had she heard such utter balderdash. Could this be some kind of a practical joke at her expense? Yes, that’s what it had to be. She’d play along, act her part as the hapless victim of the warped sense of humor of the citizens of Rock Springs.
Celia snatched her bonnet from a peg by the door, flung it over her upsweep and marched out, tying the laces beneath the chin as she tried to keep up with the barber’s long strides. On the normally quiet Main Street, a dozen people were loitering about in artificially casual poses, men flicking dust from their coat lapels, women pretending to be inspecting the displays in the store windows, while their true purpose was to steal covert glances at her.
Not looking left or right, Celia clattered up the steps to the boardwalk in her leather half boots. For an instant, she was forced to stand still while the barber bent his head to unlock his premises. The force of all those curious stares bombarded her in the back, like a flurry of Indian arrows landing between her shoulder blades.
Finally, the lock clicked open and the barber held the door wide while Celia stepped through. The pungent smells of cologne and shaving soap filled her nostrils. She’d never been to Mr. Grosser’s premises before. In normal circumstances, she would have enjoyed the opportunity to inspect such a bastion of masculine grooming, but today she paid scant attention to her surroundings.
The barber ushered her past the big leather chair to the rear of the shop and slid open the crudely made hatch in a thick, iron-studded oak door. Equipped with heavy steel hinges and twin bolts, the storeroom had been specifically reinforced to act as a place of detention.
“I want to go inside and talk to him,” Celia said.
“Sorry, Miss Celia. You must talk to him through the hatch.” The barber retreated to the front of the premises and busied himself by arranging the jars and bottles lined up on the mahogany cabinet behind his chair. He turned his back on her, offering an illusion of privacy, but Celia could tell he was keeping an eye on her through the big gilt-framed mirror mounted on the wall.
She pivoted on her feet to face the jail room and rose on tiptoe to peer through the hatch, positioned for a man’s height. Her father was sitting on the edge of a narrow cot. The room had no other furniture, only the cot, and beside it no more than two feet of empty space. Should a prisoner feel restless, he might take three steps toward the far wall, turn around and take three steps in the opposite direction, while trying not to trip up on the slop bucket in the corner.
“Papa!”
Her father glanced up. For an instant, Celia could see despair etched on his gaunt features. Then his lips curved into a shaky smile. Moving slowly, he got up and eased over to her. The hatch in the door framed his face, making him appear like the portrait of a dying man.
“Papa, what is this all about?”
“Well, Celia girl, they think I had something to do with this robbery. The bandit leader tried to shoot me, and the sheriff claims it is typical behavior for these outlaw gangs. They get a man inside to help them with the robbery, and then they kill him, so he can’t talk and give them away.”
“But that is nonsense! Anyway, the robbers didn’t kill you. The theory does not fit the facts.”
“The sheriff says there are often internal feuds in these gangs. Maybe the leader wanted to shoot this other man, too, but he ran out of time and couldn’t kill either of us.”
“Ran out of time?” Celia said tartly. “Just how slowly does a bullet fly?” She gave her head a determined shake. “We’ll have to put a stop to this foolishness. I’ll speak to the sheriff. If that fails, we’ll get a lawyer. Someone competent, from Prescott or Flagstaff.”
“Celia girl, listen to me.”
There was an odd shine in her father’s eyes, a strange fervor in his expression. Celia held her breath. A terrible fear unfurled in her belly. Surely, the accusations could have no merit? Surely, there was no possibility that her father had actually been involved in the crime?
“Yes, Papa?” she prompted him, her body rigid with tension. “I’m listening.”
Her father spoke with a breathless eagerness. “This is the solution I’ve been looking for. Soon I’ll be too weak to work. You’ll be left to support me, with little money coming in. You spent your young years nursing your mother, and I don’t want you to bear the burden of nursing me, too. If I go along with what they claim, the authorities will have to take care of me. And you’ll be free. The house is in your name, and I’ve got a bit of money put aside, not in the bank but elsewhere, and I’ll get it sent out to you.”
“No, Papa, no! We’ll fight them. Prove your innocence.”
“No, Celia.” Her father frowned, looking pained. “I’ll not hear a word from you against this plan.” His expression softened. “Don’t you understand, Celia girl, I want you to have a chance. I’ll send you the money. You can sell the house and go away, start over in some other town.”
“I’d rather nurse you than move to a place full of strangers.”
A smile eased her father’s gaunt features and he spoke tenderly. “Come closer.”
Celia flattened her palms against the reinforced oak panel and hovered on her toes, her face lined up with the hatch. Her father pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Celia girl. And I understand that you want to look after me, give me comfort in my final days. But the greatest comfort you could give me is to write to me in Yuma prison and tell me that you’ve settled safely in some other town where people have no prejudice against you. Then I’ll be able to die in peace.”
“Papa...” Her voice caught in her throat. It was an unreasonable demand for him to make, and yet how could she ignore it? How could she deny her father what he was asking for? And in some horrible, practical way, she understood the logic in his thinking. With only her meager earnings to rely upon, they might not have enough money for doctor’s bills and other expenses. This way, the territorial government would have to take care of him, feed him and eventually bury him.
“All right,” Celia replied, anguish tightening her chest. “I won’t try to reason with the sheriff. But promise me this—when they question you, you’ll tell no lies. And if they end up releasing you, you’ll come home to me, and let me nurse you, like I nursed Mama.”
“I promise you that, Celia girl.”
Voices erupted on the boardwalk outside. The barber hurried over to Celia. He shoved her aside and slammed shut the hatch in the oak door. Speaking with a nervous agitation, he grabbed her by the elbow and bundled her toward the rear exit. “Go out the back way.”
Celia wrenched herself free. “I’ll go out the way I came in.” Holding her head high, she marched out of the shop. In the street, she could see the lean, wiry sheriff with the expensive tan Stetson hat leading over two horses, his bay and a dun gelding she recognized as rental stock from the livery stable.
The sheriff came to a halt by the boardwalk and turned to detach the shackles from his horse. Carrying the clinking chains in one hand, he climbed up the steps to the boardwalk. Celia stood still, her wide skirts blocking the entrance to the barbershop. When the sheriff came toe-to-toe with her, she held her position for a moment, then shifted aside to let him through. There was no point in resisting. If the sheriff knew his job, he’d get her father to reveal the truth and send him home to her where he belonged.
Chapter Four
Even after Ro
y had conquered the bout of fever and set about restoring his strength, he couldn’t shake Celia Courtwood from his thoughts. She’d recognized him, and she knew his secret. Was there a wanted poster circulating for a no-name bandit with one blue eye and one brown? If he came across a lawman, would they demand that he lift the patch over his left eye and let them take a peek beneath?
He had to know. Not only whether it was safe for him to go out in public. He had to see Celia Courtwood again, find out if the bond of attraction he’d felt between them had been real and she had protected him by keeping her silence, or if she had betrayed the confidence and given his secret away.
I like taking walks in the desert, the girl had said. When fit enough to leave the safety of the cabin, Roy spent a week keeping an eye on the trails in the vicinity of Rock Springs, carefully remaining out of sight. He saw no trace of Celia Courtwood. As the days went by, his impatience grew.
If his part in the robbery was known, what could they do to him in town? Nothing, Roy decided. They had no marshal, and none of the citizens could match him with gunplay. Unless someone bushwhacked him, he’d be safe, and he doubted the townspeople in Rock Springs had an appetite for murder.
A cool gust of wind swept along the dusty Main Street on the morning Roy rode in and dismounted outside the mercantile. Two matronly women strolled along the boardwalk, heads bent together in conversation. They gave him a curious glance but quickly averted their faces, classifying him as someone not meriting a greeting.
Roy pushed the mercantile door open, sending the bell jangling above. The neatly dressed elderly clerk stood behind the counter, straightening the line of candy jars. At the sight of Roy, his expression brightened but quickly faded into a look of disappointment.
“Welcome back, stranger,” he said, but his tone conveyed no delight.
“Howdy,” Roy replied. He shifted on his feet, uncertain how to start the conversation, but then the pristine man across the polished timber counter took care of the problem.
“It’s a shame about Miss Courtwood,” the storekeeper said, shaking his head. “I had hoped that, after you bid for her box lunch, you might have changed your mind about needing a wife and come back for her.”
“I been laid up.” Roy rolled his left shoulder. “Got into a saloon fight in Prescott and someone stuck a knife in me. Since I’m passing through again, I thought I’d drop in on Miss Courtwood and say hello, see if she remembers me.”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?” Roy frowned. “Where to?”
The storekeeper took down his spectacles and began polishing them with a cloth he pulled out of his breast pocket. Roy remembered the action from before and knew to expect some kind of an awkward revelation.
“It’s not my habit to spread gossip, but since you’ll hear it in town anyway, I might just as well be the one to tell you. About a month ago, the bank was robbed, and Miss Courtwood’s father was in on it. He was the bank teller. He’s doing five years in Yuma prison.”
Roy managed to hide his surprise. “And Miss Courtwood?” he asked, keeping his tone even. “What happened to her?”
The clerk shifted his shoulders, a gesture of uncertainty. “No one knows. She just vanished. She doesn’t have a horse, and nobody saw her take the stage. She was friendly with Horton Tanner who works for the stage line. People think she got him to stop outside the town and let her climb on board without anybody looking on.”
“I see,” Roy replied. Everything fell into place in his mind. Now he understood why Lom Curtis had tried to shoot Celia’s father. In a bank robbery, the inside man was often the weak link. Unaccustomed to a life of crime, feeling the pressure from the law, they could be tempted to betray their accomplices in exchange for a pardon. The leader of the outlaw gang trusted no one and might have wished to eliminate the risk of such an outcome.
The elderly clerk went on, “Of course, Miss Courtwood still owns the house, and she might come back one day. The property was in her name. Her father had an account at the bank, but the funds have been frozen.” The clerk’s expression grew pained. “She had no means to support herself here in Rock Springs. I could no longer employ her, for I couldn’t afford to lose my customers.” He gave a small, awkward shrug. “I expect she’s gone back East, to live with relatives.”
“I see,” Roy said again. He spoke lightly. “Could you give me directions to her house? I might leave a note, in case she comes back.”
“Sure.” The clerk gestured, pointing at the street outside. “Turn right onto the boardwalk, cross over and it will be the first street on your left. It’s the white-painted house, maybe fourth or fifth along. It’s the only one with a porch instead of a front yard with a picket fence.”
Roy said his thanks, went out and untied his horse. Not mounting, he walked down the street, leading Dagur behind him. He identified the house easily enough. The windows were shuttered, the flowers in the hanging baskets on the front porch wilted.
He tied the buckskin to the porch railing and went to the door, letting his boots echo on the timbers to announce his arrival. Just to be polite, he pounded on the knocker. No reply, just as he had expected. He leaned closer, lined his face with the crack by the door frame and inhaled. A faint smell of wood smoke teased his nostrils.
He left the porch and walked around to the back. The garden plants looked remarkably healthy—a big apple tree laden with fruit on the left, neat rows of vegetables on the right, borders planted with flowers. In the center of the yard stood a well, and the rear section of the property housed a small stable and a woodshed.
Roy examined the well first. It had no pump, only a timber frame and a bucket on an iron chain. Dropping to his haunches, he tested the mud with his fingertips. The earth felt damp, and it hadn’t rained in days. Moving along, he studied the ground. A trail of moisture led to the back door—no doubt water splashing from a heavy bucket someone was struggling to haul inside.
Straightening on his feet, Roy headed for the stable, a small timber construction with a sloping roof. He peered in through the open doorway. No smell of manure. The stable must have been unoccupied for some time, and yet from inside came the frantic buzzing of flies. Roy pulled his eye patch aside to see better in the dark and stepped into the cool shadows of the interior.
In the corner of a stall, he found a burlap sack that gave out rancid odors. He looked around, spotted an old broom and used the handle to poke at the sack. Flies dispersed with an angry buzz. Empty tin cans rolled out, metal waste that could not be burned in a stove. The labels were still clear enough to read, indicating that the tins couldn’t have been there for long. Roy bent closer to study the labels.
Borden’s Evaporated Milk
Van Camp’s Pork and Beans
Winslow’s Green Corn
Satisfied with the results of his search, Roy left the flies to their feast. Outside, he paused to survey the house. A curtain twitched in an upstairs window. Not letting on he’d noticed, Roy ambled back to the front, untied his horse and walked away, mulling over the situation.
Had the girl too been in on the robbery? Had she known all along, perhaps even persuaded her father to become involved? The current between them that he’d taken as an attraction between a man and a woman, had it been something else on the girl’s part? Had it been a bond between two coconspirators in a crime?
Tension held Roy in its grip, new possibilities tumbling around in his mind. All his years on the outlaw trail, he’d dreamed of a home, of an honest life, of belonging in a place, of being equal to other men, able to hold his head high in public. But if he could not have that, could he have what Lom Curtis and Burt Halloran had—a woman who belonged to him, if for no other reason than she had little choice?
Once more, Roy tied his horse to the hitching rail outside the mercantile and went in. He found the clerk crouched between the aisles, refolding a stack of shirts a customer had le
ft in disarray.
“I need a spare horse,” Roy said, offering no explanation. “Where can I get one?”
The clerk pushed up to his feet. Something flickered in his eyes, perhaps relief. “Ike Romney, who owns the livery stable, has a few horses he rents out. There’s a dapple-gray mare Miss Courtwood rented occasionally, with a Mother Hubbard saddle. Romney has a sidesaddle for ladies but Miss Courtwood favored riding astride.”
“That’s interesting to know.” Roy kept his tone bland. “I might need a bedroll and a couple of blankets, too, and an extra pair of saddlebags.”
The clerk sauntered along the aisle, all business now. “Romney sells saddlebags, and we don’t like to step on each other’s toes, but I’ll set you to rights on a bedroll and blankets. Give you a good price, too.” He pulled out a pink blanket in soft wool. “How about this one?”
Roy took a step back, dismissing the question. “You choose. I’ll go and see about a horse and come back.”
He left the store, walked over to the livery stable on the edge of town where a few horses pranced around in a pole corral. After a quick negotiation, Roy bought the dapple-gray mare for forty dollars and the nearly new Mother Hubbard saddle for another fifty, with a bridle and a pair of saddlebags thrown in.
He led the mare back to the mercantile, tied her next to Dagur at the hitching rail and went inside the store. The clerk presented him with a neatly wrapped bedroll and two sturdy canvas bags with something packed inside them. “It’s five dollars for the bedroll,” the storekeeper informed Roy. “I put in two blankets, the expensive kind that don’t itch so much.” He held up the canvas bags. “These are useful to line the saddlebags. Easy to unpack, you can just lift out the contents.” Looking awkward, the old man added, “I put in a few odds and ends that might come in useful. No charge. The contents are on the house.”
The Outlaw and the Runaway Page 5
