Gus's face was ashen and his hands were rigid as sticks on the reins. The team of strong horses was spooked out of control. They snorted as each beast pulled in a slightly different direction, kicking up clouds of dust.
If the stage does not topple over and crash, we might stand a chance, Preston thought. I am not a coward. I am not a middle of the class failure. I have been taught to lead. I have to do something.
Fox thought about his fellow passengers, trying to decide how much help he could get from them. The passenger count was five, besides himself and the boy he now held tightly. Joshua's mother, a snake oil salesman, a schoolmarm, a decrepit old miner, and a shifty-eyed gambler.
The miner might be old, but he was feisty. Out of the corner of his eye, Fox saw the wizened prospector poke his head out the window, aiming a long-barreled Peacemaker at the approaching road agents. He got off one shot before someone else inside knocked the weapon from his hand. It bounced to the ground and rebounded. For an instant, Preston thought the gun had hit the lead robber's horse in the shin, and he felt like cheering.
He was wrong, though.
The pursuing mount galloped faster, eating up the distance between the road agents and the stage. Gus was grimly holding on and dribbling tobacco juice down his chin in fright, his rifle useless by his side. To give him credit, his hands were full at the moment, trying to get the team under control.
With a sinking sensation in his stomach — and an increased pressure on his already bursting bladder-Fox realized he was the only able-bodied man on the stage capable of fighting back.
And if he did, Fox thought with a surge of wild elation, he might single-handedly solve the mission he had been sent on. These could be the same road agents Amos Powell had sent him west to apprehend.
Again a hero-only this time with honor.
A shot of adrenaline rushed through Fox, and he tensed, readying himself to take command. First, he had to insure the safety of the boy - and get the damned half-pint nose-picker out of the way. Abruptly, he shoved Joshua to the floorboard of the box, cramming the startled youngster under Gus's boots.
Apparently, Gus caught on to what Fox was doing, because he secured the boy with his legs so that Joshua was riding like a sack of grain at Gus's feet.
Next, Fox signalled for Gus to hand him the rifle, but the driver's fingers were frozen on the reins. Fox stood up and reached over for the Springfield. The stage lurched up on two wheels, almost tipping over.
By the time it had righted itself, Fox had somehow held on and gotten his hands on the rifle. He started crawling up to the roof of the stage.
He was sprawled out, inching toward the road agents, when a volley of shots rang out again. He ducked his head as a bullet zinged by so close his hair smoked. His hat had long since been blown off.
Steadying his arm against the roof of the rumbling coach, Fox aimed and fired at the closest rider. He noted that the man, who had the bandanna covering the lower part of his face, was riding a black stallion with a white star above its forehead.
The bullet went wide as the stage hit a rut.
Fox tried again.
His shot hit flesh and bone, not a fatal wound but enough to put the lead man out of commission. The black stallion dropped out of the race.
Two other masked men kept up the pursuit. It was another quarter of a mile to the bottom of the ravine. If the horses did not slow down, the whole lot of them — road agents, stage, driver and passengers — would go straight into the water.
One more lucky shot, Fox thought, and they'll give up.
He fired again . . . and missed by a barn door.
Fox grimaced. A few more volleys would do it, he told himself, if he was lucky enough not to get shot himself. In his fever of activity, he had forgotten about the traitor inside the coach. It was almost a fatal mistake.
He had enough to do holding onto the careening stage and trying to aim the Springfield. He was concentrating on that and didn't see the figure easing out the window, pistol drawn. The man aimed the gun at Fox's ribs.
Fox felt the stage tilt to the left, but with the women inside screaming, the horses snorting and stomping, the buckboard groaning with strain, he did not realize that it was the man inside disturbing the balance.
He fired and missed again.
Louder, more desperate shrieks drew his eyes to the side of the coach. He tried to use his training, to memorize the man's piggy eyes and square jaw, but instead he found his gaze mercilessly drawn to the empty eye of death pointed at him.
I'll never be able to swing my rife around in time, he thought. So this is how it ends. Hope they don't kill the boy. A boy like that's too mean to die . . .
Just then, for some unaccountable reason, the man who had been hanging onto the side of the coach and pointing his iron right at Fox went sailing into midair, jerking and bawling.
The outlaws yanked their horses to a stop just in time to miss his body, which landed with a dull thud and a crack of bones on the dusty trail.
The stage lurched on, Fox clinging to the roof, and stopped just short of a plunge into the river. The ferrymen, catching on at last to what was happening, helped the passengers down — all except Fox, who could not move.
His dreams of chasing down the road agents and solving the case vanished.
He pried himself loose from the top of the coach, dropping on shaky legs and heading for the nearest stand of bushes. Behind him came Joshua's mother. Cornered, wanting the privacy of the bushes more than he could ever recall wanting anything, Fox was forced to listen to her words of gratitude.
"I don't much like you, and that hasn't changed, mister," the woman said. "But I think maybe you saved my boy's life, and maybe my own. Maybe, maybe not, the way I figure."
"It's quite all right, madam," Fox told her, shifting from one leg to the other, wishing she'd get it over with and go away.
"No, it's not all right. I owe you thanks. So thanks. But I evened it up because I saved you from that lowlife who was trying to kill you."
"Yes, fine, we're even," Fox said weakly.
So she was the one who had managed to push the mountebank out into midair. She did not look strong, but Fox guessed that having to handle a young one like Joshua would put some starch into anyone.
"Not quite even. I owe you — and I'll pay with a bit of advice."
Seven hours since I've relieved myself, Fox thought with anguish. At least seven.
"A hatpin's the best weapon you can carry. That's what I used on that desperado, and that's what I've taught my boy to use. Here. This one's yours."
Afterward, Fox never could remember if he had said thank you before grabbing the two-inch pin and running for cover.
He made it just in time, and once they had crossed the Snake and were on the last miles to Bozeman, he felt pretty damned good about the whole thing.
He couldn't wait to tell Landrum and the others how he had saved a whole stagecoach — and gotten a lead on their next mission.
In fact, Fox was so pleased with himself he almost forgot that Powell's Army was not expecting him and he had no idea where to find them.
CHAPTER THREE
Once, they had called the town of Bozeman the gateway to the goldfields. It was the terminus of the Bozeman Trail, proclaimed to be the swiftest route from Colorado to the ore-rich mountains of Montana.
When news of a gold strike at Alder Gulch had reached the ears of war-weary Americans back in '63, many fortune seekers from points east and south had packed up their hopes and dreams and headed for the hills, crossing the land of the Sioux in their haste to get there.
Massacres were inevitable.
The Army intervened, setting up posts such as Fort C.F. Ellis to protect the gold-fevered miners from the heathen.
'The only good Indian is a dead Indian" was the often-voiced policy of a nation determined to mine the wealth of the nation — a nation in need of wealth and shoring up after the long, draining ordeal of the Civil War.
; But the Army, equipped with the latest Springfield repeating rifles, hadn't counted on Red Cloud. What the renegade Sioux chief lacked in firepower he made up for in stealth and determination. He fought back, resisted the reservation policies, and held on.
There was no clear victory for the Sioux, but Red Cloud put a serious crimp in the Great White Father's plans for the Bozeman Trail. Even with Army protection, it was not safe.
So when the Alder Gulch strike petered out, the Army was saved from some embarrassment. Hardy and fearless souls still used the Bozeman Trail — but at their own peril. It was, overall, a dying issue, and with its demise as a major route west, the transition from boom to bust showed in the once-thriving town of Bozeman.
There were threadbare and ragged edges to the town. The finest hotel it boasted, the Imperial, looked somewhat less than royal. Its weathered boards were in need of fresh paint, and the curling serifs of its sign-"The Imperial Hotel, fit for a king"-drooped as wearily as a dandy aging before his time.
As Gus Slaten handed Preston Kirkwood Fox his valise from the rear boot of the stage, he told the former second lieutenant, "Up there two blocks, past the Hanging Post Saloon, is the Imperial Hotel. Won't find better, not in Bozeman these days."
Gus had failed to thank him for battling with the road agents, which stung Fox's pride. However, Gus was acting civil in his own gruff way.
"Obliged," Preston said.
He automatically started to tip his hat. The hat, though, was somewhere back in the wilds of Montana — unless one of the robbers had picked it up.
It had been a fine hat, Preston thought sadly, trudging up the dusty main street after bidding Gus Slaten a curt farewell. Preston's new boots pinched, and he missed his military footgear.
He saw a few enlisted men coming out the batwings of the Hanging Post Saloon, probably men from the nearby fort. It seemed a travesty that they would patronize a saloon that glorified the vigilante days of the territory.
Fox would have liked to expound on this to the soldiers, but they passed him by, eyeing him suspiciously. Had he been in uniform, he could have reprimanded them for not saluting, as well as giving them a well-deserved lecture. They looked sloppy, unfit to wear the uniform of the US Army.
For a moment, Preston stood in deep thought. He had to keep reminding himself that he was now a civilian, at least on the surface. He puffed out his chest. A gambler, in fact. A traveling man who cared little for how soldiers conducted their business.
Satisfied that he had made the mental adjustment, he resumed his march to the hotel.
Inside, the lobby was nearly deserted. At the front desk, Preston told the clerk, "I'm looking for a tall Texan keeping the company of a redheaded woman."
The clerk peered up from behind his green visor and snorted. "You'll find plenty like that down at the dance halls. This is a proper hotel."
A mouse scurried across the dusty floorboards.
Preston was about to comment when better sense prevailed. His comments had a way of riling people. He also realized that until he connected with Celia, Landrum, and Glidinghawk, he would be wiser to play his cards close to the vest. That was an expression he had practiced. He thought it fit in well with the character he was assuming.
Preston realized he had no idea what names the others would be using, or what cover. He had worried some on the trip out that Landrum might have chosen the cover of a gambler, too. If so, he had finally rationalized, they could both be gamblers.
"Boy, you wanted something else?"
"A room. Are you sure you haven't seen a redheaded lady in town? She's quite beautiful, or so most people think."
"Like I told you, you'll find redheads at the hurdy-gurdies, if that's what you like."
"I meant a particular redhead, not a dance hall girl."
The clerk cocked his head with interest. "You have somebody run out on you?"
Preston colored. "No. I mean, I'm not chasing any woman, I'm just looking for a particular one. And she's a lady, not a . . . well, one of those. She'll want me to find her."
"That a fact?" the desk clerk drawled, extending the register for Preston to sign. "If she wants you to find her, why don't you know where she is? She got a name?"
"Of course she's got a name," Preston snapped. He picked up the quill pen and dipped it in the ink pot to hide his confusion. What if Celia was not calling herself Celia?
"Well, if you tell me her name, maybe I can help you. Course, redheads ain't that common, but Bozeman still has more than one."
Preston pursed his lips. His thin mustache quivered. His hands hovered above the Imperial Hotel's register. In his agitation, he had been about to scrawl Preston Kirkwood Fox across the page.
"What's in a name?" he muttered defiantly as he wrote James Smith in the book. "If you'd seen this redhead, you'd remember her, name or no name. My key, if you please."
"Sure, Mr. Smith," the clerk replied pointedly.
* * *
The redhead in question was pacing the front parlor of Mrs. DeSoto's Rooming House four blocks down from the fading elegance of the Imperial Hotel.
Although the front parlor boasted a moth-eaten Chinese carpet, that one concession to decoration did not save it from being rank. Cold and rank. The pot-bellied stove in the kitchen did not spread much heat to the rest of the house.
Further, the plump and slovenly widow De-Soto, owner of the boardinghouse, was not an amicable landlady. She was moaning to Celia, "Too much more of that high-stepping and you'll ruin my carpet. I won't have it ruined over the likes of you."
"Perhaps you'd care to repeat that slur when my brother gets back," Celia said curtly. Landrum Davis was posing as her closest living relative.
Orders for their new mission had not yet arrived, but Celia, Landrum, and Glidinghawk had already assumed the names and roles by which they would be known in Montana. None of them had assumed the guise of a gambler. Celia had used that cover before and enjoyed it. Landrum would have, too, given a choice. Glidinghawk neither drank strong whiskey nor gambled, but Celia and Landrum were fond of both.
But for this mission, it was not to be.
And until the new orders came, Celia knew she had to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Respectable. A shudder ran through her at the word. For a woman, that meant imprisoned.
It was no fun to act the dutiful and respectable sister — and Mattie DeSoto was making it even more difficult. The nosy parker was jealous of Celia's fresh young looks in addition to being an overbearing harridan, and her rampant curiosity stirred Celia's temper.
"Hmm. Brother indeed. He doesn't look like any brother to me."
"Half brother if you like, although we don't owe you any explanation," Celia pointed out. "You seem happy enough to collect our rent money."
The older woman eyed Celia coyly. "Only because a poor widow has no choice. Ah, if only my dearly departed Ralph was still alive. He never would have had me stoop to this, taking in riffraff from the streets, having them sleep and eat under the same roof as myself."
A tear of self-pity slipped down the older woman's fleshy, heavily-rouged cheek.
Celia bit her tongue. She had heard the rumors that Ralph DeSoto had been hung for good reason when the vigilantes were cleaning up the territory. Talk had it that his wife had been no better.
However, what had happened over ten years ago concerning the Plummer gang or Mattie DeSoto's lack of morals was none of Celia's business. She wanted to get down to work. Hanging around here while Landrum and Glidinghawk haunted the telegraph office for orders on their current mission was getting Celia down.
Without realizing it, she had started to pace again.
"My beautiful carpet," Mattie whined.
Celia started to repeat an epithet she had not learned at Miss Parsons' Finishing School for Young Ladies. She managed to restrain herself, almost choking with the effort.
As she whirled around to leave the cheerless parlor, she said, "When my brother arrives, please inform him that I am
waiting in my room."
And wait she did, her temper growing shorter as the day darkened. Celia knew that Landrum was out in one of the saloons, probably the Hanging Post, living it up while she languished in the boardinghouse.
She would not have minded a drink herself, and some lively company. The other boarders here — all men — were without exception an unwashed lot who spoke in grunts and seemed afraid of Celia.
She was supposed to be respectable and unapproachable and it was driving her into a case of the vapors. And that, she thought, would be in keeping.
Being the protected half-sister of a fortune seeker, Celia had decided, was a role she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy.
She hadn't liked it when Landrum told her, "We're going to be family, half-brother and half-sister. We've come to Montana looking for gold."
"Wonderful. Will I have to do any digging?"
"Panning. They call it panning for gold. And you'll do it if I tell you to," Landrum had said. "You'll also be doing the laundry and cooking if we have to pretend to work a claim."
"Let's hope things don't go that far," Celia said.
Landrum ignored the tart tone of her voice. "Well call ourselves Colfax, after your mother's family, Ceil. Glidinghawk will be an old family retainer-an odd addition to our little ruse, but it can't be helped."
"An Indian can only play an Indian," Glidinghawk commented wryly, "unless his skin happened to be real pale."
"Celia," Landrum continued, "you and I will use our Christian first names to keep from getting confused, but we want to appear very different from what we were in Dodge City or before that. No gambling or drinking in saloons for you this trip. You're going to behave the way a little sister ought to."
Celia had turned to Glidinghawk and implored, "Make Landrum see that's not fair. I don't want to be respectable. Respectable women don't have any fun."
Glidinghawk had sided with Landrum. "After Dodge City, we have to be as ordinary as possible. Out here, a couple of greenhorns looking for gold is ordinary. Landrum can cavort around. It's expected from a man. But not from a woman."
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