Desperado's Gold

by Linda Jones

“There has to be another way,” she said as he neared her, and her heart quickened as he came closer. “Jump on. Hurry!” she hissed.

  Jackson raised his hand and slapped the horse’s rump smartly before Catalina knew what he was planning. He never said a word as the bay took off. Catalina held on as the town around her, the buildings and the people, became nothing more than a teary blur.

  He watched her ride away, her head low, her hair whipping in the wind.

  It was the only way.

  He waited until she was out of sight, but not so far away that she couldn’t hear.

  Jackson drew both guns in a smooth, practiced motion, and fired into the air. He waited, half expecting to feel a bullet slam into his back, waiting for the explosion of the guns to his rear, but there was nothing but the roar of his own Colts.

  He fired into the air until his weapons were empty. Eleven times. Not Catalina’s dozen, but she probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, not when so many of the shots came one on top of the other.

  It would be best if she was convinced that he was dead, shot a dozen times as the history book she had told him about had said. He knew he’d be dead, one way or another, soon enough. But he didn’t want Catalina coming back to Baxter. He didn’t want her to watch him die, and he didn’t want her trapped in town. He wanted her to move on.

  He spun the Colts easily on his fingers and slipped them back into their holsters. They were emptied, and he was now defenseless.

  He turned back to the sheriff and the morbidly curious townspeople, and unbuckled the gunbelt that held two empty Colts and a healthy store of ammunition. He swung it aside, discarding the weapons that had kept him alive up to this point. Weapons Catalina had always detested.

  The sheriff said nothing.

  “Well?” Jackson snapped. “Let’s get on with it.”

  She was passing the gnarled tree just past the edge of town when she heard the shots, and she closed her eyes tight. History couldn’t be changed, after all. She fixed a tearful, fuzzy stare on the red rocks and didn’t look back, didn’t attempt to slow the horse that galloped toward Doc’s ranch.

  Maybe Jackson was right about the survival of the soul. She would look for him in 1996, but the thought didn’t ease the pain inside her. If anything, it made her feel worse.

  She couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone again.

  Except the baby. Their baby. If not for the child, she would have fought to stay with Jackson. Maybe then they could have found a way to escape together.

  But now it was too late. Jackson Cady — Kid Creede — was dead. Shot a dozen times, just as history had written. The short paragraph she had read had said nothing about defending his wife from Koop, about leaving a pregnant wife behind. There had been nothing there to indicate that he had been a good man who’d wanted nothing more than a normal life with the woman who loved him.

  *

  Jackson paced in front of the tree, the sheriff — gun in hand — dogging his every step. Why couldn’t they just get this over with? They had turned it into an event, bringing out the women and children, making a holiday of the hanging of Kid Creede. They ate and drank and laughed, and it seemed as if the day dragged on forever. It was as if they didn’t want the festivities to end.

  Reverend Preston had tried to talk to him, but Jackson had nothing to say. In spite of Jackson’s indifference, the preacher had launched into a lengthy prayer. A plea for the soul of a condemned man, a prayer for a killer who was certainly damned. The crowd had listened piously, while Jackson impatiently fingered the stone that rested against his chest. His life was over. Catalina was gone.

  Finally they tied his hands behind his back, and the cautious sheriff helped him into the saddle of a sorry-looking horse. Sheriff Ross expected trouble — Jackson could see that in every nervous move, in those twitching eyes — and he didn’t see fit to ease the lawman’s worry by mentioning the fact that Kid Creede had given his word that there would be no trouble.

  They placed the noose around his neck. Was she already gone? She’d had time to reach the spot where he’d seen her almost disappear, where he’d first felt the pain and fear of losing the only person he’d ever loved. Time for her, and the baby, to travel forward to 1996. There, they would be safe.

  And nothing else mattered.

  Catalina stepped forward, the wulfenite grasped tightly in one hand. It was the only way. It was what Jackson had wanted. What he’d demanded.

  She stepped back and turned her head to take a last look at Doc’s house. Another last look. She’d been happy there in that ramshackle house, happier than she’d ever thought possible.

  Three times she’d tried to go, and each time, at the last moment, she’d pulled back. I’m not ready, she told herself again and again. Not ready to leave.

  There’s no reason to stay.

  She closed her eyes and stepped forward once more, filling her mind with images of Indian Springs, the library, Kim, her Mustang. Unbidden, Jackson was there. It was so very clear, her last image of him walking down the street toward her. To send her away.

  The dust rose at her feet, swirling, engulfing her, blinding her, and Catalina clutched the wulfenite so tightly it cut into her palm. She was falling, floating, lost. And then she couldn’t find her breath.

  The man on horseback beside him, the man who had placed the noose around his neck, started to cover Jackson’s head with a black hood, but Jackson shook him off with a turn of his head and a harsh glare. No words were necessary, and he had none left. Nothing to say in his own defense, no last-minute prayer.

  He stared at the red rocks in the distance — Catalina’s rocks — and realized that she’d been right all along. They were alive, somehow. Vibrant.

  If there was a way for the soul to survive, he would find her. It was a promise he made to himself, as solemnly as he’d promised Catalina.

  His hands were bound tightly behind his back, so he couldn’t clutch the golden crystal that lay heavily against his chest. He knew it weighed almost nothing, but as he waited to die the wulfenite seemed to become heavier, and he could feel the heat it emitted through his shirt.

  He closed his eyes and saw Catalina’s face. In his mind she was smiling, and he grinned himself. The man beside him swore under his breath, a prayer, a curse, a whispered mention of Satan, but Jackson paid him no mind. He concentrated on Catalina’s face, on the dancing flecks of gold in her eyes.

  He heard the slap of a heavy hand on the nag’s rump, the gasp of the crowd, felt the startled nag jerking away beneath him, and then Jackson fell.

  Twenty-one

  *

  Catalina took a deep breath, when she could breathe again, and opened her eyes to find herself just a few feet from the highway. The same two-lane road she had been on the day her Mustang had died, and she had found herself wishing to live in the past.

  Without thinking, without knowing exactly where she was, she started walking. She did her best not to think of Jackson. It hurt too much. There were so many plans to be made. A job to find, a place to live, a pregnancy to deal with. A child to raise.

  She certainly couldn’t tell anyone where she had been. No one would believe her, anyway. If she tried to convince anyone of the truth, she’d most likely end up in a psych ward somewhere, strapped to a bed, telling her tale to a woman who had been Cleopatra or Marie Antoinette in a past life.

  The pickup truck approached from behind, and she was so lost in thought she didn’t hear the rumbling engine until it was right behind her. It came to a shuddering stop, and the driver, a teenager wearing a ball cap and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out leaned over to throw open the passenger door.

  “You need a ride?”

  Catalina stepped into the truck, dragging her calico skirt with her. She didn’t normally accept rides from strangers, but the kid looked harmless enough.

  “Thanks,” she muttered halfheartedly, staring straight ahead.

  “What’s the costume for?” the boy asked,
taking off so suddenly Catalina’s head jerked back. “Didn’t they finish filming a while back?”

  Catalina shook her head, and the kid didn’t seem to take offense that she didn’t care to speak. “Name’s Chris. Chris Booker. My folks have a gas station out here, and I swear, we never see anybody out this way. It was kinda spooky to see you walking down the street in that old costume. I thought for a minute I was seeing a ghost. I’ve heard stories about ghosts out here, you know.”

  He stared at the road ahead.

  “Booker?” Catalina asked, leaning forward to get a better look at his face. Chris looked nothing like Doc. Coincidence, certainly.

  “My name’s Catalina. Catalina Cady.”

  He nodded his head and took one hand off the wheel to offer it to her. They shook hands, and the truck veered to the side, almost leaving the road.

  “Where you headed, Miss Cady?”

  “Mrs. Cady,” Catalina said softly. “Is your mother’s name Allie, by any chance?”

  “Yeah; you know her?” Chris turned his head, and the pickup truck veered again.

  Catalina nodded and grasped the door handle. She decided to hang on for the duration. “I met her once. Is that where you’re headed? Your parents’ gas station?” Coincidence, that she had come full circle?

  Chris nodded.

  “Then that’s where I’m going.”

  Catalina was silent for the remainder of the short trip, not wanting to distract Chris from his driving. It was a good thing this road was so infrequently used, if Chris spent much time on it.

  The station appeared just as it had before, deserted, neglected, yet still inviting. But one fixture was missing: The old Indian who had given her the moccasins and the wulfenite was gone. There wasn’t even a chair there, in the spot where she’d seen him before.

  Allie was as surprised to see Catalina as she’d been the first time, and recovered just as quickly.

  “Well, I’ll be,” she muttered. “He said you’d be back.”

  “Who said I’d be back?”

  Allie took a moment to take in Catalina’s strange dress, shook her head slightly, and offered Catalina a cold drink from the refrigerator. “That Indian. What was his name? Kelly something?”

  “Qaletaqa?” Catalina asked softly.

  “That’s it.” Allie took a drink for herself and plopped down on the stool in the corner.

  Catalina leaned against the edge of Stu’s desk. Qaletaqa, the traveler. She would have thought it impossible, but nothing was impossible, she had learned. “I don’t suppose you still have my Mustang?”

  Chris piped up. “That’s yours? I love that car. I begged Dad to let me drive it … ”

  “Did he?” Catalina twisted her head to look at the young man in the doorway.

  “No,” Chris answered, totally disgusted.

  Catalina had to bite her tongue to keep from saying thank goodness. Instead, she turned back to Allie. “So you do still have it? And it’s running?

  Allie smiled and slid from her perch. She slipped past Catalina and opened the middle drawer of Stu’s desk. She took out a ring of keys, selected one, and opened the bottom drawer, a smug smile on her face.

  “That old Indian, Kelly, Kalla … ”

  “Qaletaqa,” Catalina said softly.

  Allie repeated the name twice, until she was certain she had it. “Anyway, he showed up here just a couple of days before you did, plopped his chair right out front, and sat. When I asked him what he did, he said he was a fixer.”

  “A fixer?”

  Allie lifted her head so Catalina could see her over the top of the desk. “A fixer. I’m not sure exactly what he fixed. When I asked him if he repaired, you know, televisions or toasters or cars, he just said he fixed whatever needed fixing.”

  She lowered her head again, and Catalina looked up as Chris left the office, drink in hand. Their conversation had evidently turned too boring for him.

  “Here it is,” Allie said, and she popped up with a thick envelope in her hands. She offered the envelope to Catalina with a smile on her face. “I’m so glad you came back. I don’t know what I would have done with this if you hadn’t.”

  Catalina took the envelope and opened it. Money. Cash. More than a librarian ever saw at one time.

  “This isn’t mine,” she breathed.

  “Qaletaqa gave me a huge diamond ring, said it was yours. He said I should sell it, use whatever was necessary to fix your car, and save you the rest.”

  “How could he know I’d be back?” The whispered question was for her own benefit, but Allie answered.

  “I sure don’t know, but he said you wouldn’t be coming back alone.”

  Catalina’s head snapped up. Could she have brought Jackson with her? No. It was the baby. How had Qaletaqa known that?

  A fixer. If she could travel back a hundred years and forward again, surely others could, too. Qaletaqa was an experienced traveler, someone who had gathered the knowledge to control where and when he went. Could she do the same? Could she travel back once again — to a time before Jackson was shot?

  She’d proved to herself once that history couldn’t be changed. Would she be a fool to try again? And how would she start? How could she be certain she’d travel to the right time? She’d traveled back a hundred years before. Glancing at the calendar on the wall proved that time here had moved forward as it had in 1896. If she could travel back again, would it be to a time after Jackson’s death? Could she somehow control where … when she would arrive?

  Catalina left the envelope on the desk and ran out the door, around the building and into the sand. She ran forward, knowing exactly where she was going this time. If she was too late, she’d find Qaletaqa, young or old, and make him teach her, make him take her back to a time when it wasn’t too late.

  She reached the spot where she had stopped before, where the sandstorm had engulfed her and taken her back. She clasped the wulfenite and closed her eyes and thought of Jackson. His touch, his smell, the sight of him smiling at her. Catalina waited for the breathless sensation, but nothing happened. She stepped forward, concentrating so desperately on Jackson’s face that she saw nothing else. Thought of nothing else.

  Nothing. No swirls of sand, no sensation of flying, no breathless wonder. She dropped the wulfenite and spun around, only to see Allie watching her from a distance. Was that why it hadn’t worked?

  She knew in an instant that Allie’s presence had nothing to do with her inability to go back. She couldn’t go back because Jackson wasn’t there for her anymore.

  Catalina returned to the station, passing Allie silently, saying nothing to the woman who followed her closely. How would she ever accept that it was too late?

  Her Mustang was running, and she had some cash to get her new life started. If only Jackson was here, her life would be perfect.

  But life wasn’t supposed to be perfect.

  “Tell me, Allie,” Catalina lifted the fat envelope from the desk and grasped it in her hands. “Do you know much of Stu’s genealogy?”

  “A little.” Allie seemed slightly wary of her, but she didn’t ask about her frantic race into the desert sand, or her dejected trip back to the station. Catalina was grateful for that. She wasn’t good at lying, and she knew no one would believe the truth.

  “I didn’t know until I met Chris that your last name was Booker. Is there, by any chance, a Doc Booker among Stu’s ancestors?”

  Allie lifted her eyebrows, a bit startled but not shocked. “You’ve heard the stories?”

  Catalina nodded. “A few. But I didn’t think Doc had any children.”

  “He and his first wife didn’t have any, but after he married Helen Dunston, they had three.”

  Catalina shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “He was on up there in years,” Allie said, reclaiming her stool. “As the family tells it, he was shot, and Helen nursed him back to health. They were married a few months later… .”

  “He waited u
ntil her year of mourning was up,” Catalina muttered.

  “What?” Allie leaned forward.

  “Nothing.”

  “Anyway, Helen was a quite a few years younger than he was, and they shocked everybody when Jackson was born.”

  Catalina dropped her half-filled bottle of soda, and it landed on its side, spewing bubbles all over Catalina’s skirt. She didn’t care.

  “Jackson?” she whispered.

  Allie reached down and scooped up the soda bottle, then dropped a rag over the clear puddle. “Yeah. Stu’s grandfather, Jackson Booker.”

  Catalina closed her eyes. Jackson had promised her that if there was a way … if the soul survived … he would be waiting for her. Could it be so simple? Was there a Jackson Booker out there somewhere with pale blue eyes searching for her?

  “No,” she breathed deeply, trying to remain calm. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted Jackson. Her Jackson. No substitute, no recycled soul. Her Jackson.

  “She married him right before he made that big strike, found that mine. The last profitable gold mine in these parts.”

  Doc had finally found something worth taking a risk for, something — someone — to change his own life for.

  “Chris said you were here,” Stu called, and Catalina opened her eyes to see the man almost upon her, wiping his hands on a greasy towel. “I’ll be damned. Your Mustang’s out back, and she runs like a beauty. I just cleaned up the engine a little, replaced a few worn parts. I still don’t know why it died on you that day.”

  “Thank you. Certainly I owe you more for storing it for such a long time.” Catalina reached into the envelope and withdrew a few bills, but Stu shook her off.

  “It was no trouble at all,” Stu assured her with a genuine smile, and that was when she saw Doc. His smile had been infrequent, but he had passed it on to his great grandson.

  She heard squealing tires and saw a blur of white, and then Chris brought her Mustang to a stop in front of the office.

  “I thought I’d bring it around front for you,” he shouted, a wide grin on his face.

  Allie muttered, in that universal way mothers have, “Christopher Jackson Booker,” and Stu rolled his eyes.