by Judi Lind
“You expect these uneducated miners to follow that serpentine logic? All they know is two men are dead, we’re together and there isn’t another suspect in sight It won’t take them two minutes to reach a verdict”
The reins slipped from her fingers and Vera leaned her cheek against the jenny’s scratchy hide. Jericho’s awful words held the crystal clear ring of truth.
Holding up her hand, she held off further comment Walking over to the dappled shade of an ancient paloverde, she leaned against the pale green bark. “Let me think this through.”
“Nothing to think about,” he said, striding over to stand in front of her. “I’m taking you down to the Apache encampment where nobody will find you. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.”
“What about you?” she countered.
“What about me?”
“You’re the one who said they’d blame Deputy Hamblin’s death on you. If you ride into Prescott, what’s to stop them from throwing you in the slammer to stand trial for murder?”
“Not a damn thing,” Jericho said in a matter-of-fact tone that told her he’d already considered and accepted that risk.
“There has to be another way,” she insisted. “If only we could figure out what really happened that day.”
“How? It’s not likely the killer is going to step forward and throw himself on the mercy of the court.”
“Nooo,” she said slowly. “But maybe somebody else knows something.”
A new and frightening thought occurred to her. What if Verity had seen more than any of them suspected? That would explain why she didn’t just come forward and tell her story. She had several witnesses. Her brothers and mother knew she’d only hit Rafe Wilson with a skillet before fleeing that cabin. For the umpteenth time, Vera wondered where the real Verity was....
While a jury might not believe Vera without corroboration, how could they dispute Verity’s witnesses? It didn’t make sense.
Maybe Verity knew something, but hadn’t realized the importance of that knowledge right away. Maybe she’d later come to the realization that she could identify Rafe’s killer. Wouldn’t that cause her to flee? It would certainly explain why the real murderer was so anxious to silence her forever.
The real murderer had to be someone Verity believed she couldn’t best in court Someone whose word would be readily accepted over hers.
Stepping past Jericho, Vera stalked back to the jackass. The answer had to be in Verity’s journal. Even though Vera had read it several times, she must have missed something. Some small clue to the killer’s identity.
She slipped the journal into her blouse, hoping to read it while on the trail but the path was too twisted and strewn with rocks to make reading possible. With a sigh of disappointment, she tucked it away until they stopped for another break.
But her mind wouldn’t rest. She kept replaying what she knew of the events of the past few days, hoping to pull a thread of logic from the skein of unrelated facts.
What did she know for certain? Maybe if she started with the undisputed facts she could think her way through the tangled mess.
Fact one: the killer had taken advantage of Verity’s fight with her stepfather and was trying to make her a scapegoat for his crime.
Fact two: who knew about that fight? Other than Min-e-wah and the boys, only Jericho was privy to that information.
Vera sighed. At every juncture, Jericho Jackson was the cornerstone that her unsettling questions teetered upon.
When they at long last reached the valley floor, Jericho drew them to a halt. “Let’s rest here and decide what to do next. Once we head out across that flat ground, we’ll be sitting ducks.”
More than eager to dismount and give her screaming muscles a break, she poured water into tin pie plates for the animals and carried the journal to a shaded spot that was still covered by sparse brown grass.
Sitting down, she doused her neckerchief in a bit of lukewarm water from her canteen and swabbed the sweat from her face. It was amazing how it could go from bitter cold to sweltering in a few short hours.
After slaking her thirst with the tepid water, she opened Verity’s journal and read for the umpteenth time the events surrounding Rafe Wilson’s death.
She read again about the terror that ruled the Wilson household, everyone holding their breath in case the abusive man came home drunk again. Then Verity wrote about her flight. The cold. The snow. Holding up in the line shack. Nothing that offered a clue to help clear her name.
Frustrated but not ready to give up, Vera skipped back a few pages and read over the notations of the weeks prior to Rafe’s death. A few weeks before, Verity mentioned going into town with her stepfather for supplies. She wrote about meeting him after she’d loaded the wagon outside the assayer’s office.
Had Rafe and his partner found another vein of copper?
Vera knew that during the copper mining boom, such a discovery was worth untold wealth. She recalled reading that during the late 1800s, William Clark, the owner of the United Verde Mine was raking in three and half million dollars a year in dividends alone.
Even by the inflated standards of her own time, that was more than enough motive for a murder in the minds of many people.
Now she was certain; greed not anger was behind Rafe Wilson’s murder.
But even if Rafe had made such a valuable discovery, how would he go about obtaining the mineral rights?
First he’d have to make certain that his discovery was rich enough to make it worth his while. Wouldn’t that necessitate a trip to the assayer’s office?
Then, assuming the value of his find was confirmed, he’d need a financial backer. Someone who could afford to purchase the property. That must have meant some tricky negotiations on Rafe’s part. If he divulged the location of the ore, why would his partner need him at all? And if he wouldn’t disclose the location, how could his partner purchase the property?
Very tricky.
Still, it could be done if a person was wily enough. And from what Vera had heard about Verity’s stepfather, he was cunning as well as mean. Such delicate negotiations wouldn’t be beyond the realm of Rafe’s abilities.
She slammed the journal closed and rose to her feet. Wiping her hands on her seat, she all but ran over to where Jericho was resting on the opposite side of the clearing. “We have to go back to Jerome,” she announced.
His head jerked up. “Have you gone completely loco? Didn’t we just get you out of town inches ahead of a lynch mob?”
“It can’t be helped.” She explained what she’d read in the journal and how she believed the assayer might have information that could help them uncover the business venture Rafe had been involved in.
Once they knew the location of his discovery, they could search the county records for the title holder of the property. Although Vera’s plan offered scant hope for a solution, it was all they had.
“So you see,” she finished, “we have to go back. The answers we need are in Jerome.”
He jumped to his feet and pointed up the mountain. “Have you forgotten about that bushwhacker who’s waiting for us with a loaded rifle?”
“No, but we’ll have to go back by another path. It will never occur to him that we’ve doubled back on our trail. He’ll be looking for us in Prescott. In the meantime we can take another route back up the mountain to Jerome.”
Jericho stamped ineffectually at pitiful sagebrush clinging to life on the parched desert floor. “Woman, I have listened to your crazy stories. I’ve dressed you up and put you onstage. I’ve been in fistfights, been shot at and called a few choice names on your behalf. I haven’t pressed you for the truth when I knew you were keeping secrets from me. I’ve bailed your sweet rear end out of more scrapes than could be expected of a man.”
“But, Jericho, this is the last thing I’ll ever ask of you. I promise.”
“Hellfire, woman, I’m on the run for my life because of you! And you expect me to smile sweetly and haul us right bac
k up the same mountainside we just spent two days coming down?”
“Please.” It was all she could think of to say, but the weak plea seemed to have an effect on Jericho. The heated fire left his eyes and he drop-kicked a pebble that he apparently found offensive.
“I’ve got to be the biggest fool who ever pulled on a pair of long pants,” he muttered at last. “I reckon we can take the old stage road back up. Save a few hours although that’ll put us out in the open more.”
Vera raced for the jenny and mounted, for the first time not needing Jericho’s laced fingers to boost herself up. “Maybe we’ll get enough head start while he looks for us in Prescott.”
Jericho paused, his hand on his pommel. “Any reason we don’t just wait for the back-shooter to come into town and nab him?”
“Because we don’t know who we’re looking for,” she countered. “And even if we recognized someone—like Jess Wiggins, for instance—we still won’t have any proof that will hold up in court. We have to see the assayer and find out what Rafe and his partner were up to.”
Releasing a huge sigh of surrender, Jericho mounted. “I’m really looking forward to another day or two in this saddle,” he groused.
For her part, Vera was glad to have another day or two of freedom. Another few hours to bask in Jericho’s company before she had to give him up for good.
STILL NOT QUTTE believing he’d allowed Vera to talk him into riding back into the lions’ den, Jericho clicked his tongue and led his horse up the dusty road.
He’d persuaded Vera to wait with his revolver outside town while he went into Prescott to trade the mules for a fresh horse for Vera. After he’d loaded up the supplies, he stopped for a short draft at the Copper Queen Saloon and listened carefully to the gossip going around the bar.
No one mentioned the desperado, Verity McBride.
Nor was the late arrival of Deputy Hamblin a topic of conversation. The larger city was more concerned about the sudden drop in the price of copper ore and how it might affect their jobs.
Feeling momentarily relieved, Jericho drained his mug. Glancing around one last time to see if anyone familiar had followed him in, he nodded to the bartender and strolled outside into the sunlight.
Keeping a wary eye peeled to make sure no one trailed him out of town, Jericho moseyed slowly down the dusty street. He nodded and smiled to the passersby, hoping to foster the impression that he was just a normal traveler and didn’t have a care in the world.
Vera was resting under the branches of a cottonwood, his Colt in her lap, when he rode up. Because the stage road was wider and far less torturous than the treacherous path they’d just taken, he knew they would make better time on the ascent by using horses. Pickings had been slim at the livery stable but he’d rustled up Boy-O, a decent-looking pinto gelding for Vera. Although tired from the ride down the mountain, Buckshot still looked better than any of the other nags the farrier had on hand.
As if glad to be on the move again, Vera was exceptionally agreeable as they started out. He chuckled to himself. No doubt she felt a tad guilty about manipulating him into going back to Jerome. Truth was, once he’d gotten over his initial shock at the suggestion, Jericho had his own reasons for wanting to return.
Henry Hamblin had been a good friend. Jericho didn’t take his murder lightly. It galled him to think that a killer might go free. He’d been doing some thinking and it seemed to him that Jess Wiggins was the most likely villain. As soon as Jericho got Vera safely tucked away in his room again, he intended to track the big man down and demand his alibi for the times of the two killings.
At least it was a starting point.
Because they’d gotten such a late start, they only rode about two hours before Jericho pointed to a sheltered path off the main road. “There’s an abandoned stage stop down there a piece. Good place as any to stay for the night. At least we’ll be out of the weather.”
When they drew up in front of the ramshackle structure, he was relieved to discover it was in better shape than he’d expected. Most of the windows were still intact, although they were so filthy he couldn’t see through them.
Leaving Vera with the horses, he cautiously entered the cabin. He didn’t want to stumble over a black bear waiting out the winter.
Other than the faint scurrying of a startled field mouse, the shack was deserted.
Not too bad, he thought as he uprighted a rickety wooden chair. The old bed frame was still in the corner although that mattress looked as if some furry creatures had been nesting in it He lifted it off the bed, intending to take it outside for a good shaking.
He jumped back when a hissing sound caught his attention.
A hibernating rattler was expressing his anger at having his winter nap disturbed. Jericho inched away. He glanced around and found the remnants of an old broom resting against the fireplace.
Kicking the cabin door open with his foot, he yelled, “Take the horses and get back on the other side of the mad.”
“What’s wrong?” Vera called back, her voice suddenly tense.
“You’ll see. Just do it.”
He didn’t want to mention the rattler because she’d been acting so peculiar of late; he wouldn’t be surprised if she screamed out loud like a city woman. When he heard the muffled shuffling of hooves crossing the road. he cautiously made his way back to the snake.
The rattling sound filled the cabin as the old fellow expressed his irritation. Jericho prodded him with the broomstick a couple times until the snake struck at it. In that split second when it came out of its coiled position Jericho lunged forward, trapping the triangular head under the scratchy broom straws.
Writhing and twisting like a mad thing, the rattler struggled but the broom held it firmly in place. Stepping carefully around the edge of the bedstead, Jericho reached down and grasped the creature firmly behind its head.
Using both hands he gingerly held it at arm’s length as he slowly crossed the cabin floor and stepped into the fading daylight. He heard Vera’s sharp intake of breath but to her credit, she didn’t scream. He carried the yard-long diamondback a good half mile from the cabin and hefted it over a waist-high boulder.
It bit the ground, hissed at the rock and slithered away in the opposite direction.
Only then did Jericho let out a relieved breath. Good thing he’d decided to air out that old mattress or they might have had a more uncomfortable night than he’d counted on.
By the time he returned to the cabin, Vera had led the horses over to the small corral and was in the process of uncinching Boy-O’s saddle. He helped her with the heavy task and then went around the corral checking the pickets and hammering a few more firmly into the ground.
Finally, their outdoor chores done, they carried the saddlebags back into the shack. While Vera swept mouse droppings off the dirt floor and generally tidied up, Jericho hauled in firewood and soon had a blaze flaring in the huge fireplace. Maybe too big a blaze, he thought, loosening the first button on his shirt.
He fixed them a simple meal of smoked ham and eggs, and broke open a crusty loaf of homemade bread he’d bartered for at a café in Prescott. When they’d eaten their fill and scrubbed off their tin plates, he settled back on the single chair while Vera huddled on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Now that they had no busywork to occupy their attention, the silence between them was deafening
Jericho sipped his coffee. “You ever going to tell me what’s got your drawers in such a knot?”
Her head jerked up. “I’m not upset, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“What I’m implying is that I don’t understand the hot-cold treatment you’re giving me. I mean, you sure as hell weren’t pushing me out of your bedroll last night but today you act like I’ve got leprosy or something. I think I deserve an explanation.”
“I, uh, just...it’s so complicated. I’m not sure how to make you understand.”
He slammed the chair onto all four legs with
a furious bang. “Try speaking English! Hell, I’m not as all-fired stupid as you seem to think I am. Give me your complicated explanation in simple sentences. I’ll study on it and try my best, ma’am, to understand,” he finished with a sarcastic flourish.
Vera picked at the holey saddle blanket covering the filthy mattress.
“You owe me the truth, at least,” he said quietly.
She owed him her life several times over, she ruefully acknowledged. And he deserved better than she’d given him. He thought she was mocking his intelligence, but in truth, her own intellect was strained trying to comprehend the metaphysical events that had transpired over the last few days.
“You’re not going to believe me,” she said at last.
“Maybe not, but give it a shot.”
Closing her eyes, Vera leaned against the wall, barely feeling the cold air that seeped between the cracked chinking. Where should she start? At the beginning, she thought. Wasn’t that what they always told their suspects during questioning? Just keep it simple and start at the beginning.
“Remember I told you that I was a highway patrol officer in California?”
“Yeah, I recall you saying something like that. Never knew what you meant by it, though.”
“I mean I’m like a police officer except I mostly ride around in a squad car and stop people for speeding, drunk driving and expired license plates.”
He slowly shook his head. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
Her voice raised in exasperation. “That’s what I meant about not being able to explain. Okay, listen, try to keep an open mind and don’t interrupt until I finish. Okay?”
He nodded. “Go on.”
Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the incredible story. “My name is Vera McBride—not Verity, and I was born in 1969. I’m almost thirty years old. I was here on vacation, I wanted to find out something about one of my ancestors, Verity McBride. Believe it or not, Jerome is a popular tourist destination in my time. All those buildings are now gift shops and museums. Of course, they’re not the same buildings because Jerome is going to burn almost to the ground twice in the next few years and—”
