by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress
Sierra had no doubt of that. She reined in as the two men hailed her and rode closer. How could she let them know about the renegade hiding in her wagon without getting all three of them killed?
The two reined in and sat their horses, looking down at her. The old sheriff pushed his hat back and looked embarrassed. Otto Toombs smiled, the sunlight reflecting off his bald, freckled head. “Morning, ma’am.”
“There’s not much good in it,” Sierra snapped, “with you taking a poor widow woman’s farm–”
“It’s legal.” Toombs smiled thinly. “Your husband should have thought of this before he mortgaged the place and gambled and drank up the money.”
Sheriff Lassiter fidgeted and pulled at his mustache. “Doggone it, Mr. Toombs, this don’t seem right somehow; not with her husband bein’ a hero and all.”
“Medals and pictures in the newspaper don’t answer to my father-in-law, and you know it,” the paunchy banker retorted.
Sierra only glared at him. Rumors were his grouchy old father-in-law made Otto’s life miserable. Otto had brought new capital to the troubled bank, but Sierra couldn’t imagine why old Griswold had pushed his elegant daughter, Julia, to marry the rich bumpkin.
The sheriff shifted his weight in the saddle. “Maybe you could work something out–”
“I offered her a job as a cleaning girl at the bank,” Toombs huffed. “I’m not a hardhearted man.”
Sierra only looked at him, remembering her trip into town a few days ago to beg for an extension on the mortgage. Otto Toombs had taken her into his office, then had closed the door and had tried to unbutton her dress.
“Miss Sierra”–the paunchy banker smiled–“that job offer is still open. Maybe I could even talk my father-in-law into letting you stay on this place.”
“I’d rather be out in the street.”
The sheriff sighed. “I really hate bein’ a part of this, ma’am.”
“I know you do, Hank.” She tried to think of some way to signal the lawman that there was a fugitive in the wagon. The knife pressed into her back warningly. Hank Lassiter had a sick wife. Sierra didn’t want him to get hurt.
The banker took out a cigar, stuck it in his fat mouth. “You’d better think again about my offer, Miss Sierra. Do you have any place to go? Any relative?”
“I have some job prospects in Saint Louis,” Sierra said. The memory of his pudgy fingers opening her dress, pulling at the front of her chemise sickened her. Before she had managed to get the desk between them, he had pulled her up against him and had kissed her, ramming his wet tongue between her lips. Only her threat to scream and bring everyone running had made him turn her loose.
“Well, ma’am”–the sheriff took off his hat and fumbled with it–“I wish you luck, but be careful. Word’s come there’s a bloodthirsty Apache loose.”
“Merciful heavens!” She felt the knife touch her back. “An Apache just outside Saint Louis?”
“It’s true.” Lassiter put his hat on. “They say he was one of Geronimo’s men, being sent with the others to Florida when he overpowered an officer and escaped off the train. They’re bringing in tracker dogs as soon as they can get them. That Injun’s liable to be anywhere by now.”
She almost screamed out then, knowing the lawman might get the first shot in and save her from being kidnapped. On the other hand . . . Sierra thought about that sick wife. “I ... I’ll be careful.” What could she do? How could she let them know?
The banker lit his cigar, shook out the match. “If you change your mind, Sierra, about the job, you know where to find me. I’m a kind man.”
“Kind!” Sierra snorted. “You’d steal the butter off a sick beggar’s biscuit!”
Toombs turned an angry red. For a long moment, she thought he would dismount and confront her. With him standing between her and the sheriff, his fat body might get the first bullet if Sierra dived from the wagon, and maybe the sheriff could get the savage before he could reload.
The banker looked over at the sheriffs disapproving face and seemed to reconsider. “Now, Miss Sierra, I am sorry about all this. But business is business. Sheriff, let’s go inspect the property.” He nudged his horse and started down the road toward the house.
Sheriff Lassiter opened his mouth as if to speak, seemed to think better of it, sighed, and then nudged his horse, too.
Sierra turned on the wagon seat and watched the pair ride away. If she screamed, she would be taking a big chance. On the other hand, she might not get another opportunity to escape. While she hesitated over her decision, the two rode on down the lane.
“Damn it, Dark Eyes,” Cholla snarled, “you almost provoked that fat man into getting down. I thought you didn’t take risks?”
“I do if I’m desperate.”
“Get moving.”
She couldn’t think of any action to take. With a sigh, she turned around and slapped the mule with the reins. The wagon lurched forward. She felt his hand on her back and his breath close to her ear. Maybe there would be a posse or an Army patrol along the road toward town. “Why don’t you just take the wagon and let me go?”
“Sure.” He laughed thinly. “Do you think I’m loco? How far do you think I’d get? No one will stop a respectable white widow driving along.”
“Then when are you going to free me?”
“When I don’t need you anymore to help me escape.”
“Do I have your promise that when you feel safe you’ll let me go?”
“I don’t imagine you’ll believe my words anymore than I’d believe some white officer’s.”
“An officer is a gentleman.” Sierra said it crisply, feeling somehow that she had come to the defense of the whole United States Army. However, if all soldiers treated women like Robert had when he was drunk . . .
“I knew several who weren’t,” Cholla snapped. “And Gillen was out to kill me since we got on the train. I just got him first.”
She shivered at the thought, even though the mid-morning sun felt warm on her. He had killed men–the last one only yesterday. She was going to have to accept the word of a killer because she had no other choice. Still it was the only hope she had to cling to. If she could just get him across the river, maybe he would slip away and she could get on with her original problems. Funny how not having a job or a roof over her head seemed so unimportant when she was staring death in the face. If she could deal with this and survive, she might not ever be afraid again.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, behind her, as his hand touched her shoulder.
“Nothing,” she lied. Sierra watched the road and kept driving. The wheels creaked in the stillness as they approached the outskirts of East St. Louis. Here and there were houses, sheds, small businesses. Women stood on the streets visiting with each other as men drove laden wagons by. The elegant Griswold carriage, drawn by two fine black horses, passed by, and Sierra recognized Toombs’s snooty wife and her stingy old father inside.
A lot of foot traffic and many horse-drawn vehicles clogged the street approaching the big bridge. Sierra sighed, remembering when she and Grandfather had parked their wagon in the shade of that elm up ahead and had sold vegetables to the passersby. This section of town, near the bank, was old and full of warehouses, rundown hotels, and freight yards. It smelled almost as bad as it looked. Sometimes men came out of the hotels, looking both ways before they hurried down the street. Occasionally, she saw women wearing face paint and once she even saw one with a cigarette in her mouth!
She felt her captor’s big hand on her back again. “Is the bridge up ahead?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “But I’ve never been on the other side of the river–”
“You let me worry about that. Your job is to get me across. The army’ll never think I can cross it.”
Sierra looked at the giant Ead’s bridge as her mule moved slowly toward it. She studied the wagons and carriages pulled to a stop up ahead, the trains moving across the lower level of the bridge. She saw
them then–her rescuers, all dressed in blue uniforms. She laughed out loud without thinking.
“What’s the matter?” Cholla whispered behind her.
“Merciful heavens, an Army patrol,” Sierra said triumphantly. “You can’t cross the river here. Soldiers are searching every wagon!”
Chapter Four
Lieutenant Quimby Gillen stood at the street corner, thinking he probably shouldn’t have left the bridge patrol unsupervised. But, blast it all, didn’t he deserve a little rest and relaxation after that damned Cholla had almost killed him?
Gingerly, Gill touched his bandaged head and looked up at the afternoon sun. Blast, but it was hot for September! Everything his friend, Forester, had told him about East St. Louis must be true.
Gill paused on the curb, ready to cross. He clutched the sack of bottles closer, wondering if he were in the right neighborhood? His teeth were bothering him again, but he wasn’t going to give up the candy. The toothaches, combined with the bruises and cuts from the fight that had left him unconscious in the baggage car, put him in a foul mood.
A canvas-covered wagon, the kind Gypsies might drive, passed him. An elderly mule pulled it slowly toward the big bridge at the end of the street. The dark, rather shy-looking woman driving the mule glanced at him and Gill suddenly thought she seemed exotic and mysterious. Maybe it was the magnetism of her eyes. At the very least, he felt a sudden recognition as if he knew her.
Gill thought about that for a minute, searching his memory as he shifted the sack to his other arm, reached in his uniform jacket for the little bag of hard candy he always carried, popped a lemon drop in his mouth. No, he had never met her before, because he had only been through this area on the train. Then why did she look familiar to him?
Hair as black as a crow’s wing, and somewhere in her middle twenties. Not a great beauty by Gill’s standards; not flashy enough, still there was something almost haunting about those big, dark eyes. He knew suddenly what it was; her eyes reminded him of that Apache girl’s.
Gill crossed the street, staring after the little covered wagon as it approached the bridge patrol. At noon there was a jam, for Corporal Finney stopped each and every wagon and carriage for inspection just as he’d been ordered. Gill snorted. That damned Cholla wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to cross the Mississippi here; that would be foolhardy even for the Army’s best Apache scout. When the tracker dogs arrived tomorrow and picked up his trail along the railroad tracks, they’d run him down soon enough.
Blast it all, what had he done with the address? Gill fumbled in his pocket for the scrap of paper, remembering his late friend’s words: If you’re ever in the area, go see Trixie. She’ll give you a time you won’t forget. Just remember to bring plenty of that patent medicine.
He had that, all right. Gill clutched the big sack full of bottles and went up the creaking stairs of the rundown hotel. Since Trixie lived so close to the bridge, it wouldn’t hurt if he took just a few minutes off and left young Finney in charge. They’d catch that Apache bastard, all right, but it wouldn’t be here. More than likely, Cholla was dozens of miles downriver by now, still trying to find a narrow place to cross. Like any wild beast, he would try to head back to familiar haunts; too naive to realize how hopeless it was for a man alone to go that far. Dead or alive. That was what the brass had said. Gill hoped it was dead. And he wanted to be the one who fired that shot. After all, it was his Army career that was in jeopardy because of the Apache’s escape.
Checking the scrap of paper again, he paused before a numbered door, rapped sharply. A frowsy woman with unusually large breasts, wearing a soiled green satin robe, opened it, still pushing her dyed black hair out of her eyes. “Yeah?”
Was it dyed to hide the gray? She was pretty in a flashy way, but she wasn’t all that young, or maybe she had just lived hard and fast.
“Miss La Femme, you don’t know me, but I’m Lieutenant Gillen. We share a mutual friend; he told me to look you up if I was ever in this area.”
“Yeah? Who’s the friend?” Her heavily painted mouth smiled suspiciously as she looked him up and down.
He wondered if she was as good in bed as his buddy had bragged? “I should have said late friend, I guess.” Gill gave her his friendliest, warmest smile. “Lieutenant Forester. Lieutenant Robert Forester.”
Sierra drove the mule toward the bridge. “What should I do?” she whispered. “There’re soldiers on the bridge!”
“Keep your eyes straight ahead.” The Indian put his hand on her back again. She felt the heat of his fingers through the black fabric. “Let me think a minute.”
A cavalry lieutenant about her own age, with a mouthful of something and a sack held in one arm, stared at her from the curb. His head was bandaged, and he wore a scowl.
“By Usen,” she heard the Indian behind her mutter, “Gillen! I thought the sonovabitch was dead. I ought to–”
The lieutenant crossed the street and headed for a seedy-looking hotel.
“Nothing I can do about it now,” Cholla said. His tone matched Sierra’s murderous anger at the savage who had invaded her life, added to her problems.
She looked at the bridge ahead. “Why don’t you just surrender? Aren’t you tired of taking chances when you know you can’t win?” She hated him, but she couldn’t help but admire his nerve and determination. People must conform to survive; hadn’t Grandfather drilled that into her head?
“Surrender?” The Indian sneered. “I’d rather die trying to escape.”
“Maybe I should turn around and go back,” Sierra said, staring straight ahead, “We haven’t a chance of getting across here.”
“Maybe crossing here is the smart thing to do because Gillen won’t think I have the guts, or that I’m stupid enough, to try it. I’m going to hide under this old quilt. You think of something; anything to keep them from checking your wagon.”
“What! How can I do that?” She knew both panic and fear as the knife pressed into her back again.
“That’s your problem,” the muffled voice warned her. “Just remember, if I’m discovered, you’ll be the first to die, and I intend to take as many people with me as possible.”
Risks. She was being forced to take life and death chances, when all she wanted to do was conform and blend in. But she kept driving. Oh, mercy, the whole town must be full of soldiers looking for the escaped Apache.
Ahead of was a hopeless snarl of carriages and wagons. A very flustered young corporal appeared confused and under pressure as he tried to keep order. Behind Sierra, drivers shouted curses at the delay. With wagons and carriages now hemming her into the slow lineup, there was nothing she could do but inch the old mule forward. She watched the soldiers examine drays loaded with crates and order people out of carriages.
Her hands became sweaty with fear. When the soldiers discovered the man hiding in her wagon, there was going to be shooting because he had said he wouldn’t be taken alive. Some of the people in this crowd would be killed. Surely the first one would be Sierra Forester. Her mouth felt so dry she couldn’t swallow as the soldiers checked out the wagon ahead of hers and waved it on through.
Heavens. It was her turn. She took a deep breath as the boyish corporal approached. He had sandy-colored hair with a lock that hung over one eye, and sweat ran down his reddish neck into the tight collar of the blue uniform.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry.” His Kansas twang was apologetic. “I’ll have to ask you to get out so we can inspect all those big boxes and trunks.”
Sierra felt her captor’s hand nudge her in warning. All she had to do was take a chance; jump from the seat, shout, He’s here, all right, hiding under that quilt!
She couldn’t bring herself to take the risk. Besides herself, this very young man would die–and who knew how many others?–before the soldiers killed the fugitive.
Sierra didn’t move to descend, but she did give the corporal her most beseeching smile. “Oh, must I? I’ve got a long way to go before dark.”
Sierra felt the knife press against her back, and fear made perspiration run down between her breasts. “An Indian? Here in East Saint Louis? Surely you joke!”
He shook his head, while the noise around them grew as the traffic worsened. “Afraid not, ma’am. An Apache scout being shipped to Florida managed to get off the prison train. Almost killed an officer doing it.”
“A scout?”
“Yes, ma’am. He scouted for the Army.”
That didn’t make any sense to her. “If he worked for the Army, he must have done something terrible to get imprisoned.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, ma‘am. There was orders to send them all, but he got away. Look, ma’am, I can see you’re a widow and all, but I do have my orders–”
“An officer’s widow,” Sierra said gently, and she looked at him sweetly. “Killed in action just a few weeks ago. Now I’ve lost my farm.”
“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize. . . .”
“Corporal, do you really think a helpless widow would have any reason to try to smuggle a bloodthirsty redskin across the Mississippi?”
“Well, no ma’am, but–”
“And, Corporal, some of these people you’re holding up”–she gestured with her head toward all the ranting, shouting men hanging out of carriages and wagons–“some of these people are probably going to call the mayor and friends at the state capitol before the day’s out.”
The boy brushed his hair back with a gesture of defeat and frustration. “I just don’t know what to do! The lieutenant left strict orders before he went off, and he hasn’t come back–”
“Then why don’t you just take charge and make things happen?” Sierra managed a sweet smile again and fixed her most haunting gaze on him. “Let a few wagons and carriages through until the traffic lessens. After all, you don’t really expect to find this savage riding across the Mississippi into Saint Louis in some lady’s carriage, do you?”
