Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona

by Miralee Ferrell

  “I’m quite capable.” She set a foot in the stirrup, holding her skirt out of the way as she swung into the saddle. “I made this trip a few years ago and did fine.”

  Justin raised a hand in farewell. “You’re always welcome in our home, Christy. If things don’t work out in Tombstone, we want you to come back here.”

  “Thank you.” Christy swallowed a lump in her throat. “I love you all.”

  She picked up her reins and nudged her mule forward as the teamster led the string down the main street of Last Chance.

  Good things would happen in her future; she was sure of it.

  Chapter Two

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Nevada King’s hand hovered above the butt of his six-shooter. His eyes bored into the man standing thirty feet away. “Give it up, Malone. Walk away while you can. I don’t want to kill you.”

  The man he’d only recently come to know as Logan Malone raised the corner of his top lip, but nothing else on his body moved. “Not gonna happen, King. I’m sick of hearing how fast you are with a gun, and I aim to prove I’m better.”

  “It’s not worth dying over. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “Ha. I know plenty. I seen you shoot that feller in San Antone, and you weren’t so slick then. He got his gun out faster than you.” Malone ran his tongue over his lips, and the hand hovering above his gun twitched.

  “Yes, but he’s dead.” Nevada’s gut clenched, and an icy calm washed over his body. A gust of wind blew a dry tumbleweed across his path, but only muted sounds from the typically busy Albuquerque street reached his ears as he focused all of his attention on this man. There was no hope for it. He’d have to shoot and ride away. Again. Right when he’d finally found a boss he trusted and a ranch he wanted to work for, not to mention hoping to have his own spread one day.

  He kept his gaze trained on Malone’s eyes. No need watching his hand. A man’s eyes always revealed when he planned to draw. Logan’s eyelid jerked, and his fingers gripped the butt of his gun.

  Nevada moved almost without thought. His pistol slid out of the holster and he fired two shots close together, hearing the echo of Malone’s shot a second after. The bullet zipped past his shoulder, nicking his shirt.

  Logan’s eyes widened and his lips formed a circle, but no sound came out. He swayed on his feet, then slowly toppled over, landing on his side in the dirt.

  Voices echoed around Nevada, and footsteps echoed on the hard ground behind him. He swung around, gun leveled.

  A wizened man with a limp plowed to a stop and raised his hands. “I ain’t armed, mister, and I don’t want no fight with the likes of you.” He waved at the still form on the street. “It were a fair fight. I seen it all. But if I was you, I’d hightail it out of Albuquerque fast as your horse will carry you. Logan Malone’s got a mean cousin, and he’ll be lookin’ for you.”

  Nevada holstered his gun and gave a brief nod. “Obliged, but I’ve never met his cousin and don’t have a beef with him.”

  The old man wiped grimy hands against still dirtier trousers. “Won’t matter. He’ll still want revenge. Him and Logan woulda for shore ambushed you if you hadn’t shot him dead. They’s done it to others.” He jerked his chin toward the body lying nearby. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell the marshal Logan here drew first. Weren’t nothin’ else you could do. ’Sides, I heard you tell him not to draw.”

  “Thanks.” Nevada stalked to his horse and untied the reins from the hitching rail in front of the saloon. Seemed like every drunken wrangler, gambler, and no-account that spotted him wanted a piece of his hide.

  Nugget snorted and sidestepped as Nevada stepped into the saddle. The fist in his gut hadn’t started to unwind, but it wouldn’t be long before it did. He needed to be out of town and on the trail before the dam of emotions broke, or he’d be an easy target for anyone hoping to plug him. All he wanted right now was to crawl into a hole somewhere until the sickness passed. He’d vowed to never shoot another man, but once again he’d been drawn into a fight against his will. Why couldn’t these men be satisfied with their lives instead of wanting to brag about how many notches they could file on their guns?

  Too bad he couldn’t head back to the ranch and tell the folks there good-bye. He’d hoped to eventually purchase a ranch and settle down outside of Albuquerque. All he’d ever wanted was a place of his own, a wife who loved him, and the memories of his past wiped away. But with Logan’s cousin dogging his trail, he’d best light a shuck out of this country and not look back.

  Good thing the man had never seen him, but he’d heard rumors about Logan Malone and his cousin before this. Putting a gun in a dead man’s hand after he’d been ambushed would’ve been their style.

  He’d have to find somewhere far away, where people didn’t know his name. No more working on ranches for now or associating with cowboys who pushed cattle up the trail. Someone would spot him, and it would begin all over again. It was time to make a new start.

  Nevada shifted in his saddle and his stomach growled. Dusk was drawing near, and he’d yet to find a good site to eat and bed down. He’d been riding aimlessly for two days and his supply of grub was almost gone. After he’d ridden out of Albuquerque last week he couldn’t decide where to land. He’d heard the town of Tombstone had hit a big silver strike. Might be a good place to start, since it lay less than a six-hour ride from here.

  He turned his horse, glad to have one thing settled. Too much of his adult life had been spent wandering, trying to find a place to belong. He’d been followed from one rough town to the next by men hoping to prove their mettle with a gun. Sometimes he’d avoided a fight, and at other times he’d had no choice. Whenever that happened, the same old sickness assailed him and often took days to shake.

  After shooting Logan, he’d ridden twenty miles and holed up in the brush without moving. Half the time he’d been on the alert, expecting the cousin to arrive, and the rest of the time he flat hadn’t cared. As much as he wanted to leave this old life behind and start over, he had little hope it could happen.

  He longed to keep the promise he’d made his mother so many years ago. She’d begged him to stay out of trouble and make a good life for himself—one she could be proud of. But so far that hadn’t happened. At times he felt God had forsaken him, but in the early, predawn hours, when sleep evaded him, he admitted the lie—if anything, he’d abandoned God. Why was it so hard to stay out of trouble and settle down with a wife on his own ranch? Other men achieved it, but the hope of finding freedom from his past constantly dangled just a step ahead, always elusive.

  Nugget’s ears pricked forward, and the horse moved from a walk into a trot. The flickering light of a campfire shone off in the distance. Nevada reined in his horse. Running wasn’t part of his nature, even though he’d prefer to avoid a fight. The men around the fire could be enemies, but they could as easily be travelers on their way to Tombstone. Right now the thought of a hot meal and coffee urged him on. He’d hail the camp and take his chances.

  A coyote yipped off in the distance and another answered. Soon a rising crescendo of barks and howls lit up the early evening. His horse moved through the desert chaparral, wending its way toward the fire. Several minutes later Nevada drew rein, bringing his mount to a halt. “Ho, the camp.”

  The cocking of rifles reverberated in the night air. Two figures pulled away from the fire and stepped into the gloom.

  “Who goes there?” a rough voice off to the right called out.

  “A hungry traveler hoping for a bite of grub and a cup of coffee, if you have it to spare.” Nevada rested his right hand on his thigh, inches from the butt of his gun.

  “All right. Walk your horse nice and slow toward the fire so we can get a look at you.”

  Nevada did as he was told, his senses alert and his eyes scanning the encampment. “Not wantin’ any trouble, boys. Only thing I got left to eat is hardtack. Sure would be grateful if you could offer something more.”


  “Swing yourself down off’n that horse.” A tall, burly man dressed in dark clothing stepped to the fore, a rifle cradled across his arms. “Guess we can spare a mite of grub. Coffee’s on, and there’s a mess of beans still in the pot.” He spat, then wiped the back of his hand across his bearded face.

  “Much obliged.” Nevada eased Nugget off to the side, facing the men. “I’ll not wear out my welcome. I’ll eat and be on my way.”

  “Sorry, stranger. Didn’t mean to be unsocial, did we, fellas?” He motioned to his two silent companions standing in the shadows. “Me and the boys are a mite touchy right now. We’re huntin’ a man and don’t care to get bushwhacked.”

  Nevada grunted and tossed Nugget’s reins over a branch. “No danger of that. I’m only a travelin’ cowpoke, hopin’ to find work in these parts. Know of any jobs to be had?”

  “You needin’ a grubstake?” The one who’d done all the talking took a step closer.

  “Maybe.”

  “Throw your bedroll off your horse and strip your gear. Bunk here tonight and we’ll toss some money your way in the mornin’.” He gestured toward the three bedrolls to the left of the fire.

  “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” Nevada tethered his horse and stripped off his gear, slinging his bedroll and saddlebag over one shoulder and hoisting his saddle against his hip. He made his way back to the fire and set his belongings at the base of a scrub manzanita.

  By the time he returned, two of the men had rolled in their blankets, resting their heads on their saddles. The leader gestured at a pot of coffee slid to the edge of the coals. “Help yourself. What’d you say your name is?”

  “I didn’t.” The brusque words hit the still air and vibrated over the camp. Nevada waited to see what effect they might have. Most men in this country didn’t put much stock in a name, unless it was printed on a wanted poster. He’d rather not bandy his about at the moment.

  “Fair enough, seein’ as how we don’t care to share ours, neither.” The leader laughed. “Now eat and turn in. We’re plannin’ on bein’ up at daylight tomorrow.” He beckoned toward a cluster of pans. “Beans in the pot and bacon in the pan, so help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Nevada scooped up a helping of beans, took the tin cup of coffee offered, and sat on a boulder. The sun had sunk below the horizon some time ago. He kept his eyes trained away from the fire. No sense in getting night blinded by staring into the light. Something about this setup didn’t feel right, even though the men had given no solid reason to put him on edge. He’d been the first to refuse his name, so he couldn’t complain about not knowing theirs.

  Silence blanketed the camp as Nevada finished the last of his meal and set his bowl aside.

  Crickets whispered on the night breeze and an owl hooted off in the distance. A sudden weariness struck him. He plucked his bedroll and saddle off the ground and moved away from the fire and into the brush, a good distance from the other men. He sank onto the dirt, placing his head on his saddle and drawing the wool blanket up over his shoulders. Tonight he’d sleep with one eye open and an ear tuned for trouble.

  Nevada woke as the first flush of dawn brightened the sky. He reached for his pistol lying close to his side and sat up, throwing back the blanket in one easy motion. He hadn’t removed his boots, so he rose to his knees and quickly rolled his blanket, then walked over to his horse tethered to the picket line. Nugget nickered a greeting and Nevada loosened the rope, leading the animal to a scanty patch of grass. He’d pick up some grain when he hit Tombstone, but for now this would have to do.

  Murmuring voices came from the clearing along with the crackling of branches being broken and tossed onto the smoldering coals. The rattle of a coffeepot and the scrape of a pan indicated breakfast would soon be ready. He drove a stake into the ground and looped the rope around it, then sauntered back toward camp.

  The big man looked up when Nevada approached. A jagged scar showed on his cheek above his beard. He motioned toward the coffeepot. “Should be hot soon. Grab a cup.”

  “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” Nevada squatted on his haunches near the fire and reached for the pot.

  An occasional grunt and the scrape of a knife against the bottom of a tin pan were all that disturbed the morning. Nevada ate the scant fare offered and drank the strong brew, grateful for the meager meal. His thoughts wandered ahead to Tombstone. The first order of business would be to find work. Maybe he’d take a stab at staking a silver claim if nothing else panned out.

  The leader tossed the remnants of his coffee onto the fire and pushed to his feet. “Want t’make a couple of gold pesos, stranger?”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Like I said last night, me and the boys are huntin’ a man that killed a kin of ours. He’s an outlaw that might be runnin’ with a local gunman, Curly Bill. Got word him and his gang are holed up nearby. They should be ridin’ down the trail toward Tombstone soon.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “We’ll all ride up close to the trail, then hoof it the rest of the way. You’ll wait with the horses while we scout ahead.”

  “No need for pay. I’ll trail along since I’m headin’ toward Tombstone myself.”

  “I don’t care to be beholden to a stranger.” He flipped a gold coin in the air, and Nevada caught it. “Stay with the horses until we get back, and there’ll be another waitin’ for you.” He motioned to his men. “Saddle up, and let’s head out.”

  Fifteen minutes later the men broke camp. They swung aboard their horses and hit the trail through the brush heading toward Tombstone. Nevada let his gaze roam the surrounding area. Rugged mountains crested against the distant sky must have beckoned many a wandering miner to explore their shadowy crags. Manzanita and cactus dotted the landscape, and a scorpion scurried across the trail.

  Finally, the leader raised his hand and drew to a halt. They stopped on a relatively flat area with undulating hills not far ahead. “This is a good place to wait. The man we’re huntin’ should be comin’ just beyond this rise. There’s a narrow spot in the trail where we’ll hold them up without any gunplay, then take him back to the marshal in Tombstone for trial.”

  Nevada stepped off his horse. “Sure you don’t want me to come along?”

  “Naw. But you might need this, if anything happens.” The man yanked a grain sack out of his saddlebag and tossed it.

  “What for?” Nevada caught it and held it up for inspection. The bag had two holes cut side by side with a string attached near the opening.

  All three men withdrew similar sacks and slipped them over their heads, tying the cords around their necks. “We aim to have the element of surprise and don’t care to have these gents see our faces, in case we don’t capture them all.”

  One of the men gave a coarse laugh. “Which ain’t likely. But Curly Bill’s a mean one. We’d hate to have him come gunnin’ for us if’n he gets away.”

  Nevada tossed the bag on his saddle and shook his head. “Not for me, fellas. I’ll wait here like you asked, but that’s all.”

  “Suit yourself.” The leader’s words were slightly muffled, but his eyes gleamed from the holes cut in the bag. He yanked his thumb toward his men. “Let’s go.”

  They stalked past the horses and headed up a shallow wash toward a rock-strewn hill. Their boots weren’t suited to walking and one of the men stumbled. His curse rolled across the clearing. Within minutes they disappeared over the top of the low rise.

  Nevada gazed at the spot. This setup didn’t smack of an honest group of cowboys trying to round up a killer. He’d ridden on more than one posse in his younger days and never once found the need for a mask. He waited another ten minutes, then grasped his horse’s reins and tugged. Time to see what those hombres were up to.

  Chapter Three

  Christy stepped off the train in the new town of Benson, Arizona, grateful to be rid of the dirty, noisy car. This journey had taken longer than she’d anticipated, and worry over her mother mounted.
Joshua hadn’t said how bad Ma’s condition might be, or even what was wrong. Right now all she cared about was reaching Tombstone and seeing to her mother’s needs. She chafed at the constant delays and prayed Ma wouldn’t worsen before she arrived.

  While train travel was somewhat faster than a stagecoach, it didn’t have much more to offer in the way of comfort. The cars had jarred, jerked, and rattled their slow way across the countryside, kicking up volumes of dust that drifted into the windows. Her sage-green traveling dress and matching hat were covered with the stuff. Good thing she’d thought to wear a hat with a heavy veil covering her face. More than likely she’d be even more grateful for it by the time the stagecoach rolled into Tombstone.

  Tucson had been a disappointment, although the train departed before she had a chance to visit any shops. She’d expected a grand city and only found streets of low adobe houses on the outskirts of town where the train passed through. She scanned the small station at Benson, wondering how many of the people who’d disembarked with her would be going on to Tombstone. Most of the passengers on the train were men, and more than one had given her a look of deep interest, which she’d chosen to ignore. Women had accompanied two of the men, but the rest traveled alone and apparently weren’t immune to a single woman.

  The stagecoach driver approached the knot of people standing on the siding. “Folks, anyone going on through to Tombstone has thirty minutes to buy their ticket and get some grub. Hustle along.”

  Christy rolled her head back and stifled a groan. She’d parted with ninety-eight dollars in train fare since leaving Auburn, California. Hopefully her brother was gainfully employed and kept the pantry stocked. At this rate she’d soon be out of the money she’d carefully saved. She walked to the side of a group of three men as they headed toward the way station.