The crude adobe structure stood alone at the end of the street. Two dogs chased a small boy who ran in circles, laughing and screaming, in front of the building. A chicken screeched and flapped out of their way. A woman stood off to the side, hanging clothing on a line strung between two poles planted in the ground, ignoring the visitors trooping across the hard-packed ground toward her.
One of the men wearing a bowler hat, trousers, white shirt, and vest poked his comrade in the side and snickered. “Looks part Injun. Wonder if I need to worry about my scalp.”
Christy swung around and glared. “I don’t know where you’re from, mister, but any decent man in these parts will horsewhip a man who talks ugly about a woman.”
A red stain crept up the man’s neck, but his eyes narrowed and his chin snapped up. “None of your never-mind, lady. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“No, but I heard you.” She squared her shoulders and marched past him. Ever since she’d taken her first job in a saloon at the age of sixteen and felt the ugly stares and heard the whispers of the decent folks in town, she’d been a champion of the downtrodden and misunderstood. What did it matter the race of the woman hanging the clothes on the line? She was a person with feelings, needs, and desires, like any other. Christy smiled at the dusky-skinned woman as she moved past her. The woman looked startled but smiled tentatively back.
So much prejudice in the world and so little compassion, Christy thought. Hopefully she’d find something better in Tombstone.
The door of the squatty building opened, and a young girl motioned her inside. “There isn’t much time before the next stage leaves. Pa has a pot of vittles on the stove.”
Christy crossed the threshold into a dimly lit room. Only one small window helped to illuminate the squalid setting. It was barely big enough to contain two rough-hewn tables surrounded by four chairs each, and a rude wooden bar ran well over half the length of the room off to the left of the door.
A man stood behind the waist-high barrier, and the people from the coach lined up before him. “Two dollars each for the trip and a dollar for your meal. Make it quick, folks. There’s barely time to get your ticket and eat before the stage leaves for Tombstone.”
Christy gasped and covered her mouth with her gloved fingers. Another three dollars? Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d eaten a scanty breakfast. She drew in a lungful of the odor emanating from the pot on the potbellied stove behind the counter and wrinkled her nose in distaste. If she guessed correctly, that meal had been brewing for days. She cast around hoping for something else to assuage her hunger and her gaze fell on a loaf of bread. No signs of black spots on the surface, so it might be safe.
She edged up as the man in front of her walked away, clutching his bowl of whatever concoction the establishment saw fit to serve. “I need a ticket for one, please.”
“That’ll be two dollars, Miss. How about a bowl of my wife’s fine stew?” He grinned, showing a blackened tooth.
“Uh, no. Thank you. Might I have a slice of bread instead?” She dug into her reticule hanging around her wrist and withdrew the required payment for the stage.
“That’ll be two bits for a slab o’ bread. Sure you don’t want the stew? I kin throw in the bread for free if you take ’em both.”
“Just the bread.” Christy laid a coin on the counter. She took the slip of paper declaring she’d purchased one-way fare to Tombstone, and grasped the edge of a small plate with a jagged slab of bread sitting atop it. Praise be, it appeared fresh. A quick step took her to a table not yet occupied, and she sank down in relief. If Ma wasn’t up to cooking when she arrived, she’d fix them all a nice supper.
What a relief. Only a couple more hours till Tombstone.
An hour later Christy grabbed at the window frame of the stagecoach, steadying herself from being thrown into the lap of the man beside her. The gentleman wearing the bowler hat sitting across the coach grunted and scowled. “Consarned uncomfortable contraption, if you ask me. Good thing some of the passengers wanted to ride up top, or we’d be jammed in here like sardines. The alkali dust is enough to kill a person.”
A rotund man sitting next to the bowler-clad gentleman nodded and patted the arm of the woman beside him. “I agree. I’m thankful the driver allowed us to get out and walk on some of the roughest areas. Thought my teeth would rattle out of my head a couple of times.”
Christy smiled but didn’t comment.
His female companion had kept to herself most of the trip, clutching the man’s arm whenever the coach lurched or jolted. She stared across at Christy’s neckline and her eyes widened. “That’s an exquisite cameo.” She leaned forward and squinted. “Are those pearls around the edge?”
Christy touched the brooch. “Yes. It was a gift from my grandmother before she died.”
The woman sat back, a genial expression lighting her face. “It looks valuable. I’ve heard Tombstone is quite a wild city. You might want to be careful where you wear it.”
“Thank you. I hadn’t thought of that.”
The group inside the stage settled into silence, and Christy was left alone with her thoughts. This brooch contained so many loving memories from her childhood when her papa’s mother still lived. She’d stayed with them from the time Christy was eight until she turned twelve and her grandmother had passed. Every year on Christy’s birthday she’d been allowed to wear the piece for the entire day.
That last day, as the sweet older lady rested in her bed, she’d pressed her cameo into the young girl’s hand, closing her fingers over the small treasure. “It’s yours, my love. It’s been in my family for three generations. Maybe someday you’ll have a daughter you can give it to. Tell her about me, will you, child?”
Christy had treasured the cameo and kept it close from that day forward, always anticipating the time she’d have a family and be able to pass it along with the fond memories of her grandmother. Now she wondered if it was too late. She was twenty-five years old and the closest she’d ever come to marriage was Ralph, back in Last Chance. Some would say she was an old maid and beyond hope, but in her heart-of-hearts she still believed the right man would come.
A loud “whoa” emanated from the driver, and the team slowed its pace. “Hold on, folks. We’re goin’ down a pretty decent grade,” his voice boomed from on top of the box. “When we reach the bottom it’ll be some better. You can get out and stretch your legs a mite if you’ve a mind to, before we start up the other side.”
The stage tilted and slowed its forward progress, as the driver continued to haul back on the reins and call to his horses. Once again Christy gripped the opening in the door as the wheels encountered ruts and rocks, jostling the passengers from side to side. Why hadn’t the man allowed them to walk this stretch? It seemed the horses would have less work holding back the extra weight in the coach if it were empty. She was tired of being thrown into the man next to her, although from the smug expression she’d noticed a time or two, he didn’t seem to mind.
A gunshot from somewhere ahead electrified the five travelers inside. The man she shared a seat with leaned toward his window and peered outside. “By Jove, it looks like a holdup! There’s a man with a rifle standing in the middle of the road.”
The stage didn’t slow, and another gunshot cracked. “Stop your team, or we’ll shoot one of the horses,” a rough voice echoed against the hillside.
“I ain’t stoppin’ for nobody.” The driver shouted the words, and a gun barked from on top of the stage.
Christy’s heart jumped, and a knot formed in her stomach. They were so close to Tombstone, and now someone wanted to rob them? Half of what she had left was inside her small purse. She unpinned the cameo from her dress and held it in the palm of her hand. Bandits would surely notice a piece of jewelry this fine, and she couldn’t allow it to be stolen. Slipping her reticule from her wrist, she placed the brooch inside, then searched the interior for a place to hide it. Nothing presented itself as an option.
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p; The seat. Her bag was small and might fit. She turned and jammed the bit of cloth between the seat and its back, stuffing it hard into the crack. The two men continued to peer out the window, but the woman’s gaze followed her movements. Christy raised her eyes and met the woman’s, giving her a tight smile.
“Do you think they’ll kill us?” She whispered the words and clenched her hands in her lap.
Christy shook her head. “Not if we do what they say. If they stop the stage, obey their orders and don’t argue or complain. Most robbers won’t harm a woman.”
Nevada’s chin jerked up at the gunshot. He’d almost crested the hill, and he dug in hard, scrambling through the brush and over the top, pulling his horse behind him. They hit a patch of loose rock and slid for several yards, his gelding scrambling to remain on his feet. He held fast to the reins and jumped to the side, getting out of the way as Nugget lunged over a boulder and skidded to a stop. “Whoa, boy. Easy now.” Stroking his mount’s neck he waited, surveying the area below. On the far side of the gulley, a brace of horses pulled a stage down the hill, the driver hauling back on the reins trying to slow the team. Three men wearing sackcloth masks waved their guns and shouted, but the driver didn’t appear to notice.
What had he stumbled into? This wasn’t a group of cowboys intent on arresting a killer and carting him to town. Nevada reached for his gun and peered more closely at the stage. Looked like three men riding on top with others inside, like they did when transporting a Wells Fargo payroll to the mines outside of Tombstone.
Another gun exploded nearby, and Christy felt a searing pain in her arm, just above the elbow. She gasped and cried out, staring at the blood now soaking her sleeve.
The woman across from her screamed and then started to shriek, her voice escalating in fear. “They’re going to kill us all! Help! Somebody help us!” She buried her face against the chest of the man sitting next to her, but her now muffled screams continued.
The stage rattled and jumped over rocks in its hasty descent into the shallow valley below. Christy wrapped her gloved fingers around her arm, staring at the stream of blood gushing from the wound. She’d been injured more than once in her life, but nothing like this. Something akin to terror gripped her mind, and she struggled to push it aside, tightening her hold on her arm and praying it would slow the bleeding. She couldn’t die out here in the wilderness, only a short distance from her family.
She hadn’t had nearly enough time to experience life—at least not the kind she’d always hoped and planned for. Scenes from her past rushed at her faster than the jostling coach, reminding her of the years wasted in shameful living. She’d finally found her purpose in helping her mother recover her health, and hopefully gaining some kind of family relationship where none had existed before. Bleeding to death before she even arrived was not an option.
The stage finally drew to a halt, and loud, angry voices erupted outside. Christy sat up straight and gazed around. None of the passengers appeared to have much courage—even the men wilted into limp caricatures of the male race. If she had to demand that someone take care of this wound to ensure her safe arrival at her mother’s bedside, so be it. If the outlaws didn’t kill them all first.
Nevada scrambled the rest of the way down the hill, pulling his snorting horse with him. No way could he slip away now, not with women on board and someone possibly hurt. He eased his gun out of his holster. It was three against one, but he had the element of surprise.
He crept forward, dodging from bush to bush. The man he recognized as the leader had his gun aimed at the stage, as did the other masked man standing off to one side. The third had disappeared, and Nevada stopped to get his bearings.
A masked man stepped out from behind a boulder, gun drawn and trained on Nevada. “You got two choices. Help us, or get yourself shot.”
Nevada hesitated, weighing his options. He could probably take this man without too much trouble, but the gunshot would alert the others. The stage had rolled to a stop, and a glance showed two men climbing down from the top and a male passenger stepping out the door. If he moved forward with his plan and took this man down as he wanted to, it was highly probable some of the passengers would be killed in the ensuing gun battle. His gut clenched, and he tightened his grip on the butt of his gun. Something told him he would do better falling in with these men than trying to stop them, and getting himself and others killed—even if it meant pretending to be a criminal. “I’ll help you.”
The man’s eyes seemed to glow as he peered through the holes in the mask, but his gun didn’t waver or drop. “You don’t get nothin’ but what Jake promised, and you’ll get a dose of lead if you try anything funny.”
Nevada holstered his gun and raised his hands, palms out. “Sure. Take it easy, friend. Just want to lend a hand, that’s all.” He sent a prayer heavenward, his first one in years, and hoped this time God would see fit to listen. Maybe once he got close to the stage he could still overpower the outlaws and keep this robbery from happening.
“All right.” The gun dropped a couple of inches but stayed trained on his belly. “Ya still got the mask the boss gave you?”
“Yeah. In my saddlebag.”
“Put it on. Unless you want your face plastered all over the county on wanted posters.” He gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “That might be a good thing. They’d be chasin’ you, ’stead of us.”
Nevada stepped toward his horse. He withdrew the sackcloth mask from his saddlebag and drew it over his head, wrapping the string around his neck to keep it from slipping. The smell of mold almost gagged him. “What’d you have in here?”
“Some old grain that went bad. Now tie your horse and get a move on.” He motioned with his gun and waited for Nevada to follow his orders, then walked behind him toward the other two outlaws.
Nevada peered through the eye holes at the motionless stage and stopped short, still a number of yards away from the coach. His heart rate accelerated. A man climbed out and an older woman followed, her wails splitting the air. Her companion patted her back and drew her close, trying to quiet her sobs.
The outlaw leader stepped forward and uttered a low growl, then raised his voice in warning. “Shut your trap, lady. You don’t look hurt a’tall. Quit your caterwaulin’, or I’ll give you somethin’ to complain about.”
Her eyes grew round and she gasped, then her lips clamped shut. A slender woman wearing a green dress, a hat, and a veil stepped to the ground. The white glove gripping her arm was stained red and a distinct whimper came from under the veil.
The burly leader turned at Nevada’s approach and stalked toward him, stopping a good distance from the stage. “Came to help us, did you? Good thing you covered your head. Wells Fargo don’t look too kindly on havin’ the payroll stole off their stage.”
“You shot a woman?” A growl laced Nevada’s words.
He placed his hand on the butt of his gun but kept his gaze trained on the man. Conflicting thoughts raced through his mind. No way could he get into a shooting scrape now. Avoiding more bloodshed must be his primary focus, even if it meant quelling his own desire to end this thing. He fought a hard battle inside—and all the years of violence and living by the gun almost won out. But a glance at the woman standing so silent, gripping her arm with only the one whimper, decided the question for him. He loosened his hold on his gun and relaxed his arm.
“Not a’purpose, we didn’t. One of the men got nervous when the driver wouldn’t stop and shot at the stage. Winged her. Come on, you kin help us relieve them of their valuables.”
“I don’t care about the money you offered.” Nevada dug out the gold coin the man had paid him and tossed it toward him. “I agreed to stay with the horses, and that’s all. I had no idea you planned on robbing a stage.”
“Good.” The leader snatched it and walked back to the scene playing out in front of the coach. He walked to the far side and stepped up onto the wheel, dragging down a case from on top of the stage.
The
woman still gripped her arm and drops of blood dripped on the ground. The hat and veil covered her hair and most of her face, revealing only a nicely shaped chin and curved red lips drawn down in pain. “I say, you over there.” She tilted her chin in his direction. “I don’t care to bleed to death. Can’t someone help me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nevada stepped forward. He walked up to her, marveling at her near perfect form and slender waist. He reached for her arm, but she pulled back.
“Not here in front of everyone.” Her hand clutching the wound trembled. “I’d appreciate some privacy, please.” Nevada cast a look at the outlaws, but they didn’t appear to notice, as two were busy relieving the driver and passengers of their belongings and the third unstrapped the small box taken from the top of the stage.
“All right. Let’s step over here.” He motioned to an outcropping of boulders and brush. He reached out, hoping to help her over the rough terrain, but she shrank away. Hot anger drenched his skin with perspiration. Why hadn’t he paid attention to his gut back at the camp? Those three men were obviously up to no good, but he’d ignored the warning. The woman believed him to be part of the gang. He’d never be party to harming any lady, and this was most certainly a lady.
A sudden shout went up from the coach and a gleeful voice drifted toward them. “Hey, looky here. Someone hid this bag in the seat. It’s got a real pretty doodad in it, and some gold coins. Whoo-whee!”
The woman walking beside him suddenly sagged, and he reached out to steady her. “What is it? Are you feeling faint?”
She placed her hand over her heart. “My grandmother’s brooch. I can’t lose it. Oh, please…” Her breath caught in a ragged sob, and she bowed her head.
“I’m sorry, Miss, but I’m more concerned with this gunshot wound and getting the bleeding stopped.” He paused and studied her. “I’ll not touch you unless I need to, but you’ll have to let me look at that wound.”
Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona Page 3
