by Maggie James
Today he was not Ryder McCloud. He was Whitebear, a name given him by the tribal council when he became a man. White, for that part of the people whose blood flowed in half his body, and bear after a revered Apache leader who had long ago joined the Great Spirit in the sky.
“We are ready,” Coyotay said.
Ryder swept the warriors with a satisfied gaze and raised his voice to remind them, “We do not kill unless it is to save our life or that of a brother. Our only reason for attacking this stagecoach is to take the woman I am seeking.”
They raised their hands in salute.
Ryder lifted his as well, then kneed his horse about and shouted, “Let’s ride.”
Chapter Four
“You sure don’t talk much, do you?” Rufus said to Kitty with a sigh. He had allowed her to ride in the box again since Hank was keeping watch in the rear.
“I don’t have anything to say,” Kitty mumbled, careful, as always, to make her voice deep. They had just left Wilcox, drawing ever closer to Tombstone, and she was anxious to complete the journey for many reasons, one of which was being able to stop pretending to be a boy. She supposed she could have confided in Rufus but saw no point. Besides, it might have made him mad to learn how she had fooled him.
Rufus shot her a glance. “Well, it’d help pass the time away if you’d make a little conversation.”
“I just don’t have anything to say,” she repeated, then added, hoping he would take the bait, “I’m afraid I just haven’t had an exciting life like you have. I don’t have any tales to tell.”
His chest swelled with pride as he settled down to brag about his exploits once more. “Well, I reckon there’s not that many folks that do. I’ve been everywhere and done everything, boy. Fought Yankees. Killed a few, too. And I’ve left a few Injuns to feed the buzzards along the way.”
Kitty cast a wary eye at the red and orange cliffs of ancient volcanic rock above them. It was easy to imagine a savage Indian watching from behind the green groves of Ajo oaks, piñon pines, and junipers.
“Do the Indians ever attack towns?” she suddenly felt the need to ask, as she wondered how safe she would be in her new home.
Rufus guffawed. “Hell, boy, they’ve wiped out entire settlements. They burn everything to the ground, steal the livestock, rape and kill the women, torture the men to death, and take the young ’uns for slaves. The army will wipe ’em all out sooner or later, though. Till then, folks just have to be on the lookout.”
Pointing at a dark, scraggly bush by the side of the road, he said, “See that? The Mexicans call it sangre de drago, which means dragon’s blood, because of the reddish colored sap. The Injuns use it to make dye for their war paint.”
He showed her other things as they rode—signs of coyotes and javelinas, and they spotted jackrabbits and deer along the trail. Red-tailed hawks and prairie falcons wheeled in the sky, and there were flocks of pylon jays, juncoes, and chickadees flitting among the bushes at the base of the cliffs.
“So tell me about raising horses back in Virginia,” Rufus prodded when he had grown tired of doing all the talking.
“My family had a farm.”
“So how come you left it? Seems to me a body would be a fool to leave a nice farm to come out here and maybe wind up scalped.”
“My mother died recently, and I didn’t want to stay.”
“What about the rest of your family?”
“There was just the two of us. The only family I have left is an uncle in Tombstone.”
“Which explains why you’re going there. What’s his name? What’s he doing there?”
The conversation was getting too personal, and Kitty smoothly changed to another subject. “I notice your gloves are awfully thin. Seems to me you’d want thick ones to keep from getting blisters.”
He flexed his fingers. “Yep, they are, but that’s so’s I can feel the ribbons…feel how the animals are responding. If I pull too tight, and it’s not needed, they’ll dance around. I’ve got to keep ’em moving smooth.
“Now, these gloves,” he went on, “are made of the finest, softest buckskin, but they’re cold in winter. I don’t dare wear anything warmer, though, like fur, because then I couldn’t feel the ribbons. I’ve known some drivers who got frostbit and lost a finger or two, but that’s how it is. You got to be able to feel them ribbons.”
Kitty marveled aloud that it took so much dedication to drive a stage, and Rufus beamed. “That’s a fact, boy. We got to be able to face any situation—blinding snowstorm, stream too full to ford, or a horse going lame. And not only have we got to be able to decide right then and there what to do, but we’ve also got to know all about the country we’re passing through—routes and landmarks.
“And don’t forget the Injuns,” he was quick to add. “The times I’ve run up on ’em, I’ve managed to get away without me or my passengers getting hurt, ’cause I’ll give ’em the gold or anything else they want to keep from having big trouble. And the way I did it was by learning their language—Sioux, Pawnee, Comanche. That’s what it takes. Why, I even know of a few drivers who actually went and lived among ’em to learn their ways so’s they could get along with ’em should they ever get attacked.”
“That’s really something,” Kitty murmured.
“Oh, that ain’t nothin’. Drivers are just tougher than most men, that’s all. But you know somethin’ else?” He jabbed her with his elbow and snickered. “They ain’t all men.”
“You mean there are women drivers?”
“Well, you never know, especially since it came out about Charlie Parkhurst. He could handle the reins as good as anybody and fought off a goodly number of bandits and mishaps in his day. Even when he got old and suffered with rheumatism and lost an eye from a horse’s kick, he kept on driving. He finally retired to a farm in California, and nobody knew he was actually a woman till he died of cancer in ’79, and they started getting his—or I should say her—body ready for burying.”
He paused to lean and spit tobacco over the side. “Now, I never met Charlie, but I can tell you if I had, he wouldn’t have fooled me. Ain’t no woman smart enough to pull the wool over ol’ Rufus’s eyes. I’d have spotted him right off for what he was.”
Kitty turned her head as she felt her lips pull in a smile.
Reaching a stream, they stopped to water the mules and have a drink themselves.
Kitty made sure to hang back, pretending to empty her boots of sand as Rufus and Hank relieved themselves. That part of her ruse had been especially trying since the drivers and guards, as well as the men passengers, naturally saw no reason to be modest around Kit.
Taking care of her own needs had also presented problems from time to time, because she could not let anyone see her. It took some doing, and a lot of anxiety, but she had managed.
“Hey, boy,” Hank called as she slipped behind a bush. “You ain’t got to be ashamed around us. We don’t care if you got a little pecker.”
Soon, she told herself, soon all the pretense will be over.
“You think we’ll make Tombstone by dark?” Hank asked Rufus.
Rufus grunted. “We could if we had horses instead of mules. Mules can’t cover eight miles an hour like horses, especially stubborn old bags like these. Right now I just want to get through Dragoon Pass. I’ve heard a band of renegade Chiricahua are holed up in the mountains around there.”
“But there hasn’t been any trouble around here lately. It’s them Mescalero Apache over in New Mexico.”
Rufus allowed that was so but said he would not rest easy till they got through the Dragoons and reached the home station on the other side. From there, he anticipated an easy ride to Tombstone. “And if we’re lucky, they’ll have replacements waiting for us there. Lord knows, I’m worn out.”
He called to Kitty as she came out of the bushes. “Boy, you get back on top with me. I know you’re a paying passenger, and I ain’t got no right to ask you to help out, but I’ll feel better with three pair
s of eyes watching for Injuns instead of just two.”
Kitty did not mind. Actually she preferred being up top to know what was going on. She also had confidence in her ability to use a gun and, if the truth be known, figured she was probably a better shot than either of the men.
When they were rolling again, with Hank covering the rear, Rufus said, “I’m probably worryin’ for nothin’. I’ve been through the pass a hundred times and never run up on an Injun. But I’m still not taking any chances.”
He talked on, and Kitty listened. His tales, though sometimes horrifying and oft repeated, helped pass the time. She was also learning things about her new world.
Still, her mind drifted to thoughts of Tombstone, what kind of life she might make for herself there, and how she would try to find the gold. The piece of map was well hidden. She had put it in the bib pouch of her overalls, then sewn it shut. But, without the other part, it might be worthless, which, she cynically decided, was probably the only reason Opal Grimes had sent it to her.
Kitty wondered if her uncle and Opal had been in love with each other. She hoped they had, because then Opal would be more inclined to help her till she got on her feet. If the strike could not be found, then she was going to soon run out of what little money she had left.
She wondered if she could find work on a ranch without having to pretend to be a boy, but the stock tenders she had seen at the swing and home stations were all men. And so far she hadn’t seen a woman who looked like she could tend a horse, anyway. They all dressed so feminine, in fancy gowns with lots of lace and ruffles and bonnets with silk ribbons.
As if he sensed she was pondering the future, Rufus asked, “So what are you going to do in Tombstone? Look for gold like everybody else? You ain’t big enough to be a carpenter.”
She gave a shrug. “Work on a ranch, I suppose.”
“Then you’re headed to the wrong place, boy. Ain’t no ranches around Tombstone. It’s a boomtown, full of prospectors and hell-raisers. You might find work at a livery stable shovelin’ shit, though,” he said with a snicker. “Or at a corral. Other’n workin’ as a store clerk or carpenter, there ain’t many jobs. Now if you was a woman, it’d be different.”
She tried to appear only mildly interested. “How’s that?”
“Oh, you could make money lots of ways. The gambling halls hire women to deal cards. And if a gal ain’t more’n a little bit ugly, she can get a job at a dance hall. You know, dancin’ and being nice to the men to get ’em to buy drinks.”
“What if she didn’t want to do any of those things?”
“She could always be a soiled dove. They make lots of money.” He slapped his knee and gave a nasty laugh. “Hell, I’ve sure spent my share with ’em through the years.”
“What’s that?”
He looked at her in wonder. “Well, what do they call ’em back in Virginia, boy?”
“Call who?”
“Whores.”
Once more she turned away, this time to hide a blush, though it was doubtful he could see her face the way her hair hung so straggly.
“They call ’em soiled doves out here. But while they might make a good living, it’s rough. But some of the prettier ones usually find a husband.” Suddenly he slammed a beefy hand on her shoulder, and she nearly fell out of the box. “I’ll bet you ain’t never had a woman, though, have you? How old are you, anyway? Seventeen?”
“Nineteen.” That, at least, was not a lie, Kitty thought morosely.
“And you never had any?”
She stiffened. “I really don’t like talking about it.” He began to slap his knee over and over as he cackled, “I knowed it. I knowed it. I knowed it. You ain’t never had a woman. Well, I’m gonna make you a promise since you been so good about helpin’ me out on this run. When we get to Tombstone, I’m gonna take you to see Jenny Lou, my favorite whore. She’ll fix you up just fine. I’ll even talk her into givin’ you a special price, too, and—”
Suddenly, screams split the air like knives ripping canvas, as Indians dropped from the boulders above.
Taken by complete surprise, Rufus was felled by one blow of a deftly swung war club and toppled over the side.
Hank, also caught off guard, was struck and pitched to earth without so much as a grunt.
Kitty, however, had caught a glimpse of movement just as the shrieks erupted. She twisted in time to miss being struck by her attacker, and he landed on his back, then bounded up and toward her. She kicked him in the groin, and he stumbled backward and fell off.
The reins were flopping loose, the mules out of control as they began to gallop recklessly ahead in the wake of all the screaming.
Kitty was reaching forward, trying to retrieve them, when she heard a shriek and thud as another Indian dropped behind her.
She drew her gun and fired just as the wagon lurched wildly, nearly tossing her off. She struggled to hang on, but the Indian, with a loud oath, grabbed her as he fell.
Kitty felt a sharp pain as she hit the ground. Then, from far, far away, beyond the gray, smothering fog that seemed to wrap about her, she heard voices speaking a language she did not understand.
“How bad is it?” Ryder asked Coyotay.
Coyotay was already back on his feet, blood streaming from his shoulder. “It is a clean wound. The bullet went through me. I can still ride.”
The other warriors had surrounded the stage. One of them opened a door, then turned to look at Ryder in wonder. “It is empty. There are no passengers.”
Ryder swore. He had checked the stage schedule himself—passing for white, of course—and it was the same as he had read in the telegram. Kitty Parrish was supposed to be on it, damn it.
He nudged the boy with his foot. The boy did not move.
“Go see if you can wake the others and bring them to me,” he yelled to his warriors.
Yanking off the scarf that held back his long hair, Ryder began binding Coyotay’s wound. “We must get back to the camp and have this tended. You are losing too much blood.”
“I will live,” Coyotay said between tightly clenched teeth, “but not this one—”
Drawing his knife, he dropped to his knees to straddle the boy, who lay in a dazed stupor. Fingers twisting in the youth’s hair, he brought his head up and was about to slash his throat when Ryder acted swiftly to squeeze his wrist in an iron-like vise and sternly declare, “No. We do not kill. We came to find the woman, not shed blood.”
Coyotay spat and turned on him with blazing eyes. “Pah! He drew my blood. For that, he must die.”
“No. There will be no killing.”
“You cannot expect me to let him live.”
“We agreed, Coyotay, not to kill needlessly.”
The two locked fiery gazes, and the tension was broken only when one of the warriors reported that the big man, the one who had been holding the reins, could not be roused. “The blow of the war club was mighty. He will sleep for a long time.”
“This one is awake,” a warrior named Oconee said as he dragged Hank by his shirt collar and dropped him at Ryder’s feet.
Ryder spoke to him in English. “Where are your passengers?”
“Only had one…” Hank, terrified, pointed at the boy. “He’s been the only one since we crossed into Arizona. Now please, let me go.
Ryder cursed the foul luck. Kitty Parrish would, no doubt, be on a later stage, and it would be impossible for him to know which one. He could not risk another attack, anyway, because when the army heard about this one, they would increase their patrols in the area. So all he could do was keep an eye on Opal Grimes, as Kitty Parrish would surely be in touch with her when she eventually arrived. And though it might be difficult to get his hands on her, he was not about to give up.
“Go in peace,” Ryder mumbled and turned away, leaving Hank to gratefully retreat, on hands and knees, to take refuge beneath the stagecoach.
Ryder saw that Coyotay was yanking the boy, who had started coming around, to his feet.
“What are you doing? I told you—no killing.”
Coyotay’s chin jutted in defiance. “I take him for my prisoner. He drew my blood. It is my right to do with him as I wish. You say I cannot kill him, but I can take him for a slave.”
Ryder had always tried to keep the part of him that was white from conflicting with the tradition of his chosen people. He also had to remember that they were not educated in civilized ways, and it was necessary to tread lightly in order to keep them from becoming resentful of his mixed blood.
He stared at the boy, who was groggily trying to stand. He was a scruffy thing—hair hanging all over his face, baggy overalls, an empty holster strapped around him. He was on the small side and would not make a strong slave. Still, he could be taught to haul water, clean game, and tan hides.
“We have no slaves in our band,” Coyotay reminded him. “Not since we escaped he reservation. We can use him.”
Ryder caught a glimpse of the boy’s eyes as he pushed his hair aside long enough to glare at Coyotay. There was no fear, only anger, for he was too young, too foolish, to know when it was wise to surrender. His spirit would not be easily broken, but Ryder knew Coyotay would try—even if he had to kill him.
And he could not allow it.
“All right,” he said finally, “we will take him. But he will be my slave. Not yours.”
“But it was my blood he drew. He should belong to me.”
“I am leader, Coyotay. I say how it will be.”
Coyotay could not argue with that. The tribal chiefs had named Ryder head of the young warriors group that had fled the reservation, and no one could challenge him and remain in favor with the council.
With an angry jerk of his head, Coyotay strode quickly to his waiting pony.
Ryder looked at the boy uncertainly. If not for the custom of making captives walk, he would have allowed him to ride with him.
“Do as I say, and you won’t be harmed,” he said quietly as he pulled the boy’s hands in front of him and began to bind his wrists.
Kitty was jolted to hear him speak her language but did not respond as she fought to hang onto her sanity…her consciousness, for how easy it would be to faint and escape the madness.
