Arizona Gold

by Maggie James

  “Well, it wasn’t him,” Kitty said uneasily. Even though she wasn’t about to vouch for Ryder’s whereabouts all of yesterday and how he couldn’t have done it, she wanted to dispel the belief that he had as much as possible.

  Nate argued, “It couldn’t have been anybody else. None of the other rooms was touched. Just yours.”

  “And how would he have known which was mine?”

  “He’s probably been watching every move you make. Maybe he dresses like a white man. Opal says he’s the half-breed son of Dan McCloud.”

  Opal, Kitty angrily decided, had a very big mouth. “I still say it wasn’t him.”

  “Well, whether it was or wasn’t ain’t got nothing to do with my offer to try and find that gold for you. Everybody swore the two of ’em—McCloud and your uncle—made a big strike. It’s just a shame they were so stubborn they gave their lives for it. So you just hand that map over to me, and I’ll do my dangdest to find it for you.”

  The last thing Kitty wanted was to be involved with Nate. “I really don’t need your help, but thank you for offering.”

  His lips twisted, as though he were fighting anger. “You ain’t gonna give up, are you?”

  She was not about to tell him her plans. “I haven’t decided.”

  “There’s no need to just throw the map away, you know.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Then why not let me look? What have you got to lose?”

  “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  “Thanks again,” she said in finality.

  Kitty waited till he was gone before going back up the ladder. She was glad to be leaving Tombstone, glad not to have to be around the likes of Nate Grimes, but the next time she saw Opal, by God, she was going to tell her what she thought of her for failing to keep her promise.

  Settling down in the hay, she willed herself to sleep quickly so the morning would hurry and come and she could be on her way to try and find Ryder.

  She would not let herself think of the possibility she might not be able to…or that she might encounter danger along the way.

  Clean shaven, bare chested, and wearing only a breechclout, Ryder was once again Whitebear as he settled on the bearskin on the floor of his tent.

  His mother had been glad to see him—until he told her all hope of finding the gold strike was lost. Without the whole map, it would be a waste of time to look for it.

  She had looked at him with a face as forlorn as a lost calf’s and asked, “Did you try everything, my son?”

  He said he had.

  “Did you try to frighten her as you did Wade Parrish’s woman?”

  He explained how that tactic would not work with Kitty. She was too strong and too stubborn.

  Next, his mother asked, “Then did you appeal to her as a man to a woman—gently…lovingly?”

  Without revealing intimate details, he had assured he had done everything humanly possible, short of beating it out of her.

  His mother had hung her head and sadly murmured, “I would not want you to do that. So it is truly over. We must go on without the gold.”

  Ryder had had a long talk with Coyotay and given orders that he was to have everyone ready to move out in a few days. They would make their way to Mexico, destitute except for the provisions they already had, and hope for the best.

  Word had spread through the camp, and everyone was heavy hearted.

  He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring up into the darkness. Sleep would be a long time coming, if at all, as he pondered what the future held. It would be a bleak, hard time in Mexico, especially through the winter. His people would have to change their ways to survive. It would be a new life, new things to be learned, and he would do his best to teach them and encourage them to endure.

  A surge of fury rolled over him, and he found himself clenching his teeth and his fists simultaneously.

  Damn Kitty Parrish for being so obstinate and unforgiving.

  And damn himself for being so stupid as to forget about the scar near his groin and not thinking how she would have seen it when she bathed him. Yet, despite his anger, he was able to smile at how embarrassing it had to have been for her. It was a wonder she had not given herself away and gone running out of the tent.

  Suddenly he was struck to think how she had not run out of the cave, either. When he had been unable to conceal his desire for her any longer, she had yielded.

  And it had been wonderful.

  So wonderful, in fact, that he had allowed himself to ponder whether feelings other than merely lust could be growing between them.

  Ryder, you are a fool. He grimaced, jaw going tight and aching with the force.

  He meant nothing to her and never would, and he was best rid of her, because he could not allow her ever to mean anything to him, either.

  Rolling over on his stomach, he pounded the rabbit-fur pillow his mother had made for his head. His father had liked a pillow, she’d said, so Ryder had learned to enjoy one also.

  He was almost asleep when the sound of someone crawling under the back wall of the tent jolted him to alertness.

  A few seconds later he felt Adeeta curling against his back, her hands dancing around to trail down his chest, dropping lower.

  He caught her wrist and held it. “Not tonight,” he said, trying to make his voice kind when inside he felt grumpy as a bear bothered in his den.

  “But—”

  “I am tired,” he said, turning over to give her a quick hug before pushing her away. He did not want to hurt her feelings, but the truth was he had no desire for her, no desire for any woman except Kitty. He knew he would have to get over that…knew that eventually he would, but for the time being that was how it was, and he could only, without explanation, offer apology. “I’m sorry.”

  She left him, and he knew despite his best effort she was hurt.

  He could not help it, but damn it, how he wished he could.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kitty pulled her hat a little lower on her forehead against the relentless sun. Since leaving Tombstone the previous morning, she had finally reached the place where she had met the stage after Pale Sky set her free. She had moved slowly, not wanting to wear out her horse in the smothering heat.

  Pausing, she shaded her weary eyes to look around at the rocky ground and sparse vegetation. She was exhausted, because she had been unable to sleep when she bedded down the night before not too far from the San Pedro River. The scream of bobcats and the howling of coyotes amid the inky blackness had set her nerves on edge, and she had stayed awake with gun ready.

  Now she was nettled to be having second thoughts about her decision to find Ryder. She now wondered if it were such a good idea, born of desperation, after all, and whether she should have accepted Nate Grimes’s offer instead. True, he was a drunk and a rowdy, but Opal would have kept him in line. Now Kitty wished she had at least talked to Opal about his proposition, but she figured Opal was still so terrified, believing Whitebear had returned, that she would have said to surrender the map to anybody to be rid of it, regardless of the consequences.

  So perhaps she was doing the right thing after all, she decided, if she could find the camp.

  She felt a ripple of fear, wondering whether she might have been overly confident. Tracking back in Virginia was not the same as here, in such near-barren country where the scenery could become monotonous in its similarity. Like cactus. For the most part, she had decided, all cactus looked alike, unless she took the time to differentiate in height and width. She had, however, set in her mind the saguaro cactus at the exact point where she and Pale Sky had come down off the mountain. It had two arms jutting to the left, toward the eastern horizon, and one to the west. Taller than Kitty by three heads, it was distinctive and she was sure she would know it when she saw it.

  She gave the horse a pat on his neck. “Well, boy, this is it. We turn from the road to W
ilcox and head into real Indian territory.”

  She reached into her saddlebag and took out the piece of white cloth she had purchased at the dry-goods store. Wrapping it around the end of her rifle, she held it up as she headed straight into the wilderness. She had overheard a prospector in the saloon one night telling how that was what he did when he passed through Indian territory. The Indians took it as a sign of truce…peace…and those that knew him would allow him to pass. Others would stop him, but had always let him go after understanding what he was doing there and how he meant them no harm.

  Kitty would not allow herself to think of the consequences if the flag did not work.

  She was hungry and reached into the saddlebag once more and took out a piece of beef jerky. She ate it, then washed it down with water from her near-empty canteen.

  She patted the horse again and spoke out loud. She had got in the habit of doing that during the long, lonely hours of plodding along slowly with no one to talk to. “Don’t worry. I remember there was a watering hole not too far from here. I was on foot then, and so thirsty I thought I’d die, and when I saw the water, I threw myself down and drank till I nearly popped. I won’t let you do that, though. Drinking too much in this heat could kill you, fellow.

  “I miss taking care of horses,” she went on, slumping a bit in the saddle from weariness. Still she tried to be alert to holes the horse might stumble into, rattlesnakes that might make him shy and rear up to dump her to the ground, and, yes, for Indians, as well.

  “One of these days I’m going to live on a ranch again. Surely there’s somebody, somewhere, who will give me a chance to prove that even if I am a woman, I can handle a horse as good as a man, and—”

  The arrow whizzed so close to her face she felt the heat and wind of it.

  At the same time, a scream split the air, and Kitty whipped her head about to see the Indians on horseback, bearing down on her from behind a clump of boulders to her rear.

  “Go!” She dug her heels into the horse’s flanks to set him in a fast gallop for yet another cluster of rocks directly ahead.

  Another arrow sailed by her, and she held the reins in one hand while holding the rifle aloft with her other to wave the white flag she could only hope they had not seen before.

  Reaching the rocks, Kitty leaped from the saddle and threw herself, belly down, against a rock and pointed the rifle over it.

  The Indians were still shrieking, and the arrows were still flying.

  She waved the flag frantically.

  The sounds died down.

  And the arrows stopped coming.

  With pounding heart, Kitty dared raise up and peer over the rock as she continued to hold the flag. There were perhaps twenty of them, strung out on horseback, some holding war clubs, the others with bows and arrows ready as they glared at her.

  Kitty knew the same heart-stopping terror as when the stage had been attacked. “I want to speak to Whitebear,” she yelled, hoping his name would make an impression.

  Her voice rang loudly, clearly, in the stillness of the hot, desert day.

  She saw how the Indians exchanged curious, incredulous glances. Probably they spoke little English, if any at all, and suddenly she wondered in a rush of panic whether they were even Apache…Chiricahua. There were other tribes in the region, she had been told, and if she had encountered any of them, she was in serious trouble.

  “Whitebear,” she called again, voice wavering this time as fear rocked her from head to toe. “Your leader. Your chief—Whitebear. I must speak to him.”

  “Whitebear is not chief.”

  With a gut-wrenching gasp, Kitty rolled to the side, back pressed against the wall. An Indian was standing on top of the rock directly behind her holding a feathered tomahawk over his head in menace.

  Kitty blinked against a flash of terror to finally focus her eyes and, with yet another twisting wrench, saw that it was Coyotay towering above her.

  She tried to speak his name but no sound would squeak from her tightly constricting throat.

  He leaped from the rock to land flat footed right in front of her.

  “Whitebear is not chief,” he repeated.

  Reason began to surface amid the terror boiling within Kitty as she grasped that he spoke some English, then remembered from her days of captivity that there had been times when he had muttered phrases at her that she comprehended—phrases that had chilled the marrow of her bones as he called her names and made threats of torture and maiming.

  Coyotay did not, of course, recognize her, and it was with trepidation making her skin crawl that Kitty finally forced his name from trembling lips. “Coyotay.”

  Stunned, he took a step backward.

  “You are Coyotay,” she said softly. “I am a friend of Whitebear. You must take me to him.”

  She saw how his jaw tightened with confusion and indecision.

  “Coyotay,” she repeated, arms splayed over her head as she pressed back against the wall. She wished she dared attempt to draw her guns. Then she could keep him at bay while she tried to make him understand. But he continued to hold the ominous weapon above his head, and she knew that if she made any attempt at all to go for her pistol, he would bring the sharp club down to split her skull.

  He worked his lips soundlessly for a moment, then said, “Name. You know Coyotay’s name. How is this?”

  Good, she thought feverishly. He knew enough English to communicate…if she was careful. “It does not matter how I know Coyotay. Coyotay must take me to Whitebear.”

  The other Indians began to appear, and Kitty looked at each vicious, threatening face and knew she had to make herself understood fast. “I am Kitty Parrish,” she said in a rush. “The woman you thought a boy—Billy Mingo. You took me captive, and—”

  “Aieeee…” Coyotay, his face suddenly twisted in rage, lunged for her, grabbing her about her throat with one hand while holding the tomahawk with his other as he held it above her in threat.

  Kitty also screamed, sure he was going to kill her. She tried to draw, but one of the other Indians lunged to rip her holster from her, babbling all the while in his Apache tongue.

  All of them began to talk at once, it seemed, loudly, angrily, and all the while Coyotay held her pinned down, as he seemed to wage an inner war over whether to slice her head open with the tomahawk and be done with it.

  Finally, an older Apache appeared and seemed to have a calming effect on Coyotay as he caught his arm to lower it, speaking to him in firm tones.

  Coyotay made growling noises of protest but finally let her go. He continued, however, to glower at her so intensely that she imagined she could actually feel his hatred for her.

  The other warrior continued to talk to him—arguing, it seemed to Kitty.

  She held her breath, sensing that her fate depended on the outcome of the debate.

  At last, they seemed to come to some kind of agreement, nodding to each other, and she dared hope it was in her favor.

  But hope became a fleeting thing as Coyotay, with another bloodcurdling shriek, lunged for her, hands going about her throat to squeeze tightly.

  Kitty, legs kicking as she struggled to breathe, was lifted up off the rock as easily as though she were nothing more than the pitiful little white rag still fluttering from her rifle in the late-day breeze.

  And the last thing she saw before losing consciousness was Coyotay’s lips curled back from his teeth as he shook the last breath from her lungs.

  Ryder was going over the map he had made on his last trip to Mexico when he heard the commotion outside and frowned to have his thoughts intruded upon. It was important that he plan exactly how he would lead his people to try and keep them out of sight, and he had much planning to do. That was why he had not gone with Coyotay and the others to hunt.

  He tried to ignore the shouts and cries, assuming they had found plenty of game to clean and dry for food on the journey. Good. They would need it. But for the moment he needed peace and quiet to look at a
ll his notes and markings.

  The covering to his tent swished open, and Adeeta poked her head inside. “Whitebear, you must come and see what Coyotay has—”

  “Not now,” he said irritably without glancing up. “I’ve told everyone I do not want to be bothered.”

  “But Coyotay has—”

  “Not now,” he repeated, loudly and forcefully.

  The flap slapped shut.

  He shook his head and wondered if any of them realized how serious the situation truly was. There was so much to do in preparation for the journey, most of which involved having enough food, not only as they traveled but also to do them until they could find more at their destination.

  Which, he sighed to think, meant he had to hurry up and plan the way and wished everyone would leave him alone.

  He also wished he had a clear head to think…wished, by damn, that thoughts of Kitty Parrish would go away.

  Settling back and lighting one of the few white-man’s cheroots he had left, he admonished himself for allowing her to creep into his mind again.

  Maybe he should have tried harder to convince her to keep their bargain. After all, she was just angry for having been deceived. It made no difference that she had made him feel foolish with her own deception. To Kitty, her situation had been a matter of life or death while his had been solely to trick her into giving up her uncle’s map.

  “But to hell with her,” he swore under his breath, “and to hell with the gold.” He and his people would survive somehow, although it would have been a damn sight easier had they had money to do so. And besides, it really rankled him to think that somewhere his father’s gold lay hidden and maybe always would be…unless the murderer figured out where it was.

  Reminding himself he had no time to dwell on the past, Ryder gripped the cheroot between his teeth and forced his attention back to his drawings.