Ghost Bandits of Sonora (Elizabeth Crowne)

by Robert Isenberg

  Robins backed away, into the darkness. His voice became distant, mixing with the bray of his horse. When he returned to the fire, he held a bottle in his hands. The elegant glass was filled with a tawny liquid. Elizabeth realized how long it had been since she saw an unopened bottle of bourbon.

  “I’ve been a-saving this,” said Robins. “For the right occasion. Can’t think of a better time. I’m happy we’re solving this here mystery. And I’m anxious for the girl, truly. And I don’t have a clue what tomorrow will bring. But I always felt that times like this are best for a glass by the fire. So I hope you two will do me the honor of joining in.”

  Robins poured, and they drank. Elizabeth loved the bitter spirit. She felt the bourbon cut down her esophagus, then took another sip. Nothing could cure her nerves, not with Maude stranded and alone. But the liquor calmed her. They grew quiet, watching the dance of the flames.

  Then there was a sound. Out in the dark. A snapping twig. A grunt. Elizabeth flew to her feet, gun in one hand, whiskey in the other. Before Sparrow or Robins could follow suit, Elizabeth stood on the edge of the light, watching.

  “Who’s there?” she called. “Show yourself!”

  Chapter 12

  “Well,” said Holly in a singsong voice. “I wonder who that could be?”

  The way she grimaced, Maude could tell that Holly knew exactly who that could be. Holly took a tentative step back, then another. Maude remained stock still, sick with terror.

  Holly rotated toward the front door. But why was she turning her back? Maude was confused. Then she realized—Holly had to pull the deadbolt. How had Maude not noticed the door was locked? How had she not heard the squeal and click of the iron bar? Had Holly intended to trap her the moment Maude walked in the door? Or was there something outside—which both of them should fear?

  Holly yanked open the door. She stepped aside, and three brawny men sauntered into the cabin.

  They weren’t tall. They weren’t even big. But as they stripped away their collared dusters, Maude observed the dense shoulders and biceps that bulged beneath their flannel shirts. One was clean-shaven; his hair was the color of buckwheat. The next two had dirty brown hair and a layer of scruff. They bore the exact same face—sallow eyes and flat lips, an expression of perpetual discomfort.

  Twins, Maude thought.

  They dropped their coats, and the sopping fabric slapped against the floorboards. Only then did Maude see the young man’s rifle slung over his shoulder. The twins wore pistols on their belts.

  “Hell and damnation!” cried the rifleman. “Holly, talk some sense into them peckerwoods, will ya? They’re talking crazy.”

  The twins merely glared at him. Maude traced the outlines of their faces; she noticed common chins, cheeks, and foreheads. These men reflected Holly’s every feature, but with masculine sharpness. Like Holly, their skins were tanned, the muscles taut. These men had eaten well, worked hard, and spent most of their natural lives in the open air. Their hair was overgrown and greasy, and a musky odor followed them into the cabin, like wet moss.

  “Tell ’em, Holly!” whined the rifleman. “Tell ’em we ain’t shooting old Fireball. Tell ’em you was joking, when you said all that.”

  Holly raised a finger to her lips. With this one signal, the rifleman stopped talking. His eyes dropped penitently to the floor. In an instant, he looked boyish and bashful.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” said Holly.

  “But when?” he demanded. “We only have three days!”

  “When I say so,” Holly snapped. “Right now, we should tend to our guest.”

  Everything stopped. All four faces turned toward Maude. The men’s eyes widened. None of them smiled.

  The rifleman leaned forward, and his face flushed with delight.

  “Well, lookee here,” he murmured. “Ain’t you a pretty one…”

  Holly lay a hand on the rifleman’s shoulder. The gesture was both comforting and prohibitive. “Now, now, Chester, don’t frighten the little thing. She just got here. We should make her feel at home.”

  Chester grinned. His teeth were surprisingly even and white, but his expression sent darts through Maude’s body. Chester looked like a starving dog, barely muzzled by the woman at his side. His tongue flickered out, then rolled along his lips.

  “Don’t worry,” said Holly in her soothing alto. “She’s coming with us.”

  Behind her, one of the twins piped up. “Y’mean, all the way to Pickleburg?”

  “That’s right,” said Holly.

  The other twin added, “Is she coming on the train, then?”

  The twins spoke in a high-pitched drawl, obliviously loud in the cabin’s close quarters. Their voices sounded funny. But Maude didn’t laugh.

  Holly said nothing. No one stirred. The four figures faced Maude, an unbreakable phalanx of wool, leather, and steel.

  Chester sidestepped toward the bed. He knelt down and picked up a coil of rope. He stretched it between his hands, and the hemp creaked in his grasp. Maude realized just how strong the man was, to make the woven cord protest like that. He moved forward, his boots falling thunderously on the hard floor.

  And this, Maude realized, was how she would die. She could picture it now—hogtied, beaten, dragged across the ground, locked in a chest. They might throw a bag over her head; toss her into a gorge; drown her in a river; lay her across a pair of railroad tracks. And then there were all the things Chester alone might do—the grotesque violations, if only Holly gave the word. There was nowhere to run or hide, no way to call for help, no friends, no rescuers, not so much as a pen-knife to ward them off.

  Maude backed away. She stumbled into the table. She yelped. A small, fearful voice. The men cackled lowly. Maude watched their shadows fall over her, until they seemed to eclipse all the light in the world.

  Maude reached behind her. She felt the edge of a canvas bag. Wheezing, breathless, she shoved her fingers into its depths. She felt the fine powder. In an instant, her hand was engulfed.

  She felt the prickle on her skin. The sensation was strange at first, almost pleasant. Then she felt the sting. The burn. Like a hundred bumblebees piercing her. Then fire—like her palm held over a candle, but everywhere, all at once. As if the flesh were ripped from her bones with hot irons. Her breaths came in hiccupping waves. Her mouth fell open. The pain grew. Pain she had never felt, never imagined. A crescendo of agony.

  Maude screamed.

  The men stopped. Confusion crossed their faces.

  Maude didn’t wait. She flung her arm forward, carrying a fistful of powder. She opened her fingers. A scarlet cloud burst into the air.

  The men recoiled. They tried to shield their faces, but their hands were too slow. The airborne powder seeped into their eyes; the men shrieked. They doubled over. Their legs buckled. They collapsed on the floor, a pile of writhing limbs.

  Maude sprang from the table. She bounded across the floor, over the piles of crumpled garments, and slammed her body into the front door. While her one hand throbbed, she used her other hand to grab the bolt. She pulled, but her shaking fingers couldn’t grip the iron firmly. She looked back at the men, who were scrambling to stand. They felt along the ground, blindly groping the boards and rugs.

  Then Maude saw Holly—standing upright, eyes glowing. She leaned over, grabbing at one of the men.

  She was trying to unholster his pistol.

  Maude screamed again. She fumbled with the bolt. At last it moved. The door was freed from its lock. She slithered through the opening, head low. She clambered into the rain.

  Maude heard the gunshot. The crack of a revolver. Her body jolted. She slid in the mud, nearly stumbling head-over-heels. She heard the split of wood. The bullet sailed through the humid air, whizzing past her shoulder.

  Maude’s boots thudded instinctively over rocks. Her hand still burned; the rain enhanced her pain. But this sensation hardy registered. Maude hurled herself into the darkening terrain.

  The sun w
as invisible beyond soupy clouds. The passive daylight dimmed above rocky crests. Nightfall was coming. Maude scrambled over boulders. She heard her own hysterical whimpers, the patter of rain. Thunder rumbled. The storm was a sprinkle, now. It was moving away.

  Then she heard the call.

  “Here, dearie, dearie!”

  Holly’s voice echo between the cliffs. Maude stopped. She ducked low, behind a large rock. She listened.

  Holly called, closer than before. “Did the boys scare you off? Well, then—maybe you should be scared.”

  A dry cackle. Maude inched her head upward and peered over the rock. She saw a black blob, hovering in the ravine. But it was too dark. She couldn’t gauge distance or size. Was Holly alone? Had the other men recovered? Either way, Holly was armed, eager to pull her trigger.

  There was only one way Maude could go—higher. And the more she climbed, the closer she’d get to the slabs of mountain. They would hedge her in. Somewhere up there, she would hit a wall. Trapped.

  There was one hope.

  Maude clutched her satchel tighter. She slipped her good hand inside and dug through her effects. Her heart flurried. Where was it? Had she dropped it in her flight? Had it fallen through an unknown hole?

  Then Maude’s fingernail grazed something hard. She gasped with relief, collecting the little white crystal in her fist.

  This is madness, she thought. But if it’s true—

  Maude looked behind her. She squinted into the murk. She saw a dark curve. Was it the tree? She recognized its dark trunk, sprouting from the barrens. But was that really it? Or was her mind playing tricks on her? What if she reached it, only to find a hopeful illusion? Maude couldn’t allow a single mistake. Holly knew this land too well. One false move, and it would all be over.

  Maude felt sick. She covered her mouth, holding back nausea. This was it. The only way. She had faced mortality before, but never alone. She could wait here. She could pray those men never found her. But what if they did? Toting lamps and guns, wouldn’t they, eventually? Chester and the twins would scour the rubble all night. They wouldn’t stop until they found her. Anger would inflame their resolve. She had to go, now. Every second she spent behind this rock was a second wasted.

  Maude bolted. Her boots skittered over wet stone. Droplets stabbed at her eyes. She held her bent arms close. She was a target now. She could sense Holly’s eyes on her. She thought she could hear the cocking of the gun. Maude sprinted. She scurried over brittle earth, its thousands of stones, the bulbs of cacti, the random bush and stick. Her lungs ached. Her vision filled with her own swampy hair.

  Then she saw it—the tree. It was the tree. She’d been right. But how far was it? The behemoth of rock loomed above. A dark and featureless mass. This was the place she had come. The tree bobbled in front of her, and Maude remembered the nightmares of her youth—hallways that stretched forever, familiar faces just beyond reach. Now it was real. Now it was the moment of truth.

  The gun fired.

  Its blast reverberated through the ravine. The shot whisked past her, ripping the air. The bullet thudded against nearby rock. A near miss.

  Maude reached the tree. She touched it, felt its wet bark. The few branches were leafless; they spread skeletally above. There was nothing else. Just a single trunk twisting out of the dead land. Maude leaned against the tree. Breathless. Exhausted. She couldn’t go on. There was nowhere left to flee.

  Maude closed her eyes again. She couldn’t bear to see her hunters. Soon it would be dark. She would die alone, far from her mother and friends, in the middle of a soggy desert.

  The gun fired again.

  Maude’s eyes opened.

  The sound was different now. Muffled. Quiet.

  Maude looked up. The raindrops no longer struck her. The sky was blotted out. She heard angry voices, dissolving. The ravine lost its definition—no more jagged horizon, no black spires of saguaro. Nothing but blackness.

  Maude heard her own breaths echo around her. The tree was gone. She leaned against nothing. She lost her balance and fell to her knees. She crouched there, touching the hard ground.

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Because somehow she knew that this was the cave. She had been transported. And now, at last, she was safe.

  Chapter 13

  Maude’s eyelids peeled open. Her lashes fluttered crustily. Those soft eyes took in the vaulted ceiling, the whitewashed walls. As she drifted into consciousness, Maude snorted with surprise. Her head swiveled across the pillow. She searched the room, struggling to make sense of its providential light.

  Elizabeth leapt out of her chair. She gripped the edge of Maude’s mattress.

  “Maude!” she cried. “You’re awake! Are you—that is—how are you feeling?”

  Maude shook her head.

  “Where…?”

  “You’re in the hospital,” Elizabeth said, composing herself. She could feel the tears welling, but she didn’t care. “We’re back in Ezra. You’re safe now.”

  “Oh… heavens!” Maude whispered upward. “I’m so glad! So, so glad!”

  “Have some water,” Elizabeth urged. She reached for a glass on a nearby tray, nearly knocking it over. Maude guzzled down the misty liquid. The hospital was hot and the air was still, and her gulps seemed to echo off the sheer walls. She saw the bandage that swallowed her hand, a glove of wound gauze. She felt the prickle of pain, and the memory flooded back.

  Maude gasped. Her brow furrowed.

  “How—?” Maude gasped.

  “Just rest,” Elizabeth cooed. “You had a dreadfully long night.”

  “But—what happened?”

  Elizabeth brushed her fingers through Maude’s frazzled hair, then blushed. “We waited for you. We camped out by the cave. And just as we were about to turn in—you appeared. Came stumbling toward the campfire, paler than a bar of soap. Lucky thing Sparrow was there. He grabbed you before you hit the ground. And Robins held you in his saddle. All the way back to town.”

  “I don’t…” Maude pressed her palm against her forehead. “I don’t even remember. Just the cave.”

  Maude suddenly flexed her spine, trying to sit upright. “Oh, Elizabeth! I’m—I’m so sorry! How was I ever so stupid? You told me—just stay put. And I ought to have listened! I know that’s what I should have done. Just stay by the horses, like you said. But when I heard the gunshot, I…” Her lip quivered, and she hid her face behind a curtain of hair. “I just wanted to help.”

  “Tut-tut,” Elizabeth said, cupping her assistant’s cheek. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, I don’t know what I was thinking!”

  “You wanted to help. No fault in that. And it was brave of you.” She shrugged. “Not bright, but damned brave.”

  Elizabeth reached across Maude’s shoulders and lassoed her into an embrace. They lingered there a moment. At last Maude allowed herself to sink back into the mattress. Elizabeth tucked the sheets around her shoulders.

  “Elizabeth,” said Maude. “I need to ask you something…”

  Her voice sounded distant and strange, as if rising from a deep trance.

  “What is it, Maude?”

  “There’s no train in Ezra, is there?”

  Elizabeth’s head dropped to one side. “I don’t believe so, no. Why do you ask?”

  “I think they’re planning another robbery,” whispered Maude. “But not here.”

  “Tell me later,” said Elizabeth. “When you’re rested.”

  “But that’s just it,” said Maude, her eyes widening. “I don’t think there’s time.”

  A church bell peeled twelve times as Elizabeth pushed through the door of the Sheriff’s office. The room was exactly as before. Robins was seated in MacAuley’s swivel chair, hunched over the desk. He was asleep, his face buried in a nest of his own forearms. His Stetson lay next to him, along with the half-consumed bottle of bourbon.

  Elizabeth paused. She listened to the elder man snore softly. If Robin
s were anyone else, Elizabeth might have rolled her eyes. She might have shaken him awake. She might mock his fatigue, demanding instant action.

  But she couldn’t. The Deputy was a different case. He had done so much—not only for his sad little town, but for her. Few men had put such faith in Elizabeth, such unwavering devotion. Robins had listened to her every word, entertained her every theory. He had followed her every step, even into the subterranean darkness of his own past. Elizabeth leaned over the desk, watching Robins’ bony shoulders. Asleep, the man looked brittle, like an old tree branch. One false move might snap him.

  Elizabeth whistled. She wasn’t a good whistler, but she knew the melody well enough. An old jig she picked up somewhere. The tune passed easily through her pursed lips. She leaned against the edge of the desk, unleashing her song into the stuffy little room. As she started the refrain, Robins stirred. He lifted his head.

  “‘Rocky Shores of Bainbridge,’” he said, leaning back in his chair. He cleared his throat. “My old Grandma loved that song.”

  Elizabeth smiled flatly. She dabbed her shirt sleeve against her neck, trying to absorb sweat. She felt her head sag. Elizabeth prided herself on her tirelessness. But the fiery land had withered her. She wanted to pause. She wanted to permit herself a full night’s sleep. But she couldn’t. Not now.

  “What if Ezra was just a test?” she said dryly.

  Robins’ eyebrows converged. “How so?”

  “They didn’t steal much money. They didn’t even touch the vault. And what else in Ezra is worth stealing? Why come back to the scene of the crime? Especially in a town that’s hit hard times? There’s nothing left to rob.”

  “So it was—what would you call it? A trial run?”

  “Precisely. Sparrow said there were many passages, not just one. And if they found one vortex, they may have found others. There may be a whole web of portals, running all through this desert. But they wanted to see if it would work. Could they rob a town and get away with it? Could they use the fire fruit? And that’s exactly what they did. They pulled it off. Now they’re ready for the real thing.”