Lawless Land

by Dusty Richards

  From outside, the “Hee-yah” of the driver, the drum of hooves and creak of the coach caused Justine’s head to pound. The headache did provide her with a small consolation—it momentarily made her forget about the dull ache below her stomach caused by an expanding bladder. The last stop had been miles earlier, and if she didn’t get a chance to relieve herself soon, she feared embarrassing consequences.

  When Tom withdrew a fat cigar from his breast pocket, it posed the final insult. Earlier she had heard him offer one to Bailey. The little man had clamped his lips and shaken his head vehemently.

  Tom’s first attempt to ignite the cigar failed. The sway, of the coach and the elusive tip prevented him from lighting it. The match burned his fingers, causing him to swear harshly.

  Justine avoided his eyes, expecting him to blame her, as he seemed to do for everything that went wrong. There was little evidence of the man she married three years earlier in the curt individual that Tom had become. Even his lovemaking was selfishly inflicted. Other than her legal obligation, she found little reason to remain with him. Despite that knowledge, when the opportunity to leave Tom had presented itself, her courage had evaporated like smoke. All her resolve wafted away at the word divorce. She would be a marked woman, shunned by her own family. Her mother’s stern warning, Marriage is forever! branded Justine’s thoughts. There was no place in Tucson society for a divorced woman. A discreet affair was one thing, but divorce was dirty laundry hung out for all to see. It was a difficult choice to make. She could either continue to live an unhappy life with a husband who no longer cared about her, or she could divorce him and be ostracized by society.

  Another bump crushed her against the side of the coach, causing her bladder to protest. She sucked in her stomach. The pungent odor of the newly lit Havana cigar filled her nostrils. She held her breath, fighting the sneeze that tickled her nose, but failed to control the involuntary action.

  The small sneeze drew a cold stare from her husband. His impatience was not tempered any when Bailey blessed her. Tom turned an icy glare on the pitiful assistant.

  Justine felt sickened as she watched Bailey cower before her tyrannical husband. Oh, Lord, she prayed silently, let the next stop be soon.

  Lamas hoisted his feet up and planted his polished boots on a chair. Grundy, the wide-eyed, whiskered relay station operator, sat across from him and acted ready to agree to any condition.

  Thoughtfully, Lamas studied the station agent. Why was death such a threat to the man? he wondered idly. Surely dying would be no worse than living in this miserable place. The man’s woman was such a slovenly fat squaw that it probably required a gallon of whiskey to get drunk enough to climb on her round belly.

  Lamas never allowed himself to get that drunk anymore. Not since his days as Chupo, the pistolero, when he knew no better. Well, the ugly woman would not go to waste, he mused. Perhaps the rat-faced Sanchez would use her; he was not fussy.

  A glance at the door reassured Lamas. Ezra Black stood in the frame, his rifle at the ready in his arms. Satisfied, Lamas turned back to Grundy.

  “You give a sign, a hint, a warning of any kind to the driver or anyone, and you’re dead, amigo.

  “Not me, Señor … ?”

  “Never mind my name. Just remember, one wrong move …” Lamas made an expressive movement of drawing his finger across his throat.

  Grundy swallowed visibly. “Yes, sir.”

  The gang leader smiled and stroked the beard stubble on his face. It would be good to be back home and shaved every day. He glanced around the room, which served as a rest stop for the passengers while the horses were being changed.

  “Sarge is on the roof,” Black reported. “Jimmy’s watching those two boys who switch the horses.”

  “Sanchez!” Lamas shouted. Immediately the Yaqui appeared at the door. “You go watch those boys. Send Jimmy here to me.” The horse handlers were Mexican and there was a chance that they would not understand the kid’s orders. Lamas did not want any mistakes before he had the stage occupants inside the room. Besides, he did not trust the unpredictable Jimmy. The kid was wanted in Texas for murdering his stepfather. He was only eighteen, a tough epough hombre, but much too stupid and lazy at times.

  Dust filtered down from overhead. Sarge’s footsteps on the stick-and-mud roof made a soft cracking sound. The army deserter was as deadly as a sun-warmed sidewinder. Lamas relaxed at the knowledge. His men were set for the arrival of the stage from Nogales. Today it would produce a payroll and perhaps a rich passenger worth thousands to ransom.

  “Ain’t no strongbox on this one,” Grundy warned.

  Lamas turned to glare at him. Perhaps Grundy thought they would leave if there was nothing worth taking. That was an amusing idea, but Lamas felt certain Juanita knew more than this scruffy stage-stop keeper. As for the old man, his miserable time on earth would soon be over anyway. A simple snap of Lamas’s fingers and the man’s life would end.

  Lamas sighed. His eyes locked onto Black’s, who had moved to the table and was sipping from a cup of coffee.

  “He know anything?” Black asked with a toss of his head.

  “Who cares? For a dead man, he knows very little.”

  “Hell, mister, I …” Grundy moaned. He looked at Black then back to Lamas, his eyes pleading. “I don’t know what’s on that stage.”

  “I have no time for your weak answers!” Lamas warned him. “Talk or I will soon grow tired of your face.”

  The sound of a struggle outside drew Lamas’s attention. Black rose and thumbed back the hammer of his rifle.

  “Gawdamn you!” Jimmy swore. He appeared in the threshold, struggling to contain an Indian girl. She was dressed in only a shift, her bare brown legs flashing as she struggled.

  “Hey, look what I found,” the kid bragged. He glanced at Lamas and Black, as if expecting praise for his find. The girl began fighting him again. Lamas stepped over and slapped her with the back of his hand.

  The girl’s brown eyes blazed at him, but she froze. Lamas, reading the hatred in her gaze, merely smiled. “Settle down or I will cut your throat!” He repeated his threat in Spanish. The words subdued her struggles, but not until she had pried Jimmy’s hand from her breast.

  “Tie her up,” he ordered. “After the stage comes, you can do what you like with her.”

  “She’s mine!” Jimmy declared.

  “Do what Lamas said, Jimmy,” Black said. “All of us can try her after we’ve finished our business here.” His words disputed the kid’s claim.

  With a half smile of amusement at the Texan’s words, Lamas watched Jimmy drag her into the back room. She was probably in her teens, the offspring of the fat squaw, who cowered in a corner. She was not of Grundy’s seed, for she had more Mexican mixed with her Indian features. After his men finished with her, they’d tie her on a horse and haul her back to some bordello, where he would sell her. The girl would probably be worth a hundred pesos in Sonora.

  “Lamas!” Sarge shouted from the roof. “The stage is coming.”

  Lamas hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked on his heels. At last, it was coming. Soon he and his men would be finished here and on their way home to Mexico with the mine’s payroll. Maybe even have a hostage or two worth thousands of dollars in ransom. He smiled. More good planning.

  “Stage stop ahead,” Justine heard Tom say to Bailey. She opened her eyes to see Bailey nodding in approval, his facial features rigid as though carved in stone. No doubt he was as relieved as she was at the prospect of having a brief respite from the pounding coach.

  Tom turned to her. “When I finish my business in Tombstone, I plan to go on to Prescott. You can stay at the house in Tucson or accompany me,” he said with humiliating indifference.

  She nodded meekly, inwardly despising her cowardice. Perhaps she would stay in Tucson. That would certainly give Tom the opportunity to chase some doxy, though the thought of her husband in some painted woman’s arms did not bother her. As long as he was disc
reet, she didn’t care. If he was satisfied by another, he would be less likely to force his unwanted attentions on her when he returned. If she was still waiting for him.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” the gravelly-voiced driver shouted from the top as he pulled the stage to a swinging halt.

  “Finally.” Tom sighed.

  The driver climbed over the side and opened the passenger door. “Get down and stretch your legs,” he said. Then, turning, he shouted toward the adobe building, “Grundy! You got coffee and grub ready?”

  Justine glanced out the window toward the porch. A bushy-faced old man nodded from the doorway of the shabby building. For a moment she wondered about his rigid stance. Wasn’t he glad for the company? Didn’t he feel lonely out here in this isolated place? He did not seem particularly pleased to see them. She shrugged, deciding he was simply a dim-witted old desert rat.

  Tom had stepped down and was walking toward the building, without bothering to help her descend the one iron step.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Bailey,” Justine said.

  After Bailey was on the ground, he reached a hand upward. “Here, allow me to help you down.”

  “Thank you.” She placed her hand in the man’s thin one and felt her legs begin to buckle as she stepped down on the firm ground. It took a moment to regain her balance, then she released Balley’s hand and straightened her hat. When she glanced around, she noted a very tall cowboy standing to the left of the building. He seemed disinterested in their appearance as he whittled idly on a stick.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry about the rough ride,” the driver apologized.

  Justine turned to him and shrugged. “I suspect there’s little you can do about it. I’ll survive.”

  “Er—Ma’am.” He cleared his throat and avoided looking at her face as he said, “If you go around back, you’ll find the, er, facilities.” He pointed a crooked finger, obviously embarrassed. Since Tom had deserted her, perhaps the man felt it his duty to assist her. Justine mentally checked another black mark against her thoughtless husband.

  The whittling cowboy leaned against the porch post, completely ignored her as she passed by him. Justine had expected a smile, a nod, some kind of acknowledgment. She knew that despite her dusty and disheveled appearance, she was still attractive. Her confidence plummeted at the implied insult. Squaring her shoulders, she gathered her skirt and stepped daintily around the building.

  A few moments later, her mission completed, Justine returned to the front porch. The tall cowboy was nowhere in sight. She stepped across the threshold and into the cool, shadowed interior of the stage stop.

  A handsome, swarthy man grinned at her openly, exposing very white teeth. Justine frowned at him, regarding his look almost as a leer. He pushed his sombrero back on his head, appraising her with an insolent stare.

  “Welcome, señora. We have been waiting for you.”

  “W-what?” She darted a quick glance at her husband. He sat ashen-faced at the rough table. Bailey was beside him, his eyes wide in a look of horror. When she moved her gaze around the room, she noted the tall cowboy. He was smiling now and tapping a pistol barrel against his palm.

  “Well, Lamas,” the cowboy drawled, “I believe we’ve struck pay dirt.”

  “Gawdamighty!” a pockmarked young man swore. “I’ll trade my Injun squaw for her right now.”

  “Shut up, Jimmy!” Lamas ordered. His coal-black eyes never left Justine. “This one must not be marked, for I think you are right, Black. We have a fortune here.”

  Justine felt his gaze strip away her clothing. A scorching wave of embarrassment swept over her, followed by a shiver of fear.

  The tall cowboy Black appraised her with equal intensity. “Yes, sir. We have us a real prize.”

  “Jimmy,” Lamas spoke sharply, “go tell Sanchez to take care of those boys in the shed, and you two get some more horses ready.

  “How many?”

  “If you want to take the Indian girl, get two extras,” Lamas offered absently.

  “Hell, I’d rather have her.” Jimmy laughed and pointed at Justine.

  “Now, hold on!” Tom rose in protest.

  “You sit down, señor!” Lamas ordered. At the outlaw’s words, Tom wilted and slumped back in the chair. “Now, do I have all your money?” Lamas asked, searching each man’s face for the truth.

  “You!” he pointed at Bailey. “Do I have all your money?”

  Bailey blinked rapidly and nodded his head. Lamas smiled in amusement. Obviously he had all the nervous one’s money, but he enjoyed frightening the little man. “Are you lying to me?”

  “N-no,” Bailey stammered.

  “Because if you are, señor, I will cut your throat very slowly from ear to ear. Comprende?”

  Bailey gulped audibly. “No. I mean yes.”

  Lamas tired of his game, turned again to study the white woman. Her beauty took his breath away. Why was she there anyway?

  “Take off your clothes,” he said quietly. “I want to see all of my unexpected prize.”

  Justine looked at the man in horror. Surely he was joking. “I—I …”

  “I am waiting, señora.

  “I couldn’t.” Her legs threatened to fold beneath her. She closed her eyes, praying that she was simply having a nightmare. At any moment she would wake up and once more be in the swaying coach. It was a dream. Determinedly she kept her eyelids tightly closed and shut her ears to the heavy breathing of the men in the room.

  “You take them off or my men will do it for you.”

  Oh, God, it was no dream. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and stared at the cold, ruthless face of the swarthy outlaw. Tears welled her eyes and she put out her hands to hold this impossible thing away

  Lamas merely smiled with contempt. He folded his arms and signaled the boy and the one in army clothes forward. The men grabbed her while Lamas looked on with approval.

  Justine groaned at the foul stench that emitted from the man with the army coat. His thick grubby fingers fumbled with the buttons on the front of her dress. The boy held her around the waist and laughed low in his throat. She struggled and tried to raise her hands to claw at their faces, but her strength was a pitiful defense against such strongarmed tactics. The scream that rose to her throat threatened to choke her.

  “No!” Bailey shouted. “Let her be!” He lunged forward, but the roar of Lamas’s pistol slammed into him and sent him sprawling backward across the table. Justine watched his demise through tear-blurred eyes. She did not dare look at her sniveling husband. Totally gripped with blinding fear, she closed her eyes and went limp in the men’s grasp.

  More guns erupted; the acrid smoke of gunpowder boiled up her nose. She opened her eyes to see the bloody bodies of her husband, the driver and the stage stop man, Grundy. A deep groan tore through her body. Then, with a sigh of relief, she felt herself slip into a world of blackness.

  CHAPTER 7

  MAJOR Bowen walked two blocks toward the stage depot. He felt secure in the knowledge that Jesus would be searching for the Apache Too-Gut. The ex-scout also promised to have everything ready for the arrival of Sam T. The cool morning desert air provided a refreshing break from the daytime heat. Before the stage reached Maricopa Wells, he knew the temperature would be well above a hundred degrees. Prescptt’s mile-high climate would be a welcome reprieve from the sultry desert temperatures of Tucson.

  He stopped and glanced back. A nagging feeling of being followed bothered him. Nothing he could see when he glanced back over his shoulder but some early vendors in the street, their burros laden down with water barrels and others bearing firewood which resembled bundles of dried sticks. A long-dead dog laid a few feet off the curb, drawing swarms of flies. Street maintenance in this city left much to be desired. He recalled the cab man avoiding a bloated cow carcass on one stretch of street they covered the day before.

  A woman led a small band of bleating goats, loudly advertising, “Fresh milk,” in Spanish. Bowen eased into the alleyway, set his satch
el down and waited. He didn’t have long to stand there. The sound of running feet approached, then a wide-eyed youngster burst around the corner with a look of shock on his face when they collided. Bowen’s fist shot out and grasped the boy by the front of his shirt.

  “Why are you following me?” He drew him close to his face

  “I—I—”

  “Who hired you?” He reinforced his grip on the shirt and raised the youth on his toes.

  “Señor Green.”

  “What did he want?” Bowen looked around to be sure the boy didn’t have anyone with him.

  “I don’t know—he is a politico.”

  “Senator Green?” Yes, he knew that name from the past legislative session.

  “Sí, señor.”

  Damn. How did that legislator already know about his business? They must suspect something, or someone had warned them. He and the governor had a new problem. There was a spy in their midst. Someone he needed to ferret out.

  “You tell Green I was, ah, buying sheep. Ask him how many he has to sell.”

  The boy shrugged when he released him. “He has no sheep, señor.”

  “Maybe he needs some. Tell him the market is going sky-high on sheep.”

  The youth looked frightened and confused. He backed slowly away. “I will tell him. I will tell him.” Then he ran.

  Bowen watched him until he disappeared down the alley. Oh, John will love this news, he thought. Senator Green hired a boy to track him around Tucson. This. one obviously had not followed him around the day before when he found Jesus, which was excellent. That matter should still be private. But who was the spy in the capital? He would need to start watching things much closer at Prescott. His own link to the marshals might even be in jeopardy. But by damn, he had a name for the Border Gang leader to share with John. Lamas.

  He entered the stage depot and handed his valise to the agent.

  “I’ll take that. You’re going to Prescott, sir? Well, stage departure is running a little behind this morning. Having to reshoe a horse.”