Bandit Queen

by Jane Candia Coleman

  Bandit Queen

  Jane Candia Coleman

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  Escape!

  “Damn it! Damn it!” I wanted to pound my fists into the dirt, but they were trapped under me as I lay, half in and half out of the hole I’d gouged in the wall. I could see stars, hear laughter and music from a saloon down the block. What a shock I’d give some passing drunk with my head sticking out like a gopher. In spite of my predicament, I laughed, and with the laughter felt the abode crumble the littlest bit. There was hope for me, after all.

  “Easy,” I said to myself, “you’ll make it.” And inched forward again.

  Slowly, terrified that the jailer would discover me and drag me back into prison by my heels, I hauled my way out—the longest minutes I’ve ever spent. When, at last, I crawled to my feet, I was dizzy, and stood, taking deep breaths of the sweet desert air.

  And then I was running through the narrow streets, dodging past darkened houses where people slept in innocence and safety, keeping in the shadows, like a streetwise tomcat, and always looking back over my shoulder for signs of pursuit.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Escape!

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  Other Books By

  Copyright

  Prologue

  ARIZONA DAILY STAR

  June 1, 1899

  We have a woman bandit. Stage held up by a man and a woman. They secured three hundred and fifty dollars, a six shooter, and a gold watch from the passengers.

  ASSOCIATED PRESS

  Phoenix, May 31, 1899

  Arizona has a woman bandit. She helped a male companion to hold up the Globe and Florence stage yesterday. Neither of the robbers wore a mask, and though the smaller wore men’s clothing, there was no doubt of her sex.

  Chapter One

  Chicago, 1893

  The pain from my cracked ribs snaked around, coiled, struck again and again until it was all I could do not to scream. I was lying half in and half out of an empty freight car, waiting for the pain to recede so I could pull myself in, find a dark corner where I could take care of my wounds, and where Frank couldn’t find me.

  Frank! I choked at the thought of him—his hands, passionate one minute, brutal the next, the thud of his polished boots against my body. I choked, and blood streamed out of my nose—it, too, was probably broken. I prayed I hadn’t left a trail, like bright red flowers for him to follow. But no, he’d been passed out drunk after he’d beaten me, battered his ugly way into me.

  I should have killed him, taken the big kitchen knife, and stabbed and stabbed, but to murder required strength, and I had only enough to save myself, wrapping my ribs in a strip of blanket and then, with the cunning of the soon-to-be hunted, dressing in Frank’s old clothes. With the knife I hacked off my hair, that dark rope that had reached to my waist. In minutes I became a boy, a youth in search of adventure.

  Who, looking for Pearl, would bother with a skinny runaway? I took the knife and the money I’d earned singing for Dan Sandeman, packed a loaf of bread and some tins of tomatoes and sardines in a sack, plus what was left of the precious laudanum I’d come to depend on. That would have to do. If I died of starvation, or cold, or loneliness somewhere out on the western prairie, well, at least I’d be free with no one to answer to, no hands to snap my bones like twigs.

  I didn’t run. It was all I could do to walk toward the station yard, bent over against the pain, against the damned wind off the lake that struck through my clothes. I kept going, wiping my bleeding nose on my sleeve and promising myself, if I got out of Chicago, I’d never be cold again, never let a man lay hands on me again, not if I lived a hundred years.

  I circled around the station house and into the train yard. Somewhere ahead an engine breathed in and out, like the sound of my heart. Stumbling across the tracks, I saw the car looming ahead, its door open, and I summoned what strength was left to crawl in, hoping I’d not done more damage to myself.

  As it was, I nearly fainted, but after a moment I dragged myself into a corner. Then the voice came out of nowhere.

  “What’re you doing in here?”

  I couldn’t speak over my fright. When I did, my voice came out cracked, like a kid’s. “Going West,” I said, and waited, straining my eyes, my ears, to locate the speaker in the darkness.

  “This car’s taken.” No willingness to share in those words.

  “Can’t leave. My ribs are busted.”

  A rustle as the speaker came closer. “On the lam?”

  I shook my head, then realized I was invisible. “Nope.” I thought fast with the accuracy of desperation. “My stepfather beat me. I’m getting out before he kills me.”

  Another rustle. I could feel the warmth of a body, smell stale breath.

  “Got any food?”

  “Bread. Tomatoes and sardines.” Best not to mention the money—or the knife. I put my hand in my pocket and touched the cold steel. “You’re welcome to some,” I said, and prayed. If he saw through my disguise, came at me, touched me, I’d use it on him.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Pete,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “Joe. Where you hiding those tomatoes?”

  I reached into my sack and found the can, held it out, and jumped when a powerful hand caught my wrist.

  “Damn’ puny. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” I lied, and tried to pull away. This was almost worse than Frank’s beatings. At least there I knew what the end would be, who my attacker was.

  “Get your hand off me,” I said.

  Surprisingly he did, taking the can with him. “Just trying to see in the dark,” he explained. “When we get moving, I got a lantern I can light. For now, we got to stay quiet and out of sight, or those railroad dicks’ll throw us out. Maybe bust a few more ribs.”

  I let out my breath and felt the stab in my side. “Just leave me alone.”

  He scuffled around. Shortly I felt the tickle of straw. “Lots of this in here,” he said. “Keeps you warm. You’ll need it when we start moving and that wind cuts through the cracks. I’m shutting the door now. It’ll be as dark as the inside of Jonah’s whale.”

  “I don’t care.”

  I didn’t, either.
I wanted to sleep and figured, if he came too close, I’d wake up and do whatever I had to do.

  “Good thing.” He got up, and I saw him silhouetted against the night sky—gaunt as a scarecrow, but strong, with dark whiskers.

  “What are you doing in here?” I asked.

  He turned. “Mind your own business.”

  The whites of his eyes flickered before he shut the door, and we were closed in together.

  The train shuddered down its length, rocked, backed up, then began to move, and in that moment I knew I was safe, that I’d get wherever it was I was going, and that Frank wouldn’t find me.

  The whistle blew. It sounded like a scream, like the sound of my past—the tears, the wounds, my own foolishness. For better or worse, I was on my way.

  Even with a swallow of laudanum it was a bad night. The rocking of the train slammed my ribs, and Joe’s dim lantern light quivered through the dusty car and shone on my face.

  He ate half the tomatoes, using his fingers, then drinking the juice that stained his beard red. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then held out the can.

  “Here, kid. Best eat something. A good wind’ll blow you away.”

  I didn’t want to eat or put my mouth where his had been, but hunger won. I emptied the can and put it down. He was watching me.

  “Something wrong?” I asked, trying my best to sound tough.

  “You ain’t no beauty. Not with those black eyes.”

  Startled, I put my hands to my face.

  He nodded. “Busted your nose, I reckon. Big fella, was he?”

  “I couldn’t lick him.”

  “Huh.” He stretched out, propping his head in his hand. “Nobody’s licked me since I was twelve. I been on my own ever since. Seen lots of country.”

  In spite of my pain, I was interested. “What do you do?”

  “Anything that needs doing. I’m headed for the mines. Hard work, but I figure sooner or later I’ll get lucky.”

  “What kind of mines? Where?”

  “Arizona Territory. Lots of mines…copper, silver, gold. They say up in Globe they found a piece of silver so big it weighed damn’ near a ton. Called it Munson’s Chunk after the guy who found it. Must be there’s more where that came from, and, besides, it’s warm. Not like this damned country. Turn you to stone, that wind out there, and that’s a fact.”

  “How do you get there? To Arizona?”

  “Find a train headed that way.”

  “Are we on one?”

  I hoped we were. Oh, I hoped! His answer dashed that.

  “Nope. Got to hop another in K.C.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself to steady my aching ribs. “Can I go with you?”

  “I travel alone,” he said. “Can’t be nursemaidin’ young ’uns.”

  “I can cook.”

  He grinned. “You see a stove in here?”

  It was a ridiculous notion. I’d known it from the start. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll get there by myself.” I closed my eyes and huddled into the straw.

  I thought I would sleep, but scenes from the past kept chasing themselves across the darkness behind my eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Toledo, 1886

  I fastened my new skates and took off across the pond, leaving my friends clustered like ducks on the bank.

  Oh, it was glorious—the speed, the freedom of motion, the very daring of it all! Not for me the role of helpless female, waiting breathlessly for the support of a masculine arm. At sixteen, I was headstrong, sure of myself, impatient with the dos and don’ts of what was termed “proper behavior.”

  Faster I went, and faster, my laughter trailing behind me. “Catch me if you can!”

  Suddenly I wasn’t alone. Another skater appeared, matching me stride for stride. I had a quick glimpse of his face—white teeth, a wildness in his eyes that echoed my own. A race! I’d show him! I knew the course, and it was dangerous—through the swamp toward the Maumee River. Tussocks of grass were trapped in the ice, and the trunks of dead trees laid their snares just below the surface.

  In the light of the setting sun the ice glimmered, a sheet of gold. I sped across it, and the stranger followed, accepting my challenge. He was good. Better than good. None of the boys I knew had ever kept up with me, those boys with their sweaty hands and breath like warm milk. I shuddered at the thought and went faster.

  Who was this man who moved so effortlessly, his scarf a streak of crimson against the darkening sky?

  My lungs were burning. Never before had I skated so far and at such a pace. A quick glance showed my challenger, keeping pace easily with what seemed to be a sneer on his lips. Was he laughing at me? Furious, I pushed on, but emotion was my undoing. My toe caught a branch hidden under the ice, and I fell headlong, sprawling ungracefully and with a nasty pain in my ankle.

  He knelt beside me, and in spite of pain and anger I was aware of the heat of his hands on my waist. “Are you all right? That was a bad fall.” His face was close to mine, his eyes gleaming like opals.

  If I had ever been one to follow the rules, I would have fainted then and there in the manner of a properly brought up young lady. But I was mad all the way through, at myself and at him for making me look foolish.

  “Damn you!” I exclaimed. “It’s all your fault.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, and my heart turned over.

  “Who are you?” I asked, struggling to sit up.

  “Frank Hart. Your friend Lizzie’s cousin. The black sheep of the family.”

  “Oh.” I studied him in the gathering darkness. Everybody in Toledo knew about Frank Hart. How he’d run away from school and gone West to make his fortune, and how he’d made it gambling and in other ways that were never mentioned, merely hinted at with raised brows and much whispering.

  “I see you’ve heard about me.”

  He was grinning like a tomcat, and suddenly I smiled back. Black sheep or not, he was a better bargain than any of the boys I knew. And, besides, I enjoyed the way his hand lingered on my waist.

  “If my mother knew you were coming to skate, she’d have locked me in the closet,” I said.

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Pity.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was intending to call on you.”

  I pictured it—my mother’s shock, and the scolding that was sure to follow. On the spur of the moment I said: “You may call on me, Mister Hart. That is, if I can make it home on this ankle.”

  “I’ll carry you,” he said gallantly. “I’ve never abandoned a lady in distress.”

  For a few moments we stared at each other, and I thought he was going to kiss me, wished for it, though I’d never been kissed and had only a schoolgirl’s knowledge of what went on between men and women gained from reading forbidden romance novels.

  “Pearl! Pearl! Where are you?” The shouts of the others broke the spell, and the sound of my name seemed like the cry of the wind or the lonely keening of gulls over the harbor.

  “The name suits you,” he whispered.

  I swallowed my disappointment over the kiss and said nothing, but he read my face. Taking off one glove, he reached out and gently stroked my cheek.

  “Later,” he said.

  It sounded like a promise.

  Chapter Three

  “It’s unseemly. Letting that man bring you home! I brought you up better than this. You’re a lady, not a boy, and you don’t know where men like that will lead you.”

  I didn’t, of course. But I wished I could find out.

  It was two days later, and my mother was scolding. I was in the front room, restless and beside myself, my ankle propped up on an ottoman. My Christmas vacation from school was ruined. I was trapped and helpless, and I’d probably never get to see Frank again in spite of my invitation to call. Tears of frustration ran down my cheeks.

  “You should cry,” my mother went on. “Maybe you’ll remember your upbringing next time.”


  Her words meant nothing to me. I’d been hearing them since I could remember, and they were always the same. You’ll disgrace us all! No man will have you!

  Perhaps in her eyes I had unsexed myself, but what I’d felt there on the ice had been simply my own wanting, the first clue as to what womanhood was about. My mother made me feel like the ugly duckling, hatched in the wrong nest. When I wanted to fly, which was all the time, I found my wings clipped. I hid my face in my handkerchief and cried harder.

  And then someone knocked on the door.

  “Stop crying,” my mother snapped, in a complete reversal of mood. “You’ll ruin your appearance.”

  Obediently, I mopped my tears. I wished it would be Frank at the door, but any company at all would be a welcome distraction.

  Lizzie O’Riley came in with a flurry of skirts and knelt beside my chair. “How do you feel? Does it hurt terribly? We’ve all come to cheer you up.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Frank’s here, too. He didn’t think your mother would let him in by himself, so we all came. Teddy, Violet, Oscar, and me.”

  “He’s here?” My heart leaped into my throat. And then I saw him, still wearing that scarlet muffler and looking more handsome in the day than he had in the shadows of twilight.

  He dropped a bouquet of crimson carnations in my lap.

  “For me?” My voice came out in a whisper.

  “Who else?” He stood there, blackhaired and smiling and completely at ease.

  No one had ever given me flowers. I was a schoolgirl still, at that age between childhood and womanhood. But at that moment I crossed an invisible line. Pearl Taylor burst out of her shell and became a woman with all of a woman’s passion.

  The carnations seemed to burn my hands with their flaming beauty. I caressed the petals, inhaled the spicy scent, and searched for words to give meaning to my feelings.

  My mother’s horror at seeing Frank was overcome by her thrifty nature. “I’ll put these in a vase,” she said, and headed toward the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” I said when she was gone. “I wish I could keep them forever.”