Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  Hell. Maybe she’d jump.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tucson wasn’t really an ugly town, as frontier towns went, but there certainly wasn’t anything attractive about it either. It wasn’t the ramshackle buildings or the smelly garbage in the streets that bothered Daniella. Neither was it the dry, arid desert it perched on, with its giant Saguaro cacti reaching up toward the sky as if beseeching the gods for water. It was the people of Tucson who made her wish she were anyplace else.

  Two Mexican women of indeterminable age, both in dire need of a bath and a thorough shampoo, lounged outside the swinging half-doors of a cantina. One of them had one side of her skirt hitched up to her waist, baring a chubby, dimpled and bruised thigh. They were the only females in sight.

  The rest of the town’s inhabitants appeared to all be men. Dirty, evil-looking men. Everyone of them had at least two weapons visible, mostly a pistol and a knife. Cartridge belts crisscrossed more than a few chests. There was no law in Tucson, except the law of every man for himself. Daniella shuddered at the thought of what life must be like in a town where a man couldn’t, or maybe wouldn’t, walk down the main street in broad daylight without being armed to the teeth.

  She clutched the drawstring bag in her lap. The shape and weight of the Navy Colt inside comforted her.

  Both the surface and residents of the Tucson streets were rougher than anything the open country surrounding it had to offer. Daniella clung to the edge of the hard wooden seat of the wagon as she and Tucker made their way through Tucson down dusty, rutted streets toward the market area where a west-bound wagon train was replenishing its supplies before continuing on toward California.

  Their plan was for Daniella to do some shopping while Tucker checked out the saloons and cantinas. One of them was bound to hear something about the capture of two Apache boys.

  As they rode through town, Daniella’s eyes darted from one side of the street to the other and back again. Nearly every man they passed stopped whatever he was doing and stared at her. Her nerves screamed in protest.

  “You’re causing quite a stir among the townfolk, girlie,” Tucker commented. “But don’t take it personal. The only white women they ever see in Tucson are the ones on wagon trains headed west, and they’re all a little weather-beaten by the time they’ve traveled this far. You’re quite a sight for them.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  Tucker stopped the wagon in front of William Grant’s Mercantile and helped Daniella to the ground. He left the wagon there and went his way on foot. Daniella turned toward Grant’s.

  The inside of the store was dim, musty, and crowded. Good. Where there were people, there was gossip.

  One by one the men in the store—five Mexicans and two Anglos; there were no women—fell silent as they turned to stare at her. Damn. She should have worn the breeches. From the expressions on the men’s faces, it must have been a while since they’d seen a woman. At least one wearing something other than faded calico.

  But Daniella didn’t own a calico dress. Her clothes were the ones she’d brought from Boston—all the latest styles. The walking dress she wore today was one of her plainer gowns, by Boston standards. It was made of pale green poplin. Two wide rows of black lace trimmed the contrasting emerald green sacque. The loose jacket, while too warm, at least concealed the tightness around her waist, where she hadn’t been able to cinch her corset in enough to accommodate the dress properly.

  With her hair twisted into a knot on top of her head, the wide-brimmed Pamela straw hat, died green, with its black lace demiveil hanging down over her eyes, effectively concealed the white streak in her hair. She’d cursed the hat all the way to town when the wind threatened to tear it from her head in spite of the ties beneath her chin. But with the stares she was getting, she was glad she’d worn it. At least no one could see her face plainly.

  She desperately wished the men would go about their business and forget her, but it didn’t seem likely. She forced a smile and a polite nod in their direction—they stood in a group at the counter—and headed down one of the narrow aisles toward the other end of the store.

  A tall thin man with side whiskers came from behind the counter and introduced himself to her as William Grant, the owner of the store. He waited expectantly until she reluctantly gave him her hand and her name.

  “It’s an honor to have such a lovely lady grace my humble store,” he said in a fine Southern drawl. “May I help you find something?”

  She asked him for coffee, flour, and sugar, and dawdled as long a possible while he prepared her order.

  After a few moments the other men resumed their conversation.

  “What news is there of the war in the East?”

  Daniella tensed, her back to the men, and listened.

  “Ha! What news?” someone answered. “Since Congress moved the Butterfield Stage Line north and cut us off, there ain’t any news. Least not in this God forsaken hellhole. ‘Course Congress didn’t have much choice, what with Cochise butcherin’ everything that moved.”

  Daniella’s throat went dry. No stage? How could she get to Boston with no stage?

  “Never had no need for no stage just to get news, myself,” another man said. “I ain’t like you dummies—I can read.”

  It must have been a long-standing joke among friends, for the other men simply laughed.

  “Liked gettin’ my news outa the newspaper ‘stead of hanging’ ‘round the stage depot listening for gossip.”

  “Yeah, well you can be just as dumb as the rest of us now, Tooley, cuz there ain’t no more newspaper. You was just gettin’ your gossip second hand, anyhow. Where do ya think the paper found out all that stuff it printed if it wasn’t at the stage depot?”

  “I know some news,” one of the Mexicans offered.

  Daniella had to stop herself from leaning toward him to listen.

  “Hellfire, Juanito, the only news you know is which one of them señoritas down at Raoul’s place has got a heart tattooed on her—”

  “Tooley, shut up,” his friend whispered fiercely. “There’s a lady in here, dammit.”

  Silence echoed through the store, disturbed only by the shifting of crates and an occasional grunt and groan from the back room where Mr. Grant had gone to fill Daniella’s order. She waited in vain. When the talk finally resumed around the counter, it was of horses and cattle. It was useless. Now that they remembered her presence, they weren’t going to say anything important.

  A few moments later she paid for her purchases and left. After seeing the items loaded into the wagon bed, she crossed the street. She’d try another store.

  It was the same everywhere she went. The men acted like they’d never seen a woman before. It was an eerie feeling. She finally encountered two Mexican women at the Tully-Ochoa store, but they were the only women she’d seen except the two soiled doves outside the cantina. With a twitch of her lips, she wondered which “dove” had the tattoo, and where.

  After two hours of being ogled, she met Tucker back at the wagon. He hadn’t heard anything either. There’d been plenty of gossip in the cantinas, but no mention of two young Apache boys.

  “What do ya wanna do now?” Tucker asked.

  Daniella sighed. “I guess we’ll go home. Nothing else we can do. If I buy any more supplies we don’t need we’ll go broke.”

  Tucker helped her up onto the high wagon seat. She groaned to herself as her bruised posterior met hard wood. She couldn’t imagine how sore she’d be if it weren’t for her thick layer of petticoats.

  A train of freight wagons forced Tucker to turn down a side street. Another turn and he had the wagon headed out of town by way of the post office. Once again men turned to stare at Daniella.

  “Haven’t they ever seen a woman before, for heaven’s sake?” she said, irritated.

  Tucker snorted. “Not a white woman. Not in this town, anyway. There’s some Papago women on the edge of town, married ones. And there’s a few h
igh class señoras and señoritas, plus a few low class ones. But no Anglos. ‘Cept for the passengers on wagon trains, like I said.”

  Daniella answered his snort with one of her own. They didn’t have to stare so damned hard, did they? Her eyes flicked to the tall, broad shouldered man coming out of the post office, and her heart fluttered up to her throat. Travis!

  His penetrating gaze scanned her slowly from head to toe.

  When his eyes met hers, he smiled with surprise. She realized he’d never seen her in a dress before.

  Although she was separated from Travis by the width of the dusty street, her body leaned toward him. When she realized it, she straightened. Whatever he might have felt for her—gratitude, most likely—it was useless now. Even his gratitude for getting Matt back wouldn’t extend to overlooking the bastard child growing in her womb.

  If she could think of a good enough explanation, she’d be going to Boston soon, provided she could figure out a way to get there. She’d never see Travis Colton again. The thought made her throat close and her eyes water.

  The wagon gave an unexpected jerk. Daniella grabbed for the edge of the seat, missed, and nearly fell from her perch. Tucker called to the team and hauled back sharply on the reins. When Daniella righted herself she straightened her straw hat, then noticed the cause of the near-accident.

  She’d been so intent on her study of Travis, she hadn’t realized a crowd had gathered, blocking the entire road. She’d been completely oblivious to the deafening roar of dozens of men, some on foot, many on horseback, shouting and whooping all around her. The air was filled with flying debris. At first Daniella thought the garbage lining the street had taken wing, then she realized the crowd was throwing it! Her team had lurched when struck by a barrage rotten fruit.

  “What in blue blazes is going on?” she muttered.

  Beside her Tucker nodded at the center of the crowd. “Not sure, but I’d guess he’s got somethin’ to do with it.”

  Daniella searched the tight knot of men forging their way down the street. People began backing away to make room for some sort of procession. Her eyes grew wide, first with surprise, then with horror.

  Leading his recalcitrant pack mule through the throng was Billy Joe Crane, the squatter she’d thrown off her ranch.

  “It’s hanging time!” he shouted.

  A cheer rose up from those closest to him. There was something tied on behind the mule, but the crowd blocked Daniella’s view. When Crane led the mule past her wagon, she finally understood what was happening.

  Two ropes trailed from the mule’s harness, each rope bearing a hangman’s noose at the end. Each noose fit snugly around the neck of a young Apache boy. The boys she’d seen last night in her vision! Their hands were tied behind their backs, their ankles were hobbled by short lengths of ropes, and their faces were unreadable. Only their wild, black eyes revealed their overwhelming fear.

  Shouts of, “Hang ‘em!” and “String up the murdering bastards!” turned Daniella’s hands to ice.

  My God, they’re just children! Can’t anyone see that?

  But the crowd didn’t care.

  She had to do something! She couldn’t let those boys be murdered by a crowd gone mad. Where was Travis? She couldn’t see him now for the surge of people. He was supposed to do something. He’d promised Cochise. Where the hell was he?

  Billy Joe’s obstinate mule gave out a shrill bray and sat down, right in the middle of the street. Crane swore as he tugged on the reins. Three men got behind the mule and pushed. The mule didn’t budge.

  While the crowd continued jeering and pelting the captive boys with garbage from the gutters, Crane took a whip from someone and started beating the mule. His swings were wild and careless. When one missed the mule completely and struck one of the Apache boys, Daniella couldn’t stand any more.

  She turned to Tucker. “I can’t let them do this.”

  The old man stared hard at her for a long moment, then let out a resigned sigh. “I know, girlie.”

  She pulled the Navy Colt from her reticule and climbed down from the seat. For the first time since she came to town, the men’s attention was not focused on her. She had to shove her way into the hot, smelly crowd. She got only a few feet when the men closed in around her, paying her no attention at all. She elbowed, she kicked, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  “Let me pass! Move, damn you!”

  Nothing. It was as if she were invisible, with no voice at all. With determination, she raised the revolver over her head and fired in the air.

  The echoing shot died in the sudden stillness, and a path magically opened up before her. She marched between the gaping men, head high, shoulders back, until she stood in the center of the mob and faced Billy Joe Crane.

  “Still abusing dumb animals, I see.”

  Crane gaped at her a full minute before recognition lit his pale gray eyes. “You! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  She ignored his outburst and nodded toward the two boys, who swayed with exhaustion. “Now I see you intend to take your brutality out on children.”

  Crane turned his head aside and spat. “Hell. Somebody take that gun away from her before she hurts herself.”

  A man with the greasiest hair she’d ever seen took a step toward her. She raised the pistol, pulled back the hammer, and took aim on Crane’s sunburned nose.

  At the same time, she felt the crowd shift behind her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She hadn’t thought this through well at all. It would be no trouble for one of them to grab her from behind while her attention focused on Crane.

  Too late to worry now. All she could do was try her best. Then, from behind, came a deep, smooth voice. A familiar voice. “The first man who touches her dies.”

  A thrill shot clear through her heart. Travis!

  She couldn’t see him, but she felt him when he stood at her back. Pure adrenaline pumped through her veins. In that instant, she understood why some men loved to fight. “Excitement” was too pale a word for what she felt.

  To have a chance, however slim, to win against great odds, was something she had never experienced before. They were outnumbered ten to one. It didn’t matter. With Travis at her back she could do anything!

  If she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget this moment. And if she died in the next ten minutes, it would be worth it just to feel the headiness threatening to overwhelm her.

  But the angry, buzzing mob knew they were only two against the rest. As if on cue from some hidden stage director, each man stepped forward, closing in on Daniella and Travis. Her hand tightened around the pistol. It nearly slipped in her sweaty palm.

  “Don’t worry none about your blind side,” Tucker called. “I got it covered.”

  Daniella grinned in spite of the overwhelming odds against her and Travis. She couldn’t see Tucker from where she stood, but she could picture him standing there in the wagon, shotgun in hand, a devilish grin parting his wiry beard.

  His statement had the same effect on the men around her as Travis’s had. They stopped moving.

  Crane looked ready to burst. His knuckles wrapped around the butt of the whip whitened. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated.

  “I’m taking these boys,” she answered firmly.

  “The hell you are! They’re mine. I caught ‘em, and I’m gonna hang ‘em.” A murmur started somewhere in the back of the crowd and spread. Crane took heart from the show of support. “In case you ain’t heard, me and my partners was ambushed by Apaches a few months back. There was five of us, and I’m the only one left. These heathens is gonna pay, by God.”

  “Don’t be any more of an ass than you already are, Crane,” Daniella said. “Are you saying that five grown men were attacked, four of them killed, by these two children? I don’t believe I’d be telling that story, if I were you. It doesn’t say too much for you and your friends.”

  Crane’s face turned the same shade of r
ed as his flannel undershirt. He moved toward her. “Why you—”

  “One more step and I’ll shoot,” she warned.

  A second later panic assailed her when she felt Travis leave her back, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off Crane.

  Crane glanced past her shoulder; his eyes bulged. “Goddammit, Colton, you leave them be. They’re mine, I tell ya!”

  Daniella chanced a quick glance while Crane’s attention strayed. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how hard her heart was pounding. It leaped with joy when she saw Travis pulling the nooses from the boys’ necks and cutting the ropes that hobbled their feet.

  She swung her gaze back to Crane and started backing toward Travis.

  “All right, you buzzards, make way.” Tucker’s voice rang out loud and clear in the scorching afternoon heat. “Clear a path to this here wagon for the folks, or I’ll clear it myself.”

  With Travis at her back once more, and the boys in front of him, Daniella inched her way through the hard-eyed men toward the wagon. Travis scared the daylights out of her when he let out a shrill whistle, then shouted, “Buck!” It was a long moment before she realized he was signaling his horse.

  With reins trailing on the ground, Buck trotted through the mob, scattering men right and left, heedless of anyone who stood in his way. A big, pot-bellied man grabbed for the reins. Buck snorted and reared, striking the man on the shoulder with a sharp hoof. With a swish of his tail, he scared off one man who got too close behind him. Another tried, and Buck lashed out with a hind leg. He missed, but the man got the message.

  The buckskin stallion shook his head as if ridding himself of flies was his biggest worry. He slowed to a walk beside Travis, thereby protecting the retreating group on one side.

  “Cover me,” Travis said tersely. He turned and lifted each boy into the wagon bed. There’d been no time to free the boys’ hands. He pushed the boys down behind the two barrels of flour Daniella had bought earlier.