My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains

by Susan Page Davis

  “I suspect that bunch of outlaws is a splinter off the gang that pulled a robbery near Wickenburg last month,” Duffield said. “Could even be connected to the ones who robbed the Texas State Treasury last June.”

  “Think so?” Freeland asked. “It’s out of the way.”

  “Yup, but they never caught ’em, and there was up to fifty men in that gang. They’re probably scattered all over.”

  “So … you want to go after the outlaws now?” Freeland asked. “I’d like to get that gold shipment back and see what became of Miss Wade’s uncle.”

  His eyes were eager, and Carmela had a sudden fear that he would go back on his promise and ride off with the marshal and his posse, leaving her here with Price and his crew.

  “I think it would be better to go after them than the Apache,” the marshal said.

  Freeland nodded. “Those Indians are probably long gone, into some canyon or other. I doubt we’d catch ’em, and if we did, they might be too much for us.”

  “All right.” Duffield dismounted and handed his reins off to one of the other men. “Let me talk to Mr. Price and see what he needs to defend the station. Like I say, those Apache are probably gone, but I don’t want to risk leaving him undefended until we’re sure, since you tell me two other stations have been attacked.”

  The men gathered near the stagecoach to lay their plans. Carmela felt abandoned, but she decided it was time to grow up. These men didn’t need her to decide what they would do, and Freeland was already steering them toward looking for her uncle. But she could do something that would encourage them and strengthen them before they set out—she could fix a fresh pot of coffee and start cooking a simple meal. By now she knew where Mr. Price kept his utensils and supplies. No use acting helpless. She straightened her shoulders and headed inside.

  Freeland had to admire Carmela. She didn’t cry or insist that the men go after her uncle. She didn’t sit around moping while they made their plans. Instead, she put on Price’s stained apron and whipped up a batch of biscuits and fried some bacon so they could all have a bite before setting out. She was some woman!

  “I’ve got a packhorse with some gear on it for the posse,” the marshal said as they sat at the table. “We’ll escort the stage on down the line to make sure they get through all right, and when they’re safe, we’ll go after those outlaws.”

  “Do you have a horse I can ride?” Freeland asked.

  Duffield frowned. “Seems to me you’d best escort that young lady to Prescott. Can’t leave her out here.”

  “But—” Freeland closed his mouth. More than anything, he wanted to recapture Dix. Maybe the posse could do that. But the marshal was right—he was responsible for Carmela’s well-being now, and he couldn’t abandon her. Maybe he wouldn’t have to take her all the way to the capital. Maybe she could stay in Wickenburg while he rejoined the posse.

  Carmela came around with the coffeepot to refill their cups.

  “What do you say, young lady?” Duffield asked her a bit more jovially than the circumstances warranted. “Will you be all right with Deputy McKay, getting from here to Prescott while I go looking for Dix and the outlaws? I think we have a fair chance of getting your uncle back, depending on how bad his wound was.”

  Carmela gulped. “Yes sir. That would be fine. I don’t think I can help him by staying out here, unless you have a mount for me.”

  “Nope, I don’t.” The marshal eyed Freeland thoughtfully. “I guess we can redistribute the gear and give you the packhorse. Can the two of you get to Wickenburg on it?”

  Freeland shrugged. “I guess so, sir. It beats walking, and handcuffed together at that.”

  Duffield laughed. “I should say so.” He glanced up at Carmela. “Tell me, miss, is he giving it to me straight? Was he really out cold when that transpired?”

  “Yes sir,” she said. “It’s my fault. I never should have trusted that man, Dix. If I’d thought about it, I would have realized he wouldn’t have killed me with his only bullet. If nothing else, he could have used it to shoot the chain off the handcuffs.”

  “True,” Duffield said. “Well, don’t fret over it. Dix is a clever man, from what I understand. He found a way to keep the bullet and get free at the same time, as well as slowing down the deputy from pursuing him.”

  “They both might have died out there,” Price said.

  “Yes, they might.” Duffield reached for another biscuit. “If we catch him, he’ll have assault and escape charges added to his list of crimes.”

  Freeland could think of no way to persuade the marshal to take him with him that wouldn’t leave Carmela in a precarious position. Now that he knew Price, he was sure the stationmaster was a good man, but he wasn’t sure he would trust Windle and Jerry. Carmela really needed to get to a town where there were other women and she could find decent lodgings. Of course, Wickenburg wasn’t much of a town the last time he was up this way. Would he want to leave his mother or his sister there unprotected? He drew a careful breath, considering. He’d have to see how things looked when they got there.

  “I’ll give you some messages to deliver for me,” the marshal went on. “We’ll need to inform the governor of the situation and tell the stagecoach agents along the way. Price may have some messages for you to confer.”

  Freeland nodded. Until they got telegraph wires out here, it was part of his job to carry the news, good or bad, when he rode to other parts of the territory.

  He drained his coffee cup and looked at Duffield. “After I see Miss Wade is safe and report the losses to the stage line and the governor, am I free to ride out and join the posse?”

  “Sure. I’ll leave word for you anyplace I can.”

  Freeland wished he could pass his assignment on to someone else, but he knew that wasn’t possible. The marshal had made it clear. He wondered if he would have received the same orders if he hadn’t lost his prisoner, but those thoughts weren’t profitable. Might as well do his duty and get it over with.

  He rose and went to the worktable, where Carmela was stacking the dirty dishes. “Sounds like you and I can share one horse and head for Wickenburg anytime.”

  She nodded. “I have no luggage. I’ll help clean up here for Mr. Price while you get things ready.”

  “Ten minutes,” Freeland said with decision.

  “I’ll be here.”

  The marshal had secured a pencil and an old envelope from Price. He tore open the envelope and wrote his messages inside.

  “If the governor’s in when you get to Prescott, tell him anything he wants to know,” he said soberly as he handed the paper to Freeland.

  “Yes sir.” Freeland swallowed hard. “I don’t suppose I could leave Miss Wade in Wickenburg and send the messages on by someone else?”

  “No, you deliver them in person, McKay. I can trust you, but there are not many men in Wickenburg I can say that about.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll do it.”

  Duffield nodded. “Come on outside, then. We’ll give you the horse and a bridle. Not sure about a saddle.”

  Windle, who had been leaning against the wall near the table, took his toothpick from his mouth. “I can lend you a saddle,” he said. “Just leave it at the stage stop in Wickenburg.”

  “Thanks.” Freeland nodded at him and followed the marshal outside.

  They rode slowly to spare the horse. Once again, the heat soared, and riding double increased their discomfort. Carmela sat behind the saddle and kept only the lightest handhold on Freeland’s belt, leaning back as much as she could without overbalancing, in hopes a breeze would waft between them.

  After an hour, they came to a silvery stream that seemed to disappear into the ground beneath some jagged red rocks.

  “Where does it go?” Carmela asked, staring at it.

  “Underground. That’s the Hassayampa. It means ‘river that flows upside down.’ When there’s a rain, it’ll flow more above ground, but most of the time, it’s pretty much down below.”

 
Freeland turned and grasped her wrist to support her as she slid down the horse’s flank, then he swung his leg over the saddle and climbed down.

  “You can nearly always find water here, and we’ll follow it upstream to Wickenburg. Shouldn’t have to get thirsty again on this stretch. Go ahead and drink, before I let the horse get into it.”

  She drank and bathed her hands and face, then went off among the weird rock formations for privacy while Freeland drank and watered the horse.

  The stark beauty of the landscape still amazed her, though she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to visit the territory again once she’d escaped this ordeal. She walked back to where she could just see the horse’s rump as it greedily guzzled from the stream and found a wedge of shade beside a tall, creased rock.

  Despite what Uncle Silas had done to her, she couldn’t abandon him to the outlaws. If the marshal and his men didn’t find him, she would have to arrange for a search party. After all, he had taken her in and educated her, though more in culture and history than anything else. He had tutored her in public speaking and trained her to behave like a lady. For the most part, he had made sure they lodged in decent establishments and had plenty to eat, and he had kept the crowds from mauling her. She supposed she owed him something beyond the money she had earned for him—some loyalty. Even so, she couldn’t shake the thought that without his deception and the tattoos on her face, she wouldn’t have needed much protection.

  Freeland led the horse away from the spring toward the trail. He spotted her in the rock’s shadow and walked over, with the horse clopping behind on the powdery red dirt.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded. “I was just thinking.”

  “About Mr. Holden?”

  “Yes. If the posse can’t find him—”

  “They should be able to track the outlaws, and if your uncle isn’t with them, the marshal can make them tell him where he is.”

  Carmela gazed into his blue eyes, letting that sink in.

  “You think he’s dead.”

  Freeland looked off toward the town they sought, northward. “I don’t know. I didn’t look closely at his wound. But it’s easy to bleed to death from an untended body wound, and infection is common. Without a doctor … I’m just saying, maybe you should prepare yourself for bad news.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Is there ever good news out here?”

  Freeland’s cracked lips returned her smile. “Well, I did thank God when we found Mr. Price and the others alive, and when the marshal turned up with his men this morning.”

  “So did I. And when we overpowered Mr. Dix. We’ve shared a great deal of misfortune and fortune, Mr. McKay.” His eyebrows arched, and she looked away. “Freeland.”

  He cocked his head toward his right shoulder. “I hope you won’t think me too bold if I say there’s no one I’d rather have survived with, Carmela.”

  She shivered in spite of the heat. Was he valuing her above the stagecoach driver and the others? If they’d all died but one, was he saying he’d choose her over Dix? Was it just because she was a woman and he was a gentleman? She’d never felt as though someone liked her as a person. Lots of people wanted to talk to her as a curiosity and get to know her because of her alleged past. Will McKay had cared about her. Had his brother come to respect her and even like her as well? She thought about that for a long time as they plodded along the shimmering trail, glimpsing the Hassayampa now and then, off to their left.

  At last Freeland pulled the horse to a halt, and she expected him to call another rest. Instead, he leaned to one side.

  “Look ahead, down the trail. Can you see it?”

  Far below them, clustered along the riverbank, were dozens of tents. A few buildings were scattered among them, and she could see tiny dots of people and livestock moving about.

  “Maybe you can stay there,” Freeland said. “Fellow named Grant runs the stage stop.”

  “Does he have a wife?” Carmela hated the quiver in her voice.

  “I dunno.” Freeland nudged the horse forward.

  On the last couple of miles into Wickenburg, he told her bits of information and legend.

  “They say once you drink out of the Hassayampa, you can’t tell the truth anymore,” was one.

  “Does that mean we’re both liars now?” she asked.

  “Maybe. It’s because of all the false claims they’ve made—the miners. They’ve sold more worthless claims in this valley than anywhere else on earth, I reckon.”

  They passed some prospectors heading toward the mountains with their mules loaded with tools and provisions, and two Indians crossed their path as they came down into the tent city.

  “Are they Apache?” Carmela whispered, trying not to stare at the grim faces.

  “Yavapai,” Freeland said.

  “Are they friendly?”

  “Some. Can’t rightly trust ’em, the marshal says. The ranchers and miners in these parts have had trouble with ’em.”

  She exhaled carefully and clung tighter to his belt.

  One of the rough cabins had a sign proclaiming that an assayer plied his skills there, but the rest of the buildings seemed to be saloons. Men went in and out of them, shouting to each other. Carmela cringed and tried not to meet any of the bearded miners’ eyes, but she knew all of them stared at her. She wanted to bury her face in the back of Freeland’s shirt, but that would be most improper.

  At last they saw a cabin a little away from the tents and the noise of the settlement.

  “Yonder’s the stage stop,” Freeland said. He pulled up before it and helped her dismount. They walked to the door together, and he pounded on it with his fist. “Grant?”

  The door opened, and a bearded man of about forty eyed him closely. “McKay?”

  “None other. This here’s Miss Wade. Is there a decent place in town where she can board?”

  “Yer joking, right?” Grant said.

  “Well, I wasn’t.” Freeland sighed. “I reckon we’ll head right out for Prescott, then. Can you give us a meal and rent me another horse?”

  “Sure.” Grant stepped back so they could enter the small, dark room. Carmela hoped he wouldn’t ask about her tattoos or why she was traveling through this desolate area. He started out by asking what was going on down the line, and Freeland gave him a shortened version of the attacks on the stagecoach and stations.

  “They’d best not try that here,” Grant said.

  “I doubt they would, with so many miners milling around,” Freeland replied.

  “So the young lady’s not looking for work, then?” Grant said as he took a couple of tin plates from a shelf.

  “No,” Freeland said firmly.

  “Too bad,” Grant said. “Murphy’s and the Silver Slipper are both looking for girls. Of course, them Injun markings don’t help her none—although, some fellas might find ’em exotic, I s’pose.”

  Carmela clenched her teeth together and let Freeland give the man the answer he deserved.

  Chapter Eleven

  They were back on the trail an hour later, with two passable horses under them. Freeland had arranged with Grant to leave the marshal’s borrowed horse and Windle’s saddle there, and Carmela had surprised him by coming up with a dollar and four bits—enough to pay for their dinner and assure Grant that the horses they took from his corral would find their way back. Grant wasn’t in the habit of loaning or renting out his horses, but Freeland’s badge seemed to sway him.

  As they headed through Peeples Valley, toward Prescott, Freeland kept an eye on Carmela. On the way out of Wickenburg, he’d found a Yavapai woman who was willing to sell a light, woven shawl. Carmela had gladly paid for it to keep the sun off her. They had no other comforts besides the refilled Apache water skin. She rode slouching in the saddle, her eyes nearly shut.

  “We’ll get there by nightfall,” Freeland told her. “Grant says these horses are good for it.”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  Freeland quickened the pace, a
nd they trotted up the valley for an hour, passing a few people now and then. A rancher was driving some steers to Wickenburg to sell, and miners worked their way back and forth between the town and their claims. A pair of troopers from Fort Whipple stopped and talked for five minutes, very interested in Freeland’s report of the outlaw gang and marauding Apache.

  After they had moved on and gained another five or six miles, he led her down a well-worn path to the edge of Date Creek, so they could water the horses. He noticed that after she splashed water on her face she took one corner of the shawl and scrubbed fiercely at her chin and cheeks.

  “You all right?” he asked as they prepared to mount again.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. She wouldn’t complain. A couple of days ago, he’d have said it was because the Indians taught her not to. Now he realized she was just stubborn. She probably hurt in a million places, and he could tell she was exhausted, but she never once asked him to rest or how far it was to Prescott.

  “I know it seems we’re getting farther and farther away from your uncle, but I assure you, we’ll do our best to get him back.”

  “Thank you.” She tightened the girth on her saddle without looking at him.

  Freeland cleared his throat. “The ink’s less noticeable.”

  She met his gaze then. “Did I mess it up?”

  “Not really, but it’s lighter now. I bet it will all come off in a few more days.”

  She blinked twice, and he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “He renewed it every few days.”

  He reached out with one finger and barely grazed her cheek where the diamond pattern still showed but not nearly as pronounced as when he’d first seen her. She didn’t flinch, but he felt suddenly he’d overstepped some invisible line. He let his hand drop. “Well, you don’t have to do it again if you don’t want to. Ever.”

  She let out a deep breath. “Thank you. We’ll see what happens with Uncle Silas.”

  He nodded. She had to know she could do as she pleased now, and she didn’t have to obey the bully any longer. But she was tenderhearted, and she was entrenched in the habit of obedience, even if her respect for her uncle had cracked and sloughed away.