My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains

by Susan Page Davis

  Mrs. Finney regarded her calmly. “When will you be ready, dear?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “As I thought. If you keep putting it off, you’ll never be ready, and then trouble will hunt you down. Better to meet it head-on.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Freeland checked the loads in his rifle and sidearm and mounted his horse. Benny had retrieved his saddle and put it on his dun. The men signaled they were ready for action by gathering around Marshal Duffield for instructions.

  “You be sure you bring my money back, Marshal,” Holden called from where he lay on the blanket in the meager shade. “If you don’t, I’ll see that the governor knows about it.” When Duffield ignored him, Holden opened his mouth again. “I mean it. I’ll see that you no longer have a job if you don’t—”

  “Gag him,” Duffield roared.

  Benny Lassiter dismounted to help Parker do the job. Meanwhile, Duffield turned his horse so that his back was to the struggle.

  “All right, men. He said there’s a lookout at a boulder up ahead. There’s not likely to be much cover.” He sent two men ahead to try to outflank the lookout and signal them to come on.

  Cover was scarce in the area, but Freeland’s group waited twenty minutes while the two men crept around to where they could outflank the guard. When the signal came—a bandanna waved from the top of the rock where the outlaw had been stationed—they rode forward.

  As they approached a ramshackle cabin, Duffield separated them into three groups. Freeland’s job, with Deputy Eph Knapp, was to get to the corral and run off the outlaws’ horses.

  He recognized the paint one of the outlaws had ridden in the robbery. The big, bony workhorses had pulled the stagecoach, which sat abandoned outside the flimsy fence.

  They got to the gate without raising an alarm. Eph watched the back of the cabin, his six-gun drawn, and gave Freeland a nod. He pushed the gate open. He didn’t want to make a lot of noise, so he led the pinto out. As he’d hoped, another saddlehorse followed. He went back into the corral. The team didn’t want to leave, and they didn’t have halters, but Freeland managed to drive them out. The last of the outlaws’ mounts had just plodded reluctantly through the gate when gunfire erupted on the other side of the cabin. The horses squealed and ran for the nearest ravine.

  The preacher was away on Saturday, when Carmela and Mrs. Finney tried to visit him, and Carmela was tempted to take that as a sign that she should wait.

  “Hogwash,” Mrs. Finney declared. “He has a lot of people to help. We’ll see him at church tomorrow.”

  And so Carmela went with her on Sunday, to the wood framing of what would be the church when it was finished. After each offering, the congregation bought what lumber they could with it. They added a few more boards each week. So far, they had two walls and the sky overhead showing between the bare rafters. Rain was so uncommon here that they met every Sunday, sitting on benches inside the skeletal church.

  Carmela appreciated the Reverend Mr. Bardwell’s message on God’s leading. He mentioned how God had led each one of the listeners here, some for reasons they didn’t even know yet. They might think they had come to find gold, or to build a ranch or a business, but God had plans for them besides earning a living.

  After the preaching, Mrs. Finney pushed through the people to invite him and his wife to dinner at the boardinghouse. She was too late. The Frawleys had already extended an invitation, so Mrs. Finney secured the minister’s promise to come on Monday. One of her boarders needed guidance, she confided to him. Then she introduced Carmela.

  Reverend Bardwell gazed pensively at her face with its fading tattoos and agreed to come.

  Monday afternoon they sat in the parlor, Carmela, the minister, and his wife, with cups of coffee close at hand. The other boarders had gone about their post-lunch business, and Mrs. Finney had retired discreetly to the kitchen.

  Carmela wasn’t completely certain she could trust the minister with her secret. True, he seemed to be a sympathetic man. Tall, with light brown hair that needed trimming, he seemed both unshockable and knowledgeable of scripture. In fact, with his soft brown eyes that were just beginning to show crow’s feet at the corners and his slightly bent nose, he reminded her of her father. She wasn’t sure that was good—it might induce her to trust him more than she ought. But Mrs. Finney had assured her that Reverend Bardwell was a good soul and could advise her as to what the good Lord would have her do, and so she haltingly made her confession to him. His wife, a plain woman who seemed kind but had the lines of chronic fatigue in her face, sat quietly and listened.

  “The Lord knows all our thoughts and imaginations,” the reverend told her when she had laid out the tale. “Have courage, young lady.”

  Carmela eyed him warily. “I want to tell the truth, but it’s hard when I’ve let people believe otherwise for so long.”

  “It is,” he said. “But God is there at your side. And Mrs. Finney and my wife and I will support you.”

  “This is the right thing to do,” Mrs. Bardwell said with a faint smile.

  “But—you think I should stand up at church and tell everyone how I lied?” The thought terrified her. People would condemn her. They would spread the story abroad. More people would come demanding that she return their money. Why, she wouldn’t be surprised if a crowd stoned her.

  “Just tell the truth to God’s people,” Reverend Bardwell said firmly but gently. “If they are truly God’s people, they will understand. That doesn’t mean they will condone what you did, but I shall remind them that they have all transgressed in the past, too. So … next Sunday?”

  “I suppose so,” Carmela said, but her insides felt like a jar of Mrs. Finney’s cactus jelly. What if everyone hated her after Sunday? None of the churchgoers really knew her yet. Most of them had stared at her yesterday morning. The Rootes had greeted her, and Lucy had run over to her and given her a hug, but the other stares had seemed cool, if not hostile. Curious, of course, but cautious, as though they thought she would steal their wallets if she had a chance.

  “Good,” Reverend Bardwell said heartily, reaching for his cup. He drained the last of his coffee and stood. “We must be going now. If you have any questions, come round or send word.”

  They were gone before she could say anything more, and Carmela sank back on the horsehair settee. Could she really go through with it? Her biggest hope was that the marshal would return before then and she would have some idea of what her future would be. Maybe she and Uncle Silas could move on by next Sunday, and she wouldn’t have to face the crowd with her shocking truths.

  But that would mean she would continue the fraudulent life she had lived for more than eight years. And besides, as Freeland and everyone else seemed to agree, Uncle Silas was likely dead. One way or another, Carmela would have to face life on her own.

  She had told the minister of her situation. He seemed to be on her side. So why didn’t she feel good about this?

  Freeland hated going into a gunfight. He’d been in some wild free-for-alls before, and each time, he’d felt as though he was running in place in a bad dream. The explosions of gunfire, the thuds, the footsteps, the horses’ squeals all seemed unreal, but at the same time urgent.

  The cabin had no back door, but there was a small window, shuttered from the inside. He ran to the back wall of the structure and flattened himself against the rough boards. He could edge around the corner, slink along the cabin’s side, and join the fray at the front. He wasn’t sure where Eph had got to, but he’d best get into it. He hauled in a deep breath.

  Before Freeland could move, the shutter on the little window thunked and swung inward. A filthy man with shaggy hair and beard and a torn shirt made colorless by dust ground into it, stuck his arms, head, and shoulders out and tipped up to slide down to the ground.

  Dix.

  Freeland stepped closer and placed the barrel of his handgun behind his ear as he hung there, half-in and half-out of the window.


  “Don’t move, Dix.”

  The man twisted his head and looked up at Freeland, his mouth twisted in a grimace, his gray eyes huge.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  “I won’t if you slide down peaceful and stay down.”

  He wriggled out and hit the ground hard. Freeland took a fleeting glance up at the window. Nobody else appeared in the square hole.

  “You got a gun?” Freeland asked.

  “Empty,” Dix croaked.

  Freeland saw it, stuck in a holster on his far hip.

  “Take it out, nice and easy.”

  Dix’s right hand moved slowly toward his hip.

  “Don’t make a move, or I’ll blast you,” Freeland said.

  As the last words left his mouth, Dix twisted away from him and pulled the revolver at the same time. On instinct, Freeland let loose a round from his Colt then made himself wait as his brain registered the result. Dix’s revolver flew from his hand and landed a few feet away in the dirt while the prisoner pulled his arm in to his stomach and clasped his wrist with his left hand. A string of oaths came out of Dix’s mouth.

  “Shut up,” Freeland said. “Now stand up.”

  “I’m shot.”

  “In the hand. Stand up, you fool, and thank the Lord I didn’t blow your head off.”

  The gunfire on the other side of the cabin had stilled, but Freeland heard a few shouts from that direction.

  Benny Lassiter came charging around the corner, his revolver in his hand. He jerked to a stop when he saw Freeland and the prisoner.

  “You all right, Free?”

  “Yup. Did you get the others?”

  “All accounted for but this one, and you got him.”

  “Where’s Eph Knapp?” Freeland asked.

  “With the marshal. One of the outlaws creased his shoulder.”

  Because of his wound, Freeland didn’t put handcuffs on Dix. He bent to retrieve the revolver and had Benny cover him while he searched the prisoner for more weapons. He didn’t find any and concluded the outlaws had not been generous on that score but had given Dix a handgun to help them defend the hideout.

  “Let’s go. We’ll bandage you up before we take you in.” He and Benny herded the bleeding prisoner around the cabin to where Duffield was taking stock and giving orders.

  A knock echoed through the rooms of the boardinghouse as Carmela put away the breakfast dishes the next morning. Mrs. Finney had gone out to make some purchases. She had invited Carmela, but she had opted to stay home. A little more time, and maybe the pancake powder the saloon girls wore would cover her tattoos.

  But now she was alone in the house and had to deal with whoever was at the door. None of the boarders would have knocked. It might be someone hoping to engage a room. Or it could be the preacher. Carmela went to the door and opened it cautiously.

  “Miss Wade, I was hoping you were still here.”

  “Mr. Roote.” Lucy’s father stood on the stoop, eyeing her gravely. “May I help you?”

  “It’s Lucy. She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Run away.”

  Carmela drew in a sharp breath. “Oh no.” The girl’s words about wanting to go back to the Apache were carved into her memory. “I’m so sorry.” She stepped back. “Won’t you come in? There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

  He followed her through the long dining room into Mrs. Finney’s cozy domain at the back. Today the kitchen was a bit too cozy, since the heat outside had risen steadily since sunup. Carmela poured mugs of coffee for both of them and sat down with him at the plain pine table where they did their food preparation.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Mr. Roote gave a big sigh and sat there with his large hand holding onto the ironstone mug but not taking a drink. “She must have gone in the night. She was there at supper, and maybe an hour later she went to bed. This morning she was gone.”

  “Is there any chance the Apache came and took her?”

  He shook his head. “She left a note: ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t live this way. I’m going back to my people.’ And all her Indian clothes and things were gone.” He shook his head. “I knew we should have burned them! “My people.’”

  Carmela’s heart sank. “Will she know how to find them? Is there an Apache village nearby?”

  “There was some camping by the river a week ago, beyond where the Yavapai stay. Not many, just a few who came to trade in town. I think they’re gone now, but she might try to catch up to them.”

  “Have you—” Carmela stopped. She was going to ask if he had told the marshal, but Duffield was out of town. “Is there a deputy marshal about?”

  “Yes. He’s getting up a posse, mostly our neighbors and men from our church, to go after them. Will you go with us?”

  The back door opened, and Mrs. Finney came in carrying two bulging sacks of groceries. She quickly took in the scene.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Roote. Is anything wrong?”

  “Our Lucy’s run away. Back to the Indians.”

  “No.” Mrs. Finney set down her burdens and came to the table. “What can we do? Besides pray, I mean.”

  “They’re gettin’ up a posse. I hoped Miss Wade would ride with us.” Mr. Roote took out a pocket watch and frowned at it. “I need to go. We’re leaving right away.”

  “I don’t have a horse,” Carmela said.

  “I brought an extra, in case you’d say yes.”

  She looked to Mrs. Finney.

  “Miss Wade can’t go tearing about the desert with a bunch of men,” the landlady said. “I’m surprised you’d ask that of her.”

  “Where is the posse gathering?” Carmela asked.

  “In front of the Juniper House, on Montezuma Street.”

  Carmela stood, her mind made up. “You go on, Mr. Roote. I shall be there in ten minutes.”

  “My dear! You should wait for the marshal to return,” Mrs. Finney said.

  Mr. Roote shook his head. “There’s not time. We could lose all sign of her.”

  Mrs. Finney’s tortured features played on Carmela’s fears, but she placed a hand on her friend’s arm.

  “Pray for us, as you said.” Carmela dashed to her room and threw on the tattered dress she had worn on the ill-fated stagecoach journey. She pulled back her hair and tied a bandanna around her neck. What else had she wished for when she was out there with Freeland? She pocketed the derringer Freeland had returned to her after their arrival in Prescott. It was loaded, but she had no extra rounds for it. She grabbed the shawl she had bought from the Yavapai woman and hurried out to the dining room.

  Mrs. Finney met her as she entered, her arms full of bundles. “I’ll walk over with you. You’ll need this blanket, and I’ve filled a water bottle for you and packed some vittles.”

  Carmela was amazed that she had done so much so quickly. “Thank you.” She kissed Mrs. Finney’s cheek. “I can carry it. You stay here. You’ll have to get dinner for the boarders by yourself.”

  Tears shone in Mrs. Finney’s eyes. “Take my hat that’s hanging by the door. And you take care. I shall pray my hardest.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The deputy marshal in charge of the posse looked old and frail.

  Probably why Mr. Duffield left him behind when he went after the outlaw gang, Carmela thought.

  Mr. Roote beckoned to her, and she joined him in front of a saloon, where he had two rawboned horses saddled and tied up, waiting.

  “Mrs. Finney gave me these.”

  He grunted, took the blanket from her, and tied it behind the saddle. “What’s in the poke?”

  “Food.”

  He took it and tied it with his saddle strings. “Hang the water bottle on your saddle.”

  She did as he said, and he untied her horse’s reins and handed them to her. She got her foot up to the stirrup before she realized she would again be riding astride.

  “Need a boost?”

  Carmela was about to say no when he placed his hand on her thig
h and shoved her up and over, into the saddle. She felt her face go scarlet, but he had already turned away, to mount his own horse. Well, she told herself, he has daughters, after all.

  They rode over to where the deputy marshal was trying to organize the party.

  “Mr. Orland,” Mr. Roote called as they drew near, “I’ve brought Miss Wade.”

  The older man looked her over, frowning at the markings on her face. “Thank you for coming, miss. I understand Lucy has an attachment to you.”

  Carmela opened her mouth to explain. She had only met the girl twice, and she wasn’t sure they had connected all that well, or else Lucy wouldn’t have run off. She decided silence was the better course for the time being and nodded.

  The deputy looked around at the other mounted men—only half a dozen besides Mr. Roote. He lifted his hat and scratched his head through his silvery hair. “This it?”

  “Looks like,” Mr. Roote said.

  Orland nodded and looked over at a man in a white apron, standing on the doorstep of the saloon. “Harland, you get word to the marshal the minute he rides in. We’re heading west from Roote’s place. That’s the way he thinks the girl went this morning.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Harland replied.

  Orland urged his horse into a jog, and the others fell in behind him. Carmela and Mr. Roote ended up in the middle of the pack, which suited her. She didn’t want to lag behind, but she didn’t want to bear the deputy’s close scrutiny. Perhaps he had seen Indians or other captives with tribal tattoos and would suspect hers were spurious. Or he might question her about her captivity, which could be even worse.

  After they had left the center of town behind and were headed out Gurley Street, Mr. Roote pointed his chin toward the hill ahead. “That’s Thumb Butte.”

  Carmela could see why they called it that. Many of the rock formations and mountains of the area were named for their shapes.

  “Orland said he expects Marshal Duffield back soon,” Mr. Roote said.

  “How can he know?” Carmela asked.