My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains

by Susan Page Davis

  “He can’t. He’s guessin’.”

  “Oh.” Remembering the difficult terrain and the vast landscape in which the outlaws could hide, she decided not to count on the marshal returning quickly.

  “Course, they mighta gone all the way to Tucson.”

  Carmela nodded. “They say someday we’ll have telegraph lines all over the country. Then we can get messages to each other more efficiently.”

  “Not out here,” Mr. Roote said with certainty. “Too hard to string ’em. Just think of bringing all those poles in, and the work to sink ’em, not to mention the Injuns interferin’.”

  “You think they’d cut the lines?”

  “They hardly let the mines operate. They’re having a terrible time settin’ up a stamp mill. The Apache keep runnin’ off their horses. Can’t live out here without horses. Or mules.”

  It was true. She knew that firsthand. She and Freeland would not have lasted long if Price’s station had been burned and the posse hadn’t come riding along the next day.

  “My uncle said they’ll build a railroad,” she said a bit doubtfully. “I mean, Prescott is the capital.”

  He laughed shortly. “Be a long time afore we see a railroad, I’m a-thinkin’.”

  They rode for half an hour, until they came in sight of a flat plain near the river. The ground was disturbed, and the remains of fire pits could be plainly seen.

  “The Apache packed up and hightailed it,” one of the men said to Mr. Orland.

  Carmela’s heart beat so strongly in her throat, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to breathe much longer.

  “Butler, you scout ahead,” Orland said. “Come back and tell us what you find.”

  The man called Butler, who wore the work clothes of a laboring man, shot Carmela a sidelong glance before he rode off, following the rather obvious trail of the villagers. She wondered why he looked at her. Maybe it was only because she was an oddity.

  She was still afraid, even though she had earnestly asked the Lord to calm her and protect her. Although she feared that everyone would hate her when they knew the truth, an even deeper fear haunted her. She had imagined Lucy and Rilla, especially Rilla, being disillusioned enough to do something rash. But she hadn’t told the crowd yet, and it had happened anyway. Lucy had fled her loving parents to return to the savages. Their heart-to-heart hadn’t helped, and apparently Carmela’s prayers hadn’t either.

  Orland rode down onto the scarred earth the Apache had left. Wouldn’t they cover the evidence of their sojourn? A lot of the early accounts she had read about native tribes were exaggerated, she knew. Fresher, more detailed writings had dispelled some of the myths of the noble savage. And yet, she had a distinct impression they had left in a hurry. Had Lucy ridden out here to join them? If so, perhaps they knew Lucy’s family would not let her go easily.

  Orland dismounted and kicked at the remains of a campfire. The other six men and Carmela remained in the saddle. The deputy crouched and poked the ashes with a stick.

  “What do you think?” The man who spoke had the build of a blacksmith—muscular, broad chested.

  “There’s still coals here. They left this morning early.”

  “Seems odd,” another man said.

  “They’ve probably got the girl,” the first man countered, shooting Mr. Roote a glance.

  Orland mounted and led them along in Butler’s wake. A few minutes later, the scout came back, loping his horse. He pulled up near Orland and turned his horse to jog along beside him. “There’s tracks up here a little ways, where a small bunch rode in. I’m thinking a hunting party joined them, something like that. Maybe they gave them some news that caused them to pull up stakes.”

  “Any idea how far ahead they are?”

  Butler shook his head. “A few hours? No way to tell, really. But some of them were in town yesterday, trading.”

  “Any sign of my Lucy?” Mr. Roote called.

  Butler swiveled in his saddle. His eyes picked out the grieving father. “Nothing I could tell for sure.” His gaze settled on Carmela. “Aren’t you that captive girl people are talkin’ about?”

  Carmela’s mouth went dry.

  “Yeah, she is,” Mr. Roote said. “My Lucy likes her. That’s why I brought her along.”

  Butler grunted. “Maybe she can translate for us.”

  “I—I don’t speak Apache,” Carmela managed.

  Another man rode up beside her, staring at her face. “I wondered about them marks on yer face. Howdy. I’m Del Filmer.”

  Carmela nodded and tried to concentrate on her horse’s movements.

  “I heard her give a talk once,” Butler said, louder than before, as though to make sure everyone heard. “She knows all about Indian ways.”

  “Then maybe she should scout for us instead of you, Joe,” said the ruggedly built man, and the rest laughed.

  Butler looked disgruntled, but he said no more for the moment, and Carmela was glad. This might be a bad time to reveal the whole truth. She wanted to help Lucy, but she felt cornered. She couldn’t lie to them now and stand up at church to give her confession on Sunday. They would despise her for sure, and they would wonder why she thought she could help on this expedition if she really knew nothing about Indians. She wished she had stayed home.

  Lucy needs you. She squared her shoulders. She was here for the girl.

  Mr. Roote squinted at her in the bright sunlight. “Your markings don’t look as bright as they were the day we brought Lucy to see you.”

  Carmela’s throat constricted, and she thought she would strangle and fall from the horse.

  Freeland and Benny managed to catch two of the horses from the stagecoach team and three of the outlaws’ mounts. The rest were probably still running.

  “We shouldn’t have run them off,” Ben said mournfully as he grappled with the harness.

  “Yeah, but we didn’t know it would be over so quick,” Freeland said. “If Dix had made it to the corral and those horses were still in there, he’d have got away.” He laid the straps over one of the big horses’ withers and adjusted the back band and tugs.

  “Think these two can pull the stage all the way back to Wickenburg?” Benny asked. Normally four to six animals pulled the coach over the rough trails.

  “I don’t know. I doubt they got much to eat out here the last few days. If we get as far as Price’s station, maybe he’ll have a team we can swap out for, and these can stop there and rest and eat.”

  “I s’pose we got to take that whiny old man along.” Benny spat in the dirt and picked up the near horse’s bridle.

  “Mr. Holden?” Freeland said. “Yeah, he’s Miss Wade’s uncle. We have to take him.”

  “You seem to set some store by this Miss Wade.” Benny cocked an eyebrow at him over the horse’s back.

  “She’s nothing like him.” Freeland walked over to the stagecoach, partly to get away from Benny’s comments. The marshal was overseeing the loading of all the loot they had recovered from the cabin into the strongbox in the driver’s boot, and two of the deputies were digging graves a short distance away.

  “Reckon the stage is in good enough shape to make it back?” Freeland asked.

  “Seems to be. And we’ve recovered nearly all of the payroll that was lost. I’m just sorry we couldn’t save the driver and shotgun rider.”

  “Yeah.” Freeland frowned, remembering Dwight and Tom, both good men.

  They set out with the outlaws confined inside the stagecoach. When they got back to where they’d left Silas and Porter, Silas was dozing in the scant shade of a mesquite bush. Porter sat nearby with his back to a rock and his rifle resting on his knees.

  “’Bout time,” he said, rising. “I heard the gunfire. I reckon it went all right.” He looked down the line at the horsemen and the stagecoach that trailed them with Benny driving and Eph sitting with him on the box. Several of the posse members led extra horses.

  “You got ’em all?”

  “We sure did,” the
marshal told him. “Get ready to ride. Mr. Holden, you still with us?”

  Silas opened one eye then sat up slowly, his hand clasping his wounded side. “Do you have my money?”

  “Take it easy,” Duffield said. “We’ll discuss that when we get back to Prescott, where we can parley with the stage company’s managers.”

  “I don’t see why I can’t have my own property back now,” Silas snapped.

  “I don’t care whether you see or not. Do you want to ride with us or share the stage with the gang?”

  A flash of terror flickered over Silas’s face. “I surely don’t want to be shut up in the coach with them!”

  “Pick a horse, then,” Duffield said.

  “You got prisoners?” Porter asked.

  “Yep.” Duffield looked smugly over his shoulder. “Three of ’em, tied up in the stage.”

  Porter shifted his gaze to Freeland. “What took so long? It’s nearly an hour since the shooting stopped.”

  “Had to bury a couple,” Freeland said.

  Silas had lurched to his feet and stood eyeing the stagecoach with loathing. “I … don’t know if I can stay in the saddle, but …”

  “You can lie down on the roof,” Freeland suggested. “You’d be in the sun the whole way, but I guess it’s that or ride with the prisoners.”

  Silas limped over to the stagecoach and looked up at Benny. “Would you be so kind as to help me up, sir?”

  Freeland wound up dismounting and going over to help. After three tries, they had boosted Silas to the driver’s box. He looked at Eph, whose arm hung in a makeshift sling fashioned from two bandannas.

  “I don’t suppose …”

  “You want me to give up my seat? No chance.”

  With a sigh, Silas crawled onto the roof and lay down between the rails designed to hold baggage. He stretched out and settled his bowler hat over his face.

  “All right, two of you ride behind the stage,” Duffield said. “I don’t want to take any chances of those prisoners escaping.

  Freeland fell in at the end of the line with Porter.

  Carmela, Deputy Marshal Orland, and six townsmen rode in silence. They passed a couple of ranches, and Carmela wondered how they found feed for their animals in the bleak country. Just four miles out of Prescott, they spotted a column of smoke. Butler, who had once more ridden a short way ahead, charged back toward them. He pulled his horse up short a few yards in front of Deputy Orland.

  “It’s the Howard place. The house and shed are burning. I didn’t see any livestock. Likely the Apache got ’em.”

  “Forward,” Orland called to the others, “but exercise caution.”

  They rode on until the burning structures came into view. To Carmela’s horror, she saw a woman in full skirts hurrying toward the road. Was her family inside the blazing house?

  Orland beckoned to them, and they all galloped toward the homestead, with Butler’s bay horse outstripping the others. He reached the woman first, jumped down and was listening to her tale of woe when the others rode up.

  “They shot Micah first,” she sobbed. “Then they grabbed the children. I tried to stop them, but the one carrying Andy struck me. I must have been unconscious. I came to a few minutes ago, and the house was afire and the Indians were gone. I can’t find a trace of the children.”

  “How many kids?” Butler asked.

  “Two. Andy’s four and Marjorie is six.”

  Carmela could tell that Mrs. Howard was expecting another child. If this trauma didn’t send her into labor, she probably had a while to go before it was born. She had a welt on her cheek and a bruise on her brow. Carmela slid off her horse and ran to her side.

  “I’m Carmela Wade. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “I—I don’t know what you could do,” Mrs. Howard said uncertainly, looking back toward the fire and resting a hand over the mound of her stomach.

  Orland had ridden up close, and he leaned down to speak to her.

  “Ma’am, we’re tracking those Apache. We think they stole a girl from a ranch on the south edge of Prescott.”

  Her eyes widened. “Yes. I saw that they had a white girl with them, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I was trying to save my own children.”

  Orland nodded grimly and looked toward the fire. “We’re too late to save your house, I’m afraid.”

  Butler nodded. “We couldn’t haul water fast enough to save it. Do you have livestock?”

  “They took our two horses,” she said. “We have twenty cattle down in the canyon, but I don’t know if they took them or not.”

  “They mighta missed ’em,” Mr. Filmer said.

  Carmela’s heart pounded as she listened. This woman was living what to her had been only stories and nightmares of stories. Behind her was the tragic evidence of a home reduced to embers and a husband lying dead at his own corral gate.

  “How many Apache?” Orland asked.

  “I don’t know. It seemed like a lot. Ten, anyway, down at the house, but I saw more passing up here by the road. Looked like maybe they were moving their whole village.”

  “They are,” Orland said.

  “No, they’s not that many.” Butler shook his head adamantly. “I was by there day before yesterday. There wasn’t more’n twenty or thirty all told—counting the women and kids. It was just a small band come to trade.”

  “And up until now they’ve been peaceful,” Orland said. “Mostly. They steal some, but they haven’t given us much trouble.”

  “More could’ve joined them,” said the burly man. “Butler said he saw tracks of another bunch coming in.”

  Mr. Filmer pushed his hat back. “We need more men, Orland.”

  The deputy frowned. “I know that.”

  “We can’t go back now,” Butler said. “They’ll probably split up, and we’ll lose ’em. They do that when they have captives.”

  “Well, we can’t leave Mrs. Howard here alone. And we can’t stop if we want to find out where they take those kids. There’s three now, not just the Roote girl.”

  One of the men on the fringe of the group gave a shout. Three riders were loping toward them from the south. They barreled up to the group and pulled in the horses. Ranchmen, Carmela guessed.

  A bearded blond man called, “Butler, what’s going on? Injuns?”

  “Yeah, Steger. They burnt the house and killed Howard. We think they’ve got three kids they grabbed—two here and one from Roote’s place. Deputy Orland’s in charge.”

  “The marshal ain’t here?” one of the other ranchers asked, frowning.

  “Gone back toward Tucson, chasing stage robbers,” Orland said. “If you men want to join us, we’d appreciate it.”

  Steger said, “How about I take Mrs. Howard to my place? My wife can tend to her. Then I’ll come back and bury her husband.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Orland turned to eye Carmela. “You want to stay, Miss Wade?”

  Carmela didn’t hesitate. She would be no comfort to these women, her face a constant reminder of the savages’ deeds. “I’ll go with you. For the children.”

  Orland nodded. “See to it then, Steger. Are you two in?”

  The other two ranchers looked at each other.

  “We got no supplies,” said one, a young man with reddish hair.

  “I don’t expect we’ll be days and days on the trail,” Orland said.

  “Our families,” the older man said.

  “I’ll see they get word of what’s happened,” Steger said. “They can gather at my place if they want. Our house is the biggest, and my wife’s got a shotgun and knows how to shoot.”

  “All right,” said the red-haired man. “Tell Lena I’ll be back and not to worry.”

  A lot of good that would do, Carmela thought. These men expected a lot, bringing their wives into an unsettled territory. And then to command them not to worry while they chased a band of thieving redskins—they really didn’t understand women, did they?

  “An
d get word back to Prescott if you can,” Orland said. “Spread the word of what’s happened and leave a message for the marshal to join us if he gets back before we do.”

  They rode out, now ten men strong besides Carmela, leaving Mr. Steger to boost Mrs. Howard up onto his mare and climb up behind her to ride the heavily laden horse back to his ranch a mile away.

  Carmela only had to keep up, which wasn’t hard. Mr. Roote stayed near her. He probably felt responsible for her, but she had made her own choice in this matter.

  She turned her thoughts heavenward and prayed as they rode, for wisdom and peace with the Apache, and for the children’s well-being. With three children now in the hands of the Indians, her concern shifted from her own troubles and the outrage people would feel when they learned of her deceit. Now she wished only to help the children survive and be returned to their families. She no longer cared what happened to herself.

  The ride seemed endless, with the constant shock of pounding against the hard saddle. Carmela was certain she would have many bruises on her legs by evening. She reminded herself once more of the trek across the desert with Freeland McKay. If they were walking again, handcuffed or not, they would not have gone a third of the distance the improvised posse had traveled that morning, probably less. Had she ever thanked God for horses? She remedied that shortcoming at once.

  They came to a creek that flowed toward the river, and before crossing, they stopped to water the horses.

  “We’d better rest awhile,” Mr. Butler advised Orland.

  “No. We need to catch up to them,” Mr. Roote said. “I want Lucy back before dark.”

  Deputy Orland threw him a sympathetic look. “That may not be possible. Our horses are tired. We don’t want them played out when we confront the Apache.”

  Mr. Roote gave in. He sat by himself, brooding, until Carmela approached him.

  “Will you have a biscuit and an apple, Mr. Roote? I’m sure Mrs. Finney intended for me to share, she packed so much.”

  He grunted and accepted the food she held out. Carmela sat beside him on the rocky ground and set down her water bottle. Some of the men had no provisions, and after a while, she decided to share from her supply with the ranchers who had joined them at the homestead fire. She learned that the young red-haired man was named Toole, and the older one, whose dark brown beard was streaked with gray, was Linnet. Both were fretting about the families they had left so precipitously.