“There they are.”
Duffield’s words interrupted Freeland’s reverie.
“I see them.” The Apache band moved slowly, and although they had probably sent the villagers on ahead while Two Pony and the others talked to Orland’s party, they hadn’t gotten far. The riders bringing up the rear were all men, fiercely painted and armed to the teeth.
“Ease up.” Duffield held up a hand so the men behind him wouldn’t run them over as they slowed.
Half a dozen warriors stopped and turned their horses to face them. Orland pushed his bay up close to the marshal. “They wanted to parley with us before.”
“Well, that posture doesn’t look like parleying to me.” Duffield didn’t take his eyes off the waiting warriors.
“I dunno,” said Benny, who crowded his horse up close. “Could be worse. They could be charging at us full tilt.”
“You want us to go forward?” Freeland asked.
“I don’t like it.” Duffield grimaced. “All right, might as well get it over with. You all stay alert.” He nudged his horse forward. “Give me a bunch of outlaws any day. At least with them, I’d have some idea what they were thinking.”
Chapter Twenty
Carmela ached all over by the time they got back to Prescott.
Her dress was damp with perspiration, and the folds of the skirt clung to her legs.
Mrs. Roote was waiting with the family’s farm wagon on Gurley Street, keeping watch over the road that led westward out of town. She had found a bit of shade in front of a hotel, and the plow horse hitched to the wagon stood dozing with his head drooping. She stood when she saw them approach and peered toward them. After a moment, she waved her handkerchief and scurried to climb down from the wagon.
“Lucy, my darling!”
Lucy had taken the other big workhorse from her father’s corral when she ran away that morning. She stopped him, slid down to the ground, and ran into her mother’s arms.
Mrs. Roote gathered her close. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she scolded. “You bad, bad girl! You scared us so. You mustn’t ever do that again. You hear?”
“I hear,” Lucy choked. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“There now.” Mrs. Roote stroked her hair and her shoulders. “Praise be, we’ve got you back.”
A group of people had made their way down the street and gathered about them now.
“We heard you’d gone after your daughter,” one man said to Mr. Roote. “This be her?”
“Yes, praise God,” Mr. Roote said.
“What about the family those Indians massacred?” a woman asked.
“Marshal Duffield’s trying to get the kids back. The missus went to a neighbor’s ranch to wait.”
“So we heard right?” the first man said. “They really killed that Howard fella?”
“I’m afraid so. Let us pass, folks. We’re all tired, and we’d like to get home ’fore suppertime.”
Carmela realized she hadn’t eaten anything for hours. She and Mr. Butler left the Roote family and rode on down the street.
“You’re that captive girl, ain’t you?” someone in the crowd called.
Carmela was too tired to respond. They made their way through the streets until they came to the livery stable, where she dismounted and turned the horse over to the owner.
“Thank you, sir. Do I owe you anything?”
The man ran a hand through his beard. “Did you get the Roote girl back?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Where’s Orland and the marshal?”
“They’re still out there,” Carmela said. “Did you hear about the attack on the Howard ranch?”
“I did.”
“Well, the men are following the Apache, in hopes of recovering the Howard children.”
“Humph. Well, I lend out horses for posses when they’re needed. I don’t expect any recompense for that unless the horses get shot or the Injuns take ’em. Then I send the governor a bill.”
“That’s very good of you,” Carmela said. “This one’s a good horse. She didn’t give me any trouble today.” She gave the mare a last pat and turned her weary steps in the direction she vaguely knew Mrs. Finney’s boardinghouse lay.
The streets seemed more crowded than usual as Carmela plodded along. The people who passed her on the street stared without fail at her chin. Carmela’s legs dragged but she stumbled on until she was sure she had taken a wrong turn. She looked up at a sign that said ASSAY OFFICE.
A bearded man leading a donkey walked up to the hitching rail and tied his pack animal. He looked at Carmela and grinned, exposing a gap where he’d lost a tooth.
“Lost?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well now, you don’t want to ‘sir’ me. I might be able to help you out. Where you headed, missy?”
“Mrs. Finney’s boardinghouse. It’s on—”
“I know it,” the prospector said. “Fine woman, the widder Finney. You just want to turn left at the corner.” He pointed. “Go two blocks and turn right. I expect you’ll be in familiar territory.”
“Thank you,” Carmela said and hurried on.
“Tell the widder to expect Zeke Ferris later.”
Carmela turned and looked him over carefully. “I will.”
He nodded and winked. “I hope she’s got a room for me. ’Bye, now.”
When she at last found the boardinghouse and stumbled over the doorstep, Mrs. Finney emerged from the kitchen, moving faster than Carmela had ever seen her go.
“At last! I was afraid you’d be all night in the desert. You don’t need that, not after all you’ve been through.”
She put a strong arm around Carmela and supported her, guiding her into the dining room. As they passed the parlor door, Carmela could hear the murmur of voices. Some of the other boarders were socializing this evening.
“You sit right there and I’ll bring you some supper. Did Mr. McKay find you and the children?”
“Yes. You heard about the Howard children?”
Mrs. Finney brushed a hand through the air. “It’s all over town. Those savages! The ranchers are all coming in to fort up in town, or else barricading themselves with their weapons, ready to defend their property. But what about Lucy Roote?”
“She’s with her family now.”
“God be praised. And the Howards?”
“I don’t know,” Carmela said. “The mother is with a neighbor. The marshal and the others went after the Apache to try to recover the two children.”
“Well now, we’ve more praying to do. Don’t move. I’ll get your plate.”
Carmela leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, ashamed that she had not prayed on her way here from the stable. She was just so tired. Lord, help them. It was all she could muster.
“Here we go.” Mrs. Finney bustled cheerfully about, setting a plate of chicken and biscuits, smothered in gravy, before her. This was followed by her cutlery, a glass of milk, a bowl of custard, and a cup of strong tea.
Carmela looked up at her wearily. “Thank you so much. Would you ask the blessing for me?”
“Of course. Poor child, you’re exhausted.” Mrs. Finney sat down beside her and offered a brief but heartfelt prayer.
Carmela began to eat and felt her strength returning. She was halfway through the chicken and biscuits when she remembered the prospector.
“Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you. Someone named Zeke Ferris is coming by and wants a room.”
Mrs. Finney sighed and shook her head. “Good old Zeke.”
“A friend of yours?” Carmela’s interest piqued.
“More a friend of Mr. Finney’s in the old days, but he comes here now and then and stays a night or two. Then he goes back out to his claim. Did you see your uncle yet?”
“What?” Carmela was suddenly wide awake, but she had the heart-pounding, confused feeling she got when a loud noise wakened her in the middle of the night. “Uncle Silas?”
“Did Mr. McKay not tell you?”
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“No. We hardly had a minute before they dashed off after the Apache.”
“Marshal Duffield brought him in, along with the outlaws. Had them all handcuffed and bound in that stagecoach you were on.”
“But Uncle Silas—?”
“Him, too. Not handcuffed, but they brought him and left him at Doc Greenwood’s.”
“How badly hurt is he?”
“Very serious, so I hear tell.”
Carmela shoved her chair back. “I must go to him.”
“You eat your supper.”
“But—”
“Eat.” Mrs. Finney’s stern eyes allowed no room for argument. “I’ll take you there after you finish, but you need sustenance.”
“Yes ma’am.” Carmela shoved down the rest of the meal as quickly as she could. When she had finished the milk, she set down her glass.
“Eat the custard, too,” Mrs. Finney said. “I had to save it from Clark Shifton when he tried to sneak seconds.”
“Mr. Shifton? I thought he was gone.”
Mrs. Finney shook her head. “Decided to stay another night, until he’s sure the Apache are taken care of. Doesn’t want to risk his freight wagons being attacked when he leaves here.”
Carmela was nothing if not obedient. She picked up the spoon and took a bite. The smooth custard flooded her mouth with a sweet and spicy taste.
“Mmm. If I’m here long enough, will you teach me how to make it?”
“Goodness, yes. Custard’s not hard.”
Carmela hurried to finish it and carried her dishes to the kitchen.
“May we go now?” she asked.
Mrs. Finney looked her up and down. “Best go and arrange your hair, dear. Your uncle hasn’t seen you for a while, and he’ll want assurance that you’re safe and secure.”
Carmela hadn’t considered that showing up at the doctor’s office with tousled hair might reflect badly on Mrs. Finney. She wouldn’t want that. She hurried to her room, washed her face and hands, put on the dress Mrs. McCormick had given her, brushed out her hair, and pulled it back into a knot at the back of her head. She nodded at herself in the mirror. At last she looked presentable, not like some half-wild hoyden, which was probably Mrs. Finney’s opinion of her appearance when she arrived home half an hour ago.
Mrs. Finney came out of the parlor.
“There. Don’t you look nice? I told the boarders you’re returned safe and that we’re going out for the evening.”
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll raid your pantry?”
Mrs. Finney smiled indulgently. “I left the cookie tin out, and I told them they’d better not eat anything else. All right, to Dr. Greenwood’s.”
They stepped out into twilight. Although the saloons were blocks away, Carmela could hear faint music and an occasional gunshot in the distance.
“This way.” Mrs. Finney led her quickly along the street and around a corner. They made three more turns, and Carmela was glad she hadn’t tried to find the place on her own. At last they approached the front door of a white clapboard house with green trim. Near the street, a small sign hung, proclaiming, R. L. GREENWOOD, M.D.
Mrs. Finney knocked briskly on the door and then opened it without waiting for an invitation. They stepped into a small, homey room with half a dozen chairs, a bench under a window, and a bushel basket full of newspapers.
“He leaves the old newspapers out here so people can catch up on the news while they wait,” Mrs. Finney said. She stepped to an open doorway that led into a hallway. A small bell hung on a bracket on the doorjamb, and she reached up and pushed it, causing it to ring.
“Coming,” called a male voice from the depths of the house.
No other clients were waiting, and Carmela supposed the doctor had cleared out the sitting room so he could have his supper.
He appeared in the hall doorway suddenly, a tall man with bushy brown hair, a mustache to match, and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“Well, Mrs. Finney. Is the niece returned, then?”
“Yes, this is her.” Mrs. Finney drew Carmela over to him.
“Hello.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Carmela Wade. You have my uncle here?”
“Indeed I do, and he’s been inquiring after you ever since the marshal brought him in.”
“He’s awake, then?”
“Well, he may have dosed off, but he was very much awake and alert when I first treated him.”
“How is he?”
The doctor moved his head to one side. “He has a serious wound and some infection, but I think I can keep him alive.”
Carmela caught her breath. “I’m sorry. When I heard he’d ridden all the way here with the marshal, I assumed he wasn’t so badly injured as I first thought.”
Dr. Greenwood sighed. “If I could have treated him in the first hour after he was shot, he would be near to recovery now. Unfortunately, he was hauled about the desert for days. At least this climate is a healthy one, not so friendly to germs as some. And your uncle is a fastidious man. I believe he did all he could to keep his wound clean.”
“I’m thankful for that,” Carmela said. “At least our luggage went with him, so he had some clean clothing and supplies.” As much as she had regretted losing her own bags when the stagecoach left her behind, if she’d had a choice between the baggage going with her or with Uncle Silas, she would have sent it with him.
“Well, I’ve cleaned it out and dosed him pretty heavily. He was also dehydrated, so I made him drink a quart of water before I gave him anything that would put him to sleep. If we can keep ahead of the infection, I think he can make a full recovery. Only time will tell.”
Carmela nodded. “Thank you. How long will it take?”
“Several weeks, but he may be able to get up in a few days. We’ll have to see how it goes.”
She nodded. “May I see him now?”
“Of course. Oh, and just so you know, I was able to send the two outlaws I treated over to the jail, so none of them are in the house now.”
“Thank you. That does ease my mind,” Carmela said.
Mrs. Finney walked over to one of the cushioned chairs. “I’ll wait out here.”
Carmela nodded and followed Dr. Greenwood down the hall, past a couple of open doors, to a small bedchamber. The curtains were pulled, and a lamp burned low on a small bedside table.
Carmela would not have recognized the thin form that lay under the blanket on the iron cot. The skin of Uncle Silas’s face was drawn tight and sunburned a bright red. Blisters had formed on his forehead, nose, and cheeks. Some had broken and the skin peeled away. His eyes were closed, and his meager shock of brown hair lay plastered against his skull. His breathing was shallow and fitful. The hand lying outside the covers looked almost skeletal.
She drew in a determined breath and reached for his hand. “Uncle Silas? It’s me, Carmela.”
His eyelids fluttered open, and he peered up at her. “Is it really you?”
“Yes, Uncle Silas. I’m here.”
He exhaled deeply and focused on her face. His words came out slow and breathy. “I was afraid they’d really got you this time.”
“Who?”
“The—” He stopped and looked past her.
She realized he didn’t want to speak of their deception in front of the doctor.
“I’m fine.” She patted his hand and let go of it. “I’m staying at a nice boardinghouse. You get some rest, and I’ll come back to see you in the morning when you’re more awake.”
“Yes. We’ll be on the road soon.” His eyelids fluttered closed.
“The laudanum is taking over,” Dr. Greenwood said. “He’ll probably sleep for hours.”
“How early may I return in the morning?”
“Eight o’clock,” the doctor said. “That will give me time to see to his needs. I usually open my doors at nine for patients, but you may come before then.”
“Thank you.”
Carmela walked with him out to the waiting room
. Mrs. Finney folded the newspaper she had been reading and laid it in the basket. “Well? How is he?”
“Sleepy,” Carmela said. “He knew me though. I’ll come back tomorrow, and perhaps he’ll be more alert.”
“Good.” Mrs. Finney rose, and Dr. Greenwood escorted them to the front door.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Carmela said.
The two women headed along the sidewalks toward the boardinghouse. The noise from the saloon district had, if anything, increased. Quite a few people, mostly men, were out in the streets, some on their way to a destination and others seeming to wander aimlessly about. Mrs. Finney took Carmela’s arm and hurried her along.
When they entered the boardinghouse, Mr. Ralley came out of the parlor.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re back, ladies. I was afraid you might have had some trouble downtown.”
“We only went to Dr. Greenwood’s house.” Mrs. Finney untied the strings of her bonnet.
Ralley nodded. “That’s good. I ran into Joe Butler at the Horseshoe. He was telling anyone who would listen how Miss Wade bunked everyone into thinking she was an Indian captive. Some folks were quite riled up about it.”
Carmela caught her breath.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Finney said. “There’s nothing for folks to be upset about. This girl was made to tell lies, but she’s stopped now. The way I hear it, they should be praising her for having the courage to stand up and tell the truth in front of an Apache chief and his tribe.”
Ralley shook his head. “That’s not the way Butler’s telling it.”
Carmela felt her cheeks flush. After the time he had spent translating for her to get Lucy Roote back, Butler had come home and begun spreading tales about her. But she supposed he had a right. She walked over to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and plunked down into it.
“There now,” Mrs. Finney said, patting her shoulder. “He’s nothing but a gossiping old woman, that man. There’s no use getting in a dither about it.”
My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains Page 20
