Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  “There’s nothing boring about being born,” he said, sounding peeved.

  “It’s just that readers want excitement. They want adventure.” She forced a smile. “I suspect you’re just the one to give it to them.”

  Her ploy seemed to work because he looked pleased and his chest puffed out. “You’re right.” He rubbed his whiskered chin. “So where should I start?”

  She pretended to give the matter careful consideration. “Perhaps you should start with your first holdup. Why you became an outlaw.”

  “Hmm.” He resumed pacing. After several moments he began again. “I held up my first stage at the age of ten.”

  She typed half the sentence before pausing. “No one will believe you were ten when you held up your first stage.” Even fiction had to be plausible.

  He thought a moment. “You’re right. The truth is I was only eight when I held up my first stage.”

  She frowned. “Eight?”

  He splayed his hands. “What can I say? My poor mama was sick and we needed money for food and medicine. I pretended that I had fallen off a horse and broke my leg.” He laughed at the memory. “You should have seen the look on the driver’s face when he stopped to help me and I pulled out a gun.”

  Eight years old. It was hard to believe. She set to work typing and the more he talked the more her imagination took flight. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as if having a mind of their own.

  Little Joe held the gun steady in both hands. His heart pounded with fear and sweat poured down his back. If the driver figured out the gun was empty, Joe would never get his hands on the money box, and his poor mama would not get the medical care she so desperately needed.

  Words poured out of her like water from a pump. She forgot she was writing under duress, forgot, even, that she was held captive. She had no idea how much she had missed the exhilarating feeling that came with creative flow, but it was more than that. Much about Cactus Joe’s early life paralleled her own experiences. His father deserted the family, forcing him to take over as breadwinner at a very young age, and the inner pain she’d carried around for so long now found a place to light.

  Hour after hour Cactus Joe dictated his story and she typed. She typed until she was no longer certain whose story she wrote, his or hers.

  His language was crude and his thoughts fragmented, but there was something compelling about a young boy’s determination to save his sick mother—just as she had tried to save her own. Though she had no pity for the man, her heart ached for the child.

  From time to time he peered over her shoulder to read what she wrote. “Yes, yes,” he’d shout with glee. Or, “Wait till they read about that!”

  The cabin had no windows and it grew hot and stuffy. Sweat beaded her forehead and her shirtwaist stuck to her back, but the stack of typed pages kept growing.

  In the past, when she wrote her own books, she held back for fear of giving away too much of herself. But in telling Joe’s story she could tell her own without holding back. As a consequence, she wrote like she had never before written, wrote even better than she knew how to write.

  How such a thing was possible she didn’t know and didn’t care. At that moment all that mattered was getting the words out and releasing her pain. Oh yes, and earning Cactus Joe’s trust.

  Chapter 23

  Eleanor stood next to the horse corral while O.T. gave her a rundown on the search efforts. He finished with a frustrated shrug.

  Foot resting on the weathered fence, he pressed down his hat to keep the wind from blowing it off. “Sorry, Miz Walker, but me and the boys will keep lookin’. All hands and the cook are on the task.”

  “How could this have happened?” she fumed. Five days. Five days Kate had been gone, and nothing. The wind softened her voice, but not the frustration and worry. She’d asked herself that very same question countless times since Kate disappeared. She now asked it of her foreman. “How could we have fallen for such a ruse?”

  There was no fire. The smoke had been created from saltpeter and sugar. It was an old but effective trick that succeeded in getting Eleanor and her men away from the ranch.

  Had Ruckus not found that eye patch in the tack room, they might never have known what happened to Kate. Several saddles had been turned over and it looked like the girl had put up quite a fight.

  “I dunno, Miz Walker. That man is sneaky as they come.”

  “Sneaky, yes, but he’s never been more than a nuisance.” Postmaster Parker was more of a crook than Cactus Joe. “The marshal has never considered him a serious threat.” No one had, for that matter.

  “I dunno what to say, Miz Walker.”

  Eleanor sighed. She was used to trouble. Running a ranch meant dealing with trials and tribulations. Thieves had been stealing Last Chance cattle for years, but this was different. This was personal. Losing Kate was like losing her daughter all over again.

  Poor girl. She must be scared out of her wits. That is, if she was still . . . Eleanor quickly banished the thought. No sense thinking the worst. Not yet.

  Following Kate’s run-in with the javelina, Eleanor had issued an order that Kate was not to be left alone on the range. The desert was a dangerous place for even the most experienced cowhand, but it could be deadly for a greenhorn like Kate.

  It never occurred to Eleanor that the real danger lay closer to home—in the tack room of all places. She scanned the distance, turning to take in all four directions. With the high mountains, hidden canyons, abandoned mines—not to mention the Mexican border and vast desert—Eleanor didn’t hold much hope that Kate would be found.

  “Where is he keeping her?” And for what purpose? So far they’d received no ransom note—nothing!

  O.T. lowered his foot and grabbed the reins of his horse. He was obviously exhausted, dark shadows skirting his watery eyes, but he looked no worse than Eleanor felt.

  “I don’t know, Miz Walker. Me and the boys are doin’ everything possible to find her.”

  “What about the marshal? What is he doing?” What does that man ever do about anything?

  “He’s searching like the rest of us. Everyone in town is helping.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Even the church ladies. They’ve been providing meals for the searchers. And the widow White made a generous donation to up the reward for capturing Cactus Joe.”

  “That old gossip Mrs. White did that?”

  “That she did, ma’am. That she did.”

  Eleanor pursed her lips. It was hard to believe. She hadn’t spoken to the woman in a good twenty years. Not since Mrs. White led the boycott of Last Chance beef following Eleanor’s divorce. Eleanor hadn’t stepped foot in the church since and only went into Cactus Patch on rare occasions, preferring to conduct her business in the county seat of Tombstone.

  The wind picked up and Adam’s spinning blades clanked and creaked. Eleanor didn’t like the sound of it because it signaled trouble. June was the start of monsoon season, and the strong wind was a sure sign that one was on the way. Even the horses in the corral seemed to sense it. One bay kept nodding his head and pawing the ground, and the newly broken pinto paced nervously.

  As if she needed further proof of an impending storm, a funnel of reddish-brown sand rose from the distant desert floor.

  A dust storm, or Arizona duster as the locals called them, would slow down the search, if not altogether bring it to a halt. Still, there was no beating the weather. All one could hope for was to outlast it.

  “Find her,” Eleanor snapped.

  O.T. nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  He mounted his horse and rode away, lowering his head against the wind. Her divided skirt whipping her legs, Eleanor tightened the rawhide straps beneath her chin. Then she closed her eyes and prayed.

  It had been a long time since she’d turned to God. Not since she sat at her young daughter’s bedside. God hadn’t seen fit to answer her prayers then. Why this time should be any different she didn’t know, but what e
lse was there to do but pray?

  During the day, Cactus Joe made Kate work nonstop on his story. She typed until her hands ached and her eyes grew weary. She typed until her brain turned to mush. She was exhausted and the body that once ached from too much exercise now ached from lack of it. Her irritability increased and she was less cautious around her captor and more confrontational.

  “I’m not writing that,” she said, her voice as irritable as she felt. It had been five days and she’d had enough. She wanted to go home in the worst possible way. Though she’d only been in Arizona for a short while the ranch felt more like home than Boston ever did.

  She pushed away from the typewriter and folded her arms across her chest. “It makes you sound like a victim.”

  “I am a victim.”

  “You’re a thief, a crook, and a kidnapper!”

  “That’s what makes me interestin’.” He pulled out his six-shooter as he did on such occasions and brandished it. “Now write.”

  The gun no longer scared her. He wasn’t likely to do her harm until after she had finished writing his story. As far as she could tell, she wasn’t even halfway through.

  Nonetheless she set to work again and the steady tap, tap, tap of the typewriter keys accompanied his voice. From time to time he ranted about other outlaws—or rather one specific outlaw.

  “Jesse James!” He practically spit out the man’s name. “He needed a gang to do what I do alone.”

  Kate raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They worked for hours on end stopping only to eat. He served her three meals a day and the menu of cheese, beef jerky, and crackers never varied.

  He watched her like a hawk. Every morning he stepped outside to allow her time to attend to her ablutions in private while he guarded the door. At night, he tied her to the cot and stretched out on the floor in front of the door.

  He seemed interested only in her writing ability, and never took advantage of her physically. Oddly enough, she no longer feared him. His overblown opinion of himself made her laugh. He took offense but she couldn’t help it. By his own admission he’d never hurt anyone, and his most successful holdup was for a little less than thirty dollars.

  “It’s not the money. It’s the thought that counts,” he hastened to explain.

  Kate clamped her mouth shut. What he said may be true for most things, but he would never be compared to Jesse James unless he thought a whole lot bigger. Of course, she had no intention of saying as much.

  The few times she was unable to keep her opinions to herself they argued, but mostly he talked about his life and she wrote.

  At night she stared up at the dark ceiling unable to sleep, trying to think of a plan to escape. At such times the memory of Luke would come unbidden.

  “Do you think I’m going to grab you and kiss you?”

  Such recollections only made her ordeal that much harder to bear and she quickly turned her thoughts in another direction. Better to use her time to think of a way to outsmart her captor than to waste it with foolish memories.

  She was allowed outside only to use the privy. At such times, Cactus Joe stood guard, gun in hand. Not that escape was possible. It wasn’t. Except for a small barn where Cactus Joe kept his horse and wagon and a windmill that provided water, his adobe hut was surrounded by flat desert land, with no place to hide.

  She didn’t often turn to God. Instead, whenever she was in trouble her fertile mind concocted possible scenarios that would work in a book but seldom in real life. But by the fifth night of her captivity she was desperate enough to try anything, even prayer.

  Dear God, the Father. Send rain. She wondered if she would ever be able to start a prayer without repeating Ruckus’s refrain. Tears slid down her cheeks as she thought of him and the others. What they must think of her, taking off like that.

  Once again she turned to prayer, but this time it was her words, not Ruckus’s, she sent to heaven. God, Ruckus said you care about your people. If that’s true, I need your help. I really, really want to go home.

  Even as she pleaded with God, she doubted it did any good. God had deserted her long ago, just like her father. Just like her mother. Just like Luke would if she gave him the chance.

  And that she would never do.

  But not the ranch. The ranch would always be there for her.

  On the morning of the sixth day she awoke from an uneasy sleep to the sound of the howling wind. It had blown all night long and at times she feared it would rip off the roof.

  On occasion Cactus Joe peered outside but quickly slammed the door shut. Sand filtered through cracks and soon even the keys of the typewriter felt gritty.

  “I need to use the privy,” she said after a couple of hours of working nonstop.

  Cactus Joe made a face. “I’m not going outside in this weather.”

  “And I’m not writing until you do.”

  He pulled out his gun. “You’ll do what I say.”

  She glared at him and read aloud as she typed. “‘Cactus Joe is an ugly mean outlaw who can’t even steal gold from a dead man’s purse!’”

  She pulled out the paper and tossed it at him. That was a far cry from how he wanted to be portrayed. Predictably, her ploy worked, for though he glared at her, hand on his gun, he relented.

  “Have it your way. But you better not keep me waiting long in this weather or I’ll drag you out of the privy by your hair.”

  Switching the gun from his right to his left hand, he reached behind his back for the door handle. The door flew open and slammed against the wall with a bang, ripping the calendar off the wall.

  Head lowered against the wind and grinding sand, Kate ducked outside before Cactus Joe could change his mind.

  The wind practically knocked her off her feet, the sand nearly blinding her. She held a hand in front of her watery eyes and squinted between her fingers. It was impossible to see more than a foot in front of her. She glanced around, but Cactus Joe had vanished behind a thick cloud of churning sand.

  Arms held out in front, she stumbled forward blindly and hit the ground on all fours. She tried standing, but the wind forced her to crawl on hands and knees. She could hardly breathe. Grit entered her mouth and nose and lashed at her flesh. She pulled the bandanna from around her neck and covered the lower part of her face. She still couldn’t see, but at least now she could breathe without swallowing sand. The wind at her back, she lost all sense of direction. Where was Cactus Joe? Behind her? In front of her? Where for that matter was the cabin? Please, God, help me.

  Was she crawling in circles? Was that Cactus Joe calling her? It was hard to tell over the loud whooshing sound of the wind.

  If things weren’t bad enough her imagination took flight and she began to imagine the worst. What if she was buried alive? What if all that was ever found of her was bleached white bones? Torn between escape and the safety of the cabin, she mindlessly and frantically crawled.

  She forced herself to concentrate. Mustn’t stop. Got to keep going. Her knees and palms stung and her eyes burned. Right hand, left knee. Must keep going.

  Time and place held no meaning. She crawled for hours, or was it minutes? She couldn’t be sure. She crawled for miles, or was it only a few feet? Any moment Cactus Joe could pluck her out of the grinding sand. The thought surged through her like fire, urging her onward, ever onward.

  Was that someone calling her name? Was she dreaming? Was that Brandon? And why did he sound like . . . Luke?

  She moved blindly ahead, heart pounding, mouth dry as cotton. Right hand, left knee . . . got to keep going. Panting breathlessly, she crawled on hands and knees until she could crawl no more.

  Chapter 24

  Luke set out again the instant the wind died down. Desert sandstorms generally lasted only a short time, but this one had started the day before and had blown all night.

  The air still smelled of dust and the sky showed more gray than blue. Visibility was still poor, but at least he could see for a good twenty feet or more—a bl
essing. He narrowed his eyes to see the moving dot up ahead that was Homer.

  He’d searched for days, ever since his brother first broke the news of Kate’s disappearance. Even when the wind started and the sand whipped around like bits of metal, he searched. He’d checked every mine shaft, deserted cabin, and old Spanish ruin he could find and so far, nothing. Any tracks that Cactus Joe might have left had long been covered by shifting sands.

  Where is she, Lord? Where is she?

  Visions of her hampered his search. He imagined her in the distance waving to him, calling to him, beckoning him, and he kept chasing down ghosts. Exhaustion affected his thinking, his vision, his hearing.

  The only real sleep he’d had was last night during the height of the sandstorm when visibility was zero, but even then he’d only gotten an hour or two of shut-eye. His body ached from the hours in the saddle and although he didn’t normally carry a gun, he carried one now. He’d borrowed the weapon from Uncle Murphy. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to use it, but he felt better having it.

  He wasn’t a vengeful man, not by any means. He was more likely to turn the other cheek than fight back—except for when family was involved. For that reason he was completely unprepared for the anger—the absolute outrage—that coiled inside like a snake ready to strike. If Cactus Joe hurt a single hair on Kate’s head, Luke wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. God help him.

  He told himself he would feel no different had someone else been kidnapped—a stranger even. He told himself that the searing pain in his chest was nothing more than natural concern he would feel for anyone. He told himself a lot of nonsense during the long hours in the saddle. Finally he had no choice but to acknowledge the corn. He felt something for Kate—some kind of hankering. Didn’t know what exactly. Wasn’t love. Couldn’t be love. A man like him and an educated woman like her.