Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Chapter One

April 28, 1861

Tucson, New Mexico Territory

You get out there, and I mean now.” Uncle Silas glared at Carmela, his white eyebrows nearly meeting over his thin nose. “I don’t think I can do it.” Her voice broke.

“Of course you can. You had it word-perfect last night.”

Her breath came in shallow gasps. She brushed back a strand of hair with a hot, moist hand. Carmela was frightened. Ma and Pa would never have made her do anything like this. But they were gone now, and Uncle Silas was in charge.

She peeked around the doorjamb. The large room was filled with noisy people, all except for the clear space at the front, where she was supposed to go and stand.

“It’s all men,” she choked.

“No, it’s not.”

She peeked again and spotted a few women with their hair piled on top of their heads or hanging down in braids. A few ranchers and merchants had brought their wives, but by far the majority of the people packed in were men.

One woman seated between two men in the front row wore a bright yellow dress with a plunging neckline. The stage driver had told her uncle that Tucson was home to about eight hundred people, and more than half of them were Mexicans. But this territory was part of the United States now, so more and more Americans were moving in. She wondered if every single American in Tucson had turned out for this performance.

“I’ll go out and introduce you again,” Uncle Silas said. “Then you’d better come out.”

His menacing voice made Carmela shudder. She supposed she would have to do it. He had said they would earn some money tonight and that it was a way for her to repay him for coming all the way from Massachusetts to fetch her.

The army captain and his wife who had housed her for nearly two months at Fort Yuma after her parents died were complete strangers, and yet they had been kinder than Uncle Silas when he arrived to take her home.

He strode out before the crowd that had jammed into the biggest saloon in Tucson—the largest space they had available indoors.

“Ladies and gents,” he said, holding up a hand. The assembly quieted. “I think you will understand my niece’s reticence. It is only a few weeks since she was rescued from her ordeal among the savages, and she has not met a crowd this large or been expected to tell her story to half so many people.” He always said that, although it was a lie. Carmela’s parents had died nearly three years ago.

“I ask you to hold your applause and remain quiet,” Uncle Silas went on, “not only so that you can hear her soft voice but so that you don’t frighten her. Remember, she is not used to loud noise. After what she went through, yelling and clapping might sound to her like an approaching battle. I have assured her you mean her no harm, so please give her your attention but restrain your enthusiasm. Without further ado, Miss Carmela Wade.”

She pulled in a deep breath and stepped into the doorway. A smattering of controlled applause greeted her. She walked slowly across to stand beside Uncle Silas. The room grew very quiet. She could hear their breathing. A hundred or more eager faces gazed at her, hungrily taking in every detail of her simple dress, leather leggings, and braided hair, but especially the ugly black and blue designs on her face. She could see pity in their eyes. A few women’s faces convulsed as though the sight of her revolted them.

Uncle Silas put his hand on her back and pressed against the layers of her clothing.

“H–hello,” she said.

A great sigh went up from the audience.

“Go on, my dear,” Uncle Silas murmured.

She shot him a quick glance. My dear? She didn’t think he considered her dear, unless it was for the money he hoped she would earn tonight.

He nodded and smiled encouragingly. She looked away, toward the woman in the daring yellow dress. Her black-rimmed blue eyes surveyed Carmela eagerly.

“I …” Carmela choked in another breath, trying to remember the new, more elaborate script he had given her to memorize. “I was with my parents, going across … to California. We had been with some others, but they went off on a different road. My father said we could make it the rest of the way ourselves. We were nearly there … he said. I don’t know how far we had to go.”

The people had relaxed on the benches and chairs, as though settling in for a good tale. She hoped she could remember it all. At the same time, she wanted to scrub it from her mind and run out the back way.

Lies, all of it.

Carmela didn’t think she would mind speaking to crowds so much if what she said to them were true. She hated being the center of attention, with the bright lanterns shining in her eyes and the people staring at her, then opening her mouth to lie.

The people smelled. The fumes of liquor assaulted her, and the whole place reeked of sweat. This rough border town was full of men—rugged, rude, and in some cases half-drunk. She spotted another woman, brightly dressed, with raven hair and dark eyes. Her gown was of shiny red material, with black lace at the throat and wrists. She was wedged in between two men, and both of them were staring at her.

The pressure from Uncle Silas’s hand on her back increased. He was poking his fingertips into her spine.

Carmela opened her mouth and continued the story, all of it false, about her family’s trek across the desert, being separated from their traveling companions, and being ambushed at night by a pack of howling savages. As long as she kept speaking, Uncle Silas left her alone.

Her chest hurt with each breath, but once she got into the next part, about life in the Indian tribe, it was easier. She pretended she was telling a story and that no one really believed it was true. She told about the plants she had helped gather for food and how the woman in whose tent she slept gave her only small portions to eat and whipped her if she did not work fast enough. She hated accusing someone of evil they didn’t actually do—but the Indian woman wasn’t real, so perhaps it wasn’t too vile of her.

“One day a small group of soldiers came to the village.” The audience was silent, waiting for her next words. She tried to remember the story she had memorized. She didn’t like this part. “As always when strangers came to the camp, the savages hid me. But it was too late. One of the soldiers had seen me.”

The crowd listened eagerly as she recounted the tale of her rescue. Her voice choked as she told of her joy at being returned, tempered by the sorrow of knowing her parents had been murdered by the vicious Indians. Her face felt hot, and she wanted to bathe it in cool water. And she wished she could scrub off the horrid ink markings Uncle Silas had so painstakingly drawn on her chin and jaw. At first she hadn’t believed they would get away with this, or why Uncle Silas would want to. But it had been more than two years since he arranged her first speaking engagement, and she knew he wouldn’t let her stop now that her speeches were a paying enterprise.

When she finished her recital and said, “Thank you,” tears streamed down her cheeks. The people applauded enthusiastically. Some of the women, and a few of the brawny men, wiped their eyes. Her uncle came to stand by her and held up both hands. The room seemed to shrink and press in on her.

“Thank you, kind people,” Uncle Silas said. “I’ve heard my niece tell the story of her ordeal many times, but it still moves me.”

He allowed questions for about fifteen minutes, and Carmela had to respond to them. This part frightened her, because she had no idea what they would ask. For the most part, people wanted more details about the ambush and her time in captivity. She tried to make it sound as realistic as she could, but she had to invent some details about the work the imaginary Indians had forced her to do and the living arrangements she supposedly had with a Mojave family.

“What did you use to tan the deerskins?” one man called out.

“I—I don’t know.” She glanced at Uncle Silas.

“Most likely it was brains,” he said. “Isn’t that what the savages usually do?”

Brains? Really? Whose brains? Carmela thought she would be sick. Uncle Silas would probably make her learn all the details about that next.

“Did the redskins hurt you bad?” the woman in yellow asked.

Uncle Silas said firmly, “My niece suffered wounds as well as many indignities and humiliations. We ask that you not press her too closely for details. There are things she needs to forget.”

Carmela knew her cheeks were flaming.

Finally it was over. She turned and walked quickly out the back door of the saloon. Her uncle had told her to stay with him through the final applause, but she couldn’t stand to be in there another minute.

The cool night air helped some, but her lungs still felt squeezed. She flopped down on the wooden steps in the shadow of the building and sobbed. How could Uncle Silas say such things about her and make her say them, too? It wasn’t true, any of it, but she couldn’t deny it. If she didn’t say her piece word-perfect and reply to the people’s questions with the answers he had formulated, she would pay dearly for it later.

Her tears came faster, and she put her head down, burying her face in her skirt, and wept.

Hesitant footsteps jerked her upright.

“Are you all right, miss?”

He was a boy, not much older than she was, standing in the alley between the saloon and the mercantile next door. His pale hair gleamed in the moonlight, almost white, and curly.

She sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve. “Yes, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He stepped closer. “You’re her, aren’t you?”

“Wh–what?”

“You’re that girl that the Indians stole. I saw the handbills, but my brother wouldn’t give me a dime to go and listen to you.”

Fresh tears bathed Carmela’s face. “I’m glad he didn’t.”

“Why? Don’t you want people to come to the show?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I wish there wasn’t any show.”

“Do you not like speaking to people?”

“It’s awful.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“I have to,” Carmela blurted, before she thought of the consequences.

The boy frowned and peered closely at her. “Here.” He thrust a crumpled handkerchief into her hand.

She hauled in a ragged breath. “Thanks.”

“My name’s Will.”

She wiped her face and looked up at him. “I’m Carmela.”

“Can I help you somehow?”

She shook her head. “No one can help.”

“Why not?”

Carmela looked over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. She was forbidden to speak to anyone about her circumstances, but she would explode if something didn’t change. Uncle Silas had told her that he was now her legal guardian. Unless a miracle happened, she would have to answer to him until she was twenty-one—another seven years.

“My parents are dead, and my uncle—he’s in charge of me. I have to do what he says.”

“Even if you don’t want to?”

She sobbed and clutched the handkerchief to her mouth. She gave a quick nod.

Will stood before her, shifting from one foot to another. “Look, I’m going to get my brother. Wait here. He can do something.”

“No, don’t do that. He couldn’t possibly—”

“He’s a deputy marshal.”

Carmela stared at him. Could a deputy marshal get her out of this mess? She doubted it. Uncle Silas avoided lawmen whenever possible. She had a vague idea that what she and her uncle were doing was illegal. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You wait.”

Will turned and ran up the alley then dashed around the corner of the building. As he ran, the door behind Carmela opened. She knew without looking that Uncle Silas stood in the doorway. She could smell his hair pomade and feel his displeasure.

“There you are. Come on. We have to get our things. We have a stagecoach to catch. We’ll do this again in the next sizable town.”

Carmela’s heart sank. He had made her tell the story in every town they stopped at on this never-ending journey. The white-haired boy and his brother could do nothing.

Freeland McKay ducked as the drunken man swung at him. He let the cowboy windmill around and gave him a push toward the saloon door. The man sprawled over one of the poker tables. The four men who had been sitting around it grabbed their drinks and stood hastily, moving toward a corner of the room.

As Freeland stepped over and cuffed the drunk’s hands behind his back, the man moaned and began to struggle.

“Take it easy, Burle,” Freeland said. “I’ve got a nice quiet place for you to take a nap. Let’s go.” He hauled the man to his feet and marched him toward the swinging doors.

“Thanks, Deputy,” the bartender called.

“Anytime.”

The prisoner stumbled as he lurched onto the sidewalk outside, and Freeland grabbed his arm to steady him. “This way.”

“Free! I need you.”

He turned toward the voice. His kid brother, Will, charged across the street and bounded onto the boardwalk. “Come quick!”

“What is it?” Freeland held firmly to the prisoner’s forearm.

“The girl at the Green Bottle—the one who spoke tonight. She’s crying.” Will gulped in a quick breath.

“Crying? What about?”

“I’m not sure, but she said her uncle makes her do stuff she doesn’t like.”

Freeland frowned at him. “What kind of stuff?”

“Make speeches, mostly. At least I think so.”

“Did he strike her?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think so. But I told her you could help.”

“You want me to go talk to a girl who’s crying? And nobody’s hurt or anything?”

“Well …” The boy eyed him anxiously in the lamplight spilling from the saloon door behind Freeland. “She was awful upset.”

“Was anyone else upset?”

“I didn’t see anyone else.”

“Hey, take these things off me,” the prisoner yelled, jerking away from Freeland.

“Burle, take it easy,” Freeland said.

Instead, the hefty man lurched down the sidewalk and fell flat on his face. A string of profanity issued from his mouth.

“Will, I need to get this man over to the jail,” Freeland said. “Once I’ve got him locked up, maybe I can go with you and see what this business is all about.”

“But she might be gone. He’ll make her go inside. Please, you have to come now.”

Freeland stopped and glared at his brother. “I can’t. This is serious business. You run ahead and open the jail door.”

Will opened his mouth as if to argue but then turned and raced down the boardwalk. Burle had risen and lumbered down into the street, and Freeland went after him.

“Come on, fella. This way.”

Ten minutes later, the drunk was sleeping on the cot in the jail’s one cell, with the handcuffs removed and the door securely locked. Will waited impatiently near Freeland’s desk.

“All right,” Freeland said. “Show me where you found this girl.”

Will raced ahead and across the street, dodging around the people streaming from la Botella Verde. Freeland quickened his pace and followed him around to the back of the building. Will had pulled up short at the rear entrance.

“She was right here,” he panted. “She was sitting on the steps, crying her eyes out.”

No weeping girl sat there now. Freeland sighed and tried the back door, but it was locked. He knocked briskly, and a moment later the door opened.

“Oh hi, Marshal,” said Stanley Dittmer, who had booked the performance and hoped to build a theater in town soon. He was dressed in his best clothes, as though the saloon were a fine concert hall. “Can I help you?”

“Where’s the girl who spoke tonight?”

“She and her uncle left ten minutes ago. They were going on toward California tonight.”

“They already left?” Will’s voice cracked.

“That’s right, sonny.”

“Are they taking the stage?” Freeland asked.

Dittmer nodded. The Butterfield would be pulling out about now, westbound. “You might catch ’em if it’s important.”

Will whirled and dashed down the street toward the next corner. The adobe that served as a stagecoach stop wasn’t far away.

“Thanks.” Freeland followed his brother with long strides. When he turned the corner, he could see that the yard in front of the stage stop was empty. Will had pulled up short at the edge of the street. A lantern shone inside the small house where the station agent lived. Its light spilled out a window, illuminating Will’s doleful face.

“They already left.”

“I’ll speak to Isaac.” Freeland had frequent business with the station agent, and he had no qualms about knocking on the door. The news was as he’d feared, and he returned to his brother.

“The stage pulled out as soon as they were on it. We’re too late.”

“She needed help.” Will kicked a pebble across the street.

Freeland laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. If it had been something serious, Mr. Dittmer would have helped them before they went.”

“It was serious. She was crying. If you had just hurried a little faster—”

Freeland sighed. “I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Maybe you could—”

“I’m not riding after the stage, Will. My job is here, and there’s nothing we can do for her now.”

“That’s what she said. Nobody could do anything. But I told her you could.”

“You shouldn’t have told her that. You had no idea what the problem was. Maybe she was missing her folks. Didn’t I hear that Indians killed her parents?”

“I guess so. But I don’t think that was it.”

Freeland stopped at the corner. He didn’t like to think of all the possible wrongs that could have been done to the poor girl, but he couldn’t ride out of town and pull her off a stagecoach when he had no evidence of a crime. “I’ve got to go back to the jail and stay there tonight. You get on home or Ma will be worried about you.”

Will shoved his hands into his pockets and trudged away, his shoulders drooping. Freeland gazed after him for a moment, wishing he really could have done something for the girl—and for his little brother. Fifteen was a hard age for a boy with a big imagination, especially when there were so few damsels in distress to rescue.

Freeland liked his job. Sometimes he did get to help people. The worst thing about it was that he couldn’t always right the wrongs. Tonight he had chosen to detain a man who was endangering people and property, rather than try to help a girl who was weeping in an alley. He ran through it in his mind once more, but he didn’t see how he could have done both. But had he chosen right? He headed for the jail, sending up a silent prayer for a girl he had never met.

On the boardwalk outside the building, he paused. A young man was racing down the boardwalk.

“Marshal!”

“What is it, Len?” Freeland asked.

“Mr. Stiles said … to come and tell you …” The young man panted. He was a helper at one of the saloons.

“Is there trouble at the Double Cactus?”

Len shook his head and caught his breath. “A fella rode in from Maricopa. Said we’re at war.”

“What?” Freeland stared at him. “With who? Mexico?”

“No, the Union. Southerners fired on a fort in South Carolina.”

“When?”

Len shrugged. “Dunno. A couple weeks ago maybe.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all. Thanks. And let me know if you hear anything out of Albuquerque or further east.”

War again. This one had been brewing for a while, he supposed, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. And would it matter way out here? South Carolina was a world away. Freeland sighed and plodded toward the jail to check on his prisoner.

Chapter Two

May 1866

Tucson, Arizona Territory

Carmela scanned the audience during the introduction. She hadn’t been in the Southwest since before the war. Tucson was part of the New Mexico Territory then. Now it was part of the new Arizona Territory. The town had grown considerably, but the architecture still followed Mexican tradition, as mud was the building material that was cheapest and most readily available. La Botella Verde was gone, though plenty of saloons still lined the main street, and the new theater took pride of place.

She remembered a boy who had tried to comfort her in the alley out back of the old saloon. The towheaded lad hadn’t been able to do anything for her, but she had not forgotten his tender heart. Many times over the years she had thought of Will and his assurance that his brother, the deputy marshal, could help her. Would he still be living in Tucson? She searched for a man with curly blond hair, knowing her heart would recognize him should she see him again. But no one in the audience fit the mental picture she cherished—the young paladin who had cared about her distress.

“It’s been more than ten years since my niece was rescued by cavalrymen,” Uncle Silas was saying. Carmela hoped none of them did the arithmetic too closely. They had last been here five years ago, just two years after her parents had died. Her uncle had adjusted the timeline after they hurried eastward at the outbreak of the war. He said people would be more sympathetic if they thought she’d been captured at a young age.

“She has been able to readjust to her life in our world, but her memories are still fresh, and she will tell you about the privations and brutal mistreatment she suffered under the hands of the heathen.”

Carmela gritted her teeth. As she grew older, Uncle Silas embellished her life story more and more. He seemed to think the people wanted to hear about violence and abuse, while Carmela preferred to talk about how the tribes made their clothing, the plants they used for medicine, and the way they crafted their household goods. That was boring, Uncle Silas insisted, though she must know those things in order to sound authentic. But the crowds wanted to know how badly the savages had treated her, and if she expected people to pay good money, she would have to give them what they wanted.

She made it through the performance once more, and the audience seemed enthusiastic in their applause and kind words to her, but she couldn’t shake off an uneasiness that had shadowed her since they rode the stagecoach into Arizona. When she was here five years ago, she had been young and naive. Now she scarcely believed they got away with the lies. People traveled more, and here in the Southwest were many people who had contact with the Indian tribes. How could they not know she told falsehoods? Her fear was that she would slip up and someone knowledgeable would expose her.

They stayed overnight in Tucson this time. They would take a stage in the morning, heading north for Prescott, the territorial capital in the wilderness.

They would have to share the coach with whatever passengers and freight the driver took on. Since the beginning of the war, the Butterfield Overland had suspended its regular runs through the Gadsden Purchase. But communication was needed between towns like Tucson, Yuma, Prescott, and Albuquerque, and so several men had jumped to open new lines. Service was reported to be sporadic, and the vehicles weren’t as easy riding as the trains in the East or the Concord coaches Carmela had become familiar with. But Uncle Silas was sure they would make a lot of money in Prescott, where Carmela had never before appeared.

At their early breakfast, Uncle Silas ate heartily but had no kind words for Carmela.

“You’ve got to put more feeling into it.” He frowned as he reached for another biscuit.

“I’m sorry.” Carmela immediately regretted the words. Why must she apologize for lying without enthusiasm? She cut a bite of pancake with her fork and put it in her mouth, which gave her an excuse not to talk.

“People want to see the fear and sorrow in your eyes when you tell about your mistreatment.”

This was a perpetual complaint of his, but she shrank from sensationalizing her supposed treatment by the natives. She swallowed and said, “I didn’t hear anyone complain.”

“It was a full house,” he noted. “I don’t expect they get a lot of entertainment in these parts, since they’re under the Reconstruction government. I shall be surprised if Arizona becomes a state anytime soon.”

Carmela had heard tales of the Confederates’ short-lived formation of their own Arizona Territory in these southlands, one reason the federal government had chosen to build the new capital farther north. That and the minerals that had been discovered up there. The valley around Prescott reportedly swarmed with miners. Since she didn’t presume to know much about politics, Carmela seldom expressed her opinions on anything. If she did, Uncle Silas would correct her.

When they finished eating, her uncle grudgingly paid two Mexican boys a half dime apiece to carry their baggage to the stage stop, a nondescript adobe on a side street. Behind it was a large corral with several horses eating their feed from a trough. Any grass inside the fence was long gone.

Their “coach” waited in the yard—a modified farm wagon with benches fastened down on each side of the bed and a rolled-up canvas top.

“Morning!” The station agent, a lanky, windblown man in his forties, greeted them. “Heading for Prescott.”

“That’s right.” Uncle Silas had paid him the day before for their passage.

The driver was greasing the wheel hubs, and the shotgun rider frowned at Carmela’s trunk. He packed their suitcases close behind the driver’s seat and tied them down. Four horses were hitched to the wagon. They languidly swung their tails to keep the flies moving. To Carmela, they didn’t look very enthusiastic about pulling the loaded coach twenty or thirty miles in the desert sun.

The agent gave her a hand up. She climbed on the little stool he provided, grasping his hand, and awkwardly stepped into the wagon bed. She sat down on one of the side benches, behind the driver’s seat. As was customary, Uncle Silas would sit beside her so that no strangers could get too close to Carmela. Ordinarily, she would cover the lower part of her face with a fascinator or a shawl, but the heat was already intense and would probably be unbearable by noon. No shawls today.

Carmela disliked travel on principle. Locomotives were noisy and smoky, and as often as not she ended a rail trip with holes in her skirt from flying cinders. But they were comparatively swift, and she could open or close the windows and take a berth for the night on some trains. In this wagon, she would be exposed to the elements, and there were no berths.

Other passengers were boarding—two men who appeared to be ranchers and a bearded fellow with a canvas carryall, a bulging burlap sack, and a bundle of mining tools. They sat in a row opposite Carmela and gazed without apology at her tattooed face. She instinctively put a gloved hand over her chin, though she knew she couldn’t sit that way all day. When people saw her chin, they always stared, but she had to wear the hated tattoos. It was all part of her story. She couldn’t spend the entire trip covering them. Slowly, she lowered her hand but avoided making eye contact with any of the men.

Uncle Silas stayed on the ground to make sure the luggage was all loaded and secured. Her trunk of stage costumes was loaded last, partly blocking the tailgate, where people had to get in and out. The shotgun rider and station agent hefted it in, muttering to each other. Uncle Silas scowled at them. After all, he had paid a premium for the extra luggage.

He climbed in at last, and Carmela passed him his cushion before he sat down next to her. She had bought small seat cushions on the advice of a woman in Albuquerque, where she had performed more than a week ago, and she was glad to have them now. The plain wooden benches would jounce and pound them mercilessly. This wagon didn’t even have the leather thorough braces that Concord coaches had, to let the passengers sway gently on the coaches’ frames instead of bouncing continually.

To her surprise, when she had thought they were nearly ready to leave, a man wearing a badge entered the yard. A second man walked beside him, chained to his left wrist. The lawman looked young for one of his career. He had a pleasant face, if a bit careworn.

Carmela caught her breath and stared at him. She was nearly twenty now, and this man looked a few years older than her, perhaps as old as twenty-five. He couldn’t be Will, her champion. Or could he? She knew she ought not to stare, but she was sure she saw a bit of pale hair, bleached almost white by the Arizona sun, peeping out from beneath the broad brim of his hat.

He spoke to the station agent then had the prisoner climb up before him. Awkwardly, they both scrambled into the wagon bed then squeezed around Carmela’s trunk and the pick and shovel. They sat down with the marshal next to Uncle Silas and the prisoner on the end. The three men opposite turned their attention to the new arrivals, allowing Carmela a moment’s peace. She was glad the lawman wasn’t seated opposite her. Staring back would be far too big a temptation.

He and the prisoner adjusted their positions, settling in for the long ride, and she exhaled heavily. He was not Will, she was sure. But she remembered he had said his brother was a deputy marshal—one who could help her. Was this man Will’s brother? And could he still hold the same job after the chaos brought on by the war?

She had hardly noticed his prisoner, having only a fleeting impression of hard eyes and scruffy beard. But his warder, the lawman—now, there was a handsome man.

Uncle Silas leaned toward her and whispered, “We need to go over the bit about when the tribe was in its winter camp, but I guess we’ll have to wait until our next hotel. I didn’t figure on so much company on this part of the trip.”

Carmela nodded but said nothing.

One of the men across from them said, “Morning.” He grinned, exposing a gap in his tobacco-stained teeth.

Carmela smiled back and nodded. Despite their rude stares, she was glad for the men’s presence. They would keep Uncle Silas from discussing the finer points of her recitals during the trip.

“All right if we board first?” Freeland asked Dwight Herder, the stagecoach driver, after their first stop. They had paused for fifteen minutes at a way station and were about to resume their northward journey. The two ranchers had left them, but they were adding two more miners and a freighter going north on business.

The driver scratched his chin through his graying beard. “Prob’ly a good idea. Get the prisoner settled before the other passengers load.”

Freeland nodded to the felon handcuffed to his wrist. “Get in. Sit toward the front of the wagon.” He extended his left arm so that Rudy Dix could navigate the climb without too much trouble. While he didn’t like being handcuffed to his prisoner, Freeland considered it prudent while traveling.

The tight quarters of a stagecoach for the journey invited close scrutiny. At least if he had Dix in a corner between the side and front end of the wagon, he would have more control over the man’s interaction with other passengers.

Of necessity, he followed Dix closely and sat beside him on the left-hand bench. He hoped no more passengers arrived. They already had six, besides him and Dix. The miners and the freighter were the usual variety in these parts. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the couple earlier, but when they had disembarked at the way station, he had noticed the markings on the young woman’s face. The man was older and well dressed. Freeland wondered about them.

The two climbed in and took the seats they had occupied before, now directly opposite him and Dix. Perhaps he would learn more about her.

He was glad the canvas was rolled up, so the air wouldn’t be so close in the stage. Before they’d left Tucson, he had insisted that the prisoner wash himself thoroughly and had provided him with clean clothing. A man who had been cooped up in a cell for a month wasn’t the most pleasant company under ordinary circumstances, but squeezed into a stagecoach with half a dozen other people, it could get right distasteful.

“I liked it better on the other end,” Dix said.

Freeland scowled at him. “Hush. You’re fine right where you’re sitting.” He had let the prisoner stroll about for a few minutes at the stop, knowing he would be confined for a long, long time when their journey ended. But Dix was known as a violent man, one who would resort to any means he could to escape justice. Freeland felt safer when they were sitting in the wagon and nobody was moving around.

The other four men took their seats, and Freeland hoped that was the lot of them. He tried not to stare at the young woman across the way. The man beside her didn’t appear to do anything to assure her comfort—quite the opposite. She was the one who took charge of the seat cushions and offered him a clean handkerchief from her handbag. Her father, perhaps? He looked to be forty-five or fifty, and his thinning hair was oiled with something that smelled more pungent than the girl’s scent. He studied their fellow passengers with a sharp eye.

All of the men stared at the young woman, and Freeland let his gaze drift back to her. His stomach knotted at the sight of the dark geometrical markings on her chin. Tribal tattoos, but the girl was definitely white. He’d heard of a few Indian captives who had been tattooed, and one stood out in his mind. Was this the girl who had come to Tucson five years ago and spoken about her captivity? If so, she would be the same girl his brother had begged him to help.

He had almost forgotten about that girl, until he’d seen handbills around town advertising her “return appearance” this week. It had to be her. He had meant to go around to the theater last night and see if he could meet her, but the goings-on at the saloons and the newly opened dance hall had kept him busy. So this was the maiden Will had wanted him to rescue.

If he stared at her eyes and ignored the tattoos, he could imagine her face without the disfiguring ink. She had grown into a beauty. Her brown eyes retreated behind down-swept lashes. Beneath her hat, her glossy brown hair caught a glint of sunlight. No wonder Will had been so taken by her. She seemed poised, and Freeland was pretty sure she was not still in need of rescuing.

The coach swayed as the driver and shotgun messenger climbed to the box. With a slight jerk, they set off.

The older man leaned toward the young woman and spoke to her in low tones. Freeland seemed to recall Will saying that her uncle traveled with her. He must be her guardian. He figured they were nearly forty miles out of Tucson, and this was desolate territory into which he was taking her. Did it pull up unpleasant memories for her?

As they rolled along, traveling into barren land populated only sparsely by Indians, Dix relaxed and closed his eyes, leaning back in the corner of the seat. Freeland, however, became more alert. The sooner they reached Prescott, where Dix would be tried for his crimes, the better.

Chapter Three

At the third way station, they stopped long enough for all of them to eat a hasty meal. It wasn’t much—beans, cornpone, and fried bacon, but it filled their stomachs.

To Freeland’s relief, all of the passengers except the young woman and her guardian were leaving them. The tenders switched out the canvas-covered wagon for a sturdier rig. He puzzled over its shape and then realized it looked like the ambulance wagons used during the war. The owner must have found a bargain somewhere.

Freeland felt easier with fewer fellow passengers. Dix had behaved himself so far, not causing any trouble beyond the ordinary discomforts Freeland experienced when shackled to a felon. The seats were more comfortable, and they had a solid roof over their heads. They sat as before, two facing two. The sun was high, and the temperature had risen to where it would be unpleasant if they were jammed too tightly together.

The older man spoke up as soon as they were underway again. “I’m Silas Holden, and this is my niece, Carmela Wade. It seems we are to enjoy each other’s company a bit farther, gentlemen.”

Freeland nodded. “I’m Deputy Marshal McKay, and this is Dix. Heading for the capital.”

“Ah.” Holden eyed the short chain that linked them and said no more.

After a nod of acknowledgment, Miss Wade gazed out her window, looking ahead and to the side of the trail. Freeland let his thoughts wander. He’d be home in less than a week. He hoped so. A lot could go wrong while he was away.

About an hour had passed when the young woman spoke. “Those mountains are striking. Is there a name for them?”

Freeland leaned past Dix and looked. Off in the distance, several stark mountains seemed to jut up suddenly from the harsh land. He had ridden out there a couple of times, chasing thieves who thought they might be a good place to hide.

“Folks call those the Superstitions, ma’am.”

Her eyes flickered. “What a charming name. May I ask how it came about?”

Freeland shrugged. “Because of the Indian tales, I suppose. The Apache say there’s a hole in those mountains that leads to the underworld. The wind that blows all the time through here and causes sandstorms comes from there, if you believe it.”

“How interesting.”

Encouraged, Freeland went on. “The Pima have a legend, too. They say there was a great flood. One of their shamans was saved from drowning by making a hollow ball out of spruce gum. He and his wife stayed in it during the flood and landed on top of Superstition Mountain—the big one there.”

Miss Wade’s delicate eyebrows arched. “A native Noah?”

“Something like. They say that after they climbed out of the gum ball, they were the parents of all the Pima who live here now.” There was a lot more to the tale, but Freeland couldn’t see spinning it out all afternoon.

Miss Wade smiled. “Thank you for telling me.” She adjusted her hat and settled against the back of the seat. Freeland didn’t suppose anyone could sleep in this heat, what with creaking and bouncing over the desert, but soon she appeared to be doing just that. Her guardian slouched as well, letting his hat slip down over his brow, and Dix leaned back in the corner. He was soon breathing regularly, except for an occasional snort.

Freeland stayed alert. Dix was the sort of man who would feign sleep and take advantage as soon as you quit paying attention.

A bugle blast jerked him to alertness three hours later. Some of the drivers carried horns and sounded them to announce their arrival.

“We must be getting to the station,” Miss Wade said.

“It’s about time,” Holden replied. They had barely spoken during the journey, and Freeland supposed his presence and Dix’s had muzzled them.

They drove up to the low adobe building, but no one waited in the yard. No tenders came out with fresh horses. The driver, Dwight Herder, climbed down and opened the door.

“Folks, I don’t know what’s going on here, but something doesn’t feel right. The station agent usually meets us and has a fresh team ready. I suggest you all stay in the stage while Tom and I check on things.”

Beside Freeland, Dix stirred and yawned. “Got troubles, have we?” He extended his arms to stretch his muscles, and Freeland’s left arm went with them. Holden stared at the handcuffs. Miss Wade turned her face toward the window.

Dwight shut the door, and the passengers all looked at each other.

“I hope nothing’s wrong,” Miss Wade said.

Holden leaned past her to peer out the window. “Just relax. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“Will we be in Prescott by nightfall?” she asked.

Holden hesitated, so Freeland said, “No ma’am.”

Dix sat up straighter. “We going up Black Canyon?”

Freeland shook his head. “Wickenburg way. It’s a little longer, but it’s easier and more traveled. We won’t be there much before dawn, but I expect we’ll get our supper at one of the way stations.” Barring any serious trouble, he thought. Their driver was right—something felt out of kilter here.

“So, we’ll reach the capital tomorrow?” Miss Wade persisted.

“Yes ma’am; that’s the plan. Most likely not long after noon,” Freeland said. He’d made this trip before, and the schedule was loose of necessity.

Through the window, Freeland saw Dwight walking back to the coach. He opened the door.

“Well, folks, the station seems to be deserted. Now that’s not good. If outlaws or hostile Indians are active in the area, it may be a while before we can get to the next stop.” He eyed Freeland keenly, and Freeland nodded.

Silas Holden scowled at the driver. “We’re going on with these horses? Shouldn’t we hole up here and wait for someone else to come through?”

“No sir,” the driver said. “I don’t recommend that. Tom and I are bound to keep moving if we can. Besides, the next stage won’t come along for two days.”

“Are there any horses here?” Freeland asked.

“Nary a one, so we can’t replace our team. This one’s tuckered out. We’re going to water them and give them a half hour of rest, and then we’ll go on. I’m sorry there’s no meal waitin’ for you, but the necessary is out back. Just keep your eyes open, folks. Tom and I think we’re alone here, but we could be wrong.”

The shotgun rider stood guard outside the outhouse while each of them took a turn inside. Miss Wade emerged with her cheeks flaming. Freeland had to accompany Dix inside, which was no treat. When they came out, they found Miss Wade and her uncle near the well.

“The driver brought us a tin basin, so we could wash up,” Miss Wade said. “And the well water is sweet. That in the bucket is fresh.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Freeland said. Somehow, he and Dix worked around the handcuffs to wash their hands. Freeland lifted the dipper to drink, and Dix managed with his left hand.

They waited uneasily in the shade of the station building, exchanging only a few words and watching the road. The shotgun rider climbed to the roof for a vantage point but came down after a few minutes, saying he would bake to a crisp if he stayed up there.

Finally, the driver hitched the team up again. Freeland wished he had the free use of both hands and could help him. The crusty man fastened the last line, took his hat off, and wiped his brow on his sleeve.

“All right, folks. Let’s get out of here.”

They boarded and settled into the same seats they had held before, with Miss Wade and Holden facing Freeland and Dix. Freeland’s stomach felt hollow, and he hoped it wouldn’t rumble loud enough for the other passengers to hear. He ought to have put some jerky in his carryall.

Dwight set the horses off at a slow jog. “It will take us twice as long at this pace,” Holden said after a mile or so.

“Maybe so,” Freeland conceded. The driver was no doubt saving the horses in case he needed a burst of speed.

“This man going to prison?” Holden nodded toward Dix.

“His trial is in Prescott.”

Holden nodded. “They need to build railroads out here. Railroads and telegraph wires.”

“I expect that will take a while,” Freeland said, gazing out at the empty desert. Now that the war was over, there was no money to build things like railroads. The West needed time to recover.