Apache Caress (24 page)

Harriet Forester sat in her elegant carriage and made her assessment of the man sitting across from her. Lieutenant Quimby Gillen was what Texans called “lowdown,” the kind of man who would do anything to advance himself, maybe even raise sheep. His worst mistake was in underestimating her. His expression said he dismissed Harriet Forester as a doddering old woman whom he could fool with his oily charm. Just the kind of friend Robert would have chosen.

He offered her his sack of candy, and she shook her head, folded her hands in the lap of her expensive black dress. Gillen popped a lemon drop in his mouth, crunched it with a loud, irritating sound much like the crushing of rock in a quarry.

“Good-bye, Lieutenant, so nice of you to come.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Forester. I am sorry about your son.” He picked up his valise, stepped from the fine carriage out onto the Austin railway platform. “Remember, if Robert’s widow tries to contact you–”

“I don’t need to be instructed like a stupid schoolgirl,” she snapped. “I’ll be only too happy to let the Army know at once. No strumpet will get her hands on any part of the Forester estate.”

Gill ran his tongue across his teeth, tasting the last tartness of the candy and studying the woman across from him. The Iron Lady. A servant had told him the citizens of Austin called Harriet Forester that behind her back. No one would dare say any such thing to her face. While the gray-haired woman with the almost turquoise-colored eyes was no great beauty, she still had a presence that money and power could give a matriarch.

He took her hand, kissed it. “Good-bye, dear lady, and should you ever have a need, think of me as another son.” Especially when it comes to disposing of your money, he thought as he smiled at her.

“I have other children, Lieutenant,” she said coldly, withdrawing her hand from his, “although Robert was one of my favorites, I’ll admit that. He was spoiled and headstrong. I’ll always regret disowning him too hastily.”

“I’m sure you felt you had good reason, dear lady,” Gill murmured soothingly.

“All my children do as I tell them,” Harriet Forester said, “or at least, they
used
to. Robert had never had to earn a dime in his life, and he really didn’t know how. I suppose he thought he had no option but to join the Army. I had hoped it would make a man of him; I never dreamed he might marry some low immigrant chit, then get killed.”

The train blew a warning whistle, and Gill picked up his bag, leaned in the window. “If Sierra should contact you, let me know immediately. The Army intends to capture that savage she’s traveling with.”

Harriet Forester shuddered. “Indians! I hate them. You saw my daughter, Emily. Her mind has never been the same since she was carried off and we had to pay a ransom to get her back. Sometimes I wish those Comancheros had killed her.” Tears came to her eyes. “She’d be better off dead than crazed as she is now.”

He tried to pat her hand again, but she pulled away and he had a sudden feeling there was more to this stern woman than he gave her credit for.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” she said, “you can be sure if this Sierra person should contact me, I’ll let you know immediately. Do you really think they might get this far?”

The train whistled, and Gill looked toward the cars waiting in the station, then back to Robert’s mother and nodded. “That girl tried to kill me back at Sundance, and I was only trying to rescue her. She’s just a shameless hussy, not worthy of your proud name.”

“All aboard!” yelled the conductor.

Gill turned away from the elegant carriage.

“Lieutenant, how will I reach you if I hear from her?”

“You know where I change trains. You could wire the station there, I suppose, or wire any station along the way and they’ll get the message to me. Good-bye, dear lady. You remind me of my own dear departed mother.” He touched his hat, held on to his bag, ran for the train as it began to move.

The rich old bitch, he thought with a sneer as he swung aboard, turned, and waved to the elderly woman in the fine carriage. She did remind him of his mother–the same kind of sour-faced old hag, angry because her favorite son had died. She wished it had been Quimby and said so. Like her husband, she resented his taking one peppermint for himself.

Gill went down the aisle of the swaying train, hanging onto the backs of seats to balance himself. As he walked, he congratulated himself on his cleverness. “Gill, blast it all, you’ve certainly thought of everything.”

He smiled with satisfaction as he put his bag in the overhead rack, sank onto one of the horsehair seats. If Cholla somehow made it all the way back to Arizona, Gill intended to be waiting for him there, to kill him or turn him around and put him back on the train to the Florida prison. And the girl. He touched his head where Sierra had struck him with the lamp. Maybe he would offer not to press charges in exchange for sexual favors.

A railroad conductor came down the aisle, and Gill grabbed his arm. “Hey, this train on time?”

“A little behind, sir, but we’ll make connections all right if we don’t pick up too many folks at all the stops between here and there.” He looked at the ticket Gill held out. “Yas, sir, you shouldn’t have no trouble makin’ your connection on west to Arizona.”

Gill pocketed his ticket, leaned back, and stared boredly at the other passengers, considered how many little whistle-stops there were in that hundred-mile stretch between Austin and the bustling city where he would change trains. Idly he reached for his sack of hard candy and wondered if the San Antonio station would be crowded with holiday travelers.

Sergeant Tom Mooney paused in front of the stable door, stroking the big Medicine Hat stallion. “Sure, and I miss Cholla, too. The Lord only knows where he is.”

The yellow dog lying at his feet whined softly. Here he was with the Apache scout’s animals, wondering just where his friend might be right now with winter sweeping across the country.

Lieutenant Gatewood’s tall, slender frame came around the corner. “Ah, Sergeant, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sir?” Mooney saluted, almost afraid to hear whatever news the lieutenant might bring.

“There was a breakdown in the telegraph wires farther north, ice on them and all that. But we finally heard from Gillen.”

“And?”

Gatewood rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He actually made contact with Cholla and the hostage in some little Indian Territory settlement called Sundance.”

Tom’s heart seemed to skip, and he flexed and unflexed freckled fingers, afraid the next words would be of Cholla’s death. And what had become of Sierra Forester?

“Strange,” Gatewood mused as he leaned against the stall, patted the horse. “Gillen says the woman hit him in the head, nearly killed him. Then she helped the Apache escape a lynch mob.”

“Holy Saint Patrick!” Mooney didn’t know what to think. “Is Lieutenant Gillen sure the woman was Mrs. Forester?”

Gatewood nodded. “Yes, he spoke with her, offered to help her, so the wire says. She fled town with Cholla.”

She’s fallen in love with him, Tom thought with sinking heart. The photo in his jacket seemed to burn into his wiry body. The best friend he had in the world and the woman whose photo he had fallen in love with. “Did you say they got away, sir?”

“According to Gillen. He’s convinced Cholla will try to make it back here. Surely he isn’t loco enough to do that.”

Mooney shrugged and drummed his fingers against the stall door. “He’s probably the only man I know who could, sir.” Of course he will come back, Tom thought. Cholla loves and knows this country, all the way down into Mexico, better than a man knows the body of his own woman.

“Gillen was going to search that area, then go on down to Austin. He has some idea that Sierra Forester might try to make contact with Robert’s family and, if so, then he’d at least have some clue as to their whereabouts.”

“He thinks Cholla is headed south again?”

“The tracks headed south before he lost them. Of course Cholla might end up in Comanche country along the Red River, and that tribe isn’t friendly to Apaches.”

“If I remember right, Quanah Parker is chief there and half-white. There’s no second-guessing what that crafty fox will do. He might help Cholla just for the hell of it.”

“Could be.” Gatewood turned and looked toward the northeast. “There’s a terrible blizzard going on farther upcountry in the high plains, snow in big drifts, cattle dying by the thousands. Some say it’s going to be the worst winter on record. Yes, if I were Cholla, I’d be headed south and then west as fast as possible.”

Tom turned and looked in the same direction as the lieutenant, wondering if the woman was safe, where his friend might be at this very minute. “If Cholla makes it into south Texas, sir, he’ll be out of that terrible cold.”

“Gillen is being called back. The brass have decided not to waste any more time on this chase. Besides, if the Apache is headed to Arizona, they think they can nab him right here.”

Tom chewed his lip and thought about his moral dilemma. If he were in a situation where he had to betray his friend but it gave him a chance to have the woman, what would he do? What would
any
man do?

“Gillen was going on down to San Anton’ after he left Austin,” Gatewood said, “then catching a train west. Don’t know exactly when he’ll show up here, maybe in time for Christmas.” He turned to leave, then paused and came back. “Oh, I knew there was something else, Sergeant. Your enlistment is up at the end of the month. Have you decided whether to reenlist or head back to Michigan?”

Mooney hadn’t decided. Nothing had seemed important these last few weeks but Cholla and Sierra Forester. Today he felt old and tired. “I’m still thinking about it, sir. My elderly parents live on a farm there. I thought by being thrifty, maybe I could make a go of the old place.”

“Would you mind escorting a lady back to Michigan?”

“Sir?”

Gatewood frowned. “Sad story. Young schoolteacher from up there. Came down last year to teach ranchers’ children here, even got engaged.”

“Then why’s she going back?”

“Well, it seems, in the very last of all that Indian trouble, she was raped.”

Tom winced. He could almost guess the rest. “And now the young man doesn’t want to marry her.”

“Worse than that. She’s with child from the attack. I suppose she’s tried to hide it all these months, not knowing what to do. You can hardly blame the young rancher.”

“I can blame him,” Tom said fiercely, suddenly very protective of the sad little schoolteacher. “It isn’t her fault, and a child’s a child.”

Gatewood patted his shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, Tom. You’ve got the softest, most fiercely loyal heart of any man I ever met. I thought you might escort the girl back.”

“She got folks there?”

“I don’t think she’s got much of anything.” Gatewood shook his head. “But since she’s a Michigan girl, she’s going up there to try to make a life for herself.”

“Poor little thing,” Tom murmured. Being-Irish, he had a natural sympathy for the underdog, and when it was a helpless woman–and a baby . . .

“You wouldn’t mind escorting her if you don’t re-up?”

“Of course not. When’s the lass coming?” The sergeant stroked the horse thoughtfully.

“Right at the end of the month. There’s snow in the high country, so she can’t get in right now.”

“I hope I’m gone before Cholla gets here,” Tom blurted out. “I’d be torn between loyalties.” And love, he thought, thinking of Sierra Forester.

“I understand, Sergeant. I like the Apache, too. But I know you, Tom. You’ll do what’s right, no matter what.”

Mooney wasn’t so sure of that. Were right and justice the same? Did a man have a higher allegiance to the country he’d sworn an oath to or to what was morally right? He nodded absently, his mind busy with his dilemma. “Thank you for your confidence, sir.”

Cholla. He may be my problem and it may be my decision, Tom thought. If the scout makes it across Texas, he’ll come here and turn south toward Mexico because he knows the terrain. It’s all sort of like a play, he reflected, each player awaiting his or her turn to come on the stage. With any luck, Thomas Connor Mooney would be on his way to Michigan escorting the pitiful little schoolteacher before Cholla got this far. Lieutenant Gatewood was a man of principle. What the hell would Gatewood do if he had to handle this dilemma?

Trixie La Femme leaned on the bar at the Birdcage Theater and lit a cigarette. Tombstone. What a dirty, flea-bitten town it was. It might have been something once, but with the mines falling off in production, she could forsee it becoming almost a ghost town in a few years. Well, it deserved to die as far as she was concerned.

Humming a little of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” she looked around at the nearly empty saloon, took out her medicine bottle, gulped a long drink. Here she’d come all the way from East St. Louie, thinking this might be a step up to a great career, and they’d put her in the chorus. Most of the time, she was flat on her back upstairs under some cowboy or miner. And one of them had given her a disease that would eventually prove fatal.

Trixie hadn’t told anyone, especially the boss. When the Birdcage found out, she’d be fired, and she didn’t have enough money to make it to San Francisco yet.

Well, these damned cowboys deserved it if she gave them the unexpected gift of a killing disease. Trixie was no prude and would do anything for a little extra money, but some of these Westerners had fantasies that shocked even her. More than once she’d entertained a naked cowboy wearing only boots and spurs, or she’d had to cater to unusual desires involving whips and pistols.

She hadn’t even heard from Gill, and he was the reason she’d come here in the first place. “If I don’t hear nothing in a few more days, I’m gonna go up to Fort Bowie myself and see if they’ve heard from him. It ain’t that far,” she muttered.

She wouldn’t put it past him to forget about her completely. Maybe she’d stumble on to some rich old coot, or a rancher with a few bucks, and wouldn’t need Gill.

The evening was beginning to pick up, now that it was getting dark. Another man came into the Birdcage. Just a young cowboy, Trixie thought and took a deep drag on her cigarette. Then she took another look. No, not a cowboy, a prosperous rancher. She’d learned how to spot an expensive Stetson, fine, handmade boots. And he wasn’t bad looking.

Immediately Trixie turned, took a deep breath so that her breasts jutted out. “Hey, mister, you lookin’ for a little fun?”

“You look like you could give a man some fun.” He grinned as he came over, leaned on the bar, signaled the bartender to bring him a drink.

“I’m not really one of the regulars,” Trixie hastened to say. “I’m a singer, headed for ’Frisco; got big plans when I get a good break. Everyone tells me I look like the Cameo girl. Just got stranded here by a fella.”

His expression told her the Cameo girl meant nothing to this dumb hick. “We got something in common then, I reckon. I’m stranded here myself. Got into town on business a couple of days ago, and now there’s snow in the high country. Might as well stay in Tombstone a few days.”

She snuffed her cigarette out, put her hand on his arm familiarly. “Maybe I can help make that time pass.”

“You gonna sing to me?” He snickered, shifted his weight so that his sleeve brushed her breasts.

“If you want. I know how to do a lot more things than the girls around here.” She moved so that her breast pressed against his arm. Trixie smiled when she heard his sharp intake of breath. “You got a wife and kids that’ll be disappointed if you don’t get back for the holidays?”

“I had me a gal, but I broke it off. What do you think of a schoolteacher who’d let herself get raped by an Injun and then not do what any respectable woman would–kill herself?”

Respectable woman
. Trixie wondered suddenly if that weak, whimpering little Sierra Forester had ever escaped from the Apache. She hoped the scout had made Mrs. Forester beg for mercy, then batted her eyelashes at the rancher. “No white man would take an Injun’s leavin’s, would he? I mean, if that girl ain’t pure, you don’t want her.”–

The bartender brought the drink, went away.

“Worse yet,” the man said confidentially as he sipped the whiskey, “she’s gonna have an Injun brat because of it.”

“No!” Trixie exclaimed. “So of course you broke the engagement?”

“Wouldn’t any man? I mean, she tried to hide it for months, but when her belly began to swell and I cornered her, made her admit it, she had the nerve to cry and say she hoped I’d be sympathetic and marry her anyways.”

“But like most men, you won’t?” She reached out, fiddled with his shirt collar so she could stroke his chest.

“Of course not.” The rancher pushed his hat back. “I mean, a man expects to get out and sow a few wild oats, but when he marries, he don’t want used goods; especially if she comes with a half-breed brat. She’s goin’ back to Michigan, and I hope I never see the tramp again.”

Trixie winked at him. “So how about sowing a few wild oats with me?” She took his hand, looked toward the stairs.

He finished his drink, put his other hand on her bottom, stroked it. “Baby, I hoped I’d find a little fun when I came in here, and I reckon I’m lucky you were the first one I spotted.”

“Don’t it beat all, though? Maybe it was just meant to be.” She led him toward the stairs.

“I figure a man who’s been through what I been through, having to realize the girl he was set to marry is used goods, that entitles him to a good time, sort of to kill my sorrow, so to speak.”

She went ahead of him up the stairs, undulating her hips so he could see them move in the tight green satin dress. Looking back over her shoulder she smiled at him. “Honey, I’m gonna do more than ‘kill your sorrow’. I’m about to give you something you never expected to get in your whole life!” She smiled to herself at the irony of it all as she took his arm and they went down the hall to her room.

Sierra sighed with relief as she and Cholla settled themselves in an expensive compartment on the westbound train and waved good-bye to Trace Durango. They would be forever grateful to him, she thought as she turned away from the window. She looked down at the expensive blue velvet dress she wore. Trace had costumed them, given them money, and paid for the compartment so they wouldn’t have to ride in a day coach and mix with passengers who might ask questions. More than that, he had loaded two fine horses in the baggage car, the good black gelding for Cholla, the fine Medicine Hat mare for Sierra.

She looked out at Trace one more time. The handsome rancher stood on the platform. His lips formed the words; Vaya con Dios. Go with God. Then he turned and was gone.

Cholla sat down on one of the overstuffed chairs and looked around the compartment. “Do you think we’ll have any trouble?”

“We’ve got lots of food in the picnic basket, so we shouldn’t have to leave the compartment. All we’ve got to do is sit back and ride from San Antonio northwest and then through New Mexico and Arizona Territories.”

“If there’re any problems,” Cholla said, “will you deal with the conductor? I might be able to pass myself off as a rich Spanish gentleman, but I’d rather not take the chance.”

Sierra nodded, lost in her own thoughts. In a few days, she would be at Fort Bowie and Cholla would be gone from her life forever. Why did she feel sad instead of relieved?

Minutes passed, but the train did not leave the station. Cholla became restless. “Something’s gone wrong,” he murmured. “Do you suppose there’s any chance the Army’s found out I’m on this train?” He had not dared get aboard carrying weapons, so if there was any trouble, he was defenseless.