Deputy Montgomery’s expression shifts from contempt to tolerance.
“That’s an idea,” he says, mulling it over. “It’ll be too dark in the dead of night for a move. Not much moon this time of the month, plus our lanterns would give us away for miles. But near dawn . . . Perhaps we’ll leave early, an hour before first light. The rest of their gang will likely be still sleeping, expecting the move later.” He rubs his chin. “We could be well out of Wickenburg by the time they look to strike, on high ground and climbing the mountains, able to shoot down on them as their horses battle the slope.”
“That sounds like a solid strategy, Deputy.” I give him the most charming grin I can muster. Let him believe it’s his plan. Let him think he’s the hero saving the day. I’m plenty used to men taking credit for my ideas—and my bylines—and I merely need him in a fine mood for what I’m about to suggest. I put on my most confident face and say, “I will ride in the driver’s box.”
Deputy Montgomery nearly trips over his own feet. “Pardon?”
“Alongside the driver. Or up top.”
He stares in dismay.
“Think of it this way, sir: I’ll be quiet, sit out of the way, and once you pull that coach up to the depot in Prescott, I’ll have a documented account of your heroic efforts. There’ll be a printed story featuring the good men of Wickenburg and how their deputy sheriff Montgomery captured four Rose Riders, including Luther Rose and the Rose Kid. How he exhibited great bravery and commitment to the feat of delivering them to trial, how he is the embodiment of the badge he wears.”
Deputy Montgomery inflates a little, his brows rising with agreement. He unconsciously shines the badge on his vest with his thumb.
He must know the power of such a story, for I surely do. With a firsthand account of the transportation of the notorious Rose Riders from Wickenburg to Prescott, no one will be able to ignore my journalistic pursuits. Not Mr. Marion, or Uncle Gerald, or even Ruth Dodson of the Yuma Inquirer. She’d turned me away earlier this summer, when she opened shop and I came inquiring about a job. Run exclusively by females, the press sounded like heaven on earth, but her budget was tight, her staff full. I understood being turned away. But I’ll have my pick of publications now. In Yuma, Prescott, anywhere in the Territory.
“I won’t be telling my men about it,” Deputy Montgomery says after some consideration. “They won’t take kindly to a lady being involved in such a situation. I ain’t fond of it myself. But if you appear at the stage depot an hour before dawn, ready to make the trip, I won’t turn you away.”
And just like that, I’ve hitched myself a ride to Prescott and snagged the story of a lifetime.
It takes all my conviction not to grin like a fool.
Draining my purse entirely, I secure a room for the night at a place called Ma’s Boarding House. Who Ma is, I’m not one to know, as it’s a young man who takes my money. He introduces himself as Jake. I’d wager I’m a year or two his senior. He’s lanky and lean, but already taller than I am. His wool cap looks new, but a pale starched shirt held in place by faded suspenders and tucked into too-big trousers have seen better days. Though I have two hands of my own and am perfectly capable of carrying my suitcase, he insists.
The boarding house is neither big nor fancy. The first floor isn’t much more than a long hallway lined with rooms. The rug is worn from foot traffic, and candle sconces mounted between most of the doors attempt to liven up the dimly lit space.
“Second floor’s for Ma and me,” Jake explains, which I take to mean his ma is the Ma. He gestures beyond the stairs, down the narrow hallway. “Washroom is first door on the right, kitchen the first on the left. You got the far room, at the end of the hall. Dinner’s in half an hour.”
He leads and I follow. Most of the doors are ajar—no occupants for the evening—and the kitchen, which already smells of fresh bread and stew, isn’t abuzz with chatter. The floorboards audibly protest our weight as we make our way down the hall.
“Is it always this quiet?”
“Used to house a lot more miners, but Vulture Mine’s got plenty of quarters of their own these days, plus a Chow House and Rita’s brothel.” He says the last bit with an air of excitement. “I only stay here ’cus Ma needs the extra hands on the days I ain’t working.”
We stop outside what’ll be my room, and he sets my suitcase down.
“You need anything, you just holler.” Jake leans in close and drops his voice to a whisper. “I don’t say that for most folk, but most folk ain’t so pretty.”
He then blushes so quickly, I reckon he means it.
“Thank you—” I call after him as he darts down the hall. “For carrying my bag and all.” But he’s already gone.
My room’s plain, but clean. A single four-post bed, a reading chair, a short wardrobe with a folded towel set on top. Against the far wall is a single window. I pull open the shutters and am rewarded with a sad view of a small alley littered with crates and barrels. In the distance, I can make out the peak of the roofline of the stage stop.
I set my suitcase on the wardrobe. I have a second set of mourning clothes packed, but don’t intend to change until Prescott. The coach ride north will only dirty my skirts with dust anyhow. The blood-spattered state of my current attire, however, will not do. I snatch up the towel and head for the washroom.
There’s a mirror above the basin, and I startle at my reflection. Stray tendrils of hair fall wild around my face, and I work the pins as best I can, re-taming the mess. Then I wash my face and hands in the basin. Dirt from the coach lifts free, followed by blood once I go about scrubbing at the stains in my skirt. It could very well be my blood that is spilled tomorrow. The deputy’s and his posse’s too.
Whatever is wrong with midwifing? I hear Mother chide in my ear. It’s a respected line of work. I can teach you all I know.
She has been offering this ever since Cousin Eliza sent me a copy of Nellie Bly’s first piece and I set my heart on journalism. There is nothing wrong with Mother’s profession. She is appreciated within the community. She seems to love her work greatly. It is because of this love that I am baffled at how she is unable to see that I love something else. She claims I will be met with nothing but disappointment and resistance as a journalist. So far, she’s been proven right. But I’ve assisted her in several births, and it is not for me. It is thrilling, yes, but the whole time I am wishing for it to be over, whereas with writing, as soon as I stop, I want to start again.
“Let her chase this, Lillian,” Father once said. “She is not you, and there are worse things a young woman can do with her time.”
Such as going against one’s mother’s orders, sneaking from home, traveling without a chaperone, and volunteering to assist in the escort of the Territory’s most notorious band of outlaws, all for the sake of a story.