Vaughn appears at the window, color draining from her cheeks. “But you gave your word.”
“And I’ll honor it if yer word proves true. Yer either lying, meaning you’ve already broken our deal and I don’t got to do nothing, or you sit there quiet and patient while I ride into town and confirm yer story, and I’ll let you go after that. Now, what’s the Thompson girl’s first name?”
“Funny,” she says, “but I don’t feel all that inclined to help you further. Perhaps you should have asked that before shutting me back in my cage.”
“What’s her name, Charlotte?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What’s her goddamn name?”
Silence.
I stare at the patterns painted on the stagecoach door. I consider kicking it and slapping it and cursing at the heavens, but there ain’t time for tantrums. I climb back into the driver’s box and, once again, flick the reins.
The horses wind outta the mountains, listless and weary.
Even from a distance, the city is bustling, perhaps on account of the new year. Folk on foot are congregating on a street running ’long the east side of the courtyard plaza. There’s folk on horseback too, and in carriages. I swear I can make out uniforms, and the muzzles of long rifles glinting in the sun. The pounding of drums and the pomp of trumpets reaches me, even at a distance.
Whatever’s happening, it’s the perfect cover.
Word of the gang’s escape from Wickenburg prolly ain’t made it here yet, and with all the fanfare, no one’s gonna notice one extra stagecoach rolling into town, not even one operating off the schedules and running a team that looks damn near beat.
Vaughn don’t make a peep as we roll in. Maybe she were being honest after all and knows if she just stays quiet a bit longer, I’ll be setting her loose. I turn a corner, staying a block west of the commotion so I can find a good spot to ditch the coach and carry on alone. A pair of young boys dart ’cross the street, startling the horses and nearly getting themselves trampled.
“Sorry, mister!” one of the kids shouts.
“Hold up!” I say, stopping the team. “What’s the commotion for?”
“Don’t you know? It’s the Prescott and Arizona Central! It’s finally here.”
“They finished last night,” his friend says, “and are gonna lay the final tie today, then drive the last spike while everyone’s watching. Yer gonna miss the procession.”
They race for a cross street.
“Hang on. You boys know the Thompson residence? Long Granite Creek?”
They look at each other and shake their heads. “No, sorry, mister. Don’t know any—”
The door to the coach bursts open with a kick from Vaughn. She stumbles out, hands still bound, and hurls something my way. I duck instinctively, and a rock strikes my shoulder—jagged and sharp. Prolly she used it to saw at the leather strip on the door till it were frayed enough that a good kick sent it ripping. She goes tearing up the street, the undergarment rope trailing behind her like a stringy veil.
The two boys stare.
“My sister,” I explain, cursing myself for not resecuring her ankles after letting her pee. “She ain’t right in the head.”
The boys shrug, seeming to buy it.
And that’s when Vaughn decides to start shouting. “Help! It’s the Rose Kid—Reece Murphy! The Rose Kid’s in town!”
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
Charlotte
I expect him to put a bullet in my back, but it never comes. I keep running as fast as my legs will carry me.
Over on Cortez Street, the procession has started, led by a band trumpeting out a fanfare. Loud, boisterous cheering joins in and happy salutes are fired, drowning out my cries for help. The crowd moves north, heading for the depot.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find the Rose Kid has urged the horses to action. They’re tired, but they’ll catch me. I cannot outrun a team of horses, even drained ones. I reach the southwest edge of the plaza and turn right, sprinting for the procession. I pause only to loop my hands over a picket of the plaza’s iron fence, using the point as a wedge against my leather bindings. They’ve been secured with a simple square knot, not unlike the bow one puts in a shoelace, and once I push the picket point between the two crossed sections of leather and pull back, the knot gives. I wriggle my wrists back and forth, and then the binding falls away, the undergarment rope trailing with it.
I’m free.
I race on, the stays digging into my flesh with every stride.
“Help me,” I gasp as I burst onto Cortez and enter the throng of citizens. “The Rose Kid. He’s here. He’s going to kill me.”
I’m passed along like a leaf caught in a current, bumping from shoulder to shoulder as the happy townsfolk move north with the procession. My begging is but a whisper compared with the merry band and cheering. What appears to be a small militia of uniformed men from Fort Whipple fires off salutes, and I become just another boisterous face in the sea of winter jackets.
Desperate, I push through the crowd and stumble into the street, where a string of carriages bring up the rear of the parade. Men grin from drivers’ seats, and townsfolk wave from the windows.
“Charlotte!” a voice snaps. “What in the blazes are you doing?”
I twist toward the voice, and there she is. Mother, sitting in one of the final carriages, her eyes wide with astonishment. She signals for Uncle Gerald’s son, my cousin Paul, to slow the carriage. When the wheels creak to a halt, she throws open the door.
“Get in.”
“Mother, listen. The Rose Kid. He’s here. I need to find the sheriff and—”
“Charlotte Vaughn, get in the carriage this instant.”
I glance toward the courthouse. The coach and the Kid are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he gave up his pursuit in favor of running. The entire procession is focused on the depot at the end of Cortez, and he will likely be able to slip through town unnoticed.
I scramble into the warmth of Mother’s carriage.
She stuffs her hand back in her muff and fixes her gaze on me firmly through the black veil that hangs over her eyes. Her hair is pinned back severely, her mourning obvious from head to toe: black wool dress, black winter cape, black boots. She does not have to say a single word for me to know she is furious.
“I’m so sorry, Mama. I know you told me to stay home, but I thought that if I secured a job with Mr. Marion’s press, with any press, maybe I wouldn’t be a hindrance and Uncle wouldn’t be able to use me to pressure you into marriage. But then the train was robbed, and I—”
“Robbed?”
“It was the R-Rose Riders,” I stammer, everything crashing into me with a force I have not yet felt. “The Law captured half the men in Wickenburg, too. They had them, on account of me, and the devils still broke loose. And I was caught in the stagecoach, and the Rose Kid trapped me, and I couldn’t get away until—I need to find the sheriff. I made a mistake, Mama. I made a deal for freedom and told a story that was based in fact, and now I worry that another innocent soul will be in danger.”