“There ain’t any others. Now you gonna bring us in or you gonna keep wasting our time?”
His lie is blatant. It’s a known fact the Rose Riders are eight strong, and the Rose Kid’s accomplice—the one who tossed him that burlap sack—is not here. But there is not much that can be done about this at the moment. The deputy, who introduced himself as Clarence Montgomery, rounded up a posse of townsfolk on our way to the saloon. It was frantic, a desperate plea made to any man we passed, and they need to contain the threat before them before they go searching for the rest of the gang.
The lawman’s posse outnumbers the four Rose Riders, but they also look mighty skittish. The fellow standing near the Rose Kid can’t even hold his pistol without the barrel visibly quivering.
Luther Rose sizes up the number of guns spread through the room. The Rose Kid appears to be counting exits. The other two sit tall and springy.
If these men are half as fast as tales make them out to be, it might be a close fight, even with the posse’s guns already drawn. It will come down to a gambling matter: Is Luther Rose willing to sacrifice some of his men’s lives in the hopes of walking out with his?
His gaze flicks to the men at the table, then to the Rose Kid. “Stand down, boys,” he says.
“But, Boss—”
“I said stand down!”
I’m nearly as shocked as Rose’s men, but the surprise fades quickly, replaced by a wave of smug satisfaction. I watch a Wickenburg local yank the Rose Kid’s hands behind his back. They’ll die for what they did—what they’ve done—and though it doesn’t erase the damage they’ve leveled, it’s a small victory.
Too often bad men walk free.
Cuffed and stripped of their weapons, the gang is led onto the street and down to an enormous mesquite the locals refer to as the Jail Tree, where they are secured to iron holds that have been driven into the trunk. It is a preposterous method for detaining prisoners, but I remind myself that it is only temporary. The men are sure to hang, just as soon as Deputy Montgomery gets word from the capital.
He runs off to send a telegraph, and though I hope his next course of action will be to search the town for the rest of the gang, I do not have time to linger. I race for the stage stop. When I round the corner at Etter’s, my heart drops.
The coach is gone, and the passengers I’d been riding with are nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s the coach bound for Prescott?” I ask a wiry man working the ticket counter.
“Why, that left a solid ten minutes ago, miss.”
“It left? But I’m supposed to be on it!”
“Well, I regret to inform you that yer still here.” He smiles as though he’s made a fantastic joke.
“When’s the next coach?”
“Tomorrow, at noon.”
“Tomorrow?” The rail is supposed to be finished by the end of the year and it’s already the thirtieth. If I miss the ceremonies, I can’t document the speeches or take notes for a story. And without a fabulous story, securing a job with Mr. Marion’s press will be impossible.
The man chortles. “You in the habit of repeating everything you hear, or am I speaking a whole lot softer than I realize?”
“Your sense of humor is sorely lacking,” I snap, and immediately regret it. His expression has darkened, and he no longer seems interested in helping me.
I force a smile. It does not help to lift my spirits at all, but the man’s grin returns. “You’ll be all right, doll,” he says assuredly, and pats my hand. “Keep yer chin up. It’s a good look on you.”
So much for things always looking better with a smile. Perhaps what Mother meant is, men like women best when they smile.
I walk away grumbling under my breath and eventually sit on the edge of Etter’s porch, my disheveled skirt fanned around my ankles. Having spent most of my money at the Maricopa boarding house last night, my purse is all but empty. I don’t have enough for another coach fare. I likely do not even have enough for accommodations this evening. I might very well be stuck here.
I could write to Mother in Prescott, but she has enough on her plate. Besides, she’d only come collect me like a stray dog and tow me home with my tail between my legs. She’ll claim I have been brash and reckless, but staying put in Yuma as she’d ordered would have helped no one, not if Uncle Gerald responds as I predict.
I blow a sweaty tendril of hair from my eyes. What would Nellie Bly do?
For one, she wouldn’t sit around pouting. If she didn’t have the coin to buy her way, she’d barter herself into a favorable position. I touch my pearl earrings longingly.
Someone marches by my line of vision. I look up, my hand falling away from my jewelry, and spot Deputy Montgomery striding back toward the Jail Tree. There is a briskness to his gait that is concerning.
I leap from the bench, worries of lodging and coach fare falling aside as I hurry after him.
Chapter Seven
* * *
Reece
I’m gonna hang. Just a day past eighteen, and I’m gonna be strung up and sent swinging, all ’cus of that doe-eyed train girl.
They know we’re the Rose Riders by now. Boss and me are the most wanted outta the bunch, and we match descriptions given in telegraphs and papers and on wanted posters. Diaz and Hobbs are matches for other boys known to ride with the gang. Between the four of us, we got a list of crimes longer than the Southern Pacific’s rails, and a fine bounty, too. Ain’t no way we’ll be shown mercy.
I reckon alls I can do is pray my neck breaks during the drop, that it’s quick and clean. I got no desire to be one of those bastards who kick and flail, trying to swim themselves free of the noose while they slowly suffocate.
“Quit it, Murphy,” Diaz grunts.
I try to calm my flighty fingers, but I’m too riled. After stripping us of our pistol belts and weapons, they marched us to this godforsaken mesquite one of the locals called the Jail Tree. That Wickenburg don’t have a proper jailhouse gave me hope—at first. There’s a knife in my boot they never found, but then they cuffed the four of us, securing us to iron chains hammered deep into the tree’s trunk, and my hope all but shriveled. I sure as hell can’t reach my boots. The chains are so short, all I can do is stand, shackled hands held up near my chin.
“They’ll come for us,” Diaz adds. “Crawford and the others.”
Boss don’t say a word. He must got a plan if’n he willingly let us be taken. We wouldn’t’ve all got outta that saloon alive trying to fight ’em, but it’s best to go down swinging. Least that’s the sermon he usually preaches. But right now he’s got his head reclined ’gainst the trunk of the Jail Tree, looking calm as a daisy as he peers through the thin foliage and into the darkening sky above. He might as well be whistling a tune, running a poker chip over his knuckles, flipping the coin he took from me.
That damn coin. I wish it never fell into my hands. Maybe more than that, I just wish we’d cross paths with that cowboy already so I can point a finger and move on with my life.