The Union Belle Page 3

  Sid came awake fuzzily. “Whazzat?” His eyes focused with difficulty, and he said, “Oh, it’s you, Doc.” He reached for the keys, and asked, “Hunter dead?”

  “Not yet.” The small man moved into Mark’s cell, and the deputy slammed the steel door behind him. “Let’s see where that slug took you,” he said briskly.

  Mark stripped off his shirt, and after a quick look at the raw furrow, the doctor said, “That won’t kill you.” He opened his bag and washed the wound out with antiseptic. “By the way, I’m Doc Wright.” He pulled out some bandages and was making them fast when the door opened again, and Mark looked over Wright’s shoulder to see a huge man fill the opening. He was so tall he had to duck his peaked hat beneath the door frame, a great florid Texan with leathered skin, massive jaws and eyes of marbled agate.

  His voice bellowed out, “You—Doc Wright! How’s my boy?”

  Wright, busy bandaging Mark, looked over his shoulder without pausing his fingers as he said, “He’s alive, Faye.”

  The huge man came and grasped the bars of the cell as if he wanted to tear them down. “Fellow, you’ll hang for shooting my boy!”

  Mark didn’t answer, but he felt the hate oozing from the man, and knew that Faye Hunter would never be satisfied until he tasted revenge.

  Wright finished the bandage, stood up and put his things back into his bag. “Boyd’s not dead yet, Faye. And even if he dies, I hear it was self-defense. Sid, let me out of here.”

  The deputy opened the door, giving an apprehensive glance at the huge Hunter, who took a step toward Mark as the door opened.

  “Come on, Faye,” Wright said quickly. “Let’s go see how Boyd is doing.”

  “All right, Doc—but you keep this fellow jugged tight, Sid, you hear me?”

  “Sure, Mr. Hunter,” Sid said nervously. “He ain’t goin’ no place.” He waited until the pair had left, then turned to face Mark. Pulling a soiled handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped his brow, saying mournfully, “Holland, I shore do wisht you’d had better judgment! If Boyd dies, you ain’t got no more chance than a snowball in perdition—and even if he lives, I ain’t puttin’ it past Faye Hunter to string you up. He’s jest that kind of a man!”

  Mark turned and moved to stand beside the small barred window. It faced the north, and the wind whipped through it. Somewhere in that darkness, hundreds of miles away, was Omaha. But the longer he stood there, the less he believed that he would ever see it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Shedding the Prison Walls

  “The gringo is lucky!”

  Lola paused on her way out of the bar, halting long enough to hear Ramon continue speaking to one of the Bar M riders. “He would be swinging from a tree right now if Hunter had died.”

  “Yeah, Faye would have lynched him then all right,” she heard someone answer, “but he’ll still make certain Holland does five years in the pen.” Lola cast a look at the pair, recognizing the foreman of the Bar M, a man called Max, leaning against the bar. “I heard Mr. Hunter spell it out to Judge Hardesty this morning.” Hardesty was the circuit judge, and it was universally understood that he was a puppet for Faye Hunter, the most powerful man in that part of the state.

  “That’s pretty raw, Max,” Ramon commented.

  “Go tell Mr. Hunter that, Varga,” Max grinned.

  “Not me! When’s the trial?”

  “Soon as the judge gets here—day after tomorrow. It won’t be a long trial, I reckon. They’ll have Holland in the prison at El Paso so quick he won’t know what hit him! That’s a real rough place, Ramon. Me, I just about as soon stretch rope as do five years hard labor there!”

  Lola hurried out of the bar and went to the kitchen to look over the steaming pots that Barnabas, the new cook, had started. She lifted the lid on one, tasted the contents, nodded at the smallish Mexican who was watching her anxiously. “Very good, Barnabas,” she said; then a thought came to her. “What about dinner for the prisoners?”

  “Sheriff Marsh said only one today. He let all the drunks out.”

  Lola’s expression changed slightly, and she said, “I’ll take it to the jail, Barnabas. I want you to cook the whole noon meal today.”

  “Sí, Señorita Montez.”

  Lola put together two lunches of beef and beans on tin plates, adding bread and two generous slices of pie for dessert. She filled a small jug with cool tea, sweetened it, then put everything on a tray and covered it with a towel. It was a little before noon when she left the Paloma, and the streets were filled with mud from heavy rain. She made her way to the jail on a flimsy series of boards that gurgled in the yellow mud as she stepped on them. The jail door stood ajar and she found Sid Marsh seated in his chair behind the battered desk.

  “Señor Marsh,” she smiled as she entered. “I have brought you a good lunch—and one for the prisoner.”

  “Why bless your little heart, Lola!” Marsh exclaimed as he looked over the food.

  Lola’s smile disappeared as she began to set a place for Marsh at his desk. “Oh, Sheriff . . . !” she exclaimed.

  “What’s wrong, Lola?”

  “I had you two bottles of that good beer you like so much—but I left them in the cooler!”

  Sheriff Marsh’s eyes lit up, for he loved the lager beer that Ramon kept for special occasions. “Why, I’ll just step down the street and get them, Lola.”

  “Tell Barnabas I said to give you three bottles—to make up for your having to go after them.”

  “Sure will! I’ll have to lock you in the building—but it won’t take me but two shakes of a duck’s tail to get that beer!”

  He left hurriedly and Lola at once picked up the tray and walked over to the cell. She watched carefully as the man got up, then stooped and slid the tray under the lower bar. She walked back and filled a mug with cool tea and handed it to him through the bars.

  “Thanks.” He sat down and began to eat, then looked up, aware she was watching him. His face was gaunt, the beard and hair lank with sweat, and red spots high on his cheeks indicated that he had a fever.

  She took a deep breath and almost turned and walked away, but a thought pulled at her, and her lips grew firm. “They’re going to send you to prison for five years,” she said.

  He took a sip of the tea, then turned his eyes on her. “That’s what the sheriff tells me.” He watched her curiously a moment, for her demeanor puzzled him. She was wearing a modest brown dress instead of the low-cut saloon dress she had worn when he saw her last, and she looked much younger.

  She finally spoke softly, “I . . . uh . . . thank you . . . for stopping Hunter.”

  Mark smiled uncomfortably and looked down at his hands.

  A lengthy silence followed before she continued, “I heard you say last night you were on your way to Omaha.”

  He considered the statement, not understanding what was on her mind. “That’s where I was headed.” He looked down at his hands for a long moment, and when he raised his head his face was bitter. “Looks like I’ll be a little bit late. The railroad will be finished by the time I get out of the pen.”

  “You work for a railroad?”

  “Since the war.” He regarded her carefully, then added, “I’ve been in prison down in Mexico. Hired out to build a railroad, but I was working for the wrong side, I guess. The winning railroad company put me in jail.” Rash anger brightened his eyes and his fists clenched. “Because of last night, I’m headed back into the same nightmare.”

  Lola said suddenly, “I can get you out of here—but you’ll have to take me with you to Omaha.”

  He stared at her, then shook his head. “That’s crazy. Even if I got out of here, I couldn’t get away. They’d have me back in a day!”

  She ignored his hopeless response and hurried on, “We’ve only got a few minutes until Sid gets back.” He saw the determined set of her jaw and the intensity in her eyes. “I’ve got to get away from here myself, but I can’t do it alone. If I get you clear of this jail—and ou
t of Texas—will you promise to take me to Omaha with you?”

  He nodded, dumbfounded, and stammered, “Why do you want to go to Omaha?”

  “That’s not your business,” she said firmly. “Eat your food. Sleep all you can today. Tonight I’ll stop in and bring the night man something to drink. It’ll put him out, and I’ll unlock the cell.”

  “What then?”

  She stared at him and said, “You don’t need to know that now. I will arrange something, but I want you to promise me three things before I do.” She gripped the bars and said, “First, you’ll do what I tell you—no matter how crazy it sounds—until we’re clear of Eagle Pass. Second, you’ll take me to Omaha. After we get there, you can forget me.”

  She paused, and he prompted, “You said three things.”

  She hesitated, then looked him full in the face. “You will not touch me while we are on the way to Omaha.” A flush touched her cheeks and she added, “Do you understand?”

  He smiled despite her seriousness. “I agree to all three. Do we put it in writing?”

  She shook her head, paying no mind to his patronizing tone. “Eat your food. I want to leave as soon as I can. Remember what I’ve said.”

  He nodded and ate rapidly. When the sheriff returned Lola smiled politely at him. “I have to go now. Would you send the dishes back with Tomas when he comes in?”

  “Sure will!” Sid was already eating when she left, and she deliberately did not look at the prisoner. When she stepped outside, she paused and leaned against the wall. Her hands trembled and her heart beat fast as the near impossibility of successfully carrying out the promise she had just made became clearer to her. Her recent attempt at escape had convinced her that it would take some extraordinary method to get away from Ramon and Eagle Pass, but a fragment of a plan had popped into her mind when she had heard the stranger say he was going to Omaha. She had planned to go to him in his room, but now that he was in jail the whole thing seemed impossible.

  There was, however, a stubbornness in Lola Montez, and all morning she had been considering a new plan. She knew that she had to take care of some things before she and Frank Holland could shake off their respective shackles. The thought came to her that Holland might have refused her before—but now that he was locked up he had no choice! He proved he was a strong man in the fight with Boyd Hunter. Whether or not he would keep his word was yet to be seen.

  She lifted her head higher in resolve and moved along the street, turning the corner and entering an office with a sign beside the door that read ANTHONY FUENTES—LEGAL COUNSEL in block letters. It was a modest office, but she knew that aside from Faye Hunter, the small man with the big head was probably the most powerful man in Eagle Pass.

  “Why, hello, Lola.” Fuentes had been sitting at his desk writing, but he got up and moved around to greet her. His large brown eyes watched her as they watched everything else—with a certain amount of cautious suspicion. “What brings you here?”

  “I want to do something, Señor Fuentes,” she said somewhat reluctantly. “But it will sound very strange to you.”

  Fuentes smiled reassuringly. “Nothing is strange to a lawyer, Lola.” He pulled a chair up close to the desk and waved his hand. “Sit down and tell me.”

  She still hesitated, for she was unsure of the man’s loyalties. He had been her mother’s lawyer, and Lola knew that her mother had trusted him as much as she had ever trusted any man—which wasn’t a great deal. Now she sat there trying to find a way to say what she wanted, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Most people come to see lawyers because they’re either in trouble or about to make trouble for someone else,” Fuentes smiled again. “Which is it with you, Lola?”

  She made her mind up to trust him. “Both!” She took a deep breath, leaned forward and rapidly told the lawyer how Ramon had made life miserable for her. She ended by saying, “I’ve got to get away, Señor Fuentes! I must!”

  He studied her face, and she had the impression that he had already known all that she had revealed. He picked up a letter opener, balanced it carefully, then quietly asked, “And who are you going to make trouble for, then?”

  She gave him a direct stare and said bluntly, “You, I am afraid, Señor.”

  He gave no indication of what he felt, but then a smile touched his thin lips. “You will have to get in line for that, I fear. There are many who do not care for me. But what is the nature of this trouble you are going to give me, Lola?”

  “I want you to buy my interest in the Paloma Blanca.”

  That did surprise Fuentes, she saw. His eyebrows lifted and his lips pursed. “And why would that be trouble?”

  “Because you would be a partner with Ramon—and he would be troublesome to anyone.”

  “Oh, I think not. If anything, I would be the one giving Ramon a problem.” He stared at her, his large eyes searching her, and she stared back, unflinching. “How much would you want for your half of the property?” he asked finally.

  She hesitated, then decided, “I don’t know what it’s worth, Señor, but I must have $2,000 to get away from here.”

  Fuentes said at once, “It’s worth that—and much more.”

  “But I want the money right now—in cash.”

  “You mean today?”

  “I mean in one hour!”

  He straightened and shook his head. “Lola, in this world, it’s dog-eat-dog. I would deceive a man when I felt it necessary, but I wouldn’t like to cheat you.” He laughed and said, “I didn’t realize I still had a conscience! It’s worth two thousand just to discover it again!”

  Lola shook her head, and he saw the desperation in her eyes. “Will you do it, Señor? I must have the money today—and I’m willing to sign the papers.”

  He studied her and asked, “Do you want to tell me anything else, Lola? Anything about your plans?”

  Lola slowly pulled a single sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “I found this six months ago. It’s from my father.”

  He quickly glanced over the brief letter.

  Dear Delores,

  I have written you five times since coming to Omaha, but have received no answer. I would like to do something for our daughter Lola, as I have said before. Please answer this as soon as you can so I can do so. I have nothing but regrets that you have chosen not to remain married to me, but at least let me help our daughter.

  Jude

  Fuentes looked up at her. “You intend to find your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  She hesitated. “Still in Omaha, I hope.”

  “It might be hard, Lola. And you might not like the life there.”

  “Anything is better than here, Señor!” She did not tell him that she had never known her father’s last name, and that the only clue she had to his identity was a faded picture. “Please, will you buy my share of the cantina?”

  Fuentes considered her carefully. Taking a sheet of paper out of a drawer he began to write. Without looking up he said, “All right. The deal is on.” She watched him as he carefully filled the sheet, then he got up and moved swiftly toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  Her nerves jumping, she waited until he came back with John Mellon, the banker, and Titus Walker, one of the clerks. “Now, if you’ll just sign right here, Miss Montez,” he said, pausing until she had completed his instructions, “and if you gentlemen will just sign here as witnesses. . . .” He watched quietly until the two had signed, then nodded his approval. “Thank you, gentlemen,” and the men left at once, neither having uttered a word.

  Fuentes took the sheet of paper, signed it himself and put it in the drawer, then pulled a sheaf of bills out of his coat pocket. “I got some of the cash in small bills, Lola,” he said as he counted it out for her. “I thought that might be easier for you.”

  “Gracias, Señor Fuentes!” Lola tucked the bills into the pocket of her jacket and turned to leave. “Good-bye,
Señor,” she said with a satisfying air of finality.

  “Vaya con Dios!” he said quietly, and for a long time after she left, he sat at his desk staring into space, wondering at the thing that had just happened. He took the paper out of the drawer, and his thin lips curved in a cynical smile as he thought of Ramon Varga’s response when he walked in and announced their new partnership.

  Lola made her way across town, acutely conscious of the sheaf of banknotes in her pocket. I’ve got to do it now, she thought, and a heady excitement surged through her as she passed the edge of town and entered a run-down area of small adobe huts. She passed several women, all of them calling to her by name, and finally stopped before a house that seemed to be surrounded by brown Mexican children of all ages. A harried-looking woman came out to meet her, saying, “Señorita Lola, you come to our house!”

  “Hello, Louise. Is Victor here?”

  “Sí. I will get him for you. He is taking a siesta.”

  Lola bent down and picked up a small girl pulling at her skirt, talking amiably with her until a man came outside. She put the child down and said firmly, “Come with me, Victor. I want to talk to you.”

  He was a strong-looking man of some forty years, with piercing black eyes and visible signs of Indian blood. “Sí, Señorita,” he mumbled, and the two of them walked away from the house.

  “Victor, I need your help.”

  “Yes?”

  Lola had thought over what she was going to say, and for half an hour the two of them spoke as they walked along aimlessly. Victor’s heavy face was not one that revealed a great deal, but as he listened and asked questions, he seemed both amused and startled. Finally she asked, “Will you do it, Victor?”

  He nodded at once. “Why, yes, Señorita.”

  “It will be dangerous, you understand?”

  He shrugged and the fatalistic strain of his Indian blood spoke. “It is dangerous to cross Varga, Señorita Lola. But what you wish to do will be a help to my family.”