The Union Belle Read online

  “Very well, let’s go over it one more time—and you must explain it very carefully to your family. . . .”

  They talked for another fifteen minutes, then she pulled the sheaf of bills from her pocket and counted out some of them. He shoved them inside his shirt, and she left him at once. It was almost three when she returned, and her sister was raging.

  “Where have you been?” Maria demanded. “That idiot of a cook Ramon hired has burned most of supper. Get in and help him with it or we won’t make a dime tonight.”

  “All right,” Lola said easily. She put her arm around the other woman in an unexpected gesture and said, “Don’t fret, Maria.”

  “Well enough for you to talk!”

  Lola said gently, “Maria, do you ever think of the time when we were little girls?”

  Maria stared at her, nonplussed by the unexpected question. “No. I never think of it.”

  “I do. I was only four, but I remember my father, I think. You must remember him very well.”

  “He was a religious fanatic!” Maria exclaimed. “Mama and I couldn’t stand it—that’s why she made him go. You would have hated it, too, if you’d been older! Church all the time—and always talking about Jesus!”

  “He was kind though, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, he was kind enough—but he drove us crazy with his churchgoing.” Maria continued to stare at her half-sister. “Why are you asking about him?”

  “Oh, I just think of him sometimes.” Lola tried to make her next question seem casual. “I don’t think I ever heard Mama mention what his family name was. Do you remember?”

  “No. Now get the supper fixed! You can think about him later!”

  Lola was disappointed, but she knew better than to ask Maria any more questions. She nodded and went to help the frantic Barnabas remedy the dinner.

  She tried to stay in the kitchen as long as possible, but soon Ramon stomped in and barked, “Get dressed and into the bar, Lola. It’s already full.”

  She ran upstairs and changed into the low-cut dress he had bought, and for the next four hours she moved around the bar, singing from time to time and keeping the glasses filled. At exactly ten o’clock, she went to Ramon and said, “I’ve got to go to bed.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know, but my head is killing me! I nearly passed out just now.”

  From behind the bar Maria noticed Lola clutching her forehead. “Is something wrong?”

  “She’s sick, she says.”

  “It’s my head, Maria. It hurts so bad I’m sick to my stomach.”

  Maria shrugged. “Well, you won’t do any good getting sick in here. Go on to bed.”

  “Can I have some of that laudanum for the pain?”

  “It’s in our room—on the shelf by the clock,” Maria said. “Be careful with it, Lola. It’s strong stuff.”

  “I will. See you in the morning. I’m going to try and sleep this off.”

  She left and headed straight to the kitchen where she picked up a half-full pint bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. Then she went to Maria and Ramon’s room to get the medicine. It was in a brown bottle, and she carefully laced the remainder of the whiskey with several large spoonfuls of the dark liquid. She corked the bottle, then went to her own room.

  Moving quickly, she pulled an ancient suitcase from beneath her bed and began to throw her few belongings into it. She had so little that there was plenty of room. She left the gaudy dress on, for it was part of her plan, and finally she made up her bed, using two old blankets to fashion a form that she hoped would pass for someone sleeping. If either Ramon or Maria came close, they would discover her ruse at once, but there was little else she could do.

  She opened the door, and seeing nobody in the hall, took the back stair that led to the garden behind the cantina. She walked rapidly down the alley, and the loud music and shouts of the crowd at the bar began to fade as she made her way along the muddy alley.

  She reached the end of the alley and glanced out at the dimly lit main street. The window of the jail glowed with an orange light through the darkness, and when she was sure the street was empty, she opened the suitcase and removed the bottle of doped whiskey. Leaving her suitcase in the alley, she set out toward the jail.

  Her breath was coming in short puffs and her fingers were trembling, but she forced herself to ignore the nervousness overtaking her. Quickly she walked along the boarded sidewalk, loudly singing a well-known bar song. She hesitated at the door, still singing—then knocked on it, calling out in a slurred voice as though she were drunk: “Hey—Tomas! Tomas! Open the door!”

  She continued to call until the door opened slightly. “Lola? Is that you?”

  She laughed loudly and pushed at the door. “Course it’s me. Who’d you think it was?” She entered the jail, noting at once with relief that one cell was empty. She turned to Tomas, a young man who had long admired her, and said, “Know what? It’s my birthday, Tomas!”

  He stared at her, for he had never seen her drink before. She threw off the coat and stood there with the whiskey bottle held up. “You just—got to—have a drink,” she said in a drunken tone. “To shelabrate—my birthday!”

  He took the bottle, but said, “Lola, I’m not supposed to drink when I’m guarding a prisoner.”

  She moved closer, put her arms around him and pulled him close. He nearly jumped out of his skin at her touch, and she whispered, “Oh, come on! What kind of a man are you? Won’t drink with a girl on her birthday?” She ran her fingers through his hair, and whispered, “Please! Just for me?”

  Tomas had had many dreams of Lola, more or less like what was happening, but never dared hope they’d actually come true. He turned the bottle up and took a swallow, then tried to hand it back, but she pouted, “Oh, that was such a little drink, Tomas! Is that all you think of Lola?”

  He broke out into a sweat, turned the bottle up, and she watched as his adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed. “There!” he gasped when he lowered the bottle. “Happy birthday!”

  She put the bottle to her lips, pretended to drink, then handed it back. “Your turn!”

  He gulped nervously, then took another hefty swallow. She took the bottle and put it on the table, then said, “Now, you and me . . . we gotta have a dance, Tomas—for my birthday!”

  He seized her and they whirled around the floor as she sang a song in Spanish. Around and around they went, but when he tried to kiss her she laughed merrily, “Not yet—first another drink!” And once again she pretended to drink after he swallowed two big gulps of the potent liquor.

  She knew he wouldn’t last long, and when she tried to dance with him again, he stumbled and almost fell. “Can’t—stand up!” he gasped. Then he shook his head. “Gonna be sick!”

  “Here, Tomas,” Lola said. “Lie down and be still for a minute. You’ll feel better.” She guided him to the cot and helped him down. He closed his eyes, and she stood beside him looking down into his face. His breathing was rapid, but gradually it slowed down, and soon his mouth fell open. “Tomas?” she whispered by his ear, but he made no answer.

  Swiftly she removed the key from the ring on his gunbelt. Winslow was ready and waiting next to his cell door even before she inserted the key and unlocked the door. “Let’s get out of here!” she whispered.

  “Right.” He moved to the desk and opened a lower drawer, pulling his gunbelt out and buckling it on. “Where to now?”

  “This way.” She led him to the door, and after a glance outside, said, “Quick, there’s nobody on the street.” He followed her as she ran lightly down the walk and turned into the alley. She picked up her suitcase, and turned to leave, but he took it from her. “Let me carry it.”

  “All right, but hurry!”

  The night was intensely dark, and they stumbled through the alleys until finally clearing the town. By the dim light of the moon Mark could make out a series of small huts. They all looked a
like to him, but she guided him to one and opened the door. He followed her, but stood inside unable to see a thing.

  “Shut the door and I’ll light the lamp,” she whispered. He did as she asked and heard the sharp scratch of a match, then the blue spurt of flame flashed in front of him. The wick of a lamp caught, and the yellow light framed the girl as she stood there holding the chimney. Carefully placing it on the lamp, she turned to face him.

  He nodded and said, “You did fine!”

  She put a trembling hand to her cheek and said faintly, “I’m beginning to get scared!”

  “It always caught me that way,” he said. “I always got the shakes after the fight. Sit down and maybe I can find some water.”

  He found a heavy olla in the corner of the one-room hut and poured some of the water out into a mug for her. “Whose place is this?”

  She took a drink of the water and followed it with a deep breath. “It belongs to a man named Victor. He’s going to help us get away.”

  He walked around the room, examining it carefully. “That’s going to be quite a trick,” he observed. “They’ll find out we’re gone, and every hole will be stopped up.”

  “I know.”

  Her sudden calmness amazed him, and he said impulsively, “No matter what happens from now on—thanks for this much.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not doing it for you, Holland. I’m doing it for me.”

  He grinned. “Afraid I’ll get too close to you, Lola? Don’t be. I made you three promises—and I’ll stick with them all. But the fact remains—you got me out of that tin can, and I’m grateful no matter why you did it. By the way, my real name is Mark Winslow.”

  She nodded and took another sip of the water. “Do you want to hear what we’re going to do tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Whatever plan you’ve got, it’s probably better than mine.” He wiped his sweating face and eased himself down onto the dirt floor.

  “Are you sick?” she asked in alarm.

  “To tell the truth,” he nodded, “I have felt better. But I can make it. Now, what’s on for tomorrow?”

  She gave him an embarrassed smile and said ruefully, “When I thought of this way of getting out of the country, it made sense, but now it just seems silly, even to me.”

  He took a drink of water and shrugged. “Let’s have it. The good Lord has brought me this far. I don’t think He’ll let us down now.”

  Lola’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “You have faith in God?” He didn’t answer at once, but after a long pause he replied, “Well, I guess not—but some of my family does. Maybe a little of their faith will rub off on us. We could use all the help we can get right now.”

  She regarded him intently for a moment, then said, “They’ll be watching for us. You can bet Faye Hunter will have his men pounding down every trail and checking every stage looking for you.”

  “You’re right there,” he nodded. “So what do we do?”

  “We give them something different to look at.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “People see what they’re looking for,” she explained. “They’re looking for a tall young gringo and a Mexican girl. What we’ve got to do is become something else.”

  “Okay,” he said unsteadily, feeling his fever rising, “and how do you propose we do that?”

  She responded evenly, “I’m going to cut my hair and dress up in men’s clothes. You’re going to shave your beard and I’ll dye your hair white so you’ll look like a very old man. Then Victor and about ten of his relatives are going to get on the stage with us. Anybody looking will see a bunch of poor Mexicans, among them a young boy and an old man.”

  He lowered his head and stared at the floor. He was still for so long that eventually she broke the silence, “You think it’s crazy, don’t you?”

  He lifted his eyes, bright with fever, and smiled slowly.

  “It’s the only game in town, Lola. And we’ll play our stack for all it’s worth!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Escape From Eagle Pass

  A small sound broke through Mark’s fitful sleep, and he jerked up on the cot with his gun in his hand.

  “It’s only Victor,” Lola reassured him quickly, and he slipped the gun back under the pillow as she opened the door to admit a muscular Mexican who looked across the room at him with a pair of steady black eyes.

  “I brought you something to eat, Señorita,” he said, placing a covered dish on the floor. He handed her a bundle he’d carried in his other hand, saying, “I got the things you asked for.”

  Taking the sack from him, Lola asked, “Did you get the tickets for the stage, Victor?”

  “Sí. Be ready at ten-thirty. We will all walk to the station together.” He looked directly at Mark and said, “Señor, you are a very valuable man. Señor Hunter will pay two thousand dollars to the man who delivers you to him. Everyone in town is out looking for you. The sheriff has wired all the stage stations and train depots as far away as Dallas.” A light of humor touched his steady black eyes as he added, “I could retire and live well on that much money.”

  Winslow gave him a careful look, then a smile touched his own lips. “Hold out for more, Victor. He’s got the money.”

  Victor laughed, then grew serious. “Do exactly as the señorita tells you. All of us are in God’s hands, for if you are found out, we will all suffer.” He wheeled and left the room without a sound, and Lola moved at once to throw the bolt.

  “We must eat now while we still have time,” Lola said, and they sat down and chewed the tortillas and beans, washing the sparse breakfast down with water from the olla. As soon as Lola finished, she stood up and moved to her case. She opened it and began to lay items out on the bed. He watched as she propped a mirror on a battered chest, then took a pair of scissors out of the bag. She moved back to the mirror and loosed the pins that held her hair. Mark admired the glossy waves of dark hair that fell to her waist, and something like a shock ran through him as she deliberately lifted the shears and began to cut through her hair in the back. Large tresses fell to the floor as she began to work toward the top, shaping the crown carefully.

  “Hate to see that,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Doesn’t seem right to cut your hair.”

  “It’ll grow back,” she answered calmly. She moved the shears with precision, and after making a few more cuts to the front, she put the shears down. Picking up a bottle, she shook some liquid out into her palm and began to work it into her hair, and with that done, she took a comb and brush and brushed it back in the style so admired by many Mexican dandies.

  Mark, feeling weak after a feverish night of tossing on the narrow cot, sat and watched as she picked up a dark brown bottle and poured some of the contents onto her palm. As she began to work it into her face and neck, she realized he was watching and stopped. “Please turn your back,” she asked.

  He lay down on the cot, turning his eyes to the wall, and she at once removed her dress and began to work the liquid into her neck and the top of her chest. When she was satisfied, she gave him a quick glance, then, pulling off the rest of her clothes, put on the things that Victor had brought. They made up the garb of a young Mexican male, and included a pair of dark brown breeches, a white shirt, a short jacket with silver buttons, a pair of half boots with high heels, and a tall sombrero. When she had dressed, she wrapped herself in a gaily colored serape, pulling the borders close over her chest.

  “How do I look, Mark?” she asked, turning to face the cot.

  He rolled over and sat up, noting her use of his first name. She saw his eyes widen and blink. He got to his feet and stared at her in consternation, for the haircut had altered her beyond recognition. Her face looked more slender and the style made her eyes seem smaller. Though she still had a feminine look, he admitted, “Beats anything I ever saw, Lola!” He shook his head, adding, “Why, it’s like magic! A beautiful young woman turns into a Mexican dandy!”

 
She laughed, the first time he’d heard her do so, and went to admire her work in the mirror. “Just what I wanted—and it’ll look better before I’m through. Now it’s your turn. A troop of actors came to perform at the cantina last year. I got to be good friends with one of the actresses. She did the make-up for all the others, and I used to watch her. She left this case by mistake. I started to throw it away—now I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “Going to use that stuff on me?”

  “Yes. First, you shave.” She waited until he had shaved, using cold water from the jug, then she said, “Sit down where I can reach you.”

  He took a seat in the only chair, and she picked up the shears and began to cut his hair. As she worked, trimming the hair that had only been hacked off roughly two weeks earlier in the Mexican prison, the touch of her fingers made him feel strange. She was absorbed by the task, but when her face was directly in front of his, he was forced to look at her, and could not help admiring the satiny complexion of her face and the smooth curves of her neck.

  Finally she stepped back, examined him critically, then nodded. “Now for the dye.” She took a bottle out of the case, shook it up, and began to apply it carefully to his hair, working it in toward the scalp. It took fifteen minutes to do the entire thing, and when she had finished, she handed him a cloth, saying, “Cover your eyes—I need to do your eyebrows.” He obeyed, and then she said, “Take your shirt off, Mark, so I can tint your skin.”

  When he stood up and took off his shirt, she stared at his bandage, appalled, exclaiming, “That has to be changed!” She temporarily abandoned her make-up work to change the soiled dressing, wash the wound out carefully, then make a clean dressing from one of her petticoats. “No infection,” she announced with a smile, and she reached for the dye and deftly applied it to his face and shoulders. She looked at him, then smiled, “You look funny! All brown down to your chest, then pale as a plucked chicken!” Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, something he had not noticed before. “Put these clothes on, and let’s see what you look like,” she said as she turned her back to him.