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  She quickly turned away and found a restaurant where she could buy breakfast. A sign over the counter said, “If you don’t like our grub, don’t eat here.” The surly aspects of the sign made her smile. The waitress—a young woman with a full figure and a pair of snapping black eyes—said, “What do you have, sir?”

  “I’ll have whatever you got.”

  “Well, we got steak and eggs. Does that sound good?”

  “Yes, and plenty of coffee and some biscuits if you’ve got them.”

  “Oh, we’ve got all that.” The young woman moved closer and put her hip against Joelle’s shoulder. “You here for long?” she asked.

  Joelle looked up, startled. The girl was smiling at her. “Well, I might be here for a while.”

  “Well, we’ll see each other again. This is the best place to eat.” She hesitated and then said, “I get off at six.”

  Why, she’s flirting with me, Joelle thought with astonishment. Nearly speechless, she kept her old hat on but pushed it back and said, “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “My name is Millie. What’s yours?”

  “Joe Jones.”

  “I’ll get your food, Joe. There’s a dance tomorrow night at the town square.”

  “Well, I’ll have to look into that.”

  Millie winked at her. “We’ll both look into it.”

  Joelle was stunned. Well, I guess my disguise is better than I thought if I got women making up to me! She had looked in a mirror at herself and wondered how she could fool people. Of course, the bulky clothes concealed all the femininity of her figure, and the shaggy haircut helped, but she had no sign of whiskers, of course, and had smoother cheeks than most young fellows had.

  Millie brought the breakfast, which was huge, and nudged Joelle again with her hip. “Don’t forget about that dance.”

  “I won’t.”

  Joelle ate slowly and put Millie out of her mind. A farm in Canada. I’ll never find Aunt Rita, she thought. Now what am I going to do?

  She finished the meal, put a dollar down, and added a quarter to it for a tip. She moved out the door when Millie said, “’Bye, Joe. I’ll be looking for you.”

  “Me too,” she said wryly.

  The sunshine was bright now, but the air was still snappy. Somehow winter might lurk over the peaks, and she had heard about the Arkansas weather in the Ozark Mountains.

  She walked around the town aimlessly and finally returned to the stable. Phillips was there, looking flustered. “I grained that hoss of yours.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Phillips.”

  “I lost my stable hand, dad blast it. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Joe Jones.”

  “You moving on, Joe?”

  “No,” Joelle said, making up her mind instantly. “I’m going to stick around for a while.”

  “Well,” Phillips said quickly, “I could use a man. Young fellow quit. Got gold fever. Headed out for California. If the Indians don’t get him, something else will. Besides, them wagon trains to California don’t start until early April.”

  Joelle thought quickly. If I went out there to California, Harper would never find me, and a working man wouldn’t attract much attention here.

  “How much does the job pay?”

  “Two dollars a day, and there’s a room fixed up in the back. It’s pretty filthy, but you can clean it up. Even got a little stove in there you can cook some meals on.”

  “I’d like to try it.”

  “Well, you’re pretty young, Jones. Usually an older fellow does the job. You know horses?”

  “Yes, I know horses.”

  “The job don’t pay much, but you can stay with your hoss free. I’ll give you a try. You stay on for a week, and we’ll see how we suit each other.”

  “That suits me fine, Mr. Phillips.”

  Joelle went to the corral, and Blackie came to her at once. “I’ll get you that apple right away. It looks like we got a home, Blackie.” She petted his jaw, and he reached out and plucked her hat off her head by the brim.

  “You stop that, you hear me?” She grabbed the hat back, and Blackie drew his lips back. He seemed to be grinning at her. “You’re a comedian, you are. Leave my hat alone!”

  * * *

  THE WEEK WENT QUICKLY, but after Joelle had been there five days, Ben Phillips said, “You’re doing a good job. You just take over.”

  “How do you know I won’t rob you?”

  “I don’t, but I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I won’t do that, Mr. Phillips.”

  “I tested you out, you know. The fellow who came in with that big bay? He gave you twice as much as I usually charge, and you jotted it down. He’s a friend of mine. If you was going to steal, that would have been the place for it.”

  “I’m not one for stealing,” Joelle said.

  “A good way to be. You take care of the livery stable. I’ll take care of the card playing, and I’ll raise your wages to two and a half a day.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Phillips.”

  Joelle watched him go. She felt a moment’s relief. She knew she would have to be careful, but this seemed to be a place to wait. But wait for what? she thought. Then she realized she didn’t know what she was waiting for—unless it was the man in her mother’s dream. But she put little stock in that. She went to feed the horses.

  Chapter Six

  MANNY NOVIS LEANED BACK against the stone wall at the head of his bunk and studied his cell mate. He had shared this cell with Owen Majors for two years, and in all that time had never gotten to know the man. He spoke cheerfully now, a smile on his sharp features. “Well, Owen, you’re gettin’ out of this dump today. You ought to be jumping up and down."

  Owen Majors was staring out the small window. The cold wind that entered didn’t seem to bother him, and he didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes were fixed on the bleak world surrounding the Arkansas Territorial Prison. He had looked out this window every day for two years, and it looked as ugly now as it had the first time he’d viewed it. He turned abruptly, leaned against the wall, and shook his head.

  “I guess I’ll save my jumping for when I get something to jump about.”

  Novis studied the man, as he had often. He was a tall man, six feet two, and everything about him seemed made for hard use. There was a puckered scar over his left hip, Novis knew, and another on his back high up. The face was not handsome, but coarse, jet-black hair and deep-blue eyes centered in a V-shaped face gave him some sort of intensity. He had a wide mouth and a scar at the left corner, and he didn’t smile often.

  “Two years out of a man’s life seems like a waste,” Majors murmured, his voice low, and he coughed at the end of the sentence, a deep cough that seemed to rack his chest.

  “You need to go to the doc about that cough you got, Owen. But I guess you can do that when you get out of here. That sawbones here don’t care whether we live or die.” Novis hesitated, then got to his feet and faced Majors. He had to look up at the tall man and said, “Two years? Why, that ain’t nothing. Some guys have been here for twenty years, and they’ll be here until they dump them in the lime pit.”

  “Guess that’s right.” Resignation, defeat, and despair were melded together and thinly disguised as Majors spoke. He tried to smile and shook his head. “Don’t need to be complaining. Be good to be out of here.”

  “Well, you just shot the wrong feller. The next time you shoot somebody, make sure he ain’t the son of the lieutenant governor of this sorry state.”

  “I’ll do my best to watch out for that.”

  Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the corridor, and a blunt-faced guard stood outside. He said roughly, “OK, Majors, time to go.”

  Owen Majors gathered the few belongings he had accumulated during the two years and shoved them into a sack. “Take care of yourself, Manny. You’ll be out in another year.”

  “I shore will. You go see a sawbones ’bout that cough.”

  “Maybe.”

  The heavy-
set guard opened the door and gestured with his head. “The warden’s waiting for you. He wants to talk to you.”

  “All right.”

  Majors walked down the double row of cell blocks. He knew most of the inmates, and several of them called out as he passed.

  “Watch out for them women out there, Majors.”

  A thicker voice said, “Don’t try to drink all the liquor in the world.”

  Owen smiled slightly and nodded his head, giving a final farewell to the prisoners. The guard, whose name was Morley, said, “A big day for you, Majors.”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Morley.”

  “You’re lucky to be getting out in two years. Anybody else who’d plug a big shot like you done would be here for ten.”

  “I guess the judge was feeling charitable.”

  “Nah,” Morley grunted, “it was all politics. The judge was a Democrat. He wasn’t about to give no hard sentence to anybody who shot a Republican.” He laughed at his own wit, and when they reached the end of the corridor, they passed through a locked gate that was opened by a hatchet-faced guard. “So long, Owen. Be good now.”

  “Sure will, Mr. French.”

  As Owen walked down the hall, his mind seemed to be frozen. The two years he had spent in this place had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He had always been a man of the outdoors, loving the wide spaces, the tall mountains, the rivers and streams, the forest. All those had been taken from him the moment he had pulled the trigger that sent him to prison. He knew that although he might be leaving Arkansas Territorial Prison physically, part of it would always be in his mind—in the dark part that kept bad memories and recalled them during the black night and sometimes when the sun was shining brightly. Some of his other memories weren’t pleasant either, but these last two years were the worst.

  Morley walked with Majors down another hall and through an unlocked door. As Owen stepped inside, Warden Howard Remington was waiting for him. Remington was sixty years old but didn’t look it. His hair was thick and glossy, and he had sharp brown eyes. He was not a big man, but even the roughest of criminals instantly recognized his imposing demeanor.

  “Hello, Owen. Big day for you.”

  “Yes, Warden, it is.” Owen had always found Warden Remington to be a hard man but fair. He played no favorites, was quick to reward obedience, and was just as quick to come down hard on disobedience.

  “What are your plans?”

  “I guess I’ll go to Fort Smith, Warden. A friend of mine is there I’d like to hook up with.”

  “Yes, I thought that’s what you told me, but there’s a storm building up out there. It’s likely to get worse. Cold as a well-digger’s toes.”

  “I’ll make it, Warden, and I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

  “Well, I like to show a little favoritism to the men who try, and you’ve been a model prisoner. You haven’t talked much.”

  “Not much to say.” Owen grinned and coughed deeply.

  “You don’t sound good. If you’d like, you can stay in the prison infirmary. We’ll have the doc look you over. Stay until you get better.”

  “Much obliged, Warden. That’s thoughtful of you, but I’ll make it.”

  “Well, I’ve got some good news for you. Here. You came here in the summer wearing lightweight clothes. They’ll not do you much good in this weather, so I had some of the guards prowl around, and here’s some of the things that were left. They probably won’t fit, but they’ll be warm.”

  Owen moved closer to the table where the warden was standing. “Why, that’ll help a lot, Warden. I appreciate it.”

  “Well, here’s some warm, long-handled underwear you’ll be needing. Some thick woolen socks and a pair of wool britches that’ll be too big for you, I guess, but they’ll keep the cold out. A couple of wool shirts, and here’s this buffalo overcoat. I think it must have come from one of the soldiers. Bulky, but it’ll keep the cold out. And here, here’s a pair of heavy gloves and a cap.”

  Owen felt a surge of gratitude toward Remington. “You didn’t have to do this, Warden.”

  “I know it, but I don’t want to see you back in this place, and I don’t want you to freeze out on the road.”

  “I’ll not do that.”

  Warden Remington put his brown eyes on the big man with an intensity that was almost physical. Owen made a tall, sharp shape in the prison uniform. It was too small—snug around his shoulders and chest. He was a strong man and had done his work without complaint. Now Remington said, “Well, one other thing. I’m sending the wagon to Fort Smith to pick up some prisoners. You can get a ride out there. I’ve thrown a couple blankets in so you can roll up in the back. It’ll be cold, but not as cold as that driver will be outside.”

  “It seems like I’m having to say thank you a lot, Warden.”

  “Come on. I’ll take you down to the kitchen. We’ll fill you up with something hot to keep you going. And here’s something else.”

  Owen took an envelope the warden handed him. “The state gives every man at least ten dollars. I’ve added ten more to it.”

  Owen felt warmth suddenly, something he had not felt for two years. It was as though his heart, mind, and thoughts had been put in a freezer and all life drained out of them. But now Remington’s actions brought a sense of gratitude that caught him off-guard. “I won’t forget you, sir.”

  “Stay out of this place, Majors. It’s no good for you.”

  * * *

  OWEN HAD EATEN VERY well. The warden had instructed the cook to feed him a steak and everything that goes with it. The cook, a skinny man, an albino with a sour look, had obeyed. “Wisht I was gettin’ out. What you going to do?”

  “Don’t know, Leslie.”

  “Well, sometimes I reckon I’d just as soon stay inside. I tried it outside twice, and it wasn’t no good for me.”

  Owen finished his meal and hot coffee. The warmth made him sleepy, but he came awake at once when Remington entered. “The wagon’s ready to go, Owen. Like I say, it’ll be cold.”

  “I’ll make out with the blankets and these warm clothes.”

  “Well, come along then.”

  Owen followed the warden outside to the yard. The prison wagon was waiting. It was a simple flatbed wagon that had been converted with stout walls and barred windows. The driver had to sit outside, and already his face was blue from the cold.

  “You’ve helped me a lot, Warden. I can’t figure it out. You’re not this thoughtful to all inmates when they leave, are you?”

  Remington paused, looked down at the ground for a moment, and then returned his eyes to Owen’s face. “You remind me of my son. He was killed three years ago, fighting the Indians with the Seventh Cavalry. Stay out of here, Majors.”

  “I’ll promise you that, Warden.”

  Owen got into the wagon, and the guard slammed the door shut. “I have to lock her or it’ll flop around,” he said.

  “That’s all right.”

  “Wish I could get in there with you. It’s cold out here.”

  Owen watched as the warden stood back, and when the guard climbed back up into the box, he kept his eyes fixed on the man. Not many like him in the world, he thought. He raised his hand and gave a salute and a wave to the warden, wishing he could say more. The warden nodded briefly, then turned and walked back into the prison.

  * * *

  OWEN WAS WEARING ALL the warm clothes the warden had given him and was wrapped up in two blankets. It was a bone-aching cold, and he was aware that snow had begun falling again. He woke several times, and once the wagon stopped, and they stayed overnight at one of the stage stations. The meal was bad—greasy pork, lumpy potatoes, and half-baked bread, but Owen ate it, not knowing when he would get his next meal.

  The next day Owen spent the journey trying to blot out the last two years of his life. The snow fell hard for the first two hours and then stopped. They were in the foothills of the Ozarks now, and the hills were rounded. As the
sun came out, they glistened as if covered with tiny diamonds. It was a beautiful sight, and Owen Majors feasted his eyes on it. After the gray world he had been in, it was like magic. He felt himself beginning to separate himself from the two years that had been taken from him.

  But the cough continued, and he felt worse and worse. At midday the guard gave him a drink of whiskey that seemed to warm him, but it didn’t help the cough. He finally went to sleep and didn’t awaken until he heard the wagon creak to a jolting stop. The driver suddenly appeared. His name was Lon Allison—a big man with a red face and hands like hams. “We’re here, Majors. Get up.”

  Majors got to his feet, stamped them to bring feeling back, and then moved outside. “Come on. I’m going to eat. I’ll buy you something.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Mr. Allison.”

  “No trouble.”

  They went into a café, and the place was rough, but the food was good. Majors and the guard talked, and once when Owen broke into a coughing fit, Allison turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “You sound bad, Majors. You better go see Dr. Crandell.”

  Owen smiled briefly. “Does he work for nothing?”

  “Not likely, but maybe you could work it out with him. Maybe he’s a good guy.”

  Majors turned to the woman who was serving. She was a short, round-bodied woman with a pair of steady brown eyes. “You know where I might get a room here?”

  “There’s a rooming house right down the street. It’s on the left. Got a sign says rooms for rent.”

  “Thanks.”

  The driver and the guard turned to go, and Allison said, “Stay away from that prison, Majors.”

  “That’s exactly what the Warden said. Thanks for the ride.”

  As soon as the two left, Owen put on his heavy coat and went outside into the biting cold. Before he reached the rooming house, he was coughing again, and he could tell he was worse. When he knocked on the door, a tall, gaunt woman answered. “What do you want?” she said.

  “I need a room.”

  He began to cough and the woman said, “You’re sick.”