The Union Belle Read online

  He put on the heavy wool pants and a loosely fitting white shirt, slipped his head through a hole in a serape, and donned a high-crowned sombrero that came down almost to his eyes. All the clothing was old and dirty. “You can look now.”

  He watched her face when she turned, and her expression told him that the experiment was a success. She smiled and said, “Beautiful!” Then she brought the mirror to him. “Look.”

  He stared into the mirror held before him, and was even more aghast at the transformation in his own appearance than he’d been at hers! Shaking his head, he said, “Always wondered what I’d look like when I got old. Now I know—just as ugly as ever!”

  “No, you look like a fine old Mexican laborer—except for one or two things.” She studied him and said, “Bend over—no, more than that, Mark. Put a real stoop in your shoulders.” He did his best, and she clapped her hands together. “That’s fine! Now, take this walking stick that Victor brought—walk, but remember, you’re a very old man—move very slowly—Yes! That’s it! Good! Sort of a shuffle, and you might even stumble at times for effect!”

  She made him practice his walk until she was satisfied, then worked on the details. “Your hands could give you away,” she announced, picking up one of his hands and examining it. “They’re too big and strong looking for such an old man. We’ll have to get some gloves—or better, just wrap them in rags as some poor peons do in winter.”

  For the next two hours Mark watched as the creative mind of the young woman prepared them for the test that lay ahead of them. She was, he decided, like the director of a play, or like a child making up a game and enjoying it immensely. Constantly in motion, she sometimes walked around the small floor practicing the sort of swagger that a young man might employ, sometimes coached him to speak in a mumble, one time pulling off her hat and putting up her hand to arrange her hair in a feminine gesture. When he said “You do that one time in public and we’re busted,” she flushed and nodded. “Tell me about things like that, Mark.”

  Finally her momentum ran down. She packed her things in a blanket in the manner of the Mexicans, and when he moved to put on his gunbelt, she said, “No—let me keep it until we’re clear.”

  As she put it in the center of the bundle, he said, “I feel kind of naked without a gun—but it’s your show, Lola.” He got up and got a drink of water, then looked out the window. “Weather’s getting bad. That sky’s got some snow in it, I think.”

  “Better for us, maybe,” she nodded. “I wish a snow storm would hit. They wouldn’t be so anxious to be out looking for us.” She was sitting on the bed, leaning back with her head against the wall, her eyes closed. He was silent, noting that now that the fit of action was over, she seemed tired.

  Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Mark, do we have any chance at all?”

  He nodded confidently, saying much more strongly than he felt, “Sure we do. I’ve been in worse spots than this many a time, Lola. Thing to do is take it one step at a time. Most people spend so much time worrying about something that never happens, they can’t handle their immediate problems.” He stood up and stretched carefully, favoring his wounded side. “Look at me. Last night I was locked up with a five-year stretch in the pen staring me in the face.” He gave her a quick grin. “Now, I’m just one step away from getting out of Eagle Pass, and that’s all I’m thinking about right now.”

  He hoped the conviction in his voice would restore her obviously flagging courage. An intense curiosity concerning her had grown in him, but he knew it was no time to try to discover what went on behind that smooth face of hers. Instead, he began to tell her of the great Pacific Railroad that was going to be built, and he was pleased to see her relax as the morning wore on.

  After what seemed hours later, they heard voices, and Lola said, “I think it’s time, Mark.” She rose quickly, wrapped herself in her serape, and picked up the bundle. She paused and gave him an odd look, her eyes looking large in the gloom of the small room. “I wish I believed in God. If I did, I’d ask Him to get us out of town.”

  He blinked his eyes, then shrugged. “I’m in just about that same shape, Lola. I believe in God, but I’m not sure He believes in me anymore.” His shoulders drooped as a wave of memory broke over him, bringing a sadness to his face. Finally he said heavily, “I sure haven’t given Him any cause to think well of me the last few years.” Then a tap at the door sounded, and his attention reverted to the present. “We’d better go.”

  He opened the door and they stepped outside to find that tiny flakes of snow were beginning to fall, putting a sheen on the heads and shoulders of the small crowd that stood with Victor looking at them. “This is my family,” Victor said quickly. “Some nephews and nieces, and my aunt Elizabeth and my uncle Roberto.” Elizabeth was a heavy Mexican woman of forty and Roberto was a slight man, advanced in years, but with a pair of bright black eyes that seemed to miss nothing. In addition to the adults there were four children ranging from about six to ten, as far as Mark could guess. Victor saw him looking at them with caution in his eyes, and he said quickly, “Do not worry, Señor. They will speak no English—in fact they will all chatter like squirrels in Spanish. And they know that it is due to the Señorita Montez that they are being taken to my brother’s house.” He shrugged and added, “We have tried to get enough pesos to get them there for many weeks, but could not. We are all very grateful to the Señorita. At last, it is time!”

  The small group covered the distance to the edge of town slowly, and only once did Lola have to say quietly, “Bend lower, Mark—and shuffle your feet on the ground.”

  When they moved onto the main street, Mark felt a streak of alarm run through him, for despite the lightly falling snow, the street was busy. More so than usual, he thought, for he saw several punchers riding mounts with a Box M brand, and there were quite a few townspeople visible, most of them talking in small groups. I can guess what they’re talking about, he thought with irony. Wouldn’t be surprised if Hunter has upped the reward.

  The stage station lay on the far side of the town, and they passed in front of La Paloma Blanca. As they approached the front, Ramon Varga suddenly stepped out and turned to face them.

  “Victor,” he called out, and Mark involuntarily shot a glance toward Lola. She was on the far side of Victor, but when he stopped, she came around to stand beside Mark.

  “What’s all this, Victor?” Ramon demanded. He came to stand in front of the party, putting on his hat to shield his head from the falling snow. “Who are all these people?”

  Victor’s voice was even and unchanged. He shrugged and drew his serape closer around him, saying, “You know I’ve been trying to get my family up to my brother in Quemado.” He thrust his chin toward Ramon and said accusingly, “I asked you often enough to lend me the money, didn’t I?”

  Varga ignored the question, saying, “Well, you got it without my help.”

  “Sí,” Victor said carelessly. “My brother Felipe, he sent his son, Esteban—this young fellow here—with the money to take them back.” He waved in the general direction of Lola.

  Ramon gave her a quick look, and for one brief moment Lola thought her heart would stop, for it seemed that he could not help but recognize her! However, his eyes moved back to Victor, and he said, “Have you seen Lola?”

  “Señorita Lola?” Victor asked in a puzzled tone. “Of course! I saw her yesterday at the cantina.”

  “No, I mean since then—today.”

  “No, not today.” Victor shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s blowing up a storm. Esteban, get these children to the stage—and help your grandfather, you ungrateful whelp!”

  “Sí, Uncle Victor,” Lola said huskily, and came to take Mark’s arm. “Come along, Grandfather—be careful now—the snow makes the ground slippery!”

  Mark allowed himself to be helped down the street, with Lola on one side and one of the women on the other. He heard Ramon say, “Victor, Lola’s run off—apparently wit
h that gunman who shot Boyd Hunter.”

  “Madre de Dios!” Victor breathed. “Is it possible?”

  Mark and the group continued on toward the stage depot, so that he could not hear the rest, but Victor caught up with them just as they arrived at the unpainted building that served as the station. The coach was already in front, the horses stamping and puffing in the cold, the ice flakes coating their eyelashes like tiny diamonds.

  Jake Deifer, the station agent, came outside as they approached, and spotting the group, gave them a sour look. “Get this bunch on board, Victor. Charlie’s worried about the weather.”

  “So am I,” Victor nodded. He looked up at the sky and said, “It ought to be all right as far as Quemado, I think.”

  “That’s what Charlie says,” Deifer nodded. “These people all going there?”

  “Sí. My brother Felipe will pick them up and take them to his hacienda.”

  He would have said more, but the sound of horses approaching caused him to look to his left. “I see Señor Hunter is bringing all his men to town,” he remarked, careful not to look toward Mark and Lola. “He is after the gunman, I suppose?”

  “Been out all night dragging the bushes,” Deifer said, then lowered his voice. “I ain’t never seen the old man so riled, Victor. Keep your head down if he runs into you. He ain’t above puttin’ a slug in anybody who crosses him.”

  “Is his son dead?”

  “No, still hanging on—but it’s an iffy sort of thing Doc Wright says.” He leaned toward Victor and asked, “Did you hear about Lola?”

  “Ramon told me,” Victor said. “She should not have run off with a killer.”

  There was a sudden hubbub as the Box M riders pulled up and dismounted, and Mark looked up to see Sheriff Marsh coming down the street. He looked worried, and there was an obvious reluctance in his gait. As soon as he was close enough, Faye Hunter boomed out, “Hurry it up, Marsh!”

  Marsh pulled up and said quickly, “I got telegrams out to every town within a hundred miles, Mr. Hunter. And the posters are being printed down at Ed’s shop right now. Here’s the original.”

  Hunter scanned the sheet that the sheriff handed him, reading parts of it out loud. “Wanted for attempted murder—Frank Holland. Late twenties. Six feet, 185 pounds. Dark eyes, dark hair. . . .” Hunter grunted in frustration, “Fits half the men in the country!” His marble eyes bored into Marsh’s, and he said, “I want you to deputize every man in this town, Marsh. You don’t even know he’s left town. He could be sitting in a cellar somewhere.”

  “His horse is still at the stable—and nobody’s missing one,” the foreman put in. “He could have walked out of town and stole a horse from a rancher, though.”

  “I’ll search every house in town, Mr. Hunter,” Marsh said, eager to be away from the angry giant before him.

  “See you do,” Hunter nodded grimly. He turned and saw Jake Deifer, the station agent and Charlie Roxie, the driver, listening. “Who’s on the stage, Jake?”

  “A whiskey drummer and a married couple, Mr. Hunter,” Deifer informed him, indicating three people who had stepped outside the station. “And a whole passel of Victor’s family going up to Quemado.”

  “Buenos días, Señor Hunter,” Victor said at once. “I regret to hear of Señor Boyd’s misfortune.”

  Hunter bored his hard eyes into the Mexican, and then let his eyes sweep over the group clustered behind him. He knew Victor, for the sturdy Mexican was one of the best horse breakers in the country. “These your folks?” he asked.

  “Sí. They go to my brother Felipe. You remember him, maybe. He sold you that good gray stallion two years ago.”

  “Yes,” Hunter nodded. “Good horse.” He looked toward the group again, then Victor added, “I will be by to break the new colts now that my brother takes the relatives.”

  The statement distracted Hunter, and he looked back at Victor. “What? Oh, all right.” He took a deep breath and turned back to his men. “Max, feed the boys, then throw them around in a bigger circle. Go all the way to the Redstone Bluffs north and down to Moss creek in the east.” He gave the stage driver a stern look, and said, “Charlie, he won’t be dumb enough to buy a ticket in a town, but he might be smart enough to wait out of town and flag you down. If he does . . .” Hunter paused, then said evenly, “Burn him, Charlie. The reward’s good even if he’s dead.”

  “It’s your say, Mr. Hunter,” the driver shrugged carelessly, “but if we don’t get going, we ain’t going to make it out of town.”

  “Get loaded,” Deifer called, and the three passengers who had been lingering piled onto the coach. “It’s a tight squeeze,” he said. “Seven adults and four kids—but it’ll have to do,” he explained to the middle-aged couple. They agreed, and the whiskey drummer looked disgusted, but nodded wearily.

  “Careful, Grandfather,” Lola said as Mark groped for the step awkwardly. She took his arm, and he pulled himself in, almost falling into the lap of the whiskey drummer, who shoved him off with a curse under his breath.

  The rest of them climbed in and settled as best they could, then Lola, who had squeezed in between Mark and the couple, felt the stage sway as the driver boarded. There was a slight pause, then she heard him shout, “Hup, Babe! Hup, Gyp!” and the stage dipped and the wheels splashed through the muddy streets.

  Lola’s hand was on his, and he turned to look at her from under the brim of his sombrero. Her eyes were bright, and she looked pleased. Despite everything, he saw her lips form a faint smile.

  He echoed her excitement with a squeeze of his hand as the stage, swaying from side to side with its heavy load, cleared the town and headed down the flat, muddy road now fast becoming white with billions of tiny flakes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Into the Storm

  The town of Quemado had no shape; nothing held it together where it sprawled on the prairie. Ten or twelve buildings were flung without thought on the flat surface, and these were flanked by dull adobe houses that clustered together without regard to the formality of streets. It was, Mark thought, more like a random settlement than a town.

  He stood inside a small room crowded with Victor’s family, staring out of the dirty panes of the small window, feeling about as bad as he’d ever felt in his entire life. The ride had been long and uncomfortable, and his fever had risen again. Victor and his bunch had been met by Felipe in a wagon. Victor had spoken softly in Mark’s ear before he left, saying, “There’s a man watching us, Señor. I think maybe you better go with us—you and the Señorita.” He and Lola had piled on the wagon and made the trip to a small farm five miles out of town. There was no snow, but it lurked somewhere out there, he knew, and now he moved closer to Lola where she sat on a packing box close to the fire.

  “We’ve got to move,” he said quietly. “Sooner or later somebody back in Eagle Pass is going to start thinking. If they put it together they’ll be down on us.”

  She looked up at him, noting the red flush that tinged his lean cheeks. “What will we do, Mark?”

  He stood there, his head bowed, and thought about the options. Nothing seemed good to him, but finally he said, “We can’t go north, Lola. We’re bound to hit bad weather, and there’s no way on earth we’re going to make it through the Indian Nations—especially in the dead of winter.” He ran his hand along his cheek, and it gave her spirit a lift to see that he was calm. She knew that now that they were out of town, it was up to Mark Winslow to get them through, and despite the fact that she knew almost nothing about him, there was a steadiness in his face and a deliberate quality in his movements that gave her hope.

  Finally he nodded and looked at her, asking bluntly, “Have you got enough money to buy some good horses?”

  “Yes.” She reached into her inside pocket and gave him an envelope. “There’s almost two thousand dollars in there.”

  He gave her a sharp look of unbelief, then after holding her gaze, he stuck the money inside his shirt, asking dryly, “Your mother nev
er taught you to be careful with strangers, Lola?”

  “She taught me not to trust anybody,” Lola said, and there was pain in the set of her mouth at the memory. Then her lips curved slightly and she said, “You won’t cheat me, Mark.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been around men all my life. I just know.”

  He studied her, wondering why her experience as a dance hall girl had not hardened her more. Even with her hair cut and dressed in the garb of a boy there was a womanliness about her face, the shape of her eyes and the curve of her cheeks that made him wonder how they had gotten away with it. But he said only, “All right.” He looked out the window and then said, “We’ll get Victor to buy us two horses and a wagon. We’ll load the wagon with supplies and take off east. Best hope, I judge, is to get to Galveston quick as we can. We can get some kind of a boat to New Orleans. Once we get there, it’ll be easy to get passage on a river boat up to the Missouri and from there to Omaha. May take us a while, but I’ll feel better if we get out of Texas.”

  Lola stood up. “Let’s ask Victor about the horses.”

  The process went smoother than they thought, for Felipe bought and sold horses. Victor did the bargaining, and once Felipe was aware of the situation, he nodded. “Sí. It will not be a problem. You can have them for what money I have put into them.” It was late afternoon, too late to leave, so they ate a good supper and slept until dawn.

  The next morning all had been done. The horses were saddled and the wagon was loaded with blankets and food, purchased in Quemado by Felipe. Felipe’s wife fed them a big breakfast, and finally Mark and Lola stood beside the horses with Victor and Felipe. Felipe kept glancing up at the sky nervously.

  “That wind, she’s warm now. But me, I think she’s like a woman who’s hated you all year. Even when she smiles, there’s a knife in her hand—just waiting to be used.”