Deep Trouble (11 page)

B
ucky rose from the velvet cushions of the couch in the Chatillon Car.

His mother had named the train car. She never missed a chance to gloat about their relation to the important and wealthy St. Louis Chatillons. Though his father’s Shaw relatives were possibly even wealthier and more influential.

He looked out at a collection of ramshackle, one-story buildings and a board sidewalk. Dust everywhere. A wagon or two. Horses tied at hitching posts, standing with their heads down.

He wondered at the stories he’d heard of Louis Chatillon’s longing for the West. That Chatillon blood flowed in Bucky’s veins, but as he watched a tumbleweed roll down the middle of a mostly empty street, he suspected that fur-trapping blood was really diluted.

As he stepped down on the streets of whatever town this was, a man raced up to him with an out-thrust piece of paper. “You’re Mr. Buckstone Shaw?” The man had on a white shirt and black vest. Black bands around his upper sleeves and a distinctive hat made it clear the man worked in the telegraph office.

“Yes.” Bucky saw others from the train, nearly all men, straggling into a bedraggled diner and felt only relief that he’d brought along an icebox full of food and his own cook.

“Telegraph for you, Mr. Shaw, sir.” The man spoke through a moustache so bushy his mouth didn’t appear to move. “It came through an hour ago with instructions that it be delivered as soon as the train pulled in.”

Looking around the dusty town, Bucky was surprised they had a telegraph. It was a very different world out in the West. Quite rugged. He felt that bit of Chatillon blood pulse somewhat, though not enough to risk eating in that wretched restaurant.

Several men scurried around unloading mail and filling the water car from an overhead tank. Steam chuffed out of the engine as it growled and chugged without moving.

Bucky took the paper, and his first impression was that it was very long for a telegraph. His second was that his already completely upside-down life had just gotten far more complicated. He pictured Shannon’s dark eyes, beautiful, thick dark hair, and perfectly cleft chin. Her straight little nose always buried in some fusty old papers of her father’s. He tried to make himself believe she was worth it. It didn’t matter anyway. Simple human decency demanded he go save her. His third was more primal. Someone had tried to kill Shannon. She needed him, and he’d go save her. Then he’d drag her home by her hair and marry her and make sure she never wandered off again.

“What’s she doing in Flagstaff—and where is Arizona Territory? Are we in it yet?”

“Excuse me, sir?” The telegrapher jumped and wrung his hands.

Bucky wondered what exactly his mother had done to engender this level of nerves in the telegraph operator. Money had no doubt changed hands. “I need to get my train car detached and put on the tracks heading to”—Bucky referred to the wire—”the Arizona Territory. I need to get to Flagstaff.”

Bucky looked at the telegraph operator, who looked back, a baffled expression on his face. “There ain’t no tracks to Flagstaff, sir. I’ve got to get back to the telegraph office. I’m not supposed to leave my station.” The man as good as ran away.

With no clue how to proceed, Bucky went into the decrepit train station restaurant.

Approaching the engineer, who was eating what might be a steak, Bucky controlled a shudder and, though he found it humiliating to ask directions, said, “How do I get to the tracks heading to Arizona? I need to get my car attached to a train heading for Flagstaff.”

The engineer, in his black suit, soaked with sweat, chewed as he looked at Bucky. “There ain’t no other tracks in town, mister.”

Mulling the problem, Bucky realized he might have to wait to change directions in a somewhat bigger town. “When is the next town where I can reroute my car?”

“These are the only train tracks until the end of the line.” The engineer turned to the man beside him.

The coal man no doubt, judging by the man’s face being blackened with soot, added, “Best you can do is take a stagecoach south. You can hook up with the train in Albuquerque. That’ll take you into Flagstaff.”

“Stage just went through yesterday,” a woman called from an open door that appeared to lead to a kitchen. She came out with a pot of coffee and began pouring. “Won’t be another one through for a week.”

“Then how do I get there from here?”

The room fell silent. Finally, one man said, “Ride a horse, how else? Gotta go about three days south.”

“He can make it in two if he pushes hard, and he’d better. No good water along the way.” The woman continued pouring coffee. “Two to the train, then another two or three to Flag.”

Raising his letter, Bucky said, “My fiancée is in terrible trouble. We last heard from her in Durango, but now we’ve gotten a wire from Flagstaff, and she’s in danger somewhere in the wilderness north of there. I need to get to her as quickly as possible. And I’ve got four men traveling with me to act as guides and to help me track Shannon.”

“What’s a fiancée?” the coal man asked around a mouthful of meat.

Bucky opened his mouth to explain.

“You’ve got good horseflesh in the cattle cars.” The engineer went back to sawing his steak.”

“I got a brother hunting work,” the coffee pourer said. “He’s been all over New Mexico and Arizona Territory. He’d be obliged for a few days’ work. He’d even go with you to hunt down your
fency
in the wilderness.”

“Fi-an-cée,” Bucky spoke all three syllables carefully. “The woman I’m engaged to.” Not quite engaged, but Bucky didn’t have time for unimportant details.

“Havin’ a hard time keepin’ track of your woman, greenhorn?”

Bucky wasn’t sure who said that, but he was sure about half the restaurant laughed. It was embarrassing, but since it was true, he didn’t bother getting into an argument. “Since the day I met her.” Bucky shook his head, and the restaurant laughed again, but he didn’t let it pinch because there was a definite note of sympathy.

“I’ll go get my men. Can someone here unload my horses and saddles?” Bucky knew how to ride a horse well. He spent most mornings riding in the park near his home. The men his mother had hired seemed to be competent sorts.

The engineer sighed and gave his mostly devoured steak a mournful look. “I’ll get ‘em for you, Mr. Shaw.”

The man was so agreeable, considering his reluctance, Bucky wondered about his mother and money again. Bucky had a bad feeling he was going somewhere no amount of his family’s money could penetrate. “And can we find your brother, ma’am, so I can get going? I can see you’re busy, but it’s urgent we move quickly.”

“Gracie,” Coffee Pourer shouted at the top of her lungs toward the kitchen, “go get Willard moving. I found him a job.”

“I’m goin’, Ma.” Bucky heard a door slam.

He went back outside and reread the telegraph. Men had tried to kill Shannon? She’d been rescued and taken to a settlement of friendly Navajo Indians north of Flagstaff?

Bucky’s blood turned ice cold even in the heat. All that was Chatillon in him woke up and prepared to fight.

He saw the engineer come out and head for the train car that held his horses.

He raced for the train to tell his men their plans had changed. And to tell his cook he was now apparently going to have much less work to do. Reaching his car, he yelled, “We’re heading south on horseback.”

The cook poked his head out of the tiny kitchen area of the car. “On horseback, Mr. Bucky?”

With narrow eyes, Bucky glared at the cook. “Call me Buck. And you’re staying here.”

The cook heaved a sigh of relief.

“Go find the men and tell them to get packed up fast.” Bucky—now Buck Shaw, a much better name for an adult man, especially in the West—packed the minimal amount of supplies, took what food would transport, then went to help load the horses.

His men, who stayed in sleeper cars with the regular folks, there not being room for them in Buck’s private car, were with him before he’d gotten his own horse saddled. They seemed eager for action.

“We’re all ready, Mr. Shaw,” the oldest of the four men said.

“Call me Buck.”

The men nodded, and they swung onto horseback just as a man who proved to be Willard rode up. Their trail guide. On his say-so, they added a lot of water to their supplies and let their horses drink deeply before they set out. They were on the trail south before the train had pulled out of the station.

Buck’s worry built with each passing mile as he prayed he’d get to Shannon in time to protect her. He decided then and there he’d marry her as soon as he caught up with her. With or without her permission.

It was the Wild West. It was a man’s world out here. He fully intended to take control of his willful woman once and for all.

They bedded down near a red rock wall just as the sun set. Doba built a fire of scrub brush that was soon crackling and warm. They made a quick camp meal of jerked meat, hardtack, and coffee and were soon rolled up in their sleeping bags.

“Father!” The whisper was sharp and anxious.

It woke Gabe from a sound sleep. “Who’s there?”

A voice shushed him.

“It’s Ahway, my son.” Doba’s voice was so low Gabe could barely hear it.

“What are—?”

Gabe practically threw himself across the camp to slap his hand over Shannon’s mouth. “Quiet.”

From behind his hand, she said, “Gabe, I—” “Shh.”

He heard Doba speaking with someone but couldn’t understand the words. Then Doba’s voice rose enough to be heard. “Quickly.” Doba’s voice was an urgent hiss. “Pack up. Bad men.”

Gabe heard a horse, off a ways, restless, tossing its head and sending a metallic click in the night air.

Doba left the fire burning.

Gabe didn’t douse it. Firelight and the scent of wood smoke carried a long way in the thin air of the high desert. The wind was blowing from the east, too, the direction the rider approached from. Gabe heard a second sound that made him sure there was more than one rider, and they were definitely coming this way. They had only minutes to clear out.

Emmy appeared out of the dark so suddenly Gabe almost went for his gun. The girl grabbed both saddles then vanished back into the night, toward where Gabe picketed his horses. With quick, efficient motions, Gabe helped break camp. By the time they were done, Emmy had all the animals in their leather and stood with a boy close to her age, Emmy’s brother, Marcus, who held the reins on all their mounts, and Ahway.

Parson Ford strode to his horse, and Gabe noticed Ahway hand the reins to Emmy. Then Ahway and Marcus helped the parson mount up without a ruckus.

Gabe caught Shannon’s hand and dragged her to her brown and white pinto.

Tossing her up in the saddle, he strapped on the bedrolls and saddlebags, then caught her reins and mounted his own horse. The Hosteens went first. Doba followed and the parson. Gabe looked at Emmy, who made a gesture that Gabe should fall in line. Quietly he led Shannon away.

Once they’d left the shelter of the fire and rock, the wind cut through Gabe’s clothes. It had to be worse for Shannon. He wished he’d kept a blanket unrolled to wrap around her. She had no heavy coat. He should have thought of that at the Kinlichee homestead.

Shannon’s horse emerged from the sheltered area, and she gasped audibly from the cold.

“Shhh.” He whipped his head around in the darkness and waited until she nodded. He felt merciless, but silence was their only protection against a bullet until they put some rocks between them and their visitors. Doba led, and Gabe was acutely aware of every boulder they passed that added something solid between themselves and Doba’s “bad men.”

Without the glow of the fire, the whole world went pitch black. Gabe’s eyes adjusted quickly, and he looked back to see Shannon, washed blue in the moonlight, riding behind him. Emmy, Marcus, and Ahway rode single file, with Ahway bringing up the rear. Gabe wanted to ask Doba a thousand questions, but now wasn’t the time.

They’d gotten out, but maybe Doba had misread things. Maybe whoever was out there in the dark would ride up to camp and call out nice and proper. Maybe they could go back to the warmth of their fire.