Authors: Madeline Baker
Tug whistled under his breath as he took the coin. “Twenty dollars. Where’d you get this?”
Jassy licked her lips nervously. ”I earned it.”
Tug looked skeptical.
“How long will it take for my letter to reach Canon City?”
“I don’t know. Probably two weeks, maybe longer, depending on the weather.”
“And the other one?”
Tug made a vague gesture. “About the same, I reckon.” He counted out her change and handed it to her. “Say hi to Rose for me.”
“Yes, I will. Bye, Tug.”
“So long, Jassy.”
Tug watched her out of sight, wondering where she’d gotten hold of a twenty dollar gold piece. Earned it, she’d said. If that was true, he’d like to be her next customer.
He stared at the two letters in his hand, frowning when he read the address of the first one. Why would Jassy McCloud be writing to Judge Parker? He swore softly when he saw the address on the second envelope. Creed Maddigan!
Tug Harper grinned. That explained everything. Jassy had been hanging around with the gunman. Apparently that hadn’t been all she’d been doing.
Humming softly, he pulled the shade over the window. Rose had come in earlier, promising to make it worth his while if he intercepted any letters from Jassy. The way Tug figured it, two letters ought to be worth twice as much.
* * * * *
“Four thousand dollars!” Ray Coulter whistled softly. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what the letter says.” Rose pressed a hand over her heart. Creed Maddigan had left Jassy a fortune in cash and the ungrateful little chit hadn’t said a word about it.
“We could go places with that kind of money,” Coulter said, his voice soft and silky. “Get married, even.”
“Married!” Rose squealed. “Do you mean it?”
“Why not? I got no reason to stay in this jerkwater town now that my boy’s dead. We’d be good together, Rosie. Married, with that much money, we could be respectable. We could go west, to California maybe, or east, to New York. What do you say?” Rose stared at him, her mind reeling. It was everything she had ever dreamed of.
“We could even take your sister, if you’ve a mind to,” Coulter offered generously. Jassy McCloud was a pretty little thing. He’d always wondered what was hiding under those shapeless rags Daisy had dressed her in.
Rose shook her head. She’d never felt any affection or warmth for her sister, nothing but jealousy. Daisy had always protected Jassy, coddled her. Jassy had always been Daisy’s favorite, and everybody knew it. Jassy could have gone to work at the Lazy Ace any time, but Daisy had kept her home, saying she wanted to keep Jassy out of the saloon until she was eighteen, even though she’d let Rose go to work at sixteen. In spite of all her talk that Jassy was too immature, Rose knew that Daisy had secretly hoped some decent man would come along and offer to marry Jassy and thereby spare her a life of degradation.
“Rose?”
She blinked at Coulter. “What?”
“You haven’t answered me.”
“Jassy’s a big girl now. Milt will hire her.” Rose chuckled, thinking there was justice in the world, after all. “She can take my place.”
“Does that mean it’s you and me?” Coulter grinned at her. “Come on, girl, let’s blow this town and head for the big city.”
“You got any money of your own, Ray Coulter?”
“I’ve got a few hundred stashed away.” Taking her hand in his, Coulter gave her his most seductive smile. “So, Rosie girl, where do you want to go first?”
“I don’t know.” Rose smiled, suddenly excited by the prospect of running off with Coulter, of leaving this dreary little town and starting a new life in a new place. “Anywhere you want to go is fine with me.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Frisco, Rosie girl. You go home and change, and I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
With a squeal, Rose threw her arms around Coulter and kissed him. “Tell Milt I quit!” she exclaimed, then hurried out of the saloon.
Creed stared, unseeing, at the passing countryside as the wagon lurched over the badly rutted road that led out of town. The handcuffs chafed his wrists and ate at his pride. As the miles passed by, he cussed Harrington for shackling his hands behind his back, making it impossible to swat the fly that was buzzing around his head.
He was vaguely aware of the desultory remarks of the other two men in the iron-barred wooden cart. One had been convicted of murder, the other for bank robbery. Both claimed to be innocent, but then Creed had yet to meet a felon who admitted to being guilty. But, dammit, he was innocent, at least of the crime they’d convicted him of.
Of course, he was guilty of a number of other things, not the least of which was falling in love with a girl who made him feel as if he had hung the moon and the stars just for her.
Jassy. Sweet, sweet Jassy with a mane of dark red hair and luminous brown eyes. Jassy, with lips as warm as sunshine, as soft as dandelion down, as intoxicating as hundred-proof Scotch.
Jassy. He wished now that he had made love to her that day in the valley, that he had buried himself in her sweetness, immersed himself in her youth, her goodness. Right or wrong, he wanted to be the one to show her how good love could be between a man and a woman. He wanted to watch her eyes as he sheathed himself within her, hear the harsh rasp of her breath as she discovered what passion felt like.
And yet, perversely, he was glad he hadn’t touched her. It would have been a crime to steal her innocence, to rob her of her virtue and leave her with nothing. She deserved more than that. So damn much more. He’d done what he could. He had given her a stake. Now all he could do was hope she would use it to make a new life for herself.
Sunk in despair, he withdrew into himself as Black Otter had taught him so many years ago. Staring at the raw planks beneath his feet, he blocked out the voices around him, the iron bars, the dismal future that awaited him. Traveling down the corridors of the past, he thought of places he hadn’t seen since childhood, of people he had loved who were long dead.
He didn’t realize the wagon had come to a halt until one of the guards jabbed him in the back with the barrel of his rifle.
“You there, Maddigan, haul your butt out here.”
Choking back the angry retort that rose in his throat, Creed stood up and made his way toward the door and down the narrow steps.
There were three men guarding the wagon. Milt Watkins was the eldest, an easy-going Texan who knew all the tricks. Joe West was only a couple of years younger. He was tall and lean, with a pock-marked face and deep-set brown eyes. Mort Sayeski had only been on the payroll a short time. He had a shock of red hair and a temper to match.
“Rest stop,” Sayeski explained curtly. “Sit down over there and don’t try nothing funny.”
Creed glared at the guard. He reminded Creed of a banty rooster, all bluff and bluster. He had scared eyes and a finger that constantly stroked the trigger of his rifle.
“I need to take a leak,” Creed said.
Sayeski raised the barrel of the rifle until it was leveled at Creed’s chest. “So do it.”
“Can’t.” Creed felt his jaw clench. Damn, but it was humiliating to have to ask a snot-nosed kid’s permission to relieve himself.
Mort stared at the prisoner for a moment, and then understanding dawned. “Turn around,” he ordered. “Milt, keep him covered.”
A muscle worked in Creed’s jaw as the young guard unlocked the cuffs. He knew they wouldn’t take the cuffs off him again until they reached Canon City and he knew a sudden, irrational urge to make a run for it before it was too late, before his freedom was taken from him forever. But the sure knowledge that he couldn’t outrun a .44 slug squelched the urge.
Obligingly, he turned around and held his hands out in front of him so the guard could slip the cuffs back on.
Mort Sayeski swallowed hard as he saw the black rage smoldering in the half-breed’s eyes. Unable to help himself, he took a step backward, then brought his rifle up, his finger curling around the trigger.
“Stay where I can see you,” he warned. “And don’t try nothin’.”
“Kid, if we were alone, I’d wrap that Winchester around your neck,” Creed retorted, and turning his back on the bug-eyed guard, he walked into the bushes.
He’d bide his time, he thought. Sooner or later, he would find a chance to escape and he’d take it. He had to take it, cause there was no way in hell he was gonna do twenty years behind bars.
* * * * *
Jassy pulled the covers up to her chin, blinking against the bright morning sun that filtered into her room. Her first thought was for Creed. The second was for the letters she had sent. She knew, she just knew, that the judge would believe her story and that Creed would be acquitted. Only two more days, she thought, two more days until the stage bound for Canon City arrived, and when it left again, she’d be on it.
Smiling, she turned over and buried her face in his pillow.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of talc and tobacco smoke that lingered in the pillow covering. Closing her eyes, she relived those moments in Creed’s arms, remembering the taste of his kisses, the feel of his arms around her, the husky sound of his voice when he whispered her name.
“Creed.” Just saying his name made him seen closer somehow.
She remembered how he had come to her rescue in the alley, jumping into the fray like a hero in a story book. He had been there to comfort her when her mother died. He had bought her the first nice dress she’d ever had. He was, she thought, the first real friend she had ever had. And even though he was gone, he was still taking care of her.
Scooting over to the edge of the lumpy mattress, she lifted the bedspread and reached under the bed for Creed’s saddlebag.
Sitting up, she dumped the contents on the bed, her hands moving lovingly over the soft doeskin shirt. Picking up the choker, she fastened it around her neck, her fingertips sliding over the smooth blue and yellow beads.
She picked up the moccasins and turned them over in her hand. It made her feel good, wearing something he had worn, touching something he had touched.
Slipping out of bed, she went to her hidey hole. Removing the wrinkled picture from the wall, she reached into the narrow opening, her fingers closing on empty air. Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the opening. Her father’s gold watch was gone. And so was the buckskin pouch.
Feeling sick to her stomach, she hurried out of her room and went into Rosie’s bedroom. It was empty. The bureau drawers were open, and empty, as was the small wardrobe that had held Rose’s clothes.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Jassy went into the small parlor and then into the kitchen. Both were empty.
Rosie was gone, and she had taken Creed’s money with her.
Feeling lost and completely alone, Jassy sat at the table, put her face in her hands, and began to cry.
When she had no tears left, she washed her face and brushed her hair, then put on her green dress and new boots. Taking a deep breath, she left the house, determined not to return until she had a job.
* * * * *
It took near three weeks to reach Canon City. During that time, Creed’s nerves grew ever tighter, the rage and the anger building within him. The slow-moving cart seemed to close in around him, growing smaller and smaller each day. The cuffs that shackled his hands were a constant reminder of the freedom he had lost. He resented being told what to do, when to eat, when to sleep, and he knew it would only get worse.
The young guard, eager to prove he wasn’t afraid of a half-breed gunfighter, rode him hard after the first day. As if to prove his bravery, Sayeski began ordering Creed around, demanding that he gather wood for the fire, that he unharness the horses at night and put them in the traces in the morning. He was constantly making snide remarks about Creed’s ancestry, or making derogatory comments about hired guns, declaring they were the lowest scum on the face of the earth.
Creed took it as long as he could and then, unable to control his temper any longer, he did what he’d been longing to do since he was first arrested. He gave in to the urge to hit something.
Mort never saw what hit him. One minute he was relaxing against the wagon wheel, jabbering about the superiority of the white race, and the next he was flat out on the ground with blood pouring out of his nose.
Creed was breathing hard as he stepped back. It had been a stupid move, hitting the boy, and he knew he’d pay for it, but damn, it had felt good.
Retribution was swift. Milt and Joe West came running to the boy’s rescue. Creed grunted with pain as the Texan struck him across the back with the butt of his rifle.
“You okay, Mort?” West asked.
“He broke my nose,” Mort complained, using a dirty kerchief to mop up the blood.
“Want me to break his?” Joe West grinned at Creed as if he’d be only too happy to oblige.
“No, I’ll do it.”
Creed braced himself as Sayeski lurched to his feet. He glanced briefly at the two guards who were standing on either side of him now, and then at the other two prisoners, who were sitting in the shade of the prison cart.
Creed swore under his breath as Sayeski came to stand in front of him.
“Why’d you hit me?” the kid demanded.
“Because you’re a little shit with a big mouth.”
A flush crept into the kid’s cheeks as his two companions started to laugh, obviously agreeing with the gunfighter.
Creed saw the indecision in the kid’s eyes, knew the exact moment when Mort decided that hitting back was the only way to save face. Avoiding the kid’s fist was no trouble at all.
The flush in Mort’s cheeks went from bright pink to dull red as his fist closed on empty air.
Milt and Joe West were laughing out loud now, clearly enjoying the boy’s embarrassment.
“Hold him!” Mort shouted.
“What?” Milt stared at Mort, then shook his head. “Forget it.”
“I said hold him!”
Joe West shrugged. “What’ll it hurt to let the kid take a few swings?”
“I don’t know.” Milt shook his head. “It don’t seem right.”
“Just hold him, Milt, or I’ll tell Walt about that little escapade in Amarillo.”
Milt glared at the younger man. “The ’breed’s right, Mort,” he muttered as he grabbed hold of Creed’s right arm. “You do have a big mouth.”
Joe West was grinning as he grabbed hold of Creed’s left arm, then drew his sidearm and jabbed it in the half-breed’s side. “Just so you don’t try anything stupid.”
Creed stared at Mort, his gut clenching as he waited for the kid to get down to it. The boy was short and stocky, his arms and legs well-muscled from years of hard living.
With slow deliberation, Mort propped his rifle against a rock, rolled up his shirtsleeves, flexed his arms and hands.
Standing in front of the half-breed, he took a boxer’s stance, hands up, legs slightly spread. And then he lashed out, landing two short hard jabs to the prisoner’s mid-section.
Creed grunted as the breath was driven from his body. Pain spiraled through him and he would have doubled over if not for the two men holding him up. The kid had a hell of a right hand, he mused, he’d give him that.
For the next ten minutes, Mort vented his humiliation on the half-breed, not content to stop until there was blood running from the prisoner’s nose and mouth. Stepping back, he rubbed his bruised knuckles, and then he glanced at his companions, seeking their approval.
Milt shook his head. “I hope Maddigan never catches you alone in an alley,” he remarked, releasing his hold on Creed’s arm.
Sayeski snorted disdainfully. “I ain’t afraid of him.”
“You would be, if you had the sense God gave a goat,” Milt retorted.
“Is that what you think, too, West?”
Joe grinned. “A smart man knows when to back off.”
Sayeski swelled up like a balloon about to burst. “You sayin’ I ain’t smart?”
“I’m not saying anything, kid.” Holstering his sidearm, West released Creed’s arm. “But Milt’s right. You’ve got one coming.”
Ignoring Mort and the others, Creed bent at the waist, taking deep breaths as he sought to control the pain knifing through him. Blood oozed from a cut in his lower lip and he wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve, then lifted a tentative hand to his nose. Sayeski hadn’t managed to break it, after all.
They reached the prison at midday. Creed knew all about the penitentiary. It had once been his misfortune to share a jail cell with an ex-con who had done some time at Canon City. Built by convict labor, it was made of cut stone. The prison itself fit inside the main building and contained thirty-nine cells arranged in three tiers. The roof was made of tin to reduce the risk of fire. The floors were of brick. Adjoining the prison was a bakery, the kitchen, and quarters for the staff. A massive stone wall surrounded the prison site. It was said that only death or a reprieve could get a man out of there. All work done within the prison was done by convict labor. Prisoners were also put to work quarrying stone and making brick which was used in the building of the town.