Arizona Gold by Patricia Hagan Page B

ain’t more’n a little bit ugly, she can get a job at a dance hall. You know, dancin’ and being nice to the men to get ’em to buy drinks.”
    “What if she didn’t want to do any of those things?”
    “She could always be a soiled dove. They make lots of money.” He slapped his knee and gave a nasty laugh. “Hell, I’ve sure spent my share with ’em through the years.”
    “What’s that?”
    He looked at her in wonder. “Well, what do they call ’em back in Virginia, boy?”
    “Call who?”
    “Whores.”
    Once more she turned away, this time to hide a blush, though it was doubtful he could see her face the way her hair hung so straggly.
    “They call ’em soiled doves out here. But while they might make a good living, it’s rough. But some of the prettier ones usually find a husband.” Suddenly he slammed a beefy hand on her shoulder, and she nearly fell out of the box. “I’ll bet you ain’t never had a woman, though, have you? How old are you, anyway? Seventeen?”
    “Nineteen.” That, at least, was not a lie, Kitty thought morosely.
    “And you never had any?”
    She stiffened. “I really don’t like talking about it.” He began to slap his knee over and over as he cackled, “I knowed it. I knowed it. I knowed it. You ain’t never had a woman. Well, I’m gonna make you a promise since you been so good about helpin’ me out on this run. When we get to Tombstone, I’m gonna take you to see Jenny Lou, my favorite whore. She’ll fix you up just fine. I’ll even talk her into givin’ you a special price, too, and—”
    Suddenly, screams split the air like knives ripping canvas, as Indians dropped from the boulders above.
    Taken by complete surprise, Rufus was felled by one blow of a deftly swung war club and toppled over the side.
    Hank, also caught off guard, was struck and pitched to earth without so much as a grunt.
    Kitty, however, had caught a glimpse of movement just as the shrieks erupted. She twisted in time to miss being struck by her attacker, and he landed on his back, then bounded up and toward her. She kicked him in the groin, and he stumbled backward and fell off.
    The reins were flopping loose, the mules out of control as they began to gallop recklessly ahead in the wake of all the screaming.
    Kitty was reaching forward, trying to retrieve them, when she heard a shriek and thud as another Indian dropped behind her.
    She drew her gun and fired just as the wagon lurched wildly, nearly tossing her off. She struggled to hang on, but the Indian, with a loud oath, grabbed her as he fell.
    Kitty felt a sharp pain as she hit the ground. Then, from far, far away, beyond the gray, smothering fog that seemed to wrap about her, she heard voices speaking a language she did not understand.
    “How bad is it?” Ryder asked Coyotay.
    Coyotay was already back on his feet, blood streaming from his shoulder. “It is a clean wound. The bullet went through me. I can still ride.”
    The other warriors had surrounded the stage. One of them opened a door, then turned to look at Ryder in wonder. “It is empty. There are no passengers.”
    Ryder swore. He had checked the stage schedule himself—passing for white, of course—and it was the same as he had read in the telegram. Kitty Parrish was supposed to be on it, damn it.
    He nudged the boy with his foot. The boy did not move.
    “Go see if you can wake the others and bring them to me,” he yelled to his warriors.
    Yanking off the scarf that held back his long hair, Ryder began binding Coyotay’s wound. “We must get back to the camp and have this tended. You are losing too much blood.”
    “I will live,” Coyotay said between tightly clenched teeth, “but not this one—”
    Drawing his knife, he dropped to his knees to straddle the boy, who lay in a dazed stupor. Fingers twisting in the youth’s hair, he brought his head up and was about to slash his throat when Ryder acted swiftly to squeeze his wrist in an iron-like vise and sternly