away, toward the lace curtain and the familiar sad spectacle of Sierra Street all churny with mud and dirty water from the snow-melt. And no sunshine; just winter gray.
“Well, it was very heroic …”
“Just to sit there? I don’t think so.”
“You’re wrong. Maybe it wasn’t dime-novel heroics, but it was brave. You knew he was a killer. But we won’t argue,” she said, coming closer. “Time for you to drink this nice hot …” Through the steam from the mug, she sniffed something. “Lou Hand, have you been imbibing?”
“Definitely. Bottle in the drawer over there.”
“Why?” she said, with mystification and some outrage.
“To work up courage.”
“For what?”
Almost as terrified as he had been at the Congress Hotel, he couldn’t reply for a minute. Inside the heavy bandage on his left foot, which was resting on an old footstool, he hurt, badly. Doc Floyd had confirmed that the vanished Bob Siringo was an artful shot, or at least a lucky one, because Lou might indeed be permanently crippled, since some muscle or other had been severed.
“For what, Lou?”
“For asking—Jesse—would you consent to become my wife?”
When she got over the surprise, he asked her politely whether she would bring from the bureau the little news clipping from the Atlanta paper. She knew what it was; she saw it when she cleaned the rooms of her boarders once a week. He uttered a soft thank-you and immediately tore the clipping in half, then in quarters, which he dropped on his lap robe.
“Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because, Jesse, I realized the last day or so that the same dream won’t work for everybody. And it’s nobody’s fault that it doesn’t.” He clasped her big, work-rough hand. “I’ve got my own dream, Jess. Come with me back East. We’ll make out somehow. Let me show you Florida while there’s still time. Sitting there with Siringo, I realized there isn’t as much as I always pretended. Will you go?”
She crouched down beside him, eyes tear-filled, which was something quite unusual for a woman of her independence and strength.
“Of course I will, Lou. I’ve always wondered why you couldn’t work up nerve to ask.”
She smiled and put her right arm around the shoulder of his nightshirt. He was, as usual, dreadfully, resentfully cold.
But that wouldn’t be the case much longer.
The Woman at Apache Wells
T RACY RODE DOWN FROM the rimrock with the seed of the plan already in mind. It was four days since they had blown up the safe in the bank at Wagon Bow and ridden off with almost fifty thousand dollars in Pawker’s brown leather satchel. They had split up, taking three different directions, with Jacknife, the most trustworthy of the lot, carrying the satchel. Now, after four days of riding and sleeping out, Tracy saw no reason why he should split the money with the other two men.
His horse moved slowly along the valley floor beneath the sheet of blue sky. Rags of clouds scudded before the wind, disappearing past the craggy tops of the mountains to the west. Beyond those mountains lay California. Fifty thousand dollars in California would go a long way toward setting a man up for the rest of his life.
Tracy was a big man, with heavy capable hands and peaceful blue eyes looking out at the world from under a shock of sandy hair. He was by nature a man of the earth, and if the war hadn’t come along, culminating in the frantic breakup at Petersburg, he knew he would still be working the rich Georgia soil. But his farm, like many others, had been put to the torch by Sherman, and the old way of life had been wiped out. The restless postwar tide had caught him and pushed him westward to a meeting with Pawker and Jacknife, also ex-Confederates, and the robbery of the bank filled with Yankee money.
Tracy approached the huddle of rundown wooden buildings. The valley was deserted now that the stage had been rerouted, and the Apache Wells Station was slowly sagging into ruin.
“Well, it was very heroic …”
“Just to sit there? I don’t think so.”
“You’re wrong. Maybe it wasn’t dime-novel heroics, but it was brave. You knew he was a killer. But we won’t argue,” she said, coming closer. “Time for you to drink this nice hot …” Through the steam from the mug, she sniffed something. “Lou Hand, have you been imbibing?”
“Definitely. Bottle in the drawer over there.”
“Why?” she said, with mystification and some outrage.
“To work up courage.”
“For what?”
Almost as terrified as he had been at the Congress Hotel, he couldn’t reply for a minute. Inside the heavy bandage on his left foot, which was resting on an old footstool, he hurt, badly. Doc Floyd had confirmed that the vanished Bob Siringo was an artful shot, or at least a lucky one, because Lou might indeed be permanently crippled, since some muscle or other had been severed.
“For what, Lou?”
“For asking—Jesse—would you consent to become my wife?”
When she got over the surprise, he asked her politely whether she would bring from the bureau the little news clipping from the Atlanta paper. She knew what it was; she saw it when she cleaned the rooms of her boarders once a week. He uttered a soft thank-you and immediately tore the clipping in half, then in quarters, which he dropped on his lap robe.
“Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because, Jesse, I realized the last day or so that the same dream won’t work for everybody. And it’s nobody’s fault that it doesn’t.” He clasped her big, work-rough hand. “I’ve got my own dream, Jess. Come with me back East. We’ll make out somehow. Let me show you Florida while there’s still time. Sitting there with Siringo, I realized there isn’t as much as I always pretended. Will you go?”
She crouched down beside him, eyes tear-filled, which was something quite unusual for a woman of her independence and strength.
“Of course I will, Lou. I’ve always wondered why you couldn’t work up nerve to ask.”
She smiled and put her right arm around the shoulder of his nightshirt. He was, as usual, dreadfully, resentfully cold.
But that wouldn’t be the case much longer.
The Woman at Apache Wells
T RACY RODE DOWN FROM the rimrock with the seed of the plan already in mind. It was four days since they had blown up the safe in the bank at Wagon Bow and ridden off with almost fifty thousand dollars in Pawker’s brown leather satchel. They had split up, taking three different directions, with Jacknife, the most trustworthy of the lot, carrying the satchel. Now, after four days of riding and sleeping out, Tracy saw no reason why he should split the money with the other two men.
His horse moved slowly along the valley floor beneath the sheet of blue sky. Rags of clouds scudded before the wind, disappearing past the craggy tops of the mountains to the west. Beyond those mountains lay California. Fifty thousand dollars in California would go a long way toward setting a man up for the rest of his life.
Tracy was a big man, with heavy capable hands and peaceful blue eyes looking out at the world from under a shock of sandy hair. He was by nature a man of the earth, and if the war hadn’t come along, culminating in the frantic breakup at Petersburg, he knew he would still be working the rich Georgia soil. But his farm, like many others, had been put to the torch by Sherman, and the old way of life had been wiped out. The restless postwar tide had caught him and pushed him westward to a meeting with Pawker and Jacknife, also ex-Confederates, and the robbery of the bank filled with Yankee money.
Tracy approached the huddle of rundown wooden buildings. The valley was deserted now that the stage had been rerouted, and the Apache Wells Station was slowly sagging into ruin.
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