The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 4, Part 1

By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber 

Posted 01- 21-18 

Chapter 4, Part 1

December 16, 1871, Continued

Paul gave Myra time to saddle her riding horse. He still wasn't sure what to make of her. Bandits couldn't be trusted, of course, but the judge had put her under orders, so he didn't think she could cause him much trouble during their short outing.

As they rode side by side, Myra stayed silent, giving only short answers to whatever question the lawman put to her. The latter knew enough about potion girls to sympathize, but despite rough starts, those at the saloon had managed well enough.

Almost before the deputy realized it, he and Myra were climbing the steepening grade into Stagecoach Gap. This happened to be the first local robbery of the kind that had occurred since he had accepted the badge, but it was a common enough occurrence. One newspaper had said that there were more stage robberies around western Arizona than in any other part of the West. The abundance of gold and silver was mainly responsible. Eerie's prospectors did well enough, but so far no great fortunes had been discovered on the southern side of the Superstitions. The thing that kept the gold-seekers going was the legend of the Peralta mine.

The earlier residents thereabouts had passed on to the Yankees a lost treasure story that had come out of Mexico, but there were several versions. Some said that a rich strike had become lost when miners hid the shaft and fled to escape an Apache uprising. Not many made it home to tell the tale. After Mexico resettled the region, the lore these new people brought up from their southern home drew in many hopeful Americans. 

Once the stars and stripes had been run up the flag pole, the local Spanish-speaking village was quickly transformed by a wave of arriving treasure-hunters. But Peralta had hidden his mine too well; there was no trace left. The cynics began calling it a myth, but most folks thought that there had to be some truth to the legend. Jane Steinmetz, one of the potion girls at the saloon, never denied that she had found a mule skeleton and a bag full of nuggets while poking around the foothills. Such reports kept the hopes of the current crop of prospectors alive.

Suddenly, the deputy's thoughts snapped back into the present. They were riding between low cliffs. “Where's this Secret Canyon?” Grant asked his glum companion.

Unsmiling, Myra pointed. “In there.”

Paul could now pick out a rock-wall cleft several feet wide. He wondered if he had ever noticed it before; he had ridden though the Gap often enough, but without paying much attention. “We'll leave the horses here,” the deputy said. He swung down to the ground and the girl also dismounted, though without much enthusiasm. With their mounts tied to a couple of scrawny mesquites, Paul started made for the arroyo, saying, “We'd better start searching. The light won't last for long.”

Myra followed him the deep ravine that she knew so well. “You know this place,” Grant remarked. “Where would you hide a strongbox?”

The girl had decided try to feign cooperation, while keeping an eye out for opportunities. She thought it would be fairly safe to tell the lawman only those things that he could already see for himself.

“The box might not even be in the canyon.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the skyline of the steep cliffs. “ If I were them, I'd have taken it up over the rim.”

Paul now surveyed the escarpments and the talus slopes. “I doubt it. They'd have a hard enough time climbing that high, even without that heavy chest.” His glance lowered to the canyon floor. “And they'd have know that they didn’t have much time before the stage would be sending back word about the robbery. So, the gang would have buried the loot quick-like and gotten the hell away, just as soon as they could.”

Myra shook her head. “The ground is rubble and rock. And they didn't even have a shovel.”

The man scratched his chin. “I figure that they could only have hidden a strongbox in a place like this is by piling rocks on top of it.”

“If you say so,” the auburn lass replied sullenly.

Grant stepped away from her his guide started checking around for any suspicious-looking rock mounds. Myra sat down on a flat stone, not wanting to help him locate what she saw as rightly hers.

This could not turn out well, she realized. If Paul Grant failed to find the loot immediately, he would simply fetch back additional men and expand the search. In that case, it probably wouldn't take very long for them to turn the thing up. When that happened, all her plans for living a good life would be in ashes. She would be left where she was, with nothing to fill her days except chores and boredom.

“I think I've got it!” Grant yelled.

Myra felt a jolt. She hadn't supposed that the smartest man alive could have hit upon the hiding place so quickly. She saw him moving rocks at exactly the right spot and knew it was over. She had suddenly become even poorer than she had been as a roaming outlaw. What had it all been for? As Myron, she would have manged better punching cows for a miserable twenty-five dollars per month. As she was, what could her life ever be?

The potion girl got up, drifting toward Grant until she stood behind him. On impulse, Myra picked up with two hands a stone that looked heavy enough to kill with. She lifted it as high as her face, but found herself unable to strike; it was like she was suddenly paralyzed. The stone fell out of her trembling grasp, and Paul, looking over his shoulder, sent the girl a quizzical expression. Myra looked away. It was sinking into her mind that she wasn't able to hurt anyone, not even to save that huge haul of gold for herself.

“Well, this has been easier than I expected,” the deputy was saying. “We'll head back and I'll leave you off at the farm. Like the judge said, I'm going to need help transporting this thing.”

“Wait a minute,” Myra said. “You'd just leave it out in the open? Somebody might poke his head into this canyon after we're gone.”

“It'll be dark soon,” said Paul.

“I'm thinking about the bandits.” And she was. If she couldn't have the loot, the stage company might as well get their shipment back. Myra was double-sure that she didn't want Ike and the Freelys to start living high on the hog. The very idea of having to wear gingham and do chores while those three spent themselves silly in fancy hotels, saloons, and cat houses was too much to bear.

“Why do you care so much that the gold gets back to its owners, Missy?” asked Paul.

She gritted her teeth at the term “Missy,” but didn't see any point calling him out on it. It wasn't like she could beat him down and make him apologize. “I don't care at all. But I'll get better treatment if I help out, won't I?”

“Who's treating you badly? You aren't a prisoner.”

“Well, I – I want my aunt to think better of me,” she lied.

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“We hide the chest somewhere else.”

That got Paul to thinking. The two of them couldn't haul the box far. Even if they actually got it out of the canyon, they didn't have tools for burying it. Frowning, he removed more rocks to ascertain how the chest was made. He had seen several transport company strongboxes before. This one was strongly made and reinforced with iron bands. The heavyweight handle on either end was wide enough for a man to grip with two hands. That gave him an idea.

“Help me get this chest unburied,” he said.

They scattered the pile of rock fragments until the box was laid bare. He tested its heft. Hot damn! It must have weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds. At that point, Paul brought up his horse, Ash, and tied the lasso around the two handles, and also around the body of the box. In this way, all the stress wouldn't fall on just the hand grips when the box was dragged. He quickly went to get his horse Ash, and then fixed the rope about the beast's chest, forming a breast collar.

“I'm going to put my back to it,” the deputy told the girl. “You lead Ash along. If he balks, smack him with your hand.”

When the pulling began, progress was made. Every rock along the way snagged the chest by a corner or an edge, but they persevered. It wouldn't be smart to drag the box out of the canyon, Paul had decided. There was sand and soil outside that would have left telltale skid marks. So, he instead chose a burial spot within a few yards of the ravine's mouth, a long depression, probably produced by centuries of rain flow. Into this they pushed their burden and then covered it over with rocks, like the gang had originally done. 

Because the light would be failing soon, Paul intended to be back with some helpers at first light. In the meantime, to mark the spot, he placed two white quartz rocks to serve as a sighting line aimed at the point of concealment.

By that juncture, both were panting. “Whew,” the lawman sighed. “That turned into a smidgen of a chore. I hope it was worth doing.”

“Y-Yeah...” replied his breathless companion.

As he got his wind back, Grant sized up this taciturn young female. He knew it must be sticking in her craw to say goodbye to so much gold. He wondered how, exactly, Myra Olcott would get along from that day on. “You had a close shave, from what I hear, gal,” he remarked. “Most high-line riders don't last long, and you were lucky that you didn't get cut short three days ago. If an outlaw's cohorts don't back-shoot 'im, the court'll probably string him up. Even those fellows who don't swing can't hope for much better than a decade or so in some hog sty of a desert prison. The way things turned out, you can probably keep going scot free until you're ninety.”

“I'd rather swing young than be an old woman!” she declared.

The lawman shook his head. “The potion gals back at the saloon used to talk like that, too. They've settled down quite a bit since then.”

“I'm not a gal!” Myra declared. “Even if I look like one, I'm not!”

Paul sighed. This was a sour young lady, for sure. But Jessie had been that way, too, not to mention most of the other gang members. Maybe Myra would be seeing things differently, too, in a few months. He decided to go mum. There was no sense having a yelling match with some hot-headed kid feeling sorry for herself.

Once rested, the pair hid their traces as best they could. After that, in the deepening shadows, they returned to the farm. Deputy Grant left Myra at its gate and pressed on toward town. The frustrated and dejected girl was left staring in the direction of the Gap. The sun would be down very soon. It killed her to think that all the gold up there was somebody else's for the taking. She couldn't do anything about it, being forbidden to stray far from the house after dark. The girl doubted that she would sleep a wink all that night, spitting mad that the gold that she had sacrificed so much for was slipping away.

#

The Olcott girl was barely aware of the food that she was putting into her mouth a little while later, though her aunt was a fair cook. Supper consisted of cornmeal pudding, hoe cake, cooked cabbage salad, and chicken. In better spirits, she might have appreciated such a meal.

The distracted Myra had been so far ignoring most of Mrs. Fanning's questions. Irene now tried again. “You haven't said what you and the deputy did with the treasure you found.”

“It's still up there.” Her tone was sneering and self-pitying.

“Well, I'm glad that the matter has been laid to rest so quickly. Myra, stolen gold is dead man's gold. No good ever comes out of thievery. If you pray and repent, you can put this whole terrible year behind you.”

“I prayed plenty for Ma and Pa. Prayer doesn't do any good.”

“Maybe the Lord let us save your life so He can put you on the track of a better fortune.”

She sniffed. “I've always thought that my life was so rotten that it couldn't get any worse. But I was wrong. The little that's left of it now is a hundred times worse.”

“At least you're back where I can look out for you.”

“I have to look out for myself; no one else will.”

Irene was incredulous. “That's not how things are.”

“Who says?”

“The Good Book.”

“Humphh!”

Mrs. Fanning sighed. “I do care about you, Myra. That's what family is for. Maybe deep inside, you care about me, too.”

The girl's expression remained bitter. “Did you do what you did to me because you cared so much?”

The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, that's exactly right. Did you want me to let you die instead?”

“It seems to me that I did die.”

Irene shook her head. “I can't help but think that the Lord was doing you a kindness, not letting you get hurt until you were in the one place on Earth where you could be saved. It has to be a sign that your life is worth something. Maybe you only have to watch and listen to find out what the Almighty's plan for you really is. Think how awful it would have been had you gone to judgment without the chance to repent.”

“Nothing good has ever come my way. No reason to think it ever will.”

Irene regarded her niece patiently. “Sometimes new opportunities raise their head when we least expect it. We just have to keep alert and grab at them before they pass us by.”

There suddenly came a knocking on the door, a hard jarring. It put Myra on her guard and startled Irene.

“Who can that be?” the latter said. “Mr. Grant shouldn't be back until morning.”

The farm woman went to the door and drew it open. A strong hand came out of the darkness and shoved her away. She staggered against a chair but managed not to fall.

Myra stared. There, in the flicker of a draft-swept lantern, stood Ike Bartram.

#

The girl looked around for a weapon; there was nothing within arm's reach.

“Both of you sit down, and you won't get hurt,” the young outlaw said. Ike stood six-one, and was about twenty. His face could coax smiles from saloon women, but Myra remembered times when that same face had turned so cougar-mean that it could set even formidable men back on their heels.

And he wasn't alone. Two saddle tramps had pushed in behind him. The Freely brothers. Jeb, the younger, had a look that gave him a fighting chance to be elected village idiot, but Myra knew that he was actually a little smarter than his larger brother, Horace, and not quite so nasty. Most people called the latter Freely “Horse.”

“What are..?” Myra began. But she clammed up fast. She couldn't let these good-for-nothings realize that she knew them.

“Are you here to rob us?” Irene asked.

Ike shrugged. “We can use those horses you got.”

“Well...that's all we have,” the farm woman protested. “There's hardly any money.”

The Freelys decided to move up closer, now that money had been mentioned.

“Where is Thorn Cadwell?” the gang leader asked, not loudly, but his voice was rough and intimidating.

Irene blinked. “He's...He's not here. He...He hasn't been here since last winter.”

“Why do I think otherwise?” asked the badman. “Maybe it's because we recognize that horse and saddle of his in your corral.”

Myra spoke up; she knew how to lie better than her aunt did. “Somebody came into town and told the sheriff about the robbery. They said that Thorn Cadwell was shot. Nobody's seen him since the robbery. The horse just wandered in.”

Ike snorted. “That polecat was fit enough to give us the slip. It seems to me that he'd go down to see his auntie, with that piece of lead in him, I mean.”

“What do you want with Thorn?” Irene blurted.

“We just need to ask him a few questions. Like, what did he tell the law?” The desperado looked hard into Myra's eyes. “I don't buy it that he didn't come home. You gonna tell us the truth, Sweet Face?”

Myra hardly dared to offer any clumsy lie to such a man. She decided to deal out half-truths. “Okay, you got it right. Thorn rode in three days ago, hurt bad...”

The outlaw cut her off. “Hey! I know you! You're that Yuma saloon gal. Gilana. Thorn was sweet on you. I get it! You came out here to meet him and divvy up the gold.”

Myra's mind raced. This sudden twist wasn't necessarily a bad one. If Ike thought that she was Gilana, let him.

“You're...you're right again,” she responded haltingly. “Thorn said he was going to split off from your gang once he got his share. He asked me to meet him at his aunt's farm, and then we'd head out East. Did you really think that he'd rather hang with you sidewinders instead of me?”

The girl's admission seemed to make Ike pause and think. “That god-damned fool! He was actually dumb enough to tell a woman about our plans.”

“I'd never betray him,” Myra said. “He showed up Wednesday afternoon, a bullet in his gut. He didn't have any gold with him.”

“I know he didn't leave with the gold! But he must have told somebody in town, and they went after it!” the outlaw shouted. “I'd also like to know how much he told the wrong people about his friends. Is that bastard still alive?”

Myra's mouth tensed grimly. “No. Irene and me put him into the buckboard and went into town for the doc to work on. He died on the operating table.” She tried to look sad.

“So who did he tell about the gold? It was you, wasn't it?”

Irene raised her chin. “He talked to the sheriff, not with us.”

Ike drew his Colt up level with Myra's breast. “Is that right, Gila Monster?”

The maiden frowned. That was the disrespectful name which Ike had starting calling Gilana, once he'd figured out it was Thorn that she liked, not him. “All right,” the potion girl said, “I'll tell you what really happened.”

“It's about time,” rumbled Ike.

With a deep breath, Myra began weaving a story on the fly: “The sheriff came. He was a mean cuss and made Thorn tell where the strongbox was. The sheriff organized a posse to chase you varmints down, but he left the recovery of the chest to his deputy. It was the deputy who went up to get the gold. He had somebody along to help him. They found the strongbox real quick, because it was hardly hidden at all. They took it back to town.”

“Oh, no they didn't,” Ike challenged. “We were watching with field glasses. We saw a girl and some cowpoke come out of the Gap empty-handed. Why would they be there if the gold was already gone? That girl, by the way, was you.”

Hell! Who would ever have suspected that the gang would have been up there spying on them? “Well, you're too late!” she exclaimed. “The deputy should be back out this way any minute with a wagon and a group of men.”

“Not likely,” sneered Ike. “If he's a lawman, he's not paid half enough to make him want to work on a cold night. He'll probably wait for morning. We've got time enough to take the gold out and get on the trail before then. Where did you two stash that strongbox? I'd say it's still in the canyon.”

Ike was damned clever; he always had been. Myra chose her next words carefully. “It was too heavy for us to take far. We moved it just a little closer to the canyon mouth, and hid it under some rocks.”

“So you say. Or maybe you're sending us on a wild goose chase, giving the law time enough to sweep back this way. You'll have to come along with us, Gila Monster. If you're not shooting square, you won't like your comeuppance!”

“Don't take her!” Irene exclaimed. “Take me!”

Ike scowled. “Did you see the gold hidden?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Don't listen to her!” Myra yelled. “She never left the farm. I'll go.”

Ike took Myra by the arm and yanked her to her feet. She tried to shake off his grip, but it was like iron.

The outlaw looked back over his shoulder. “We got no time to kill. Jeb, Horse, tie auntie up. She'll keep until the law comes to let her loose.”

“Come on,” Ike told the potion girl, dragging her after him. But when Myra neared the open door, she started fighting back.

“What's the matter with you?” demanded the outlaw.

“I can't go very far from the house after dark. It's a rule.”

Ike laughed incredulously. “How did this potato-digging woman get you so buffaloed? Listen, Pretty Face, you'll go or...” He glanced toward Irene. “I'll cut off the tip of your friend's nose. It would be a shame.”

“A-au...Ma'am?” gasped Myra. “W-Would it be all right if I went out to the Gap with these... gentlemen?”

Irene looked perplexed, but realized what the problem was. “Yes, you can go. But come home as soon as you can do so safely.”

Myra nodded. These words of permission sounded like a gate opening in front of her.

Ten minutes later, the party of four was riding through the late-season darkness of Riley Canyon Road. The gang had stolen both of the farm's horses, and they also had in tow a third animal, a sorry looking critter. Myra guessed that it must have been purchased cheaply; no self-respecting horse thief would have bothered with such a specimen.

Instead of letting her ride any of the designated pack horses, Ike had jerked Myra up into the saddle in front of him. His arms controlled her but were still able to grasp the reins. Occasionally, he would drop his left hand to grope her belly, her breasts, and her thigh. It infuriated the girl, but the outlaws were pressed too hard to allow Ike time enough to do anything worse.

“Horse thieving is a hanging offense,” Myra reminded the man behind her.

“Some things are worth the risk,” he said. “Gold is one of those, for sure. But there are a few other prizes worth the chance of the draw, too.”

Ike pinched her breast again; this time she poked him with her elbow.

He laughed. “You're a feisty little heifer, now ain't you?”

END OF PART 1; CONTINUED IN Chapter 4, Part 2

The Falling Star: Chapter 6, Part 1

Posted 01-07-18
Revised 02-08-21

 

 

An Angel From Hell story

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 6, Part 1

The Watcher allowed the security man to prod her into the elevator and take her down to a  cellar level.  She was hoping that it was there that Pelosia Wittke was confined. 

The part of the floor the elevator opened upon looked something like the cell area of a county jail.  No surprise there.  Of what use was the Cabal to Satan, after all, if its main priorities were not captivity, trafficking, sexual exploitation, gulag imprisonment, blood sacrifice, and genocide?  Adam and Eve, with their taste for forbidden fruit, had left the whole human race vulnerable to the servants of Satan. Still,  it was hard for the Watcher to feel much sympathy for the sufferers of the Earth.  Why didn't they open their eyes and see what was  happening all around them?  

There were so many oppressed and so few oppressors.  They could have turned the tables on their poisoners, murderers and rapists in a single day.  As far as Jezebel was concerned, anyone who paid so little attention to what their leaders were actually doing to them, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, deserved exactly what they got.

At the moment, though, the girl in red was preoccupied with finding Holly – and she was nowhere to be seen.  Jezebel had to get the prisoner out of the place before her angel powers faded again.

The aura of the man beside her glowed a subdued purple, meaning that he wasn't a high demon, or even a significant Nephilim.  What he represented was amoral muscle, and that meant that she could, possibly, use him.  He wasn't leaving her with much of an opening, however, since he was a cold bastard.  She needed to change his attitude considerably, and so, to gain his attention, she neatly twisted out of his grip.  When he turned furiously and raised his fist to strike her, she captured his hard, brown eyes with her liquid blue ones.

“I'd rather not be locked up,” the blonde said.  “Can't we work this out?  Make some sort of trade?”

“No way, bitch,” he growled.  “You need somebody to vouch for you, or you're going to have a really bad time of it.”

The angel was trying hard to touch his mind.  “Why do I need anybody else when I have you?” she asked.  “I bet you want me.  Isn't it time you started taking what you want?  Why should those overpaid suits get everything that's worth having?” 

He continued to frown, but his expression showed interest.  She stopped backing away and allowed him to grip her shoulders.  “I bet you're just a huggable teddy bear when you want to be,” she said.  “What would you really like to be doing right now, big guy?”

The guard seemed to be thinking over that.  Then, almost before she expected it, he shifted one hand to clench her left breast.  He was showed no more respect for that part of her body than he would have to a foam rubber playground ball.  Nonetheless, Jezebel played along, giving vent to a simulated moan, and he seemed to like that.  

The security man transferred his left hand from her shoulder to her throat, while the other hand lingered where it was.  She didn't show fear, and actually smiled, conveying the idea that she liked it.  Holding her chin firmly, her assailant next covered her bow-shaped lips with his bristly ones.  Jezebel didn't think that the scent of his last meal smelled so great, but she felt his lust beginning to manifest, and she willingly drank it in.

The stronger the flow of sin-energy made her, the more firmly she drew him into her power.  His desire waxing, he inserted his right hand under her hemline, working his thick fingers inside her briefs.   He was doing it roughly, but Jezebel was already too empowered to be pained by that level of enthusiasm.  In fact, the feverish upswing of his emotional power was like a high-octane beverage, a bottomless glass of brandy.

Before Jezebel realized it, she was starting to feel wet.  Realizing that she was reacting like the village girls that Jetrel had fondled back in the olden days, she flashed with chagrin.  Besides that disturbing thought, however, she didn't mind partaking in the experience, so long as it empowered and amused her. 

The fallen angel threw her arms around her self-appointed lover's neck, choosing to let the thing that they were sharing race down the water-slide unrestrained.  At that point, the Monsatana employee reached even farther down, hooked her knee, and brought it up level with her waist.  Then he used his other hand to unzip his fly.

The Jezebel spirit within shouted, “Yes, go for it” but the girl's own mind said “No.”  The time and circumstances didn't feel right and pride held her back.  Jezebel pushed her groper away from her -- strongly, but not so strongly as to warn him as to how much she was actually in control.  Despite her tact, he looked startled at her refusal and flushed with anger. 

The angel again locked eyes on his furious stare, saying:  “I like you.  You want me.  You want me in a way that a knight wants a princess.  You know you're better than some rutting hog.  Any woman can see that you're smooth and smart, a real James Bond tybe deep inside.  You know how to make doing it better than just good.”  This technique of suggestion had worked well for Jetrel before the Flood, and there seemed no reason that it shouldn't work with an End-Times male also.

The guard looked bemused, but his expression had softened.  “I – I think I ought to take you out of here,” he remarked.  “You don't know what will happen if the bosses get their hands on you.”

“They play rough,” his fair companion nodded.  “When I was with that suit guy, we saw some men dragging a black-haired girl along.  She was really something, too good for those creeps.  My escort suggested that we should cut in on them.  Then I could do her first, while he enjoy the show.  And, after that, it would be a no-holds-barred threesome.”  She eyed him wickedly.  “That's how the big shots think.  But I bet she'd be a lot happier if it were me and you, instead of me and that trust-fund baby.”

He frowned.  “Someone said that she was something special.  That means she'll be under guard and we shouldn't get involved.”

Jezebel tossed her head.  “So, how do these watchdogs rate, to be having all the fun?  I think that if anyone got in our way, you could handle them just as easily as you handle me.” 

The guard seemed to be mentally fighting the plan, but Jezebel concentrated with even greater intensity, trying to overcome his resistance.  She was attempting to push her companion's consciousness into a dream state, in which even the nuttiest proposition would seem to have a logic of its own.

“Okay,” he finally said.

“Where would they have taken her?”

His thoughtful expression put profound ridges into his thuggish face.  “They have a room upstairs.  It's sometimes used for prisoners that they don't want to make bloody right away.”

“Tell me where it is, in case we get separated.”

The guard described the route.  Now that Jezebel knew what she needed to know, she was left with the question as to what to do with her unsavory tag-along.  She could kill him outright with no questions asked, at least not by Heaven, but that would leave a telltale body.  Or, she could bespell him for a nap and then shove him into one of the holding cells.  

But Jezebel had a better idea; the guard could serve best in the role of a trained dog.  There might be security traps on the premise, things that he would know how to deactivate or avoid.  And, in case they met opposition, she could order him to fight for her, or simply take a bullet in her place.  But her mind-control talents while in this body were still of unknown quality.  It was very possible that, under stress, he might go rogue and revert to what he actually was, a violent enemy.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

They crossed into a lighted rectangle issuing from a half-open lighted doorway, behind which a masculine conversation was going on.  No one challenged them as they stepped softly through it.  Around the next corner were elevator doors, and her escort used a pass card to summon the car to their floor.  The two entered the cubical and went up a couple floors.

The door didn't open to a prison scene; far from it.  The carpeting and decorations were posh.  The level smelled of all the money and power that a backwater agricultural factory could muster.  “Is this where the suits hang out?” she asked her guide.

He nodded.  “For their work.  They have a fancy playrooms up on the top floor.”

“What do they play?”

“Maybe you'll find out, when I'm done with you!”

“Don't be in such a hurry,” Jezebel replied with a Mae West smirk.  “It's so obvious how you feel about me.  I'm a treasure that you don't want to lose.  And I like the blue-collar types, too.  My step-dad was a sewer cleaner.”

Farther along, the man drew up before what looked like an office door.  “This is it?” the girl asked.

“Yeah.  I don't have the key.”  She didn't like his expression.  It was as if he was getting an inkling of the fact that he was doing something crazy.

“Have you got a contingency, if the girl is guarded?” the Watcher asked.

“No,” he said uneasily, seeming to grow shakier by the second.

Now Jezebel whispered a firm command.  “Then draw your gun.  Make it look like I'm your prisoner.”  He did so.  “If the brunette's got guards,” she continued, “say that you found me tapping at the main entrance, asking about a girl with black hair.  Tell them that one of the big shots ordered you to put me in with her, since she and I are probably working together.”  

If the same wesen were keeping Holly company, the ghuls would recognize her -- if not by her clubbing outfit, at least by her scent.  That would make the cover story plausible.  If Jezebel kept control of her man, she could command him to hit the guards from the flank while their eyes were on her.  And she was reasonably certain that they would be. 

“No matter how many of them there are,” Jezebel continued, “we're not going to let them spoil our fun and games.  Start shooting when I tell you.  Ready, set...”  She knocked on the translucent glass panel before her.  Her guard's expression was pinched into something hard and grim.

“Who is it?” a male voice from inside demanded.

“Answer him,” the Watcher hissed.

“Brubaker,” the glamoured one replied.

“Whadaya want?”

“Got another prisoner.”

The door opened a crack.  Jezebel saw a uniformed man with a disarrayed crop of mousy-brown hair.  Despite his haircut, or lack of one, he had a military poise.  “What kind of prisoner?”

“Not my business,” Brubaker said.  “All I know was that she showed up asking about a black-haired girl.  The suit told me to pen her in with the one you've already got.”

The door gave back a little more and, and the room guard stuck out his head for a better look.  Then he opened the way.  “Who the hell is she?” the mousy man asked his compatriots behind him.  At the same time, the Watcher also checked the guards out, too.  They were another special security man and the two Syrian wesen, the latter pair looking as though they had just awakened from a couch nap.  But Jezebel was wide-awake; the sight of these Nephilim made her blood boil.

Then a slimmer figure came into view, exclaiming, “Jill!”  It was Holly.

The room guard stepped back, allowing Brubaker to usher Jezebel inside, nudging her bare back with his cold pistol.  The other men rose and came closer, wanting a better look.

“You!   You were supposed to be dead!” snarled Jezebel's rapist, a compact man with a sun-browned face and a short black beard.  He looked like a mean cuss, but she already knew that he was.

“Yeah,” she flung back.  “And the two rubes you left behind to murder me were supposed to come back alive, I bet.”

Her West Asian interrogator drew back.  “What are you?  One of those ultras?”

The Watcher lifted her chin with a sneer.  “I get a lot of that.  Do I look like an ultra?”

“Who can say?” interjected the second room guard, a burly black with a buzz cut and a blackjack.  “A lot o' those ultra women are bad kitties.”

“I'm sorry if I'm frightening you,” the angel said.  “But if you didn't want to see me again, you shouldn't have left a trail so clear that I couldn't have missed it if I'd been blindfolded.”

The rapist, emboldened by a flash of anger, seized her arm.  “I think your luck has just run out!”

Jezebel, while keeping one eye on him, met the eyes of the prisoner.  Holly looked fairly fit, considering.  “Pelosia, are you all right?”

She grimaced.  “Yeah, but they told me they sent two guys after you with guns.”

The Watcher gave back a grin.  “Too bad for those two.”

“I prayed for you,” declared Holly, “and I prayed for another rescue.  And now here you are!  Why don't more people know that these things really work?”

“You've been talking to the wrong people, I suppose.”

“Nobody's been rescued yet,” growled the head wesen, giving Jezebel a rough shake.  But he was still underestimating her, and she was ready to let him know it.  The blonde broke his hold and shoved him against two of the men behind him.  They were thrown into disarray, while their leader fell between their staggering bodies and struck his head on the edge of an end table. 

“Brubaker!” she yelled.

The enchanted thug, who still had his pistol out, now reacted by shooting the adversary nearest to him – the black security man.  The leather bludgeon that the latter held fell from his thick hand as he pitched into a tangle of legs.  That, and Brubaker's surprise betrayal, offered a couple seconds of distraction, which Jezebel used to bring her well-weighted handbag into play as a sap.  Her first target was the still-standing wesen, who had blundered closest to her when he'd reacted to the gunshot.  The force of the blow almost knocked him off his feet.

The girl would  have welcomed more help from Brubaker, but he didn't fire again.  The noise of his own blast had thrown him into confusion.  Left on her own, Jezebel kept swinging.

The Watcher was quicker than either, and even stronger.  She could take solid punches without much harm and then deal back harder ones.  But it was a kick to the midsection that temporarily took out the wesen.

The mousy-brown guy dodged out of the reach of Jezebel's blows and, in the clear, aimed for a clear shot.  Jezebel, with a leap and a roll, the Watcher came up behind Brubaker.  The room guard, supposing the latter to be a traitor, didn't hesitate to perforate his chest.  Jezebel, springing to her feet before the glamoured man could fall, took hold of Brubaker, held him up, and made him into a human shield with which to rush the shooter.  The latter put another slug into the wounded guard before the Watcher rammed the bleeding body into the gunman with force enough to throw him down on his back. 

The rapist, though dazed from having bumped his cranium, was back on his feet eager for revenge.  The angel ducked under his line of fire and launched herself.  The strength of her legs and the momentum of her hardened body delivered impact enough to spend him sprawling across the couch.  But already the other wesen was trying to get a bead on their single adversary.  From her hands and knees position, the warrior angel shifted with speed, pivoted on her hands, and brought her legs around.  She knocked the feet out from under the would-be assassin, whose gun went off aimed at the ceiling.

Jezebel had to get Holly out of there.  Three shots had already been sounded.  Even assuming the best acoustics, that had to have been enough to alert everyone in the building.  Eager to end the fight, Jezebel slammed a fist into the rapist, who was struggling to rise, and then sprang at the other wesen.  A few pummeling blows made the latter peaceful, but it was a hard kick to the skull that did the worthwhile harm.  She heard his neck snap. 

The pressure upon her being eased, Jezebel spun about, looking for the mousy guy, but he was still sprawled where he had fallen.  Holly was standing over him with the bottom of a shattered vase clenched in her hands.  The angel, noticing Holly's winter coat over the back of a nearby chair, threw it at her.  “We've got to get outside – quick.”

As the singer-turned-waitress hurriedly wrapped up, Jezebel was looking daggers at the rapist.  She had come prepared to kill him with torture, but the circumstances were not good for leisure-time activities.  So she bent over him, taking his head into her hands.  A strong, very quick twist produced another agreeable neck-breaking sound.  That he'd missed out on a few hours of torture was his bad luck; that length of time would be added on to an eternity of much worse punishment in Hell.  There would be no pity on him from his infernal boss; his work had fallen too short of even the most minimal expectations.

But the Watcher didn't dare to let grass grow under her feet.  She hooked the straps of her dropped purse from the carpet and shoved them into Holly's grasp.  “Hold on to that!” Jezebel exclaimed as she swiftly armed herself with a pair of automatics from the armory of the undone gunmen.

Just then, they heard an elevator bell ring.  “Follow me!” the angel shouted.  By the time they reached the nearest hall corner, the lift was disgorging three pistol-packing security men.  Jezebel started firing.  These contemporary weapons seemed primitive, compared to those crafted by the pre-Flood civilizations, but were good enough to bring the surprised hirelings down in a pile.  Not wanting to waste additional ammo, she swung toward Holly and shouted “Come on!”  

The pair dashed into the elevator and punched the down button.  Jezebel was hoping that most of the guards below would be elsewhere by now, hurrying up to the scene of battle by other routes.  They met just one man on the ground floor, apparently wanting to get into the elevator.  His gun came up at the sight of the girls, which gesture earned him a snap shot through the heart.  Then the escapees raced past the probable corpse, with Jezebel on the lookout for a fire exit.  They soon found what they sought and dodged outside, into the cold night. 

There were no hostiles in sight, but the security staff was active somewhere else, yelling up a storm.  The Cabal had been poorly served, Jezebel thought.  These security guys' handling of the emergency that she'd created had not been impressive.  She guessed that their drilling had been slack in the sleepy Nebraskan city.  Their job, after all, was gate-keeping and manhandling women and children.  Gangsters rarely made good soldiers. 

“There's an electric fence around the whole place!” Holly panted.  “How do we get through it?”

The Watcher's mind was racing.  “We'll make them open their gates for the firetrucks.”

“What firetrucks?”

“No questions.  Follow me.”

Jezebel needed something to burn.  Everything around them seemed to be made of concrete, masonry, or metal.  But while indoors, she had casually noticed a couple outlets serving a central heating system.  Chances were that the system would be fed by LP or natural gas.   A building of such size would need to have large tanks nearby.  In fact, another minute of searching proved her right on both counts.  Standing before them were multiple gas receptacles with just a mesh fence for protection.

Such tanks, Jetrel had observed as a ghostly witness, were engineered for safety.  Not even bullets could have set one of them ablaze.  But, fortunately, Jetrel had been one of those elite warrior angels empowered to call fire down from the sky.  The Watchers had used storms of brimstone to destroy many an ancient stronghold for refusal to worship them as gods.  But was the Father allowing her to retain that much destructive power in her fragile mortal form?

Jezebel wheeled toward Holly, “Get behind that buttress.  I'm going to make these babies blow!”

***** 

To Be Continued in Chapter 6, Part 2

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 3, Part 2

By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber 

Chapter 3, Part 2

 

December 14, 1871, Continued

With a huff, Myra did as her aunt told her.  The only food on the table was some slices of canned oranges, a loaf of fresh bread, and a dish of churned butter.  For a beverage, they had coffee in an enameled pot and a small pitcher of milk.   

“There's hot food on the stove,” said her aunt.  “Load up with whatever you like,”. 

Myra went to the steaming kettles filled with boiled beef, green beans, and mashed potatoes.  Hungry, she shoveled large portions onto her plate.

“Mrs. Fanning!” called George from outside.  “I'm finished with the horse.”

“Come in, boy,” Irene shouted back.  “Have something to eat.”

“Don't mind if I do,” George replied upon entering.  His eyes darted around the shadowy interior, and came to rest on Myra, who had taken her place at the table.

The boy paused to hang his broad-brimmed hat on a nail driven into the wall boards.  “There's food on the stove,” said his hostess.  “Help yourself and then draw up one of the chairs.”  Following her advice, he filled a plate of his own and, a moment later, was seated opposite Myra.

The girl stubbornly concentrated on her eating, already impatient to leave.

“George,” said Irene, “I suppose you young people have already introduced yourselves.”

“We have.  I was pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Myra,” he said.

Irene knew that she had to speak as though Myra were new to the area.  “George's family lives about a mile from here on the other side of the ridge,” she explained.  “He helps out as much as his folks can spare him.”  When Myra said nothing, Mrs. Fanning added, “Be polite and say hello.”

“Hello,” said the girl.

Irene smiled tightly and put a question to the house guest.  “Have you heard anything about the posse, George?”

The youth responded, frowning,  “Mr. Singer dropped by with some news just before I left home.”

The farm woman sighed.  “He must have told you that Myr... Thorn was one of the robbers.  It makes me very sad.”

“They say that he was... shot,” the youth offered delicately.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Fanning.  “At least that's what the rider told the sheriff.”

“Did the posse find … anything… up at the Gap?”

Irene winched.  Of course someone would have been sent to search the Gap if there were known to be a wounded outlaw up there.  “The men haven't returned yet,” she said.  “But a man was sent to look just as soon as the news came in.  The talk is that there was...no trace.”

“You're a very brave woman,” George remarked.  “I'm surprised that you're still able to smile, having gotten such terrible news.”

Irene glanced down.  “I – I think I'm still quite stunned,” she stammered.  “Deep down, I haven't really come to grips with the enormity of the tragedy.”

“It is very terrible.”  The boy then glanced with interest toward Myra.  “You were coming down from Stage Coach Gap.  What did you see up there?”

“Nothing but rock and mesquite,” the girl answered stiffly.  “I actually didn't go too far.  I... I don't even know where this gap of yours is.”

George grinned.  “If a person follows the road to where it becomes a rock pavement, he's in the Gap.”

Myra shifted uncomfortably when she realized that the nosy neighbor seemed to be watching her face rather closely. 

“The gap is where the rough country meets the prairie,” the boy explained while cutting off a peace of meat.  “Mrs. Fanning, is Myra going to be staying with you for a while?”

“I expect so,” affirmed Irene.  “Her mother passed away a couple months ago.  She doesn't have any other close family.”

“That's good.”  Then George caught himself.  “I mean, I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune, Miss Myra.  I only meant that it's always better to stay with kinfolk than with strangers.”  Myra's expression remained cold, so the youth addressed her aunt.  “Will you still need me for chores, ma'am, now that you have a healthy young lady to take up the slack?”

Irene considered that question thoughtfully.  Finally she said, “Myra has a few things to learn about homesteading, so, for the time being, you can keep on coming as before.  Even if she takes to farming well, there will always be occasions when we'll be needing extra help.”

“I'll be glad to keep coming over,” George said as he reached for another piece of orange.  “I love these oranges, ma'am.  Dad planted a few trees last spring.”

“We get our fruit, except for apples and plums, from Ortega's grocery in town.  I tried planting some oranges of our own a couple years back, but they all died.”

“I hope ours do better.  But about work tomorrow... ” began the boy.

“I think we'll hold off for a couple days.  Myra is going to need a little while to settle in.”

“She'll be needing a warm coat, too.  I noticed her wearing her uncle's jacket, instead of one of her own.”

Irene thought quickly.  “She... lost her trunk when the stage she was on went over a bump while crossing a fast stream.  A friend is going help out by picking her up some replacement things in Phoenix.”

“Why go all the way to Phoenix?” George asked.

Irene had said more than she should have.  Being unused to lying, she found it not easy to do well.  “The lady was going there anyway.  She says that prices and selection are much better in the big town.”

George smiled, “A lady from church?”

“No.  Mrs. O'Toole.”  Mrs. Fanning hadn't wanted to mention the O'Tooles and, by inference, the potion, but it was better to get that detail out now, instead of being caught in a lie later.

George blinked.  “Molly O'Toole?  How did you two happen to meet?  She doesn't go to our church.”

“We were at the same shop a couple weeks ago.  She's very nice.”

“She seems to be,” he conceded with a nod.

Irene dearly wanted to change the subject.  “So you're visiting the saloons now, George?  It seems only yesterday that you were just a little scamp.”

He grinned.  “Ma says I still am, but Pa took me to get my first beer last month when I turned eighteen.”

Mrs. Fanning shook her head.  “Men and their beer.  It would take the fiery angel of Eden to keep them apart, I'm afraid.”

“Well, men and women have their different ways.  Wouldn't you agree, Myra?” 

The girl, frowning, replied, “I reckon they do.” 

#

Myra felt relieved when Severin finally rode off.

“Myra, I've been thinking... ” Irene began.

The girl spun.  “Don't call me that name!”

Her aunt drew a deep breath, bracing for a quarrel.  “How long would it take for someone like George, or maybe neighbor Singer, to guess who you really are if they overheard me calling you Myron or Thornton?”

“Humphh!” was the only response Myra gave.  She had found that if Irene didn't frame a question like a command, she didn't have to answer it.

“If you aren't worried about people finding out, I'll be glad to call you Myron.  Otherwise, it has to be Myra -- unless you prefer Abigail.”

“That's even worse than Myra.  It sounds like some old granny's name.”

“Perhaps your cousin Abigail thinks so, too.  She signs her cards 'Gail.'  I suppose she supposes that it sounds more modern.  Anyway, I'm glad you didn't say anything to offend George.  You're almost the same age.  You can be friends.”

“Humphh!” she repeated.

“If he likes you, I bet he'll be persuaded to help with some of your heavier chores.”

“I don't need any help from the likes of him!”

“I see.  Well, it's about time we talk about more serious matters.  We can't have you riding off and never coming back.  The bad things that befall a boy out in the world can be so much worse for a girl.”  Myra looked indignant at hearing the word “girl,” but held her peace.

“I should have told you this before, but I'm telling you now.  I want you to be home – and I mean here at the farm – by sundown every day, unless you've asked for and have received permission to stay out later.  And don't try to sneak away at night, either.  If you go outside after sunset, don't go any farther than you could walk in five minutes, unless, like I've said, you've gotten permission.”

Myra's face hardened.  “So I'm just a prisoner.”

“I'm sorry that you think so.  You're walking a strange path, but robbers become convicts; that's how life works.  If you had been caught by a posse, you might have received that same potion from the judge as punishment.  Then everyone would know that it was Myron Caldwell who was cooking, cleaning, and serving drinks as the newest potion girl at the saloon.  But you were blessed.  That concoction not only saved your life, it also disguised you.  No one has to know what really happened to Myron.”

“Too many people already know!”

“Some people had to be told.  I needed advice when when the doctor found out that he couldn't help you.  They're good people and I think they will be willing to help you settle into the community without causing suspicion.  I won't tell anyone else, and I certainly hope that you don't accidentally let anyone know.”

Myra let out a frustrated sound.

“You're alive and you're home,” Irene reminded her.  “You now have a future.  This property will be yours when you turn twenty-one.  If you would just help me manage it until you're an adult, you'll have a good nest egg by the time you take over.”

Myra shook her head.  “Living like a peon isn't anything to look forward to.  I'd be better off inheriting a champion race horse instead of some dusty old homestead in the desert.  Farmers usually work all their lives and still end up with nothing.  Anyway, why should I believe that you'll turn over the land when I'm twenty-one?”

“Why shouldn't you believe?”

“Because if people think Myron's dead, there's no one to inherit anything.  And even if you hand back what should be mine already, you'll probably keep ordering me around like you're doing now.”

Irene sighed.  “Tell anyone you want that you're Myron.  It's all up to you.  But you have my word that the farm is yours when you come of age.  When that happens, I'll respect your likings.”

The girl looked at her suspiciously.  “While I'm running the farm, where will you be?”

“If you don't want me to stay and help out, I'll get along somehow.  The Lord provides.”

“I hope the Lord provides me with a buyer.  I'll be ready to sell this place on my twenty-first birthday.”

Irene grew somber.  “If you don't change your mind by then, I only hope that you will use the selling price wisely.  Your attitude worries me.  How are you going to support yourself once the money is all spent?  You can't be an outlaw anymore.  So how do you expect to be making a living a few years out?  A person who owns land always amounts to something.  You're so lucky that your father left the farm without any debt.”

Myra couldn't think of a good reply, even though she wasn't ready to accept her aunt's view of the world.

#

December 16, 1871

A couple days later, just after the midday meal, Irene heard a coach coming from the direction of Eerie.  Going to the door, she saw a small one-horse, canopied buggy kicking up dust.  Judge Humphreys was driving and, behind him, a horseman followed.  It was Paul Grant, the sheriff's deputy.  The Judge turned off  the road and passed through the open gate, the lawman following close behind.

Mrs. Fanning waited on the rock-slab step.

“Howdy, ma'am,” Paul called, dismounting.

“Has the sheriff caught the outlaws yet, Deputy?” she asked.

“Not that we know of,” her rangy visitor replied, stepping around his companion's vehicle.  “Some of the posse's straggled back, but Sheriff Talbot is still out with most of the men.”

“How is... the young lady?” Judge Humphreys asked, carefully climbing down from his rig.

Irene grimaced.  “She's doing about as well as one can expect.”

The jurist joined the other two.  “No problems?”

“She's sour and sulky.  I suppose a person can't blame her.”

Humphreys nodded.  “We need to know more about the robbery.  Paul here will ask the questions and I'll make sure that your niece tells the truth.”

The woman shook her head.  “I'm so sorry that a member of my family has to be involved in something as awful as this.”

“Boys will be... .” began the judge, but then thought better of it.

“Come in.  I'll find Myra.”

The two men followed the young woman into the main room and made themselves at home in two of the four available chairs.  Then their hostess went back outside, calling her niece's name.

A couple minutes after, the bright rectangle of the doorway was broken by Myra's silhouette, giving Paul got his first look at Eerie's newest potion girl.  When she suspiciously came closer, “pretty” was the first word that sprang into his mind.  Every time Paul saw the effects of Shamus' concoction, it amazed him all the more.   She looked Thorn's age, about seventeen, but that was where the resemblance ended.  The gal's auburn hair gave off red sparkles where sunlight touched it; her form was lithe but ripe and blooming.  Paul reckoned that Myra Olcott would soon be catching the notice of every young man with an eye for beauty.

Just then, Irene returned from outdoors.

The judge stood up and pointed to the empty chairs.  “Good day, Miss Olcott, Mrs. Fanning.  We have a few questions for your niece.”

Myra remained standing, her face like stone.  Irene had told her that the rotund man was people – rattlesnakes -- who had played a part in in her transformation.  She thought she recognized the bravo with him as a local cowboy, but now he was wearing a deputy badge.  “How much does he know?” Myra asked the justice, making a gesture toward Paul.

Humphreys shrugged.  “With the sheriff away, it was necessary to brief him fully.”

“Oh, fine!  Why don't you just tell the whole damned town while you're at it?”

“I'd like you to sit down,” the old man informed her firmly.

Myra did as told, having no other choice.  Judge Humphreys had power over her,  just like Molly O'Toole and her aunt did.

Humphreys turned toward Paul.  “Deputy Grant, the floor is yours.”

“Miss Olcott,” Paul began.

Myra refused to acknowledge the man's address.

“Miss Olcott,” the lawman repeated, “tell us about how the robbery came off.”

“Why, do you need some pointers from a professional?” mocked the auburn lass.

“Young lady,” interjected the judge, “respond to Deputy Grant's question.  Tell us about how the robbery occurred, and tell the truth.”

Something was forcing her to answer accurately.  “We w-waited for…for the stage up in th-the Gap.  We'd barri…caded the road.  When...When they st-stopped, we made – uh! -- made them thr-throw down their g-g-guns and the guard… umm, he gave us the st-strong… b-box.  We hadn't br-brought any t-tools, so Ike…Ike tried to shoot the…l-lock off.  The bounce hit…hit me in the g-gut.”

She had paused.  “And then?” coaxed Paul.

Myra felt like a damned fool, the way she was stuttering and stammering.  'Maybe,” she thought, 'I shouldn't fight against answering so hard, just to protect the bastards that shot me and left me for dead?'  She decided to tweak her answers in a way that would nail the gang down good, but would not hurt her so much.

“Reply to the question, Miss,” Humphreys interjected sternly.

Myra sucked in a breath.  “It hurt like h-hell.  Ike just… just left me in the dirt.  He told everyone to get out of the coach and c-clear away the barricade.  When they did, he ordered them to head on out, a-away from Eerie.”  It was easier to deal with the interrogation by letting go of those items of truth that she didn't mind telling!

“Who is this Ike?” Paul inquired.

“Ike Bartram!  He said he and his folks came to Arizona T-Territory after the w-war.  His pa had to hightail it out of Missouri, 'cause he'd been working with guerrillas and the army was looking for people like  him.”

“The other robbers?”

“Jeb and Horace Freely.  They're from California, where they'd ended up w-wanted for rustling.”

“Where did you meet them?”

“Antelope Spring – at Whipple's Saloon.”

“Antelope Spring?”

“A new town –  up near that Grand Canyon.”

“When was that?”

“Late October.  From there we went toward Yuma.  All that the three of them could ever talk about was getting an easy take.  I told them about the Prescott-Tucson Stage here at Eerie.”

“All right,” the deputy said.  “You were hurt and on the ground.  Then what happened?”

“Jeb and Horace lugged the chest back into that arroyo up there.  Ike came my way and said that if I wasn't fit to ride, they couldn't afford to leave me for the law.  He was afraid I'd spill my guts.”

Paul chuckled. “It looks like he was right about that.”

Myra glared.  “If I wasn't full of that potion crap, you'd see how much I'd be telling you!”

“Yeah, sure, I bet you're just as brave as Bill Hickok in the dime novels.  What did Ike do then?” 

“He said that if I was still alive after they finished with the gold, they'd have to do something about it.”

In the background, Irene gasped.

“Where did they hide it?” asked the lawman.

Here Myra snatched a sly thought out of thin air to conceal the fact that she knew exactly where the gold was buried.  She said, “I couldn't see where they went once they got inside the canyon.  All I was thinking about was dodging away.  I guess I wasn't as far gone as Ike supposed.  The hurting was bad, but I was able to reach my horse and make it as far as the farm.  Once I got to the yard, I don't remember anything, not until I woke up like... this.”

Paul frowned.  “So, as far as you know, the gold might still be in the arroyo?”

Myra didn't want to admit to that, but didn't think that she could come up with a lie good enough to put them off the track.  If the judge ordered her to tell the whole truth, any hope of getting that box for herself would be done for.  “Yeah, sure.  Is there a reward for finding it?”

The deputy grinned with incredulity.  “Not for you.  How well do you know that little canyon?”

“I went into it hundreds of times, back when I was a kid.”

Paul regarded the judge.  “Why don't I go up there with Miss Olcott and see what we can find?”

Humphreys nodded.  “That makes sense.  I'll head back to town.  If you find the strongbox, you'll be needing a wagon and a couple men to help bring it back.  I'll get things ready.”

Grant nodded.  “Right, Your Honor.”  Then, rising, he extended a hand to assist Myra to her feet.  She sneered and got up under her own power.

“Young lady,” said Humphreys, “when you're out with Mr. Grant, you'll do what he tells you to, just like I was speaking to you myself.”  The justice paused, sensing a nagging deep inside, telling him to go easy, as if Myra were an ordinary girl.  He ignored the impulse.  “It looks like everything you went through to get your hands on that gold was for nothing.  Some people can only learn the hard way that crime doesn't pay.  I hope you're capable of learning at least that much.”

“Go to hell!” the farm girl snarled.


TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4, PART 1