Dedication

The Case of the Lost Land Grant

Drew Steele couldn't sleep. As he stared up into the darkness, the lonely fog horns of the ships anchored out in the San Francisco bay told him it was going to be another cold and overcast morning. According to the calendar, spring had arrived, but the rainy weather lingered on. He wondered if it might not be time for another trip, someplace warmer, someplace where the sun appeared before noon.

He got out of bed and dressed and went into his office. He lit a lamp and sat down at his desk. He picked up last week's La Presse De France and for the third time reread the article about "the women's movement," as they called it. There was no mention of Stacy in the article, but Steele was sure she would have been involved. The story described the new women's movement as an exciting new trend, a hopeful rebirth of individuality, but an editorial in the same newspaper derided the women for their unreasonable demands and improper behavior, describing their quest for equality as defiant of God's laws. The article said five women had recently been arrested for trying to force their way into a polling place.

Steele put down the newspaper and smiled grimly to himself, imagining Stacy being arrested, proud and defiant, berating them even as they took her away.

His thoughts were interrupted by three loud knocks at his office door. He got up and headed for the door, but before he could there, a loud voice called out, "Mister Steele, are you in there? I have a case for you." Then the knocking started up again.

Steele assumed it was yet another lawyer. With all the new money in San Francisco, the lawyers business, and therefore the detective business, was booming.

Steele opened the door and looked the fellow over. A middle-aged man, considerably shorter than Steele's six feet. He was wearing an inexpensive dark suit that was getting tight around the waist. Steele decided he wasn't a lawyer.

"Drew Steele?" asked the man, smiling broadly.

"That's right."

"Ah, yes, I was told you were a good-looking young fellow." He stuck out his hand.

"And you are?" asked Steele.

The man quickly took off his hat. "Oh, sorry. Name's Rudd. John Rudd. I'm a reporter for the Bulletin. Maybe you've heard of me."

Steele had seen Rudd's byline, mostly on stories about community events and the local gossip. He gestured toward the chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat."

Rudd sat down and looked around. "Nice office. I mean, a little stark, but that's all right, I guess. Nice big window with a view of the bay anyhow."

Steele went back to his chair behind the desk and waited for Rudd to get to his business.

Rudd fiddled with his hat in his lap. "So, Steele, they tell me you were in the war. That where you got that scar on your cheek?"

"Maybe we'd better get to the reason you came here."

"Oh, sure, sorry. Well, it's like this. I was told you were, uh, pretty good at finding things."

"And you need something found?"

"Yeah. Well, it's about this, uh, land document I lost. A real old one. Anyhow, now that the war's over I figured maybe it's time to go back to Arizona to see if I could get it back."

He took out his drawing pad and began a rough sketch of Rudd. "What sort of document was it?" he asked.

"Oh, it was . . . old."

"How old?" Steele outlined Rudd's round face and did some shading to illustrate its fleshiness. He added a few more strokes to indicate the man's thinning hair that was brushed sideways across his head to conceal his emerging baldness.

Rudd leaned forward to look at what Steele was drawing. "Are you an artist?"

"Just a diversion. Helps me think." Steele pushed aside the drawing. "Tell me about this old land document."

"Well, it's kind of a long story, but it all started when I was a school teacher there."

Steele glanced down at his drawing of Rudd. He didn't look much like a school teacher. "There? Where is there?"

"Prescott. It's the territorial capital of Arizona now, but it wasn't back then. They don't get many educated men in a place like that, and not many women either, 'cept a few Mexican women. So when I drifted into town, my year of college in Chicago was enough to land me the school-teacher job. They only had a handful of kids in their school anyhow. It went all right for a while, but then I got involved in this . . . uh, situation. I ended up sort of losing a bunch of money."

"Sort of?"

Rudd hesitated. "Well, before I tell you about that . . . I mean, are you willing to take the case?"

"I wouldn't mind a trip to Arizona. If you can afford my fees. A retainer in advance, plus all expenses. It's--"

"I already know how much you charge. I checked you out. It's no problem. I have the money."

"But there is a problem, isn't there, Mister Rudd? What is it you're not saying?"

"Uh, well, there is a little bit of a problem. The man who took the money from me sort of ended up . . . dead."

"He stole money from you and then he was murdered?"

"Yeah. Somebody got him in his sleep. Knifed him."

"But that somebody wasn't you?"

"No! I swear it. Some people there probably think I did it, but I didn't. I hightailed it out of town, but it wasn't because I killed him. I didn't even find out he was dead until I read about it in an old Arizona newspaper."

"Are you wanted for his murder?"

"I'm not sure, but now that the war's over and things are getting back to normal, it's probably only a matter of time before they find out where I am. So I figure I should probably go back there and clear my name. And maybe we can find out who really killed old Willig."

"Willig?"

"Yeah, Dutch Willig. He was the old prospector who had the document."

"It wasn't your document?"

"I never said I owned it, only that I was supposed to get it. Here's the way it was. Willig let it be known that he had this document and he was willing to sell it. The big mine owner in town, a man named Longmore, wanted the document and he forced me into being the one who took the money to Willig to buy it. Old Willig liked me. He used to come by the school and shoot the breeze with me. So when he agreed to sell it, Longmore said I knew Willig so I had to be the go-between. I didn't want to do it, but Longmore threatened to take away my teaching job unless I went along with him."

"So Willig took their money, but never turned over the document."

"That's right. That's it exactly. He showed up at my place that night and right away he got all upset because Longmore was only willing to pay a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars, Steele. Can you believe it? That's a hell of a lot of money for a piece of paper. But old Willig said it wasn't enough. I said, 'Okay, I'll take the money back to Longmore.' Well, old Willig blew up at that. Started yelling that he'd register the document at the land office himself and that bastard Longmore could go to hell. Then he said he'd show me the document to prove how valuable it was. He acted like he was about to pull it out of this dirty old pack he always carried, but instead he dumped out a couple of Cholla cactus balls right on top of my arm. Did you ever see one of those Cholla cactuses, Steele? Get stuck with one of those babies and you'll never forget it" He rubbed his arm as if it still hurt.

"So Willig used that moment to grab the money."

"Hey, that's right. You must know his type. He grabbed the money and ran out the door. He disappeared into the night before I could get my shoes on and go after him. After he was gone, I sat there picking those cactus stickers out of my arm for hours, trying to think what to do. Finally, I decided to write a note to Mister Longmore explaining everything. I stuck it on the front door of his big fancy house up on the hill, grabbed my few things, and got the heck out of town before dawn. I hiked south 'til the morning stage picked me up and I never looked back."

Steele studied Rudd's face. It sounded as if he was telling the truth. "You said you didn't know Willig had been killed so it must have happened after you left town."

"Actually, it was the very next night. I guess he took the money and checked into the local hotel. That's where they got him. Cut his throat in his sleep. It was probably the first time the old coot had ever slept in a soft bed. Mostly he lived out in the desert with his burro huntin' for gold."

"Mister Rudd, it's hard for me to believe a land document in a place like Arizona could be worth a thousand dollars, unless it was the deed to a proven mine."

Rudd scooted his chair closer. "That's the thing, Steele. It wasn't a gold mine or anything like that. It was bigger than that, a lot bigger. I've been doing some checking and if the document is real, it'll be worth more than a thousand dollars, a lot more."

"What are you holding something back, Mister Rudd? You can't expect me to take this case unless you tell me what I'm looking for."

Again Rudd hesitated. "Well, I haven't told anybody else what Willig said that night, but I guess I've got to trust you. I've got to trust somebody. Okay, here it is. He said it was a land grant. An old Spanish deed, handwritten on parchment. He said it was a really big piece of land granted by the king of Spain to a family named Rivera."

Steele sat back and shook his head. "That story's been around for a long time, Mister Rudd. The Riveras owned huge tracks of land in the southwest, but during the Mexican War they were pushed off their land and went back to Mexico."

"Mexico. That's right. That's where Willig said he got the land grant. He told me he'd got to be friends with an old guy named Rivera down there. He said old man Rivera had the document hid away and they cooked up a plan where the old man signed it over to Willig so Willig could take it back to Arizona and get it registered so they could get their land back. But Willig didn't register it. Instead, he tried to sell it to Longmore."

Steele sat back to think about it. The Rivera family had been the dominate land owner in the southwest for centuries, but when war broke out between Mexico and the United States, they had barely been able to escape back to Mexico with their lives. After the war, they tried to get compensation for their lost land, but the U.S. government had denied their claims because they couldn't prove they had ever owned the land. Eventually they had settled for an undisclosed cash payment and relinquished any claim to the land.

"Well?" said Rudd.

"Did Willig say what land the deed covered?"

"He said it was all in Arizona. That's why he was supposed to register it in Prescott, the territorial capital. In fact, Willig claimed the land grant pretty much covered the whole of Arizona territory." Rudd paused for effect. "Just think of what I could do if I got my hands on that document."

"What could you do?"

Rudd sat forward, clearly excited. "I could get filthy rich, that's what. Willig said the document had been signed over to the bearer. With it, I could lay claim to the whole territory."

"You'd have quite a fight on your hands, Mister Rudd. The land is now owed by others."

"Yeah, but if I got my hands on the document, I bet they'd pay me just to keep title to their own land. I bet they'd do it just to avoid the legal battle. Come on, Steele, think about it. It'd be like a treasure hunt and you'd get paid for doing it. Let's go to Arizona and try to find it."

Steele did think about it. He turned in his chair to look out the window at the lingering fog. It didn't seem very likely that an old prospector in Arizona could have ended up with a genuine Spanish land grant that laid claim to most of Arizona, but for many years there had been a rumor that such a document did exist. Willig could have heard about it and simply created a fake document to take advantage of the rumors. But if this man Longmore had been willing to pay a thousand dollars for it, then he must have believed it was real. And then somebody had killed Willig. Was it to get the land grant?

He turned back to Rudd. All right, when do you want to go?"

Rudd stood up grinning. "Great. I'm ready to go right away if you are. I'll get us a couple of tickets on tomorrow's early train."

After Rudd had paid the money for the retainer and left the office, Steele sat wondering why he had agreed to accept the case. Finding the land grant seemed like a long shot. Maybe he just wanted to go somewhere new. Arizona was one place he'd never been. It was supposed to be quite warm there in the springtime. So, why not? There was nothing holding him in San Francisco now that Stacy had run off to Europe. It might be good to get away from San Francisco for a while.

Steele looked around his office. No need to close it down; he'd only be gone a few weeks. If anybody broke in while he was away, there was really nothing worth stealing in either his office or his adjoining bedroom. Except for his wartime journal. He wouldn't want to lose that. He opened the bottom desk drawer and took the journal out. He would have to leave it somewhere safe, someplace Stacy could get them if he didn't make it back from Arizona. Maybe he should leave it with Chan. He could be trusted. And maybe Chan had heard from her. He was the one person Stacy might write to besides her parents.

He got up and went to the file cabinet. He unlocked it and took out his little Lemat revolver. He put it into his boot holster and pulled down his pants leg over the boot. He picked up the journal and went down the stairs to the street.

He turned up his collar against the cool morning wind coming off the bay and headed up Market street toward Chinatown. There were few private carriages on the streets at that time of day, but the new two-horse cabs were already out looking for business. Steele waved them off, preferring to walk the short distance to Chinatown.

At Stockton Street, he stopped to look up toward Nob Hill. For a moment he thought about going up to Stacy's house. The legislature was in session so her father would be over in Sacramento. But maybe Stacy's maid or the butler might have some information about when she was coming home from Europe. He shook off the idea and continued up Stockton. What was the point? He knew she wasn't coming back anytime soon, and he wasn't exactly welcome in the Moran home when she wasn't there.

By the time he reached Pine street, the fog had rolled back a bit and the sun was just clearing the tops of the buildings on Mission. He could feel its warmth reflecting off the bright red walls of the new opera house. Even at that early morning hour, carpenters and brick layers were already swarming over the foundation of another new building. Now that war between the states had come to its inevitable conclusion, the builders seemed ready to restart the fast-paced expansion of the city that had marked the gold-rush fifties.

Five blocks further on, he passed through the imaginary gates that designated the Chinese sector of the city. From that point on, the buildings were a little older, a bit more dilapidated. The walls were covered by years of overlapping Chinese posters, many with colorful, hand-drawn pictures of many different types of products for sale. The shops were already open, their bins of strange herbs and unrecognizable root vegetables giving off indescribably exotic odors, as if the Chinese had somehow managed to bring the smell of China with them.

As he turned onto Washington Street, he noticed he was the only non-Chinese on the crowded sidewalk. And he was the only person not hurrying. The Chinese people walked with purpose, head-down, avoiding eye contact.

Chan's shop was open and already doing a brisk business. Chinese women and old men were lined up waiting for their medicinal herb formulas to be sorted and wrapped. The Chinese herbalist, Mister Lu, was at his desk in the back of the shop and there was a line of Chinese people waiting to see him.

Steele went through the shop and pushed his way through the beaded curtain into the large room beyond. The high-ceilinged room was very dark and smoky, except for the center where a shaft of sunlight came down through an overhead skylight. Smoke and dust floated upward toward the light.

Some of the Chinese men looked up as Steele entered, but they quickly went back to sipping their tea and smoking their long pipes. He took a seat at the end of the long table. To make sure the table was clean before he put down his journal, he ran his hand along the surface. It had been worn smooth by the years of elbows resting on it.

The waiter, carrying a tray full of tea cups, went through the doorway at the back of the room. Steele knew what was back there: men lying in wooden bunks, smoking opium. He also knew, from a single experience, that Americans were not welcome back there.

The waiter soon emerged and hurried toward him. "Mister Steele," he said, smiling and bowing. "We happy to see you. You want tea?"

"Yes," said Steele nodding slightly in response to each of the man's deep bows. "Tea, yes."

The little man hurried to the big wood-fired stove that provided both heating for the room and a cooking surface. Large cans of steaming liquid covered the top of the stove, adding humidity to the warm room. The waiter always seemed happy to see him. Steele wondered if other Americans received this type of enthusiastic greeting, or was it because of Stacy's friendly relationship with Chan? In the two years he had been coming to the place, he had never seen another non-Chinese customer.

"You want food?" called the waiter. "I have good cake."

"Yes," said Steele, "please."

The man poured the steaming tea into a large metal cup and hurried back to Steele. Somehow he carried the hot metal cup in his bare hand. In the other hand, he balanced an ornate blue-on-white Chinese plate piled high with pieces of yellow cake. He arranged the tea and cake on the table and was ready to move away when Steele caught his wrist. "I would like to see Chan."

The little man's smile disappeared. "Chan very busy today."

"It's important."

The man frowned. "Okay, I go see."

Steele watched the waiter hurry to the heavy wooden door that guarded Chan's quarters. He knocked and when the door opened he went in.

Steele used one finger to hook the handle of the hot tin cup and slid it a little closer. It was too hot to drink. While he waited for the tea to cool, he tried the yellow cake. He always enjoyed its rich, but unusual, flavor. He had never been able to figure out what gave it that strange, decidedly foreign, taste.

After several minutes, the waiter reemerged from Chan's quarters and waved for Steele to come. Steele hurried over and was let into the dark interior. Someone closed the door behind him and Steele moved down the narrow, dimly lit narrow hallway toward the brighter light at its end. Beautifully-carved, heavy-looking wood cabinets lined both walls.

The hallway ended in a small room where Chan sat cross-legged on cushions reading letters. He was wearing his traditional Oriental overshirt that looked as if it was made of silk, dark blue, with a complex pattern of gold threads subtly woven into the cloth. Chan's mustache seemed to have been recently trimmed. It hung down below his mouth on both sides. Steele had never been able to determine how old Chan was: sometimes he appeared to be middle-aged, while at other times he appeared to be much older. This was the first time Steele had seen him wearing glasses. He continued to read, one of his delicate hands in the air telling Steele to wait. Steele wondered if one of the letters might be from Stacy. They were on the very thin onion-skin paper that was typical of foreign mailings. Several unopened envelopes were stacked on a low table.

Chan finished reading the letter before putting it down, then he gestured for Steele to come closer. He indicated a round, flat cushion on the floor. Chan seemed friendly, but reserved, as always. The deep wrinkles around his eyes seemed to be smile wrinkles, indicating a long life of happiness--or was it self-satisfaction?

Steele approached and sat cross-legged on the cushion.

"Mister Steele, you are welcome here. Have you been well?" Chan had what sounded like a slight British accent, and as a result, Steele had always assumed that the old man had come from Hong Kong.

"Yes, I have been very well. And you?"

"We are all well here," he said glancing away with a brief wave of his hand. Steele wondered if he was referring to himself, everyone in the building, or perhaps all the Chinese in Chinatown. "However, there is small-pox in the quarter."

"I have heard nothing about that. But if you want me to, I can check at the hospitals to see if there has been a general outbreak."

"My people will not be seen at this city's hospitals."

Steele wasn't sure if that meant the Chinese depended exclusively on Chan's herb shop and his staff of herbal healers, or that the hospitals would not treat Chinese. Probably both were true.

"I have contacted the authorities," continued Chan. "They claim it is not small-pox. We will wait to see." He paused and a look of concern crossed his face. "Can we get you anything? Have you eaten?"

"I have eaten. Thank you."

Chan sat back and folded his hands across his stomach. Steele knew that meant it was time for him to state his business. "I am leaving town today," he said. "It's a new case. I'd like you to keep something for me, or rather, for Stacy, if I should not return." He showed Chan the journal. "It's nothing valuable, only my writings. From the war."

Chan reached forward to accept the journal. "Your property will be safe here."

"I will be traveling to Prescott, Arizona, with a man named Rudd. A reporter on the Bulletin."

"He is known to us."

"He says he came here from Arizona."

"Would you like us to learn more about this man before you leave town with him?"

"He seems to be very much in a hurry. We are leaving in the morning."

"Is that wise?"

"He seems to be an honorable man. But there may be more to this case than he is telling me."

"Then we will make inquiries."

"I thank you for that," said Steele. "As always, I appreciate your knowledge of . . . things."

Chan made a very slight bow.

"I must go now," said Steele, beginning to unfold his long legs. But he didn't get up. He hesitated, then said, "Has Stacy written to you?"

"She has not," replied Chan quietly.

"If she contacts you, please tell her I have gone to Arizona. On a case."

"If she contacts us, we will tell her where you have gone."

They waited, as if both knew there was more to be said.

Finally Chan asked a somber question: "And what is it you yourself are looking for in Arizona?"

Steele knew this was in reference not to Arizona, but to their previous philosophical conversations. " Of that I'm still not sure. Since the war . . . Maybe I'm just looking for something different, for something to change."

"Men sometimes become lost when they change their path."

"Are you saying I'll lose my way in Arizona?"

Chan looked Steele directly in the eyes. "If a man takes a new path, he can certainly become lost. The ancient writings say as a tree grows always upward, the superior man follow the path for which he is destined."

"That may be true, but how will I know when I have found my true path?"

"Ah, the answers for which you search may not be so easy to find. You must let them find you. Then you will know."

"Thank you for that advice. I will carry it with me."

Chan remained silent so Steele decided it was time for him to leave. He got up, but decided to ask one more question. "I heard that Prescott is becoming a center of commerce in Arizona now that it's the territorial capital. Do you know anyone I might contact there?"

Chan hesitated, but then seemed to make a decision. "Ask for Cousin Wang at the Dragon House. Bring him my greetings, and refer to me as Uncle Chan."

Steele had heard Stacy's mother refer to Chan as Uncle Chan. Was it a sign of respect? Or something else, something to do with Chinese clans?

Chan held up a finger. "But I would ask you to be discreet in your inquiries about this man, our cousin."

Steele assumed that meant he should only speak to Chinese people. "Thank you. I will contact him privately when I get there." He bowed to Chan and said, "You have been a good friend to Stacy and her mother. I hope I can also count you as my friend."

"Stacy is a remarkable woman," said Chan quietly. He did not rise, but he leaned forward in a deep bow from where he sat.

Steele left the shop and took the bayside streets back to his office. As he walked, he thought about what Chan had said about losing his path. It seemed to be a philosophical statement, but it came in response to his question about losing his way in Arizona. Was Chan trying to warn him about going to Arizona, or was is a more general warning about trying to find something through travel when it might be better found within himself?

The next morning Steele woke early and pulled his old Army pack out from under his bed. He was stuffing in a few clothes when he heard Rudd's knock at the door. He took one last look around the room to see if he'd forgotten anything. Even to his eyes, his room looked stark and empty. Except for the large number of books and papers that were stacked against the walls, all of his possessions were the three drawers of the old wooden dresser the landlord had provided. He grabbed a tube of matches, his knife, and some extra shells for his revolver and went through to his office. He opened the hallway door just as Rudd was about to knock again. Rudd looked at Steele's beat-up old pack. "Is that all you're taking?"

Steele swung the pack over his shoulder. "Yes. I'm ready."

Rudd led the way down the hall, talking as he went. "It's gonna be warm down there in Arizona. This fog's got me chilled to the bone so I'm ready for some of that hot Arizona sun. I've got a cab waiting downstairs. We'd better hurry or we'll be late for the southbound train."

During the short carriage trip to the railroad station, Rudd chatted away, commenting on the fancy new open carriages, the new, more-powerful steam trains, and the changing styles of dress on the street. In fact, he commented on just about everything he saw, always tying his comments to the rapid expansion of commerce in San Francisco and the powerful men behind it all. Steele could see why Rudd had become a reporter: he was interested in everything.

With Rudd going slowly dragging his heavy suitcase, they barely made it onto the morning train to Los Angeles just as it started to move. Rudd wanted to sit on the aisle, "To keep an eye on things." Steele didn't mind sitting next to the window: he had never made this train trip south and he was looking forward to seeing the countryside.

The train was barely up to speed when Rudd pointed out the window. "Did you know this spur is owned by the Central Pacific Railroad? It's true. Eventually the big four will own everything."

Steele couldn't help but wonder if Rudd's mention of the "big four" businessmen was a way to try to get him to talk about Stacy's father. Although it was unlikely the great Nathan Moran would ever mention Steele's name in public, a newsman like Rudd might have gotten wind of the famous man's strong disapproval of Steele's relationship with his daughter. And Stacy's mother had made no secret of the fact that her daughter would never be allowed to marry a recently-arrived drifter like Steele. She constantly scolded Stacy about her low-class acquaintances, not to mention her unladylike activities regarding women's rights. But she had not hesitated when asked to pay for Stacy's trip to the women's international congress in Paris. She was probably hoping Stacy would forget about Steele while she was over there. Maybe she was right; so far, Steele hadn't received a single letter from Stacy.

Rudd rambled on about the powers-that-be, complaining that their uncontrolled building programs were ruining the city. He lit up a small cigar, blew smoke toward the ceiling, and said, "Now, where was I?"

"I believe you were about to tell me more about what happened in Arizona."

"I was? Okay, let's see. I rolled into Prescott . . . I guess it was about five years back. It was a wide-open town back then, no city government or anything like that. Not even any law. The only thing that could pass for law there was old Judge Barnes. The hangin' judge they called him. And that's what he was. If the hangin' judge said somebody was guilty, for stealing horses, or killing somebody in a bar fight or whatever, the judge called for the hangman. And the guy got hung. Or if the judge thought anybody'd broke the law, he just had a few of the local boys throw 'em in jail. There wasn't any recourse, no other courts or anything like that, old Judge Barnes decided who was guilty and that was that."

"I suppose that's all changed now that it's the territorial capital."

"Yeah, but not as much as you might think. It's still a backwater town. The old judge died last year and got replaced by a traveling circuit judge who only comes in once every few weeks. They've still only got one marshal and he has to cover that whole part of the state. There's a town council, but Longmore lords over it. He thinks he owns the town just because he owns the biggest mine."

"Tell me about Willig."

"Dutch Willig was quite the old blowhard. Short little guy. Old as the hills, with a white beard down to here." Rudd held his hand halfway down his chest to demonstrate. "He was always going on about his fabulous gold mine out in the desert. He'd tell the story to anybody who'd buy him a drink. Some folks thought he really did have a gold mine somewhere out there, but ol' Dutch never seemed to have two dimes to rub together so maybe it was all a pack of lies. Still, there was this story around town that one time he brought in some ore that assayed pretty good. He told me that's why he had to sell the land grant. To get enough money to develop his gold mine."

"What do you think? Do he really did have a gold mine?"

"You wouldn't think so. He dressed in the same old rags all the time. But who knows? He was an odd duck, and he did spend a lot of time out somewhere in the desert. He always seemed to have enough to buy a round at the bar, but nobody knew where he got the money. One thing for sure, you couldn't go by anything Willig said. He was known to stretch the truth quite a bit. That's about all I can tell you. Things might have changed in Prescott since I left there, but I bet Longmore still rules the roost." " He yawned and stretched. "Hey, Steele, you know the best way to pass the time on a long train trip? Sleep. I'm gonna take a little nap." With that, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and was asleep in seconds.

As the train steamed across the grasslands of central California, Steele thought about what Rudd had told him. Had Willig really been killed for the land grant? Was Longmore the killer as Rudd seemed to suspect? If so, did he have the document? But if he had it, why hadn't he done anything with it? The more Steele thought about it, the more unlikely the whole story seemed. A genuine Spanish land grant that lays claim to most of Arizona somehow falls into the hands of an old prospector? Steele knew that in cases like this, the truth often turned out to be something completely mundane. Maybe Longmore had simply killed Willig because he had stolen his money. He confronts Willig, demands his money back, an argument ensues, and Willig ends up dead. Simple. Happens every day. But what made a rich man like Longmore think the document was real in the first place? Why was he willing to send Rudd to Willig with a very large amount of money on the hope that Willig would turn over the document to him? That was the most puzzling aspect of the case: what made Longmore think a man like Willig could possibly have a genuine Spanish land grant? Longmore must have known something that he didn't tell Rudd, something that convinced him that Willig really did have the long-missing document.

The train made a brief stop in the sleepy town of Los Angeles while a new engine was hooked up to take them east toward Arizona. They rolled out of town, first to the south, then to the east, following a winding path between some rugged mountains. Then there was nothing but flat, featureless desert. As traveled on to the east, Rudd slept off and on, waking up only long enough to hike up to the food car to bring back some fruit and sandwiches. Steele drew pictures of some of the other passengers for a while and when it grew too dark to draw he leaned back and tried to get some sleep.

Steele woke up as the train lurched to a stop. It was still dark outside. He nudged Rudd and said, "We've stopped."

Rudd struggled to wake up. He leaned across Steele to look out. "Oh, it's Colorado City. End of the line. Nuthin' here but an Army fort and a couple of houses around it. Stage won't head out for Arizona until dawn. We might as well get a little more shuteye." He closed his eyes and was asleep again in seconds.

Steele looked out into the night. He opened the window a crack and enjoyed the warmth of the desert's night air. It had a strange, smell to it, an almost imperceptible sharpness, like dried weeds riding in on a gentle breeze. Whatever it was, it couldn't be more different from the air in San Francisco. He remembered the smell of the salt air on that ship bound for America and how different it had been from the dry air in Rome. It had reminded him that he was going somewhere he'd never been and that thought had excited him. From that early experience, he had grown to love that feeling of heading into the unknown. When his father had taken the job in the American embassy and moved them to from New York to London, he'd been too young to remember much about the trip, but he did remember the feeling of excitement. And then years later, after he'd made his way back to America on his own, he'd learned that to go somewhere new all you to do was make the decision and go. In America, he'd continued to seek that feeling of newness and it kept him constantly on the move, always curious about what was over the next hill. And then came the war. He remembered how everyone got soon after it started. He had still been a teenager then, but he wanted to know more about this new war that everyone was talking about. He wanted to know what it meant, what made men leave their homes and jobs and farms to fight each other? Would it go on for a long time? Or would it end quickly, before he could learn about it? He'd walked all the way from New York to Virginia to see it for himself. What he saw horrified him, but he still wanted to know more; he couldn't understand how men could be brought to do such terrible things to each other. Eventually, that curiosity led him to a Army field hospital in Tennessee where he'd found a way to become part of it, a way to help without having to become a soldier. Now, as he looked out of that train window, he thought about all the people he'd met during the war, and all the places he'd been to. He recognized that old feeling of being in a new place as if it was an almost-forgotten old friend. Across the river was Arizona. Another new place. Would it be a new beginning?

As soon as the dawn began to spread across the desert floor, the people in the train began to wake up and gather their things. Steele woke Rudd up and helped him get his heavy suitcase down from the overhead rack.

As they followed the other people toward the few ramshackle buildings that surrounded the fort, Rudd began to complain about his bad back. Steele took Rudd's suitcase and carried it for him.

"Never was much good at sitting," said Rudd, holding one hand to his back. I'd rather carry rocks all day than sit. But hey, look at this desert would you? I always kind of liked the desert. Different from just about any other place."

Rudd was right. It was different from any other place Steele had been. There were plants, scrubby bushes and low-lying cactus, but they were few and far-between. Few of the plants were taller than waist-high. The ground underfoot seemed to be made up of sandy-colored dirt and small rocks.

"So, this is it," said Rudd. "What do you think?"

"Interesting," said Steele He realized many would think such a place was pretty much barren, without much to see or think about. But that was what made it interesting. It invited thoughts about what you would do it you were alone out there. Could he survive in a place like that? Could anyone?

Most of the people from the train went to the fort. The rest were met by carriages, leaving Steele and Rudd to walk the rest of the way to the stage office alone.

"Glad to see nobody else is going to Arizona today," said Rudd. "Maybe I'll get a chance to lie down in the stage. Rest my back."

Steele waited in the street while Rudd went inside the stage office to buy tickets. After a few minutes, Rudd came out yelling at the man who was loading the freight inside the stage: "Your boss said to take that stuff out of the coach. You've got passengers today."

"Aw, damn it to hell," said the man. "I just got it loaded in there."

"Well, get it out," said Rudd. "We've got to have a place to sit, don't we?"

Begrudgingly, the man started to unload the boxes, transferring them to the top of the coach. "Going to make the whole damn thing too top-heavy," he grumbled.

"All they care about is the freight," said Rudd, loud enough for the man to hear. "They make their money on the stuff they carry from town to town. The passengers and their comfort are an afterthought."

Steele pretending to check the stage over, but he was actually looking up the street to see if anyone was watching them. Although he hadn't seen anybody on the train who acted interested in Rudd, there was always the chance that someone could have followed them from San Francisco. There were a few men sitting on the steps of the local bar, probably waiting for it to open, but they talking among themselves.

After a short wait, two stage employees came out of the office. They were both dressed in leather pants and long coats. Steele noted that they were both wearing sidearms.

One of the men climbed up into the driver's seat and took up the reins. "Okay, gents, let's get this show on the road," he said to nobody in particular.

The other man took the bags and put them up top while Rudd and Steele got inside the coach.

"This may not be so bad after all," said Rudd, patting the padded seat. "Last time I was in one of these things the seat was so hard I 'bout broke my butt."

But no sooner had he spoken when they heard someone shout: "Hey, wait for me."

Steele looked out and saw a man hurrying down the street toward them. "Is that the stage to Prescott?" he yelled.

"Oh, no," groaned Rudd. "I knew it was too good to be true."

Steele looked the man over. He was probably in his early thirties, tall and thin. He had a weathered look, as if he'd been living out-of-doors.

"You got to have a ticket," yelled the driver. "Go inside and get one."

"Right, I'll do that," said the late arrival. He went inside the building, but soon he was back, waving his ticket in the air. He climbed inside the coach. "Howdy, boys. Name's Carson, but my friends call me Carse."

Rudd scowled at him.

Steele thought he heard the remnants of a southern accent buried deep under Carson's western twang. Here, sit on this side," he said, patting the seat.

Carson sat down and Rudd put a hand to his back, as if to show the new passenger why he needed to sit alone. "My name's John Rudd," he said. "No nickname. And this is Steele. No nickname there either, at least none that I know of."

The stage started to move, slowly at first, and then faster, kicking up a powdery cloud of dust behind.

"You boys headin' for Prescott?" asked Carson.

"That's right," said Rudd. "Is that where you're going?"

"You bet. I hear they got lot's of good jobs up there. Minin' and such."

Steele didn't think Carson looked like the kind of man who would want to work underground in a mine. But now that the war was almost over, a lot of men would be coming west looking for just about any type of job. He decided to probe a little. "Were you in the war, Carson?"

"Sure was, fought at the battle of Independence in 62. Nobody remembers Missouri, but we fought a bunch of mean battles back there.

"The battle for the city," said Steele. "As I remember, Independence was taken in only one day."

"That's right, by God," said Carson. "You look a mite young to have been in the big one, but you got a good scar on your jaw there. Got shot did ya?"

Steele touched his cheek. "Shrapnel. I was not a soldier. I worked in a Union field hospital."

"A hospital, eh? Guess them Federals needed patchin' up too. Me, I got some holes and they never did get fixed. Got 'em crossin' that damn wide Mississippi. Them Federals took pot shots at us while we were on the ferry. Here, look at this." He pulled up his shirt. There was a small, round scar on his left side. "That's where the ball went in." He turned and pulled up the back of his shirt. "And that's where the damn thing came out." The much larger scar on his back was oblong and ragged.

Steele understood that type of wound. He had a similar one on his back, but he said nothing.

Rudd leaned forward for a closer look. "Looks like that bullet must have hit something and came out heading downward."

"Don't know what it did in there," said Carson, pulling down his shirt. "Never got no doctor to look at it. All I know is people said I was lucky. They said if it hadn't gone clean through I'd of probably died from havin' that lead ball in me."

The stagecoach picked up speed and the clouds of fine dust began to seep in through the cracks. Rudd used his hat to try to wave it away from his face.

They had just passed the last of the houses when Steele heard someone yelling behind them. He put his head out the window and saw a buckboard coming fast. It was drawn by only one horse, but soon it caught up with the stage and matched its speed alongside. There were three people bouncing around on the wood plank that served as a seat. The driver looked like a farmer, in dusty work clothes and knee-high boots. Next to him sat an attractive young woman with medium-length blonde hair, wearing a white blouse and tan pants. On the other side of the driver was a man in a plain brown suit. "Hey, stop," the man in the suit yelled. "I got to get on that stage."

Steele leaned out the window to call up to the driver, "Wait, you've got more passengers."

"Can't stop less they got a ticket," yelled back the stage driver. Steele could see that the stage was in the deep wheel tracks of the road, forcing the buckboard was off the road. It was swerving wildly, dodging cactus and bushes.

The coach driver leaned out and pointed back toward the fort. "Wait for tomorrow's stage. Tomorrow mornin'."

"I can't wait 'til tomorrow," the man in the suit yelled back. "We've got important business in Prescott."

At that moment the buckboard had to swerve violently toward the stage to avoid driving into a sand wash. The two came dangerously close together, momentarily sharing the narrow road.

The young woman was holding onto the front edge of the buckboard's bench seat with both hands, but it didn't seem to Steele that she was all that afraid.

The stage driver steadfastly maintain his speed. "Can't help that," he yelled. "I got a schedule to keep."

"I'm goin' back to the stage office to get a ticket," yelled the man. "Then you'll have to let us on."

"I ain't gonna wait," shouted the driver. "Maybe you can catch us at the ferry." He snapped the reins to hurry the horses.

The driver of the buckboard pulled back on his horse, starting a wide turn. Steele watched as they headed back toward town, then pulled his head back in.

"Do you think they'll catch us?" said Carson.

Rudd shook his head. "Not unless they get back before they get this stage loaded on the ferry. They'd have to wait for the next ferryboat and they'd never catch us out on the open road in Arizona."

The stage maintained a fast pace for several minutes and then slowed as the road began to gradually drop down toward the Colorado River. When they arrived at the river, the driver pulled the horses to a stop and yelled, "Everybody out. Nobody allowed inside while we're aloadin'."

The three of them got out, brushing the dust off their clothes. Rudd tried to beat some of the dust off of his shoulders with his hat.

Another wagon was already aboard the ferry barge and they all watched as it moved away from the bank. The tow engine chugged rhythmically, venting excess steam every few seconds. At the halfway point, the loaded boat passed the returning empty barge. The tow cable alternately sagged and snapped, but the barges moved steadily forward.

Rudd was looking back toward the west. "They're not going to make it."

"Too bad," said Carson. "That was a mighty pretty gal. I wonder if she was goin' to Prescott too."

"Yes, I suspect she is," said Steele. "The man in the suit said we have important business in Prescott. And there were two bags in the back of the buckboard. The driver wasn't dressed for traveling."

"That so?" said Carson. "I didn't see any of that. I was just watchin' that crazy wagon go. I thought they were going to turn the thing over."

Two men on the dock guided the returning barge into place with long poles, while another man released the clutch of the tow engine. The stage driver cautiously urged the nervous horses forward. "Take 'em slow, Charlie," he yelled down to his assistant. Charlie got between the lead horses and coaxed them onto the barge.

"Here they come," yelled Carson, pointing back toward the west. "And they're goin' like all get out."

Steele and Rudd turned to look. The buckboard was approaching fast, trailing a large cloud of dust that somehow seemed about to overtake them.

When the stage was loaded onto the ferry, the driver yelled, "Let's go, gents. Everybody aboard."

The others climbed aboard the ferry, but Steele lagged behind.

"Let's go, let's go," shouted the driver. The barge operators untied the ferry and the lapping waves began to slowly move it away from the dock.

Steele waited on the dock as the buckboard arrived and slid to a stop. Its trailing cloud of dust finally caught up and it rained down fine particles on its occupants. The man in the brown suit jumped down and grabbed both bags out of the back. He ran down the hill toward the ferry, followed closely by the young woman. She was slender and athletic-looking, running easily despite her tight-fitting pants and soft leather boots.

"Looks like you've got two more passengers," shouted Steele over the din of the barge's steam engine.

The operator pulled the engine's clutch lever and the barge stopped abruptly. The horses slid forward a little on the wooden deck. They lifted their heads nervously, their eyes open wide. Charlie stood his ground between the two lead horses, calming them with soft words.

The man and the young woman arrived on the run, out of breath.

"Just in time," said Steele.

"Thanks for waiting," said the young woman breathlessly.

"It took a while to get the stage loaded onto the barge anyway," said Steele. "I don't think the driver minded waiting a few minutes."

"Oh, good," she said. "My name's Becky. Rebecca Laird, but Becky for short. And this is my dad Lucky Laird. Her father, a tall, gaunt-looking man with wavy dark hair, reached out and shook Steele's hand vigorously.

"Glad to meet you, glad to meet you," he gasped.

"Aw, c'mon," yelled the stage driver from the barge. "Let's get goin'. I got a schedule to keep."

"Nice to meet you both," said Steele. "My name's Drew Steele. Here, you two jump aboard and I'll hand you your bags."

"Oh, thank you," said Becky. But as she prepared to jump, she slipped slightly on the wet deck and Steele had to reach out and catch her elbow to keep her from falling. She blushed as she briefly met Steele's eyes, but quickly turned to jump nimbly across to the ferry. Steele then steadied her father so he could also hop aboard. Steele tossed them their bags and jumped aboard himself.

During the river crossing, Laird introduced himself to Rudd and Carson. Despite their mad dash to catch the stage and the driver's unwillingness to wait for them, he was still cheerful. He described himself as a simple farmer and introduced his daughter with obvious pride. "She's the prettiest girl in the area," he said. "Look at that pretty hair." He tried to pat the top of her head, but she pushed his hand away and frowned at him. "And she was the smartest kid in her school too," he added.

"I'll tell you one thing," said Carson, "you're gonna cut quite a figure up there in Prescott. They probably ain't seen a pretty young girl like you up there since . . . well, since never."

"Have you been to Prescott recently?" asked Steele.

"Naw," said Carson with a shrug. "Never been there myself. What I meant was there probably hasn't ever been a pretty gal in those parts. Probably nowhere north of Tucson, I expect."

"Are you from Tucson then?"

"Tucson's not a bad place," said Carson taking off his hat and looking inside it. "At least it's a real city, with things to do there. They got two or three hotels and lots of bars. More than Tombstone even."

"Tucson's down in the southern part of the state," said Steele. "What brings you to this area?"

"Oh, just . . . lookin' around," said Carson. "Like I said, lookin' for a job."

"Haven't ever been to Tucson," said Laird. "We were on our way there when we saw this here big river. "We decided to stop and put our roots down here, didn't we, Becky?"

She nodded and smiled at him.

"We came all the way from up north in California after Becky's mom died. When I saw this big Colorado River running through here, I said to Becky, where there's water, you can grow stuff. That's what I said, didn't I Becky?"

She again nodded and smiled.

At that moment, they reached the east bank of the river. They all got off and waited while the driver and Charlie got the horses off the barge and onto the shore. Then Charlie hurried them all back into the coach and soon they were on the road again. With the two added passengers, it was cramped quarters inside the stage. Rudd had positioned himself next to Becky, with her father seated on other side of the coach, next to Steele and Carson.

"Glad there weren't any passengers waiting on this side of the river," said Rudd. "They'd need a shoehorn to pack us all in."

"Not many passengers on this stage ever," said Laird. "This many is unusual."

"So you moniker is Lucky," said Carson. "That your real name?"

"I spose it is," said Laird, "at least it's what my folks always called me."

Carson seemed amused by it. "Lucky Laird. Has a ring to it. Are you a real lucky feller?"

Laird just shrugged again and kept his eyes down. "Don't know about that. It's just the name I've always gone by." He paused, and then added, "My daughter here is the lucky one." He reached across to pat her on the knee. "And I'm lucky to have her."

Despite the bouncing and lurching of the stagecoach, Carson took out a big of tobacco and started carefully rolling a cigarette. Everyone watched him as he completed it, licked the paper, and lit it up. He blew the smoke toward Laird. "Now tell me somethin', Lucky. What kind of crops could a farmer possibly grow in this here sandy desert?"

"I'll show you," said Laird. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, greenish yellow fruit. "Take a look at that little beauty, will ya."

"What the heck is that?" said Rudd. "Looks like a little runt of an orange."

"Right you are," said Laird. "It is an orange. A mite small so far, but the trees are still little."

"Orange trees?" said Rudd, raising his eyebrows. "You're trying to grow orange trees in the desert?"

"Not trying to grow em. We got 'em goin' already. Almost a hundred little green trees growin' up a little bit more every day. Should have a few good oranges by next year."

Carson reached out and took the little orange. "By God. Look at that," he said. "So that's what an orange looks like."

"You never seen an orange?" said Laird. Where you been, man? They get a lot bigger than this. And more . . . you know, orange colored. When these things get ripe they are about the best eatin' thing you ever had."

"I've eaten oranges," said Rudd. "Once. But I thought they only grew back there in Florida."

"You're right," said Laird, taking back his orange from Carson. "Florida is the only place in this here U-S-of-A where you can get an orange. That's why we decided to grow 'em out here. I hear you can't hardly find an orange out west, even in the big cities."

"They sometimes sell oranges in San Francisco," said Steele. "But they're really expensive."

Laird patted his daughter on the knee. "I'll bet we'll be able to sell them San Francisco city folks a bunch of our oranges, won't we Becky?"

She nodded in agreement, then glanced at Steele, embarrassed at being the center of attention.

"Citrus trees do well in the sandy soil of Florida," said Steele, "so they might grow here. But where will you get the water?"

"Well, I'll tell you," said Laird, "water sure was our big problem. Our place is too far from the Colorado to get it from there, and the railroads and the big boys have all the water rights tied up anyhow. But there was this valley on the upper part of our property, up in the hills. They thought it was worthless land, but Becky here explored it and she found a little tiny spring up there. Turns out, the joke's on them railroad boys. They thought they were pretty smart, selling us dumb farmers worthless desert land. But we dug out that little spring up in the hills and now it gives a pretty good flow, year round. We built water wagons and hauled water down from the spring every day to get them trees started. Haulin' it every day just about killed us, but them nice little green trees are growin' up good now."

"Won't they take even more water as they grow larger?" asked Steele.

"Yeah, but we didn't think about that at first. We bought the land with cash we had saved up, and it cost us all the rest of out money to get the little starter trees from way down in Mexico. We had to bribe just about everybody from the town mayors to the local police to get 'em back across the border. But you're right, water was our big problem. When them trees started to grow, we couldn't get anything else done but haul water. Then my Becky here came up the answer."

Becky touched his elbow. "Father, maybe these men don't want to hear about all this."

Laird looked at her and shrugged. "Well, now that we've got the water all figured out, it should be safe to tell these fellows about it. Why don't you tell 'em? It was your brains that figured it out."

"Oh father, you make such a big thing of it. The truth is, I just kind of stumbled on to it. I was up there, well, sort of . . . cooling off in the spring, when I looked up at the rocky cliff and realized it wasn't all that far between the canyon where the spring is and the next-over canyon that's right up above our farm. I got to thinking, what if we could cut some kind of hole through the rocks and divert the water over to our canyon?"

"That's right," interrupted her father. "After my smart little girl told me about her idea, I hired a couple of local fellas to try to blast a hole from that canyon through to our canyon. If we could get through, we could build a trough from there all the way down to our trees. They were willin' to try it. Dynamite is cheap in these parts."

"But it was harder than we thought," Becky said. "It took us six months."

"Yeah, but we did 'er," said her father. "You should've heard us yellin' our heads off when that first water flowed through to our canyon."

"But the water sank right into the sand," his daughter reminded him. "We had to borrow more money."

"Yeah, we ended up havin' to extend the wood trough all the way from the canyon wall where the water comes out through the rock. It's only half built now, but we'll get it done and that way we'll have irrigation water before the summer gets really hot."

"Now if that ain't a story," said Carson. "Divertin' water from one canyon to the other."

"Yep," said Laird. "we're flat broke now and our backs are busted too, but we should be able to make a go of it from here on."

"I've got a bad back too," announced Rudd loudly. Then, in an aside to Becky, he added, "But I generally don't make too much of it."

"Are your water rights registered in Prescott?" asked Steele. "Is that why you're going up there?"

"Well, we don't think we really need anything like water rights, but we got the land made legal, if that's what you're askin'. I got a handwrit deed from the railroad. We went out to talk to them railroad boys in California, but they said Arizona land is supposed to be registered in Arizona. So we got to go up there to Prescott to make sure it gets registered legal like. I sent 'em a telegram. They said I had to bring the original deed."

"Is there a problem?" asked Steele.

"Nah, I got the deed right here." Laird tapped his chest to indicate that he had it in his inside suit pocket. "It's just that the damn railroad boys forgot to register the sale in Prescott. That's what they said anyhow. Now we got to go all the way up there to straighten it out."

Steele noticed that Laird's daughter looked worried. Maybe there was more of a problem than he was letting on.

The stage slowed, made a transition to another road that curved off to the north, and sped up again.

"I'm not surprised the problem is with the railroad people," said Rudd. "They're screwing up this country good. Ever hear of a man named Moran? He's a rich and powerful man in San Francisco. He was the one who started a lot of the railroads in the north part of California."

Again, Steele wondered if Rudd knew about his connection to Stacy's father. But Rudd didn't seem to be watching him for a reaction.

Carson shook his head, but Laird said he thought he'd heard of him. "Didn't he take the railroad through the Sierras?"

"He likes to take credit for it," said Rudd, "and he made the most money out of it. But it was all done off the backs of the Chinese laborers he imported."

Laird said, "I heard there are more than thirty thousand of them Chinese here now."

"Right," agreed Rudd, "at least that many. San Francisco is full of 'em. Let me tell you a story about the great Nathan Moran. Moran had a big problem up there in the Sierras. He had his Chinese coolies blasting away rock laying track fast, but by the end of summer they came to this deep chasm. They'd have to build a bridge over it. But Moran had used up all of his financing. He was stuck, so what do you think he did?" Rudd paused to light up one of his little cigars.

Steele could tell Rudd was enjoying himself, controlling the pacing of his story, giving his listeners time to think about what Moran was going to do.

"I'll tell you what he did. Moran ignored the experts' advice and decided to build a quick, temporary bridge. He got his coolies to start building it out of the only thing he had handy, railroad ties. When the thing was done, it was five stories tall and swayed in the wind even with no train on top of it." Rudd swayed back and forth to show them what it looked like. Becky, watching him, also swayed back and forth.

Steele took out his drawing pad and started a sketch of her.

"But somehow it held up," continued Rudd. "A few passenger trains actually made it across that shaky trestle before the government inspectors found out about it. They said no more trains would be allowed across. The trains stopped and Moran stopped making money. But did he give up?"

Like all good story tellers, Rudd was watching his audience. He noticed Becky was getting distracted by the dust that was coming in through the window. "Would you like me to close the curtain," he asked?

"No, it's so hot we'd better leave it open," she said. "Please continue with your story."

"Well, Moran wasn't about to shut down his railroad. He just had his Chinese bury the whole thing." Rudd took a puff off of his cigar and blew it up toward the ceiling while he waited for that idea to sink in. "Yep, believe it or not, he sent about a thousand of them collies up into the hills to get dirt. You know, using those poles with bags tied on each end. Bag after bag they brought dirt down until eventually they completely buried the whole five-story trestle. It's still that way today."

"Now that's what I like," said Carson, slapping his knee. "A damn good story."

"I wrote the story up in my newspaper," said Rudd. "As a result of my story, people from San Francisco sometimes take a drive up there on Sundays to see that buried bridge."

"Oh, do you work for a newspaper?" asked Becky.

"Sure do," said Rudd, smiling at her.

"Then why are you goin' to Prescott?" asked Carson.

"Well, just . . . some old business to take care of." He glanced at Steele.

"Are the buildings really as tall as people say?" asked Becky? "In San Francisco, I mean. I heard every one of the streets are paved."

"And I heard some of the people have toilets inside their houses," added her father.

While Rudd answered their questions, Steele worked on his drawing of Becky. She was a remarkably pretty girl, and she didn't seem to have any pretense or guile. She couldn't be more unlike the overdressed and overly made-up young women of San Francisco. Steele tried hard to capture her simple, youthful attractiveness. He emphasized her high cheekbones and carelessly brushed back blonde hair. Despite her youth, she seemed to have a kind of common-sense calmness about her.

"What's that you're drawing there, Mister Steele?" asked Laird.

"Steele draws pictures of everybody he meets," said Rudd. "He drew one of me too."

"It's just a pastime," said Steele. He removed the drawing from the pad and handed it to her. "I'm really not very good at it."

"Now would you look at that," said Laird. "Never had a picture of my little girl before."

"Hey, that's pretty good," said Carson. "Really looks like her."

"That's my girl," said Laird, grinning. "Pretty as a picture."

Becky stared at the picture. "Do I really look like that? I mean, I've never seen a picture of myself." She handed the drawing back to Steele.

Steele handed it to Laird. "You can have it if you want it."

"Well, I sure would like it, if you don't mind givin' it up." He sat back to examine the drawing more closely.

By mid-morning, the stage had left the flat desert and was making its way up into the foothills. The higher they went, the rockier the ground became, and the road often skirted clusters of huge boulders. As the sun climbed higher, it turned the sky to a washed-out blue that seemed high and distant, as if it was shrinking away from the oppressive heat of the desert floor.

When they reached the higher elevations, the vegetation gradually grew more plentiful. There was a scattering of small trees that Steele thought might be a shorter variety of the tall pine trees he'd seen years before when he was traveling through Utah. He wished he would have had time to go to the library to read up on the plants and animals of Arizona before he'd left San Francisco.

The others talked or dozed while Steele drew quick sketches of the landscape they were passing through.

Becky leaned closer to see what he was drawing. "Do you also come from San Francisco, Mister, Steele?" she whispered, trying not to disturb the others who were dozing.

"Yes," whispered Steele. "Have you been there?"

"No, but I'd sure like to go there someday. I hear it's got everything there."

Just then the stage took a sharp turn, waking the others up. Dust filtered in through the cracks and rained down on them.

"Damn, this is about the dustiest I've ever seen this road," complained Rudd. He looked out the window. "Looks like we're heading up into the mountains."

"We'll be comin' to McDowell Pass pretty soon," said Laird. "People are sayin' Geronimo's the one who caused all that trouble up there."

"What trouble was that?" asked Rudd.

"Oh, maybe it's all rumor. Ever since Geronimo busted out of the San Carlos reservation, there's been lots of Indian trouble. So when some Indians robbed a stage at McDowell Pass, everybody said it had to be him."

"We published a story in my newspaper that said he was supposed to be down south somewhere," said Rudd. "In the mountains near Tucson."

"Who knows where those Redskins are," said Carson. "Those damn Indians wander all over this state like they own it."

"I believe they do think they own it," suggested Steele. "And have for a very long time."

Carson frowned at Steele. "Yeah, well they're sposed to be locked up on them reservations now. Where they belong."

"The Indians are not actually supposed to be held prisoner on the reservations," said Steele. "Technically, the reservation lands belong to the Indians."

"What?" said Carson? "How could that be?"

"The reservation lands were created by the U.S. Congress. They are reserved for the Indians."

"Well, how about that," said Carson, shaking his head. "Wouldn't it be just like congress to do some damn fool thing like that. Why should we have to give them anything? I thought we won the war with them Indians."

Steele didn't reply. He knew it would be a waste of time to argue with the man.

"We keep seeing bands of the young Indians on our tree farm," said Laird. "I guess they leave the reservation to hunt."

"And to steal," added Carson.

"Yes, they do some of that too," agreed Laird, "but so far they haven't taken anything of real value from us."

"Well," drawled Carson, "I haven't had much dealin's with Indians, so far, at least. But we'll see what happens when we get to this here pass you were talkin' about. I got somethin' here for that Ger-on-ee-mo." He took out his revolver.

Becky shied away from the big gun and Laird reached out to push it away. "I don't think we'll need that," he said. "There hasn't been any real trouble at the pass since last fall."

The stage made slow progress through a wide valley and up over a series of round-topped hills, but then it suddenly sped up as the road turned down toward a sandy ravine. The driver was shouting at the horses and snapping the reins to hurry them, but as they hit the sand, the stagecoach slowed and then stopped abruptly, throwing Becky and Rudd forward. Rudd ended up on Carson's lap and Becky ended up in Steele's arms as he caught her to keep her from falling. She quickly returned to her seat, blushing, but apparently not hurt.

Carson pushed Rudd back to his seat, muttering, "I knew I shoulda sat across from the gal."

Rudd leaned out the window, "What are you trying to do, kill us?"

"We're stuck," yelled back the driver. "Everybody out."

They all got out and found Charlie on his knees looking under the stage. "She's bottomed out in the sand. Stuck good."

Steele walked around the stage and saw that the front wheels were only a few inches down into the sand, but both of the rear wheels were buried up to the hubs.

"Come on, you men," shouted down the driver. "Give a push."

Steele and Laird and Carson got behind the stage, but Rudd announced he had a bad back and went to sit in the shade.

"Haw," yelled the driver. He cracked his whip.

"All at once now," shouted Steele and they all began to push. The stage rocked forward, but after a few inches of progress, the horses gave up and the wheels rolled back into the sandy hole.

The driver got down and came back to survey the situation. He took one look at how deep the wheels were buried and took off his beat-up old hat to hit the side of the stage with it. He walked around the stage swearing. He glanced toward Becky. "Sorry ma'am, but this damn thing ain't meant to carry this kind of load." Son of a bitch . . . sorry ma'am, is too heavy for this road." He hit the side of the stage with his hat again and said, "Guess we're gonna have to unload 'er, Charlie."

Charlie didn't look very happy at the prospect. "We ain't never had to do that before."

"Wait a minute, boys," said Carson. "I think we got us a bigger problem up there." He pointed toward the top of the hill.

Steele saw what Carson was looking at. Three Indians on horseback were watching them.

"Uh oh," said Rudd, getting up. "Is this that McDowell pass you were talking about?"

"Yep," said Laird. "This is it."

Rudd hurried to hide behind the stagecoach.

Laird urgently waved at his daughter. "Rebecca, get over here."

She came, but not too quickly.

Steele stayed where he was. Carson had his revolver out and the driver climbed up and got his rifle. He tossed a shotgun down to Charlie. They all watched the Indians and the Indians, high above, watched them.

"We just gonna sit here?" said Carson. "It'll be dark in a few hours."

"Well, we can't unload," said the driver. "That's what they're waiting for. The whole bunch of 'em'll come yippin' down here and grab whatever they can."

"If there are only three of them," said Steele," I don't think they will attempt anything. And if there are more of them in hiding, then they can come down here anytime they want."

The driver didn't seem able to make a decision.

"Maybe they're not going to do anything," said Becky. "Maybe they're just curious."

"Waiting for us to make a mistake, more likely," said Carson. "So they can pick us off."

"Becky could be right," said Steele. "Maybe they're just curious about how we're going to get the stage unstuck."

"Well, we're not gonna get it unstuck just sitting here, " said Rudd, peeking around from behind the stage. "Any ideas, Steele?"

"If we had some kind of pole, we might be able to lift it up while the horses pull."

"Don't have any poles," said the driver. "But it's a good idea. The bottom draggin' under the back is what's got it hung up."

"Let's dig out the rear wheels a bit," suggested Steele. "To see what it looks like under there." He looked up at the driver. "Do you have a shovel?"

The driver untied the canvas tarp that was covering the top of the stage. He found a shovel and tossed it down to Steele.

Steele began to scoop away the sand.

Carson stayed where he was with his revolver pointed up the hill.

Laird found a stick and used to drag sand away from the wheels on the other side of the coach. Becky got to her knees and tried to pull away some of the sand with her hands. Rudd remained in his seated position behind the stage, but he did push aside a little sand with his foot.

Once the sand had been scooped away from the wheels, Steele got down on all fours and looked under the stage. "It's no good," he said, "it's still resting on the bottom. We need to lift it up."

"We're not gonna find anything to lever it up around here," said Laird, looking around. "Nothin but Manzanita and scrub."

"I noticed a couple of big cottonwood trees in that last dry wash we crossed," said Steele. "Maybe I can find some wood to use as a lever. I'll run back to see."

"You can't go out there alone," said Becky. "What if there are more of those Indians waiting for you out there?"

"They might be waitin' for dark," said Carson. "That's the way them sneakin' redskins do it."

"I don't see why they'd bother me," said Steele. "I'll be back soon." He turned and started to run back down the road, maintaining a steady pace. Despite the urgency of the situation, it felt good to be out of the confines of the stagecoach and running.

After about ten minutes of easy running, he came to the wash. The two Cottonwood trees he'd seen from the stage were both more than twenty feet tall. One of them appeared to be dead. There didn't seem to be anybody around. It was very quiet, except for the creaking of the dead tree in the slight breeze.

There was a fallen tree limb on the ground under the tree. He picked it up, but it didn't seem very strong. There was another limb still attached to the dead tree. He jumped up and caught hold of it. He hung there for a moment and then began bouncing up and down, trying to get the branch to break. But it didn't break; it was surprisingly solid.

He continued to hang there, resting, but then he thought he heard something. He dropped to the ground and ducked behind the tree. He heard it again. Someone was coming up the wash from the direction of the road. He reached down and took his pistol out of his boot.

But then he saw it was Laird. He was trying to hurry, but he was struggling in the deep sand of the wash.

Steele put his pistol away and stepped out from behind the tree. "Here I am. Thanks for coming to help."

Laird shrugged. "Aw, hell, Becky shamed me into it. "Said we shouldn't of let you go out here alone. I tried to catch up with you, but you're too darn fast."

"Has anything changed back there?"

Laird shook his head. "One of the Indians rode away. Carson thinks he may have gone to get others."

Steele pointed to the dead branch. "Let's jump up and see if we can break that branch off. It'd make a good lever."

"I'm willin', but I don't think I can jump that high."

"It's not as high as it looks. Here we go. One, two, three, jump!"

Steele jumped up and caught the branch, but Laird barely brushed it with his fingertips.

Steele dropped down and interlaced his fingers. "Put your foot in here. I'll boost you up."

Laird put his foot in Steele's hands, bounced a few times, and then stood up. He steadied himself with his hand on top of Steele's head and then made a grab for the branch. "Got it!"

Steele jumped up next to Laird and caught hold. "Ready? Let's bounce to try to break it off."

They both began to pull up and down, getting in rhythm. But the branch didn't show any signs of breaking. "I think it's too tough," said Laird, out of breath.

"One more time," said Steele. "I think we've about got it." But then Steele heard something. He looked up and saw two Indians on horseback watching them. They were close, just on the other side of the sand wash. One of the Indians was an older man with a square jaw and dark, weathered skin. He seemed very somber, sitting quietly on his horse, watching them. He was wearing a faded blue Union Army shirt, unbuttoned to the waist, and he had a rifle tied to his back with what looked like rawhide string. The other Indian was a young boy, shirtless, and maybe still in his early teens. He had dark stripes painted on his cheeks.

Laird continued to hang on the limb. "It's not breaking, Steele. And my arms are about to give out." But then, as he gave it one more hard bounce, it broke and they both fell to the ground. Steele landed on his feet, but Laird fell over backwards, the limb landing on top of him.

The old Indian began to laugh, quietly at first, and then louder, a deep laugh from the belly. Then the boy joined in.

Laird sat up and blinked. "Oh my God, it's Indians."

"They seem to think two white men hanging from a tree is a pretty funny sight," said Steele. "Let's just take our tree limb and go."

Laird jumped up and grabbed one end of the limb while Steele got ahold of the other. They hurried up the wash toward the road.

"What if they shoot us in the back?" whispered Laird.

"If they wanted to shoot us, they could have done it while we were hanging from that limb. Let's just keep moving." Steele broke into a jog, but Laird kept stumbling. Steele shifted the load so he was carrying most of it.

"Damn, that was close," said Laird. "Wonder why they didn't shoot us?"

"Why would they? A couple of grown men bouncing on a tree limb."

Laird began to chuckle. "Guess it did look pretty funny. Specially when I fell on my ass. I bet they liked that."

With Steele carrying most of the load, they soon made it back to the stage.

Laird dropped his end of the tree limb in the sand. "Hey, everybody, we saw more Indians back there. One of them had a rifle."

Rudd jumped up and dusted off the back of his pants. "Are they coming this way?"

"Don't know," said Laird. "We got out of there fast."

"We don't know where Carson went," said Becky. We heard a shot and the Indians that were up on the ridge went away."

"Well, let's try that pole of yours," said the driver. "We got 'er dug out as much as we can."

Steele positioned the tree limb under the stage. Then he rolled a large rock under the limb to get leverage and pushed down hard on the other end. The stage lifted a little.

"By God, that might be just enough to free 'er," said the driver. "Let's try it." He climbed back and grabbed the reins. "When I say go, you men down there push for all you're worth."

Laird and Becky got behind the stage and even Rudd came to help.

"Now!" yelled the driver.

Steele pushed down on the pole just as the driver cracked his whip and yelled, "Pull, damn you. Show 'em how it's done, Shadow."

The stage suddenly rolled forward out of the sand with surprising ease. The driver kept on urging the horses forward until the stage was completely out of the wash.

Steele rolled away the rock and threw the tree limb into the bushes before following the others as they ran to the stage.

Once they were all inside, the driver cracked his whip again and the stage started to move, but Becky cried out, "Wait! What about Carson?"

Steele opened the stagecoach door and leaned out. "Hold on, driver. We're missing one in here."

The driver acted like he hadn't heard and kept the team going fast up the hill.

Becky grabbed Steele's sleeve. "Don't fall out. Maybe Carson is waiting up ahead."

Steele started to pull back inside, but just then he saw Carson coming. He still had his revolver out and he was running for all he was worth to catch the stage. Steele yelled up to the driver, "Here he comes. Stop!"

The driver didn't stop, but he did slow down. Charlie was leaning out, looking back.

Carson finally caught up and reached for Steele's hand. Steele pulled him inside and Carson collapsed into his seat, out of breath, but laughing. "I put one hell of a scare into them Indians. Might have hit one of 'em." He waved his revolver in the air.

"Why did you do that?" said Becky. "All they were doing was watching us."

"Listen, girly, this is Arizona. There's a bounty on renegade Indians in this state. Worth a five-dollar gold piece for every scalp you bring in."

"If the bounty is paid for the scalp," asked Steele, "how would anyone know if it truly was a renegade?"

Carson stared at him, and then shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"It certainly does matter," said Becky. "They shouldn't be paying people to kill Indians in the first place."

"Oh, so you're one of that type," said Carson. "Listen, girly, if you knew what those murderin' Redskins did back in fifty-nine you'd be singing a different tune about now." He shook his finger in her face. "Down near Tucson those bloodthirsty--"

Steele caught Carson's wrist and pulled him away from Becky.

Carson jerked his arm free. "Don't be puttin' your hands on me, bub. Last man who did that to me--"

"Now, let's all just take it easy here," said Laird. "We aren't out of this yet. What if they're waiting for us up at the top of the hill?"

Carson stared at Steele for a long moment and then stuck his pistol out of the window. "Let 'em come. I'm ready for 'em."

Everyone was watching out the windows as they crested the hill, but there was no sign of the Indians. The driver kept the stage moving fast until they were over the top and starting down the other side.

When the stage slowed to it's normal pace, Laird leaned back and laughed. "You should've seen us. There we were, hangin' on this dead tree limb, bouncin' away to try to break it off and up comes these two Indians. Real close. And you know what they did? They started laughin'. Pretty funny I guess, us hanging up there on that tree limb. When I fell down they laughed their asses off, especially the old one."

"Really?" said Becky. "That's all they did? Just laughed?"

"Yep, that's all they did." He turned to Steele. "You know, I've been thinking, Steele. Do you think that old guy could have been Geronimo?"

"We don't even know if he's been in this area," said Steele.

"This stage stops for the night up at Camp Verde," said Rudd. "Maybe they'll know something about him there."

"Yeah," said Laird, "and maybe the Army'll be able to tell us why all these Indians are runnin' loose around here."

By the time they reached Camp Verde, the sun was setting. A young Lieutenant met the stage and listened patiently while the driver told him about the Indians they'd seen.

Then Laird told him about the two Indians who'd watched while they hung from the tree branch. He left out the part about the Indians laughing, but described the old Indian and asked if it could have been Geronimo.

The Lieutenant shrugged and said, "It's possible. A lot of people claim to have seen him south of here, but nobody knows for sure if it really was him."

Carson let out a gruff laugh and said he was going to the bar to get a drink

A young Mexican boy showed the rest of them to their quarters, two shacks built out of rough wood. There was one for the Señoritas and one for the hombres. The men's quarters were remarkably stark, nothing inside except for a half-dozen sagging beds pushed up against the walls. Steele assumed the women's quarters wouldn't be much better, and he had a sudden thought about how Stacy would react to such a place. Becky would be sleeping alone in the Señorita's shack and Steele suspected she probably wouldn't give the primitive sleeping quarters much thought one way or the other.

After they stowed their luggage, they all went back outside to find an old Mexican couple busily setting out hot tortillas and cold beans on a plank table. They politely asked for a dollar from each of the passengers.

Rudd complained that it was "a might high price for tortillas and cold beans," but he ended up eating a lot of it.

After eating, the others headed for the shacks to get some sleep, but Steele sat on a stump in the cool night to relax for a while and think about the trip. As he looked up at the very bright stars, he realized he hadn't thought much about San Francisco, or Stacy, since they'd left the train in Colorado City.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard someone coming up behind him. He quickly stood up. It was Becky.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't men to disturb you."

"I was just looking at the stars. Will you join me?" He moved aside to give her room to sit down.

She sat down, very close, and stared up at the sky. "I love to look at the stars. And they're so much brighter up here in the mountains."

Steele couldn't see her very well in the dark, but he could smell her perfume. Or was it soap? She had probably just finished washing herself in the tin basin that was set up outside the women's sleeping quarters.

"Oh, there," she said, excited. "A falling star. Did you see it?"

"No, where was it?"

"Just above the trees. It was a long one. At home, I see them all the time. Sometimes I lay out in the desert at night just to watch for them. Last fall I saw twenty in one night."

"I read they come in groups like that every fall."

"Really? Why would that be?"

"They don't really know. But they say it happens ever year."

"It must be wonderful to be educated," she said. "In small town I grew up in, I went to a little school for all eight years, but the woman who taught us mostly wanted us to learn about the Bible. I learned to read and write, but every spring I'd get behind when I had to drop out for planting time. And it would happen again in the fall when we brought in the crops."

"You don't have to go to school to learn. In San Francisco there are several good libraries. I go there often to read."

"I want to go to San Francisco," she said quietly. "Someday."

"I'm sure you will."

"Maybe I'll marry someone who will take me there. Are you married, Mister, Steele?"

He smiled and shook his head.

"Oh darn, there I go again. I didn't mean it like that. My father says I ask too many questions."

"I don't mind."

"Oh look, there's another one." She grabbed his arm and closed her eyes.

He waited until she opened her eyes and asked, "Were you making a wish?"

"Yes. I guess it's silly, isn't it? But I've always wished on falling stars. " She let go of his arm and put her hands in her lap.

They sat there without speaking for several minutes. Steele saw that the Orion constellation was almost straight up overhead. Would Stacy be looking at those same stars? But then he realized in Europe it would already be daylight.

"But I bet you have a girl, don't you? What's her name?"

"I have a . . . friend I used to spend a lot of time with. Her name is Stacy."

"Used to?"

"She's in Europe now. Has been for some time."

Becky was quiet for a while, then, "Europe. Such a long ways away."

"Yes, it is."

Becky yawned. "I guess I'd better get some sleep. My father says we've got another long day in that stagecoach tomorrow before we get to Prescott."

"Yes, I expect so," agreed Steele. "I'd better try to sleep also."

Becky hesitated and then shrugged and hurried off toward the women's shack.

Steele sat there for a while longer, watching the stars and thinking about Becky's words. How different her life was from someone like Stacy. While Stacy marched in protests for women's rights in Europe, women like Becky worked on family farms and raised children, never to see a big city, never thinking about fancy society parties and social posturing. During the war, he had met a few girls like Becky, girls who were fascinated by the war, and especially fascinated by the long lines of young soldier boys who marched right through their normally-quiet farms. To Steele, the lives of those girls had seemed so simple, but in a way their lives were more meaningful, more useful, than the complex and fast-paced lives of the people he'd met in his parent's high society back in London.

Steele pushed away those memories and got up to make his way to the men's sleeping quarters. He slipped under the rough blanket without removing his clothes and listened for a while to Laird's quiet breathing and Rudd's loud snoring. He thought about the trip so far, about the desert and its many strange plants. He also thought about the Indians who had watched them back at that dead tree. He tried to imagine what the lives of the Indians might be like. How did they survive out there in that barren desert? What did they eat? It was many hours before he felt himself growing sleepy.

It was already light when Steele woke up. He stared up at the sunlight streaming through the holes in the ceiling, vaguely remembering a dream about a soldier with a bullet hole in his forehead. The soldier had been following him, trying to show him where the bullet had gone in. In a way, it was somewhat similar to Carson showing them where the bullet had hit him. He'd seen many wounds like that during the war, and dreams about wounds and wounded men were almost a nightly occurrence now, along with dreams about the war, about the violence of the fighting, and about the soldiers he'd seen die in that Army field hospital. The bad dreams had started while he was still working there, and they persisted even after he'd left the war zone. They stayed with him like an unwanted companion during his travel through the West and they were still with him when he arrived in San Francisco. Then they went away for a while. They'd stayed away during the good times with Stacy, but lately they'd come back, now almost as vivid as the real horrors he'd seen during the war.

Steele shook off the sad feeling the dream had left him with and got up to wake Rudd and Laird. There was no sign of Carson.

By the time they'd collected Becky and made their way up to the stage depot, the horses were already being hitched up. "I was about to come get you folks," said Charlie. "Where's the other one?"

"We haven't seen him," said Steele.

"Well, we can't wait for him. If he's not here when we shove off, he'll have to wait for tomorrow's stage."

"Maybe he ran off to find us something to eat," said Rudd and everyone laughed. "Well, I don't think this stage line is very considerate of its passengers. They could have at least provided us with some kind of breakfast."

"Where do you think Carson went?" asked Laird. "Camp Verde isn't a very big place to disappear in."

"I'm not sorry he's gone," said Becky forcefully. But then she seemed to realize she'd spoken harshly and dropped her eyes. "I mean, I know he was a war hero and all, but he scared me. Shooting at those peaceful Indians like that. It wasn't right."

"I'm not so sure I would call him a war hero," said Steele.

"What do you mean?" said Laird. "He showed us his wounds."

"There are many ways to get wounded. Especially if you're on the wrong side of the law."

"So what are you saying?" asked Rudd. "That he wasn't in the war?"

I'm sure he was in the war, but the battle he said he took part in was not a battle of regular army troops."

"Not regular? What do you mean?" asked Laird.

"Independence, Missouri, the place Carson mentioned, was taken during the night by a group of irregulars. I passed through there not long afterward. A large group of men shot up the town and stole as much as they could carry. They were said to be led by a man named William Quantrill. The people I talked to in Missouri said they pretended to be southern troops, but they were really little more than bandits."

Rudd snapped his fingers. "Yeah, that's right. I remember there was a story in an eastern newspaper about Quantrill. It accused his men of robbing a bank somewhere in Missouri."

Becky looked worried. "You don't suppose Carson is one of them do you? I mean, a hired killer?"

"Let's go, folks," said the driver.

They were hardly settled inside the stage when it started moving. Rudd said, "Looks like Carson isn't going to make it." As the dust began to filter up through the floorboards, he added, "Maybe he just couldn't stand the dust anymore."

Laird laughed and said, "Well, I can understand that."

As they headed further north, the stage climbed steadily into the mountains. As they continued to gain altitude, the vegetation gradually changed from scrub oak to short pine trees. Within an hour, they turned west and Steele could see even higher mountains in the distance.

Steele took out his drawing pad and began a sketch of Carson from memory. He drew the man's head and shoulders, putting him in a confederate uniform and hat. As usual, he left the eyes until last. He felt he had captured Carson's sarcastic smile, but he knew he would have trouble portraying Carson's dead-calm eyes.

The coach slowed and came to a stop.

"What the hell?" said Rudd. "Why are we stopped. We're in the middle of nowhere."

Steele put down his drawing pad and leaned out the window. The road ahead was blocked by a fallen tree. Charlie jumped down to move it out of the way, but the moment he touched the tree, a shot rang out and he fell backward. When another shot kicked up the dirt next to him, Charlie tried to crawl back to the stagecoach.

"Who'se shooting?" cried Becky. "What's going on?"

Steele didn't take time to answer. He threw open the door and jumped out. "Get out!" he shouted. "Get down behind the coach." He ran to Charlie and got a grip on the back of his shirt to drag him back to the stage. But two more shots hit the road and threw dirt into Steele's eyes. He fell back, but was up quickly and again began to drag Charlie toward the coach. The driver started shooting up toward where the shots had come from and that gave Steele time to get Charlie back to safely.

The others were all out of the coach and crouched down behind it. The driver was still up top, his rifle at the ready, but no more shots were coming from up on the hillside.

Becky knelt next to Charlie." Oh my God, he's been shot."

"It's my leg," said Charlie. "Was it Indians?"

"I can't see anybody," yelled the driver. "The shooting came from up on top of the hill."

Steele tore away the cloth from Charlie's wounded leg. He'd been hit just above the knee and it was bleeding heavily. Steele hoped the bullet hadn't severed any arteries. "Who's got a clean handkerchief?" he said. "Quick."

Rudd pulled out a large red one. "You can use mine, but, uh, I don't think it's very clean."

"I haven't used this one," said Becky, producing a small white hanky.

"It'll do," said Steele. He used it to put direct pressure on Charlie's leg wound.

"We've got to get out of here," yelled Rudd. "They'll pick us off like . . . like rabbits."

"Spose you just tell me how I'm gonna get past that tree," yelled back the driver. "Somebody's got to roll it out of the way."

"Oh, right," said Rudd. "I suppose you think we should go out there and get ourselves killed."

"I'll do it," said Steele. "Here, Becky, keep this cloth pressed against the wound. Push hard."

"No, wait" she cried. "don't go out there."

Steele showed Becky where to apply pressure. He stood up and moved to the edge of the coach.

"Wait," said Laird, "you can't move that tree by yourself. I'll go with you."

"I can do," said Steele. "Stay here." He jumped up and ran to the tree. He ducked down behind it and waited. No shots came. Maybe whoever it was had just taken a few quick shots and ran away.

He stood up and grabbed one end of the tree. He quickly dragged it to the side of the road. Then he crouched back down behind it. "Go, go," he yelled to the driver.

"Everybody in!" shouted the driver. "Get Charlie inside. Let's go!"

They helped Charlie inside the coach and as soon as they were in, the driver cracked his whip. The horses started fast.

As the coach went by, Steele jumped up and ran alongside, keeping it between him and the hillside where the shots had come from.

Laird was hanging out of the doorway. "Here, grab my hand."

Steele caught it and swung up and in.

"Man, that was close," said Rudd. "Them Indians could of swarmed down on us any minute."

Steele wasn't so sure it was Indians, but he didn't reply. He had to see to Charlie's wound. They had him lying on the floor at their feet. Becky was sitting next to him, trying her best to keep pressure on his wound.

Steele kneeled next to Charlie and used his pocket knife to cut away the rest of the cloth around the wound. He could see that the bullet was still in there, maybe lodged against the bone. Steele had seen many such wounds during the war. The bullet would have to come out, but that would take a doctor and surgical instruments.

"How bad is it?" asked Charlie between gritted teeth.

"It's not too bad," said Steele. "You'll be fine, but we need to get you to a doctor."

"There's nothing between here and Prescott," said Rudd. "Hours away."

Steele touched Charlie's shoulder. "We'll try to make you as comfortable as we can. You're going to have to hang on until Prescott." He looked up at the others. "I need some cloth to bind up his wound."

"You can have my shirt," said Becky.

"That'll work," said Rudd. "Hey, I'll buy you a couple of nice new ones when we get to Prescott."

The men turned their backs while Becky removed her shirt and put on her father's jacket. Steele cut her white shirt into strips and used them to bind Charlie's wound tightly.

Rudd folded his jacket to put under Charlie's head, but Becky thought that looked uncomfortable so she sat down against the door so Charlie could rest his head on her lap. Charlie smiled up at her and Rudd said, "Now that looks nice and comfy. Getting to put your head on a pretty girl's lap. Almost worth getting shot for."

Charlie closed his eyes and despite the stage's bouncing, he soon fell into a kind of dozing sleep.

Steele squeezed in next to Charlie and sat down on the floor, keeping the cloth pad on the wound to slow the bleeding.

Becky leaned close to Steele and whispered, "Is he going to make it?"

"If the bleeding stops, or at least slows a great deal, I think he has a good chance. But I've seen . . . ." He stopped in mid-sentence. He patted her hand. "He'll be all right."

After a while, everyone grew quiet. Steele periodically removed the cloth pad to check Charlie's wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed somewhat. He sat back and thought about the many leg wounds he had seen during the war. It still troubled him to remember the men that were only slightly wounded, but died anyhow. The doctors called it "shock." For Steele, the hardest part of working in the field hospital was seeing the ones that seemed like they were going to make it, but didn't. After a year of following the battles with a young man's fascination, the hospital had seemed to be a backwater of calm in the midst of the war's madness, but he saw more death there than he had seen on all the battlefields combined. The officers who ran the hospital had willingly accepted his offer to work as a volunteer in exchange for food and shelter, but the two years that followed were a very sad time for Steele, a time of hard work, but also a time of watching and thinking, of trying to understand what could be worth so much misery and death. He had learned a lot about medicine and the treatment of wounded men and hadn't expected to have to use that knowledge after the fighting ended. But sitting on the floor of a swaying and bouncing stagecoach, trying to hold back the bleeding of yet another man wounded by gunfire, it almost felt like he was back in another war. He couldn't help but wonder what else might be waiting for him in this remote territory.

-- Continued in Chapter 6--

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