The Outlaw And The Runaway

Tools of a man’s trade, Celia recalled thinking two weeks ago when she’d caught a glimpse of the pair of guns the outlaw with mismatched eyes wore beneath his long duster. And just like on that other occasion, a shiver of apprehension rippled over her.

Her hand crept up to her chest, to touch the small silk pouch where she wore the stranger’s gold coin on a string around her neck, like a keepsake to make sure they would meet again. But why dream of such an encounter, when an outlaw was like a hunted animal and any romantic interest in such a man could only bring a woman grief?

* * *

Footsteps thundered across the porch. Even before she hurried to the door, Celia knew it could not be her father, for a tired shuffle would announce his arrival. It was the barber, Mr. Grosser, a tall, rawboned man whose body always seemed to be listing to one side.

“Come quick, Miss Celia,” he said, even in his haste polite enough to snatch his hat down from his head. “I have your father at the back of my shop.”

Startled, she stared at the gangly barber. At the back of my shop. Rock Springs had no jail, and no marshal since Todd Lindstrom had been gunned down by rustlers a year ago. When someone needed to be detained, he was locked up in the small, windowless storeroom at the back of the barbershop, and kept there until he sobered up or, in the case of more serious crimes, until the county sheriff from Prescott arrived to fetch him.

“But why?” Celia implored. “Why?”

“Well, Miss Celia...” The barber turned his hat over in his hands. “They say he was in on the robbery. That he tipped off the gang of outlaws about all that gold in the bank and advised them how to go about stealing it.”

“W...what...?” After she’d overcome her startled reaction, indignation flared within Celia, like a flame licking at her insides. Her poor, sick father, to be bothered with such crazy accusations. “That is nonsense. Complete, utter nonsense.” She squared her shoulders, bracing for a confrontation. “Where is the sheriff?”

“He’s in the saloon, having his supper. When he’s finished, he’ll take your father to Prescott for a trial. It is a full moon tonight, light enough to travel after sunset.” Mr. Grosser replaced his hat on his head and turned to go. “Miss Celia, you’ll need to come quick if you want to see your father. I’m here against the sheriff’s orders. He does not want you to talk to your father, in case he might use you to pass a message to his accomplices.”

“Use me?” Her voice grew shrill at the incongruity of it. “To pass a message? To his accomplices?” Never had she heard such utter balderdash. Could this be some kind of a practical joke at her expense? Yes, that’s what it had to be. She’d play along, act her part as the hapless victim of the warped sense of humor of the citizens of Rock Springs.

Celia snatched her bonnet from a peg by the door, flung it over her upsweep and marched out, tying the laces beneath the chin as she tried to keep up with the barber’s long strides. On the normally quiet Main Street, a dozen people were loitering about in artificially casual poses, men flicking dust from their coat lapels, women pretending to be inspecting the displays in the store windows, while their true purpose was to steal covert glances at her.

Not looking left or right, Celia clattered up the steps to the boardwalk in her leather half boots. For an instant, she was forced to stand still while the barber bent his head to unlock his premises. The force of all those curious stares bombarded her in the back, like a flurry of Indian arrows landing between her shoulder blades.

Finally, the lock clicked open and the barber held the door wide while Celia stepped through. The pungent smells of cologne and shaving soap filled her nostrils. She’d never been to Mr. Grosser’s premises before. In normal circumstances, she would have enjoyed the opportunity to inspect such a bastion of masculine grooming, but today she paid scant attention to her surroundings.

The barber ushered her past the big leather chair to the rear of the shop and slid open the crudely made hatch in a thick, iron-studded oak door. Equipped with heavy steel hinges and twin bolts, the storeroom had been specifically reinforced to act as a place of detention.

“I want to go inside and talk to him,” Celia said.

“Sorry, Miss Celia. You must talk to him through the hatch.” The barber retreated to the front of the premises and busied himself by arranging the jars and bottles lined up on the mahogany cabinet behind his chair. He turned his back on her, offering an illusion of privacy, but Celia could tell he was keeping an eye on her through the big gilt-framed mirror mounted on the wall.

She pivoted on her feet to face the jail room and rose on tiptoe to peer through the hatch, positioned for a man’s height. Her father was sitting on the edge of a narrow cot. The room had no other furniture, only the cot, and beside it no more than two feet of empty space. Should a prisoner feel restless, he might take three steps toward the far wall, turn around and take three steps in the opposite direction, while trying not to trip up on the slop bucket in the corner.

“Papa!”

Her father glanced up. For an instant, Celia could see despair etched on his gaunt features. Then his lips curved into a shaky smile. Moving slowly, he got up and eased over to her. The hatch in the door framed his face, making him appear like the portrait of a dying man.

“Papa, what is this all about?”

“Well, Celia girl, they think I had something to do with this robbery. The bandit leader tried to shoot me, and the sheriff claims it is typical behavior for these outlaw gangs. They get a man inside to help them with the robbery, and then they kill him, so he can’t talk and give them away.”

“But that is nonsense! Anyway, the robbers didn’t kill you. The theory does not fit the facts.”

“The sheriff says there are often internal feuds in these gangs. Maybe the leader wanted to shoot this other man, too, but he ran out of time and couldn’t kill either of us.”

“Ran out of time?” Celia said tartly. “Just how slowly does a bullet fly?” She gave her head a determined shake. “We’ll have to put a stop to this foolishness. I’ll speak to the sheriff. If that fails, we’ll get a lawyer. Someone competent, from Prescott or Flagstaff.”

“Celia girl, listen to me.”

There was an odd shine in her father’s eyes, a strange fervor in his expression. Celia held her breath. A terrible fear unfurled in her belly. Surely, the accusations could have no merit? Surely, there was no possibility that her father had actually been involved in the crime?

“Yes, Papa?” she prompted him, her body rigid with tension. “I’m listening.”

Her father spoke with a breathless eagerness. “This is the solution I’ve been looking for. Soon I’ll be too weak to work. You’ll be left to support me, with little money coming in. You spent your young years nursing your mother, and I don’t want you to bear the burden of nursing me, too. If I go along with what they claim, the authorities will have to take care of me. And you’ll be free. The house is in your name, and I’ve got a bit of money put aside, not in the bank but elsewhere, and I’ll get it sent out to you.”

“No, Papa, no! We’ll fight them. Prove your innocence.”

“No, Celia.” Her father frowned, looking pained. “I’ll not hear a word from you against this plan.” His expression softened. “Don’t you understand, Celia girl, I want you to have a chance. I’ll send you the money. You can sell the house and go away, start over in some other town.”

“I’d rather nurse you than move to a place full of strangers.”

A smile eased her father’s gaunt features and he spoke tenderly. “Come closer.”

Celia flattened her palms against the reinforced oak panel and hovered on her toes, her face lined up with the hatch. Her father pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Celia girl. And I understand that you want to look after me, give me comfort in my final days. But the greatest comfort you could give me is to write to me in Yuma prison and tell me that you’ve settled safely in some other town where people have no prejudice against you. Then I’ll be able to die in peace.”

“Papa...” Her voice caught in her throat. It was an unreasonable demand for him to make, and yet how could she ignore it? How could she deny her father what he was asking for? And in some horrible, practical way, she understood the logic in his thinking. With only her meager earnings to rely upon, they might not have enough money for doctor’s bills and other expenses. This way, the territorial government would have to take care of him, feed him and eventually bury him.

“All right,” Celia replied, anguish tightening her chest. “I won’t try to reason with the sheriff. But promise me this—when they question you, you’ll tell no lies. And if they end up releasing you, you’ll come home to me, and let me nurse you, like I nursed Mama.”

“I promise you that, Celia girl.”

Voices erupted on the boardwalk outside. The barber hurried over to Celia. He shoved her aside and slammed shut the hatch in the oak door. Speaking with a nervous agitation, he grabbed her by the elbow and bundled her toward the rear exit. “Go out the back way.”

Celia wrenched herself free. “I’ll go out the way I came in.” Holding her head high, she marched out of the shop. In the street, she could see the lean, wiry sheriff with the expensive tan Stetson hat leading over two horses, his bay and a dun gelding she recognized as rental stock from the livery stable.

The sheriff came to a halt by the boardwalk and turned to detach the shackles from his horse. Carrying the clinking chains in one hand, he climbed up the steps to the boardwalk. Celia stood still, her wide skirts blocking the entrance to the barbershop. When the sheriff came toe-to-toe with her, she held her position for a moment, then shifted aside to let him through. There was no point in resisting. If the sheriff knew his job, he’d get her father to reveal the truth and send him home to her where he belonged.

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