The Outlaw And The Runaway

They dismounted and adjusted their heavy canvas dusters to make sure their pistols remained out of sight. Instead of tying their horses to the hitching rail outside the church, they picketed them at the edge of the grassy meadow beyond the clearing and walked over to join the crowd.

A few people darted curious looks in their direction as they came to stand on the outskirts of the throng, but most had their attention on a portly man with muttonchop sideburns and a bowler hat, who had taken up position behind one of the trestle tables.

The man banged a gavel against the timber top to demand silence. “Welcome all, friends and strangers alike,” he boomed. “I’ll just remind you of the rules. Each lady will hold up her luncheon basket and describe the contents. Gentlemen will bid, and the winner gets to share the luncheon with the lady. Bidding starts at twenty-five cents. No bidding over five dollars. All funds go to the church maintenance fund.”

A box lunch.

Roy had heard of those, but he’d never attended one. Another wave of regret washed over him. Living in the isolation of an outlaw camp since the age of fourteen, he’d never had a chance to court a girl. Apart from prostitutes, the only females he knew were Big Kate and Miss Gabriela who belonged to the men in the Red Bluff Gang.

Curious, Roy watched as the portly gentleman behind the trestle table gestured toward a gaggle of blushing young females who stood behind him, fluttering like a flock of brightly colored birds. A slender blonde in a frilly pink dress stepped forward, picked up a basket from the table and held it up. “Meat and potato pie and raspberry crumble.”

A short man in a brown suit instantly bid five dollars. Beaming with pride, the girl moved aside and another one took her place. Mostly, the picnic baskets went for a couple of dollars. An odd restlessness settled over Roy as he watched Celia Courtwood. She was standing slightly apart from the others, looking increasingly fraught as the auction progressed and the group of girls thinned out.

Finally, only one basket remained on the table. The auctioneer glanced around, preparing to wrap up the proceedings and put his gavel down, but a gaunt man with pale skin called for him to wait and hurried over to Celia. With an agitated whisper, he ushered the girl toward the trestle table.

Attempting a smile, she picked up the last remaining basket and held it up. “Fried chicken and apple pie.”

The man with muttonchop sideburns squirmed. Like water rippling across a pond, the entire crowd turned to stare at a tall man dressed in black. The preacher, Roy assumed, and for whatever reason the reverend ignored the questioning glances of his congregation. Silence fell, so thick Roy could hear the crunching of gravel beneath two dozen pairs of boots and shoes as people shifted nervously on their feet.

At the front of the crowd, Celia stood forlorn, her head turned aside. Beneath the brim of her bonnet Roy could see a smear of rouge on her cheeks, evidence of a clumsy effort to appear more attractive. She blinked to hold back the tears but Roy feared they would soon start falling. A slow burn of anger flickered into flame in his gut.

What was wrong with everyone? Why didn’t anyone bid?

He craned his neck, peering over the forest of hats and bonnets in front of him for a better view, planning to call out twenty-five cents to get the bidding started. Surely, someone would follow his lead? Surely, one of the others would be gentlemanly enough to put the poor girl out of her misery?

Roy raised his hand, opened his mouth. “Five dollars!”

It came out of nowhere, through no conscious thought. Beside him, Saldana muttered a curse. A hush went through the crowd. Celia looked up from beneath the brim of her bonnet. Her eyes were tear-bright, but she straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

“Sir, do not seek amusement at my expense.”

“I’m not seeking amusement,” Roy replied calmly. “I’m seeking to eat, and I’m partial to fried chicken and apple pie.”

“Stranger, what’s your name?” the auctioneer called out.

“That’s for the lady to know,” Roy replied. He shouldered his way through the throng, came to a halt in front of Celia and held out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, she lowered the wicker basket to the crook of her elbow to free one hand and slipped her fingers into his. Roy could tell her hand was shaking. He tightened his hold, seeking to reassure her as he escorted her to the grassy meadow where the other girls and their suitors had already spread out their picnic blankets.

“Wait here,” he told her.

He strode off, waving for Saldana to follow. The tall Mexican was grinning and shaking his head, making tut-tut noises, like an old woman. When they reached their horses, Roy gave his buckskin, Dagur, a reassuring pat on the neck and took down a blanket from his bedroll.

“Don’t draw attention,” Saldana complained.

“All right,” Roy admitted. “It was a stupid mistake.”

And yet he couldn’t regret what he had done. The girl was a puzzle he wanted to solve. And witnessing her misery had tugged at something inside him, some faint remnant of sentimentality and compassion. He knew what it felt like to be ostracized, to be treated like an outcast. Whatever transgressions the girl might have committed, she didn’t deserve such a public humiliation.

“What do you want me to do?” Saldana asked.

Roy hesitated. The sensible thing would be to escort the girl home and ride away before the townspeople had a chance to get a closer look at him, but doing the sensible thing seemed to be eluding him today. “Take the horses to the water trough by the saloon and make sure they drink their fill. I won’t be long. Half an hour at the most. Then we’ll leave, head north toward Prescott.”

Saldana’s narrow face puckered in dismay. “No dancing?”

“No dancing,” Roy replied, and tried to mollify the Mexican by appealing to his vanity. “You’re too handsome. The ladies would remember you.”

Saldana smirked, tapped his eyebrow to indicate the black patch Roy wore over his left eye—a feature far more memorable than a neatly trimmed moustache or a seductive smile.

“My eye patch don’t matter,” Roy told him. “You’ll understand later.”

He left Saldana to deal with the horses and returned to the girl. She was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her upraised knees, watching him stride over. Roy spread out the blanket beside her, gestured for the girl to move onto it and settled opposite her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, the hems of his long duster flaring about him.

“Thank you,” the girl said. She started to unpack the contents of her basket. “It was a gallant thing to do, to rescue me from standing out there like a convict in front of a firing squad.” She kept her face averted, the words spoken barely loud enough for Roy to hear.

Not wasting any time, he got on with solving the puzzle she presented. “Why didn’t anyone else bid? What do the townsfolk have against you?”

The girl didn’t reply. She merely handed him a piece of fried chicken wrapped in a linen napkin and refused to meet his gaze. At her reticence, Roy let his irritation show. “Wipe that red muck from your face,” he told her curtly. “You don’t need it.”

Still she didn’t speak. Not acting insulted or angry, she pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt, uncapped the bottle of lemonade she had lifted out of the basket and tilted the bottle to dampen the scrap of cotton. With movements that were slow and deliberate, she lifted the handkerchief to her face and rubbed her cheek clean of the rouge, finally turning to face him squarely.

Roy stared. It hadn’t occurred to him that every time he’d seen the girl, she’d presented him with the same side of her face. Now he understood the reason. The other side of her face bore a scar. Not a great blemish by any means, but an unusual one. Two lines of pale, slightly puckered skin that formed a cross, and beneath it an incomplete circle, as if someone had drawn some kind of a symbol on her cheek.

“That’s why they didn’t bid?” Roy frowned at the idea. “But the scar on your face is hardly noticeable. It certainly is not unsightly.”

When the girl showed no reaction, when she merely contemplated him with a pinched, forlorn expression on her pretty features, Roy decided not to press the topic for now. Lowering his attention to the piece of chicken in his hand, he took a bite and spoke around the mouthful.

“This is good, very good.”

After a moment of enjoying the food, he glanced up at the girl. Appearing more in control of herself now, she was studying him—his eye patch, to be more accurate. So that was it. That’s why she had stared at him with such intensity—in him she had identified a fellow sufferer of some physical deformity.

“How did you get the scar?” Roy asked gently.

“I fell against a stove when I was small. The hatch had a decorative pattern. A cross, like a plus sign, and a circle at the end of each spoke. Part of the pattern burned to my skin.”

“It’s very faint. Hardly worth worrying about.”

“I know.” Her voice was low. “When I grew up, the scar faded. The skin is a bit puckered, but the blemish isn’t terribly obvious. Not enough to ruin my appearance. But out here in the West the sun is stronger. The scar doesn’t tan, and I like taking walks in the desert. As my face got browner and browner from the sun, the scar stood out more and more...and then the bishop came...”

The girl fell silent and darted a glance toward the crowd, where a teenage boy was playing “Oh! Susanna” on a violin and the others were singing along.

“The bishop?” Roy prompted. “Is he the tall man dressed in black?”

“That’s the preacher, Reverend Fergus. The bishop is his superior.” Abandoning any pretense of eating, the girl folded her legs to her chest again and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Have you ever heard of a satanic cross?”

Roy met her gaze, unease stirring within him. “Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a cross with an upside-down question mark at the base.” The girl touched her fingertips to her cheek. “Like the open circle at the end of my scar. The bishop came out to bless the new church a few months ago. He is a fanatic, and he told people that I bear the mark of the Devil on my face.”

Startled, Roy lifted his brows. “And they believe him?”

The girl’s lips twisted into a disparaging smirk. “I don’t think they really do. I think they want the reverend to tell them it is all complete nonsense, but he is a weak, spineless man, and he doesn’t have the courage to contradict his bishop.”

Roy swallowed. The chicken had lost its flavor. Now he could understand those questioning glances the townsfolk had been sending to the preacher while Celia stood holding up her lunch basket, and why the reverend had been pretending not to notice them.

“I wish I could help you,” he told her quietly. “But I can’t.”

“I know. I am grateful for this.” The girl released one arm from around her knees to gesture to the lunch basket. “I’m supposed to collect your five dollars and hand it in, but I won’t do it. I’ll tell them I forgot. I know it’s petty, but it will make me feel better.”

“If you like, you can tell them I refused to pay.”

She let out a bleak gust of laughter. “If I do that, they’ll say it’s because I served you a lousy meal, so it will end up being my fault anyway.”

“Don’t...” Roy shook his head. Don’t beat yourself up so.

“It’s the same everywhere,” the girl went on bitterly, the words flooding out on a wave of anguish. It seemed to Roy that the hurt had festered, and now it was gushing forth like a boil that needed lancing. “Back in Baltimore, no man would marry me, because my mother was sickly. They feared I’d be the same, and they’d be lumbered with a useless wife and a stack of doctor’s bills. Then my mother died...”

Pausing to draw a breath, the girl dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. “My father has a growth in his stomach, a cancer, and he worries about me being left on my own, so he brought me out here, where women are scarce. To start with, everything went well. I had two suitors, Stuart Clifton from one of the ranches, and Horton Tanner, who works for the stage line and comes by twice a week. No knights on a white stallion but good, decent men...and then that blasted bishop comes along and ruins it all...”

Memories of being shunned flooded over Roy, bringing with them a wave of pain, even now, after half a lifetime. He swept a glance around the picnic meadow to make sure no one was observing them and turned back to the girl. After tugging the brim of his hat lower for added protection, he reached for the patch that covered his brown eye and said, “You’re not the only one who has suffered because some folks claim you bear the mark of the Devil.”

Chapter Two

Celia wished she could stop babbling about her misfortunes but her tongue refused to be reined in. When she paused to fight the urge to weep, the stranger swept a careful look around them and tugged at the rawhide cord securing the patch over his left eye. She’d been wondering what damage he was hiding beneath, and now she felt ashamed for her curiosity. It was no business of hers. She steeled herself against the sight of his injury, and then gasped as she met the blinking gaze of a perfectly healthy brown eye.

“Your eyes,” she breathed. “They’re of different color.”

“One pale blue, one dark brown.” The man restored the patch over his brown eye. “It’s supposed to be the sign of a witch. Or, the way a girl put it once, God and the Devil are fighting over me, with one half each. A fallen angel, she called me.”

Fascinated, Celia studied his face. Fallen angel. The description fitted. The stranger had elegant, finely crafted features, with a straight nose and high cheekbones, and wide, well-defined lips. The tall, rangy body and the breadth of his shoulders added a stamp of rugged masculinity to looks that otherwise might have appeared too beautiful for a man.

Shamelessly, Celia let her gaze linger on the man’s countenance, wishing he hadn’t slipped the black cotton patch back in place. “Is that why you cover up your brown eye?” she asked. “As a protection from prejudice?”

“No.” The stranger seemed to hesitate. “Having different-colored eyes is a distinctive mark. When a man rides the owl hoot trail—”

“What’s that?” Celia broke in.

“Owl hoot trail. It means the outlaw trail.”

“You’re an outlaw?” She felt compelled to ask the question, even though she’d already guessed the answer. Even now, she could see the shape of the twin holsters beneath his long duster, knew he was wearing a double rig of pistols, and despite his handsome features there could be no mistaking the air of lawlessness about him.

It occurred to Celia he might know her father was the teller at the bank. Behind his kindness might lurk a plan to extract information out of her. However, so far the stranger hadn’t mentioned the bank. Perhaps, after all, he had merely bid for her picnic basket as a caper, an amusing way to spend an hour while his partner was occupied with some errand.

Despite his criminal associations, Celia couldn’t help but be drawn to the fair-haired outlaw. His kindness appeared genuine, not calculated. Moreover, there seemed to be an air of decency about him, a sense of honor. With a sudden lurch of her heart, Celia accepted that the outlaw had made himself vulnerable by confiding in her. By revealing his secret, he had offered her a weapon she could use against him.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked quietly. “If such a distinctive feature might give you away, are you not worried that I might go to the marshal and enlighten him?”

“Rock Springs has no marshal and the county sheriff is fifty miles away.”

The answer came swiftly, the tone cool and confident. For a week now, the outlaws had been hanging around the town, and the man’s reaction solidified Celia’s suspicions. Are you planning to rob the bank? The question sprang to her tongue but she left it unsaid. As long as her father wasn’t placed in danger, she didn’t care if the outlaws took every ounce of gold in the vault. Her bitterness toward the town had grown so fierce it overruled her sense of right and wrong.

For a moment, they sat in silence, each absorbed in their own private thoughts, yet with a sense of camaraderie flowing like a current between them. Celia let her eyes roam over the stranger, drinking in his masculine beauty while she searched for something to say, some opening gambit that would trigger a conversation so interesting he would find it impossible to walk away, but she came up with nothing.

The man rolled up to his feet, adjusted the brim of his hat and slipped one hand beneath his duster. For a few crazy seconds, Celia thought he was going to pull out a gun and shoot her, like one might shoot a lame horse to put it out of its misery, but instead he produced a ten-dollar gold piece out of his pocket.

“I don’t have five dollars and I expect you don’t have change.” He dropped the coin to the blanket, where it landed with a soft thud. “If you don’t want to give it to the church, hold on to it for me.”

Celia darted out a hand and clasped the coin in her fist before anyone could see it, gripping it so hard the edges dug into her palm. She’d cherish the gold piece as a keepsake. A talisman, to bring her luck. “Hold on to it for you?” She arched her brows, her attention riveted on the stranger. “Does that mean you intend one day to come back?”

The man said nothing, merely gave her a nod, the dip of his chin so faint it might have been in her imagination. When he took a step back, the edges of his duster flared wide, giving Celia a glimpse of the gun belt circling his lean hips. One of the pistols was holstered butt forward. Heavy and functional, they were the tools of his trade, like a hammer might be for a carpenter, or a shovel for a grave digger. The thought made her shiver.

“You can keep the blanket,” the stranger told her.

Startled, Celia looked down at the gray wool blanket she was seated upon. She’d forgotten it was his. Another keepsake. Something stirred in her chest, a dangerous wave of warmth that could only lead to foolish dreams and pointless longings. She tried to quash the sensation but it refused to go away.

The man touched the brim of his hat in farewell. “Ma’am.”

Celia watched him turn to leave, realizing they hadn’t introduced themselves.

“Wait!” she called out. When the stranger turned back toward her, she spoke in a throaty whisper, making it clear she intended the information to remain a secret between them. “What is your name?”

The corners of his mouth lifted in the tiniest of smiles. Again, he offered no reply, only a slight shake of his head. “Goodbye, Miss Courtwood.”

He knew her name! Desperately, Celia wanted to hold on to the moment, wanted to build on their conversation, add to the enchantment of shared confidences, the two of them against the world. A question popped into her head. “A moment ago, you said that God and the Devil are fighting for your soul. Which one do you think will win?”

That shadow of a smile she’d witnessed a moment ago vanished and instead something cold and hard settled over the man’s handsome features. “Why, Miss Courtwood,” he said softly. “Surely, you know the answer. The Devil has already won.”

With that, the outlaw whirled around on his feet and walked over to the edge of the meadow, where his tall Mexican companion already stood waiting with their horses. They exchanged a few words, and then the man with mismatched eyes vaulted into the saddle and rode away without looking back.

* * *

Roy loitered outside the bank with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. The midday sun baked down from a clear blue sky, making his scalp itch beneath the black horsehair wig he always wore during a raid, with a tuft arranged to hang over his blue eye, leaving only the brown eye visible. His skin was darkened with a thick brew of tea. He wore denim trousers and battered boots and a dust-stained white tunic with a sash around his waist, and no gun. At a quick glance, he would pass for an Indian.

Ten yards up the street, Jimenez and Keeler stood with six horses, ready to bring them over at his signal. Curtis and Saldana and Davies were already inside the bank. Roy glanced at the fob watch hidden in the folds of his sash. Five minutes. It was taking too long. He put the watch away and dropped the cigarette to the ground—the signal to leave.

A bell jangled down the street. Alert, Roy surveyed the boardwalk. A jolt went through him. The girl, Celia Courtwood, had come out of the mercantile, as if conjured up by the thoughts of her that never seemed to be far from his mind. She began to clean the display window with a bucket of water and a rag. Apart from the girl, the street was quiet. Roy pivoted on his tattered boots and sauntered into the bank.

Inside, Curtis was holding the bank manager and the teller at gunpoint. Behind the wooden partition, Saldana and Davies were busy in front of the open vault. All three wore hats pulled low and neckerchiefs to hide their features. Roy avoided situations that required such a disguise, for it would draw attention to his unusual eyes.

“Time to go,” he declared.

“We need a couple more minutes.” Curtis spoke without turning, keeping his gun aimed at the two hostages who sat huddled on the floor, their backs pressed against the wall. “The manager had trouble remembering the combination for the safe.”

Saldana called out from behind the counter. “Take some of the load.” He tossed a small canvas bag over the partition, then another. Roy caught them in the air. The bags were heavy with gold, the seams straining with the weight.

“Let’s go,” Roy said again. “Carry what you can and leave the rest.”

Saldana and Davies came out through the open hatch and hurried past him, each loaded with bags of gold. Roy swept a look over the hostages. The manager was trim and dapper, in his sixties, dressed in a fine broadcloth suit. The expression on his face conveyed more anger than fear, and Roy suspected his inability to recall the combination had been a deliberate delaying tactic. The other man was gaunt and pale, with thinning brown hair that pulled into tight curls.

In that instant, recognition struck Roy. It was the man he’d seen talking to Celia Courtwood on the day of the box lunch. He must be her father, for there was a resemblance, and he bore the signs of a man suffering from terminal illness. Instinctively, Roy took a step closer. From the corner of his eye, he could see Curtis lift his arm and take aim, pointing at the teller’s chest.

“What are you doing?” Roy blurted out and darted forward.

A gunshot boomed around the bank. Roy felt a slam at the back of his shoulder. The room dimmed in his eyes. He dropped the bags of gold. Stumbling forward, he braced his hands against the wall to remain upright. He could feel no pain. From experience he knew that the shock numbed the nerves. The pain would come later.

Behind him, Curtis swore. “You fool. Why did you get in the way?”

Keeping his right hand against the wall, Roy pivoted to face the outlaw boss. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded to know.

Curtis lifted his gun, pointed the barrel at Roy. “Can’t leave no loose ends.”

With effort, Roy stood straight. He sucked in a deep breath to steady himself. “I’m fine,” he said sharply. “I can ride.” To prove his fitness, he bent down and picked up the two bags of gold from the floor.

Curtis gave him a quick perusal and nodded. He glanced at the hostages cowering against the wall and shrugged, as if to say it didn’t really matter. Then he ushered Roy out of the building. Roy could tell Curtis was keeping an eye on him. The gang leader wanted no injured man left behind, for he did not trust any of his associates to keep their silence if captured by the law.