Before the stage had gone another mile, trouble began.
They had left the grama grass and were climbing toward the distant Pass. With the change in elevation came a change in vegetation. Manzanitas sprang up, small trees with glossy red bark. Prickly pear cactus fringed the road. They saw yuccas. Or rather, Skye Fargo did, because none of the others were interested in the countryside. The big stallion easily paced the stage. Fargo roved from one side of the road to the other and from front to back, always on the lookout for sign.
The passengers had rolled up the leather curtains to let air in. Some dozed. Elias Hackman and William Frazier III were reading. Virgil Tucker pitched a product to the two Italians. Melissa and Gwen chatted.
No one acted the least bit worried about Apaches, and Fargo partly blamed Buck Dawson’s little speech. They figured they were safe with him along to protect them. So they weren’t as alert as they should be. It could prove to be a costly mistake.
The first hint of trouble, though, did not come from Apaches. It came with a grinding thump that lifted the right side of the coach into the air, followed by a sharp crack when the stage thudded back down. The rear gave an abrupt lurch and dipped toward the ground. Inside, one of the women cried out as one of the men swore. Buck Dawson quickly brought the team to a stop, then hopped down to learn the cause.
Fargo already knew. He was behind the stage, on the left edge of the road. On hearing the thump he had swiveled and spied the jagged spine of a partially buried mass of stone jutting four or five inches upward, a stone once completely buried but long since exposed by the steady flow of wheels and hooves.
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t pose a problem. Stage wheels were designed to take heavy abuse. Sturdy curved sections known as felloes fitted seamlessly together to form the rim, which was braced by heavy spokes. A thick hub lent extra support, as did an iron band around the outer rim. Normally, wheels were immune to bumps, holes, and rocks.
Usually. Not always. Wheels were known to break on occasion. Since a broken wheel meant delay, and since delays cost a stage company money, worn wheels were regularly replaced. Sometimes, just parts of a wheel had to be repaired; whatever it took to keep the stage line running on time.
Now, Buck Dawson hunkered and vented colorful curses, ending with, “If I ever get my hands on the jackass who’s to blame, I’ll blow out his lamp!”
Fargo kneed the pinto around for a better look. A section of outer rim had snapped like a dry twig. Three of the spokes were broken. The stage wasn’t going anywhere until the wheel was mended or switched.
“Lookee here,” Dawson said, pointing at where two of the spokes fitted into separate sockets. It was obvious they had not been aligned properly. “Back in St. Louis I’d noticed a crack in the rim. So they had it fixed by a new kid Overland just hired. A sprout so green, he had clover growin’ out of his ears.” Dawson smacked the rim in irritation. “Damn me! Why didn’t I check his work before leavin’?”
Frank Larn was leaning against a body panel. He spat tobacco juice, then remarked, “We can’t fix it on our own, hoss. I reckon one of us has to ride back to the way station on the San Simon and have Harry bring his tools.”
“You go,” Buck Dawson said.
“Why me? Someone has to guard the passengers.”
“Fargo’s here,” Dawson reminded him. “And I need to catch up on my sleep. The next stretch is the roughest of the whole trip. You wouldn’t want me dozin’ off as we were going around a curve, would you?”
“You ornery cuss,” Larn said. “You’ve had plenty of rest. The real reason you don’t want to go is you’re plain lazy. But this time you’ve outfoxed yourself. I’ll gladly do it. Harry’s wife makes the tastiest pie this side of the Rockies, and Harry always keeps a full jug in his cupboard.”
“Just don’t dawdle. With any luck, we can get this fixed and be on our way by nightfall. As it is, we’ll be six or eight hours off the pace. Charley Clements will have a conniption.”
The driver and the shotgun messenger unhitched one of the lead horses. Larn mounted bareback and trotted off. Most of the passengers had climbed down to watch him depart. Other than Elias Hackman, none were particularly upset. It was a temporary delay, a routine part of traveling by stage.
Hackman fidgeted as if he had ants crawling all over his skin, muttering under his breath the whole while. At last he marched up to Buck Dawson, who had taken a seat on the shaded side of the stage.
“Is this the type of service a customer can expect? The Overland is supposed to be one of the best stage lines in the whole country. Do you expect us to endure inconveniences without complaint? I, for one, intend to write the president of the company and give him a piece of my mind.”
Dawson regarded Hackman as he might a bug he wanted to squash. “You do that, mister. Just don’t give him too big a piece, ’cause from what I can tell, you ain’t got much to spare.”
“Now see here!” Hackman balled his fist and took a step.
Dawson rested a hand on the Remington on his hip. “I wouldn’t, were I you, pilgrim. When I was hired, the company made it plain they wouldn’t take it kindly if I killed a payin’ customer. It wouldn’t be good for business, they said. But they also told me that if a passenger was ever being a nuisance, I could take whatever steps were needed to make him behave.” Dawson paused. “How much fussin’ and fumin’ can you do without kneecaps?”
Hackman stalked off, muttering again.
Fargo dismounted and tied the Ovaro to the rear boot. He was going to sit by Buck but the musky scent of perfume gave him pause.
“Feel like stretching your legs, handsome?” Melissa had a closed pink parasol resting across her shoulder. “I know I do. We probably won’t get another chance like this until we reach Tucson.” She offered her elbow.
Fargo took her arm. They strolled toward a cluster of manzanitas, the sun hot on their faces. Melissa opened her parasol and held it between them so they would both benefit. The sensual sway of her hips took Fargo’s mind off the heat, to say nothing of her luscious lips, as inviting as ripe strawberries. Fargo felt a stirring in his groin and wished there were somewhere they could go to be alone. “What do you do for a living?” he asked to make small talk.
“You haven’t guessed? I tread the boards.” Melissa grinned when he gave her a quizzical look. “I’m an actress, Skye. I learned the craft from my mother, bless her soul. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She was billed as Lovely Lilly, and she played most of the bigger theaters back East until consumption brought her low.”
“Can’t say as I have.”
Melissa shrugged. “No matter. She was a fine, spirited woman, who taught me the two most valuable lessons of my whole life.”
Fargo waited for her to say what they were and when she didn’t, he prompted, “What might they be?”
“Never take guff off anyone. And anything a man can do, a woman can, too.” The redhead thoughtfully twirled her parasol. “That might not sound like much to you, but you’re a man. You don’t know how hard it is for a woman to make ends meet, to compete with men on their own terms. There aren’t as many opportunities for us.”
The lament was a common one west of the Mississippi. Fargo had heard it before. But men could hardly be blamed for a state of affairs over which they had little control.
Much of the West was still unsettled; whole regions had not even been explored. Violence was part and parcel of everyday life. Simply staying alive was a daily struggle. So it was no mystery why men outnumbered women ten to one. Good jobs were few, jobs women were willing to take even fewer. Not many of the fairer sex cared to spend twelve hours a day deep in a mine, or busting their backs working a claim, or shooting and skinning buffalo for weeks on end.
Eventually, it would all change. As more and more towns and cities sprang up, as the untamed wilderness gave way to cultivated fields and the plow, more and more women would stream westward to take advantage of the new opportunities.
Melissa reversed the spin of her parasol. “I’m on my way to California to open at the Variety Theater in San Francisco. The owner wrote me to say men there will fall over one another to see a talented performer. He assured me he can sell tickets for as much as sixty-five dollars apiece. And the Variety has over seven hundred seats. Just think! Fifty percent of each evening’s take will be mine.”
“You’ll be rich in no time,” Fargo quipped. Talent, though, had little to do with it. In a land where women were as scarce as hen’s teeth, men starved for female companionship would pay anything just for the privilege of being near one for a while.
“I recite Shakespeare, read poetry, and sing,” Melissa elaborated. “I really can’t hold a note very well but no
