Nan Ryan (7 page)

When Virgil had come in the previous night after two weeks on the campaign trail, he had told True that the notorious bank robber British Bob had been apprehended in his absence. Said that under intense questioning the bank robber had implicated an accomplice. A woman accomplice. Said she had supplied him with strongbox and safe keys stolen from drunken bank and stage guards. She was, British Bob had confessed, a pretty Las Cruces entertainer with ginger-red hair and large emerald eyes.

Virgil, sitting in on the interrogation, had spoken without thinking, “The Queen of the Silver Dollar.”

“You know her?” British Bob’s dark eyes flashed with jealousy.

“Nope, not really,” said Virgil. “I’ve seen her perform and—”

“You know who this woman is then?” Captain Baylor interrupted.

Twisting uncomfortably in his chair, Virgil said, “Sure, same as everybody else, but—”

“Then you will bring her in, Captain.”

“But, sir, I—”

“That’s a command, Black, not a request,” Baylor said with quiet authority. “Go home. Get a good night’s rest, then leave for Las Cruces at first light. Take the train up. I’ll expect you and the woman to be back here within forty-eight hours at the most.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?”

“Exactly what I said,” the frowning bartender sputtered, attempting to pull free of the lean dark fingers tightly clutching the collar of his shirt. “The Queen of the Silver Dollar left a couple of weeks ago without telling anybody where she was going.” Struggling, half-choking, the bartender coughed. “Will you let go of me!”

Virgil Black released the red-faced man. “You don’t have any idea where she went?”

“I just told you, I don’t know. Nobody knows. One afternoon she didn’t call down for her breakfast, so we went up to check on her. She was gone.” He shrugged beefy shoulders.

“Didn’t leave a note, didn’t—”

“Nothing. Just disappeared.”

Virgil Black exhaled. “Okay. If you see her, if you hear from her, you leave word for me at the telegraph office. I’ll be checking in regularly for messages.” He turned and walked away.

“Sure,” the bartender called after him. “Why? What’s she done? She actually been robbin’ banks?”

Black made no reply.

Annoyed with himself that he’d had the pretty red-haired thief within his grasp a couple of short weeks ago and had let her go, Virgil Black was anxious to put out the word that the Queen of the Silver Dollar was wanted for armed robbery.

He headed for the telegraph office. He had to alert the authorities in all surrounding New Mexico and Texas cities within a hundred-mile radius to be on the look out for the missing red-haired entertainer.

“Mornin’, Clarence,” Virgil greeted the balding, narrow-shouldered telegrapher. Clarence nodded. Virgil said impatiently, “I need to get out a bunch of wires pronto.”

Clarence crossed his skinny arms over his sunken chest. “Oh? Wouldn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of the Queen of the Silver Dollar, would it?”

“As a matter of fact it does. So if you’ll—”

“The word on the street is that she’s wanted for armed robbery. That why you’re looking for her?”

“We’re wasting precious time, Clarence. Send wires to—”

“Sorry, Virgil. Can’t send any telegrams today,” the telegrapher told him, shaking his balding head. “The lines are down.”

“Jesus Christ,” swore Black.

“But you’re in luck,” Clarence smilingly informed him. “The last message to come over the wires before the lines went down was a tip that a woman fitting the description of the Queen of the Silver Dollar has been spotted in Cloudcroft.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Virgil Black was turning to walk away.

“Hey, wait a minute,” the telegrapher called after him. “Don’t you want to know what … come back here. Where you going?”

Over his shoulder as he walked out the door, Virgil said, “Cloudcroft.”

8

The aging sister crossed herself
as she walked slowly down the long, stone-floored corridor.

Silently she prayed for the Almighty to give her the strength and the patience to endure a few more trying hours in the company of Her Royal Highness, Princess Marlena of Hartz-Coburg.

Sister Mary Elizabeth could hardly wait for the bossy young woman to leave the abbey so that life within the walls could return to normal. How she yearned for the peace and tranquillity she had come to take for granted and to treasure. It was astonishing that the presence of just one slender, red-haired girl could so upset the quiet routine of the entire sanatorium.

When she was first brought to the remote hillside haven, Her Royal Highness had been far too ill to cause any trouble. Sworn to total secrecy and put in charge of the sick princess, Sister Mary Elizabeth had tenderly cared for the poor, miserable young woman whose pretty face had been the exact hue of a bright yellow lemon peel.

So deathly sick she could barely lift her head off the pillow, the princess had been genuinely frightened and therefore dutiful, clinging desperately, gratefully, to the hand Sister Mary Elizabeth offered throughout the long, sleepless nights. Comforting the pathetic, sick soul, praying for her recovery, Sister Mary Elizabeth had sat with the princess hour upon hour, talking softly to her, soothing the suffering girl for whom she soon developed a natural affection.

And then the ailing princess had gotten better.

That is, her health had improved.

But not her disposition. As soon as a faint hint of roses appeared in her sunken cheeks and her dulled emerald eyes brightened a trifle, Princess Marlena became an unruly handful. Each day thereafter the princess grew a little stronger, and much more demanding.

Strong-willed, childish, used to getting her own way, and accustomed to having orders obeyed at the snap of her fingers, Princess Marlena had attempted to bully and boss Sister Mary Elizabeth about as if the sister were a personal servant. Sister Mary Elizabeth had resolutely resisted and had caught the sharp edge of the princess’s tongue for her trouble.

At age seventy-one, the sister was far too old, wise, and disciplined to argue with the overbearing young royal. She simply stood her ground, refusing to be anyone’s puppet or lackey. Biting back the stinging words she longed to hurl at the spoiled sovereign, Sister Mary Elizabeth simply ignored the princess when she angrily shouted from her room that she was hungry. She wanted her dinner immediately. She was bored and needed company. Come in and sit with her. Now! Right now! She wanted to go outdoors again and lie in the sun on the back terrace. To take a short stroll around the grounds. Would someone kindly please take her outside? She wanted her bath. At once!

Sister Mary Elizabeth was painfully aware that, although a bride of Christ and a dedicated keeper of the faith, she herself was all too human. She knew it was so because she purposely made the princess wait for anything she haughtily demanded. She personally saw to it that the pampered princess had to wait for her bath until all the other patients had been bathed.

If the arrogant royal was stubborn and unreasonable, well so was Sister Mary Elizabeth. And she knew it. So the sister prayed for forgiveness and for strength, and admitted to herself that she could hardly wait for the princess to leave.

Today was the day.

Thank heaven.

Princess Marlena’s bodyguard had arrived in Cloudcroft the previous evening. At shortly before noon today he would come to the sanatorium, collect the fully recovered princess, and escort her to the train depot where the two of them, at straight up noon, would board the southbound train to Texas.

“Sister! Sister Mary Elizabeth!” the princess’s unmistakable voice echoed down the silent hallway. The princess was calling out from her room. Shouting really. Not to be ignored.

The sister rolled her eyes heavenward. She drew a deep breath, crossed herself, lifted the brooch/watch pinned to her stiff white wimple, and checked the time. Nine o’clock. Telling herself she could surely sit on a straight-edged razor blade for three short hours, she headed for the princess’s room.

“Kindly quit shouting, Your Majesty,” the sister scolded when she stepped inside the princess’s room. “There are those who are quite ill, and you are disturbing their rest.”

To the utter shock of Sister Mary Elizabeth, the princess, looking prim and pretty in a simple summer dress of crisp cotton poplin, said, “Oh, I forgot. I am sorry. I apologize.” She dashed forward, threw her slender arms around the tiny stoop-shouldered sister, and hugged her warmly, confessing as she did so, “I have been an awful nuisance, haven’t I? Say you’ll forgive me? Please?”

Instantly disarmed by this unexpected flash of girlish charm and total honesty, the sister lifted her short, brittle arms, wrapped them around the taller, younger woman, and patted the princess’s back.

“Of course, I forgive you, child,” said the sister, her kind heart suddenly filled with affection for the princess.

“Thank you, Sister.” Princess Marlena pulled back to look down at her. “Thank you so much for everything,” she said with naked sincerity. “I shall never, ever forget you.”

Sister Mary Elizabeth gazed up at the beautiful young woman who had so totally disrupted the serenity of the sanatorium. The sister realized, with surprise, that she was going to miss the princess, despite all the trouble she had caused.

Sister Mary Elizabeth reached up and touched the princess’s rosy cheek and, with a smile, admitted, “I shall miss you, too. It won’t be the same here without you.”

Virgil Black was the first passenger to step down off the morning train when it pulled into Cloudcroft’s tiny depot at shortly after nine. Stretching, flexing his long legs to get the kinks out of his tight muscles, he rolled his tired shoulders, causing the fabric of his starched white shirt to pull and strain across his back.

He turned and walked down the long line of railcars. He stopped before the third car from the caboose, slid back the heavy plank door, leaped agilely up into the hay-strewn car, and hurriedly lowered the unloading platform.

“Well, what you waiting for?” he said to his dancing, whinnying stallion, Noche. “We’re here. Let’s go take a look around.”

Without benefit of bridle or rope, the big black carefully picked his sure way down the wooden platform. Virgil, saddle and gear thrown over his left shoulder, followed. Side by side, man and beast made their way to the livery stable where—Virgil had promised Noche—a healthy helping of oats and a refreshing rubdown awaited him.

His horse turned over to the stable keeper, Virgil Black walked up the street to the High Country Saloon. The smoky saloon was half-full even though it was only just past nine in the morning. Inside, Virgil stepped up to the bar, motioned to the bar-keep, bought a round of drinks, and, looking up and down the polished bar, stated his reason for being in Cloudcroft. He tossed the bartender the wanted posters. He said a reward would belong to any man who provided the lead resulting in the apprehension and arrest of the fugitive Queen of the Silver Dollar.

“If you see her,” Virgil said in his slow Texas drawl, “don’t approach her. Don’t let her know you’ve spotted her. Come straight to me. Let me handle it.”

The habitués nodded and began to talk among themselves, questioning each other as to whether or not they could have seen the pretty saloon singer in Cloudcroft. Virgil felt confident that his stay in town would be a brief one. It was a small mountain municipality. Everybody knew everybody. Nothing went on there without a goodly number of the population knowing about it. A stranger—especially a beautiful red-haired female—would stand out like a sore thumb in this remote mountain hamlet. With any luck he’d be on the southbound noon train, the Queen of the Silver Dollar in custody. This time tomorrow the Queen would be cooling her heels in the El Paso jail. And he would be back at Ysleta headquarters, ready for a real campaign assignment.

9

It was twenty of twelve
when the princess’s burly bodyguard, Hantz Landsfelt, helped Her Highness down from the hired carriage at the Cloudcroft train depot. Her ginger-red hair carefully concealed in a long lace shawl draped around her head, the princess, determined to keep her identity a secret, looked neither to the left nor the right. Nor did she look the least bit royal. She might have been any young woman waiting for a train.