Outlaw (14 page)

"The traces are right there," he whispered
to the small of her back. "Unwrap them from the foot brake, then
slowly lower the lever."

Sounds drifted nearer—men and horses milling
near the wagon, then passing it by; men and a few women speaking to
each other in both English and exotically melodic Spanish. From the
corner of her eye, Amelia spied passengers climbing into the red
lacquered stagecoach to her left. Their movements stirred up a
cloud of dust that reminded her of exactly how different this
Arizona Territory landscape was from her home.

If she was ever to return there again, see
her father and brothers again, she had to take action now. They had
to move soon, else be discovered and lose their chance to
escape.

With a quick prayer for courage, Amelia bit
her lip and carefully unwrapped the long braided-leather traces
from the brake lever. As though sensing her presence, the oxen
stepped forward, snorting eagerly.

"Ahhh!" Teetering atop her hard plank seat,
she just managed to regain control of the animals. She couldn't
contain the smile that burst forth from her lips. She'd done it!
She'd kept them from running willy-nilly into the desert! Maybe she
and Mason could make it after all.

Somebody was going to be very unhappy when
they finished eating and found their wagon missing. But that
couldn't be helped now. She'd just have to think about that later.
Amelia arranged the traces in her gloved palms.

"Mason, I'm ready."

"Good work, Curly Top," came his voice from
behind her. His use of the nickname he'd bestowed startled her,
then warmed her a bit. A man who cared enough to give her a pet
name couldn't possibly be all bad.

Mason's hand smoothed across her back, then
settled lightly against her left hip. "Very good. Now just release
the brake with your foot and let up a little on the traces. The
oxen will take care of the rest."

"Easy for you to say," Amelia muttered over
her shoulder. She wished mightily that he was the one driving. But
there was nothing to be done about that now, either. With one final
swipe at her damp forehead and a forceful tug on her sunbonnet, she
propped her foot atop the brake.

Sunlight glinted from something on the seat
just below her right elbow. Hesitating, Amelia looked down. It was
the barrel of Mason's rifle. She gasped.

"What do you need that thing for?"

Impatience added steel to Mason's voice.
"For as long as it takes to get us out of here," he replied. "Now
drive."

At least the weapon wasn't aimed at her.
Taking comfort in that fact, she kicked down the brake lever. The
wagon lurched forward, its iron-clad wheels creaking over stones
and ruts in the stage station yard.

Ahead of them, the tan adobe walls of
Maricopa Wells station stood tall against the brilliant blue sky.
Keeping her gaze fastened on them, Amelia gave the oxen their head.
They plodded forward, scattering chickens beneath their slowly
advancing hooves.

Apparently, even unreined oxen were
pitifully slow. She felt like screaming with frustration.

"Can't they go any faster?" Amelia hissed
toward Mason.

"This is it," came his laconic reply.

Any second now, she'd be recognized as the
impostor she was and dragged from the wagon, she felt sure of it.
Her fingers tightened on the traces. Ahead, the opened gate
promised freedom from an outlaw's fate—and a chance to quit driving
the wagon. Maybe she could hurry the oxen a bit, despite Mason's
pessimistic opinion of the animals' capabilities.

What was it the driver called to oxen to
make them go faster? Searching her memory for the times she'd seen
local farmers driving into the market place back home in Big Pike
Lake, finally Amelia remembered something.

She jerked the traces. "Haw!"

Both beasts turned to the left and plodded
on. Darn! That wasn't it.

She straightened her sunbonnet, getting
ready to try something else. Glancing forward again, Amelia
realized the oxen's new path was taking them—and the wagon—smack
into what appeared to be a wash house. Panicked, she tugged
fruitlessly on the traces. The animals didn't even slow. Now they
felt like hurrying!

A cluster of dark-haired Mexican women
glanced up from their washing. Their eyes widened as they realized
Amelia and the oxen weren't stopping.

"Ahh—ahh! What do I do?" she whispered
frantically to Mason. But she couldn't wait for him to reply—they
were almost upon the women. A few more oxen-sized steps, and they'd
smash right into the wash house.

"Whoa! Stop! Stop!"

The oxen kept going, just as though she
hadn't spoken.

Mason was saying something, but Amelia
couldn't hear him over the cries of the washer-women. Suddenly, an
idea occurred to her.

"Haw!"

The oxen turned left again, narrowly missing
the wash house.

"I'm so sorry!" Amelia called, then she
remembered she was supposed to be in disguise and ducked her head
again. When she looked up from between her hunched shoulders, she
realized they were headed back in the direction they'd come
from.

"No! No!" she cried. "I mean, haw!"

They turned, their movement spewing choking
dust from beneath the wagon wheels, and headed straight for the
nearest wall. "Haw!" Amelia yelled.

Mason jabbed her, none-too-gently, in the
backside. "When you're finished driving us in circles," he said
into her ear, "can we get the hell out of here?"

"I'm trying!"

Slapping the oxen with the traces, Amelia
succeeded in getting the animals to speed up just enough.
Hallelujah! They were facing the open gate again.

In the stage station yard below her, several
faces turned upward as she passed. Most wore wide, indulgent
smiles.
Look at the lady drive in circles
, they seemed to be
saying.
Have you ever seen such a thing
?

Amelia's heart sank. She couldn't have made
their escape from Maricopa Wells more conspicuous if she'd set out
to do it apurpose. Keeping her attention fixed on the open gate,
she gritted her teeth and did her best to ignore the onlookers.

The stagecoach's fast teams of horses came
abreast of her wagon, then the coach itself rolled along beside
her. From within came the sound of amused male voices, calling to
her.

"Don't them animals know how to walk
straight?" yelled one. "How'd ya' get this far, immigrant?"

Amelia stared straight ahead. Blessedly, the
stagecoach's horses picked up speed before any more catcalls
reached her, and the vehicle passed through the open gate. Only a
few more yards, and they'd be past it, too.

A station hand, swarthy-skinned and
well-armed, stepped from the shadows of the adobe wall, directly
into her path. Amelia gaped at him, trying hard not to beat the
oxen into running faster. To do so—even if it worked—would only
jeopardize their getaway plan. The man raised his hand, signaling
her to stop the wagon.

Chapter Nine

"What do I do? What do I do?" Amelia
whispered to Mason from the corner of her mouth. Her stomach turned
over with nervousness. Had their former guard alerted the station
hands to their escape? Were they about to be re-captured?

"Go along with him—for now," Mason muttered
back.

Something cool slid further along Amelia's
hip, then settled part way across the plank seat beside her.
Mason's rifle. With the outlaw himself at the business end of the
weapon, ready to fire, she was sure. Her heartbeat, already
frantic, soared.

"Hold up there a minute, ma'am," called the
station hand. "M—me?" Amelia croaked. She swallowed, vainly trying
to moisten her parched throat.

He nodded, walking nearer. The shotgun
propped casually against his shoulder was all she could see.

"Uh, ah...gee!" she called hoarsely to the
oxen. The animals slowly turned to the right, and kept going.

Oh, dear heaven. Not again!

She waved her hand holding the traces,
trying desperately to think up the command to make the oxen stop.
Haw meant left, and gee must mean right, so....

"Ho," rumbled the station hand. Just as
though he were Paul Bunyon himself, the animals heard his command
and stopped in their tracks. Reaching out, the man seized the lead
animal's harness.

Here it was, Amelia thought. Capture. What
had Mason been thinking, to put her in charge of their escape?
After all,
he'd
caught her every time except the last.

Mason's rifle inched forward. Behind her,
she sensed his awareness of their precarious situation, his taut
control—and his utter willingness to sacrifice anything to reach
his goal.

"Looked like you needed some help," remarked
the station hand in heavily Spanish-accented speech, squinting
upward at her. He doffed his battered
sombrero
, then
grinned. He appeared to be settling in for a nice, friendly
conversation—at least if his smile and open-handed stance could be
believed. Amelia wasn't sure it could.

"Thank him and get moving," Mason whispered,
nudging her from behind.

"Th—thank you," she managed to say. Still
holding the traces, she slapped her gloved palms onto her thighs,
trying to make her legs quit trembling.

"Nice day, ain't it?" asked the station
hand.

Mason groaned. She felt the exhalation of
his breath against her bare elbow. Too afraid to speak, she nodded
and sat straighter. Loosely she clasped the traces, and kept
staring straight ahead. Perhaps he'd think her simply standoffish,
and allow her to pass.

But what if the station hand recognized her
as the outlaw's consort? Worse, what if he already had, and was
only toying with her until he was ready to spring the trap
closed?

"Pretty little
mariquita
like you
needs a man's help in territory like this," the station hand went
on.

Why, he was making a pass at her! Amazed,
Amelia peeped at him from beneath the broad, flat floral edge of
her sunbonnet. At this sign of feminine encouragement, he spat into
the dirt and grinned again.

"That's a fine rig, too," he said, examining
her newly stolen Conestoga wagon.

Privately, Amelia gave thanks for the thick
canvas cover that hid Mason from his scrutiny. Publicly, she gave
the station hand a wan acknowledging smile.

Mason's rifle edged forward. "Move!" he
hissed, the sound low and for her ears alone.

"I could be persuaded to help you out,
ma'am," proposed the station hand, "seeing as how you don't have
any menfolk with you to—"

"No!" Amelia cried hastily. Had Mason's
rifle moved even closer? She pictured his finger on the trigger,
ready to shoot their way out of the Maricopa Wells compound if
necessary, and felt renewed panic tighten her stomach. "No, but
thank you very much for offering."

The station hand released the lead ox and
walked closer. Again he eyed her stolen wagon covetously—and this
time, he included her figure in his smirking perusal, too. "You
should think about it,
mariquita
. A man like me could be a
big help to a woman alone—"

"I—I've got a man!"
What
? she asked
herself desperately.
Now what
?

The station hand frowned. He was nearly upon
her—she was close enough to see the bulge of chewing tobacco that
distended his lower lip.

"Curly Top..." whispered Mason.

Think,
think
, Amelia commanded
herself. Nothing came to mind except plain, blind fear of being
captured and hung as an outlaw.

"Move right on my signal," Mason instructed
grimly. "Then run like hell."

He was going to shoot! She had to do
something.

"I don't see nobody with you," said the
station hand. He set one big, booted foot atop the wagon's edge,
preparing to climb onto the plank seat beside her.

"It's my husband. He's...he's got
influenza!" she cried. "He's horribly sick, nearly dead back
there," she added, nodding toward the covered part of the wagon.
"The rest of our party's already died from it," she elaborated.

"
Enough
," gritted Mason, silencing
her.

"Ah,
sí
."

The station hand dropped from the wagon as
though scalded, his face a mask of revulsion. In the west, far from
most doctors and hospitals, he'd obviously learned to fear illness.
Especially virulent, contagious illness.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am—you'd best be on
your way."

He slapped the oxen, sending them from the
station nearly at a run. It was all Amelia could do to hang on. She
bounced on the hard plank seat, her feet braced against the wagon
for support, and felt like applauding herself for her quick
thinking. Influenza! And he'd believed her, too. Despite
everything, a smile spread across her face.

The desert flashed by in tones of gold,
brown, and muted green; dust churned from the animals' massive
hooves, making her breath taste gritty and her eyes hurt. She
squinted against it, determined to get as far away from Maricopa
Wells as possible.

Miles passed rapidly. Before very long,
Mason shifted behind her, then his hand came forward and grabbed
the front edge of her seat. A moment later, his other hand followed
the first. Amelia felt the muscles in his arms bunch and strain,
then he climbed onto the seat with a grunt of exertion. She didn't
dare look at him, and risk overturning the wagon—or worse.

His hands closed over her contraband leather
work gloves. Gently, Mason pried the traces from her grasp.
Relieved of the responsibility of driving, Amelia gripped the thick
edge of the seat and watched him do it instead.

Mason drove with assurance, like a man
well-accustomed to handling a team of draft animals, a ten-foot
wagon, and the rutted Territory roads. He'd been skilled with his
horse, too. The same horse, she recalled, wincing, she'd made run
away on the day of their capture.