Jessie Hanks Outlaw Queen: The Cameo Murder (Part 2 Of 2) free porn video

Street and Smith's _New_ _York_ _Weekly_ is proud to present the latest addition to the amazing legend of Eerie, Arizona. Jessie Hanks Outlaw Queen: The Cameo Murder By Nicholas Varrick As Told by Ellie Dauber and Christopher Leeson © 2016 Part 2: Finding Their Way Chapter 6 - "Crossing Arizona" Friday, June 7, 1872 Jessie slowly - regretfully - opened her eyes. "Uhh," she moaned, putting her hand to her head. "Why the hell is it so damn bright in here?" She thought about sitting up, but decided against doing so. In her condition, her head just might fall off, and she wasn't sure that she'd be able to get it back on. She managed to raise her arm, and then let it drape down over her face to shield her eyes. As she lay there, she felt her sleeping furs against her skin and realized something. "I'm... I'm _nekkid!_" She raised her head - a serious tactical error - and, groaning from the pain, looked down at her body. Her left breast was uncovered, her nipple erect. At the same time, most of her left leg poked out from the tangle of furs. "Shi-it," she said in a voice that was much too loud. "Where's my clothes?" Her voice quickly lowered to a bearable near-whisper. "Good morning, Jess," Paul said softly, entering the wickiup. "I heard you yell just now, so I figured you were finally awake." She turned her head... slowly, to squint at him. "Finally; what time is it?" "Almost noon. After all you drank last night, I thought it'd be better to let you sleep in. How're you feeling?" "Like I got a hive of bees - big ones -- buzzing 'round in my head." "Here." He handed her a cup of what smelled like a meat broth. "This'll help." She took a deep gulp. It was meat, sheep probably, but there was a slight medicinal aftertaste. Her head seemed to be throbbing a bit less, and she could bear the light easier. "What is this?" She held the cup close to her face. Even breathing in the fumes seemed to help. "Hair of the dog..." He saw her expression sour. They both knew what some Indians used the packs of dogs in their camps for. "Bad choice of words; it _is_ mutton, I swear, with some special herbs that Ih-tedda put in to help your, umm... hangover." He gingerly touched his own forehead. "It worked for me; give it a little time." She took another swallow. "Lordy, I hope so." She paused a moment, feeling the warmth in her belly. "In the meantime, lemme ask you a question." She gestured down at her body. "How come I woke up like this, with no clothes, I mean." "You shucked them off as soon as we got inside the wickiup. You said they were... bothering you." "_Bothering_ me; what the hell does that mean?" He sighed, knowing that trouble was ahead no matter how he answered. "Okay... _tickling_ you. And you said that I was - Jess, between that _tiswin_ and the mescal you went on one hell of a spree last night." "And from the look of things," she gestured at her nude body. "You did pretty good last night, yourself. You told me more'n once that you had 'rules' against taking advantage of a gal who was too drunk t'know what she was doing. You don't seem to've held on to 'em much last night." "I tried to, Jess, but when the gal is bare-ass naked, shouting about how much she wants me, while she's got her hand in my pants, it, well, it gets hard --" She giggled in spite of herself, but then glared at him. "I bet it does." "Dammit, Jess, I was - to tell the truth - kind of drunk myself, and those rule sort of got... lost in the shuffle." He took a breath and gave her the saddest look he could manage. "I'm sorry." "You should be, but... I guess some of it _was_ my fault. I _think_ it was, anyway. T'tell the truth I don't remember a whole lot about last night." "Probably just as well." There had been some _very_ memorable goings- on the night before, but Paul knew better than to mention them in any detail. Instead, he decided to change the subject. "How's your head now?" She took a long, slow sip of the liquid, savoring the warm, settling sensation in her belly. "Tolerable; it don't hurt near as much, and I think I can move around some, without worrying about it coming loose." "In that case, Jess, it's time you got up and got dressed. We've got things to do if we're gonna leave today." Now that the moccasin ceremony was over, they had no reason to stay - or for the Apache to keep them. "Okay." She started to throw back the sleeping furs, but stopped. She'd almost forgotten what she _wasn't_ wearing. "Why don't you go wait outside?" She managed a smile. "Wouldn't want t'temp you t'break any of them rules of yours again." * * * * * Paul finished tying the Tylers' picnic basket, now filled with foods supplied by the Apache, to the back of his horse, Ash's, saddle, while Jessie said her farewells. "Where's the Sheriff?" Jessie asked Ih- tedda in Spanish. "I might as well say goodbye t'him, too." "The man left not long after the sunrise," she replied. Paul finished and walked over to stand next to Jessie. "Do you know which way he went?" "That way," Laziyah, one of the warriors, pointed south. "Back the way he came." He had been the one to capture Sheriff Whyte. Jessie smiled, feeling relieved. "Guess he gave up on me." "I hope so," Paul said. "It still might be a good idea to be watchful." Just then, Dasodaha walked over and stood up in front of Paul. His face was grim, and he muttered something in Apache. "He said that he still doesn't understand how he lost the fight," Ih- tedda translated, "but it was a worthy battle." The man smiled and stuck out his hand. Paul did the same. Each man grasped the other's forearm, and they shook hands in the Apache manner. Dasodaha said something else and looked over at Jessie, his gaze going from head to toe, but lingering at her breasts and her wide hips. "And for a worthy prize," the maiden translated again. "He asked about a rematch." Jessie shook her head and grabbed for Paul's arm. "Tell him thanks, but no thanks." The brave chuckled deep in his throat and motioned with one arm. Nascha came over. She walked slowly, leading Bimisi, who walked beside her. She picked up her infant son and held him up for Jessie to see. "And goodbye to you, little one." Jessie gently shook hands with the boy. "And to your Momma." Ih-tedda translated and the mother smiled. Then Ih-tedda led Taklishim over for a formal goodbye. "May the Spirits smile on you," he said, with his granddaughter translating. "And may your lives together be times of joy." Paul glanced over at Jessie, who glared back at him. "Tell him thanks, but we'd better be going." He took Jessie's hand. She continued to glare, but she walked with him over to their horses. "We'll talk about _that_ later," she whispered, as they mounted their horses. Then, with a final wave, they rode east, out of the Apache camp. * * * * * After some two hours of riding, Paul signaled for Jessie to stop. "There's a creek up ahead. Let's stop and water the horses." "Sounds good," she replied. "I could use a drink m'self." She paused a beat. "Gimme a chance to see if our shadow's still there." "Shadow - then you see him, too." "Yep, he found us about an hour ago. He ain't always there, but when he is, he's always riding steady, 'bout a half mile behind us, too far back t'see who he is, but I'm pretty sure it's always the same man." "Apache, do you think?" She shook her head. "Nope, that ain't their kinda trick. But, whoever it is, we're gonna find out real soon." "I think so, too. Let's just see if we can't make sure that we meet up with him on _our_ terms. " They tugged at their reins, guiding their horses away from the stream. They had been riding past a long grove of pinyon trees. The path curved, so that they would occasionally be out of sight of their "shadow" for a short time. Paul suddenly turned his horse and dashed in between two trunks. "Come on," he ordered Jessie. "Quick, before he sees us." "What the hell?" Jessie said, but she followed. Paul rode a few yards into the wood, and then quickly dismounted. "I figure that it's time to see just who's been trailing us." He led his horse farther back from the path they'd been on. Jessie got off her own horse and walked just behind him. "We'll leave the horses here." Paul tied his reins around a pinyon tree. Jessie glanced back. She could barely see the light beyond the woods. She tied her own horse, pulling once at the reins to make sure that the knot held. The pair of them walked slowly back towards the road. There was some low brush near the trail. They hid behind it, crouching low, making them even harder to sight. After about five minutes, someone _did_ ride by. "Sheriff Whyte!" Jessie hissed in surprise. "What the hell is he doing _here_?" Her voice was barely a whisper, and the Sheriff gave no sign that he had heard, as he passed by them. "Probably looking for us," Paul guessed. "And I think we'd better find out why." "Are you crazy?" Jessie said. "Weren't we trying to _get_ _away_ from him?" "Jess, we're a day - maybe less - away from the Prescott to Phoenix road. That's where the Wells Fargo depot is, the one with the men we need to help us. I'd rather have things settled with the Sheriff now, than have him pop up while we're talking to those men. Wouldn't you?" Her expression soured. "I'd rather not meet up with him at all. He tried t'shoot me." "I remember. And if he showed up at that stage depot and pulled a gun on you _there_, he'd likely ruin any chance we have of those Wells Fargo men backing up your story." She sighed in resignation. "You're right about that. I'm gonna have a hard enough time getting them to admit what I done." "True enough, but let's deal with the immediate problem, Sheriff Whyte." Jessie hesitated for a moment before she nodded in agreement. They retrieved their horses and led them back through the trees and back onto the trail. * * * * * It turned out that they didn't have a choice. The sun was hanging low in the sky, when Paul and Jessie came around a turn in the trail and found Sheriff Whyte facing them. He was astride his horse, his pistols drawn, and facing them. "Hello, Miss Hanks.... Mr. Grant," he greeted them in a not quite friendly manner. "Sheriff," Paul said with a nod of his head. "What can we do for you?" "You two got something I want back, them weapons you took from my jail." He shook his head. "I can't very well go home without 'em; can I?" Jessie tensed. "Is that _all_ you want?" "Well," the lawman replied, his lips curling in a grin, "There is the little matter of you and that cameo... and Barlow's murder." He holstered his revolvers and glanced up at the western sun. "But it's getting late. Why don't I ride along with the two of you, and we can talk about that when we hunker down for the night." Paul looked over at Jessie, who gave him a nervous smile. "I suppose we can do that," he said. * * * * * Jessie sat near the fire, drinking the last of her coffee, while Paul and Sheriff Whyte stashed the rifle he and Jessie had taken from the jailhouse, alongside of the Sheriff's saddlebag. The pistol and shells that they'd also "borrowed" were inside the saddlebag. They were camped in a clearing about one hundred feet back from the trail. It was close enough to get moving easily the next morning, but far enough not to be bothered by any nighttime travelers. "That's it then, Sheriff," Paul said walked over to sit next to Jessie. "You can head back to Dawson in the morning, and Jessie and I --" "Are coming with me," Whyte interrupted. "I'm sorry, but that's how it's gonna be." He had a pistol in each hand, the pair of them pointed at Jessie and Paul. Jessie glared up at him and reached for her own weapon, still in its holster on her gun belt. "You dirty --" "Don't even think about it." The lawman fired once. The bullet kicked up dirt just a few inches from her hand, and she quickly pulled it back. Whyte smiled. "Good. Stand up... slow; the both of you." He gestured with his Colt, and Paul and Jessie clambered to their feet, watching the lawman as they did. "Now, just as slow, toss your weapons over to me. Use your left hands." He took a step back and used the weapon in his own left hand to point to the ground at his feet. "Do it." Paul reached across his body to use the middle two fingers of his left hand to pull his pistol from its holster. ""Don't do this, Whyte," he said, tossing the weapon to the ground. "You're a lawman, Grant, or you claim t'be. You'd know this was right if you weren't thinking with your Johnson." At that moment, Jessie tossed her own gun, so that it landed at the Sheriff's feet. Whyte knelt carefully, never taking his eyes off Paul and Jessie, and picked up their six-shooters. "Grant, you go stand by that tree." He pointed to a pine tree growing a few feet away from the Deputy. "Stand with your back to it and put your arms out." When Paul did as he had been ordered, Whyte fished a pair of handcuffs from a pocket in his jacket and tossed them to Jessie. "Cuff his wrists," he ordered Jessie. "Behind him, so his arms're stuck 'round that tree." He followed her over to the tree, watching from a distance, as she did as he had directed. When he heard the click of the handcuffs closing on Paul's wrists, he smiled. "Good girl." Jessie glared at him. "Thanks. Which tree to I get stand next to?" "None; I wouldn't make a woman stand up all night, handcuffed to a tree." He paused a beat. "No matter _how_ _much_ she might deserve it. I'll just tie your hands and feet and leave you on a blanket t'think about what's gonna happen to you." Still keeping his eyes on her, the man slowly knelt down. "Lemme just get my knife, so I can cut a couple lengths of -- _Ye-ow!_." He stood up at once, clutching his right hand in his left. "G-d damned bug!" "What happened," Jessie asked. He rubbed his hand. "Damn scorpion stung me. It hurts like a son-of- a-bitch." He shook his hand briskly, trying to shake off the pain. "Damned bug," he muttered again as he used the knife to slice off a length of rope. "Put your hands behind your back." He shoved his knife back into it belt sheath and drew his pistol. "Do it... _now_." He hurried over to where she stood. Jessie did as he ordered, and he came behind her and wound the cord around her wrists, binding them together. It seemed to Jessie that he was taking a _very_ long time tying the knot. The ropes felt lose, but she wasn't about to test them while he was standing there. Finally, the Sheriff finished and came around to face her. "Now, sit d-d-down." He pointed at the blanket with his pistol, as if to rush her. He seemed to be having trouble speaking. Drool was leaking from one side of his mouth, and he looked like he was in pain. "Are you all right, Sheriff?" she asked, surprising herself with the question. "I'm... uh... I'm f-uh-fine. Don't you be... be getting any -- Sit d- down!" He pointed the pistol at her. His hand was shaking, but he looked serious, and Jessie quickly settled herself on the blanket. Whyte grabbed up the canteens and shambled a distance away. He took a final step forward, stumbled, and fell to the ground. He lay there, trembling and rubbing his right arm. While he rubbed, he moaned, as if in great pain. It seemed to Jessie that he was dazed, uncertain where he was. She tugged at the ropes binding her, twisting her arms as best she could, watching for any reaction from him. There was none. She felt them loosen, and in a few moments, her right hand was free. She pulled the coil from her left wrist and hurried over to Sheriff Whyte. "My arm," he groaned. "My arm's on fire." He kept rubbing it, both hand shaking, as he spoke. "Jess," Paul said, "check the ground _real_ careful for scorpions. Then see if you can find the key to these handcuffs of his." "Scorpions?" She took time to look closely, but saw no signs of any. "Never seen a little scorpion sting to all this to a grown person." She shifted her head to indicate the injured man. "It's like bee-stings. Most people get stung, they say, 'Ow!' and go on with their business, but with a few folks, a couple of bee stings can kill them. It's the same with scorpions." "The hell you say." "Nope. Blackie Easton, out at the Triple A, is like that. He got stung once, about a year ago. He was laid up in bed, out of his head for a day or so. Doc Upshaw couldn't do much for him, kept him still in bed; put a cold, wet cloth on his forehead and another where he was stung; and gave him lots of water to drink. The aches and pains were gone in a day, but it was another whole day before he could get back to work." "How come you know 'bout all this?" "Mr. Slocum had three or four of us hands watching Blackie, changing those cloths and such. And he made sure we all knew what to do in case it happened again while we were on the trail." He took a breath, "You never know when somebody else might get sick from a scorpion's sting the way Blackie - or the Sheriff here - did." "Found it!" Jessie had been searching Whyte's pockets while they talked. He did nothing to stop her. She held up the key for Paul to see, and then walked over and opened his handcuffs. Paul stepped away from the tree. "Thanks, Jess." He smiled. "And now that I can use my arms again..." He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to him. His arms circled her waist, and their lips met in a kiss. "That was _nice_," she said, when they separated. She gave him a mischievous smile and added, "You gonna kiss the Sheriff now?" "I don't want to kiss him, but I don't want to kill him, either." He scowled. "And that's what we'd be doing if we left him here like that." She sighed, her expression changing to a frown. "Much as I hate t'say it, you're right, Paul. He's one damned stubborn cuss, t'think he coulda held us in the shape he was in, but there's no telling what - or _who_ might find him out here, and him not able t'defend himself." She thought for a bit. "Maybe he'll be better in the morning." "Maybe, but I wouldn't bet good money on it." * * * * * Saturday, June 8, 1872 "Riders coming," Jessie yelled, looking down the trail. Paul was kneeling next to Sheriff Whyte. He was holding the man's head up, helping him take small sips of water from a canteen. "Any idea how many and who they are?" "Soldiers... I think; it looks like one of 'em's carrying one of them military pennants." Jessie shielded her eyes from the midday sun. "About ten men, I'd say." "See if you can stop them. Maybe they've got something that can help Whyte." "Okay." Jessie ran down the gentle slope to the trail. 'Wish I had time t'change into a dress,' she thought, unbuttoning the top button of her blouse. "But if they can't tell I'm a female..." She tucked her blouse in tightly and stood just off the roadway. When the riders were close, she began waving her arms, and yelling. The lead man, now clearly a cavalry officer, raised his arm, signaling for the unit to stop. They maintained formation, while he rode over to where Jessie stood. "Can I help you ma'am?" He was a tall, husky man with dark brown hair. "I'm Lieutenant Orville Heffler, and my men and I are out of Fort Whipple." His eyes roamed up and down her form, lingering for a time on her pillowy breasts and narrow waist. "I hope so, lieutenant, sir." She recognized his interest and gave him her best "damsel in distress" smile. "I'm Jessie Hanks, and that's..." She pointed towards Paul. "...my, uh, friend, Paul Grant. We've got another man with us. He got stung by a scorpion, and he's in a _real_ bad way. You think you can help him?" "I'm afraid not. There's not much that can be done for a bad scorpion sting except to keep the victim still, clean the site where he was stung, and give him all the water he can drink." "May you could... take him back to your fort," she asked hopefully. "I'm _sure_ you could take care of him better than us." The officer shook his head. "I regret not, Miss Hanks." "Please... call me Jessie." She pouted prettily. "And why can't you take him?" Heffler tried to smile. "Miss Hanks... Jessie, my men and I are on patrol. A band of Apache, led by a renegade named Delsay, stole - believe it or not -- over a thousand sheep from a range just a couple miles from the fort." "They-They ain't headed this way, are they?" Jessie asked nervously. Heffler shook his head. "No, Miss Jessie. They drove that herd off to the northwest, but they killed more than a dozen men. My Colonel was fit to be tied. He sent most of the company after them, but he sent us - and a couple other patrols out to warn ranchers and travelers and - I don't mean to alarm you, Jessie, but I also have orders to hunt down any other Apache savages that might be lurking about." "Oh... oh, my goodness," she said, putting a bit of a tremble into her voice. "We-We saw some Indians a few days ago - we were too far away, and they didn't see us, thank the Lord." "Where were they - and which way were they heading?" "Uh... It was south... yes, south of here, and they were heading east - - I think. We came this far north to avoid meeting up with them." "That was very wise of you." He gave her a broad smile. "You are a lady of brains as well as beauty." "Why... _Orville_, how sweet if you to say that." She looked away for a moment, and, when she looked back, she gave him a shy smile. "I wish that I could offer you an escort back to the fort, but --" "I'm sure that Paul and I can manage our way to the Prescott to Phoenix road, but Elijah, the man who was stung, couldn't you take him back to your fort?" "Much as I'd like to, there's no way I can detail men to transport your friend back to Fort Whipple." "Then what can we do?" "How long ago was your friend stung?" "Last night." "Then he'll probably heal faster here than if we were to move him. My advice is to be careful. Keep a watch for trouble, and be ready to run at the first sign of it." He glanced at the road. "This trail joins up with the Prescott to Phoenix road in about ten miles. When you get to it, head for a Wells Fargo station and hole up there for a while." "Thanks, I guess, Orville." She sighed dramatically. The soldier smiled as he watched her bosom rise and fall. "I wish I could do more, Miss Jessie, I truly do." The tone of his voice made it clear that he meant more than helping Elijah Whyte. "But I'm afraid that my hands are tied." He tapped the brim of his hat, as if in salute. "Please... be careful." He turned his horse and rode over to rejoin his men. "Let's move," he shouted, pointing his arm forward. He gave her one last, regretful look as he rode past. So did his men. A couple of them gave her low whistles of appreciation. Jessie sighed, and then chuckled. "Men!" she whispered in amusement, as she walked back to where Paul was still holding his canteen for the Sheriff. "How'd it go?" Paul asked. "Not too good," she replied. "There was a big Apache raid near their fort - Fort Whipple - a couple days ago, and they're out warning people... and looking for more 'savage' Apache." "You didn't tell them about Taklishim and his people, did you?" Jessie gave Paul an angry look. "What kind of a... Of course not; I sent them off in another direction. But first, I asked if they could help us with the Sheriff here. They didn't have no medicine that could help, and they was too damn busy hunting Injuns t'take him back t'their fort." "That could've been dangerous. He'll be up and about in a day or so, and he could've sent them after us." "I know, but it was worth asking... for his sake." She looked down at Whyte, who seemed to be sleeping. Paul sighed. "You're probably right, but it was risky." "Life's a risk, Paul." She shrugged then smiled. "At least I got you t'share the risk with." * * * * * Sunday, June 9, 1872 "You up t'some stew, Sheriff?" Jessie asked, as she doled some onto Paul's plate. Elijah Whyte shook his head. "I don't think my stomach can handle it." He paused a beat. "Some broth, maybe?" "Done." She carefully filled a cup with broth from the stew, stopping twice to fish out an errant bit of meat or vegetable. When she finished, she walked over to where the man was sitting, his back propped up by a bedroll. She knelt down and held the cup while he took a cautious sip. He sighed softly, as he felt the warm broth settle in his belly. They both waited a bit - just in case. Finally, he smiled. "I think I'd like some more." "Think you can hold this cup by yourself?" He held up both hands. They were still a bit shaky, but he managed to take the cup from her. "Now _that_ hit the spot," he said, after finishing the drink. "Thanks." He handed her the cup. "You want some more?" He shook his head. "Maybe later; I want to make sure that can keep down what I already had." "In that case, can we talk for a little bit?" "I suppose. What do you want to talk to me about?" * * * * * Elijah Whyte snickered. "That has _got_ to be the dumbest excuse for an alibi I ever heard." He gave a quick laugh. "You're telling me that Jessie here couldn't have killed Eugene Barlow 'cause she was off someplace robbing a stagecoach at the time." "It's the truth," Jessie argued, "every last word of it." Paul glanced at Ephrem Tyler's map, now laid out on the ground, with rocks piled at each corner to hold it down. "Here," he said, pointing to a spot along the Prescott to Phoenix Road. "Jessie stopped the stage here... near the Black Rock Canyon stage depot around mid- afternoon on the day Barlow was shot. Now..." He looked squarely at Whyte. "...about how long do you think it'd take a stage to get here from Prescott?" "Mmm... six hours," the man answered after studying the map, "more or less." Jessie nodded. "You think I could leave Prescott after 11 o'clock, and get to there by, say... three?" "There ain't a horse in the world fast enough to do that," Whyte told her. "O'course, considering this here 'fairy story' you're trying to sell, maybe you had one of them _flying_ horses." Jessie smiled. "Nope; just a regular ole horse, the same one I'm riding now, in fact. Them papers Paul took from your office said Barlow got killed after 11 in the morning. By your own words, I _couldn't_ have been there t'kill him." "Yeah, but that's _if_ you robbed that stage where and when you said you did. You still gotta prove it, to me, at least." "Are you going to give her the _chance_ to prove it?" Paul asked. Whyte looked like he'd swallowed something bitter. "To tell the truth, I shouldn't. A day ago, I was more than ready to haul your both your asses right back to Dawson and let you tell your crazy story to some judge. But now... Hell, you could've left me out here to die, and you _didn't_. I figure that I owe you - and then some." He had another thought. "And I'll give you a couple points more for steering those troopers away from little Bimisi and his folks. Give me one more day t'get over that damned scorpion sting, and I'll go with you to find your alibi. " "Th-Thank you." Jessie impulsively hugged the still-ailing man. "We can leave in the morning. If you're up to it, that is." He laughed. "I should be. And you better be right, 'cause I _will_ arrest the two of you if you ain't." "Speaking of arrest," Jessie said, "I hope you ain't gonna say anything about that cameo. They don't know I took anything, and they wouldn't be happy t'find out they was wrong." "Tell you what; I won't mention it if they don't." * * * * * Chapter 7 - "Black Canyon Station" Monday, June 10, 1872 "How you coming, Jess?" Paul asked. A rope was stretched between two trees, with a blanket hanging down from it. Jessie stood behind the blanket, changing her clothes. "Well enough, I suppose. Having t'put on a petticoat 'n' dress for a ten mile ride is a royal pain." "So you've said," Paul teased. "And more than once," the Sheriff added. The two men were packing up the last of the camp, while Jessie changed. Whyte had mostly recovered from the scorpion sting, but he was still moving a little gingerly. Paul smiled. "I could always come back there and help." "No, thanks; we both know that you're a lot better at getting me outta my clothes than getting me into 'em." The older man chuckled. "I'm heading over to finish packing my horse. I'll leave the two of you to work this out between you." He picked up his saddlebag and started to walk away. "Just don't take _too_ long." "I think you're stalling, Jess," Paul told her. "And you're embarrassing Elijah." "Does that mean you ain't coming back here behind this blanket?" "I'd like to; you know that, but I'm not about to put on a show for Sheriff Whyte. And you know _that_, too." She lowered the blanket enough so that he could see her face and pouted prettily. "I know, but it's still a pain t'have t'get dressed up so fancy." "Yeah, but it'll help our chances to get a straight answer out of the men at that stage depot if they get asked by a beautiful woman in a pretty dress." She beamed. "You think I'm beautiful?" "Always have, always will." He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "Now get that beautiful ass of yours dressed and get out here." He took a breath. "We both know that I'm also willing to spank it if you keep on stalling." She winked back, but warned, "You try, and it'll be the _only_ way you get to touch it." * * * * * The bell hanging above the door to the stage depot jangled as Jessie walked in. Paul and Whyte followed just behind her. Both men wore their badges... just in case. Coleman Hoyle, the station manage stood behind the counter about ten feet inside. "Howdy, folks; what can I do you for?" He was the only one in the room. "I'm Paul Grant. I was in here last September looking for somebody." Hoyle scratched his balding head for a moment. "Oh, yeah; I remember. You was looking for a lady." He gave Jessie an appreciative glance. "And from the look o'things you found her." He smiled at Jessie. "Don't blame you for looking, neither. She's a pretty little thing." "Thank you, Mr. ..." Jessie gave him a quick, flirtatious wink. "Hoyle, Missie, Coleman Hoyle, but you can call me Cole." "And I'm Jessie... Jessie Hanks." She smiled back at the man. "Paul found me all right, but now we're - him, 'n' me, and Sheriff Whyte here - we're looking for somebody else. The men that I... ah, I _met_ the last time I was in these parts, the driver 'n' guard of that stage." Hoyle chuckled. "The one you tried t'rob, you mean. Too bad you didn't get nothing for your trouble." He took a breath. "I don't suppose you come back t'apologize, did you?" "Let's say I did. Are them two men around here anywhere?" "I couldn't tell you where Noah Ward - he was the driver - headed off to. Word got out how he caved when you pointed that gun o'yours at him. Nobody wanted t'ride with him. He quit about six weeks after you stopped his stage. He's homesteading up in Oregon State, I hear." Paul gave the depot man a sour look. "What about the guard... Devon, I think his name was." "Yeah, Devon Fisher is who you want. He's still working for us. In fact, he's on a run right now. He should be back this way..." Hoyle glanced at a paper, a printed Wells Fargo schedule posted on the wall next to him. "...about two, tomorrow afternoon." "If you don't mind asking," Hoyle continued, "what d'you need that pair for? You come t'rub some salt in their wounds?" Whyte stepped forward. "It's kind of complicated. I'm working on a case, and I need to know 'bout this robbery you mentioned, when and where it happened." "It wasn't really a robbery - nothing got taken. I got a log book, Dev and Noah wrote up what happened that day." He paused a beat. "You're welcome to look, but I don't know how much good it'll do." "Why do you say that?" "'Cause Dev Fisher wrote the entry himself, and he ain't the most wordy of men." He pulled a thick leather bound book out from under the counter. "Here, look for yourselves." He set the book down on the counter and opened it. "Do you remember the date?" Sheriff Whyte and Jessie answered at the same time. "September 13, 1871." "Well, that settles that," Hoyle said with a laugh. He turned pages, lined paper like a ledger book filled with writing - dates and facts - in several different hands, until... "Here we is, September 13." He turned the book around so that Paul, Jessie, and the Sheriff could read it. "September 13, 1871, about 2:45 PM." The writing was in a crimped, angry hand. "Stage stopped; driver - Noah Ward - gave in too easy to gun threat. Dropped weapons and mailbag and rode on." And it was signed by both Devon Fisher and Noah Ward at 3:27 on the same date. Paul gave a sour sort of chuckle. "Well that doesn't give us much." "I didn't 'spect it would," Hoyle told him. "Dev's a proud man. He wouldn't want to put it in writing that this pretty lady..." He gave a quick nod to Jessie. "...was the one who stopped that stage, 'specially when she got him to give up his gun." Jessie looked down at the page again. "There's another note here, dated about an hour after the first one." She read the text. "Mailbag and weapons recovered, nothing missing. No need to report what happened." "I wrote that," Hoyle said. "I think that just got Dev madder. It was bad enough that the stage was stopped. The notion that I wasn't gonna call down all the avenging angels of Heaven to punish the gal who done it was something he couldn't swallow." He took a breath. "I don't think he got over it yet. You can ask him yourself if you stay here till tomorrow." Jessie shrugged. "What choice do I - do _we_ have? We'll wait." * * * * * "What sorta sleeping rooms do you have here?" Jessie asked Coleman Hoyle. "After three days on the trail, I'd kind of like to spend a night in a real bed." He shook his head. "Ain't much chance of that, Miss Hanks. The only bed in the place is mine, back behind that curtain there." He pointed to a doorway off to his right. An old wool blanket, mostly a faded brown in color, hung across the doorway. "I'd offer t'share it with you," he said with a wink, "but I don't think your Mr. Grant there would appreciate the offer." "Right in one," Paul answered. "Where do other folks sleep?" "Sol, he's my hostler, he sleeps on some hay in the stable. Passengers, when any stay overnight, sleep on the floor; I rent out two blankets and a pillow for a dollar." "How much t'rent that bed," Paul asked. "Seems to me a lady should have some privacy." Hoyle thought for a moment. "Seeing as I'd have t'sleep on the floor out here m'self... ten dollars." "Ten dollars?! That's robbery!" exclaimed Jessie. "Look whose calling other people robbers," the station master replied with a grin. "That's about all the money I've got," Paul said regretfully. "How about you, Jess?" "Not even half that, but..." Her lips curled in a smile. "How 'bout I do something t'earn that bed, Mr. Hoyle, something I think you'll like; you and them other fellows, too." Hoyle glanced around the room. Since he sold drinks here at the depot, it doubled as a gathering place in the evenings. Four other men, two prospectors, a farmer, and Sol, the man Hoyle hired to care for the depots horses, were in the chairs set about the room. "What _exactly_ do you got in mind?" His smile was more of a hopeful leer, and his eyes never looked higher than her breasts while he spoke. "Singing; I'm a singer back in Eerie - where me 'n' Paul live - and a pretty good one. How 'bout I trade some songs for the use of that room?" Sol Carlin, Hoyle's stableman, a lanky man of forty or so, heard the offer. "Give 'er a chance, boss. She's got t'be better'n you or me wailing." "Thanks." Jessie looked at the man. He was wearing a faded butternut brown shirt with two inverted black chevrons on his sleeve, part of the uniform of a corporal in the Confederate army. "And here's a song, I think you may know." She made herself as comfortable as she could on one of the wooden chairs. "This'd work better if I had my guitar, but here goes." ` "The years creep slowly by, my darling, ` The snow is on the grass again." "That's a Reb song - 'Lorena', ain't it?," Hoyle whispered. Sol raised a finger to his lips. "It is. Now shut up, boss, and lemme hear it." Jessie smiled and kept singing. ` "The sun's low down the sky, my darling, ` The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been. ` But the heart throbs on as warmly now, ` As when the summer days were nigh. ` Oh, the sun can never dip so low ` A-down affection's cloudless sky." The song continued on, telling how the singer, usually a man, but not here, lamented over separation from his - in this case, _her_ -- lost love. At the end, he -- or she - takes a sort of consolation in the knowledge that they will be reunited after death. It was a popular song during the Civil War, first heard in the Confederate ranks, but learned quickly enough by Union soldiers who missed their homes and their loved ones just as much. The men in the room all applauded loudly when Jessie sang the last lines. ` "It matters little now, my darling, ` The past is in the eternal past; ` Our heads will soon lie low, my darling, ` Life's tide is ebbing out so fast. ` There is a Future! O, thank God! ` Of life this is so small a part! ` 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod; ` But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart." As she finished, she raised her left arm, as if in supplication, and looked sadly up to heaven. Then, as the applause erupted, she shifted her head to gaze at Hoyle. "Well?" she asked. "You know any _happier_ tunes?" he replied sourly. "_You_ want happy; you gotta make _me_ happy." She waited a beat. "What about that room o'yours?" "You sing a couple more songs -- _happy_ ones, mind you, and the room's yours - the bed, too - even trade." "Deal," she said and began singing "Camptown Races", an old favorite of hers. It turned out that the bed wasn't as comfortable as she'd expected, and she missed sharing it with Paul, but it surely beat bedding down on a bit of open floor with him. And the Sheriff and Sol. * * * * * Tuesday, June 11, 1872 A Prescott-Tucson Line stagecoach pulled up in front of the adobe depot building. "Black Canyon, folks," the driver, Rolf Messinger, yelled in a thick German accent. "Dhere'll be a ten minute stop here for changing the horses." He saw Sol Carlin coming towards the coach, leading a team of six fresh horses, and he jumped down to help. Devon Fisher, the shotgun rider, leaned back in his seat to watch. "Cole wants t'see you, Dev," Sol called up to him. "Any idea what he wants?" "Yeah, but it'll take me too long t'tell it." The hostler began unfastening the lines that connected the current team of horses to the coach. "Best you just go inside 'n' talk t'him." Devon took a quick, cautious look around - just in case of trouble - and climbed down from the vehicle and started for the building. "Excuse me...sir," an older man in a derby hat stuck his head out the window of the coach. "Is it possible to buy something to eat while we're stopped here?" Devon shrugged. "Sorry, mister; this is a switch station, not a home station. They may have some food for sale inside, but I wouldn't count on more'n a cup of coffee - or a shot of whiskey - 'n' maybe... - _maybe_ a sandwich." "Thank you, but no thank you." The man frowned and sat back down inside the stage. "Suit yourself, mister, but it's a good five hours t'the next home station in Phoenix." The man muttered a curse under his breath and stepped down from the stage. He squinted at the sunlight -- it was dark in the stage with the curtain drawn to keep out the dust of the trail - and followed the shotgun rider into the station. * * * * * "Okay, Cole," Devon said, as he walked through the door, "what'd you wanna see me..." His voice trailed off when he saw Jessie standing next to Cole Hoyle. "What the living hell..." He pointed an accusing finger at her. "...is _she_ doing here?" Paul stepped in next to Jessie. "She's with me," he said in a firm voice. "And they're _both_ with me," Sheriff Whyte added, just as firmly. Fisher saw the badges both men wore and gave Jessie an evil smile. "So, you finally caught her." His eyes roamed up and down her body. "And now that I get a good look at her, I can see why you chased after her for so long." "We ain't arresting Jessie," the Sheriff said, "at least, not right now, we ain't. She's... a part of another case I'm working on." "Another case; what _else_ d'you think she done?" "That'll take some time t'explain," Jessie said. Hoyle looked at his pocket watch. "More time than I think you got, Miss Jessie. The stage's supposed t'leave in six minutes." * * * * * At that moment, the passenger from the stage interrupted. "I don't know what you gentlemen - and lady -- are all talking about, but could one of you _please?_ sell me something to eat?" "That'd be me," Hoyle replied. "Let's us go over here and talk about it." He gave Whyte, Fisher, and the others a quick nod. "'Scuse me folks." And led the man away from the others. "They did tell you that this ain't a home station; we ain't set up t'feed passengers." "They did, but they also told me that it's a very long ride to the next station that _does_ serve meals." "It is. It's five... six hours to Phoenix. That's the next home station on this route." "Can you help me then? Sell me some food?" "Lemme see what I've got." Hoyle walked over to a door with the words "Store Room" crudely painted on it. He opened the door and went inside for a moment. When he came out, he was carrying a crusty brown roll and something wrapped in a white cloth. "I got this." He set the two items down on the counter and pulled back the corners of the cloth to reveal a lump of yellow cheese. There was green mold growing on it in one or two spots. "A dime for the bread and twenty- five cents for half the cheese; you interested?" "That's all you have?" the man asked in a resigned voice. When Hoyle nodded, he reached into his pocket and took out a paisley change purse. "Very well; just the cheese, though." He opened the purse and handed the station man an Indian head gold dollar. Hoyle fished out a cashbox from under the counter. He dropped in the coin and shifted through the box until he found what he needed. "Here you go, sir; six bits change." He replaced the cashbox and used a knife to slice the cheese in half. "And here's your food." "Umm... thank you." the passenger spent a moment scraping off the mold before he bit into the cheese. "Not _quite_ as bad as I expected," he muttered to himself and started back to the stagecoach. * * * * * "Settle anything?" Cole asked as he rejoined the others. Dev shook his head. "I still want her arrested for stopping my stage." He chuckled. "That'd sort of be what you want, Missy. It'd prove you couldn't've killed that other guy." "Can't arrest her if nobody's gonna bring charges," Sheriff Whyte replied. "Your company willing t'press charges, Mr. Hoyle?" The depot master shook his head. "Nope; don't wanna make the company look bad." "_I'll_ press charges, then," Fisher said stubbornly. He looked past the man to see his driver standing in the doorway, anxious to leave and nodding in agreement. "Not till this is settled. Rolf can go on without me." "The hell he can - and you know it. Company rules; no coach goes out without a shotgun. 'Specially with all them angry Apache on the loose." Paul had a thought. "How about if _I_ take his place as shotgun? He can stay here and work this out with Jess." "That might just work." Hoyle considered the notion. He glanced over at Jessie. Whyte grinned. "Go ahead. I think it's a safe bet that you'll come back for her." "Lemme just make it official." Cole said. He went behind the counter and began to write in a pad, reading aloud as he did. "I, Coleman Hoyle, station master of the Black Canyon Depot, am letting Deputy Sheriff - What's your name again, deputy?" "Grant... Paul Grant." "Deputy Sheriff Paul Grant ride shotgun on today's southbound run of the Prescott to Tucson Stage Line. The regular shotgun rider, Devon, Fisher, is stuck here at Black Canyon on some personal business. Grant can sleep at the Phoenix station tonight and deadhead back here on tomorrow's run. That okay with you?" When Paul nodded in agreement, the agent added, "Lemme sign it then... Coleman... Hoyle, June 11, 1872." He tore off the paper and handed it to Paul. "There y'go; now get moving. Don't want t'make that stage late, do you?" Jessie came over to where the two men were standing. "Just a minute here. _I_ wanna make sure he comes back." She wrapped her arms around Paul and pulled herself close to him. They smiled at each other for a moment before their lips met. Then the world just sort of went away for a time while they enjoyed one another's touch. Paul was grinning when he finally - out of a need to breathe - broke the kiss. "You promise me another kiss like that, Jessie Hanks, and I'll _run_ all the way back here from Phoenix if I have to." "I'll promise that 'n' more." Jessie's lips curled in a sly smile. "If you promise t'bring me... _something_ when you come back from Phoenix." "Something..." Paul looked puzzled for a moment, but then he smiled in realization. "I will; something we'll both like." He winked and headed out the door. Devon Fish chuckled. "You kiss me like that, Missy,' he said as they heard the stage drive off, "and I might just admit t'what you done." "Sorry," Jessie answered, "but no." In her mind, she added. 'I'd almost rather rot in jail, you stubborn, horny son-of-a-bitch.' * * * * * "So vhere ist you and der sheriff from, dep'ty?" Rolf Messinger asked Paul. Rolf was a hefty man with short, red hair turning to gray. These were the first words the driver had spoken since their stage had left Black Canyon station about a half hour before. Paul shrugged. "I'm from Eerie, about two hours ride east of Phoenix - -" "Ja, I know der town. Ve go dere... tvice a veek." "Well, _I'm_ from Eerie. Elijah Whyte... the Sheriff, he's from a town called Dawson, down along the Gila River, over near Yuma." "Dem ist a _long_ vay apart. Vhat is you doing together?" Paul thought for a moment. It might be better _not_ to admit the truth. "I was tracking an escaped prisoner from Eerie. I followed h- him up into the mountains north of town, then across the territory and down towards the border near Dawson." "You catch him?" "Ahh... no. He made it across the border, and Mexican law says I couldn't go after him." That last was a lie, but Rolf wouldn't know. "I met Sheriff Whyte," he continued. "He... um, he was working on another case and asked me to help track down the man _he_ was after." "Gott, you must be one damned gut tracker." "I manage." "Did you git dat one?" "Ah, not yet. He came up along this way. That's why the sheriff and me are hereabouts." Rolf frowned, apparently unimpressed. Paul felt irked. "I helped track down that gang that took the strongbox at Stagecoach Gap last December." Rolf only shrugged. Paul leaned back in his seat, letting the driver think what he wanted to think. * * * * * "Dang it, Dev Fisher," Jessie said, glaring at the man, "why're you being so damned stubborn? Why don't you just sign the Sheriff's paper?" Dev shook his head. "And admit that I let the stage I was guarding get stopped by a little bit of fluff like you? There's ain't no way... unless I know you're gonna go t'jail for it." "She ain't going t'jail," Cole Hoyle said, "because the company ain't gonna press charges." He looked at Fisher for a moment and added - again, "but the company _will_ fire your ass if _you_ try t'press charges." Jessie sighed, half in anger, half in disgust. "We've been back 'n' forth over this a dozen times. What do I gotta do t'get you to admit that I stopped that coach?" "You tried to _rob_ that coach, Missy, even if you didn't get nothing for your efforts. And Cole, here..." He pointed with a nod of his head towards the Station Master. "...he's gonna let you get away with it. Why should I help you?" Sheriff Whyte raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather let her stand trial for something you know she couldn't have done. What kind of a man are you?" "A pissed off man, an angry man, a man who got shown up by some little slip of a gal, and a man who ain't gonna help her." He stopped his rant as his eyes roamed up and down the length of Jessie's body. "Not unless she... she makes it worth my while." His lips curled in a leer. Jessie stormed to her feet. "Why you dirty son-of-a--" "Just as well she objects," Hoyle interrupted. Jessie and Dev both turned quickly to look at him. "Word got out that she... went along, _people_ might say that you two was in cahoots; that the reason you let her stop that coach was 'cause you 'n' her was... together." He chuckled wryly and shook his head. "A driver... working with a lady road agent, now _that_ is something the company might press charges about. I bet it'd be in all the papers, too, once people find out how pretty she is. Are you ready t'have everybody and his cousin reading all about 'Outlaw Dev Fisher'?" The guard glowered at Hoyle. "You wouldn't dare." "Don't be too sure what I would or wouldn't do, Dev. I been listening to you two go at it all day, and now you talk like the only reason you ain't given in was so you could get into the lady's drawers." "That... I was just... dammit, Cole Hoyle, you got no cause to say something like that." Jessie scowled. "And you got no cause t'say what you done about me." "It's getting late," Elijah Whyte said, cutting in. "Why don't we all bed down for the night, and Dev can think about what his motives _really_are." Jessie nodded. "That sounds like a plan." She walked over to the curtain that covered the doorway to the Station Master's quarters. "I'll be in here thinking 'bout... whatever." She walked through the doorway and slid the curtain back to fully block the view from the other room. "And all you gentlemen can do your thinking out there." * * * * * Chapter 8 - "On the Trail of Dandy Jim" Wednesday, July 12, 1872 Paul Grant was having breakfast with the staff of the Phoenix Station, when a skinny, brown-haired boy walked into the alcove of the station that served as a dining room. He stood there a moment looking around before he crossed over to Aubrey Jenner, the station master. "Telegram for you, Mr. Jenner. From Prescott." He handed Jenner an envelope. The man set it down on the table and fished in his pocket for change. "Here y'go, Joey," he said, handing the boy a silver half-dime. The lad mumbled a quick "Thanks" and ran out the station's front door. "Let's see what this is about," Aubrey said, tearing open the envelope and removing the sheet inside. His eyes quickly scanned the message. "Shit!" he muttered, crumpling the telegram. "Dandy Jim just got another stage." Paul raised a curious eyebrow. "Who's Dandy Jim?" "A road agent; him and his men have robbed four - make it _five_ now -- stages up 'round Spring Valley." "Is he really a dandy?" Aubrey shrugged. "People say he wears a black frock coat, a boiled white shirt, and a bowler hat, with a flour sack with eye holes t'hide his face. He never cusses and he has this courtly way with women passengers, like something right out of the penny dreadfuls." "Now that you mention it, I did see a wanted circular for him back in Eerie," said Paul. "They lie in wait for a coach. Dandy Jim jumps out, waving his hands for the coach to stop. When it does, he points to his men, hidden, three on each side of the road. Nobody sees 'em, just their rifles pointed at you, and..." the station master gave a shrug, "...who's gonna fight that?" "Not me; those six rifles are one hell of an edge. But... hasn't anybody been able to chase after them? Seven men on horseback should leave an easy trail to follow." "That's the problem. The sheriff from Prescott and his men've never been able to find a trail. They're gonna be at the robbery site in a few hours - it's that long a ride from Prescott, but it's a waste of time." Rolf had been sitting with the others. "Maybe Mr. Grant here can find somet'ing. He vas telling me on der vay here vhat a good tracker he is." "Is that true?" Jenner asked hopefully. "Well, for almost three years, I rode line for Mr. Charles Goodnight, tracking down strays from his herds up in Colorado." "That's a start, but cows are dumb. How good are you tracking somebody who _don't _want_ to be caught?" "This Dandy Jim guy may be smarter than a lost steer, but the principles of following tracks are the same for the both of them." Rolf tried to help. "He told me he tracked a man halfvay across der Arizona Territory." "You catch him?" Jenner sounded skeptical. Rolf was making the deputy sound _too_ good. Paul shook his head. "I'm afraid not. She --_He_ hooked up with some Commancheros and made it across the border. I couldn't follow him there." "Damn shame, but a little humility is a good thing. You sound like you're just the man we need." He waited a moment and then added. "Will you help us?" "I... umm, I'm working on another case right now." "You ain't working too hard on it, not if you could take a day to ride shotgun down here to Phoenix." "That was just one day." "So just take one _more_ day. I ain't asking you to sign on long term with the company. Give us _one_ _day_. You're gonna be deadheading up to Black Canyon. You can get your horse and follow the stage up to Cordes Lakes, where the robbery happened." "Ja," Rolf added. "Maybe dat sheriff, der vun dat vas mit you, he vill come, too. " Paul sighed and gave in to the inevitable. "All right, and I'll ask Sheriff Whyte if he wants to tag along as well." He just hoped Jessie would understand. 'Hell,' he thought, 'she might want to come along, too.' And that thought had its good side _and_ its bad side. * * * * * Jessie was sitting outside on a bench when the northbound stage came to a halt in the yard of Black Canyon Station. She started to rise, to greet the returning Paul Grant, but she froze when she saw that it was Vince Glidden, a man who sometimes rode as shotgun on the stage in Eerie, rather than Paul, who was seated next to the driver. "Hey, there Jess," Paul suddenly called, as he climbed out of the stage and ran over to where she was standing. He had just time enough to ask, "Miss me?" before she answered by pulling his head down to hers. She moaned softly as their lips met. He felt her body pressed against him, felt himself harden in anticipation, and he was glad that he'd had time to buy that package of condoms, British riding coats, while he'd been in Phoenix. "So how was your trip?" Jessie asked when they finally, but much too soon, broke the kiss. "Not bad; it would've been better if you were with me, though." He sighed. "And I'm afraid that the trip's not over. Some guy named Dandy Jim robbed the stage up north of here, and they asked me for help. Seems they haven't been able to track the man and his gang after the robberies." "Well, you're certainly one for tracking folks. I know that better than --" She grinned. "Maybe I should come along with you. I may not know much about tracking anybody, but I got a lot of experience being tracked." Sheriff Whyte had come out of the building in time to hear her. "I'm not letting the two of you outta my sight. If she goes, I do, too. Besides, I managed to follow the both of you pretty good. It just may be that I can help." "I'm sure you can," Paul told him. "In fact, I was planning to ask you to come along." "The more eyes the better," Vince Glidden added. "Jack 'n' me..." He pointed to the driver who was helping Sol switch the teams of horses. "...We know where the robbery was. You folks just hitch your horses behind the stage. You can ride inside, and we'll stop 'n' let you three off when we get there." Jessie nodded and ran off. "I'll go get the horses," she called back to the others. Paul and Elijah Whyte followed. Paul gave the pocket of his jacket that held the condoms a pat, as if to say, "Soon." It was a happy thought that pushed back against his concerns about Dev Fisher... and Dandy Jim. * * * * * Jessie hurried into the station. She ran through the doorway into the station agent's room. "I'm going with Paul," she called out, as she closed the curtain. "Tell 'em t'wait while I change outta this danged dress." "Is Sheriff Whyte going, too?" Cole Hoyle asked. "Yep," Jessie yelled from the other room. Cole Hoyle came out from behind the counter. "I'll tell them to wait for you." He stopped at the table where Devon Fisher was sitting. "And you're going with 'em, Dev," he said, as he started for the door again. "I'll tell Sol t'get you a horse, while I help change teams." Dev's features soured. "Why the hell do I have to go up to Cordes Lakes? I wasn't shotgun on that coach that got held up?" "Look, Dev, I ain't got time to argue. They're going to investigate the robbery of a company stage coach. There oughta be somebody _company_ there with 'em." The station agent took a breath. "And _you're_ it. You got that?" "All right, all right, I'll go, but I sure as hell, don't see as I'm gonna be any help." * * * * * A stagecoach pulled to a stop near a stand of trees. "We're here," Vince Glidden yelled, as he knocked on the roof of the coach. "You sure?" came a voice from inside the vehicle. A moment later, Sheriff Whyte climbed out of the curtained coach, blinking his eyes in the bright afternoon sun. Jessie, Paul, and Dev Fisher followed the Sheriff out onto the shoulder of the road. "Yeah," Jessie added, shielding her eyes with her hand against the sunlight. "How d'you know this is where Dandy Jim and his gang hit that coach?" "'Cause of this." Glidden took a folded sheet of paper from his vest pocket. "Prescott sent us this telegram." He opened it and read. "Dandy Jim and men struck about 100 yards north of 'the Elephant.' See what your friend - that's you, Grant, can find out." Paul gave the guard an odd look. "What the hell is the elephant?" "There." Glidden pointed to a nearby hill. A rock formation on the side of the hill _did_ look like an elephant's body, with a narrow, variegated vein of rocks hinting at the beast's upraised trunk. "There's your elephant." Paul shrugged. "I suppose it is." He walked over to the back of the stage. "Okay, let's get our horses, so these folks can leave." The reins of Ash, his cowpony, Jessie's nag, Useless, the Sheriff's horse and a mount for Dev Fisher were all affixed to the bottom of the boot, the storage space at the back of the stage. "You can go," Jessie told the driver a few minutes later. He waved and gave a whip of his reins. The coach, complete with its shotgun rider and three other passengers, headed off for Prescott, disappearing over the crest of a hill several hundred yards from where she stood. Fisher turned to face Paul. "Now what do we do, _Mr._ _Master_ Tracker_?" "First," Paul said, sloughing off the insult, "we need to find out _exactly_ where Dandy Jim stopped that stage." "And how're we gonna do that? A stage coach leaves the same tracks whether it stopped along the way or drove on through." "There is _one_ difference, Mr. Fisher. When Dandy Jim robs a stage, he has the passengers get out and stand by the side of the road. It's only been a day; there should be some signs in the grass by the road of where those people stood." Sheriff Whyte nodded in agreement. "Let's split up into two teams, one goes north along the road and the other goes south. Look for that patch o'trampled grass by the road, and whoever finds it, give a shout. " "Who goes with who?" Jessie asked, sneaking a glance at Paul. "And who goes where?" The Sheriff noticed. "If it's all the same t'the rest o'you, I'll go north with you, Miss Jessie, and Paul and Dev Fisher can go south." "Still don't trust Paul 'n' me, do you, Sheriff?" Jessie said sarcastically. "Just being cautious," Whyte told her. "Your man's supposed t'be the best tracker here. I'm pretty good at tracking folks, too, and you know all about _being_ tracked; so why not split the difference?" Jessie had to laugh. "You know; that almost makes sense." She took the Sheriff's arm. "Let's get going." "Be better if we each took one side of the road. Stages have two doors on 'em; you know." He slid his arm free of her and walked to the opposite side of the narrow road. He smiled at her for a moment before he started walking. "C'mon, we've got some foot-trampled grass to find." * * * * * In the end, it was Sheriff Whyte who found the robbery site, on the right side of the road and about sixty paces from where they started. "Got something," he yelled cheerfully. Jessie hurried across the road to look at what he'd found, while Paul and Dev raced towards them. "Stand away," Paul yelled, as he ran. "Don't foul the tracks.' "Why," Dev asked. "What's the matter?" "For one thing, we have to be sure that it's the right spot." Paul stopped a couple feet from where the Sheriff was standing. "For another, we need to see what those tracks can tell us." Whyte looked down. "I see three... no, four separate sets of footprints. That last one heads off into the brush." "That'd be Dandy Jim," Dev said. "The others are passengers. They milled around while he took their money, and then they got back on the stage and ran like rabbits." Paul turned to Jessie. "Jess, if you were going to stop a stage right here, where would you station men to cover your play?" "_Paul_," Jessie said indignantly, "you _know_ I don't do stuff like that." He smiled. "Not anymore, you don't, but you have..." His voice trailed off. "Yeah, but that was before I gave up my wicked, wicked ways." She gave him a seductive smile. "Some of 'em anyway." She spoke the last in a low, breathy voice. "Yeah, too bad, teasing me was one of the habits you kept." He winked when she stuck out her tongue at him. "For now, how about answering my question? Where would you hide your men?" Jessie studied their surroundings, a very serious expression on her face, while she considered Paul's question. "I'd split 'em up," she finally said, "Just like Dandy Jim did. Put half of 'em up on that ridge where them tracks..." She pointed at the one set of footprints that moved away from the road. "...lead to. And I'd put the other half over there." She pointed again, this time to a high spot on the opposite side of the trail. "Let's follow those tracks," Sheriff Whyte said, starting up the hill, "but watch where you walk. Like Paul says, we don't want nobody messing up the trail Dandy Jim left for us." The others followed behind him. They moved slowly. "Yes, we want to take a good look at the man's tracks, as we walk," Paul explained. "He may've left some clue or something." "What?" Dev's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You figure he left his calling card for us t'find?" "Probably not, but _sometimes_ a man's footprints'll tell you a lot more than which way he