My stomach twists, and I slump in my seat.
I’d assumed Murphy was his first name, not last, and this new possibility laces my limbs with goose flesh. The Rose Kid rides beneath the equally heartless Luther Rose, and the men who make up the Rose Riders are among the Territory’s most vile and bloodthirsty lowlifes. Thieves, murderers, rapists, devils. There is not a tale I’ve heard of their crimes that does not make me shudder. What happened during the robbery now seems jovial. Things could have gone much, much worse.
I’m still quite shaken when I reach Maricopa, where a stagecoach can take me north to Prescott. The doctor is continuing east to Tucson, and his wife makes sure to chastise me on the dangers of traveling alone and my “sinful, improper ways.”
I assure her I will most certainly be fine, that family is waiting for me in Prescott, and besides, Nellie Bly travels without a chaperone. In fact, she’s currently down in Mexico, reporting for the Pittsburg Dispatch. Leonard’s wife has either never heard of the young female reporter or simply doesn’t care enough to change her opinion of me, for she watches with a scrutinizing gaze as I step onto the depot.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised.
Father told me long ago that I could do anything I set my mind to, but it would behoove me to be prepared for resistance at many turns. My journalism career began by summarizing the proceedings of the P&AC rail—or, rather, the particulars Father was privy to. He’d mark up my words and I’d redraft them, and if he approved of the result, he’d send them on to Uncle Gerald, who would in turn send them along to an acquaintance, John Marion, editor and founder of the Prescott Morning Courier. On the occasions that my pieces were printed, they were always credited to Uncle.
When I confronted him by post, he simply replied that it is not a lady’s place to report on issues lest they pertain to ladies themselves—fashion and gardening and all else oft found in the “women’s pages.” He was doing me a favor by submitting the work to Mr. Marion as his own. No one would even read my stories if they saw my name on the byline.
Well, I beg to disagree. I will write one darn impressive story about the completion of the Prescott and Arizona Central line, and while Uncle Gerald is busy trying to pressure Mother into an unwanted marriage, I will march into Mr. John Marion’s office, smack my piece down on his desk where he can’t ignore the words before him or the person who wrote them, and demand credit.
If I’m lucky, I’ll get a job, too.
I find my way to the stage stop, only to be told I’ve missed the day’s lone coach to Prescott. It’s rotten luck on an already horrid day, but moaning about it will change nothing. This is a lesson Mother has hammered into me, and I exhale hard—just as she taught me—and follow it with a smile. Things always look better when you smile, she says. I can admit that forcing my lips upward brightens my spirits, even if only minimally.
I purchase fare for a coach that will depart the following morning, then go about locating a boarding house for the night, which all but drains my purse.
I exhale again, but it’s harder to produce a smile a second time.
When I collapse on the bed, still wearing my jacket and bloodstained dress, I can’t help but worry about Mother. Has she spoken with Uncle yet? How did he take the news that Father left the Gulch Mine to Mother and me, not him? Lord knows he’ll feel entitled to it. He’s overseen operations this past decade while Father pursued additional business opportunities—mainly buying up lumberyards along the Colorado and selling cheap fuel to steamboat companies that agreed to ship his copper at discounted prices in return. The P&AC will help with those freighting costs also, which was why Father invested so heavily in the project when construction finally began.
I’m struck again by the sudden sting of reality. He’s gone. He spent years slowly leaving us, but I still wasn’t prepared for his absence.
It is such a shame that he passed before the rail’s completion. I will have to write one heck of a story about the celebratory gala. Perhaps there are newspapers in heaven.
Chapter Five
* * *
Reece
We head north at dawn, following the dry riverbed of the Hassayampa.
I’m riding in Jones’s shadow ’cus the bruises I got on my side and jaw sting enough to keep me away from Boss. Not that he ain’t looking my way constantly. He prolly figures I can bring trouble upon us just by breathing wrong after that mess on the train. His constant watching makes me anxious, but I know better than to complain.
Jones senses my mood, though, and does his best to keep me smiling. “What’cha gonna do with yer cut of this purse?” he asks.
Everyone gets a percentage, but not me. Not till I find that cowboy. Boss keeps a tally of what I’ve earned on the inside cover of his Bible, and in the meantime I just get scraps—enough to buy myself a drink or a shave in town, but nothing nobody could live on. It’s just one of the many ways he keeps me tethered.
“I don’t get a cut, remember?” I remind Jones.
“After, then,” he says.
“I barely got time to think ’bout today, much less after. What about you?”
“Gonna buy a nice plot of land someday.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
He shrugs, but it’s somewhat normal talk, and it warms a part of me that often feels hollow and dead.
Since fleeing the Southern Pacific, we been riding hard enough to make good time, but not so hard that we run the horses ragged. Boss leads and DeSoto, like the quiet shadow of a man he is, brings up the rear. The day of the robbery we stayed well west of Phoenix, and we ain’t stopped riding with the Hassayampa since we came upon the river. Today our target is Wickenburg, a mining town on the decline, with no rail and a decent ride from any of the existing tracks, even by coach. A good place to see if there’s a new bounty out on us.
Diaz pulls up ’longside me and Jones. “Boss wants you riding up with him, Murphy.” He leans closer and adds, “Happy birthday, by the way.”
“A day late,” I shoot back.
“Well, we were kinda busy robbing a train.”
“Ain’t that how everybody celebrates turning eighteen?”
Diaz grunts. “There’s usually whiskey involved. And women. You shoulda had some fun on that train, treated yerself to that pretty blond thing.”
Jones chuckles, but I frown.
“You don’t like gals that can pull a pistol on you,” Diaz says. “I get it.”
“That she drew on me says an awful lot about how far she wanted me from her.”
I don’t add that there ain’t time for that sorta disgrace during a train job, which Diaz knows as well as any. Still, his lip curls.
“Do us all a favor and buy yerself a poke when we get to town. All that righteous talk is making me sick.” He heels his horse and trots ahead.
I spit a few times, though there ain’t nothing in my mouth.