Desperado’S Woman: A Western Romance

By John Marriott

Shortly after the end of war with Mexico, Kathleen Adams disgraces her family when she travels west to the New Mexico territory to teach school. In the midst of her travels, the notorious desperado Black Bart holds up her stage and unexpectedly steals something very personal from hera kiss. With that kiss, their bond is forever sealed.

As they become inseparable and their lives inextricably intertwined, they realize they are meant to be together. They attend a Mexican fiesta in the nearby settlement of San Pedro and visit an infamous gambling hole called El Diablo. Meanwhile, she has aroused the suspicion of Hiram Brown, the town banker, who was also on the stage when it was intercepted by Black Bart. Kathleen has also befriended Brigitte, the Swedish lady who runs the boarding house where she gets her meals and in whom she feels she can confide.

Suspecting that the banker has a plan in place to take Bart down, Kathleen tries to warn the desperado before it happens. Now that she has left behind a quiet existence for the excitement of the Wild West and found the love of her life, will she get to him in timeor lose him forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781426969331

John Marriott

John Marriott, Ph.D. is the Program and Research Coordinator of the Biola University Center for Christian Thought and is a leading expert in the study of deconversion, the process of deidentifying as a Christian. He oversees the Biola University Center for Christian Thought's Sustainable Faith Project, which in collaboration with scholars from some of the most prestigious universities around the world, seeks ways to cultivate lifelong faith.

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© Copyright 2012 John Marriott.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4269-6934-8 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4269-6933-1 (e)

Trafford rev. 03/21/2012

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Persons endeavouring to find social relevance in this novel will be spreadeagled on the desert and trampled to death by wild horses.

—Black Bart

For Anna

CHAPTER ONE

Throwing up a great cloud of dust, the stage coach from the East, its four horses snuffling, snorting and steaming with sweat, rumbled and creaked across the lonely, desolate sun-baked plain to the way-station at a cross roads—if rutted tracks can be called roads. There it would take on new horses for the next stage of the journey along the Santa Fe Trail and give continuing passengers time to get a meal. A station employee rushed to open the coach door as the coach drew up. The last passenger to disembark was a very pretty young red-headed woman barely more than nineteen or twenty years old. Before descending, she stood diffidently and apprehensively in the open door of the coach looking about her at the desolation of the place. The station agent rushed over to give her a hand down.

Thank you, she said.

Yer from the East by yer accent, said the station agent as she stepped to the boardwalk in front of the roadhouse.

Yes—from Boston.

Boston, eh? Very prim an’ proper, I hear. Whut brings a proper Bostonian gal like you out t’ this God-forsaken country?

Necessity, I guess you might say, she answered, striving to control her embarrassment.

—But, she said to herself, I’m no proper Bostonian!

Left on yer own, were yuh? said the agent.

In a sort of a way—yes.

Sorry t’ hear that, Miss. Yer a pretty spunky gal t’ come way out here. Hope ever’thing goes okay fer yuh

Thank you—and I’m sure I’ll survive, she said, though she really felt uncertain about her prospects.

Well, y’ c’n git a meal in the little cafe there before th’ coach is ready fer the next stage. Food’s plain and simple, but nourishin’

Thank you.

As she waited for her meal, she thought about her circumstances. The next stage of her journey would be her last, taking her into the New Mexico Territory, annexed only two years earlier by the United States after the 1846-1847 war with Mexico. She would disembark at the town of Cassidyville near the headwaters of the Rio Pecos where she would begin a completely new and different life—new and different, not just because she would be embarking on a new career as a teacher, but because, however uncertain her future, however hard, or however dangerous her life would be in the West, she was utterly resolved never to return to her former life in Boston. She would survive somehow by hook or by crook.

Her meal finished, she left the cafe and, to pass the time until the stage was ready, took a few paces along the boardwalk and stopped to read the mostly faded and tattered notices tacked on the bulletin board. A more recent one caught her eye. It offered a reward of one thousand dollars for the identification, or information leading to the apprehension, dead or alive, of a hold-up man known as Black Bart.

Ah! said a male voice behind her. "You must be Miss Kathleen Adams.

She turned to see a man in a black suite, string tie, Western boots and Stetson hat, whose narrowed grey eyes seemed to bore into her.

Oh—Y—yes, I am. H—how do you know my name?

Oh, didn’t take much t’ figured it out. Obviously you’re not from these parts, and I figured you must be our new school teacher in Cassidyville. I was on the committee that hired you. Allow me, he said, touching the brim of his Stetson, to introduce myself. I’m Hiram Brown, bank manager in Cassidyville.

Oh, said Kathleen. I—I see. She felt unsettled by the lecherous gleam in his eyes, but she said, Th—thank you very much. I’m—I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Brown.

It’s for us to thank you for coming, but we never expected anyone as pretty as you, if I may say so. But I see you’re reading about our notorious desperado.

Just to pass the time. Why is he called Black Bart?

Dresses all in black from head to toe, hides his face behind a mask.

Oh my! Fascinating!

Fascinating! said the bank manager somewhat shocked. You call a man who robs banks and stage coaches fascinating!

Oh—uh—well, one always wonders who’s behind a mask. But I guess that’s why they offer a reward to anyone who can identify him.

Yup. Nobody knows who he is or where he comes from. He just suddenly shows up along the road somewhere and holds up the stage, or rides into a town and robs the bank.

A thousand dollars is very large reward.

Yeah well he’s a pretty bad hombre.

Oh. Has he—has he—killed many people? she asked, with a slight shudder.

Not that I’ve ever heard, though they say he’s a damn good shot, and the fastest bloody draw of anyone in the territory. Shot the guns out of a few people’s hands when they tried t’ draw on him. Didn’t do their hands any good.

I—I suppose not, said Kathleen again with a shudder. I wonder, she asked, why he became an outlaw.

Don’t know, an’ I don’t care, said the banker coldly. All I care is that he’s caught and strung up—or gunned down. It don’t make no never minds which. Either way, it’ll teach him not to go robbing respectable folks.

—I’m not sure you teach someone a lesson by killing him, thought Kathleen. But why am I so fascinated by this Black Bart person him? Strangely. he attracts me. Might it be because I, too, am a sort of an outlaw, disowned by and out of sympathy with my society which has banished me to this god-forsaken country? I feel almost as though we have something in common and that I’d like to meet him—but I suppose that’s not a very good idea.

Aloud she asked, Has he ever been seen around Cassidyville?

Not yet, though he’s unpredictable an’ could show up there any time. That’s why he’s been so hard to catch. Shows up one place, then somewhere else miles away. Doesn’t seem to stay in one area very long. But if he tries to rob this stage, said Brown, patting the bulge in his jacket and nodding in the direction of the waiting coach, to which the fresh team of horses was now hitched, I’ll be ready for him.

Oh! gasped Kathleen as Brown drew a pistol from his inside jacket

He won’t get anything he don’t deserve, said Brown, coldly. If he does show up there’ll be shooting, so be sure t’ get down on the floor of the stage so you won’t get hurt. But with a couple of out-riders along, I don’t think he’ll try anything this trip if he’s in the vicinity.

Outriders? Kathleen repeated the word, new to her.

Riflemen riding horseback alongside the stage for protection—riding shotgun, as we say out here. That’s them coming up now, he said, pointing to a couple of approaching riders.

Oh, yes. Well, I hope Black Bart doesn’t show up and there won’t be any shooting.

Like I say, with the outriders along, he probably won’t, but I almost wish he would so we can get rid of him once and for all.

—What bloodthirstiness! thought Kathleen. I hope almost as much for his safety as for mine that he won’t show up on the way to Cassidyville.

Just then, the teamster called out that the coach was ready to board. The driver, followed by the shotgun-toting guard, mounted the box and the outriders drew up along side.

At the step up into the body of the coach, Brown, extended his hand to Kathleen to assist her aboard.

Miss Adams?

No thank you. Mr. Brown, she demurred. I can manage on my own.

—I do not like this bank manager! she said to herself. If anyone gets shot, I’d rather it was he than Black Bart! Oh, that’s unkind—but—

As Kathleen climbed in, Brown following her, two other men, like Brown in dark suits, Western boots and string ties, rushed to the coach and hopped aboard just as from outside came the driver’s cry of Heigh-a! and with a sudden jolt, the horses straining, the stage began slowly to lumber away.

Brown introduced the new arrivals to Kathleen as Wilson and Fowler, who, like every other man she had met so far on her journey, asked what brought such an attractive young woman to the Wild West.

—Can they think of nothing else? she wondered, and, as the horses began to pick up speed, she averted her eyes from them to peer out at the passing country where dry sage brush drifted freely across the hard, parched ground. Soon the three men became engrossed in conversation and left her alone with her thoughts.

The coach bumped and rumbled along for a gruelling hour before leaving the dry, arid country at the eastern border of the New Mexico Territory and climbing into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and into an ever denser forest of Ponderosa pines with their reddish yellow bark and long, bright green needles.

Despite her vow that she would never again return to Boston and the East, Kathleen felt a deep sense of loneliness and desolation creep into her spirit.

—What have I gotten myself into? she wondered. Suddenly I miss those cobblestone streets and red brick houses, those lawns and parks in Boston. Was I too rash in grabbing at the first teaching offer that came along? How will I adjust to this very different and probably difficult, perhaps even dangerous life here in the West? But however hard it will be I will never return to the smugness and prudery of Boston! No, never!

Soon the coach reached more level ground and after a few more miles had passed, she noticed though the window a sign pointing toward a trail angling off from the main track and reading San Pedro.

What, she asked her traveling companions, is at San Pedro?

Wha—? said Wilson, taken aback by the interruption in his conversation with Brown and Fowler. Oh—old Mexican settlement. Rather far east for them. Most of the Mexicans settled farther west along the Rio Grande. There’s a shrine and an abandoned monastery built by the Spaniards years ago when they ruled this country. At least, so I’m told. I’ve never been there.

It might be interesting to see, said Kathleen, more to herself than to the others.

Mebbe, said Wilson. Don’t take much to Mexicans myself.

Oh? Why is that? Kathleen asked.

Dunno really. Different ways, I reckon.

Sneaky, said Fowler. Can’t trust ’em.

Better class ones are too formal, too polite, said Brown. Make you wonder what they got up their sleeve.

Perhaps it’s simply a kind of Old World courtesy, said Kathleen, taken aback by the men’s prejudiced comments.

Mebbe, said Fowler. But y’ sure can’t trust the lower class ones.

Perhaps they don’t trust us either after the War, said Kathleen critically.

Huh? Wall, like it or not, they gotta adapt. It’s us whites that are gonna to rule this continent. You’ll have some Mexican kids in your school. You’ll find them hard t’ teach.

Maybe they just need patience and understanding, she responded.

I wouldn’t waste my time on them if I was you. White folks won’t like you neglecting theirs to spend time on the Greaser kids.

I’ll always try to be fair, she responded, but where there’s a real need I’ll try to meet it—white child or Mexican. Actually though, Mexicans—the Spanish—are a part of the white race—just a little more swarthy.

Yeah? Well a lot of them have got Injun blood mixed in.

Well, they’re human beings nevertheless, she said, her smouldering anger beginning to break through her calm exterior.

Y’ think so? Wilson said with a critical, almost inquisitorial look. Folks don’t see it that way. Round here we think Mexicans are scum.

Kathleen fell silent. Prejudice and respectability, she realized are not exclusive to the East.

Outside, she now noticed, the county had changed again. There were still a scattering trees, but the country was a little more open. Soon she noticed another sign pointing off to the left, this one to some place called El Diablo.

El Diablo! she exclaimed. The Devil?

Yep, said Brown, nodding his head. Not a place a pretty young school teacher wants to visit. Pretty wild, rowdy, uncivilized place—gambling, drinking, dancing girls who also have other favors to offer—if you get what I mean.

I understand.

—And how do you know what might interest a pretty school teacher? Maybe she craves excitement—though not through those ‘other favors.’

Again, she fell silent as the stage rumbled and jolted along.

Suddenly, as the coach entered a clearing, the crackling of gunfire erupted. Immediately, Brown, sitting beside her, and Wilson and Fowler across from her in the seat facing backward, reached into their jacket pockets and drew out their pistols. At the same moment, Kathleen, out of the corner of her eye, saw an outrider fall limply backward from his horse which veered off the trail, and she gasped, her hand rising to her mouth in shock.

Outlaws! cried Wilson, leaning out the window and firing his pistol at someone or something. Yay! Got one, he shouted proudly. Winged him anyway.

Better get down, Miss, yelled Brown, and, as Kathleen dropped to the floor, he too fired off a shot.

How many of ’em? asked Fowler.

Dunno, said Wilson, also getting off a shot. About seven, eight mebbe.

Seven now, said Brown after firing a second shot.

Outrider got another—Damn! Now they got him.

Guard on top got another, said Brown, again taking aim and firing.

Aah! cried someone from above, and Kathleen peaked up to see a shadow fall past the coach window.

Damn! Got the guard, said Wilson.

Kathleen heard a loud thud at the back of the coach and then the noise of someone scrambling onto the roof.

Damn! One of ’em’s on the roof! cried Brown.

Almost immediately Kathleen cried out in fright when she saw a bandana-covered face at the coach window. He’s trying to get in! she shrieked in terror.

Not no more he ain’t! said Fowler as he fired point blank into the face of the outlaw trying to wrench open the coach door.

Just then the driver gave out a loud cry of Whoa! and the horses whinnied loudly as the coach came to a sudden shuddering stop. Fowler and Wilson, pitched forward and landed on top of Kathleen.

What on earth is happening? she cried out in fear.

Trail blocked off the probably. They got us! said Brown.

Not yet they ain’t! said Wilson, scrambling back into his seat and aiming his pistol out the window. I’ll get—Aah!

A shot from the other side of the coach smashed into Wilson’s head, splattering blood and bone fragments all over the interior. His lifeless body slid to the floor on top of Kathleen.

Oh good Lord! Kathleen screamed as with difficulty she dragged her legs from under Wilson’s body.

Just then a bandit, his lower face hidden by his bandana, yanked open the door. Don’t nobody try nothing stoopid like that again, he said. Now, ever’ body git—

From some unknown source, a shot rang out and, with a loud cry, the bandit fell to the ground below the coach. A second shot, followed by a screamed Aiee! from above brought a pistol tumbling down from the roof of the coach. Another yelp of pain followed a third shot, and then the sound of rapidly retreating horse’s hooves.

Marshals! shouted Fowler triumphantly. The outlaws are riding off ! We’re gonna be okay!

Yeah! cried Brown. ’Bout time some of them federal people showed up around here!

Too late for poor Wilson, said Fowler.

Yeah. Too bad, said Brown. He was a good fella.

Outside, the voice