Part 2: Wanted
The drama from the night before stirs up Lucia's memories, and her suspicions.
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The horrors of Lucia’s nightmare denied her sleep. Her only solace was the golden dawn greeting her on the other side of the night. The gradual rising of the sun soothed her senses, giving her a brief refuge. But her thoughts drifted back to the night of foreign threats, an unplanned separation, and a haunting, distant cry.
She jolted awake, facing the wooden ceiling. As she sat up she recalled the miner’s aggressive attitude, punctured by a contorted face. Catching a glimpse of the satchel of pennies, Lucia slowly prepared for her trip to the bank.
Wearing a simple, white blouse and a muted ochre yellow skirt, she draped her shoulders with a multicolored rebozo, and followed the stairs out to the streets of Tombstone.
It was nine in the morning by the time she stepped out of The Bird Cage, and the dry heat already threatened to bake her alive. Lucia covered her head with the rebozo, giving a pop of color that complimented her ensemble. On her way to the bank, she passed three women, who sported muted skirts and bonnets made from cotton. Lucia gave a polite smile, and in return they offered judgemental glances and continued their conversation in hushed tones.
At the bank, Lucia made the line for the next available teller. Standing nearby were twin sisters prattling on with their share of gossip.
“Did you hear that Mr. Jenkins lost another cowboy?” One sister initiated.
“No! Did this one die as well?”
“Oh, no. He abandoned his duty on account of the pay.”
“Really? I hear that the Jenkins’ pay their help fairly.” The twin mused.
“Indeed. If you ask me, he was a coward. As a cowboy, you ought to be fully aware of the dangers out in the desert.”
“I’d say so. Although, I would be nervous too after the news of Wrangler John.”
Lucia’s nightmare haunted her mind. The suffocating smell of Manuel’s dried, spilled blood took her out of her surroundings. Then a voice called for the next customer, mercifully breaking the spell.
On the other side of the booth was Mrs. Helen Wilson, the wife of the bank manager, Mr. Thomas Wilson. Her disdain spilled over her spectacles - a delicate silver pair that greatly contrasted her demeanor. Nevertheless, Lucia offered a good natured smile and drew out the satchel from her pocket, placing it between them.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wilson. I would like to exchange these pennies for dollars, please.”
Mrs. Wilson casted a glance at the offering.
“I would be happy to establish an account for you, Miss…?”
“As a matter of fact, I already have an account with the bank. My name is Lucia Suarez.”
The teller retrieved the ledger from below, giving her client a double glance.
“And how do you…spell your surname?”
Lucia slowly recited each letter, and in response Mrs. Wilson gently flipped through the pages and lingered over every S surname.
“Ah, there you are, Ms. Suarez. It seems that you have a modest amount saved with us. Life at the saloon suits you well.” She commented with sharp saccharine.
Lucia raised her chin. Mrs. Wilson’s wiry grays suited her well, but she thought best to reserve her comment.
“Just one moment.” The teller said.
She set aside the book and carried the satchel to the back, leaving Lucia to stand alone. After three long minutes, she returned with an empty satchel and an envelope. She counted the currency out of its envelope, casting the satchel off to the side.
“You don’t mind receiving your seven in single dollars, do you?” She asked with a smile that undercut her niceties.
“Not at all.” Lucia wondered what secrets Americans hid behind their exaggerated smiles.
“Will that be all, Miss Suarez?” Her quick glance over Lucia meant to usher her out of the line.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course.” She replied tightly.
On her way back to The Bird Cage, Lucia found Sheriff John Wilson deep in conversation with Mr. Jenkins. The sheriff stood on the steps of his office, looking down at Mr. Jenkins at ground level. Though the farmer was in his early 50s, Jenkins stood tall and firm demanding to be heard.
“I’m telling you, there’s something unnatural out in the desert.” Jenkins gestured towards the desert.
Sheriff Wilson tipped his hat upwards to meet his gaze. His face was sharp and clean shaven. Yet like most men of the desert, the sun aged his skin faster than his spirit. In his later forties, Sheriff Wilson could still pursue bandits and stifle the dangerous plans of thieves and criminals. Some even marveled at just how well he moved, comparing his strength to a young man of twenty one. The sheriff brushed his long coat aside and placed his hands in his pockets.
“Now, see here, I can’t be scaring our townsfolk for no reason-”
“They already scared.” Jenkins pressed.
“Wrangler John was one of our best cowboys, and all of a sudden he gets killed by some desert cougar? You know that don’t make no goddamn sense.” He spat on the ground.
The sheriff sighed, leaning back on a nearby post.
“John was a good man, and Lord knows that those are big boots to fill.”
The sheriff planted his feet.
“But you need to keep your head on straight. We need each other to keep Tombstone safe from all kinds of outside threats.”
Lucia glanced at the sheriff’s bulletin board, reviewing the wanted flyers of all kinds of dangers passing Tombstone, until she was confronted with a familiar face.
The five o’ clock shadow was slightly more exaggerated than what she remembered, yet every other detail was accurately captured by the artist. But it was his expression that captivated her attention. Behind a stoic demeanor was a flint of suspicion, and she wondered exactly what he was thinking.
Sheriff Wilson walked over to Lucia, keeping himself above the ground.
“Do you recognize the cowboy, Miss?” He asked, making a survey of the visitor. Now it was Jenkins’ turn to observe the interaction.
“I do. This cowboy rescued me from a hostile miner.”
Sheriff Wilson spat his tobacco away from them both, thinning his lips.
“That ‘hostile miner’ was my nephew. Surely, you recall that he was murdered in cold blood by your rescuer.”
His twisting face crossed her thoughts.
“I am sorry, sheriff, but if this cowboy did not intervene your nephew would have acted on his beastly instincts.”
The sheriff seemed to go stone cold at her accusation. With a steady exhale, his squinted eyes scrutinized Lucia.
“I’m sure you can handle yourself perfectly fine without a helper. But, I will admit that Rupert was estranged from the family. He must have adopted unsavory behaviors from those miners.” He lobbed a tisk, perhaps meant for his late nephew.
“Nevertheless, the law must be upheld. This cowboy committed murder under my jurisdiction.”
The sheriff leaned closer to Lucia, challenging her gaze.
“I strongly advise you, Miss, to notify me if you cross paths with him again.”
Lucia kept still, recognizing an uncanny resemblance in his stare to what his nephew gave her moments before his brawl with Chase.
She nodded, which was enough to finally place distance between herself and Sheriff Wilson. He tipped his hat to her first, then to Jenkins, before retrieving into his office.
“Now, I’m not one to approve of murder. But if you ask me, the Wilsons do what it takes to take something out of their control.”
Lucia turned to Jenkins and cocked her head. He grinned.
“Them Wilsons will do all that it takes to control everything under their eye. But why he won’t pay attention to what’s out in the desert, is a confounded mystery...I know your cowboy, Chase.”
Lucia blinked, surprised by the change of subject.
“He’s not my cowboy,”
Jenkins ignored her correction.
“He’s helped me out on the farm a few times. He keeps to himself, does what he’s asked of and more. Sometimes, he’d camp out west of my grounds just to watch the cattle. The Mrs. tried to get him to come in for a proper rest, but he preferred being outside…”
Jenkins gave her a hinted glance before tipping his hat, leaving Lucia with Chase’s sketched glance.
Lucia’s client failed to keep her attention, as her mind was preoccupied with other things: Chase’s wanted flyers. Sheriff Wilson’s stoney stare. Jenkin’s suggestion of where to find the cowboy.
“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Her companion teased.
He put his arm around her, uncovering a rancid odor under his sleeves. Lucia quickly turned her repulsion into a biting headache, shifting away from his touch.
“I’m sorry, querido. I’ve had a headache all afternoon, and I’m afraid it’s not going away.” She threw in a wistful pout to sell her ailment.
“In that case, I know exactly how to make you feel better.” The client suggested, inching closer to her with a lick of his lips. Bill placed an unopened bottle of whiskey to break them apart.
“Sorry, partner, your time is up. How about another round on the house?”
A fresh whiskey took his attention away from Lucia, allowing Clara to swoop in and rile him up before leading him to her private booth. Clara failed to hide her disgust at her patron’s hygiene, but his ego kept him from noticing.
“After he gets his way with Clara, he ain’t gonna have his wits to ride home.” Bill commented, shaking his head.
Lucia fixed her posture.
“If you point me the way, I can take his horse back to his ranch.”
Bill’s eyebrows furrowed, searching for the truth in her eyes.
“Ain’t your headache gonna get in the way?”
“You know how crowded the Bird Cage can get. Fresh air will do me some good.”
Her request hinted at nothing more than the desire for a brief refuge.
“All right, then,” He accepted. “His horse is called Clay. It’s the only one with a reddish color. I hear it’s a newer steed, so you shouldn’t have a problem with him. The ranch is the Bar W, just north of the town border. Oh, and try to avoid being seen by the missus. This ain’t the first time he’s been entangled with a saloon girl, so she will shoot first before asking questions.”
Lucia pushed aside a prickle of guilt for the worry she might cause Bill, who had otherwise been just as protective to her as any of the other saloon girls. Nevertheless, she climbed up to her room to collect her rezobo. As she fixed the rebozo over her head, she lingered over the desk drawer until finally taking the silver bullet. She found a lantern on her way out of the saloon and used its light to survey the posted horses.
Clay was found at the very end of the Bird Cage. She calmly approached him, and rested her hand on his face. When she called his name, he did not flinch for huff. With this promising sign, she mounted on the saddle and guided him north. Barely anyone was lingering outside, and everything in else inTombstone, aside from the Bird Cage, seemed to slow.
Lucia recalled the last horse she rode: Canela, a horse gifted to her by Manuel shortly after their wedding. When they were exiled from their home, they took only what they could carry before Americans pushed them out of their land. The desert was vast, cold, and hostile that night.
She stared into the empty desert beyond Tombstone, recalling the foreign threats, Manuel commanding her to escape, and the horrible cries of a man and a beast.
They already scared…there’s something unnatural out in the desert…
She took a deep breath. After all, it was a matter of time before she would have to return to the desert. With a few tugs in a new direction, Clay took Lucia westward.
I’d like to thank E.B. Howard for the fantastic profile sketch of Chase for his wanted sign! It is a great addition for the chapter. :)
You can really feel the small town vibe. Everyone knows everyone and it's so judgemental! I'm intrigued as to where we're going.