Chapter Eighteen
He knew he shouldn’t stay. But there was no urge to ride on.
Jack rode into town clad from head to toe in buckskin, a rawhide, flat-brimmed hat on his head.
He was aware of the looks he was getting.
He sat straight and tall and did not miss a single thing.
As usual, Tucson had more than its share of drifters—miners, vacqueros, Indians, half-breeds, bandits—as well as the gamblers and settlers that passed through, and the occasional soldiers from Fort Buchanan.
He kept his eye out for the latter. Interfering with the troops the other day had not been the smartest thing he could have done—but he hadn’t been able to resist.
He wondered if she might come into town.
Instantly, he was angry with himself for thinking about her, and he headed into one of the saloons, a single-room adobe shack with straw and dirt littering the floor, the tables rickety, the chairs broken down.
The owner was white and sported two heavy revolvers.
He stared briefly, then turned away—in his establishment he saw everything.
A thin, dark-skinned, half-breed girl served.
The patrons were all armed and varied from swarthy types who had obviously drifted north from the border and were up to no good—to sunburned, teenage soldiers and a couple of cowboys from an outlying spread.
Jack took a chair, set it with its back to the wall, and settled down. The thin girl came over.
She looked all of fifteen. She did not register a single emotion when she looked at his Apache leggings. He ordered a whiskey, watched her walk away stiffly—as if she were in pain. One of the cowboys near his chair at a table said the word “Apache,” and Jack’s ears instantly became attuned.
“You think so?”
“Don’t know. Warden said it was Cochise.”
“Ah, shit,” said the first, a boy of about twenty. “If Cochise stole Warden’s boy there’s gonna be trouble. But why would he steal the boy?”
“Don’t know. It was a raid. They also made off with some oxen.
The boy ain’t even his—belongs to that Mexican woman he’s living with.
But Warden says it was Cochise, says he trailed him all the way to the San Pedro River.
Last I heard he was up at the fort, begging for troops.
But there’s none available—least that’s what the major told him. ”
“Damn,” said the first. Then: “Well, guess there’s no point in worryin’ now.” He stood. “Got to get the supplies or the boss man will lay into me. You gonna be at the Bastas’ barbecue tomorrow?”
The second man grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it. The whole of Tucson will be there. Maybe I’ll even get me a dance with Candice Carter.”
The other man’s face darkened.
“Hey, take it easy, McGraw, I was only kidding! After all—she run off with that Kincaid and now she’s in mourning. I don’t think she’ll be dancing, even with you.” He laughed.
McGraw swore and left abruptly, knocking over his chair.
Jack looked after him. Who was that? The whole of Tucson will be there.
She’ll be there.
He drank and fought with himself. He pictured her vividly, and it both aroused and angered him. He imagined her at the barbecue, in the arms of the dark-haired boy named McGraw. Laughing, dancing the white man’s dance. Shozkay’s words suddenly echoed. Then change her mind.
Change her mind.
It would be a foolish thing to do. It was one thing to sit in a saloon in Tucson, another to go to a barbecue at a ranch. But he wanted to see her again.
He had to.
Abruptly Jack got up, tossed a few coins to the girl, and strode out.
He paused in the bright morning light, stared across the street at the general store.
He crossed the dusty thoroughfare slowly, not thinking now, because he didn’t want to talk himself out of it.
Two matrons with a young woman hastily veered away from him. He opened the door, a bell tinkling.
A heavy Spanish woman was fingering bolts of cloth. She was the only customer. A lean white man was behind a counter, scribbling in a book. Jack closed the door behind him, and the man looked up.
He looked Jack up and down and closed his ledger. Jack strolled over.
“Yes?” the clerk said.
“I need clothes,” Jack said slowly. “I want pants, a shirt. And a new hat, maybe with a scarf. A red scarf.”
The clerk folded his arms. “You got money?”
Jack reached into his shirt and removed a money pouch. “Yes.”
The clerk smiled, reaching out. “Well, let’s see what we can do.”