Hackman fidgeted as if he had ants crawling all over his skin, muttering under his breath the whole while. At last he marched up to Buck Dawson, who had taken a seat on the shaded side of the stage.
“Is this the type of service a customer can expect? The Overland is supposed to be one of the best stage lines in the whole country. Do you expect us to endure inconveniences without complaint? I, for one, intend to write the president of the company and give him a piece of my mind.”
Dawson regarded Hackman as he might a bug he wanted to squash. “You do that, mister. Just don’t give him too big a piece, ’cause from what I can tell, you ain’t got much to spare.”
“Now see here!” Hackman balled his fist and took a step.
Dawson rested a hand on the Remington on his hip. “I wouldn’t, were I you, pilgrim. When I was hired, the company made it plain they wouldn’t take it kindly if I killed a payin’ customer. It wouldn’t be good for business, they said. But they also told me that if a passenger was ever being a nuisance, I could take whatever steps were needed to make him behave.” Dawson paused. “How much fussin’ and fumin’ can you do without kneecaps?”
Hackman stalked off, muttering again.
Fargo dismounted and tied the Ovaro to the rear boot. He was going to sit by Buck but the musky scent of perfume gave him pause.
“Feel like stretching your legs, handsome?” Melissa had a closed pink parasol resting across her shoulder. “I know I do. We probably won’t get another chance like this until we reach Tucson.” She offered her elbow.
Fargo took her arm. They strolled toward a cluster of manzanitas, the sun hot on their faces. Melissa opened her parasol and held it between them so they would both benefit. The sensual sway of her hips took Fargo’s mind off the heat, to say nothing of her luscious lips, as inviting as ripe strawberries. Fargo felt a stirring in his groin and wished there were somewhere they could go to be alone. “What do you do for a living?” he asked to make small talk.
“You haven’t guessed? I tread the boards.” Melissa grinned when he gave her a quizzical look. “I’m an actress, Skye. I learned the craft from my mother, bless her soul. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She was billed as Lovely Lilly, and she played most of the bigger theaters back East until consumption brought her low.”
“Can’t say as I have.”
Melissa shrugged. “No matter. She was a fine, spirited woman, who taught me the two most valuable lessons of my whole life.”
Fargo waited for her to say what they were and when she didn’t, he prompted, “What might they be?”
“Never take guff off anyone. And anything a man can do, a woman can, too.” The redhead thoughtfully twirled her parasol. “That might not sound like much to you, but you’re a man. You don’t know how hard it is for a woman to make ends meet, to compete with men on their own terms. There aren’t as many opportunities for us.”
The lament was a common one west of the Mississippi. Fargo had heard it before. But men could hardly be blamed for a state of affairs over which they had little control.
Much of the West was still unsettled; whole regions had not even been explored. Violence was part and parcel of everyday life. Simply staying alive was a daily struggle. So it was no mystery why men outnumbered women ten to one. Good jobs were few, jobs women were willing to take even fewer. Not many of the fairer sex cared to spend twelve hours a day deep in a mine, or busting their backs working a claim, or shooting and skinning buffalo for weeks on end.
Eventually, it would all change. As more and more towns and cities sprang up, as the untamed wilderness gave way to cultivated fields and the plow, more and more women would stream westward to take advantage of the new opportunities.
Melissa reversed the spin of her parasol. “I’m on my way to California to open at the Variety Theater in San Francisco. The owner wrote me to say men there will fall over one another to see a talented performer. He assured me he can sell tickets for as much as sixty-five dollars apiece. And the Variety has over seven hundred seats. Just think! Fifty percent of each evening’s take will be mine.”
“You’ll be rich in no time,” Fargo quipped. Talent, though, had little to do with it. In a land where women were as scarce as hen’s teeth, men starved for female companionship would pay anything just for the privilege of being near one for a while.
“I recite Shakespeare, read poetry, and sing,” Melissa elaborated. “I really can’t hold a note very well but no one seems to mind.”
Fargo had once attended a performance in the foothills west of Denver where a plump matron had warbled off-key for over an hour while prancing around a small stage dressed in her nightclothes. To call it awful would be charitable. Yet the grizzled prospectors, rowdy drunks, and hardscrabble vagrants who attended had cheered and clapped loud enough to be heard in Mexico.
Melissa leaned toward him, their shoulders and arms brushing. “I’ve heard that you don’t intend to go all the way to Tucson with us. Maybe you should reconsider. It might be worth your while.” At that, she impishly winked.
Fargo bent to ask her what she had in mind, intending to run his mouth across her ear. But someone came up behind them.
“Mind if I join you?” Gwen Pearson asked. “I can’t stand to sit around listening to Mr. Hackman gripe. I swear, that man can’t go five minutes without complaining. Before this trip is done, he might drive me to drink!”
“Feel free to come along,” Melissa said sweetly, but Fargo detected a trace of resentment. Apparently Melissa wanted him all to herself.
The farm girl wasn’t the only one who hankered to join them. “Wait for me!” Burt Raidler declared, thumbs hooked in his gunbelt as always. “I’d rather spend my time in the company of you fair ladies than with old Buck. He scratches and picks at himself so much, I’m afeared he’s got fleas.”
Melissa sighed. “Bring everyone, why don’t you?”
The four of them sat in what little shade the manzanita afforded. As the sun climbed, so did the temperature. The next few days promised to be scorchers, yet another reason Fargo was eager to head north. Arizona in the summer was an oven.
The women prattled about the latest fashions. Raidler leaned against the tree, pulled his hat brim low, and was soon asleep. That left Fargo to keep an eye out for hostiles. Thankfully, none appeared.
At one point Fargo spotted tendrils of dust to the west, in the vicinity of the Pass. It was unlikely to be Apaches. They seldom made their presence known until it was too late. He guessed it might be someone who had left Tucson that morning, heading east. But after a couple of hours went by and no one came along, he figured he was mistaken.
A third hour passed uneventfully, then a fourth.
Fargo had calculated it would take Frank Larn no more than two hours to reach the way station, another two and a half to return. So he didn’t begin to worry until the sun was well on its westward descent. Leaving the ladies to their discussion of the merits of white lace, he walked to the road and gazed eastward. A shadow floated up beside his.
“Frank should’ve been back by now,” Buck Dawson said.
“We’ll give him another hour. Then I’ll go see what happened.”
“And leave us alone?” Dawson clucked like a mother hen worried about her brood. “I’d rather you didn’t. It’ll be dark by then.”
“Apaches rarely attack at night.”
“True, but they’re not above sneakin’ into a camp and makin’ off with whatever they can steal. Horses, guns”—the driver nodded at the redhead and the blonde—“womenfolk. With you gone, that’d leave only Raidler and me to protect ’em. Hardly enough.”