The Wildest Heart

“No, I don’t think so. Was there someone I should have noticed?”

There must be another entrance of some kind, then, or Mark had not been paying attention.

Indeed, he appeared to be so lost in his own thoughts, he seemed hardly to be paying attention to me at the moment.

“We’ll have to hurry, Rowena. Uncle Todd will be out of his meeting with the Cattlemen’s Association soon, and it would be better if he didn’t see us together before we decide what we must do.”

“Decide what? Mark, I’ve had quite enough mystery for one day! Where are you taking me?” He was walking so fast that I was breathless trying to keep up with his long strides and almost tripped over an uneven plank. “Mark, for goodness sake! Must we hurry along so?”

He slowed down then, and squeezed my arm apologetically.

“I’m sorry! I had so much to think of that I hadn’t realized I was practically dragging you along.”

“I’ll forgive you this time if you tell me at once, where we are going!”

“To the marshal’s office.” His voice had suddenly become flat, almost harsh. “There is something you must know, Rowena, and it would sound more valid coming direct from the marshal himself. And once you have heard what he has to say, I think you will find it easier to make up your mind about a certain matter.”

The strange, panicky feeling I had had all morning came back like a blow, making me stumble again. I found that I could not speak, that my face burned, and my hands were icy.

Silently, I let Mark hurry me along, and since his few terse words, he seemed as little inclined for further conversation as I was by now.

The federal marshal’s office, with the large painted sign by the door, was a few doors down the same side of the street as the Silver Dollar Saloon, and we could see the imposing brick and adobe Territorial Hotel across the street quite clearly. I remember glancing up at the windows that faced the street and wondering if Flo was watching us. It was all to take on a strange significance later, but at that moment my thoughts were all racing confusion.

Mark was ushering me inside with an impatience quite foreign to his usual easygoing manner. A grizzled, fiercely moustached man of middle height rose hastily from the wooden chair behind his cluttered desk, and I had a vague impression of faded wanted posters tacked to the walls in such numbers that the walls seemed papered with them. There was a padlocked gun rack fastened to the wall behind the marshal’s desk and two more uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs.

“Marshal Hayes, this is Lady Rowena Dangerfield, Guy Dangerfield’s daughter. She had hired the services of Mr. Bragg in Boston some months ago on the advice of her father’s lawyer, Judge Fleming. She’s been quite worried about his nonappearance, of course, and it was her concern that led me to take the steps I’ve told you about.”

“Please, what is this all about?” I glanced from one to the other and the marshal cleared his throat awkwardly, carefully placing the cigar he’d been smoking on the edge of his desk. The sight of it reminded me so vividly of poor Mr. Bragg that I must have blanched, for I felt Mark take my arm again and hold it firmly.

“Rowena! Are you sure you are all right? This heat…”

I brushed aside his concern. “You’ve had some news of Mr. Bragg? Marshal, whatever it is, I must know!”

“Well—” absent-mindedly he touched the large, circled star of his sagging vest, and I saw him glance at Mark, then back at me.

“Is he—is he alive?” I cried. “Tell me!”

“He’s alive, all right, but I’m tellin’ you ma’am, it’s a miracle he is!” Gruffly the marshal chose to be blunt to cover his awkwardness at my presence. “Can’t be moved of course, an’ it’s still touch an’ go from what I heard. He’s in a convent hospital in Mexico where nursin’ nuns are taking care of him. He was able to mutter a few words when they found him, but they say he’s still unconscious and can’t be disturbed again right now.”

I remember Mark taking my hatboxes from me and placing them on the dirty floor and that he made me sit in one of the rickety chairs, and fetched me a cup of steaming hot, bitter coffee.

I insisted on hearing the whole story, or as much as the marshal knew, and bit by bit, it all came out. Every bit of it was damning to one man.

>

Mr. Bragg’s mysterious errand had been in Mexico. I glanced at Mark, and he gave me a significant nod. Apparently he had tracked Lucas Cord to a small town in the province of Sonora; either that, or they had met there by chance. But the fact remained the Lucas Cord had got into some trouble there, and was in jail.

The marshal cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically. “Something to do with a woman and the illegal trading of guns. But Mr. Bragg arranged to speak with him, and they say he seemed angry and disturbed when he left the jail. Left town the same night and headed out across the desert towards the border, the Mex Rurales said. But then that same night, Cord busted loose from the jail.” I forced myself to listen silently as the marshal told the rest of the story. Mr. Bragg had been found two days later by some peasants. He had apparently been shot from ambush and left for dead. Delirious, half out of his head with pain and thirst, he had somehow managed to crawl to the shade of a rock, and had survived.

“Those old-timers! Tough—full of guts!” The marshal said admiringly.

“But you said he managed to identify his attacker?” What had I hoped for? A denial? Confirmation of all my suspicions? I received what Mr. Bragg himself would have called “the plain, unvarnished facts.”

The nuns at the convent he had been carried to understood some English. In his delirium he kept muttering a name. “Luke Cord… must find Cord…” and then, “must stop…” and my name. “Have to tell Rowena—have to warn her.”

The marshal looked at me apologetically. “The nuns know some English, but not much, you understand, ma’am? By the time the Capitan of the Rurales arrived there, having received the telegraph messages we sent, Mr. Bragg had relapsed into unconsciousness. Still is, to tell the sad truth. But one of those nuns, she was a real smart woman. Sat by his bed, and wrote as much as she could understand of his mutterings. Just in case it might be important, she said. An’ that’s how we got the whole story.” His face became grim, and his mouth was hard under the full moustache. I could suddenly understand why this grizzled, middle-aged man was a federal marshal. “Ma’am, no need to worry. Already got all the marshals in the territory alerted. Cord’s been sly enough to stay just on the right side of the law since he got out of Alcatraz, but this time we got him dead to rights. We’ll find him.”

“Will it make any difference that the crime was committed in Mexico?” I asked, and got a look of grudging respect from Marshal Hayes.