Bound For The Hills: Arizona Historicals, #7

Bound For The Hills

Book 7

Arizona Historicals

The Taggerts

By

Rain Trueax

––––––––

The elusive Will Tremaine

and the 'Last Taggert'  in the

wilds of the Arizona Rim country

Bound for the Hills

Arizona Historicals

Book 7

The Taggerts

––––––––

is an original work of Rain Trueax.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2016   Rain Trueax

ISBN: 978-1-943537-06-8

Ebook

––––––––

Prepared and presented by:

Seven Oaks

Monmouth, Or.

Sign up for new release notifications at  http://raintrueax.blogspot.com

Personal Contact and Rights Agreements write to:  raintrueax@gmail.com

Table of Contents

Bound For The Hills

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

More Books

Chapter One

September 5, 1905—Mazatzals, Central Arizona

Wilhelmina Agatha Tremaine Butler listened with pretend concern, to the driver of the wagon carrying her to the cabin she had rented for three months. Since he repeatedly said the same things, it was difficult to be polite, but she was trying. She knew Amos Contrell meant well even if fear seemed his main stock in trade.

Ya ever lived in wilderness, Miss Butler? he asked sneaking a glance over at her. Since she’d heard that exact question at least five times since they had left Payson, she knew her answer would not satisfy him.

No, but I am very excited to be doing it soon.

Them Mazatzals is rough country. There’s a reason nobody but bears and cougar live there. Ya ever seen a black bear, Miss Butler?

Not other than in a photograph.

He shook his head. Wal, the ones up here, they’ll walk right up to ya if ya let ‘em. Ain’t scared of folks, cuz they ain’t seen many. If ya try to run away, they’ll chase ya. He turned again from his mules to see if she had properly grasped the seriousness of the situation.

I remember what you said, Mr. Contrell, and also that I should always look around before leaving the cabin. Also not to put out garbage to attract them—bury it deep or burn it.

That’s right. Then there’s them renegade ‘paches. Now the ‘tals are a long way from the Rez, but some come sneakin’ around anyways. Some jest won’t stay put. They come by that thar cabin and see ya are by yoreself... He shook his head as though the possibilities were too dire to pursue further.

She suppressed the smile. I do have a rifle. A repeating rifle and know how to use it, she told him for perhaps the tenth time since they had left Payson at least an hour and a half earlier. She saw he had little faith in it being true. He meant well. She understood that but at almost twenty-nine, she was hardly a girl. She may not be wise to the ways of the woods, other than what she’d read, but she understood, perhaps more than he, that the world had risks.

That dress of yores is plump pretty.

Thank you. She guessed the plain cotton of her black dress had nothing to do with what was coming next.

Not much to protect you from brush, rattlers, skunks... He hesitated, obviously searching for more words to indicate why her lightweight fabric was not adequate for wilderness garb. You got anything tougher? Warmer? Ya know cold weather comes sooner in the high country.

I didn’t come up here with a ball gown, she said teasingly but saw he didn’t think it was funny. But I do have a heavy coat, boots, several shirts made for boys, heavy socks, and a pair of jeans. She didn’t mention her cotton skirts. They would do nothing to reassure him.

Jeans? He looked scandalized.

My friend, the one who told me about this area, she wrote of the clothing she had needed. I bought some before I left home and more in Payson. I think I will be warm enough.

Stocking cap?

She grinned. Yes, and a cotton hat for sun protection.

He sighed and then started in again with the warnings of the dangers she would be facing. She listened, then didn’t listen as she thought of her own concerns which had nothing to do with wild beasts or not being properly garbed for wilderness living. Because of other items she had to bring, her clothing items had been minimal, but they were in several weights for varying weather. She was not naïve about mountain living. Even what she had packed hadn’t made it easy shifting from the train to the stage and finally hiring Mr. Contrell to take her to the cabin. Living at the cabin for three months, she did need to be properly outfitted for even the possibility of snow.

Half an hour later, topping a rise, Mr. Contrell halted the wagon. Thar it be, he said sweeping his arm in an arc. Below was a small valley. Part of a beautiful blue lake was visible. It did not appear to be a large one—even if the tall trees blocked most of it. Above the lake set a perfectly proportioned log cabin. She hadn’t expected it to have flowers in front of the porch. Although she had only read descriptions of the setting, it lived up to all the land agent, Chester Gibbons had promised.

Mr. Gibbons also had worried at a woman going off by herself to live in a lonely cabin. He had tried to convince her that Payson had lovely cottages. Why not one of those? If not those, there were places that would give you privacy heading east along the Tonto Rim. At least then, there’d be those passing by if you ran into trouble, he’d said.

She had smiled and insisted she needed a more remote location and finally he had told her of this one. Jared Smith had it built but his wife hated it.

It was poorly built?

Beautifully built, as pretty a cabin as I’ve seen, but it was so far from everyone else. Oh, an occasional miner might come through but otherwise, she felt she’d go insane being so alone. She tried. You can tell that by the shrubs she planted but it just wasn’t home to her.

It had sounded perfect to Willy and she’d smiled and asked for lease papers.

I will draw them up with an option to buy. That will ensure that you don’t have someone buying it out from under you.

Thank you. I didn’t know it was for sale.

It has been for someone with cash. He had handed her the papers. I hope you are notifying your family where you will be, he’d said as she perused them before signing.

My family is all gone on now, Mr. Gibbons.

Then friends.

I told those who I felt would care. I trust you won’t tell anyone where I am should someone come asking.

He’d huffed a little as he’d assured her of course he’d never do that.

If a problem should arise, she’d said at the door, send a missive with Mr. Contrell. He will be coming out with fresh supplies every two weeks.

Mr. Gibbons had nodded approvingly. He’s a good man. I am relieved you arranged for that.

I am not a fool, Mr. Gibbons. There are reasons I need this level of privacy. I am glad you will respect that.

Nodding, he had again looked affronted.

As she had headed toward the freighting office, she had realized she didn’t trust Mr. Gibbons but she’d had no choice. She needed the cabin.

Before she’d left San Francisco, she’d written Holly Jacobs of her plans and of her father’s death. At the freighting office, waiting for Mr. Contrell to finish readying the wagon, she had asked for pen and paper and written a quick note to give Holly further details as to where the cabin was, which she’d hurried to the post office to mail.

She had not worried about her decision, but something told her to let Holly know she was fine and that this was to be a grand adventure. That part of her plan, she knew Holly would approve, as her friend was the reason she had even known about Payson and these mountains. At Yale, Holly had spoken of her desire to do an archaeological dig in the mountains of Central Arizona. The research Holly had done then had excited Willy about the country and had made her a bit envious. But she’d had her own path to follow, and the two had lost touch.

As Mr. Contrell drove the wagon down the narrow lane, she found her mind wandering from where she was to wondering where Holly was. She hoped her letters would reach her, and they could reconnect as friends. In neither of the notes had she attempted to explain all of why she had come so far and why she had needed this respite. Perhaps if they met someday, she would explain the rest. Half of what she was feeling she couldn’t even explain to herself.

Pushing the concerns from her, she smiled as Mr. Contrell stopped in front of the cabin. She jumped to the ground, heading immediately for the porch. The key worked perfectly in the padlock, and she entered the cabin into a large room, with a stone fireplace at one end. There were more furnishings than she had expected with a leather sofa, two small chairs, and a braid rug in front of the fireplace. On the mantle were two brass candlesticks and candles. A long table and simple wooden chairs stood not far from the door she assumed led to the kitchen. The other door had to be to what had been promised to be a downstairs bedroom. Open stairs led to the loft over the great room and the second bedroom.

She sniffed the air. Although a little stale from having been closed up, she smelled no mouse dung, which meant the cabin must be tight enough to keep them out. She walked into the kitchen. The wood cook stove appeared large enough to prepare meals for a crew. She opened the oven and approved its size and cleanliness. Long counters were on both sides of it and a brass box for kindling alongside. There were two large cupboards, and a pierced metal pie cabinet. Someone had wanted to make this a fulltime home. It felt a little sad that it had been abandoned.

She turned to Mr. Contrell. What was Mr. Smith hoping to do up here?

He put down the box he’d carried into the kitchen. Why ya askin’ that?

It just looks it was meant for more than an occasional visit.

Can’t say for sure. You heard his missus didn’t like it.

I did.

Seems I heard talk it might’ve been mining what brung him.

Might?

Or prospecting. Lots of silver in these hills. Them White Hills to the north, been more than a few figure maybe it’s where them gold nuggets was found.

I hadn’t heard gold was up here.

Jest rumors. He took off his hat and rubbed his baldhead. But the Tonto ‘paches, they had gold nuggets. Nobody ever found out where they come from. I kinda figured Smith thought it was around here, which is why he bought it. Only he found nothin’. Mostly how it works with them looking for a pot of gold. He chuckled.

I have been told that, Mr. Contrell, most often by my father.

"Ma’am, you s’pose you could call me Amos? Mr. Contrell sounds like my pappy, and he’s been dead now twenty years."

She grinned. If you call me Willy.

Willy? Yah got a boy’s name?

It’s the one I prefer. Wilhelmina never felt like me. She laughed.

At least, it’d sound like a female.

She grinned. That was a bit ironic. From the time I was old enough to say what I wanted to be called, it was Willy. In school, if a boy didn’t like it, he got punched in the nose.

Lady like you punch someone in the nose? Again, he looked scandalized.

I had to learn the lady part, Amos.

He nodded. Maybe you’ll do better out here than I been expecting then. Although I still worry.

I am a city girl, Amos. I don’t know this world, but the city can be brutal also.

Spect it can. All right, I better get back to unloading as I need to be back in Payson afore dark. Don’t want the night beasties to get me. He chuckled again as he headed back outside.

When Amos returned with a square box, she directed him to set it on the long table. Would you mind helping me slide the table in front of that big window? When they had it properly centered, she opened the box and lifted out her Underwood typewriter.

What kind of contraption is that, Amos asked, looking at it skeptically.

A writing machine, far better than handwriting something as with the carbons, I can make several copies as I go.

What fer?

She ignored that. I was afraid the rough roads might’ve jammed its keys. She lifted the top and saw the levers were all perfectly aligned, the ribbon and carrier undamaged. She put the boxes beside it. She would be able to watch the lake, maybe see deer or the bear he warned about, while she worked.

She should have been exhausted after the train ride from San Francisco, the twelve-hour stage ride to Payson, two uncomfortable nights there in a hotel, where the lumpy bed and noise on the street made sleep hard to find, then finally this last leg of her journey, but instead she felt invigorated. She had done it. She had changed everything, and she was ready to move on to the next step—make that steps.

Carrying in the last of the food boxes to the kitchen, Amos turned to look at her without moving toward the door. Jest don’t like leavin’ a pretty little thing like you here.

She had to exercise restraint not to push him out the door. I’ll be fine. She managed a smile despite her impatience with her work.

Ya even know how to light that stove or the fireplace? He narrowed his gaze as he studied her from the doorway. Nights can still get cold here in September.

She’d laughed. I know how to strike a match, Amos. I was told there was plenty of kindling split, as well as dried moss to get fires started easily. Mr. Gibbons assured me the owner had left enough wood to last even a hard winter, but I will only be here three months,

Ya won’t be lasting that long, he grumbled.

You did say you’d come back with more flour, bacon and such in two weeks.

I will or I’ll send my nephew James. We won’t leave ya out here without even a hoss.

I would not be better off with a horse since I don’t ride. Besides, I’d just have to feed and care for an animal, which I know nothing about.

Wal, that’s so. He stepped back up into the wagon and gave her one last concerned look. Wish ya wouldn’t stay though.

She smiled. I will be fine.

Shaking his head, he cracked the reins over his two mules’ backs. When he was finally out of sight, the forest and feeling of wilderness closed around her. The silence was the first thing she noticed and then a bird calling. She felt a sense of relief. She had done it. She stood on the porch, stretching her arms wide as she could. She wanted to take this world into herself, to hold onto this moment forever.

Tall pines loomed to the right, down a slope from the cabin the lake came up to a small beach, huge boulders were along one edge. It would be a good place to swim as long as the good weather held. She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air and smiled with satisfaction. Other than those deer, bear and cougar, her nearest neighbor was supposed to be over a mile away. Perfect.

Her first morning in the cabin, when she woke, she lay watching the light slowly increase, relishing the sound of birds, and the whisper of a breeze through the pines. She had opted to sleep in the loft. Through its shakes, she could see the sky. The mattress was on the floor, but it was soft and very comfortable. The bedding had been clean, and there had even been pillows. She decided the loft was to be her bedroom.

The outhouse was close enough to the kitchen that it didn’t take long to take care of that and assure herself the owner had been right—plenty of firewood stacked in a protected back porch. In the kitchen, she found one cupboard had dishes and pans including a coffee pot. She brought in enough kindling to get the cook stove going, pumped water, and soon had coffee brewing.

Her morning was spent unpacking boxes of clothing and foodstuff. Rye and white flour, powdered milk, sugar, baking powder and soda went with the salt into what looked to be a rodent and bug secure cupboard. Although she’d still seen no sign of mice, she’d read enough books about log homes to believe they might be lurking under something to appear at the first scent of food.

On the off chance she had an accident while in the mountains, she had filled a kit with a small flask of whiskey, a roll of gauze, scissors, needle, thread, surgical tape, carbolic acid, and aspirin, which she had read was good for reducing fevers and pain.

Partly from her own interest, and partly as research, she had taken a class in first aid when at Yale. It had given her the rudimentary facts of treating various wounds, as well as let her meet Clara Barton, who although old, was a legend. What Barton had learned, with her work nursing the wounded during the Civil War, had led to improved medical procedures.

Willy had no expectations that a few days in that class would have given her expertise in medicine, but it had been good for her writing, as well as given her confidence that she could take care of any scrapes or cuts she got. Research before she left San Francisco let her know how to handle a snakebite. Despite the fears of Amos and Mr. Gibbons, she felt prepared for any emergency beyond perhaps a fatal accident. And that could happen anywhere.

For her noon meal, she sliced bread and smoked ham to make a sandwich, then sipped some black tea. Although she had looked longingly at the Underwood as well as the lake, she had important things to tend to first. The bread she’d brought would not last long and her plan was to make sourdough loaves. It sounded simple in the books. Add rye flour and water into a crock and wait. It would start bubbling within twenty-four hours. The only real problem they warned was too much starter. What was too much?

Putting the rest of the cooking supplies in places she’d be able to easily access, she brought her Boston Cooking-School Cook Book into the main room to study recipes. She’d heard of it while in the university as a new approach to cooking using measuring cups and spoons, which she had been sure to also purchase before she left San Francisco, unsure whether such would be available in Payson.

With the book, she was sure she could master cooking. Improving her cooking, would give Willy a needed break from serious writing. She’d prepared the basics, of course, but had little experience beyond that as after her mother had died, her grandmother, her father’s mother, had taken over the home until she died while Willy was away at college.

As she skimmed through the book, she felt some amazement at some of the recipes. Calf’s head? Who ate that? She’d never eaten tripe or even heard of it. Other recipes looked more promising like chicken cutlets, or apple fritters—if she’d thought to bring apples.

To resist the temptation to dally away her time, she had brought no other books, none of her treasured classics, certainly none of her many books—not that she read her own work after she sent them off to the publisher. Trash.

The book she intended to write next would have meaning, be important, be part of her new life, and offer something to the world. Its creation had been one of her two purposes in coming to this wilderness. The second involved her father’s papers and journals. She supposed she’d not have had to come so far to understand why he had hidden them and what they meant. For that matter, she could have stayed in San Francisco to write the great American novel that she was sure lay buried under her lesson plans and many dime novels. So, why come so far to do what was possible in the city? For a woman, who believed she used logic to make her decisions, she’d used little of that with her quick and abrupt decision. It could only be explained by instincts.

She unpacked her father’s journals, the box of receipts and invoices. Besides stacks of paper, carbons, and erasers, she put five lined tablets along with pencils and pens with ink. She had not known the journals existed until months after her father had hung himself. Her desire to find a reason for his suicide, the strange certainty that someone had been in their home the day of the funeral, all had led to her searching the house, but only when her summer school classes had ended did she have time to put more into it. A place by the pantry that didn’t look like the wall around it had led to finding a panel. A fingernail into what only appeared to be a groove in a doorframe popped it open.

Inside had been four journals and boxes of billings and business papers. Looking at the journals had been a disappointment. Although her father had written with a fine hand, the words had made no sense. It was no recognizable foreign language. Why had he gone to the trouble of creating a secret cupboard, fill journals with gibberish, and gather boxes of receipts, invoices and letters? Her desire to figure that out as well as a need to get out of San Francisco, to try something different, had led to the abrupt decision to leave town. Instinct had led to her not telling anyone.

Did any of it relate to why her father had hung himself? He had worked for the Hemstreets for many years and seemed happy with his accounting responsibilities. The last few years though she’d been wrapped up in the responsibilities of teaching at Golden Gate University. She’d paid less attention to what must have been a growing depression. Did the boxes of material that he amassed relate to his decision to take his life? She felt tears in her eyes but brushed them away. She’d cried enough over his death. It was time to do something about it, do something with what he’d apparently left in secret knowing only she would find it.

As the sun began to sink in the west, she lit a kerosene lamp, ate a slice of bread with butter and then poured herself a sherry to sit on the porch. A roughly hewn bench was along one side, and from it, she could enjoy the colors reflected into the lake and how they transformed the water from blue to purple and then a fiery red. Sipping the sherry, she thought about her life and how many changes she had known in her twenty-nine years.

With her mother born to wealth, which she’d turned from to marry her father, a lowly accountant, Willy had been taught about the fine things. She snickered as she thought how difficult that had been for her mother to impress on her. Oh, she knew of good china, fine silks, homes with all the conveniences, but they’d never mattered to her.

Even as a child, what Willy had valued was what her father had—education, knowing things, learning about fine literature, and lasting philosophies. What made the ideas of men like Plato and Aristotle such that many generations later, people still discussed them. She had hungered for a higher education, but it had been out of the question, even with her excellent marks.

Ironically, it had been her last year in high school when two events changed her life. A friend loaned her one of the popular dime novels. She had snickered through it at the same time she was writing a thesis on Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Twice Told Tales. The praise for the book had come from the greats of Hawthorne’s own time, not the least of which had been Longfellow, who stated the short stories and Hawthorne’s writing was characterized by a large proportion of feminine elements, depth and tenderness of feeling, exceeding purity of mind. Her mind had begun to spin with the possibility of merging the action of that dime novel with the elements of classic plots and her own writing style. She had to learn about guns and such, but she found them rather interesting anyway.

A month later, she had sent off her first manuscript to one of the dime novel publishing houses. A contract returned quickly, with an option for more. She would be publishing them as Will Tremaine. Was this her making or her downfall? In some ways, she thought, as she took another sip of her sherry it had been both. She had sold out the classics as she mined them for plots on which she created a western tale.

When requests came for the mysterious author to appear at book signings or to give lectures on the West, her editor, Matthew Jefferson, the only one who knew there was no Will Tremaine, brushed them off with various excuses. Having these lusty, sometimes brutal westerns written by a woman would never do was his reason. She had her own.

The royalties paid her way through first Wellesley and then to study for a doctorate at Yale. Better than any of that was meeting the truest female friend she would ever have. Holly came from wealth. She never questioned from where Willy got her money. It was not difficult to keep it that way, which she did feeling some shame at what she was writing. Hers were far from books that would become classics.

Her last hero, her ultimate hero, the man with no first name, the last Taggert, had been a combination of every classical hero she’d ever read—most especially those who were sacrificial. She went with him through battles that nearly cost him his life but always he succeeded and went onto a greater adventure. She understood that if she ever wrote his last book, it would have be his death. She could not bear to do that, to turn him into the ultimate martyr. With her teaching career established, she had a steady, if not large income, and told her editor, there would be no more books—Taggerts or otherwise. He was clearly horrified.

Is it money? he had asked when he made a trip to San Francisco, at least in part to change her mind. I can get you a larger percentage.

It’s not the money.

But what about the last Taggert? Doesn’t he deserve an ending?

Knowing there could be only one end for him, an end she was unwilling to write, she had shook her head and only smiled. He didn’t exist, Matthew. Remember that. Yes, he came out of a factual outlaw family in Kansas, who are likely long dead, at least having nothing more written about them and no one seeming to know what happened to them. That’s why it worked—part real and part fantasy.

He seemed real to me and thousands of readers. I still get letters asking when book eighteen will be out.

Find another hack. It’s not difficult. There are dozens out there.

But not like Will. He got not only into the heart of the outlaw heroes but also the women who loved them.

It’s not happening.

Think about it, Willy. You know I regard you as a friend, not just another writer.

I know. I am by the way going on a little vacation.

Where?

It’s a secret. She had smiled at his frustration.

He had shaken his head. I thought you regarded me as a friend as well as your editor. He was at least twenty years older than she, happily married, and so she didn’t suspect him of ulterior purposes. Still, the less who knew where she was going, the better. She wanted no visitors.

I do, and we will talk again... but I won’t change my mind on the westerns.

She had understood how Matthew felt. She also would miss the last Taggert. While she had written him as an outlaw, he had the heart of all heroes. He had stayed away from the woman he loved, Lucy, for her own good.

She felt tears in her eyes as she considered the raw emotions she’d felt as she’d written him being put on the train to Yuma, his wrists handcuffed behind his back, with Lucy sobbing on the train station platform. Maybe she’d also fallen a little in love with the outlaw, the man she’d never given a first name despite giving him stories full of daring deeds.

She would miss the imaginary image she had created. She knew exactly what he looked like with a tall lean build, an angular face, dark hair, and a kind of crooked smile that warmed any woman’s heart but was, as often used right before he pulled his six-shooter to right a wrong. He was no whiner. He did what he needed to do but never asked for a reward. He was her dream man. How could he not be when he had come from the best of all classic heroes.

Still, she’d never respected her writing of him anymore than the earlier gunmen and outlaws. They became heroes to so many, and they should not have been. They broke laws—even if for good purposes. They used guns to solve problems. And in the end, they were only creations—if not hers, someone else’s. They weren’t real. She was taking money for fooling people.

Her father, Holly, her best male friend, Nathan Hemstreet, none of them knew her secret, which was just how she wanted it kept. When no more books appeared, people would quit wondering where Will Tremaine was. They would forget the last Taggert.

She wondered then about Holly. Has she married? She felt an urge to see her and decided she would go to Tucson before returning to San Francisco. Holly had intended to rent a cottage in Tucson from a friend called Rose. One way or the other, she’d find her. That would be a fitting end to her adventure. She was in no hurry to return to her lonely home, but eventually she would have to do it. Not only had she grown up in San Francisco, it was where she could support herself with her professor’s salary.

Overhead, the sky turned indigo and then black, as stars and planets twinkled. The waxing moon was still a week from full as it tried to rise above the ridge. In the distance, she heard an owl, the swoop of wings, then a rustle in the brush. She supposed she should have been afraid but instead she felt enlivened—more than at any time in her life. She may have been born to the city, but her soul belonged in the wilderness.

Tucson, Arizona, September 7, 1905

Cole, who told you that you could get out of bed? Holly Taggert shrieked as he limped into the kitchen.

Don’t recall needing permission since I was a child, he said with a grin as he eased himself into a chair stretching his sore leg out in front of him. Got any coffee left or did my brother get it all?

His sister-in-law frowned at him but went to the stove and poured him a cup. You are lucky to be alive, you know.

He sipped the coffee. That’s been true a time or two.

Holly sat across from him and rubbed her swollen belly. Pregnancy, of course, was not discussed between a man and woman. From his brother, he knew the expected date was less than a month away.

Where is Josh?

He’s pretending to take a nap. She smiled. For a two year old, he does still need them—even if he doesn’t believe it. Maybe I should correct that to the typical male.

If I needed one, I’d take one.

You were shot. Your body needs to heal.

It wasn’t a bad wound.

She grimaced. "Marshal Trask should have never asked you