The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

Chapter 3

Myra rides out to the scene of the robbery and encounters two problems: a strongbox too heavy for her to lift and a neighbor boy too friendly for her to handle.

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

Chapter 3

December 14, 1871

Mrs. Fanning brought the buckboard around, and Myra climbed aboard. Molly waved, calling out, “Lassie, let yuir aunt be taking ye home and don't make any fuss while she does it.” The girl frowned peevishly back at her. Irene waved, too, and then, facing forward, shook the reins to start the horse walking.

All during the ride back, Myra sat sullenly, not saying a word. The tension they both felt, Irene guessed, would quickly ignite an argument if she tried to force things. The widow, emotionally drained, didn't want to deal with that.

Before too long, there came into view the landmark hill that overlooked their stead. A quarter mile farther along, Irene drew the carriage up before the farmhouse and dismounted.

“Unhitch the horse and get it ready for night,” the aunt told her niece, wondering how well she would obey, now that Mrs. O'Toole wasn't with them.

Myra looked as though she was bracing for resistance, but that effort lasted only a moment. With a sour face, she climbed down in a careless, unladylike fashion and, grudgingly, started undoing the harness.

“What's the matter? Did Molly tell you not to speak?” Irene asked.

“Go to hell, bitch!”

The rebuke stung. Irene made reply, trying not to sound angry. “Maybe Mrs. O'Toole didn't tell you to be quiet, but I know she told you to be polite. People shouldn't be calling family members by wicked names. Remember that when you're speaking to me.”

It looked like Myra was going to shout something vile, but – as before – she seemed unable to complete the effort.

Irene gave a sigh. “This day must have been a nightmare for you, Myron. I didn't want this. I wouldn't have allowed it to happen, except to save your life. What's happened has happened; we're just going to have to deal with a bad harvest. When you finish your chores, you can rest. Come in for supper at the usual time.”

Then Mrs. Fanning went indoors. Irene could hardly put her mind around the idea of how much things had changed for the little farm. She, as much as Myra, needed time to overcome the shock. Only then would it be possible to sort things out. Despite all the emotion involved, there had to be some way for the two of them to live together and cooperate.

#

Once she had finished unhitching the horse and leading it into the coral, Abigail Myra Olcott needed to visit the outhouse. That lent additional insight into how much her life had altered. She emerged shaking her head. It was like she had died and was now living in somebody else's body. She felt too numb to fully connect with her the rage inside. At a loss to comprehend it all, Myra didn't have a clue as to what to do with the rest of her life.

She had tried so hard to get away from this homestead, a place of boredom, hard work, and woe. “But here I am again,” she muttered in disgust, “doing farm chores; living at the edge of nowhere, with nothing worthwhile to fill my time." Things had actually gotten worse from the days when she was a schoolboy.

The boy had never liked formal schooling, but some of the assignments in his McGuffey's Readers had excited his imagination. Those books had taught him about faraway places, told stories that made his family’s farm seem cramped and small. He had wanted to travel, visiting places like the ones he had read about. Now it seemed that, as Myra, she would never see any of those distant lands.

“Aunt Irene was afraid that I was going to go to hell. But what could be worse than being ordered to wear a dress? Or, worse, a corset! People would laugh if they ever knew the truth. And I wouldn't be able to beat someone up for doing it.”

Myra started to wonder, ‘Is staying alive a good thing? Is being alive all it’s cracked up to be? Animals live, ate, and died. Are people any better off? What was life all about anyway?" After what happened to Ma and Pa, she couldn't believe in either heaven or hell. If living had no purpose, then wasn't having fun the best way to spend one's time on earth? After all, sooner or later, everyone's light would go out like a spent candle. When a life lost any possibility for enjoyment, why prolong it?’

‘Out on the owlhoot trail,' she thought, 'There was always the risk of getting shot, or getting caught and going to prison.' But what had actually happened now seemed so much worse. ‘A dead outlaw might leave a rep for gunfighting behind. What would a farm girl leave behind?’

While wrestling with woe, Myra had been carrying out her chores. The horse's manger was filled with hay. The level in the animal trough seemed low, so the girl released the brake on the windmill and adjusted the blades to catch the wind. The fresh breeze started them spinning, and she soon heard water flowing. But it immediately became apparent that no water was coming into the trough. Myra quickly realized that the valve had been set for filling the cistern. She cranked the valve to divert the flow into the pipe that fed the trough. She had done these tasks many times before as a farm boy, too many times in fact.

While he was away, Myron had sometimes wondered how his aunt was faring. From the look of the farm, Irene had been keeping up with the work well enough. Plenty of hay had been put away for winter, and haying was a daunting job for one or two people to tackle. Irene couldn't have done so much by herself, so she must have kept on using hired men. The last of those that Myra knew about had been George Severin. She hoped that her aunt had switched from him to taking on different helpers over the last eleven months.

The potion girl clenched her fists as wrathful memories buoyed up. 'I was able to whip any buck my own age, all except Severin. I hate being ‘round kids I can’t bully." George had come every day did whatever Myron wouldn't. It was embarrassing to be made to look bad. She snorted. It hadn't been so bad that she wanted to take on doing all that extra work again. She paused a moment, remembering. Back then it was like someone else was the man of the house. George had made her feel like a lazy good-for-nothing and she couldn't stand remembering it.

'If I couldn't beat Severin to a pulp before, how well can I fight now?' she asked herself, drawing up her left sleeve. The willowy bicep that emerged from the gingham looked like it a stranger's. No wonder everything felt about twice as heavy as before. From now on, she realized, she probably wouldn't be a match for any male older than twelve.

Just then, Myra noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. She wheeled. It was her horse – her own horse -- the one that she had ridden from the robbery. The beast was pressed against the rails, looking at the water flowing inside the coral. That gave her an idea.

She opened the gate and approached the animal slowly, not wanting it to spook and run off. When she got close enough, she took the bridle and stroked its mane. It didn't mind being touched and allowed itself to be led into the corral. There was plenty of hay and water waiting there, and the equine seemed to accept its circumstances contentedly. The bay had seen plenty of livery stables and had often been tended by unfamiliar people, so there was nothing to alarm him.

While the horse drank and fed, the girl went back to finish her chores. When they were finished, Myra was freed from the compulsion to do keep working. She had been told to rest once she'd gotten her tasks done, but the girl had her own ideas about how to relax. Recapturing the freedom of the road was the thing that would make her feel good. She thought about going into the house to put on some of her old male clothes before riding off. But that would be risky. Irene wouldn't tolerate her skedaddling and any command to stay put would have to be obeyed.

But the auburn-haired maid was thinking about the loot -- what she hoped were thousands of dollars in gold ingots. Were they still hidden up in the gap? She had to act before her aunt caught on to her plan and spoiled things.

'There’s no telling how soon them bastards’ll come back,' she thought. 'If I was in their shoes, I’d get me some tools, and then laid low until the town posse got tired of looking for me.' But how many days would they stay away? The smart thing’d be for her to go after the gold as soon she could.

And there was another reason for speed. 'If any of them three polecats got caught, they'd spill their guts about where the treasure was. Then the Law’d dig it up and leave me poor as a church mouse, with no hope of bettering m’self.'

Gold was the last chance she had for a good life. Being a rich girl couldn't be as bad as being a poor one. When she was rich, she could dress like a male again in a big house of her own. She could go where she wanted, and shoot any bastard who told her that she couldn't.

Myra looked down at her dress. She definitely wanted to get out of female attire. She went to the buckboard and tore apart the bundle containing Myron's soiled garments. Yuck! The jeans stank, and not just from blood. Myron hadn't been able to control his bladder or his bowels after getting wounded. There was no way she would draw them on. The shirt, too, was a red-encrusted mess that Myra wouldn't have worn on a bet. The underclothes were even worse. The coat wasn't too bad, fortunately, and she slipped it on over her dress. Then she went into the barn and brought back a ragged, dusty old horse-blanket that looked like it had been hanging from a peg for years.

The sun still hung reasonably high. 'I can do my treasure hunting before dark,” she mused, 'and then head out across the prairie with a load of gold. It’ll be cold, ‘specially as it gets dark, but I already spent a peck of chilly nights out in the open. That old blanket’ll come in handy then. I’m gonna need food, though, and I don't want to run into Aunt Irene while I’m looking for food in the house.' She hurriedly searched the farm sheds, but it soon became obvious that there was nothing in them that a human could eat. Still, she did find some useful tools – - a hammer, a chisel, and a crowbar that could be toted by a horseman. Nothing else seemed either convenient or useful. She dumped what she had found in a saddlebag that was sitting on a shelf.

By now, the bay was done feeding. Myra led it out of the corral and tied on the saddlebag, When she climbed up into its saddle, she discovered her garments were too tight for sitting astride a horse. The girl hiked up her skirts to give her legs room enough, while still leaving them protected -- hopefully -- from the chill by her calf-length drawers and high stockings. She jabbed the beast's sides with her heels, and the beast moved off obligingly.

#

The trail to Stagecoach Gap climbed slightly along the way, but it didn't take Myra long to reach the robbery site. She gazed back at the farmhouse. Most of her memories of that place were bad ones. The stead had ceased to be a real home when her mother and father had died only a day apart. Aunt Irene had come to Eerie as soon as she could, but the loss of his parents had left a hole inside young Myron that Irene's companionship couldn't fill. It took more than someone mending his clothes and fixing his supper to put heat back into the cold ashes of a life that had gone out like a campfire.

During his year away from home, Myron had felt no guilt. His aunt had seemed to like the farm better than he did, so he had abandoned it to her. He had even left the farm’s horse behind, to make it easier for her to carry on. But doing that he had made himself a horse thief. The consequences of that mistake had taught him a lesson. A grown man should never let himself care about other people. Let others solve their own problems; a man always had enough problems of his own.

Myra tried very hard not to ask herself questions about living female. She couldn't imagine anything good ever coming her way again after the disaster of the potion – except for one thing.

The gold.

Myra came to the mouth the little side canyon and drew up. She'd been visiting Stagecoach Gap since the Caldwell family had come to the region, when Myron was about ten. The side canyon had no proper name, but the boy had called it Secret Canyon. The youngster had always looked at its narrow confines with eyes full of imagination, pretending to be one of those English lords who explored Africa's darkest corners. It was a place to fight wild tribes, tigers, and elephants.

Myra slid down from the saddle and removed the tools from the saddlebags. She tied the reins around the slim trunk of the nearest desert willow, so that the horse wouldn't wander off at the worst possible moment. Then she started up into the defile.

Climbing over the rocks was tricky while wearing slippery wooden-soled shoes. She paused to try to guess where Ike and the Freely brothers might have hidden a chest.

Ike, along with those damned fools, Jeb and Horace Freely, couldn't have done much to conceal the strongbox without picks and shovels. The canyon was only some three hundred feet long, with had no second exit. It was not easy to climb up to the rims on either side. The slopes of fallen rock ended well before they could reach the rim of the walls. Taking a heavy box out of Secret Canyon that way would have been impossible. It was hidden somewhere very near.

Since the three were all lazy sidewinders, they wouldn’t have taken time to do anything fancy or smart. The chest would be on or close to the floor of the canyon, hidden with nothing better than some rocks piled on top of it. Most probably, Ike would have looked for a natural dip or cavity to place it in, and then thrown in stones to conceal it. It had been years since Myron had last explored Secret Canyon, but Myra still knew the general layout. Really, there wasn't much to know.

The girl knew that at about a hundred feet in the flatness of the canyon bed gave. Ike and the Freely brothers would have had a hard time with the big rocks of the talus slopes, so they probably wouldn't have used them as a hiding place. She looked left and right, up and down, trying to remember a hidey-hole that the gang might have noticed during their quick survey. Now that spot would probably look like a low mound of loose stones. That would be the best sort of place to hide a strongbox.

She made a lot of educated guesses, checking possible hiding places by trial and error. As she moved rocks in her search, she was again reminded how much weaker her new body was. After about forty minutes of searching, her heart leaped. She had found what she was looking for! The stones at one location had looked different from the surrounding ones, as if they hadn't come together naturally. Moving the chunks of rock aside, she soon found the metal-reinforced edges of the missing strongbox. When it was mostly uncovered, she stood back, contemplating the box whose contents would make her ruined life worth something.

But this box also brought back evil memories. Ike's brainless shooting was responsible for the fix that she'd found herself in. That ricochet had turned her whole existence upside down. It was all Ike’s fault, but could the chest, even by half, hold enough to make up for the damage his reckless shooting had caused?

Myra took the tools that she'd brought with her. She worked hard at breaking the lock, and for a person who didn't care for hard physical labor, she applied herself furiously, with only short rest periods. She skinned her knuckles several times with the tools, but still kept at it, until both her hands were aching with bruises and burning with scrapes. The crowbar was a clumsy implement that kept slipping, while the hammer and chisel could make no certain progress, despite the din that they raised.

Her arms ached, and all that kneeling on rock had started her knees hurting. Myra began to doubt her ability to conquer the chest by herself. She sat back on a stone, searching her imagination for another plan. She was pressed for time. If the strongbox were left in place, the returning outlaws might take it away before she could come back. To prevent such a thing, it should be moved and hidden elsewhere, so the gang couldn’t find it; but easier said than done. It had taken two strong young men to lug the locked chest to its present hiding place. She was all alone and a lot less strong than any of the others. Frustration began to grip at her.

Her tools now seemed pathetic. It might take a sledgehammer and a mining bar to overcome those locks and reinforced hinges. She'd need a helper of considerable strength. A still better approach would be to use explosives. She knew that a lot of miners around Eerie handled blasting powder and dynamite. But how was she to get some? She could hardly walk into Styron’s hardware and buy a keg. Any way that she looked at it, she was stumped.

Myra went back to the idea of getting a sledgehammer. “Who do I know with muscles enough to help me? This is bandit loot, and most people wouldn’t want nothing to do with it.” Who did she know that wouldn't go running to the law, hoping for a reward? She regretted that she couldn't claim the reward for herself; the sheriff knew that she was one of the thieves. The stage company wouldn't look too keenly on that idea, neither.

'Who do I know? Myron didn't have many friends around Eerie.' She shrugged. “Or anywhere else, she guessed. Of the locals, her best choice was Lydon Kelsey. He'd talked a lot about finding gold in the mountains, but he was always been too work-shy to actually go looking for it.
But he was strong… and dishonest. The two of them had done some petty thieving together, too, before she'd ridden off. To a layabout like Kelsey, this could be the score of a lifetime.

'But Lydon wouldn't recognize me in the shape I got now,' she told herself. 'And I surely don't want to tell that loudmouth who I really was.' He'd spread word all over town, saying that Thorn Caldwell was the newest – what had that old woman called them? Oh, yeah – a potion gal. Everyone would come to give her the horse laugh.

But what if she pretended to be just an ordinary girl, new to the town? She could act like she wanted to cozy up to Kelsey, then give him some made-up story explaining how she knew about the strongbox. He'd go for it quick enough if there was a chance for gold. But there was a hatful of “catches.” What would she have to do ‘to cozy up’ to him, and could she do such things? Would he be honest enough to share the swag, or would he just shove her aside and take it all for himself?

'Would I have to be ready to shoot him as soon as the box was opened?' Myra wondered. And what about that order Old Lady O'Toole had given her about not hurting anyone? What would he do if she stood in front of him pointing a gun, unable to fire?

Myra just didn't know what that accursed magic left her capable of doing.

For now, she had no choice but to conceal the chest again, right where it was. Her hands, already sore, were even sorer by the time she'd gotten the box covered with rocks. She was bone tired, too.

Myra glanced at the sky. The sun could no longer be seen over the canyon rim. She knew that supper-time was not far off. The very idea of not getting home for the meal unsettled her more than it reasonably should have. Irene had wanted her back by supper. It was a command. To make the deadline, she needed to hurry.

Myra re-secured the tools in saddlebags, and swung herself up over the bay's back. Then she hastily started down Riley Canyon Road.

The girl kept the gelding moving at a canter. The anxiety about being tardy loomed larger and larger within her. She hated acting like a slave doing a master's bidding, but couldn't help herself.

Myra was about halfway home when she saw someone trotting up the dusky road on a mule. Myra preferred to avoid him, whoever he was, but her compulsion to beat the clock didn't give her any option other than to continue along by the shortest route.

“Whoa!” the rider said as she cantered close. “You have to be Myra, Miss Irene's niece!”

The girl reined in. The youth on the mule was no stranger. It was George Severin.

“Severin! I – I've got to go! Aunt Irene wants me back by supper!”

The youth frowned bemusedly, pleased that this pretty girl knew his name. “I know,” he said slowly. “She asked me to go looking for you. Whose horse is that, anyway? Your aunt said you came in by stage.”

Myra shrugged. “I don't know where it came from. It was grazing nearby, and we took it into the coral. I just felt like taking a ride.”

He continued to regard her curiously. “Be that as it may, you gotta get on home and protect you.”

"From what?" she asked scornfully.

He just shrugged.

“I was trying to get home when you started jawing at me.” She tapped her heels to get the horse moving again. But George didn't consider their conversation finished and quickly caught up with her.

“You don't need to come,” she said in annoyance.

“I don't mind. Say… Myra is a nice name. Your aunt should have told me that I was looking for the prettiest gal in the county. And that's saying something since we're in a mighty big county.”

Myra rode on, determined to say nothing.

“Where are you from?” he shouted from behind her.

“You ask too many questions, for a stranger,” she replied at last. The more she urged her horse to speed, the more determinedly George spurred his mule to keep up.

“We won't be strangers for long,” he said. “We're neighbors. I work for your aunt. That is, unless you're going to be taking on taking on all the chores that she can't handle.”

“I don't know anything about that,” Myra replied, refusing to look at him.

“Are you from the East?”

“Yes!”

“How do you like things -- this far West, I mean?”

Myra scowled. “So far, I haven't liked anything about it. And did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

“Now and then,” George responded with a tolerant grin. “Say, did you hurt yourself? That blood on that coat of yours looks like it's not too old. It's a man’s coat, isn't it? Your uncle's?”

It took the girl a couple seconds to concoct an answer. “Yeah, my uncle's. Irene said she got a spot on it when she butchered a chicken.” Thankfully, the bruises on her hand were mostly hidden by the dim light and the coat’s overly long sleeves.

To her relief, George stopped trying to force a conversation, even while persistently keeping pace with her. When reached the corral, Myra told him, “If you still work here, you can get the horses ready for the night!”

She swung out of the saddle and dropped to earth, like one accustomed to riding. As she bustled toward the door, George called from after her: “I'll take your advice, since that's what I think Mrs. Fanning would want.”

#

Before Myra reached the door, Aunt Irene stepped outside, her arms crossed. “Where on earth have you been?” she demanded.

Her niece stopped abruptly. “I found my horse. My chores were done, and I felt like taking a ride.”

Irene glanced over Myra's shoulder and saw George. “We'll talk about this later, young lady.”

“Don't call...” Myra began, but Severin's voice interrupted her.

“Excuse me. I was wondering if you'd like me to unsaddle the new horse, ma'am.”

Mrs. Fanning had seen Myra ride in on the outlaw horse. Until now, she hadn't known what had happened to it. She also didn't know what her niece might have told George about the beast, so she just nodded. “Yes, please. Get it settled in for the night. And when you're done, come take supper with us.”

“Much obliged,” he remarked.

Irene watched the youth draw off and then said to Myra, “Come inside.”

The girl followed her aunt through the door and glanced around at the interior. It hadn't changed much. And it was still the last house on earth that she wanted to live in.

“Where did you go?” Irene asked, as Myra hung her coat on a hook near the door. The dress underneath was wrinkled some, but still holding up fairly well.

“Nowhere important. I came back on time, didn't I?”

“Yes, you did,” Irene began slowly. “So I’ll ask you again, where did you go? And this time you will answer me honestly.”

“Yes,” Myra responded, wincing as the compulsion toward obedience kicked in.

“I-I rode u-up to the stage… to Stagecoach G-Gap. I-I w-wanted to… to l-look… around.”

Her aunt nodded. “The crook returning to the scene of the crime, as they say?”

“Y-Yes, ma’am. I wa… wanted to just… to ride off and n-not come back.” It was the truth, but not the whole truth. And she hoped it would be enough.

Irene suddenly grabbed Myra’s left hand and examined it closely. “Judging from this hand, you did more than just ‘look around. Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?”

“No… No, I-I didn’t.” She was looking for – trying to get -- the loot, not the strongbox.

“So why did you come back?”

“You told me that I couldn't miss supper.” Told… ordered… it was all the same to Myra, thanks to that damned potion.

Aunt Irene regarded her sadly. “Why...? Why do you want to leave again so soon?”

The girl threw up her arms. “This isn't any kind of life that I want.”

“You went off and became an outlaw before. Was that better than the peace and safety you can enjoy in your own home?”

“The trail is better than anything that happens in this home!”

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “I – I don't know what to say. I just don't understand you.”

“Well, who says you have to understand?”

“Do you want me to put anything on your hands?”

“They’re fine.” She rubbed them together. Most of the pain was gone. “Leave them along.”

The aunt sighed. “Sit down and eat your supper, then. But before you do, set a place for George.”

With a huff, Myra did as her aunt had told her. The only food on the table was some slices of canned oranges on a plate, a loaf of fresh bread, and a dish of churned butter. There was coffee in an enameled pot and a small pitcher of milk.

“There's hot food on the stove,” said her aunt. “Load up with whatever you like.”

Myra went to the steaming kettles filled with boiled beef, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Hungry, she shoveled large portions onto her plate.

“Mrs. Fanning!” called George from outside. “I'm finished with the horse.”

“Come in, boy,” Irene shouted back. “Have something to eat.”

“Don't mind if I do,” George replied upon entering. His eyes darted around the room and came to rest on Myra, who had gone back to her chair.

The boy paused to hang his broad-brimmed hat on a nail driven into the wall boards. “There's food on the stove,” said his hostess. “Help yourself and then draw up one of the chairs.” Following her advice, he filled a plate of his own and, a moment later, was seated opposite Myra.

The girl stubbornly concentrated on her supper, already impatient to leave the table.

“George,” said Irene, “I suppose that you young people have already introduced yourselves.”

“We have. I was pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Myra,” he said.

Irene spoke as though Myra were new to the area. “George's family lives about a mile from here on the other side of the ridge,” she explained. “He helps out as much as his folks can spare him.” When Myra said nothing, Mrs. Fanning added, “Be polite and say hello.”

“Hello,” said the girl in a flat tone.

Irene smiled tightly toward her hired help and asked, “Have you heard anything about the posse, George?”

The youth responded with a nod. “Mr. Singer dropped by with some news just before I left to come over here.”

The farm woman sighed. “He must have told you that my nephew, Thorn, was one of the robbers. That really upsets me.”

“They say that he was... shot,” the youth offered delicately.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Fanning. “At least that's what the rider told the sheriff.”

“Did the posse find… anything… up at the Gap?”

Irene winched. Of course, someone would have searched the Gap if there had been any chance that a wounded outlaw might be up there. “The men haven't returned yet,” she said. “But a rider was sent to look things over just as soon as the news came in. The talk is that there was... no trace. I'm terribly afraid for Myron.”

“You're a very brave woman,” George remarked. “I'm surprised that you're holding up so well, having gotten such terrible news.”

Irene glanced down. “I – I think I'm still quite stunned,” she stammered. “Deep down, I haven't really come to grips with the enormity of the tragedy.” Silently, she added, ‘or what I had to do to save Myron’s life.’

“It is very terrible.” The boy then glanced with interest toward Myra. “You were coming down from Stage Coach Gap,” he remarked. “What did you see up there?”

“Nothing but rock and mesquite,” the girl answered stiffly. “I actually didn't go too far. I... I don't even know where this gap of yours is.”

George smiled politely at her. “If a person follows the road to where it becomes rocky, he's in the Gap.”

Myra shifted uncomfortably. The nosy neighbor seemed to be watching her face rather closely.

“Mrs. Fanning,” George suddenly asked, “is Myra going to be staying here on the farm for a while?”

“I expect so,” affirmed Irene. “Her mother passed away a couple of months ago. She has no other close family.”

“That's good.” Then George caught himself. “I mean, I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune, Miss Myra. I only meant that it's always better to stay with kinfolk than with strangers.” Myra's expression remained cold, so the youth addressed her aunt. “Will you still need me for chores, ma'am, now that you have a healthy young lady to take up the slack?”

Irene considered that question thoughtfully. Finally, she said, “Myra has a few things to learn about homesteading, so, for the time being, you can keep on coming. Even if she takes to farming, well, there will aways be occasions when we'll be needing extra help. Bringing in next year's hay, for one thing.”

“I'll be glad to keep coming over,” George said as he reached for another piece of fruit. “I love these oranges, ma'am. Dad planted a few trees last spring.”

“We get our fruit, except for apples and plums, from Ortega's grocery in town. I tried planting some orange trees of our own a couple years back, but they all died.”

“I hope ours do better. But about work tomorrow...” began the boy.

“I think we'll hold off a couple days. Myra is going to need a little while to settle in.”

“She'll also be needing a warm coat. I noticed her wearing her uncle's jacket, instead of one of her own. Isn't it ever cold out East?”

Irene thought quickly. “She... lost her trunk when the stage went over a bump while crossing a fast stream. She'll need to replace a lot of things. A friend is going help her out by shopping for her in Phoenix.”

“Why go all the way to Phoenix?” George asked.

Irene paused. She wasn't used to lying, and she found it not an easy thing to do well. “The lady was going there anyway. It's almost Christmas. She says that prices and selections are much better in the bigger town.”

George smiled, “A lady from church?”

“No. Mrs. O'Toole.”

George blinked. “Molly O'Toole? How did you two happen to meet? She doesn't go to our church.”

“We both happened to be shopping in Ortega’s a couple weeks ago. She's very nice.”

“She seems to be,” he conceded with a nod.

Irene wanted to change the subject. “So you're visiting the saloons now, George?” She teased. “It seems only yesterday that you were just a little scamp.”

He grinned. “Ma says I still am, but Pa took me to get my first beer last month when I turned eighteen.”

Mrs. Fanning shook her head. “Men and their beer. It would take the fiery angel of Eden to keep them apart, I'm afraid.”

“Well, men and women have their different ways. Wouldn't you agree, Myra?”

The girl, frowning, replied, “I reckon they do.”

#

Myra felt relieved when Severin finally rode off.

“Myra, I've been thinking...” Irene began.

The girl spun. She couldn't tell her aunt not to call her that name, but it showed in her face.

Her aunt drew a deep breath, bracing for a quarrel. “How long would it take for someone like George, or maybe neighbor Singer, to guess who you really are if they overheard me calling you Myron or Thornton?”

“Humphh!” was the only response Myra gave. She had found that if Irene didn't frame a question like a command, she didn't have to answer it.

“If you aren't worried about people finding out, I'll be glad to call you Myron. Otherwise, it has to be Myra -- unless you prefer Abigail.”

“That's even worse than Myra. It sounds like some old granny's name.”

Irene smiled faintly. “Perhaps your cousin Abigail thinks so, too. She signs her cards 'Gail.' I suppose she thinks that it sounds more modern. Anyway, I'm glad you didn't say anything to offend George. You're almost the same age. You can be friends.”

“Humphh!” she repeated.

“If he likes you, I bet he can be persuaded to help with some of your harder chores.”

“I don't need any help from the likes of him!”

“I see. Well, it's about time we talk about more serious things. We can't have you riding off and never coming back. The bad things that befall a boy out in the world can be so much worse for a girl.” Myra looked indignant at hearing the word “girl,” but held her peace.

“I should have told you this before, but I'm telling you now. I want you to be home – and I mean here at the farm – by sundown every day, unless you've asked for and have received permission to stay out later. And don't try to sneak away at night, either. If you go outside after sunset, don't go any farther than you could stroll in five minutes, unless, like I've said, you've gotten permission.”

Myra's face hardened. “So I'm just a prisoner.”

“I'm sorry that you think so. You're walking a strange path, but you're better off than you would be in a real prison. If you had been caught by an Eerie posse, you might have received that same potion from the Judge as punishment. If that had happened, everyone would know that it was Myron Caldwell who was cooking, cleaning, and serving drinks as the newest potion girl at the saloon. But instead you were blessed. That concoction not only saved your life, it also disguised you. No one has to know what really happened to Myron.”

“Too many people already know!”

“Some people had to be told. I needed advice when the doctor found out he couldn't help you. They're good people, and I think they will be able to help you settle in without causing any suspicion. I won't tell anyone else, and I certainly hope that you don't accidentally let anyone know.”

Myra let out a frustrated sound.

“You're alive, and you're home,” Irene reminded her. “You now have a future. This property will be yours when you turn twenty-one. If you just help me manage it until you're an adult, you'll have a good nest egg by the time you take over.”

Myra shook her head. “Living like a peon isn't managing. I'd be better off inheriting a prize race horse instead of some dusty old homestead out here in the desert. Farmers work all their lives, and they still end up with nothing. Anyway, why should I believe that you'll turn over the land when I'm twenty-one?”

“Why shouldn't you believe me?”

“Because if people think Myron's dead, there's no one to inherit anything. And even if you hand back what should be mine already, you'll probably keep ordering me around like you're doing now.”

Irene sighed. “You can tell anyone you want that you're Myron. It's all up to you. But you have my word that the farm is yours when you come of age. When that happens, I'll respect your decision… whatever it is.”

The girl looked at her suspiciously. “Once I'm running the farm, where will you be?”

“If you don't want me to stay and help out, I'll get along somehow. The Lord provides.”

“I hope the Lord provides me with a buyer. I'll be ready to sell this place on my twenty-first birthday.”

Irene grew somber. “If you don't change your mind by then, I only hope that you will use the selling price wisely. Your attitude worries me. How are you going to support yourself once the money is all spent? You can't be an outlaw anymore. So how do you expect to be making a living? A person who owns land always amounts to something. You're so lucky that your father left the farm without any debt.”

Myra couldn't think of a good reply, even though she wasn't ready to accept her aunt's view of the world. And she certainly wasn’t in the mood for another reminder of her parents’ sudden death.

#

December 16, 1871

A couple days later, just after the midday meal, Irene heard a coach coming up the road past the farm. When she went to the door, she saw a small one-horse, canopied buggy kicking up dust. Judge Humphreys was driving and, behind him, a horseman followed. It was Paul Grant, the sheriff's deputy. The Judge had already turned off the road and passed through the open gate, the lawman following close behind.

Mrs. Fanning waited on the rock-slab step.

“Howdy, ma'am,” Paul called, dismounting.

“Has the sheriff caught the outlaws yet, Deputy?” she asked.

“Not that we know of,” her rangy visitor replied, stepping around his companion's vehicle. “Some of the posse's straggled back, but Sheriff Talbot is still out with most of the men.”

“How is... the young lady?” Judge Humphreys asked, carefully climbing down from his rig.

Irene grimaced. “She's doing about as well as one can expect.”

The jurist joined the other two. “No problems?”

“She's sour and sulky. I suppose I can't really blame her.”

Humphreys nodded. “We need to know more about the robbery. Paul here will ask the questions, and I'll make sure that your niece tells the truth.”

The woman shook her head. “I'm so sorry that a member of my family has to be involved in something as awful as this.”

“Boys will be...” began the judge, but then thought better of it.

“Come in. I'll find Myra.”

The two men followed the young woman into the house and made themselves at home in two of the four available chairs. Then their hostess went back outside, calling her niece's name.

A couple minutes later, the bright rectangle of the doorway was broken by Myra's silhouette, giving Paul got his first look at Eerie's newest potion girl. When she came closer, a suspicious set to her lips, “pretty” was the word that sprang into his mind. Every time Paul saw the effects of Shamus' concoction, it amazed him all the more. She looked Thorn's age, but that was where the resemblance ended. The gal's auburn hair gave off red sparkles where sunlight touched it; her form was lithe but ripe and blooming. Paul reckoned that Myra Olcott would soon be catching the notice of every young stallion with an eye for feminine beauty.

‘Dang,’ he thought, ‘she’s almost as pretty as my Jessie.’

Just then, Irene came back in from the yard and took one of the empty seats.

“Good day, Miss Olcott.” The judge stood up and pointed to the remaining chair. “We have a few questions for you. Please rake a seat.”

Myra remained standing, her face like stone. Irene had told her that the older man was one of the rattlesnakes who had played a part in in her transformation. She thought she recognized the bravo with him as a local cowboy, but now he was wearing a deputy badge. “How much does he know?” Myra asked the justice, making a gesture toward Paul.

Humphreys shrugged. “With the sheriff away, it was necessary to tell him the whole story.”

“Oh, fine! Why don't you just tell the whole damned town while you're at it?”

“I'd like you to sit down,” the old man informed her firmly.

Myra sat quickly. ‘Shit,’ she thought, ‘I gotta obey this galoot, too.”

Humphreys turned toward Paul. “Deputy Grant, the floor is yours.”

“Miss Olcott,” Paul began.

Myra refused to acknowledge the man.

“Miss Olcott,” the lawman repeated, “tell us about how the robbery came off.”

“Why, do you need some pointers from a professional?” mocked the auburn lass.

“Young lady,” interjected the judge, “answer Deputy Grant's question. Tell us about how the robbery occurred, and tell the truth.”

Again, those voices were forcing her to do as told. “We w-waited for…for the stage up in th-the Gap. We'd barri…c-caded the road. When... When they st-stopped, we made – uh! -- made them thr-throw down their g-g-guns and the guard… umm, he gave us the st-strong… b-box. We hadn't br-brought any t-tools, so Ike…Ike tried to shoot the…l-lock off. The bounce hit…hit me in the g-gut.”

She had paused. “And then?” coaxed Paul.

Myra felt like a damned fool, the way she was stuttering and stammering. 'Maybe,' she thought, 'I shouldn't fight against answering. I'm only protecting those bastards that shot me and would’ve left me for dead.' She decided to answer in a way that would nail the gang down good, but wouldn’t hurt her so much.

“Reply to the question, Miss,” Humphreys interjected sternly.

Myra sucked in a breath. “It hurt like h-hell. Ike just… just left me in the dirt. He told everyone to get out of the coach and c-clear away the barricade. When they did, he ordered them to head on out, a-away from Eerie.”

“Who is this Ike?” Paul inquired.

“Ike Bartram! He said he and his folks came to Arizona Territory just before the w-war ended. His pa had to hightail it from Missouri, 'cause he'd been working with guerrillas and the army was looking for people like him.”

“The other robbers?”

“Jeb and Horace Freely; they're from California, where they'd ended up w-wanted for rustling.”

“Where did you meet them?”

“Antelope Spring – at Whipple's Saloon.”

“Antelope Spring?”

“A new town – up near that Grand Canyon.”

“When was that?”

“Late October. From there we went toward Yuma. All that the three of them could ever talk about was getting an easy take. I-I told them about the Pr-Prescott-Tucson Stage here at Eerie.” She started to stammer again, unable to hide her role in planning the robbery.

“All right,” the deputy said. “You were hurt and on the ground. Then what happened?”

“Jeb and Horace lugged the chest back into that arroyo up there. Ike came my way and said that if I wasn't fit to ride, they couldn't afford to leave me for the law. He was afraid I'd… spill my guts.”

Paul chuckled. “It looks like he was right about that.”

Myra glared. “If I wasn't full of that potion crap, you'd see how much I'd be telling you!”

“Yeah, sure, I bet you're just as brave as Bill Hickok in the dime novels. What did Ike do then?”

“Like I said, he told me that if I was still alive after they finished with the gold, they'd have to do something about it.”

In the background, Irene gasped.

“Where did they hide it?” asked the lawman.

Myra snatched a sly thought out of thin air. ‘I can’t tell him that I know exactly where the gold was buried.’ She said, “I couldn't see where they went once they got inside the canyon. All I was thinking about was dodging away. I guess I wasn't as far gone as Ike supposed. I was hurting bad, but I was able to reach my horse and make it as far as the farm. Once I got to the yard, well, I don't remember anything, not until I woke up like... this.”

Paul frowned. “So, as far as you know, the gold might still be in the arroyo?”

‘Don’t answer!’ she warned herself. ‘But what can I tell him to put them off the track? If the Judge orders me to tell the whole truth, any hope of getting that box for myself would be done for.’ Aloud she replied, “Yeah, sure. Is there a reward for finding it?”

The deputy grinned with incredulity. “Not for you. How well do you know that little canyon?”

“I must’ve gone into it hundreds of times, back when I was a kid.”

Paul regarded the judge. “Why don't I go up there with Miss Olcott and see what we can find?”

Humphreys nodded. “That makes sense. I'll head back to town. If you find the strongbox, you'll be needing a wagon and a couple men to help bring it back. I'll get things ready.”

Grant nodded. “Right, Your Honor.” Then, rising, he extended a hand to helpt Myra to her feet. She sneered and got up under her own power.

“Young lady,” said Humphreys, “when you're out with Mr. Grant, you'll do what he tells you to, just like I was speaking to you myself.” He paused, trying to keep himself from being too easy on her, like he would have been if she had been an ordinary girl. “It looks like everything you went through to get your hands on that gold was for nothing,” he continued. “Some people can only learn the hard way that crime doesn't pay. I hope you're capable of learning at least that much.”

“Go to hell!” the farm girl snarled.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4