Long Road to Freedom Ch. 01

Prologue

One bedroll:

Heavy woolen blanket,

cotton sheet,

canvas outer shell rubbed over with beeswax for weatherproofing,

rolled and bound with leather straps.

One cast iron Dutch oven, 3-quart capacity.

Two sets of tin utensils:

Bowl,

plate,

fork,

spoon,

knife.

One handaxe from father's toolshed.

One Barlow pocketknife.

Two tinsmith canteens:

Canvas coverings with cloth straps for hand carry,

2-quart capacity.

One tincture of iodine.

Three clean cotton rags.

Three cut strips of menstrual cotton cloth.

Two bars of handmade soap.

One tinderbox:

flint stone,

steel striker,

linen tinder.

One small kerosene lantern with extra pint of kerosene.

Two-pound bags:

Pinto beans,

dried fruit,

salted pork,

hardtack.

One canvas pouch with assortment of dried cooking herbs and salt.

One pint glass of molasses.

One pint glass of tallow.

Five-pound bag of dried oats in feed bag.

One Colt Sidehammer Revolver, Model 7.

Thirty.31 caliber shot:

Gunpowder horn,

tin containing percussion caps.

$15 in gold and silver coinage.

One canvas knapsack with wooden frame,

(everything that does not fit goes to saddlebags).

Nora paused. Her gear lay before her, spread out in tidy, organized piles across her bed. In her hand, she held a small bundle of dried, yellow flowers held together at the stalks by a twist of twine. Momentarily lost in thought, she wound them in her fingers. The fragile puffballs looked so innocuous in the dusty afternoon light. The tansy had come from her mother's garden. Shortly after the announcement was made, she had discreetly collected and hung them to dry under her writing desk. Three weeks later, with all her preparations made, they seemed like an overcaution, the absurd fancy of a scared little girl.

After all, the intent of this venture was to not see another soul for a good long while, but the herb did have other uses. There was always the risk of stomach ailments if she was not selective enough with her water choices or failed to cook her meat properly. Even if it was not what she had originally intended, it could still be of some practical use while out in the brush. She delicately placed the bundle into an empty pocket of her knapsack.

With the matter now settled, she neatly packed as much as possible into the large canvas bag. With an experimental tug, she tested its bulk before she hoisted a strap onto her shoulder. The crushing weight nearly made her knees buckle. It was only through pure spite that she managed to stay upright. In a huff, she tossed the pack back onto the mattress. Her brows furrowed. Once more, she mentally catalogued her gear. As she did not plan to make this journey on foot, the weight was not a major concern. Even still, lighter was always better. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could afford to part with.

She sighed and stuffed the loaded knapsack and remaining loose ends under her bed. The house felt too quiet with her mother decidedly not speaking to her. Nora began to pace the confines of her bedroom, her former sanctuary. Her boots shuffled noisily against the wood grain of the floorboards as the walls began to feel increasingly suffocating. The clock on the wall marked each passing second with its rhythmic ticking. She ceased her anxious pacing mid-stride and stared once more at the simple lock her mother had secured to the window latch. She snorted derisively and shook her head.

It was a measure her father frequently used to employ. It worked well enough until one of the ranch hands taught Nora how to pick it using two hairpins. She supposed her father had never explained to her mother that this little trick stopped working when she was still just a girl. Sadness threatened to overtake her in a crushing wave of all too familiar grief. Her dad had always understood her in ways that her mother stubbornly refused to.

She bit back the tears. Lock or no lock, tonight she would be making her escape out that window as she had done so many times before. But this time, she vowed to never return. By sneaking to the barn under the cover of darkness to grab her only friend left in the world, she intended to ride into the apathetic embrace of the desert. It was dubious whether her aging mare was ready for the journey. A pang of guilt squeezed her heart like a vice. There was no other choice, not if she truly wanted the chance to live her life as she saw fit. Sweetgrass would understand.

1

Man in the Black Hat

The burning sagebrush gave Nora's campfire a pleasantly rich smell. Her pair of well-worn boots kicked up small clouds of orange dust as she carelessly tossed them aside. Leaning her back against a small boulder, she wiggled her newly freed toes near the licking flames. The intense heat soothed the aching soles of her feet. Behind her, Sweetgrass nickered impatiently.

"What's wrong, old girl?" Nora lazily asked the gold-coated mustang. The dim amber edges of dusk's light were fading away. Her horse always became antsy around this hour, especially in country as wide and open as this flat patch of scrubland. She stared out at the expansive desert vista. It was empty save for the darkened silhouettes of a few jagged plateaus.

Unbeknownst to her, a man was watching the flicker of her campfire from the shadows of one such ridgeline. His pale blue eyes narrowed as he observed her. To him, she looked soft, far too soft for this rugged place, and completely alone. His eyes meticulously swept the surrounding area once, twice, three times. He did not see any men, signs of rifles, or other weaponry. There was only a girl, a single horse, and a small vulnerable camp. His keen predatory instinct coiled hungrily. Killing her seemed like a waste, especially when he could certainly use a girl like that.

It had been far too long since he had a woman that he did not have to pay for. Plus, whenever he got bored, she might fetch a decent price in one of the less-than-savory settlements between here and Pine Valley. Alternatively, he could always give her to the boys. He was sure they would be eager to have such a fine, young thing after he was through with her. He shifted his weight, the leather of his black duster creaking softly. A decision had been made. He began to descend the slope with a silent, practiced grace, leaving his horse and gear safely behind. He determined to approach her gently at first, to see what he was working with before striking.

A small cast iron pot of stew hanging over the fire steamed fragrantly. The meager meat of a jackrabbit Nora had shot earlier that day smelled mouthwatering. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation. Again, Sweetgrass whinnied loudly. For good measure, she pawed at the hard, compacted earth with an anxious hoof. "You're alright! Ain't nothing real bad out here save for some coyotes and snakes. And we can deal with both," she reassured the temperamental palomino. The dry earth barely crunched underfoot as the man stepped into the periphery of the firelight.

He approached like a wraith, at first simply letting his presence be felt. Then, he stepped forward. His mass was a looming shadow that suddenly darkened the dancing light of the flames. His voice was a low, sandpaper rasp that cut through the quiet of her camp. "Evening, miss," he drawled, tipping his pinched front black hat in greeting. "It's quite a bold thing for a girl to be out camping all on her lonesome." He stood less than ten feet away, his hands subtly lingering near the revolvers hidden beneath the long draping folds of his coat. His cool gaze calculated her immediate reaction to his sudden appearance. He waited for the visceral fear. It was the terror that gave him the greatest thrill in this deadly dance. It never grew old.

With a flick of her wrist, Nora's Colt Sidehammer was out and pressed snugly against her hip for added stability. She always kept the small pocket revolver on her person, tucked away in her belt for such an occasion. With no time to get to her feet, she lay in the dirt with her back against the rock, her barrel aimed dangerously at the center mass of the stranger. Her gaze was focused and steady as she stared down the intruder. "Hands," she growled. "Lemme see hands."

The man froze, his eyebrows arching in genuine surprise. He had expected a whimper, a scream, or perhaps a clumsy attempt to run. Instead, she met him with a practiced hand and a cold stare. He slowly raised his palms, fingers splayed, though he did not attempt to move away. He felt a begrudging flicker of respect for the girl. She was clearly a survivor of sorts, and it made him all the more eager to find a way to claim such a novelty. "Easy now, darlin'. I ain't looking for trouble, just a bit of conversation and maybe a bowl of that stew. Assuming you're keen on sharing," he said, his voice smooth. All the while, his mind was rapidly trying to map out the fastest way to disarm her if things went south.

Nora staggered clumsily to her feet, her eyes and pistol never wavering from the stranger. Behind her, Sweetgrass snorted defiantly. "You were right, Sweetpea. I'm sorry. I should've listened," she conceded with a shaky exhale. Her dark hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion at the intruder. "Listen, sir. I don't normally mind strangers, nor do I mind sharing. What I do mind are those nifty little pieces on your hip I can see outlined under your jacket. If you wanna set those down by the fire real slow-like, we can have us a friendly introduction like civilized folk. Then, maybe we can see about feeding you and sending you on your way."

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. The girl was spirited, disciplined, and most importantly naïve. Slowly and deliberately, he unbuckled his belt, which supported two holsters on opposite ends. Each contained a loaded.45 Schofield revolver. He set them on a flat stone with a heavy clink and took a long measured step away, demonstrating they were safely out of his reach. Their twin ivory handles glinted like bone in dancing firelight. "Fair enough. A man can hardly eat comfortably with guns pressed against his gut anyhow. The name's Beau Mercer. And you are...?"

"Mary Coleson," Nora lied easily, the name practiced and prepared. She lifted her chin sharply in an informal greeting before returning her own pistol to her belt. She stuffed it haphazardly between the thick leather and her clothing. "Well, as long as we are being civil, Mr. Mercer, feel free to join me," she invited, her voice sounding lighter but no less wary. She moved toward her saddle lying near Sweetgrass and rifled through the side bags. Quickly, she fished out a couple of tin bowls and spoons. She ladled out a helping from the pot into each bowl. Guardedly, she offered one to the stranger, leaning awkwardly to maintain as much distance as possible between them.

He took the bowl with an easy grin, his fingers brushing against hers for a fleeting second. He noted the callouses on her hands. It was not the soft skin of a lady, but the hard-earned leather of a woman who worked manual labor from dawn until dusk. Each new detail of this strange young woman intrigued him further. It fueled a budding and dangerous focus on her that he had not anticipated. He took a deep sip, the rich, gamey flavor warming his throat and belly. "Fine cooking, sweetheart. Given the options out here in the middle of nowhere," he remarked conversationally. His voice lost some of its edge as he settled onto a suitable rock nearest to him. His pale blue eyes scanned the perimeter of her camp for any signs of companions he might have overlooked.

Nora did not miss the way the man methodically took in his surroundings. Something about Beau disquieted her in a deep and primal way, although she could not pinpoint exactly what it was about him that disturbed her so profoundly. He was imposing with a broad and muscular build, standing at what seemed to her as over six feet. His tanned skin looked weathered from years spent under the sun. Locks of sandy brown hair peeked out from beneath his hat and partially obscured his forehead. From under his stubble, she could see a faded scar that cut across his left cheek in an arcing crescent moon. But what was most striking about the man was his eyes. They were a piercing blue that seemed to easily discern her emotions while simultaneously concealing his own.

"Thank you kindly," she replied with mechanical politeness. She settled back onto her boulder, sitting opposite the stranger. Strategically, she utilized the campfire as a subtle barrier between them. Her posture was rigid, and her eyes were watchful.

Chewing slowly, he continued to catalogue every detail of the interaction. He took note of everything from the meal, the organized layout of the camp, to the way the woman never let down her guard. He noticed how she sat as if balanced and ready to spring. Her hand was never far from where she kept her little piece hidden. A young woman alone was rare enough. A lone girl way out here, where survival was a challenge for even the most experienced man, was damn near an impossibility. It did not take long for him to realize that she must be running or hiding from something. "So, Miss Mary, what brings a girl like you this far from civilization? This is real bad country to be out and about for fun."

"It is," she agreed. There was little water, no trees, wide open spaces with nowhere to hide, but above all, no people. She knew she could not sustain herself for long on this arid plateau. However, she intended to wait long enough to ensure any search parties gave up before she would venture south towards Flagstaff. Though after this chance encounter, she was reconsidering her plan. Tomorrow she resolved to move on and start the week-long ride to the forested town containing better prospects and more ample resources. "I'm just passing through," she added vaguely.

Beau raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Got an aversion to roads?" he asked almost teasingly, keeping his tone casual and friendly as if he were merely concerned about her safety rather than prying for details.

"Asking a lot of questions for a man who happens to be wandering the same empty desert," she replied. Her tone was light but unmistakably accusatory. She blew on a steaming spoonful before popping it into her mouth. Her intelligent eyes never left him for long.

He didn't react to her barb. If anything, it amused him. She was a bold little thing. He wondered if she knew who she was dealing with, whether it would change her tune or if she would be just as brazen. He suspected and hoped for the latter. The worn leather of his duster creaked as he leaned back to cross one leg over the other, looking every bit a relaxed predator. He knew he was still a complete enigma to her and appreciated the leverage it gave him. "Fair point. I won't press. I'm not intending to be a nuisance to someone gracious enough to share a meal with a stranger," he conceded, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I'm headed north myself. The air's cleaner in the mountains, and the company is... well, there's certainly more of it."

"Hm," she hummed with polite interest, choosing not to take the bait and offer any additional information about herself in exchange. "Didn't expect to meet anyone out here," she remarked plainly. "As you said, this is rough country. There are roads better served to get you where you're going faster than untamed brush. You got an aversion to roads?" she asked, throwing his words back into his lap.

Beau let out a dry chuckle, the sound like gravel sliding down a rocky hill. He took a hard look at her and observed the way she held herself. She had the quiet confidence that suggested she not only knew how to survive, but also how to outthink a problem. She looked young, possibly in her early twenties and small in stature. He suspected she was no taller than five foot two. Despite this, her body had a sturdy build with wiry muscle uncommon in most women he had known. She kept her dark brown hair in a tidy braid that extended down her back. Her skin was a soft bronze that mirrored the color of her hazel eyes, though he was not sure if that was her natural tone or if the sun had tanned her. Absently, he wondered how she would feel under his large, calloused hands.

For a moment, he found himself forgetting the darker intent he had for her when he had stumbled upon her camp. The thrill of the hunt was temporarily replaced by an almost compulsive desire to possess rather than destroy. "Some of us prefer the long way, darlin'. The roads are where the law likes to linger. I've always found any wilderness to be far friendlier than the justice-loving types," he noted casually. With this new little tidbit, he hoped to finally rattle her seemingly unshakable spine.

At this, her eyebrows rose. "On the run then?" she hazarded, doing her best to sound unphased. With a metallic scratch, her spoon scraped against the bottom of her bowl as she finished the last of her supper. Despite any attempted bravado, her heart picked up the pace.

He didn't answer immediately, opting to let the silence of the desert stretch between them. The sudden quiet was only punctuated by the occasional crackle of the fire. He watched the way the orange light played across her face, catching the slight hint of fear in her eyes. He did not admit to being an outlaw outright, but he did not deny it either. There was a certain power in ambiguity that he relished. "Let's just say, I've had a few disagreements with lawmen over the definition of 'property,'" he replied. His tone was laid-back, but it carried a heavy undercurrent of danger. He set aside his empty bowl and gazed northward. His mind drifted to his gang and the safe house waiting for him in southern Utah before his focus snapped back to the captivating girl across the fire. He would get there eventually and, whether she knew it or not, she was coming with him.

"Well, you keep those 'disagreements' far away from me and mine," she warned him, her voice lowering. Everything she owned was with her now. Most of it had been meticulously chosen, and all of it was pragmatic to the extreme. Any loss could spell serious danger for her chances of survival. Her fingers twitched toward her belt. She felt the need to be a little closer to her sidearm in case things took a turn.

Catching the movement of her hand, he felt a spark of excitement. Most people would balk, having been made stupid by their fear. But this woman was calculating. She was still assessing the risk of the man before her and determining to go toe-to-toe with him if required. He decided to play a different card, shifting instead to the act of a grateful and weary traveler. "Don't you fret, Miss Mary. I've got no interest in your gear," he assured her with the utmost sincerity. He raised his empty hands out in an open, placating gesture. "Thank you kindly for supper. I'd best be getting on my way," he said, his tone deceptively gentle. He stood slowly, keeping his movements predictable as he stepped toward his discarded weapons.

Nora watched him like a hawk while he reattached his gun belt. Her own hand rested on her pistol grip, poorly attempting to feign a comfortable posture rather than signal an intent to draw again at the drop of a hat. "Alright, you be safe out there. I'll be moving on tomorrow, so I doubt I'll ever see you again. Best of luck, Mr. Mercer," she bid him goodbye but made no move to shake his hand or make any other motion of friendly farewell.

The spurs of his boots clinked musically as he shuffled to adjust his belt, the weight of his revolvers returning to his hips. He paused to look at her over his shoulder, the pale moonlight adding an almost animalistic silver glint to his gaze. Even though he already intended to return later in the night, there was something about the girl, a kind of raw, untamed magnetism, that made him linger. He felt a strange unwillingness to leave her behind even if only for a moment. He found himself wondering where she was going and what she was running from. "Safe travels, darlin'," he drawled softly. His voice held a whisper of menace that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle and her spine straighten.

With that, Beau stepped into the night. As his silhouette melted into the darkness, the encounter left Nora deeply unsettled. Long after his departure, she found herself pacing the camp and peering incessantly into the desert for any man-shaped shadows lingering nearby. Her sentinel-like vigilance went on for several hours. Though eventually, the exertions of the day took their toll, and her body made its needs known. Reluctantly, she spread her bedroll onto the most pebble-free patch of dirt she could find. She dragged her saddle over to serve as a makeshift pillow and laid down. She gazed up at the stars for some time, finding a bit of comfort in their familiar, twinkling companionship. Her eyes shifted to Sweetgrass, who was already slumbering peacefully. Before she knew it, she too found herself fast asleep.