After plying that dunderhead with enough whiskey to choke a buffalo, she took his horse and rode north, returning the next day, Clayton nursing a pounding headache and none the wiser that she’d been gone a lot longer than promised. It gave her a thrill to know she alone knew where the gold was hidden, and it wouldn’t be easy to find, nosiree.
But upon returning, she realized what would happen if Hank looked for his stash and found it gone. He’d question her, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to lie with enough convincing. Which made her go through with the plan she’d had all along. Her next opportunity, she used her feminine wiles—and another bottle of whiskey—to loosen Clayton’s tongue to learn where that week’s robbery would take place. And once the gang rode out of town, in the dark of night, Lenora slipped an itty-bitty note under the sheriff’s office door.
Imagine her surprise when news spread through town the next day that there had been a confrontation at a bank in Colorado Springs, with a goodly number of outlaws shot—none other than members of the notorious Dutton Gang. Sadly, Hank hadn’t been among the dead, but at least he’d been caught—along with Clayton “the Blade” Wymore and that simpering chucklehead Billy Hill Cloyd—who couldn’t bear to hurt a flea, even though he was a better shot than Clayton and Hank combined.
Lenora checked her reflection one last time, figuring her wagon would be ready by now. She’d paid the boy triple the usual to make sure all her bags and boxes were neatly packed and ready for her departure. She’d be able to get as far as the turnoff to Coyote Gulch up the Poudre canyon, but from there she’d have to unhitch the horse and ride the last few miles to the cabin, which was situated up against a wall of rock above some of the biggest rapids on the river.
After pulling her satchel out from beneath the mattress, she stuffed her makeup and handkerchief in, then strode out of the room, her nose assaulted with the stale odor of cheap cigars and even cheaper perfume. Wind brushed branches against the cobwebbed windows that lined the walls near the long mahogany bar below the red plush-carpeted landing she marched across. She stepped over one drunk, who was lying facedown and blubbering something incoherent. She heard a loud snoring from the door on her right and lightly flounced down the staircase, eyeing the few patrons holing up inside the saloon on this stormy day. Most were nursing drinks and shuffling cards. Probably waiting to watch the hanging—along with everyone else in Denver City.
The varnish on the banister railing had been worn down by the thousands of grimy, greasy hands that had drunkenly gripped it over the years, which made Lenora look forward to gracing the proper, upstanding hotels of San Francisco. There she would pursue her dream to act on a stage—a real stage, not some rickety, termite-infested saloon platform. She was meant for the stage, and had talent. Oh, no one had told her such, but she’d fooled plenty of folks with the roles she’d played throughout her life. She had more acting experience than anyone on Broadway in New York City, she figured. She’d even chosen a stage name: Stella Twilight. Wasn’t that just divine? It meant the stars in the sky—or something akin to that. She met a saloon gal once upon a time by that name and thought to use it someday. She would be that star on the stage, come hell or high water, yesiree.
A glance at the newspaper on a nearby poker table showed headlines announcing the hanging. Already a crowd was gathering outside, their excitement building just like the storm. She had chosen to stay the night in this saloon on Blake Street for its proximity to the square, the courthouse visible from the front door.
She positioned her shawl over her head, pulled on her long leather gloves, and ventured outside. Upon opening the saloon doors, she was hit with a blast of cold wind and a splatter of rain. Overhead, mean, thick black clouds hung, ready to dump their wrath upon the earth. A big smile lifted her cheeks. Soon, she told herself. California, here I come!
Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the street. Rocks and rubble flew into the air the next block down—where the jail was. Shouting ensued, and then gunshots. Lenora ducked under the saloon’s porch overhang, ready to bolt back inside, when she heard someone shouting and the rumble of horse hooves pounding down a nearby street.
“They’ve escaped!” a man yelled.
Lenora clutched her heart. Oh no! She prayed the man wasn’t talking about Hank. How could they escape? She gritted her teeth. Clayton’s brother . . . He wasn’t a member of the gang, but he lived in Denver City, and he was a locksmith. He’d been useful when they needed to jimmy a lock. He owned some fast horses too. She hoped she was wrong and it was some other prisoner that had gotten out. She pursed her lips and grunted. Well, there was plenty of law around. Even if Hank got out, he wouldn’t make it very far. He’d be caught before he hit the city limits.