Candice did not care. She was devastated, and not just because of Kincaid’s abuse. Her heart was broken, and the pain she was feeling vanquished all other considerations. She was wondering more and more if she was in love with Jack. She knew Jack had to become a part of her past—her forgotten past. She couldn’t be in love with him, because it would be hopeless. There would be insurmountable problems, not the least of which was her family, and they would surely disown her. She wanted to cry but it was pointless. Savage’s hate-filled words and his hate-filled eyes, his cruelty—“bigoted little bitch”—kept haunting her, torturing her. He had meant every word. He hated her. And the worst part of it was that he was right.
Then there was Kincaid.
He was ruthless. She did not doubt for a second that if she tried to escape or betray him, he would come after her—and then punish her. The other day he would have murdered Jack in the blink of an eye while he was too drunk to defend himself, if she hadn’t stopped him. She had no doubt. And she knew there was only one solution.
She would have to bide her time and wait for the perfect opportunity to kill him.
She had almost murdered him once. This time she would have to succeed.
At times this cold, deliberate scheming, mixed with the pain she felt over Jack, kept her from thinking about last night, about Kincaid’s brutality, about the horror of rape. At other times the horror resurfaced, making her tremble, making her feel sick. All she wanted to do was close her eyes, find sleep, and escape reality.
Because there were five other passengers besides herself and Kincaid, he treated her courteously and did not assault her at night, where the sleeping arrangement were communal. Yet she was always aware of his too-intimate touch and his hot eyes—his lust. She dreaded reaching their destination—which was, after all, El Paso—not San Francisco, as Kincaid had told Maria and everyone else. He hadn’t even let her wait to see her family.
At least for now she had a respite. If he fondled her occasionally when no one was looking, or stole a hot, hard kiss, it was better than being raped.
On their fourth night they camped at the way station at Apache Pass. By this time the only other woman on the stage was a zombie from fear, and nothing her husband could do could take away the corpselike pallor of her skin or still her trembling body.Apache Pass. It was almost eight treacherous, narrow, rugged miles long, and every inch of the way afforded the Apaches the perfect opportunity for an ambush. Tiny gorges and arroyos and canyons fell off the pass, and in one of these canyons, to the north in the Dos Cabezas Mountains, it was rumored that Cochise often camped with his warriors.
The pass cut through the Dos Cabezas Mountains and the Chiricahua Mountains, connecting the Sulphur Springs Valley in the West with the San Simon valley in the east. For as long as settlers had been using the pass, and the trappers and trailblazers before them, it had been a dreaded place. Its name, Apache Pass, was synonymous with death. Apache attacks, murders, massacres
Now, of course, Cochise protected the stage and the whites traveling through the pass. If was not unusual for Chiricahua warriors and squaws to trade at the trading post established at the way station. Still, everyone knew about the other murderous Apaches, just east of the pass, led by Mangas Coloradas, and that other crazed warrior, Geronimo. And even Cochise could not be trusted. He was Apache—wasn’t he?
The station consisted of a stone corral built in an L-shape. At the southwest corner of the corral were the kitchen and sleeping quarters. At the west end, built on the inside of the corral, were the storage rooms for grain and food, firearms and ammunition. The springs, which were the reason Indian and traveler alike used the pass, were located about a quarter mile east of the station. The station was located halfway through the pass, on the north side of Siphon Canyon.
Candice ate in silence and retired for the night. She was aware of Kincaid’s hateful presence on the pallet next to her, but he left her alone, and she fell into a sleep brought on by emotional exhaustion. The night passed uneventfully, and the stage set out at the first light of morning.
It was still early, and just warm, but soon it would be stifling hot, and the narrow, rocky, rutted descent from the pass was barely behind them. They were emerging from Siphon Canyon, and ahead of them stretched out a sea of brownish grass, gnarled mesquite, and yucca trees. The mules plodded steadily, untiringly. They were a little over halfway to El Paso.
The attack came with no warning.
At one moment everything was calm and peaceful, and there was nothing but the sound of idle conversation, the squeak of wheels, the jangling of harnesses. And then the air was split with that wild, weird Apache war cry—a cry Candice had heard not too long ago and that even now filled her with terror.
The stage was stopped as the Apaches rode at a gallop around and around it, firing, at random, both bullets and arrows. Candice was on the floor, having been yanked down by Kincaid, who was firing back through one window. But she had seen one of the drivers tumble from his seat above the stage, and she had seen the painted, frenzied faces of the warriors before she was pushed down.
“How many are there?” the passenger Davis said tensely. He had taken up a position on the opposite side of the coach from Kincaid.
“Maybe twenty,” Kincaid replied, as another bullet tore into the coach. “Wilson’s shot.”
“Where’s Harris?” Davis was asking about the other driver as he carefully fired out the window.
“He’s safe—beneath the coach.”
Candice recovered her wits and sat up. “Virge—give me a gun.”
He glanced at her briefly, then fired again.
“Here, lady, take this,” Davis said, grabbing a frightened passenger’s derringer from him as he lay huddled on the floor.
Candice took it, checked to see it was loaded, met Kincaid’s glance coolly, and carefully crawled up onto a seat, inching toward the window. Her heart was pounding and she was terrified, but she had a weapon—and she knew how to use it.
“Use your ammunition carefully,” Kincaid told her.
She nodded, fired, and missed. “Damn it.” She wouldn’t miss again. And she didn’t.
Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and the Apaches were tireless, seeming to come from all directions, unyielding and almost erratic in their onslaught. Two other men and a woman passenger huddled on the floor, whimpering in fear, while Davis, Kincaid, and Candice took careful shots. It was difficult to hit the Apaches. They would come in for a shot hanging over the far side of their horses’ bellies, shooting from beneath the neck. It was a losing battle, only a matter of time, Candice thought, before she and the rest would run out of either ammunition or courage.
Davis screamed, and Kincaid and Candice turned as one to see him being pulled out of the other door of the stage by a painted warrior, his throat slit and blood pouring out of his carotid artery. Candice screamed, but Kincaid was fester, firing at the warrior, who either ducked or collapsed simultaneously.
And then she felt hands clasp her from behind, as she was pulled out of the coach from the door on her side. She staggered as the slim warrior pulled her into the battle. The noise was terrifying. There was the sound of more firing, the pounding of galloping hooves, and the never-ending war cries, but the din had escalated by many, many levels. Candice realized she held the derringer in the folds of her skirt, and she raised it and shot her assailant in the back of the head. She ran.
