Louis L'Amour (10 page)

She was not weak. She could not be, dared not be. This was her battle, and she must fight it, win it alone.

Yet if something happened to her, what would become of Peg?

She must think of that coolly, realistically. It was all right to be brave, but what if her bravery destroyed her daughter? She was not one of those fools who believe they are invulnerable, that nothing could ever happen to her. Death had no respect for individuals. It came to the good, the bad, and the indifferent with equal indifference.

She must consider all aspects, for the man who was her enemy was utterly ruthless, would kill her without a qualm…or have her killed.

She was still thinking of that when the stage rolled into Cherokee Station and the door opened, light streaming from the stage-station door across the legs of the horses, the wheels, and the step she took down into the dust.

Wilbur offered her a hand down, then lifted Peg from the stage. Peg awakened, clinging to her hand. “Mama? Are we home?” she asked sleepily.

Mary Breydon looked at the shabby station. “Yes, honey, we’re home.”

“The little one is all in, ma’am,” Wilbur said. He removed his hat and wiped his brow with a sleeve. “Ma’am? If there’s anything I can do? Are you in trouble, ma’am?”

She looked at him with a wan smile. “Yes, Wilbur, I am in trouble, but it is my trouble. There’s nothing, nothing anyone can do.”

Gathering her skirt, holding Peg with the other hand, she took a step up to the stoop, then hesitated. “There is one thing, Wilbur. If you see any strange riders—you know the kind—will you tell me?”

When she had gone inside, Temple Boone came from the shadows near the corral. “What’s wrong, Wilbur?”

“Damned if I know, but something is. She wouldn’t admit to it, but she’s a scared woman.” He paused. “Boone? What d’you know about Jason Flandrau?”

Boone turned his eyes to Wilbur. “He’s been around. Right now he’s bein’ so sanctimonious butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he’s got a way about him. The way he takes in a street, the way he walks, where he sits…somewhere he’s given himself reason to be careful. Others may not see it, but anybody who’s been on the dodge knows the signs.”

“Stacy asked me what I knew about him. She says Flandrau killed her husband over to Julesburg at the time of the Cheyenne trouble.”

“I heard the talk. This officer—her husband—called him by name, and Flandrau shot him, quick as that.” Boone took a cigar from his pocket. “Flandrau said the officer had threatened to shoot him on sight, but the way I heard it, that officer never even had his holster unbuttoned. He never had a chance.”

Wilbur shrugged. “You make war talk, you’d better be ready to make war,” he said. “You know as well as me that if you threaten to kill a man, he can shoot you wherever he finds you. It’s simple common sense. What do we know about Flandrau?”

Boone lit his cigar. “What do we know about anybody? Folks don’t ask questions out here. It’s what you do, not who you were, that matters. The way I hear it, he’s a churchgoing man, doesn’t waste around with anybody but those who carry weight, who have the power. Only for a churchgoing man he was awful fast with that gun. Folks said he shot only once, but there were two bullet holes not an inch apart.”

“That fast, was he?”

“Fast and accurate, and you don’t get that good unless there’s a trail behind you somewhere.”

Temple Boone went into the barn. He glanced toward the tack room where Wat slept. Softly, he said, “Are you awake?”

“Yes, sir.”

“ ‘Sir,’ is it now?”

“Yes, sir. She’d like me to speak respectful.”

“Wat. She’s a good woman, and she’s in trouble.”

“Yes, sir.” After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “A couple of men rode by t’ other day. Nosin’ around. One of them was Turkey Joe Longman.”

“Know him, do you?”

“I know him. The other one is new. Younger, part Irish. Wears his gun on the left side, butt forward.”

“Notice his gun?”

“One o’ them Dance pistols made by the South durin’ the war. Looks like a Colt.”

“They were copies, but different. You’ve got sharp eyes, youngster.”

“He’s slick with it, too. That’s what I think. Turkey Joe kind of steps aside for him.”

“They didn’t see Mrs. Breydon?”

“No, sir. She kep’ from sight. They talked to Matty, and when they left, they talked like there’d been some mistake.” After a moment, Wat said, “They asked Matty if she come West by way of Virginia.”

“Thanks, Wat. You go to sleep now.”

He was spreading his blanket in the hay when Wat said, “Mr. Boone? We got to watch out for her. She’s new in this country.”

“We will, Wat. We will.”

B
RUSHING HER HAIR before the mirror, Mary thought back over the day’s activities. Mark Stacy, she decided, was a nice man and without doubt a good man at his job.

Deliberately, she avoided thoughts of Flandrau and her own problems. There would be time enough for that. Now she must think of her job. Mark Stacy might be pleasant, but he was also a division agent, or whatever they called them, and with him the division would come first, and that meant every station on the route. The Cherokee Trail, she had heard on the way out, was the toughest division on the Overland Trail. He was obviously skeptical about her ability to handle it. Not just her ability but that of any woman in what had always been considered a man’s job, so she would try a little harder.

Food along the line, as she had discovered while traveling it, was far from the best, so that was one mark in her favor. She decided then they would make doughnuts, and she’d make some cookies. It wasn’t much but would probably send the passengers on their way, pleased with what they had found.

Later, she would have a patch plowed or dug up, and she would plant a kitchen garden. It would help a little and would vary the fare.

Cleanliness first, good food second, and always fast and efficient service and correct timing. Coming West, she had discovered that if one did not rush through a meal, one left much of it behind. Hence, the food must be ready to serve the instant they walked through the door, and she would delay the teams just a little to provide for the time, to eat. Take the first team to the barn before the second was brought out. It was not the policy, but it would provide just the margin of difference. She would time the meals, time the changing of the teams. It could be worked out, she was sure.

Peg…she must think of her education, and there was no school close by. Marshall had read to Peg, and she loved it, so she would do the same. They had a few books, and when those were finished, there was the bookstore in town.

She asked Temple Boone about it at breakfast. “Does well, ma’am, mighty well. Folks out here are hungry for something to read. I’ve seen ’em memorize the labels on tin cans just for something to read.

“Never read much, myself. Seen a few plays from time to time. That
Hamlet
now, seen that one twice. There was some mighty fine talkin’ in that play, but folks were makin’ a lot of what they called his indecision, and that seemed kind of silly to me. After all, he had no evidence of wrongdoin’ there, only the word of a ghost.

“Now a man’s got to be reasonable. A man who would attack somebody or even accuse somebody on the word of a ghost would have to be off his trail mentally.

“A couple of years ago, back in St. Louis, a man killed another man with an ax ‘because the Lord told him to,’ and they ruled him insane. It’s the same thing. Hamlet wasn’t indecisive; he just didn’t have enough evidence for a sane man, so he tried to lead them to betray themselves.”

He sipped his coffee. “My mother was Danish, and she used to tell me stories, and one of them was a story about Hamlet. That’s an old, old story in Iceland, and there are many versions of it.”

“I would not have guessed you were Danish.”

“I’m not. Actually, although my mother was raised-up that way, it was her mother who was from Iceland. When I was small, I lived where the winters were long, and the winters were for story-telling close to the fire.”

“And your father?”

“He was from the Isle of Man, born a fisherman and a sailor on the deep waters. We had no books, so it was stories we told to one another, and I miss hearin’ those old yarns.”

“I am not a story-teller,” she said, “but often I read stories to Peg. You’re welcome to listen.”

“I’ll do that.” He paused. “Sometimes I think there were only a few stories and men told them over and over until the names were changed and the places. Maybe all the same stories are told in all the lands. I know I’ve heard an Injun tell stories of Indians that were the same as those I knew.”

“The Isle of Man? Then you’re a Manxman.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know where to look even if I had a map. Pa said it was somewhere off the west coast of Scotland.”

“Some night soon, we will read, and we will not wait for winter to come to tell our stories.”

T
HE STAGES CAME and went, and watching the hills and the trees became a habit. Someday a man would come, and with luck she would see him first. What would she do? What could she do?

The navy pistol she kept close at hand. One of the derringers was always with her. Each of them had two barrels.

Two shots, and she must be close.

Temple Boone came and went; sometimes, almost without her knowing, he was there and then he was gone. He talked but little, although occasionally there was news. The station at Virginia Dale had been attacked by Indians, a quick, sharp raid. They were there and gone before it was realized, but they drove off the horses, and the stage had to come on to the next station using the same tired horses.

“Don’t get caught outside,” Boone warned her. “Get in. Sometimes a shot or two will drive them off. Indians want to steal horses, but they don’t want to get killed. They might come at any time, but they prefer an attack at daybreak. Usually, there’s just a small bunch of them.”

Only a week later, the stage came rolling in on a dead run, and when it drew up at the station, Wilbur dropped to the ground. “Wounded man inside. Injuns shot at us tryin’ to stop the stage. We outrun ’em, but they nailed a passenger.”

There were five in the stage, and three had joined the shooting at the Indians, helping to drive them off. The wounded man was a soldier in uniform. “Headed for Fort Collins,” he explained as he was helped inside. “I don’t figure I’m hit hard, but I’m losin’ blood.” Mary was working on his shoulder, trying to stop the flow of blood when suddenly he looked at her and said, “You’re Major Breydon’s wife! From Virginia!”

She turned her eyes to his. He was a stocky, well set up man of perhaps forty years. She remembered him at once.

“Sergeant Owen? Barry Owen?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was captured and exchanged on a promise not to fight again in that war, so they sent me out to the frontier. Is the major here?”

“No, sergeant, he was shot, killed.”

“Oh? I am sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know.”

She finished binding his wound. Shakily, he got to his feet. “I am reporting for duty at Fort Collins, ma’am. Maybe I’ll get by again.”

It was not until the stage was gone that she remembered.

Sgt. Barry Owen had been among those who pursued Flandrau’s guerrillas!

But who would know that? Who would guess? Had he ever seen Flandrau? Would he know him if he saw him? Or…worse…would Flandrau recognize him?

Chapter 11

T
HE DAYS WERE long and hard. There were times at night when she fell into bed exhausted. There were meals to be prepared, the horses to be cared for, and always they were cleaning. Dust settled on everything, and there were times when she almost found herself sympathizing with Scant Luther and the filth in which he had lived. It would have been so easy just to sit down and let the days drift by.

Yet there were compensations, too. Matty never complained. She did her share of the work and a little more, she bantered with the passengers and the drivers, she teased, cajoled, and made a fuss over Wat until he finally began to loosen up, yet even then he said nothing of his family, nothing of where he had lived before. One thing he denied vehemently. His father was no outlaw and never had been.

Sometimes at night, she longed for the great four-poster in which she had slept at home. She yearned for a quiet afternoon drinking tea with occasional visitors from Washington and the gatherings at her home when officials from Washington mingled with planters from Virginia and occasional travelers from Europe. The beautiful gowns, the uniforms, the music, and the conversation.

Often, she paused in her work and looked with dismay at her hands, once so soft and white, her nails perfect. Now her hands were brown, and there were calluses. Could she ever make them beautiful again?

Most of all, she thought about Peg. What kind of a future would there be for her here? Of course, they still owned the land in Virginia. Battles had been fought over that land, the buildings burned, the stock driven off. It would cost many thousands of dollars to put it in a producing condition and to restock it. Certainly, more than she could earn here running a stage station.

Yet somehow it must be done. She wanted for Peg the graceful, gracious, pleasant life she had known when her father was alive and before the war had torn their lives to shreds.

“Matty,” she said suddenly, “when spring comes, we must plant some flowers. I miss them so!”

“And I, mum. Last night, I was thinkin’ back to Ireland again.”

Mary laughed. “And I to Virginia! Well, it does no harm to remember. Often I worry about Peg. I am afraid her life is so barren here.”

“ ’Tis no such thing, mum. She’ll see more kinds of folks here than ever she’d see elsewhere!”

“Like the Mormon man who wanted you for his second wife?” she said, teasing.

Matty flushed. “Ah, he’d no such thought, mum. He was but teasing, as you are now. But he had a nice smile, a smile from the heart, it was. A girl can always make do with a man who smiles from the heart, mum.”

Matty paused, putting down the cup she was drying. “Have you noticed Wat, mum? He’s taken to combing his hair before meals, and he washes his hands clean before drying them on the towel.”

Mary had been too busy to be lonely, and only occasionally did she stop to remember that life so suddenly gone that it seemed like a dream, like an enchanted time, as indeed it had been.

For all of that, what she did here was useful. It was essential, and
she
was essential. Had she been that back in Virginia? She might have become so, but when all went to pieces back there, she was but another pretty young lady with pretty gowns and a lot of would be beaus attracted by her father’s plantation, perhaps, as much as by her.

“It’s useful work, Matty.” She voiced her thoughts suddenly. “What we’re doing here can be important. These are busy people, but they are often lonely people, too. They are making a long, hard trip, and many of them have no idea what to expect at the end of it. We can leave them with a bright, happy memory, and we can give them a friendly welcome when they come.”

“ ’Tis my thought exactly, mum. Travelers are either lonely folk, all by themselves, like, or they are herded about like cattle, and a kind word is remembered long after.”

“We must have a word for each one if we can, Matty, and we must remember those who come again, as some will. It is flattering to be remembered and called by name.”

“Aye.” Matty swept a hand around. “We’ve changed it, mum. It was a dull, dirty room when we came, but now, with the tableclothes, curtains, and all, it’s a cheerful room. It’s a happy room.”

“And clean,” Mary agreed.

Mentally, she checked over the stage station, the corrals, the barn, the house. All had been swept, mopped, and cleaned. In the barns, the harness was neatly hung, as in her father’s stable. The stalls were clean, and there was fresh hay scattered on the dirt floor in place of the straw they did not have.

Tables had been set outside, ready for the incoming passengers, and inside, about the stove and the fireplace, pots were polished and neatly hung. It was a far different place from what they had come upon first.

Peg and Wat had helped, but much had been done by Ridge Fenton, the hostler she hired from Laporte. Grudgingly, at first, because he detested working for a woman, then with more enthusiasm, he accepted her way of doing things.

“Mr. Fenton,” she had said, “you may not like my way of doing things at first, but you are a reasonable man, a man of good judgment and discrimination. Let’s try it my way, and then if it does not work, we can always try another.”

She paused and then said, “Mr. Fenton, I understand you are from Virginia?”

“West Virginny, ma’am.”

“Did you ever get down to Virginia?”

“I did, ma’am, a time or two with my pappy. He taken me to see the capital city one time. Gran’pappy fit in the Revolution, and he wanted me to see what come of it and to see Mr. Jefferson’s home and Mount Vernon.”

“And did you not pass by a plantation named the Harlequin Oaks?”

“Surely did, ma’am. One o’ the finest places in Virginny. My pappy stopped by there to show me the horses runnin’ in the pastures behind those whitewashed rail fences and all. Some of the finest stock I ever did see.”

“Harlequin Oaks was my home, Mr. Fenton. My father owned it, and the first of my family settled there in 1660.”

Ridge Fenton took the pipe from his mouth. He was badly flustered. “Ma’am? You mean, you—”

“It was destroyed in the first year of the war, Mr. Fenton. Someday I hope to return and rebuild it as it was, but for the present I must work, make a home for my daughter, and we must survive, Mr. Fenton. My father taught me to be a survivor.”

“Well, I’ll be—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. I’d no idea.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Fenton. All that is past. Whatever there was at Harlequin Oaks was built by my ancestors. Whatever I have here I must build myself, with your help. And I shall very much need your help, Mr. Fenton. When I first arrived, I had some foolish notion that I must do it all myself, to prove myself. I now realize it cannot be done by one person. You are an experienced man, and Mr. Boone has said you are the best stock tender and blacksmith around. I shall value any suggestions you have to make.”

“Thanky, ma’am. I’ll do what I can.”

“Please do, and if you see something that needs doing, that your experience tells you should be done, do not hesitate.”

Jason Flandrau
…she had almost forgotten him, and to forget him even for a minute was a risk. He was somewhere about, and his entire career, even his life, was at stake.

Nevertheless, that was her affair. It was not the business of the Overland Stage Company or of Mark Stacy or anyone but herself. Nor must she permit it to interfere with what must be done at Cherokee Station.

Each morning after the first stage had departed, she made a brief tour of inspection of the stables, the corrals, and the horses available.

There had been Indian raids on several of the stations, and their horses were stolen. If that happened at Cherokee, as sooner or later, it must, what would she do? What could she do?

First, to survive the raid. Second, to get on with the business of the stage company.

She was thinking of that when Temple Boone rode in. “Mr. Boone, I was wondering what might be done if Indians run off with my horses?”

“Be thankful you’re alive.” He stepped down from the saddle. “You got some coffee on?”

“I do, and you’re welcome, but what about the next stage?”

“Unless you can conjure up some horses, they’d have to go on with a tired team.” He paused. “The nearest ranch with any extra stock is Preston Collier’s place. Have you met him?”

“I have not.”

“He runs several hundred head of stock over there. Got himself a big, mighty beautiful house. White columns and all. He’s also got a wife and two snooty daughters. Pretty girls, but to me pretty is as pretty does, and they don’t do much but go to parties, balls, and teas.”

“What is he like?”

“Collier? He’s a decent enough man, active in politics, ranching, gold mining, and such. Spends a lot of time in Denver. He’s a rich man who keeps busy gettin’ richer, but he’s straight. He’ll have no truck with trickery or double-dealin’. He sets store by his horses, won’t have them misused. Any stock tender who gets rough with his horses gets his walkin’ papers.”

“Would he lend me horses if I needed them?”

Boone shrugged. “Ma’am, that would be between you and Collier. I know he refused Scant Luther, refused him point blank, and ordered him off the place.

“Him and Ben Holladay butted heads a few times, so he’s got no use for the stage company. Never rides it, either. Has his own teams and drivers, as you’d guess.

“He must have eight or ten coaches and surreys, and sometimes, when he has folks visitin’, they go for picnics back in the hills with servants in white coats to serve ’em. You’ve never seen the like.

“Everybody who comes from back East seems to head toward his home. Most times he has three or four visitors there, politicians, army officers, European noblemen huntin’ big game, that sort of thing. But aside from bein’ bull-headed about anything of Ben Holladay’s, he’s a reasonable man.”

“Then if I needed horses, it wouldn’t be much help to talk to him?”

“I’d advise you to forget it, ma’am. Even if you got to see him, the fact that you work for Ben would be against you.”

When they were seated over coffee, he asked casually, “Had any visitors lately? Men ridin’ alone?”

Apprehension was her first feeling. Keeping her voice calm, she said, “No, not really. Should I have?”

He drank some coffee. “Saw some tracks on the trail, but they turned off just before they came in sight of the station. Seems the rider took to the hills, and a thing like that makes me curious. So I sort of follered them. Seems like he scouted around in the brush and trees up yonder, like he was lookin’ for a good spot to watch the station.”

“An Indian?”

“He was ridin’ a shod horse, ma’am, and that usually spells white man, although an Indian ridin’ a stole horse might have one that’s shod. I’d bet on it this was a white man.”

“Did he find the place he wanted? If so, could I see it from here?”

“You couldn’t see it, but if you look up there, you can see that tree, the last one in the row? He’ll be somewhere right at the base of that tree, maybe restin’ his rifle on the stub of a broken branch or somethin’.”

Casually, she looked around, located the tree. “How far would you say? One hundred and fifty yards?”

“You’re a good judge of distance. I’d guess that would be right close.”

“My father taught me to shoot a rifle and shotgun. He used to take me hunting.”

“Ever kill anything?”

“A deer…I cried.”

Boone smiled. “Man’s a predator. He’s a hunter by instinct. I suspect he’s taken his livin’ from the wild animals and plants as long as he’s been around. But he was a hunter first, bred to be a hunter.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I didn’t suspect you did. But think on it. All the predators have their eyes lookin’ forward to keep their eyes on the hunted. The game that’s hunted has eyes on the side of their head so they can watch better. You take notice, ma’am, the wolf, the lion, the bear, all animals that hunt others have eyes lookin’ straight forward. So does man.”

“I don’t like to think of that. I hope we’ve gone beyond such attitudes. Isn’t that what civilization does, Mr. Boone? To teach us to live together in peace?”

“I reckon that’s the ideal, ma’am, but all folks don’t become civilized to onct. There’s some of us lag behind, some of us have to protect the rest of you civilized folks from those who haven’t gotten beyond the huntin’ stage. When a man comes at you with a gun or a knife or a spear, you don’t have much time to convince him that he’s actin’ uncivilized, and he isn’t likely to listen. That’s when you yourself become uncivilized in a hurry or you die.”

“I wouldn’t want to kill a man.”

“No decent-minded person does, but if there’s somebody up on that ridge with a rifle who is about to kill Peg’s mother, you’d better kill him first.

“You see, ma’am, when a man sets out to rob and kill, he’s strikin’ a blow not only at you, at Peg, Wat, and Matty here but at all civilization. He’s striking a blow at all man has done to rise from savagery.

“I’m not a scholar, but the way I see it is that men have learned to become what we call civilized men by stages, and every child growing up retraces that pattern during his lifetime.

“There’s a time when youngsters like to play capture games, a time when they like to build play houses and huts, if it is only to put a blanket over a couple of chairs and crawl under it.

“There’s a time when they like to make bows and arrows, dodging around and hunting each other. Hide-an’-seek is one way of doing it. After a while, he grows beyond that stage, or most of them do.

“Some folks just lag behind. They never grow beyond that hunting and hiding stage. They become thieves and robbers.

“Only a few years ago, a young man could go to war, and if he did enough looting or captured enough horses or arms, he could come home a rich man. Most of those who originally had titles over there in Europe had them because they were especially good at killing and robbing and were given titles for doing it in support of their king.

“Well, we’ve outgrown that. Or some of us have. The others are still lingering back there in a hunting, gathering, and raiding stage, and if you meet one of them alone in the dark, you’d better remember he’s not a human being but a savage, a wild animal, and will act like one.”