Louis L'Amour (3 page)

He looked toward the house. He would like a cup of coffee, but to go there now might frighten them, and that Irish girl had a pistol. He eased his belt gun into a better position and tightened his coat around him. It was chilly, mighty chilly. What had he gotten into this for, anyway? It was none of his business. If a woman wanted to come out here and take a job like that, she should expect trouble.

A very pretty woman, too. And a lady. Anybody could see that. Her way of looking at you, the way she gathered her skirts, the way she moved—

One of the horses blew softly, showing alarm. Boone took a fresh grip on his rifle and looked around carefully, searching every shadow. Some of those horses were broncs, wild stuff broken to drive. They were as alert as any wild animal would be.

Nothing…no sound, no—

It was just a whisper of sound, some coarse material brushing against something else. The corral bars? Perhaps.

Mentally, he swore. He was not in a good position for quick movement. To rise up now would make some sound, however small, and if it was Scant Luther come back, he would not be alone.

Then, so close it scared him, he heard a faint whisper. “She’ll have the door barred.”

“I say take the horses an’ go. That’s a good bunch of stock.”

“Like hell! What d’you think I brought this whip along for? We’re goin’ in there! Hell, that bar don’t mean nothin’! I lived here too long! I can get that bar out of the way! What d’you think I done the time Buck passed out in there? Him with the door barred? I got in, didn’t I?”

“I don’t like it, Scant. What about that Boone feller?”

“Aw, he’s long gone! What would he stick around for?”

“Maybe he’s gettin’ sweet on her. He taken up for her, didn’t he?”

They moved away, and Boone reached up, grasping one of the corral bars to pull himself erect. He had an urge to shoot, but beyond them was the house, and a bullet from his rifle would go through several inches of pine, and he might injure one of the women or that little girl. A man with a gun had not only to think of what he was shooting at but where the bullet might go if it missed, and almost any kind of a gun might carry up to a mile.

If he could just get across the corral and come up on their flank—

He rested a boot on the lower pole, then the next. Quickly, he threw himself over and landed on his feet on the soft earth inside. His boots made a soft
thump
as he landed.

A boot grated on gravel, and someone whispered hoarsely, “What was
that
?”

Luther’s tone was impatient. “A horse, damn it! Just a horse stampin’!”

Like a ghost, Boone crossed the corral. They were at the house now. Luther said he could unbar the door from the outside.
How?

There might be a crack in the door through which a stick or a stiff wire might be slipped to lift the bar. Of course, when it fell, it would make a sound, but they would be inside before there could be any reaction.

He hesitated. Should he take a chance and go over the corral bars? Or should he shoot from the partial protection of the corral? It was a little safety to be traded for increased mobility, and he wanted to go over. They would be doubly alert now. One of them thought he had heard something, and also, as they were nearing the house, their every sense would be alert.

Inside the house, Mary Breydon turned restlessly in her half sleep. Her robe, which she had kept on, had tightened around her legs, and irritated by it, she had half sat up to free herself from it when she heard a faint scratching from the door.

Instantly, she was on her feet, tightening her robe. The sound was coming from the door.

Frightened, she stepped into the room. What should she do? What
could
she do?

Suddenly, unbelievably, the bar seemed to lift of its own volition. It tipped back, then fell to the floor with a thump. Instantly, the latch lifted, and men plunged into the room. Turning swiftly, without thinking, she caught up the coffeepot and with one sweeping, swinging movement, threw the scalding coffee into their faces!

A man screamed as the scalding coffee struck and began pawing at his eyes as if he would tear them out. Another wheeled and plunged through the door, fighting to get out. At the door, he tripped and fell sprawling, and Scant Luther leaped over him to get into the room. Dropping the now-empty coffeepot, Mary grabbed up the broom but did not swing it. At the moment it came into her hands, she remembered something the major had told her long ago, and as Luther lunged to grab her, she thrust hard with the end of the broomstick.

The thrust caught him in the pit of the stomach, and he stopped, gasping for a breath. Swiftly, she struck again. Out of wind, his wild grasp at the broom failed, and he took a glancing blow to the face that ripped his cheek.

From outside, there was a shot, then another one. Luther scrambled for the door, and she struck him again, this time with the business end of the broom.

Matty appeared in her door, pistol in hand.

Mary Breydon stopped, staring after them, half sick with fright.

“They’re gone, mum,” Matty said. “You did ’em in.”

From outside, there was a sound of running, then of horses charging away into the night.

Temple Boone appeared in the doorway, rifle in hand. He stepped inside, picking up the now-empty coffeepot. “Now ain’t that hell? Just when I wanted a good cup of coffee!”

Chapter 3

M
ARY AWAKENED IN the first gray light of day and lay still, staring up at the ceiling and trying to organize her day.

She had moved in and taken charge, and she had survived that and her first night. The word that she was a woman would by now have reached Mark Stacy, who was division agent, and running a stage station was no job for a lady. That would be his first thought. Yet she had taken charge, and she had fired Scant Luther. No man could have done it better.

Yet he would be coming soon, and what he must find was a better station. No, not a better one. It must be
the
best. It must be neat, clean, with good food ready to serve when the stages arrived.

The teams must be changed promptly, the barns must be clean, all the mess Scant Luther had left must be cleaned up.

How much time did she have? A day? Two days? She might even have a week. There were other stations, and Stacy was a busy man.

The station first, for here they would feed the passengers, handle the mail and any shipments there were, and that would be the first place Stacy would notice. Above all, good food, served hot, something passengers could go away talking about.

They had begun cleaning but had barely touched the work to be done. That needed to go forward.

Next, an inventory of what supplies were on hand and what was needed. A careful check of the stables to see what needed to be done. At that moment, she thought of her father.

Sitting up in bed, she swung her feet to the floor, feeling for her slippers. “Thank God, papa,” she whispered to herself, “you never had a son!”

He would have been shocked to hear her say it, but had there been a son, she would never have learned how to do so many things that now she knew. He had loved having her ride out with him in the morning, and she had learned how to handle horses, how to keep a stable, even how to use a whip.

“This will all be yours someday,” her father had said, “and you’d better know how to run it. If the man you marry is no better than some of those I’ve seen coming around here, you will need to know.

“And, honey, you handle your own affairs yourself. Manage your own money. Let nobody else do it no matter how well they think they can handle it. Always keep your own money in your own hands!”

Luckily, Marshall had agreed. Even before they were married, he assured her, “Keep what’s your own. Our children will have something to start with no matter what. I’ll take care of you.”

They had not planned for a war. They had not expected the lovely plantation to be devastated, the buildings burned, fences torn down, stock driven off by guerrillas.

She would check the supplies in the station storeroom, the tools, the harness, the horses, and the feed situation. In the kitchen, she sat down and made a list of things that would need doing. Only then did she bathe and dress.

When she returned to the kitchen, Matty had coffee on and was preparing breakfast. “I found some bacon, mum, and there’s eggs.”

“Matty? I don’t want to frighten you, but keep your pistol where you can reach it.”

“Yes, mum. I don’t frighten easy, mum. I grew up with four big brothers and had to fight for it all until they were growed enough to respect me.” She filled Mary’s cup. “They were troubling times, mum, and there was many a time when I wished for a gun but had none.”

There was a tap on the door, and when Matty opened it, Wat was there, and behind him, Temple Boone.

Mary hesitated, looking into her cup. It had to be done; she must ask them because she must have them. She could not do it all alone.

“Wat? Would you like to work for me? Here?”

“Yes, ma’am, as long as it’s men’s work.”

“It is. The first thing will be to clean the stable.”

“That’s a mighty big job for one man,” Boone protested. “I mean, the way Luther left it.”

“I can do it.” Wat looked up belligerently. “I’ll want five dollars a month and found.”

“Do a good job and I’ll pay you ten.” She lifted her eyes to Boone. “How about you? Are you looking for work?”

“No.” He spoke quickly, and something seemed to give way inside her. She could not do it alone. The outside work would be too much. “But I promised myself I’d stay on and see you get settled. I might ride over to Bonner’s. I hear tell there’s been a man rustlin’ work over there.”

“Neither of you will probably want to help when you hear what I have planned.” She paused again. “I want this job. I need this job. I’ve got to have this place in such shape by the time Mark Stacy gets here that he’ll have no reason to discharge me.”

“He’s a reasonable man.”

“Do you know him?”

“I do. He’s a widower. No family. Eats, sleeps, and breathes this stage line.”

“A young man?”

“Depends on where you start countin’. I’d say he’s about forty. I’d say he’s young enough to see that you’re a mighty handsome woman.”

She flushed and looked straight into his eyes. “I am not thinking of that. However I may look is not going to help me one bit on this job. It will be what I do and how well I do.”

“You’re right about that. Stacy will see you’re a pretty woman, but like I said, he lives this stage line. If you’re not doin’ the job, he wouldn’t keep you on if you was Cleopatra.”

“I would feel the same way, Mr. Boone. What I want to do is have this place spotless and working efficiently by the time he gets here.”

She drank the last of her coffee. “Matty? Fix him some breakfast. He’s going to work.”

Boone started to speak, then turned toward the table. “You heard the lady, Matty. Breakfast it is.”

Outside, the sun was bright. For a moment, she looked around. The cottage over there, that was where she was to live, but that could wait. The corrals, at least, were well built. She walked past them to the barn and hesitated at the door. It was literally a mess.

The earth floor was covered with old horse manure, with trampled hay and straw. It had not been cleaned in weeks, probably in months. There were no horses in the stalls. Frowning, she turned to look at the corrals.

Six horses…and she had a stage coming in this morning. She looked again. That was the team that had brought her into this station, and they should have more rest.

“What will I do with the manure, ma’am?”

Wat had come up beside her with a shovel whose handle was taller than he was.

“Put it out back of the barn for now, Wat. I may use some of the older material to fertilize a garden.”

He looked at her. “A garden, ma’am?”

“Yes, Wat. If we are going to feed people here, we have no reason not to raise our own vegetables. At least, we can try.”

Temple Boone was walking toward her. “I can help the boy,” he offered.

“Mr. Boone? Shouldn’t there be more horses? That’s the team that brought us in last night. I assume they are fit to take a stage out again, but it would be better if they had more rest. And what if one of them was indisposed?”

He smiled at the word but looked thoughtful when he glanced toward the corral. “There should be more horses here, ma’am. In fact, my horse should be here.”

He paused, and glancing at him, she saw his eyes had lost the lurking smile. “You’d better let me handle this, ma’am. But you’re right. There should be at least six more horses in that corral aside from mine. That Luther’s been a lot of things, but I didn’t think he was a horse thief.”

“That’s a very serious accusation.”

“It is, ma’am, but a man who steals a man’s horse can steal his life. Many a time a man’s horse is all that’s between him and a mighty ugly death. We don’t have much patience with horse thieves, ma’am.”

“The law—”

“Ma’am, I respect the law. We need it, but we don’t have any more protection than we can give ourselves. There ain’t an officer of any kind within a hundred miles, and even if they were around, they can’t act until after the fact, ma’am. After your horse is stole or you’re dead, they can hunt down those who done it, but you’re just as dead as if there was no law. Any man who steals my horse has bought hisself a ticket.”

She was thinking, frowning a little. “Mr. Boone? Do you think Scant Luther would steal from Ben Holladay?”

“He’d be careful, mighty careful. Ben’s not a man to fool around with, and Scant’s not one to take chances.”

“What facts do we have, Mr. Boone? Six horses, seven, including yours, are missing. You say Scant is no fool, so where are the horses?

“Suppose,” she suggested, “he planned to steal them but did not want to take chances? What would he do?”

Boone pushed his hat back on his head. “Well—I reckon he might just drive those horses off, not too far, mind you, an’ hold them where he could produce them if need be. Then he might wait to see what happened.”