Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (20 page)

But he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have what John-Pierre had—a wife and a child, with
another on the way
.
A family. People who need and depend on him
.
His brother had the
luxury of worrying about the safety of his wife and child. Hughes would never know that luxury. Worrying about someone who needed him would alter the way he thought—the way he reacted—with dangerous consequences. He knew the luxury of unencumbered work, and the excitement of a new mission.
 

He drummed his fingers on the table, a familiar restlessness rising up from within. His mother had sent a message of her love without an invitation for him to come home for a visit. Father was at home, ill and resting, his brother had said. All these years later and he was still not welcome there. He understood. And really, he didn’t miss it, that place he used to call “home.”

Hughes slugged down the rest of his coffee and then strolled out of the station café over to where the mare stood tied. She was saddled in expensive hand-tooled tack with roses, oak leaves, and acorns carved into the dark, oiled leather. The polished brass fittings gleamed, the stitching straight and perfect. Matching saddlebags hung on both sides, and a bedroll and slicker was affixed to the cantle. She was shod and ready to go, just as he’d requested.

Hughes opened one of the saddlebags to store his small valise inside. There was barely enough room
.
The saddlebags were stuffed full of his mother’s usual gifts she mailed to his hotel: linens, money, gold coins, pewter plates, things every Ranger might need on the trail.
 

Shoving his left boot into the stirrup, he swung over and settled down into the saddle.
Now this—this feels like home
. He smiled. Turning away from New Orleans Station, Hughes relaxed into an easy trot, the fine morning mist burning away as the early autumn sun warmed his back, following him west.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

O
CTOBER
26, 1860

The robust stage driver pulled the frothy mules to a stop and climbed down from his perch. He swung the coach door open, grabbing the closest bag of mail in his gloved hands. “Well, boys, this is the end of the line. Welcome to Saint Joseph, Missouri.”

“Can you tell us where we can find the Pony Express stables?” Barleigh lowered herself from the dusty cab of the wagon, hefting the saddle up onto her shoulder. A mixture of anxiety and excitement bubbled within, and she took a deep breath, hoping to keep those feelings subdued.

Stoney followed close behind with his dirty bedroll. Two thick straps of greasy brown leather held his belongings together, keeping the contents inside from spilling out—a tin cup, a fork, a threadbare, button-less coat.

Without slowing his rhythm of slinging mailbags out of the stagecoach and into the waiting arms of a lanky kid wearing a postal clerk’s uniform, the driver grunted a few words and thumbed over his shoulder, indicating the large cedar and brick structure behind him.

“Much obliged, sir, and thank you for the ride,” said Stoney, tipping his hat as the two strode over to the stables.

The building’s arched entryway was wide enough to accommodate a wagon or a team of horses being moved about. An overhead sign read “Pike’s Peak Stables.” Inside the cavernous barn, the smell of sweaty horses, manure, sweet oats, oiled leather, and alfalfa hay mingled together to create a heady aroma. The aroma induced both melancholy and feelings of comfort at the same time. Barleigh felt right at home.

“Excuse me, sir,” Barleigh said, walking over to where a sprite, balding man with a quick pitchfork was filling hay troughs. “We’re looking for the Pony Express Stables. This sign here says Pike’s Peak—”

“You’re in the right place. The Central Overland California and Pike’s Peak Express Company, also known as the Pony Express. Name’s August Olsen. What can I do you for?” He kept forking hay into the feed troughs, yet his welcoming smile and friendly style invited conversation.

“Well, sir, Mr. Olsen, sir, I’m Stoney Wooten. This here’s Bar Flanders. We came to hire on as Pony Express riders.” Stoney held out the waybill advertising the job, the same type of paper that blew down the street in Fort Worth and landed at Barleigh’s feet.

“You can call me ‘August.’ I’m the station manager,” he said with a slight Swedish accent. “You need to see Mr. Waddell about applying for a job. He’s the owner. One of ’em, anyway. There’s three of ’em.”
 

“Where can we find Mr. Waddell?” Barleigh asked, keeping her voice measured.

“Over yonder at the Patee House. The big four-story hotel two blocks east ’o here on the corner of Twelfth and Penn Streets. You can find the Pony Express office there. Tell Mr. Waddell I sent you.”

“Thank you, sir,” they both said, turning to leave before Olsen’s words drew them back around.

“Dangerous job, you know. What makes you boys so eager to be Express riders? Risking death daily? Orphans preferred? Those aren’t just words on paper.” August Olsen leaned on his pitchfork, his clear gray eyes not blinking.
 

Barleigh shuffled her feet, kicking at a clod of dirt on the ground, waiting for Stoney to answer. Letting Stoney act as the spokesperson was going to be the best strategy in keeping her identity hidden, she’d decided, and Stoney never seemed shy about speaking up.
 

“It’s mighty good wages for sitting on a horse,” Stoney said. “Hell, I done that for free all my life. Now someone’s willing to pay me to race a pony back n’ forth? That’s a risk I won’t mind taking, considering the high wages offered.”

“Know what you’re getting into, boys. This ain’t a frolicking pony ride in the park,” said August, raking a dirty sleeve across his bald head. “There’s many risks to consider. The harsh weather—your bones freezing in the winter—the sun baking you alive in the summer. Monotony. Boredom. Riding fourteen hours—hunger. Long stretches of teeth-itching thirst. Thunderstorms. Blizzards. Midnight, galloping full out over hazardous terrain where you can’t see shit. High noon, the glare of the sun burning your eyeballs that are already scratched to hell from dust and sand. And, if that’s not enough risky excitement for you—you’ll be ducking from angry Indians and dodging gun-slinging outlaws.”

“I’ve faced bigger risks dodging my pa’s drunken fists,” Stoney said as he turned on his heel and hurried out of the barn.

“Much obliged, sir.” Barleigh rushed after Stoney and they headed east toward the Patee House Hotel.

The red-brick, four-story building with white wooden arches and ornate carved window moldings was a short two and a half blocks from the stables. On its wide, columned front porch were ladies under parasols taking afternoon tea; they were seated at dainty tables to the left and to the right of the center steps leading to the double arched entryway doors. Moving up and down the steps entering and exiting the hotel was a hectic network of hatted, suited men scuttling about as if on critical business requiring urgent attention.

Upon entering the hotel, Barleigh glanced around and spotted a door at the end of the main hallway. The etched glass on the upper half of the door showed a mounted rider bent low over the neck of his pony running at full gallop.

“That looks promising,” Stoney said, pointing down the hall. “Let’s try that office.” The boy from Frog Level, Arkansas, dirt and dust marring his face and clothes, marched with his shoulders back, head high down the fancy corridor among the well-suited businessmen. He walked with the posture of one moving among his peers.
 

The brass nameplate on the door read “Russell, Majors, and Waddell – COC & PPEC.” A shadow moving against the etched glass—a muffled voice stammering on the other side of the door—paused when Barleigh knocked.
 

“Come in,” boomed a voice from inside.
 

Taking a deep breath, Barleigh filled her lungs, letting the air seep out slowly. Her hand on the doorknob, she breathed in again, held it a moment, then, turning the knob, strode with purpose into the light-filled room, which shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

“May I help you?” The nameplate on the desk belonged to Mr. William Bradford Waddell. The stocky man sat in an ox-blood leather upholstered chair with brass nail-head trim. He had a pleasant face despite the corners of his eyes and his mouth being slanted downward in a perpetual pout.

“Yes, sir. We’re here to apply for the job.” Stoney held out the waybill advertisement. “We’re your new Pony Express riders. Sir.”

Mr. Waddell leaned back in his chair, chewing his unlighted cigar between clenched teeth. “You with the saddle, what’s your name and age?”

“Bar Flanders, sir. Eighteen.”

“And you?”
 

“I’m Stoney Wooten, sir. I’m also eighteen.”

“What’s your story, young Mr. Flanders? Orphan? Runaway? Experienced at riding and shooting?”

“Orphan. Expert rider, accurate shot.” A blush began to blossom and she fought hard to force it down. Bragging on herself was awkward, but the truth was the truth.
 

“You’re small for eighteen. I took you for fourteen, maybe fifteen. But the smaller the better for faster riding. Less weight for the horse to haul around. And you, Mr. Wooten. What’s your story?”

“I ain’t no orphan, just not welcome at home no more. I growed up on the back of a horse and ain’t never fallen off. Mounted, at full gallop, I can shoot a rabbit and only waste one bullet. That’s if I don’t have a rock and a slingshot to use first—which I prefer. I’m pretty handy with hurling stones. That’s how I got my name, Stoney. I don’t remember my given name. It wasn’t used much. I think it was Walter. Or maybe I just hoped it was that and not Owen. Owen’s my pa’s name.”

“One of you is mighty sparse with your words, the other quite generous,” said Waddell. “Well, tell you what. We’re holding tryouts a week from tomorrow morning at eight o’clock at the Express stables if you’re interested in applying for the job.”

“Yes, sir. What’s the tryout?” Barleigh asked.

“We hold tryout races every other Saturday of the month. It’s become quite the spectator event—a popular opportunity for friendly wagering among the locals. So far, they’ll be five riders competing, including you two. You’ll mount your horse, ride to the Ellwood ferry, and take it across the river—race to the Troy relay station, dismount, shoot at two marked targets, remount a fresh horse, and then race back here. If it’s a tie for first place, which hasn’t happened yet, the winner will be the rider who returns with his horse in the best condition as determined by August Olsen, our station manager. Any questions?”

“How many riders out of the five get hired on?” Stoney asked.

“Two. One other we might use as a stock handler. Anything else?”

“How far is Troy Station?” Barleigh asked, shifting the saddle from one hand to the other.

“Fifteen miles from Ellwood Ferry. Fifteen miles back. My curiosity’s gotten the best of me. Why are you carrying that saddle?” Waddell asked, using his unlit cigar as a pointer.

“A midnight storm spooked away my horse. This belonged to Uncle Jack. He’s dead now.” Hearing herself speak those words aloud gave Barleigh a peculiar sensation, and she lowered her eyes.
 

“I see. Well, if you need a place to sleep, tell August I said to give you an empty stall in the barn. The hay’s soft and the company’s better than what you might find at the local tavern. I’ll see you both there a week from tomorrow morning. Good luck in the race. And, try to stay out of trouble for a week. That’s the hardest part for young riders.”

“Thank you, sir,” they said in unison.

After leaving the office of the COC & PPEC, Barleigh decided a bath after four days of dusty traveling in an enclosed coach would be the perfect end to the day. She dropped her saddle off at the stables and got directions from August Olsen where to get a bath.

“I can’t afford a bath,” said Stoney, jingling the coins in his pocket. “I’ll just head down to the river and wash up there. Save your money and come with me. River water’s free.”

“Thanks just the same. A long, hot soak in a bathtub is five cents well spent.” She’d have paid twice that.
 

*****

Most businesses in town were decorated in red, white, and blue bunting in anticipation of the presidential election a few days away. Doors and windows were draped, posts were wrapped, ribbons hung from awnings, and contentious arguments filled the air.
 

“Let’s go to the saloon,” said Stoney. “We’ve been here all week eating nothing but beans and cornbread. I need something more substantial before the tryouts tomorrow morning. I think I can afford a slice of baloney if they slice it thin.”

Walking to the saloon from the stables, they passed several different groups of men standing around on sidewalks or gathered around porches, all involved in heated debates about the election. Barleigh kept her ears open and her mouth closed, though she was tempted to throw her opinion into the argument. She felt in her heart that Abraham Lincoln would be the best leader for the country. If she were a man, that’s who’d get her vote.
 

“Take your pick of tables, friends. The place is pretty quiet tonight. So far.” The bartender continued to wash glasses as he spoke, looking up once when he first heard the doors swing open and shut. “What can I get you?”

They sat at one of the two tables by the front window to watch the people walking by. In town a week and both Stoney and Barleigh still marveled at the mass of people moving about. The one other person in the bar was sitting at the other window table, apparently also enjoying the view.
 

“Bring us two steak plates and two beers, please.” Barleigh wondered what beer tasted like
.
“And two coffees.” A manly meal.

“Steak? We’re not Pony Express riders yet,” Stoney said, laughing out loud. “Make mine a plate of fried taters and a thin slice of baloney if you have it, and a glass of water.” He jingled the change in his pocket. “Baloney budget, not steak budget.”