Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

Utah Territory. Indian Territory. There were a lot of miles and mountains to cross before getting to Carson City. Barleigh’s hands trembled as she studied the map of the trail.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

N
OVEMBER
3, 1860

Journal Entry: Saturday night. The sun will rise at my back tomorrow as I head west into that gaping frontier which waits beyond the outer fringe of civilization. From studying the map Mr. Waddell gave us, we’ll follow the Oregon Trail most of the way until it leaves us in the vicinity of the Great Salt Lake where The Trail then climbs to its Pacific north-western destination. Stoney and I will press westward.
 

Mr. Waddell says the Oregon Trail is well established by fur trappers, traders, and emigrants that have gone before in their oxcarts and wide-wheel wagons. Our swing stations and home stations are marked along the trail and will be easy to identify.

Tonight, my restless thoughts feel as loosely bound as our fractious country. While the North and the South appear near to tearing apart, the Pony Express chomps at the bit, eager to stitch together the east to the west. Perhaps this swift mail delivery will hold open the lines of communication between America’s opposite shores and will serve as the instrument that holds our tenuous Union together.

This night may be my last opportunity for some time to write in my journal, as I don’t know what to expect from here forward when each day is done. My journal is the one place where Barleigh can exist. Maybe it would be best if I put away my pencils, stowed my journal, and kept Barleigh safely out of sight.
 

But I can’t
not
have a journal with me. I feel itchy even at the thought. I’ll take one plus a pencil or two, wrapped together, and will carry them tucked inside my shirt.
 

Tomorrow begins our long trek to Carson City. I’m excited, nervous, and anxious—but at the same time, I feel blank and empty. Even laughter and polite conversation have posed a challenge. I feel like a forgery. A phony. And for good reason. I’m pretending to be a boy. Am I also pretending to be human? A hollow shell awaiting to be refilled with feelings and emotions is what I am.
 

Longing is the singular sentiment that keeps me faintly tied to myself with a thin thread. I remember nights at Coffee Creek Ranch, Papa and Birdie sitting in front of the fire, me on the floor, Papa reading to us from the newspaper. Oh, Papa …

Embers of longing, however faint they glow, are best kept buried. Feelings such as those have the potential to become disastrous distractions. I cannot afford distractions.

I must think things through. Look beyond the immediate. Keep the end goal in sight. Stay focused on the Pony Express and being Bar Flanders.

Yet tonight my mind wanders …

Hughes Lévesque is a handsome man, but there is something about him that seems intense—unreal—as if he doesn’t share the same flesh and blood as other men. He’s above it. He is set apart, and he knows it, though his unflinching confidence doesn’t give way to haughty arrogance.
 

It’s in his eyes. They know the world’s secrets yet reveal nothing of their own.

It’s good that tomorrow I’ll put him behind me. He’ll go on about his life, and I mine. I’ll not live in danger of his eyes uncovering my secrets.

I am, after all, a boy.
 

I’m Bar Flanders, a young, skinny, wiry fellow not over eighteen, an expert rider willing to risk death daily.

An orphan. Nothing more.

******

Early before dawn, Stoney and Barleigh filled their bellies at Miss Sallie’s fancy dining table at her insistence. At her insistence, too, they filled their saddlebags with plenty of biscuits, smoked ham, venison jerky, and dried apples for their journey.

“Did you feed those boys well?” Mr. Lévesque walked into the kitchen as they finished their breakfast in the other room.

“Fed ’em well, I did,” Miss Sallie said with a hearty laugh. “That blond-headed Stoney, I don’t recollect ever seeing someone so skinny eat so much. And, I’m sending them off with plenty to take with them, too. Stoney and the other little ’un, Bar, who looks too young to shave, are headed to Utah Territory to Carson City.”

Mr. Lévesque sounded surprised. “Carson City? I assumed they’d be assigned this station.”
 

Miss Sallie continued. “Ford, the freckle-faced tall one, is staying here. He took off just a minute ago for the stables. I told him to come back anytime for a visit and a hot meal.”

“That’s kind of you, Miss Sallie. Well, I stopped by to pay these boys’ tab. How much do I owe you?”

“Three dollars and seventy-five cents, for all three.”

“There you are. Please keep the change. Now, I need to post a letter in the mail. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
 

“If you’re going,” Miss Sallie said to the sound of shuffling papers, “you can be a dear and save me the trip. Bar left this letter for me to mail along with mine. I was going to go later on, but . . .”
 

“I’d be delighted to.” Hughes took Barleigh’s letter. “Thank you again, Miss Sallie.”

From the other room, Barleigh overheard the conversation. She wished Miss Sallie hadn’t done that. Should there be cause to worry? No. Surely Mr. Lévesque would take the letter she wrote to Aunt Winnie and mail it, right and proper, just like Miss Sallie would have done. No cause to worry. Time to go. Time to head to the stables. Time to get on with being Bar Flanders. No time to think about the nosy, frustrating Mr. Hughes Lévesque another second.

*****

Standing in the shade of a large oak tree behind the post office, Hughes took his Rezin Bowie knife from inside his right bootleg and slid the gleaming tip of the blade under the seal, careful to open the envelope without tearing the paper. It was addressed to Mrs. Winifred Justin, Hog Mountain Ranch, Palo Pinto, Texas. He removed the thin sheet of paper and held it between thumb and finger, brought it to his nose, detected a faint trace of maple syrup, noticed a sweet, slanted, feminine penmanship, and smiled.
 

My Dear Aunt Winnie,

Mission accomplished. I’m a Pony Express rider. I’ve been assigned a relay route in the Utah Territory. I’m traveling with another rider, Stoney Wooten from Arkansas, a fine fellow and companion who takes me at my word, which makes me feel horrible at having to deceive such a nice and trusting person. But I have no choice. Please kiss Starling and give Deal an extra-large bunch of carrots for me. I hope you are well. I miss you and think of you every day. You may write me in care of the Pony Express, Carson City Station, Utah Territory. Please do, and tell me how you are, how your sons are, how the ranch and the cows are. There is one thing I must tell you that I am very sorry about. King ran off, frightened by a bad thunder and lightning storm. It was our last night camped on the trail. Things were going so well until that night. I pray you’ll walk out onto your porch one fine morning, coffee cup in hand, and King will be there standing at your fence gate waiting to be let in, having found his way home.
 

Maybe one morning, you’ll find that I’ve done the same.

Love and laughter,

Bar (leigh)

He replaced the letter into the envelope, then took a pencil and paper from his saddlebag and added his own note:

Dearest Mrs. Justin,
 

This is Hughes Lévesque writing. I’ve (obviously) located Barleigh. She doesn’t know that I’ve added this letter for the reasons I shared with you the day I met you. Thank you again for trusting me, and for telling me of Barleigh’s plans. I find her to be a remarkable and brave young lady, along with a very fast rider—she stayed at least a day’s ride or more ahead of me until Fort Smith, Arkansas. If there had been another seat available on the stage, I’d have taken it, but I was able to make it to Saint Joseph in good time.
 

I telegraphed her mother that I’ve found her daughter and what she is now undertaking with the Pony Express. Leighselle’s immediate reply was to ask that I keep an eye on Barleigh and to keep her safe, if that’s possible. As I feel I was making a promise to a friend who is on her death bed, it’s the least that I can do. Although, knowing how dangerous this endeavor of hers is, I am of the opinion that I should inform Barleigh of her mother’s predicament and bring Barleigh back to San Antonio.
 

My business in St. Joseph has flexibility, so now I’m off to Utah Territory and will do my very best to make sure Bar (leigh) Flanders stays safe while I remain in the shadows. I will write again and update you once I get to Carson City.
 

Respectfully – Hughes Lévesque
 

*****

Journal Entry: Tuesday, November 6, 1860. While the rest of America voted on our next President, Stoney and I dashed our ponies across the plains, never once discussing it. It flat never crossed my mind, until now. Fort Kearney in Nebraska Territory is as far as we mustered today. One hundred miles horseback over rough terrain and at fast speeds wears on you after ten hours, which is how long it took from Saint Joseph to here. We changed to fresh mounts at Troy, Log Chain, Seneca-Smith, Marysville, Cottonwood Station, Rock Creek Station, Thirty-Two Mile Site, and then rode into Fort Kearney tired, hungry, and far too excited for our sore muscles to register a complaint.

We are Pony Express riders, the first leg of a very long ride now behind us.

We took turns bugling our arrival as we approached each swing station, and sure enough, fresh horses awaited us saddled and ready to go. The previous day’s mail runner alerted the station managers there would be two riders next coming through. We would hop to the ground off our sweaty, panting horses, pull off the mochila, swing it onto the saddle of the new mount, climb back aboard, then away we would race at a gallop, taking advantage of the fresh horses’ enthusiasm.

I anticipated privacy issues regarding bathroom breaks, but today, I managed to put off taking care of personal business to when changing horses at the swing station during our ten minute lunch stop where an outhouse was available.
 

Stoney was afflicted with an upset stomach much of the day after drinking bad water at Fremont Springs station, and four times had to stop and drop his trousers right on the trail, the diarrhea hitting with embarrassing quickness. His stomach lurched and churned; however, he managed to do his throwing up from the saddle, even while at a full gallop. It troubled me that I might be likewise afflicted and I’d have to drop my trousers. My mind worried over this for a while, but my stomach didn’t betray me.

Off to sleep. We ride far and hard tomorrow
.

*****

Journal Entry: Fort Laramie was our intended goal today, but Chimney Rock station was as far as we progressed before exhaustion called a halt to today’s ride. Rough and undulating terrain made walking and trotting the practical pace for much of the distance, but water was plentiful and prairie grass was abundant, so the horses didn’t suffer doing without, and we kept our canteens full.

Swing stations are stocked with grain for the horses which gives them more energy than horses on a simple grass-only diet. If we encounter danger on the trail such as Hostile Indians, our instructions are to not fight them but to outrun them. Our grain-fed ponies are quite capable of that.

The mail must go through, and the mail cannot go through if the Express riders are busy engaging Indians in a shoot-out.
 

Let the pony do its job. Let the pony RUN. I’m quite content to put space between me and Hostiles
.

*****

Journal Entry: Last night my journal remained unwritten in, fastened underneath my shirt next to my skin. Sleep was the one thing my body could manage, and it managed that fully clothed and flat-out on a pile of hay out in the stables. I was too exhausted to drag myself from barn to bunkhouse, satisfied to sleep with the horses.
 

After a tedious day’s ride that ended with a long descent down a steep hill, we rode into Devil’s Backbone at near midnight. The jagged and broken ridge of the giant sandstone boulders silhouetted against the moon’s glowing sky looked much like a malevolent serpent.
 

We slept for four hours, rose before the rooster crowed, and after a quick cup of thick black coffee and a hard biscuit, we were back in our saddles, pushing nearer to the Great Basin and farther away from the Sweetwater River Valley where it joins the North Platte River.

The mail went on without us as it must, the relay rider assigned to this leg of the route racing off with the mochila and into the darkness of the night as we slept. Our duty carrying the letters is done thus far until we get to our permanent relay home station. Our duty now is getting there safely and with the same urgency as if we still rode astride the mochila.

Hundreds of emigrants we’ve passed along the Oregon Trail, many camped at the Sweetwater River Valley where they’re making their final ford across before beginning their trek northward toward Oregon.

Stoney and I kept our ponies noses pointed west. At day’s end, we found that we’d completed an astounding one hundred twenty miles, ending up in Millersville Swales, one of the home stations along the route. The supper offered was delicious, the bed warm, and the stabling accommodations more than adequate.