Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (24 page)

We are at a confluence of where the Great Plains meets the Great Basin as we prepare to leave Kansas Territory behind and enter into Utah Territory. I’ve enjoyed seeing herds of buffalo here and there along the trail, but didn’t spy any today.
 

Yesterday, in the area of the North Platt River in the Sweetwater River Valley, an enormous herd of buffalo grazed on the western side of the Platt. From my advantage of witnessing the scene from a distance, it first appeared that the yellow prairie grass was dotted with shadows of clouds drifting across the plains. With a suddenness that surprised me, the clouds transformed in an instant into giant hairy beasts stampeding across the earth. The concussions from their flying hooves shook the ground beneath my horse.

I wondered what spooked the grazing animals into a frenzied stampede, wondered if it might have been Indians on the hunt. I stayed jumpy, anxious for the rest of the day, with a heightened awareness to potential dangers.

While water and grass has been abundant on the plains, the danger in the Great Basin is its dryness. The swing stations have water brought in on ox carts, but between stations, there may be long stretches where creeks, streams, and gulley run dry.

Throughout the Great Basin, there are more rumors of water than actual water, so where you find yourself on the fortunate side of a rumor, the lesson is to drink up and fill up canteens. The next rumor of water may be false.
 

The plains Indians we’ve encountered along the way have been friendly, curious, and non-threatening, though we’re always at the ready to spur our ponies away from potential trouble.

The massacre on May 7th at Williams Station in Nevada, where four station agents were murdered, followed by the May 12th Paiute Indian uprising at Pyramid Lake, where seventy-six local volunteers lost their lives trying to quell the violence, serves as a reminder to never let down our guard. We’ve been reminded of these incidents by every manager or attendant at every station we’ve ridden through.

After the Paiute Indian War, mail service was suspended temporarily; however, by early this past June, reports of hostilities dropped off as military patrols increased, allowing the Pony Express to ride again.
 

Temperatures are dropping. Winter’s frost now covers the ground each morning, the mountains capped in white. Having only seen mountains in paintings and in books, I understand why they inspire artists and poets. Majestic and formidable, yet we must get to the other side.
 

*****

Journal entry: Leaving Millersville Swales this morning left me a touch melancholy. It felt like a home should, warm and inviting, despite the fact that it’s also a stage stop and a Pony Express home station. The proprietor, Mr. Holmes, read aloud from the Book of Mormon, a religion with which I’m not familiar, and his comely English wife played the fiddle after she served our breakfast of boiled potatoes, sliced onions, and scones with jam. Missus Holmes’ direct personality reminded me of Aunt Winnie, and I felt a pang of homesickness. I thought of Starling the majority of the day.

At first, Stoney tried to engage me in conversations. He has since given in to my silences. “I understand it ain’t your way to talk a lot,” he had said. “I don’t mind doing the talking. Just nod a time or two, if you will, to show you’re still alive.” I nodded, and he laughed.

If ever passing this way again, I must remember Cache Cave, a dark, deep tunnel in the rock just beyond the watershed of Bear River. It’s a fine place to shelter away from the path of wild weather, dangerous animals, or hostile Indians.

For at least twenty miles we rode hugging the base of a tall red cliff, the area known as Echo Canyon. The road was smooth, hard packed, and descended at a graceful slope which allowed for intervals of full-out gallops interspersed with long trots and steady walks. We covered that ground fast.

We arrived at the summit of Big Mountain early afternoon with another fifteen miles yet to go to Salt Lake City. The spectacular view played upon my senses, the dramatic colors of mountain, forest, and valley painted vibrant against the azure sky. The piney smell of clean, pure air deep in my lungs, the soft tickle of cool wind on my skin, the echo of water rushing and spilling in its fall down the mountain filled me with joy. I found myself without a need for words—there were none adequate in my vocabulary to describe the beauty before my eyes. I dismounted, stood next to my horse, and stared for a good while.
 

An Overland Stage was at that moment preparing for the seemingly impracticable descent down the perilous slope. The passengers, five of them, were made to walk. It would have been too dangerous to ride inside the sliding, bouncing coach which might at any given moment turn into a run-away. Also, lightening the load for the poor mule team which must control the Stage’s descent was the proper thing to do.
 

The driver rough-locked the wheels by shoving a long wooden plank between left and right rear wheels and left and right front wheels, then roping the planks together and tying both pieces off at the tongue, keeping the wheels from turning. The mules hunkered down and tucked their tails to the ground, thus keeping the coach from hurtling down the mountain. Born to the task, the six big-boned beasts executed the maneuver without a protesting grunt.

Stoney had nodded toward the travelers, his eyes bright. “This moment calls for a wild spectacle of bravery. Let’s give these fine folks something to write home about.” Then, he pulled upward on his reins, causing his horse to rear up like a trick pony.
 

I found his exuberance contagious. We waved our hats in the air and whooped like wild banshees as we rode our horses over the pass and straight down the mountain. The passengers of the Overland Stage whooped, too, shouting out words of appreciation to the Pony Express riders’ show of bravado.
 

I enjoyed our performance, the rush down the mountain filling me with a surge of vitality. I felt—alive.

After descending Little Mountain, steeper than Big Mountain though not as high, we changed horses at Emigration Station, and then rode straight into The Great Salt Lake City as the sun was preparing its graceful descent down the other side of the earth.

The Salt Lake House is a home station for the Pony Express. It’s also a wonderfully appointed hotel that sits right across the street from the post office. There’s a large corral out back with a long row of stables, and next door is the City Bath House and Bakery.
 

We checked in with the station manager, Mario Russo, a dark skinned, dark eyed, miniature Italian sporting a thick tuft of salt-and-pepper hair that circled the back of his head from ear to ear. He was relieved to see us, he said, with a sincere, toothy white smile. Word from the west coast warned of an early winter storm moving in from the Sierra Nevadas. In preparation, he had sent two of his experienced riders on west ahead of us to take the vacant positions at Carson City to which Stoney and I had been appointed.

“This be as far as you go,” he said with a thick accent, an excited waving of his arms punctuating his words. “Next door you get you a bath, you get you some bread if you’re hungry, you don’t pay for it, they charge it to our tab, you then come back here. I’ll show you where you bunk over at the Hotel.”

I don’t know if I’m relieved that Salt Lake House will be my home station or disappointed that I’ll not see and experience more of the trail. Compared to some of the stations we’ve encountered, some no more than a dug-out or a roofless shed, I’ll be living in the lap of luxury, so I should be thankful.
 

I’ll be the rider who carries the mail west, riding roughly one hundred miles where I’ll wait at Fish Springs to bring the east bound mail back to Salt Lake House. Here I’ll transfer the eastbound mail to Stoney who’ll ride east back to Millersville Swales where he’ll hand it off to the next eastbound rider, and then Stoney returns the westbound mail to me at Salt Lake where off I go west again to Fish Springs. And so on …

Stoney and I each have our own small beds since we’re The Riders. Two upper and lower bunks are shared in the same room with two horse breakers and two barn assistants whose names I’ve not yet learned. This arrangement might prove tricky, but I’m learning the fine art of subterfuge.

This is “home” for now.

Goodnight.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

N
OVEMBER
13, 1860

The Great Salt Lake stretched across the cold, semi-arid desert to the north and west of the city, while the rugged Wasatch Mountains lined the horizon to the east, creating a pastoral valley ripe for growing crops and crosses. Simple wooden symbols marked the graves of those who didn’t survive the winter, or the desert, or the Indians, or the birthing, or the influenza. Crosses sprung from a gunslinger’s bullet or a kick from an untamed mustang—from the dark, cold, silent loneliness—from the myriad ways death crept in and took what it wanted.

But crosses did not adorn The Temple.

“Those damned Mormons pulled the cross off the Baptist church again last night,” said Mario Russo as he led a dark bay mare out to be saddled. “Just because they don’t decorate their buildings and books with the symbol of the cross don’t mean others can’t.”

“No, sir.” Barleigh ran a hand down the mare’s leg, concerned about a small cut on the cannon bone, but pleased that she detected no heat or swelling. “You sure it was them?”
 

“Who else would it be?” Mario worked with quick, skilled hands, completing the task of saddling and bridling the mare in less than a minute. “Latest I heard too was that they’re trying to shut down all the non-Mormon owned businesses. You tell me, but that’s not right.”

“No, sir.” She leaned her back against the horse, tucking her thumbs in her pockets. “I remember once, back in Texas, white settlements were attacked, people murdered, homes burned, livestock stolen. Folks blamed Indians, because Indians were known to do that kind of thing. But that one time, it wasn’t Indians. It was white outlaws using Indians as scapegoats. Lots of innocent people died, whites and Indians alike, because of those false accusations.”

“You’re saying it might be Indians? Not the Mormons?” Mario scratched his head, a look of confusion clouding his dark brown eyes.

“No, Mario. I’m just saying not to jump to. . . . Never mind. I’ll get this mare some water.”
 

Barleigh returned to the stall with a bucket of water and an apple for the horse and found Mario perched on the stall’s half-wall partition, a concerned look on his face. She fed the apple to the horse, the mare chomping the sweet treat in one bite.

“Sir?” she asked, worried. “You all right?”

“You sure you’re ready for your first midnight run, boy? Got the rhythm of the trail down pat? Know all your markers?” asked Mario.

“Yes sir. I know the trail,” she said with confidence.

“It’s different at night. The shadows, the sounds, the smells change. You swear you’re coming up to a right bend in the road when a left bend will sneak up all of a sudden and throw you smack into a creek. The night, she can play games with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Barleigh listened, attentive.

“Bad weather’s moving in, too. You’ll see snow before sun-up.”

“I’m ready for it,” she said, wrapping her thick, woolen scarf double around her neck, tucking the ends into her waterproof, oiled canvass slicker that hung to her spurs.
 

“This might not be the regular run o’ the mill correspondence you’ll be carrying tonight. This just might be the run everyone’s waiting on, the one with the big news.”

“I hope so,” she said. She was as anxious to hear the news as everyone else.

At that moment, the sound of pounding hooves tearing up the ground caught their attention. Looking east, a horse and rider approached at full gallop. Dust hung in the air behind them like sepia-colored ribbons and sparkled in the golden glow of gas lights that softened the frosty night.

A yellow bandana tied around the rider’s neck billowed straight out behind like a banner. His buckskin shirt and coat were covered in dust. Canvas trousers along with the leather tapaderas that attached to the stirrups and protected the rider’s feet were splattered with mud. Beaded fringe that edged the outer seam of his gauntlet-style Cavalry gloves stuck out like colorful spikes. A wide-brimmed, Mexican-style hat was pulled down tight on his head, cinched snug under his chin with a big silver dollar bolo.

“It’s Lincoln,” he shouted as he reined his sweaty horse to a stop, vaulting to the ground before the horse’s feet quit moving. “Lincoln’s our new president. Ain’t that something?”

“That’s sure something.” She grinned and slapped Stoney on the back. “So is your fancy get-up.”

“The riders back east wear this.”

“They do? Along with the sombrero?”

“No. This is my special touch. I can fix you up, if you want.”

“I’ll save my money, thanks.”

Mario already had the mochila pulled from Stoney’s horse and swung in place across the bay mare’s saddle as Barleigh stepped her left boot into the stirrup and mounted, ready to ride off into the night with the important news for which the West Coast hungered.

“Don’t forget, this mare, she is hot. She’ll buck-trot till she’s good and warmed up,” Mario advised. “Give her more slack than you would to most hotheads. She’ll come unglued if you go to yanking on her mouth. But be ready when you feel her relax. That’s how she tricks you just before she explodes. You best to be hanging on or she’ll leave you embarrassed and sitting in the dirt.”