Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (35 page)

A tangle of emotions caused Barleigh’s breath to catch, and she struggled to keep her words even. The thought of heading back to Texas had been planted in her mind—the notion of not riding anymore, of quitting the Pony Express.
 

“After I find Stoney,” she said, “it might be a good time for me to leave—to go home.”
 

Mario patted the mare on the neck. “You’ll like Little Brownie. She’s surefooted and swift. Take an extra bedroll and an extra canteen of coffee. The nice warm day we enjoyed today was a teaser. There’s a nor’easter blowing in. I can already feel the change.”
 

He fixed the bugle and both canteens to the saddle horn and tied them with the latigo, then put an extra coat inside the bedroll, reattaching it to the cantle. “Lars or Liam can fill in if you’re not back in the morning. We’ll talk about you going home after you find Stoney.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks, Mario.”
 

“I’m glad you got that damned sombrero on. That wide brim will help keep the snow off you,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

Barleigh gave Mario a salute, touching the edge of her hand to the sombrero, and nodded. “Yes, sir, it will.”
 

“Be careful, son.” Mario drew the barn doors closed against the chilling wind.

Reining the mare around, Barleigh rode east, following Stoney’s mail route. A few stars poked holes into the darkening sky as a cold, gusty wind from the north spilled over the Wasatch Mountains, shaking from the sky a few fat snowflakes that fell hard to the ground like round, white coins.

The way into Parley’s Canyon felt familiar, and Little Brownie seemed to know the way. The route was clear and solid, the footing good, the pace even. She kept the mare at a fast, steady trot, listening, calling out Stoney’s name, listening again, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
 

Through Emigration Canyon, up Mountain Dell and Big Mountain Pass, thoughts of the first time they rode into Salt Lake played across her mind, the excitement she and Stoney had felt at nearing the end of their first long ride. They had whooped and hollered, putting on quite the show of it for the travelers in the Overland Stage coming down Big Mountain Pass.
 

Like a wild banshee, Stoney’s lusty whoops had filled the air. Waving his hat at the travelers, he’d dropped his horse right over the edge of the mountain, fearless, and rode it down like he was floating on a river current. The exuberant expression he’d had on his face was pure joy. Recalling that day, that ride, his happiness, as she covered that same ground on Little Brownie, Barleigh hardened her resolve to find him.

At Webber Canyon Station, she caught up with Big Brody and Yates, who had stopped to rest and change horses. She had changed once at Mountain Dell and decided to change again, too, even though her pace had been slow and steady, the horse not yet played out.
 

“We’re going to double back from here,” said Brody. “They say Stoney never made it this far, that Big Mountain Pass was the last he checked in. I’m riding a bit off the trail to the north; Yates is riding a bit off the trail to the south. What’s your plan, Bar?”

“I’ll make a few circles around Webber Station, maybe go as far as Echo Canyon, and then come back here by morning,” she said. Stoney could be anywhere in between if he was hurt.
 

It was near midnight when Barleigh left Webber Station, snow falling nonstop and covering the ground several inches deep in places, deeper where the drifts blew against rocks and trees. The woolen poncho hung from her shoulders, draping over the saddle, covering her legs all the way down to her boots.
 

In the upper elevation, the snow was more powdery than what fell down in the valley, the horse having to push through it instead of walking over a sold pack. The temperature dropped throughout the night until it settled near zero, hovering there until morning when the sun’s rays offered the air slight warmth.

Riding northeast from Webber Station, Barleigh aimed for the foothills of the Red Bluffs that ran in an obtuse line against the level plane of the Webber River Valley. From there, she circled around to the northwest, then crossed Echo Creek and headed south, making a sweeping circle of the icy valley as she curved northeast again to her starting point.

The moon cast a slight illumination across the snow, allowing some light to shine on an otherwise dark night. Barleigh decided to make her circle wider, going further off the trail, deeper into the trees and scrub brush, crisscrossing the creek, fording the low-water crossing of the river.
 

On the bank of the Webber where the snow had yet to accumulate to more than a dusting, something caught her eye as the moonlight glinted against the shape of on object that contrasted with its surroundings. Dismounting, she bent over what looked to be an arrow. She picked it up. The blue-gray flint tip was smeared with dried blood. Tying it into her bedroll, she remounted and spurred her horse toward Head of Canyon Station.

Colonel Hill, the station master, wasn’t a colonel as far as anyone knew, but everyone called him that because his fists were quick to remind folks that he preferred to be addressed as such. Colonel Hill had not seen or heard of Indians in the area, and was sorry to hear about Stoney.

“I like that boy. I sure hope you find him all right. But shouldn’t you stay put till morning? At least till it stops snowing?”

“It could snow for days,” Barleigh said, saddling a small but stout, coppery colored mare. “I’m riding to Cache Cave.”
 

Where she had found the arrow on the Webber River as she rode out of Echo Canyon, the logical place to look for Stoney would be to head to Cache Cave. If she had Indians chasing her, that’s where she’d try to get to.

“You’ll cross the watershed between the Bear River and the Webber River. The terrain should be frozen. Mostly. Where it’s not, might be patchy quicksand. Be careful, son.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Colonel.”
 

Riding out in the open, she felt vulnerable, suspicious of sounds, jumpy at shadows. The snow had tapered off and the moon hung like a bright ball in the dark sky, with a scattering of clouds flitting by. The trees and scrub had become sparse, and the flat open ground between the two river valleys left little means of protection. She kept her eyes on the ground, looking for more arrows or other signs, no longer calling out Stoney’s name for fear someone else might hear her, too.

Overhead, the full moon shadowed her, reminding her of the powers and perils of its beauty—to see and to be seen. She wondered what name was given to the moon by the people of the mountains.
 

Barleigh whispered a song under her breath, each word forming an icy cloud in front of her face. “I see the moon; the moon sees me. I ran away from the Co-man-che.”
 

The ground surrounding the watershed was crunchy underfoot, but in several places her horse’s balance faltered where the hard-pack wasn’t frozen solid. The weight of the animal broke through the top layer, the mare lurched forward, seeking solid footing. Dismounting, Barleigh walked next to the horse, easing the animal’s strain.
 

She reached for the canteen that was tied to the saddle horn, wanting the warmth of the hot liquid in her belly. The two canteens were tied together along with the bugle, then the leather strap was dallied tight around the saddle’s horn. Her numb fingers fumbled with the frozen leather knot that didn’t want to loosen. Giving up, she took her knife and cut the leather, removing all three from the saddle.
 

“Whoa, whoa now. What’s wrong with you?” Barleigh said, her mare thrown into a sudden panic.

The horse sidestepped and reared, head high, eyes wide, whinnying in a horse’s nervous way. Barleigh tightened her grip on the reins, following the horse’s movement, jogging forward toward the mare as the panicked horse shuffled backward.
 

“Easy, girl. Easy,” Barleigh soothed.

The frightened horse whinnied, shaking her head left and right. Rearing, pawing with slashing hooves at the moon, she jerked the reins free and bolted into the darkness.

Barleigh dropped to all fours, pressing low to the ground. She made a quick sweep with her eyes, looking in all directions, seeing nothing, but sensing—something.
Huddled under the poncho, she crouched on her haunches and sipped from one of the canteens. The spotlight moon lent its soft, silvery light to the crunchy, frozen earth.
 

“Damn it to hell,” she cursed. “And yes, Stoney, that’s exactly what a girl would say.”

Looking at the dark line of the rocky ridge and the formation called The Needles, she knew she must be close to Cache Cave. Hanging the two canteens and the bugle around her neck, she stood to leave when something in the low sagebrush—a flash of yellow—caught her attention. She settled back down under her poncho and waited, listening, watching. But, she was the one being watched.

A pair of eyes glinting in the glare of the moonlit snow peered out from the thicket of sagebrush about one hundred yards to the north near the base of the ridge.

What are you, wolf or coyote?
 

Barleigh waited several long minutes before the eyes disappeared, then reappeared moments later, closer, alongside another pair. And another. Then another. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Turning around, slow and deliberate, she saw two pairs of eyes, shiny and bright and reflecting the silvery moon, watching her every move.
 

Left and right, more eyes appeared.

The Colt revolver she carried had only five bullets loaded. With the extra cartridge in her pocket, she had ten shots in all. Counting the pairs of eyes surrounding her, she realized that if every animal attacked at once, she’d be several bullets short of defending herself. That’s if all shots hit their mark. She holstered the pistol, saving the bullets for a possible worse threat.

With Cash Cave to the east, she began to ease backward in its direction. Staying low, going slow, not making any threating movements, she kept her head pivoting to the left, to the right, and to the rear, watching each side. Removing the sombrero, she gripped it in her left hand, the bugle in her right, and she crept toward the cave.

One brave animal made an advance. She bugled her horn as loudly as she could blow and waved the sombrero at the stalking creature. He shrank back into the darkness. Another approached. She bugled and waved. Again, it was frightened away. Another, then another, tested, and each time, the noise from the horn and the flapping of the sombrero scared the hungry animals back into the shadows.
 

A male and female hunting pair advanced together, flanking left and right. Barleigh bugled, whirling around, waving the sombrero, and one shied away. The boldest of the pair came close and lunged. Barleigh slapped with the sombrero and bugled with all the breath she had left in her sore lungs. The wolf retreated, confused by the strange trumpeting noise.

Bumping up against a large boulder, Barleigh sat and huddled with her back against the stone. The advances and retreats continued throughout the night, the bugling and the swatting with the sombrero keeping the wolves with their hungry eyes retreating to the shadowy fringes of the brush.
 

At the moment when she felt she had nothing left, her energy drained, her body exhausted, her sore lips swollen and cracked, a pale pink glow on the eastern horizon gave way to a hope that she’d outlasted the wolves.
 

The sun never rose in bold grandeur. The world just became light, the soft gray clouds diffusing the pink streaks, turning the sky into a mottled silver realm. With the morning’s light, the wolves disappeared to their dens to await the next night of hunting some other prey.

Her cramped muscles ached. Barleigh stood, pressing a fist against her lower back, rubbing and massaging her stiff neck. The coffee in the canteen was bitter and cold but she drank it, holding the cold metal away from her sore, bruised lips. Picking up the sombrero, she turned it around in her hands, inspecting the bright yellow hat with the gold and black trim. Claw or tooth marks frayed a small area on the edge where the large gray wolf had lunged, getting far closer than Barleigh had realized.

Taking note of the topography, Barleigh saw that she was further from the base of The Needles formation than what she’d anticipated. Feeling disoriented and confused—they were supposed to be on her left . . . no, on her right . . . she spun around, trying to get her bearings. The sun offered no directional help, the sky a milky gray mess. Tracing the ridge with an imaginary line, she marked the spot where the last Needle pointed toward Echo Canyon. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned around and began walking southeast, knowing Cache Cave was less than a mile away.

The crunchy, half-frozen terrain of the two rivers’ watershed gave way to slippery gravel. She picked her way with slow, cautious steps across the treacherous ground. The path skidded and slid, changing once again to deep sand, but she was almost there. Not too far away, maybe another twenty yards, she saw the gaping opening slashed into the side of the rock, the familiar tunnel that travelers knew as Cache Cave. Above the entrance, small dark clouds drifted in an easy circle, floating high above the opening.

A slow, cold dread settled over her. The clouds formed into shapes. Barleigh shouted, running toward the cave, realizing the circling figures were not dark clouds at all but buzzards—crows—birds of carrion. She trumpeted the bugle, waving her arms and the sombrero. As with the wolves, the commotion and the noise drove the scavenging birds away.

Approaching the entrance to the cave, Barleigh exchanged the bugle in her hand for her pistol. Five Indians lay dead in rusty, freeze-dried pools of blood. Off to the left were two more, then one other to the right. Upon entering the cave, she saw two more who lay sprawled together in an unsuccessful effort at fleeing. Barleigh stepped over the last two, unsure of what she’d find further in the cave.