Squire's Quest (13 page)

* * * *

Merlin couldn't decide to be relieved or disappointed. He'd come all this way, feeling
like a knight going to the rescue of his lady fair, and Cal didn't need him. He kicked at the rutted
snow as he walked back to his hotel. She had herself a good job, which was more than he had.
Her pa might be a son of a bitch--any man who'd abandon an innocent girl in a strange town was
the worst sort of villain--but he'd set her up to have a way to take care of herself. There probably
wasn't a town in the whole country where a baker couldn't find a good job.

Maybe he should move on. From what he'd seen so far, Cheyenne was not a place to
enjoy winter. The wind never seemed to stop blowing, and it often carried icy crystals that cut an
unprotected face like tiny knives. He could catch the train tomorrow, and in a few days be in
California. Sunny, warm California, instead of cold, windy Wyoming Territory.

What if her pa comes back? Seems to me she's been taught to mind him no matter
what. How far would she go to keep him happy? And how far would he go to use her?

He stomped the snow from his feet on the boardwalk in front of the hotel. The notion of
sitting around Cheyenne all winter, just keeping an eye on Cal, didn't appeal. Now if he were to
find work, something interesting, that would be a different story. He didn't need the money, but
he needed the occupation, something to fill his days so he wouldn't hover over her like a hen
with one chick.

Her image appeared in his mind, green eyes, milky skin, and the smile that even six
years ago had always made him want to smile right back at her. He'd never had the urge to hover
over a woman before, but doggone if he didn't now.

* * * *

Callie pulled the door open a crack once she heard Merlin's footsteps growing fainter.
She could see him silhouetted against the street lamps. He still wore a wide-brimmed hat the
color of sand and his coat was just like the one she remembered--blanket-lined canvas, but a little
darker shade. His britches were black and tucked into the laced boots he wore instead of
high-heeled riding boots. The face she'd remembered so well was older, but still his, with the same
wide smile now bracketed by deep creases, what her grandpa had called laugh lines.

When he disappeared around the corner, she let the door swing shut, and leaned against
it with her eyes closed.
Even if Pa comes back, Merlin won't let him take me away
again.

And then her breath caught in her chest.
What if Merlin goes away?

* * * *

The
Daily Leader
wasn't much help. Merlin didn't fancy the notion of tending
bar, had no ambition to be a deputy sheriff, and never again wanted to work as a cowman. Not
for somebody else, anyhow.

In the past, he'd found more than one job by asking around. Since Cheyenne seemed to
be a place where the rails met roads going in all directions, he reckoned more than one freight
business had an office in town.

He stopped in at the Great Western Corral to say hello to Gawain. A casual question
about freighters brought the information that most of them had offices and barns along the road
to Camp Carlin, the big Army supply depot. "Likely contracting to haul freight to the forts." The
chill wind all but snatched the words from his mouth. "I swear it's ten degrees colder than
yesterday."

He was wishing he'd hired a buggy by the time he reached the first freight barn. The
wind had more than just a bite to it. The freight barns, with attached corrals, were strung out
along half a mile of road, with plenty of open space between. He strolled along, reading
signboards. Most barns had offices attached, but they all looked deserted. Maybe nobody shipped
in winter.

Not likely. Folks needed supplies winter and summer. Farther on, he saw a wisp of
smoke disappear quickly, carried away by an icy gust.

"Somebody's home." The sign above the barn door said "Morrison & Robb,
Freighters." A smaller sign directed inquiries to the office across the road. Before crossing, he
took a look around.

The corral was larger than most, and held a good-sized herd of mules, mostly huddled
under the wide shed roof. Good looking stock, too, well-cared for.

He knocked on the door marked OFFICE.

"It ain't locked."

The room was dim, a candle its only light. Two men sat with their heels propped on the
edges of a scarred desk. One held a tin cup, the other a beer bottle.

"Help you?"

He'd heard that voice before. Stepping closer, he bent to peer under the man's
hatbrim.

"Well, I'll be hog-tied and hornswoggled. Murphy Creek."

"Huh?" Murphy went to set his cup on the desk, but he moved too fast and his chair
went over backwards. "Goddamn it. That hurt," he said, as he rubbed the back of his head.

Merlin held out a hand, bracing himself for Murphy to try at pulling him off his feet.
With a chuckle, Murphy waved it aside and scrambled up. Once he'd dusted his hat off and
replaced it on his head, he grinned. "Now how did you know I was wishing you--or someone
like--would show up about now? Want a job?"

"A job? Doing what?"

Murphy didn't answer right away. Instead he walked to the coffeepot atop the stove.
Once he'd poured the hot, black, almost syrupy liquid into two enamel cups, he came back to sit
on the edge of the desk. "It ain't up to what you'd get at the Bijou, but it'll put hair on your
chest."

Merlin sat in the chair he'd pulled close to the stove. He waited, sipping at the too-hot,
too-strong coffee.

"Gold fever," the other fellow said without opening his eyes. Merlin had wondered if he
was asleep, even though his hand held the beer bottle steady.

"Jeb's right. Every damn fool who can scrape together a kit is headin' for the Black Hills.
Too impatient to wait for spring."

"Guess they figure on getting a head start." Even as he spoke, Merlin thought about
something he'd read. "Wait a minute. Aren't the Black Hills Indian lands?"

"Damn right. And the Army's doing little enough to keep 'em that way. Oh, they posture
and proclaim, but they sure ain't doin' much else."

"Ain't gonna, either," Jeb said. "Come spring, gold hunters'll be all over them hills like
ants on a pile of sugar."

"But you're still freighting supplies in?"

"We're contracted to freight supplies to the Army. Fort Laramie and north. Be damned if
I'll carry one sack of flour east. I'll quit first."

There was a big map on the wall. Merlin walked over and studied it.

He had to agree with Murphy. More than once he'd seen what happened when whites
wanted lands the Indians claimed as their own. His Aunt Flower's people had had no end of
trouble with land hungry whites and dishonest Indian agents.

But tarnation, I do want to see a gold camp in its heyday.

As if he remembered they'd been talking business, Murphy cleared his throat. "Never
mind. I've got me a freight line to run, and I'll do it best I can as long as nobody asks me to move
into places I've no business goin' to."

"What I can't figure is how you come to be boss," Merlin said with a grin. He and
Murphy had spent many an hour along the road from Virginia City to Ogden discussing the
pitfalls of taking responsibility and had concluded it wasn't something either of them had a
hankering for, no matter how well it paid.

"I'm not sure myself. It just sort of happened. I hired on with Franklin--he runs a guide
service out of Ogden--in '72. Spent a summer in the Sawtooths, pickin' flowers."

"You what?"

"Oh, hell, we took a posy-pickin' professor up there. Biggest blowhard you ever saw.
We-- Never mind. It's a story for another time. The next summer, I took on another guide job,
but came near quittin' halfway through the summer. A worse bunch of idiots there never
was."

Jeb hacked and spat into a convenient spittoon. "Furriners."

"Stupid ones at that. They had to have hot baths twice a week, and tea at four." He stuck
his little finger out and mimed sipping delicately at his tin cup. "Wasn't a one of 'em could hit the
broad side of a barn with a barrel of buckshot."

"They were hunting? I heard about that. Rich dukes and princes, coming over for trophy
hunting." The very thought made Merlin sick. His pa had taught him to kill only what he would
eat.

"Buffalo, elk, antelope, wolf. Hell, one of 'em, even shot a coyote. He wanted to take the
head back to be mounted."

They traded stories of gormless tenderfeet for a while longer, until Merlin caught a
glance at the clock. "Were you serious about that job?"

"I recollect you know how to shoe a mule," Murphy said.

"You saw me do it once. And it was a piss poor job, I did, too." They had been halfway
between Point of Rocks and Lovells when the wheeler on Murphy's wagon had thrown a shoe.
No forge, only a sledge and a file for tools. He'd hammered a spare shoe into a good enough
shape to get them to Lovells, where the freight company had a small forge. The smith had gone
south for the winter. Merlin had not told anyone he'd only shoed half a dozen horses before.

"It got us to Eagle Rock, didn't it? You done any smithin' since?"

"A little, here and there, but not lately. I've been driving herds north from Texas these
three years past. Not much call for a smith on the trail." He didn't mention the fancy iron work
he'd been learning to make in New Orleans before he'd got the urge to move on. There wasn't
much call for that in a town like Cheyenne.

"Well, hell." Murphy scratched his chin, frowning. "Still... Look here, Merlin, I'm a
desperate man. My bosses--they're back in Omaha--they expect me to keep the freight moving to
Fort Laramie all winter long. We've a contract with the Army depot out at Camp Carlin. I've got
the men to do it, and the mules, but Sam, down at the livery stable hasn't got the time to keep my
stock shod proper, let alone to maintain the wagons. I need a man who can work iron full
time."

"How fancy does it need to be?" While he could get by as a farrier, Merlin had only
mounted one wagon tire and had never welded anything bigger than a door hinge.

"Not fancy at all. I don't give a damn how iron looks. Just that it holds together."

So far Merlin hadn't run into the "What kind of work can a half-blind man do?" attitude
here in Cheyenne, but he knew he would've, sooner or later. He had to admit it was a novelty to
be offered work without having to prove himself first. Of course, he wasn't a stranger to Murphy.
"What's the pay?"
Hold yourself cheap, and you'll be treated cheap.

Murphy named a figure that seemed more than generous.

He pretended to consider, but he'd already made up his mind. "I'll give it a try." He held
out his hand.

Murphy took it. "Can you start tomorrow?"

"Guess so. I'll need a place to stay, though, Can't afford the hotel for more'n a few
nights."

"If you don't need more than a bed and a place to make coffee and fry up some meat,
there's a cabin back of the barn. It's snug, but not fancy."

"Let's take a look. I don't need roomy or fancy, as long as I've a place to sit and
read."

With a chuckle, Murphy waved him to the door. "I'd forgot about you and your books.
Never saw a man read like you do."

The small cabin was indeed snug. Built of peeled logs chinked with mud and moss, it
kept out the cold wind. "Fireplace draws good," Murphy told him, as he stood in the middle of
the room, taking stock. There was plenty of room for a rocking chair between the fireplace and
the bed. Each end wall held rough shelves where he could put his gear and his books when they
arrived from Dodge, where he'd left his trunk stored. A half-loft hung over the box bed built into
the corner opposite the fireplace.

"Looks good. I'll bring my gear around before supper and start work in the
morning."

On the way back to town, he wondered what time Cal got off work. He purely did hate
to eat alone.

* * * *

This morning when she'd awakened, Callie remembered how she'd told Merlin she didn't
need his help.

He'd said nothing, but she'd seen his expression. Kind of like a dog that had been kicked.
She would have been kinder to keep her mouth shut.

All the time she was mixing, kneading, shaping, shuffling loaves and rolls into and out
of the two ovens, she fretted about hurting his feelings. Would he leave Cheyenne? Go away
because she didn't need him?

The one thing she remembered more than any other about Merlin was he took care of
those he felt responsible for. She'd seen how he cared for his stock, and later, when they were
traveling with the freight wagons, for those mules. He'd fed them and picked stones from their
feet and treated them more like pets than working critters. Maybe he hadn't given sixty-four
mules the care he gave that spotted horse of his, but she'd bet they'd never been treated better
than on the trip from Eagle Rock to Virginia City. Or back again.

She pulled the last loaves from the oven and set four chess pies inside. Abner was
already getting the chickens ready to be roasted for tonight's supper, so she no longer had to
worry about the other oven. She put together six dried apple pies and sat to rest a bit while the
chess pies finished baking. Once they were in the oven, she'd be done for the day.

The colored boys who kept the fires going were waiting to add wood to the firebox, and
she stepped aside to be out of their way. "There's a bit of cake in the pantry," she said to LeRoy,
the smaller one. "I hid it behind the big crock. Mind you share it with your bother."

"I sure will. Thanky. Miz Callie." LeRoy's wide grin was infectious and she found
herself mirroring his expression.

"I'm going to step out back for a few minutes, Abner. I'll be back to take those pies
out."

"You go right ahead, Miz Callie. Cool yourself off a bit." The cook's face was shiny
with sweat. As long as the wind was blowing from the west, they had to keep the doors closed or
the chimney would smoke. The kitchen got almost unbearably hot, even on the coldest days.
What summer would be like in here was more than she wanted to think about. Whoever had built
the Lambert House hadn't paid much attention to the lay of the land hereabouts.