The Blacksmith’s Bravery (9 page)

As she turned away, Griffin Bane strode in. “Hey, gal, the stage is here, and we need to load the box. We're waiting on you to stand guard while we do it.”

“Uh…” Vashti darted a glance toward Libby.

“She's ready, Griffin,” Libby called. “I'm just getting her a vest to complete her ensemble.”

Quickly Vashti pulled on the boots. Libby hurried over, holding a black leather vest made for a middle-sized boy. Vashti slipped her arms into it.

“There,” Libby said. “Put your hat on.”

Vashti grabbed the hat off the counter. Libby had replaced Augie's overlarge bowler with a smaller cowboy hat in creamy felt with a braided leather band. Vashti loved it at first sight but wondered if her first wages as a messenger would pay for all these clothes. Boots now, too, and the soft leather vest.

Griffin stood motionless, staring at her. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Libby chuckled. “Makes a fine-looking boy, doesn't she, Mr. Bane?”

Griff cleared his throat. “I reckon from a couple hundred yards away she'd pass. And remember, you're not letting any outlaws get that close.”

“No, sir, I'm not. Thanks, Libby. I'll settle up with you when I get home tomorrow.” Vashti put on a little swagger as she left the store. Griffin came along behind her—she could feel the boardwalk shake under his heavy tread.

Two passengers were already in the coach when she reached it. Bill Stout, the white-haired veteran driver, sat on the box with his whip in its stand and the lines of the team of six horses in his hands. To Vashti's surprise, the sheriff leaned against the side of the stage line office.

Ethan Chapman straightened and stepped away from the wall. “Morning.”

“Hello, Sheriff.”

Vashti felt a firm hand on her shoulder. She stopped and turned to look up at Griffin.

“I told Bill to call you Sam, so people wouldn't know you're a girl,” he said in as soft a voice as she imagined that barrel chest could emit.

“Sam?” she hissed. She looked around quickly. The passengers and Bill didn't seem to have heard.

“What, you don't like that name?”

She considered for a moment. “I have another name, you know, if Vashti's too feminine for this outfit.”

“You mean Edwards?”

“No. I mean…” She leaned closer and stood on tiptoe so she could get within a foot of his ear. “My Christian name was Georgia. So whyn't you all just call me George?”

His dark, bushy eyebrows rose. He blinked. “George?”

“Is that any worse than Sam?”

“No, I s'pose not.”

“Good. Didn't you read that paper I signed all legal-like for you? If you look close, you'll see that's what I put. Georgia Edwards. Only I smeared the I-A a tad, so's anyone might think it said George.”

He nodded slowly. “All right then. Let Bill in on it once you get going.”

She nodded and winked. He jerked his head back.

“Come on inside. I've got your shotgun in there. I'll carry the strongbox out, and you look sharp, up and down the street, while I load it.”

They stepped into the office, and Griffin took a gleaming shotgun with a cherry stock from a rack on the wall and placed it in her hands. Vashti held it to the light streaming in the doorway and admired the fine tracery on the lock. Any man or woman in Fergus would be proud to own this gun. She nodded and hefted it. Not too heavy.

“Thank you.”

“That's on loan while you're working for me.” Griffin crossed the room and stooped to open the safe. He brought out a sturdy wooden box, painted green and bound with bands of steel.

“You go out first and make sure it's clear.”

Vashti stepped out onto the boardwalk. As if anyone in Fergus would hold up the stagecoach right in town. Especially with the sheriff loafing around.

She glanced at Chapman. He stood with his hands on his belt, his right hand close to his six-shooter, looking up the street toward the Nugget Saloon. Vashti looked the other way, southward along the boardwalk and the dusty street. Beyond the emporium, Oscar Runnels, the freighter, was climbing the steps to the post office.

Griffin came out and went straight to the coach. He heaved the treasure box up and settled it on the boards where the driver and messenger rested their feet. Bill helped him slide the heavy box under the seat. They fussed for a moment, making sure it was secure; then Griffin stepped back and turned to her.

“All right, George. Time for you to go.”

Vashti walked over to the step at the front of the coach and climbed up. Settling onto the seat beside Bill, she smiled at him.

“Morning, Mr. Stout.”

“How do, Sam.”

“It's George, but that's all right.” She looked down at Griffin, whose head came up as high as where her feet were braced. A strange look crossed his face. Was he thinking he ought to tell Bill to take care of her, instead of the other way around? For a moment, Vashti was afraid he'd make her get down again and tell her she couldn't go.

“We'll be just fine, Mr. Bane,” she said. “I hope you and your nephew have a nice trip.”

“Godspeed.” Griffin stepped back.

Bill lifted the reins and let the horses have an inch or two of slack. “Get up!”

They rolled out of Fergus with the wind whistling in Vashti's ears below the hat's brim. As they passed the Spur & Saddle, she glimpsed Augie and Bitsy standing at the front door. She raised the shotgun in triumph and waved.

CHAPTER 6

G
riffin paced the porch in front of the Wells Fargo office in Boise. He had another half hour before the stage was due. He could step down the street for refreshment, but he wanted to make sure he was here when Justin arrived.

After a few minutes, he went inside. The ticket agent looked up and smiled. “Cup of coffee, Mr. Bane?”

“Thanks.”

The man nodded toward the potbellied stove in the corner. “I make a fresh pot before the Mountain Home stage comes in. The cups on the shelf are clean.”

Griffin poured himself a serving of the boiling, dark brew. The stove's heat made the room too warm, and he stepped away from it, toward the counter. He set the hot cup down for a minute to let the grounds settle.

“How's business up to Fergus?” the agent asked.

“Tolerable. I'm having a little trouble keeping enough drivers and messengers lined up.”

“We've had a big turnover here, too,” the man admitted.

“Thought I might talk to your division manager to see if he had any suggestions.”

The agent shook his head. “Mr. Nelson's gone to Glenn's Ferry. I don't expect he'll be back for two or three hours at least.”

Griffin picked up his tin cup. The small, curved handle was hot, but not so bad he couldn't hold it. The worst part was that the curve
was so tight he couldn't get his large finger through it. He managed to raise the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. He'd had worse coffee. Once. He grimaced and set the cup down.

“Did you get the new rate table?” the agent asked.

“Yup.”

The door opened. Two men came in.

“Afternoon,” one of them called. “We need tickets to Mountain Home.”

Griffin stepped outside, leaving his cup of brew on the counter. He paced back and forth, ignoring the passing wagons and foot traffic. If he were home, he could be shoeing Oscar Runnels's mules, or working with the bay colt, or mending harness.

And what about the Silver City run? He'd put Vashti with his steadiest driver, but maybe he'd lowered Bill's chances of a safe run by giving him a green shotgun rider. What if road agents tried to stop them and she panicked? Griffin turned and walked the length of the porch again. Best not to think about the Silver City stage when it was too late to change things.

Ten minutes later, the ticket agent came out and piled luggage and mail sacks near where the stagecoach would halt. The two men who'd come for tickets and a few other prospective passengers milled about, making small talk.

Right on time, a bugle blew. Griffin heard the pounding hooves and rattling wheels before he caught sight of the stage. His chest swelled a little, and his throat tightened as the red and gold coach flew down the street. People scattered and stood admiring the sight or cursing the driver, who popped his whip more for show than practicality. The six bay horses—nearly matched—slowed to a trot then drew up right where the pile of luggage waited.

Griffin laughed. Those horses' flanks were dark with sweat, but their breathing wasn't labored, and no foam had formed along the harness straps. The good drivers knew how to pace the team and still put on a performance when they neared each stop.

The messenger hopped down and flung the door open.

“Welcome to Boise, folks.” The ticket agent offered a hand to a middle-aged woman who climbed stiffly down from the coach. She
was followed by a string bean of a boy. Griffin looked no further. The gawky lad had the Bane chin and his sister, Evelyn's, dark doe eyes, with which he warily scanned the people on the boardwalk.

“Justin.” Griffin stepped forward and held out his hand.

The boy snapped his head around and caught a quick breath.

“Uncle Griff?”

“That's right.” His hand closed over the boy's. “Glad you got here safe. Do you have a trunk?”

“No, sir. Just a satchel.”

Griffin turned to the back of the coach, and they waited for the messenger to toss down the luggage.

“We'll stay in a hotel here tonight,” he told Justin. “Then we'll take the stage back to Fergus in the morning.”

A battered leather bag landed with a thud beside them, and the boy stooped to grab the handle. As he straightened, he flipped his overlong hair back from his forehead.

“Just so's you know, I don't want to do no smithing.”

Vashti clung to the curved metal on the side of her seat. The coach swayed on its leather straps as they barreled around a corner. She was grateful that the sheer drop-off was on Bill's side, not hers, but she realized two things: If she was going to become a top-notch driver, she'd have to get used to flying along these precarious roads. And coming back downhill tomorrow, she'd be on the side edging what amounted to a cliff.

The horses slowed to a walk as the grade increased. Bill let them lumber along up the incline. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, brought out a small hunk of tobacco, and bit off a piece. Stuffing the wad back into his pocket, he glanced over at Vashti.

“I like a chaw while I'm driving.”

She nodded.

“Griff says you want to learn to drive.”

“I know how to drive.”

“That so?”

“I can drive two and four.”

“So you could drive a stage on the flat, with four horses?”

“I could.”

“Huh.” They rode on in silence until the horses gained more level ground. Bill snapped the reins. “Up now.” The team picked up a steady jog. “We'll trade for mules at the next stop. It's a little over halfway to Silver. The last half's the worst.”