Louis L'Amour (4 page)

“And where would he hold them?”

Temple Boone looked off down the valley, thinking. After a moment, he said, “This here’s pretty wide-open country. There’s canyons here and there, some good hideaways if you know the country, but I’d say the best place would be Steamboat Rock, but that’s quite a ways.”

“Wouldn’t there be tracks?”

Boone hesitated. “Could be. Ain’t been much rain lately.”

“Are you a good tracker, Mr. Boone? I understood you’d been a scout for the army?”

“Now see here! What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“I’m going after those horses, Mr. Boone. I am the agent for the company, and I am responsible.”

“Ma’am, you’re crazy! Off in those hills, alone, that Luther would shoot you down like a dog! You just back off now. You leave this to me.”

She turned swiftly away without replying and walked back to the house. Once inside the station, she stood thinking; then she turned to helping Matty prepare for the incoming stage.

“Matty? I don’t know who is on the next stage, but we have to feed them, and Matty, I want to send them away from here talking about it.” She looked around at Matty. “Are you a fighter, Matty?”

“I’m Irish, mum.”

“All right, we’re fighting for your job and mine. Let’s win.”

When the stage rolled in, the food was on the table, and it was hot. There had been little to choose from, for she had yet to order supplies, but there was ham and beans and two apple pies made from dried apples.

Among the supplies, she found some bolts of calico for trading with the Indians. From one of them, she cut enough material for a tablecloth. It was bright red, but it was also attractive.

There were six passengers, one of them a woman; the others were city men and one army officer headed for Fort Laramie.

One of the city men, a tall, serious-looking man with a beard, paused in leaving, hat in hand. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s the best food we’ve had on the trip.”

“Thank you, sir. Come back next week when I’ve had a chance to order supplies.”

He smiled. “I’ll do that, ma’am. I really will.”

When the stage was gone, she took off her apron. “Matty? You’re in charge. I’ll be gone for a few hours.”

“Hours?”

“I’ve got a job to do, Matty. Some of our horses are missing.”

“What—?”

“Ma’am?” Wat interrupted Matty. “I can track.”

“
You
can?”

“I growed up out here, ma’am. I been trackin’ lost cows or findin’ hid calves since I was able to walk. Anyway, I figure I know where those horses are.”

For a moment, she hesitated. “All right, Wat. Get our horses—Oh, I forgot! We don’t have any horses but those from the stage that just came in.”

“Can you walk a couple of miles?” Wat asked. “It ain’t no further.”

“All right, Wat. Shall we go?”

He hesitated. “There’s liable to be somebody there, an’ I think we’d better have a gun.”

“I’ll get my rifle.”

“No, ma’am. There’s a shotgun in there. It’s a spare for the express messenger. I seen it, and I seen some loads for it. You take your rifle and they ain’t goin’ to pay much attention, but you take that shotgun an’ get close—they’ll listen to you, ma’am.”

She looked at him again and hesitated. She was a fool, and Mr. Boone was right. She would be more than a fool if she went after those horses with nothing but a small boy to show her the way. Nevertheless—

Her jaw muscles tightened. She would go. If a man could do it, why couldn’t she?

Wat led the way, taking off down a narrow, dusty path back of the corral that led off across the road and under the trees. When they had walked almost a mile, Wat dropped back beside her. “Ma’am? If you want to say somethin’ to me now, you
hsst
at me. Don’t you go to speakin’ out. They’ll hear you, sure.”

“What’s there, Wat? Do you know?”

“Yes’m. It’s just a rope corral an’ a place under the trees where they bed down. There’s water there, an’ stole horses been held there many a time.”

It was very quiet. A fly buzzed past her face. She felt a small trickle of perspiration on her cheek. She brushed it away and shifted the shotgun again. It was heavy, heavier than she thought.

Wat stopped again, then motioned her forward, and she saw them. There were nine horses in a small rope corral, and beyond them, under a tree, a man was sleeping on his rolled-out bed. Nearby, there were some ashes and a coffeepot on the fire. As she started to step forward, Wat put up a restraining hand.

Another man came down from the trees, and walking over to the bed, he bent over to pick up his gun belt. Quickly, she stepped out into the open. “Leave that alone!”

Startled, the man paused and looked around. He saw only a woman and a small boy. He spoke. “Bob?”

“Lemme alone. I’m sleepin’.”

“Bob, we got comp’ny.”

The man sat up. “Huh? What—” He looked again. “Hell, it’s that woman from the stage station. The one who took the whip to Scant.”

“That’s right, gentlemen, and I’ve come for the stage-company horses and also that saddle horse that belongs to Temple Boone.”

“To
who
?” The seated man got quickly to his feet. “Damn it, Pike! You never told me that was Boone’s horse!”

“What difrence does it make? Who the hell is Boone?”

“If he finds we got his horse, you’ll sure be findin’ out who he is.” He turned toward Mary Breydon, who had walked closer.

“Lady,” he started to say.

“Back up and sit down again. You, too, Pike.”

“Now, look here, ma’am,” Pike started to say, “I—”

“Mr. Pike, or whatever your name is, I’ve got an express gun here, it is loaded, and I’m very nervous. If you should frighten me, I am apt to shoot it, and I have done a lot of shooting at ducks. I think it would be much easier to hit you. I hope I don’t have to.”

She gestured with a movement of her head. “Wat, get our horses.”

“Like hell!” Pike started to take a step, and her thumb eared back the hammer on one barrel. It was a sharp, very audible click. Pike stopped so quick he teetered on his toes, then settled back.

“For God’s sake, Pike!” Bob said. “She
means
it!”

Wat was running a lead rope from halter to halter with all the skill of an old-timer. Then he caught a mane hold on one of the stage horses and swung to its back.

“Kid,” Pike shouted, “you get off that hoss an’ leave them be or by the eternal I’ll have your hide!”

“You got to catch me first!” Wat yelled. “Come on, ma’am! Give ’em a barrel just for luck!”

“Not this time.” She was very cool. “Stay away from Cherokee Station,” she said quietly, amazed at her own steadiness. “I don’t want to kill a man again.”

Only when she was under the trees did she turn her back to them, and behind her she heard Bob say, “Did you hear that? She said she didn’t want to kill a man
again
!”

Wat looked down from his horse. “Who’d you kill, ma’am? Was it one of them sojers who tore up your plantation?”

“I have never killed anyone, Wat. I don’t know why I said ‘again.’ It just slipped out.”

“It was the right word, ma’am. You surely gave ’em the right word.” He began to chuckle. “Wait until Scant Luther hears about this!”

Chapter 4

S
HE REMEMBERED SO well what her father had said, “Don’t waste time worrying about the mistakes of yesterday. Each morning is a beginning. Start from there.”

As she had begun, so she continued. Each night, before going to bed, she took a small tablet and planned her work for the next day, thinking out each step that must be taken.

Wat, working like a man twice his size, had cleaned the stable. She walked through it, inspecting the job he had done. When she finished, she said, “Wat? Come back to the station with me.”

At the station, she said, “Matty? There was a piece of that apple pie left. Is it still there?”

“Yes, mum.”

“Give it to Wat. Let him eat it now. He’s just finished a job he can be proud of.”

As she was leaving the station, she turned to him again. “Wat? Can you whittle?”

“Whittle? Ma’am, any boy who has a jackknife can whittle. I been whittlin’ since…well, I been whittlin’ seems like forever.”

“All right, in your spare time, or whenever you feel like it, I want you to whittle some pegs about a foot long, about an inch thick, and I want them peeled.”

“How many?”

“About two dozen, I think.” At his puzzled expression, she said, “I want some pegs on which to hang the harness in the tack room.”

“You could use nails. That’s what most folks do.”

“Wooden pegs are better, Wat. They are less destructive of the harness.”

“All right, ma’am. I’ll sure do it.” He turned back to the table and the slice of apple pie.

W
HEN WILBUR PATTISHAL wheeled his stage into the street of Laporte, Mark Stacy was waiting for him on the boardwalk in front of the stage.

“Wilbur? What’s this I hear? Who’s that woman running the station out at Cherokee?”

Wilbur’s face was expressionless. Only his eyes showed a faint amusement. “You hired M. O. Breydon. That’s her.”

“A
woman
? At Cherokee?”

“She fired Scant Luther,” Wilbur said. “And man, did she ever fire him! Ran him out o’ there with a whip!”

“Scant? I don’t believe it.”

“She done it, though. And that ain’t all. Somebody—I ain’t sayin’ it was Scant—stole a team and Temple Boone’s gelding. She went over there afoot an’ brought ’em back. She had herself a shotgun, and the way Wat tells it, they didn’t see fit to put up any argument.”

“Who is Wat?”

“Youngster she has workin’ for her. She’s got an Irish maid, too. Maid an’ cook.”

“We’ll see about that. I gave nobody authority to do any hiring. And a woman? At Cherokee?”

“Mr. Stacy? Was I you, I’d walk soft goin’ out there. You go in there all hot to change things an’ you’re liable to lose her.

“She taken over just about the time you left for Kansas City, and in the two weeks she’s been there, she’s turned that place around. You go out there an’ take a good long look at things before you start firin’ people.”

Stacy swore softly, but he was thoughtful. Wilbur Pattishal was a character, no question about that, but he was also the best driver on the line, and he was no fool.

Fired Scant Luther? Impossible! Nonetheless, operating a stage station was no job for a woman no matter how big and tough she was.

Fired Scant? There had to be something wrong about that. Could be they were working together. There was no question that Scant was a thief, but nobody was in a hurry to accuse him of it.

He had started into the office; now he stopped. She had recovered Temple Boone’s horse. What was Boone doing out there?

Mark Stacy knew Boone but slightly. He had come drifting into the country very much a loner and supposedly from Texas. Like many another western man, his past was his own secret, and he never spoke of it. He had worked for other stage lines as a shotgun guard, had trapped some, prospected, rounded up and captured wild horses, and the story around was that he was good with a gun.

What was he doing at Cherokee?

When Wilbur came out of the office, Stacy turned to him. “Wilbur? What’s Boone doing out there? Is he tied in with Luther?”

“The other way around, seems to me. He was on the stage Miz Breydon come in on, settin’ back there quiet, mindin’ his own affairs.

“He seen her fire Luther, standin’ by, just lookin’ on, but I had an idea if she’d needed help, he’d have stepped in mighty quick.” Wilbur chuckled. “Only she didn’t need help. No way.”

“I don’t like it, Wilbur. D’you suppose there was some connection between them before?”

Pattishal took out a thin cigar and bit off the end. “If I was you, I’d not waste time speculatin’. I’d go out there an’ see for myself. But I’d step mighty soft if I was you, too. That’s no ordinary woman. That’s a
lady.
”

Stacy snorted and walked off down the street. What a mess! Getting rid of Luther was one thing, and he was glad the man was gone, but a
woman
? At Cherokee, of all places?

When he reached the corner, he paused. A big man standing on the corner turned toward him. The man wore a badge on his shirt. “Howdy, Mark! Hear you got a woman runnin’ the station out to Cherokee?”

“Not for long. That’s no place for a woman no matter how tough she is.” Stacy paused. “Marshal? Have you heard anything new about Denver Cross’s outfit?”

The marshal was watching a rider down the street, and he took his time replying. “No, not a word.” He turned his eyes to Stacy. “But I’d be careful if you’re shipping any treasure. They are around somewhere, holed up back in the mountains.”

“How about Johnny Havalik?”

“There’s a story around; some of the boys been telling it in the saloons. The word is that Johnny’s dead. The story is that Denver Cross shot him.”

“I wish it had been the other way around. Havalik seemed like the best of a bad lot.”

“He was a loner, though, and Cross wanted men around who would step to his music. He didn’t like loners.”

“You don’t know where they’re holed up?”

“No, I don’t, and I’m not lookin’. I’ve trouble enough right here in Laporte and between here and Denver. What happens north of here—

“The fact is, I’ve had an idea there was some kind of tie-up between Scant Luther and Cross. I was keepin’ an eye on Scant, hoping something would turn up, but now that woman of yours turned him out, so I’ve lost that chance.”

“Luther and Cross? How did you make that tie-up?”

“Cross used to waste around down to Fort Griffin. So did Luther. Scant had a saloon down that way where some of the rough crowd used to hang out, and Denver dealt cards there for a while.”

T
HERE HAD BEEN no time to dream, no time to remember. Only at night, when at last she could lie down, could she think back to other days. Yet they were now no more than a memory, almost as if they had never been. The great white house with the pillars, the long green fields, the white fences, the splendid horses, and the long, quiet rides with her father as he rode over and supervised the plantation.