Louis L'Amour (5 page)

All gone now. The land was there, and the land was hers, and sometime after the war was over, she would go back; she would rebuild the house, the barns, the fences. Not as magnificently as they had been, for she would not have the money, but she would rebuild and begin again.

That was all for tomorrow. Perhaps before Peg became a young lady, if they were fortunate. Possibly she, too, could come of age in the beautiful land now so torn and ravaged by war, that land so far away, so lost to her now.

“One day,” her father had often said, “this will all be yours, so you must learn how it functions. Never trust your affairs to anyone else. If you have a foreman or a superintendent, that’s fine, but be sure you know what is going on. You give the orders, you check to make sure your wishes are carried out.”

The old days were far away now, but the lessons were not. Here the problems were the same, increased by the difficulty that some men simply did not like to take orders from a woman.

Her every muscle ached. Working right along with Matty, she had washed, swept, mopped, and dusted. They had baked bread, made cookies, and she had made up a requisition for supplies.

At last, she had turned to the cottage where they would live. When it was swept and mopped, she moved their bedding there, put her few books on a shelf, and got out the picture of her late husband.

Shortly before stage time, when they were setting the table, she suddenly thought of something.

“Matty? At first, you did not tell me you had a pistol.”

“No, mum, not at first. A woman’s not expected to have a gun.”

“But you had one?”

“Yes, mum, and I kept it hid. You’d best do the same. If they know you have it, they will do their best to get it from you. If they don’t know you have it until you need one, it can make all the difference.”

It was good advice, and she must have a pistol, a gun she could handle easily and have close at all times. She remembered the shock when she first looked into Scant Luther’s eyes and saw the hatred and the violence there. He was a man who would stop at nothing, and the story that he had been horsewhipped by a woman would by now have reached from Denver to Laramie to Julesburg.

The passengers were boarding the stage when Wilbur Pattishal stopped near her. “Ma’am? Mark Stacy will be on the stage next time it comes. Or maybe the time after, but he’s comin’, and he doesn’t believe any woman can run a stage station on the Cherokee Trail.”

“Thank you, Wilbur. We’re ready for him.”

“I’d sure hate to lose you, ma’am. All the people are sayin’ how good your food is and all. It’s the best I ever et.” He paused. “Seen some Injuns this side of Virginia Dale. Friendlies, seemed like, but Injuns are notional, ma’am, so you be careful. Remember this, an Injun respects strength an’ mighty little else. He respects strength an’ honesty.”

“I have heard you could trust their word.”

“Ma’am,” Wilbur said patiently, “Injuns are folks. They’re like you an’ me and Scant Luther. Some you can trust; some you can’t. There’s just as many honest folks among Injuns as among white or black. An’ there’s just as many thieves and liars.

“Injuns have their decent men like Mark Stacy, an’ they have their Scant Luthers, too. There’s just no way a body can say anybody is all this or that. You’ve got to judge each man by himself.”

“Thank you, Wilbur.”

She watched the stage leave and then turned back toward the stage station. Wat was washing his hands in the basin by the door. She stopped near him.

“Wat? I want to thank you. No matter what happens here, I shall never forget you. You’ve been a pillar of strength, and no man could have done better.”

He flushed and turned his face away. “Thanks, ma’am. It was an awful mess when you taken over.”

“Wat? Did you ever go to school?”

“No, ma’am, not exactly. We lived near a preacher one time, an’ he taught some of us who lived around to read an’ write.

“Johnny, he used to bring me books once in a while. I never did see him more’n three or four times, but he brought me a book or two. I read them.”

“What books, Wat?”

“
Ivanhoe
was one, and then there was
Robinson Crusoe
. I surely did like them books. It taken me a while to read them, but ’twas worth it.”

“Who was Johnny?”

The expression left his face. “Just a feller we knew. He was just a rider-by. Stopped in now an’ again.”

“Did you live on a ranch?”

“Sort of. Pa didn’t have money for many cows. He done what he could.”

“Where was this, Wat?”

“Edge of the mountains. That was the last one. We had us two, three places. One was back in Kansas somewheres. Injuns burned us out, run off the stock. Pa worked in a store for a while. When that job played out, he tended bar in a saloon in Wichita.”

“You moved a lot.”

“Yes, ma’am. Pa was a mover. He wanted a place of his own. Didn’t do him much good when he got it.”

“Where was that?”

“Edge of the mountains.” Wat dried his hands. “All right if I eat now, ma’am?”

At her nod, he turned quickly away and went inside, and she looked after him, frowning with irritation. She had learned exactly nothing except that he had once lived in Kansas and that he had read
Ivanhoe
and
Robinson Crusoe
.

Later, she asked, “Did you have many books in your home, Wat?”

“No, ma’am.” He glanced at her, embarrassed. “Pa never learned to read.” Then, defensively, he said, “We had us a Bible, a great big old book. Pa said it had been in the family more’n a hundred years.

“There was a lot of writing in the back of it, names an’ dates an’ such. Pa set store by it. Said all the births an’ deaths was written in it.”

“You should have that Bible, Wat. It is probably a family record.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where is it now?”

“Up there. Edge of the mountains, I guess.”

From outside, there was a pound of hoofs, and when she stepped outside, she saw Temple Boone.

“Ma’am,” he warned, “Mark Stacy’s on the stage. He’ll be here within the hour!”

Chapter 5

F
OR A MOMENT, she stood irresolute. This was the moment she had feared. Stacy had been shocked to hear that a woman had taken over Cherokee Station. He was prepared, so the rumors were, to discharge her and bring in a man, almost any man.

“Mum? We’re fighters, you know, but on occasion we are bluffers, too. He’s expectin’ a woman, so give him a woman!”

“What?” Puzzled, she turned to look at Matty.

“You’re not only a woman, mum, you’re a lady, and a beautiful one with it. He’s lookin’ to find a woman—the Good Lord only knows what manner of woman he’s expectin’—but not you, mum.

“Go quickly now and change! Put on the blue dress; it’s that beautiful no man could withstand it! Put on the blue dress and be a-waitin’ him! He’s expectin’ a woman, so give him a lady, a grand lady! All in a lovely gown and all! He’ll be speechless, mum!

“If it is a fight we’re in, I say come out a-fightin’ with your best weapons! Me old father used to say, ‘Never let ’em get set! Take ’em off their feet an’ keep ’em so!’ It’s you, mum, must do it! Be the great lady you are and he’ll never have the nerve to fire you! Before he gets his wits about him, he’ll be on the stage an’ gone!”

For a moment, she just stared. Of course! Matty was right, so right!

“All right! But you, too! You were a maid once, you said. You told me you’d the black dress and the apron left, but that isn’t what we want! Just a fresh dress and an apron! Quickly now! And you, too, Peg! Come! We’ve only minutes!”

She ran into the other room of the cottage and changed. Her hair, it looked a fright. Still—she took her brush and comb, looked a moment, and made swift touches here and there.

Her dress was lovely. Fortunately, she’d taken it out for Matty to press only the other day, and it had been hanging ready—ready for what?

She had barely crossed to the station when they heard a shout and the rattling of chains, the pounding of hoofs. The stage swept up, turned in a cloud of dust, and the weary passengers began to descend.

She went out on the steps and stood waiting. The passengers started toward the steps, then stopped. “Gentlemen? And ladies? Welcome to Cherokee Station!” Gracefully, she stepped to one side. “If you will come in, please?”

Staring, they paraded past her, two women and four men. And then at last the man she knew at once was Mark Stacy.

He was tall, strongly built, not at all bad-looking. He had stepped down from the stage without seeing her and was talking for a moment with the driver. As he turned away, the fresh team was led out by Temple Boone, and as they passed him, he looked up to see Mary Breydon.

He stopped, his mouth open. Hastily, he gulped, closed his mouth, and, confused, started toward her. He had been expecting a termagant, one of those big, strong women, as forceful as any man, such as one often found in western mining camps. Instead, there was this utterly beautiful young woman.

A lady, they had said, and so she obviously was. Confused—all his carefully chosen words were forgotten.

She smiled beautifully, graciously. “Mr. Mark Stacy, is it? Welcome to Cherokee Station! Please come inside. Your food will grow cold.

“Peg? Will you show Mr. Stacy to his place? Please do.”

Mark Stacy fumbled his way to his seat. The table was covered with a red calico cloth. There were red calico curtains at the windows, the floor was spotless, and the food smelled terrific. He glanced around.

It was like a different place. Only the old fireplace and the stove that had been added later to give greater warmth, only they were familiar. The windows were in all the right places, but the place itself…he couldn’t believe it.

Mary sat down opposite him. She passed the plate, heaping with steaks. “It is buffalo steak, and many prefer it to beef. You’re familiar with it, Mr. Stacy?”

“I was a buffalo hunter,” he explained, “although I never ate a buffalo steak that tasted quite this good.”

“They are a feature of Cherokee Station, Mr. Stacy. The meat of the country, you know!”

Mark Stacy was confused and somewhat irritated. He had a feeling of being taken advantage of but could not quite see how it was done. Certainly, no station on his or any stage line had either meals like this or a station manager as glamorous. It was nothing like what he had expected, and he did not quite know what to do about it.

“I must say, Miss—?” He was a thin man with a beard.

“It is Mrs. Breydon, sir. I regret to say I am a widow.”

“What I wanted to say was that I’ve never had food like this on any stage line. Nor a station as attractive. I almost wish I could stop over.”

“We haven’t the facilities for that, sir, but one day we might. When we do, I hope you come this way again.”

The stage driver thrust his head in the door. “Five minutes, folks!” The driver turned toward Stacy. “Will you be goin’ on with us, Mr. Stacy?”

“I’ll catch the next stage. I’ve some business here.” He got up hastily and went out.

The driver was about to swing aboard. “She’s a looker, ain’t she, boss?”

“She is a handsome woman. Whether she’s a station agent remains to be seen.”

“Wait’ll you see the barn. She’s got it fixed like one o’ them fancy private stables back East. Anything you want, it’s right there, under your hand. She ain’t missed a trick.”

Stacy stood, hands on his hips, watching the stage roll out; then he walked to the stable.

Wooden pegs in the walls, extra harness all hung, collars on one peg, the rest of the harness on another. The stalls were clean, the tack room free of dust, the harness repair tools all laid out.

Had she known he was coming? Of course, she had. The grapevine always carried such news, and anyone who fed as well as she did was sure to have made friends along the line. Yet, even so, he had never seen a station so clean, so well organized, and she had been here less than three weeks. All this could not have been done in the few hours before his arrival.

He walked back to the door and surveyed the station. What had that passenger said? That he wished he could stop over?

The station itself, the corrals, the barn, and the cottage. It was a nice setup, nicely laid out, but he had not really noticed that when Luther was running the place. Woman or not, she had certainly improved the place, but how in God’s world had she been able to fire Scant Luther?

He had planned to do it himself if Major Breydon did not succeed, and he had not looked forward to it. Surely, there would have been a physical encounter.

Another thought came to him. What was Boone doing here? He had led out the team, then disappeared. And that boy she had hired? What was his name?

He was not himself doubtful that a woman could run a stage station. He was doubtful that she could command the respect of the men she would need to hire and serve. Or handle outlaws—

That was another thing. Where was Denver Cross? If he was hid out somewhere in the area, he must be planning a move against the stages. What else was there? And soon gold shipments would be coming down from the mountains. And why was Temple Boone here?

He glanced toward the station, seeing a flash of blue when Mary Breydon passed the window. He felt a sudden surge of jealousy.

Of course. He’d been a fool. Boone was here because Mary Breydon was. If he kept her on, every loose drifter in the country as well as some of the others would be stopping by. Slowly, thinking the while, he walked back to the station.

“A cup of coffee, Mr. Stacy?”

He glanced at her, then nodded. “By the way, have you met Preston Collier yet?”

“Collier? No, I don’t believe I have. Who is he?”

“He’s a rancher, about the largest ranch in the area, I believe. They’ve a lovely home just over the hill a few miles. He runs a good many horses, and we’ve bought from him a time or two. He’s a good man. Easterner. New York, I believe.”

He sipped his coffee. “You know, Mrs. Breydon, I hired your husband, M. O. Breydon, not you.”

“My husband was killed on the way West. Our initials were the same. I needed the job, and I believed I could do it. Now I am sure I can.”