Louis L'Amour (8 page)

Was there? What could she do? Yet the idea was right. She must not sit by, waiting to be killed, waiting to be destroyed. She must move herself.

But what could she, a woman, do? What weapons did she have?

She had the truth, yet she was not so naive as to believe the truth alone would prevail.

The truth was a weapon, and if wisely used, it might destroy him. She did not intend to sit by and wait for attack. She would choose her time, and then she would move. But what time? When? How?

She must have a pistol. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would go into Laporte and buy one.

She watched the dust settle after the departure of the stage; then she walked out to the stable. Wat was there, pitchfork in hand. He was, she noted, keeping things neat and clean. “Thank you, Wat. Everything looks very nice.”

“It’s a job, ma’am.”

“Wat? You seem to know most of the people around here. How do you happen to know so many?”

“I sort of watch and listen.”

“Where are your family, Wat?”

“I got no family.” He looked up at her, then quickly away. “I got nobody.”

“Now that isn’t a nice thing to say. What about me? What about Peg?”

“You ain’t kinfolk.”

“There is more than one kind of kinfolk, Wat. Some are kin by blood and some by heart. Peg wants to think you are her brother, and I like that. You have a family, Wat, if you want it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What happened to your family, Wat? Your father and mother?”

He shuffled his feet, then stabbed at the earthen floor with his pitchfork. “Mama died when I was two, maybe three. I remember her a little. Pa, he was shot.”

“Shot? By whom?”

“It makes no difrence.”

They were interrupted by the sound of hoofs. “Riders comin’,” Wat said. “Two of them.”

She glanced out of the stable door. Two men on horseback, and they were strangers.

Chapter 8

L
ONG AGO, HER father had told her to
see
. “Not many do, Mary. Learn to see what you are looking at.” And about these riders there was something different.

“They have fine horses,” she said aloud.

“Yes, ma’am,” Wat said. “No cowhand can afford horses like that. They are either mighty well off, or they are outlaws.”

“Outlaws?”

“Yes, ma’am, an outlaw needs a horse that can run. A horse with stayin’ quality, too. He dasn’t trust himself to just any ol’ crow bait.”

“Wat, please go into the station and tell Matty not to mention me. Just feed them and let them ride on. I’ll wait until they are inside, and then I’ll go over to the house.”

“You scared of them?”

“Not scared, just careful.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Wat, I am going to tell you something, but keep it to yourself. My husband was shot and killed by a man named Jason Flandrau. He shot my husband because of what we knew about him, and he does not want people out here to know.

“He killed my husband to keep him from talking, and he may have heard that I am here.”

Wat walked across to the station as the men were tying their horses. She saw the door open and close. The men looked around, then followed him in, and as soon as the door closed, when they would be looking about the room, she crossed to the house.

Peg looked up from the tablet where she was drawing. “Mama? What’s the matter?”

“There are some men at the station. I do not want them to see me.”

“Did they?”

“I don’t believe so. We will have to wait and see.”

Inside the station, Wat moved over beside Matty. “How’s about some of that pie? As long as there’s only the two of us to eat it—”

“You’ll have to wait until I feed these gentlemen. They might want some pie.” Her attention caught at his comment “only the two of us.” He was staring at her, his eyes intent as if trying to tell her something.

“I know you got to feed these fellers, but if there’s any left…I mean, you don’t eat pie, and that leaves only me.”

Matty glanced toward the two men, two strong, rough-looking men, both wearing guns. Of course, nearly everybody out here did wear guns, but—

“Coffee?” she asked. “Is it coffee you’re wanting?”

“And a bite to eat if you’ve something put by.”

“We’ve a bit of stew left, and we’ve bread, fresh baked by meself.”

“We’ll have it.” The younger man glanced around. “We heard there was a woman runnin’ the station, but I’d no thought she’d be Irish.”

“Are you Irish yourself, then? You’ve a bit of the look.”

“Aye, a bit. My grandmother was from Donegal.” He glanced around again. “Is it you who runs the station?”

“Who else? Could the boy run it, now? He’s long in the country, though, and I couldna do it without him.”

She put down two cups and filled them. “But I didna come for that, not for runnin’ of a station or what all. I come for the gold they said was lyin’ about everywhere.”

Taking a long-handled wooden spoon, she began dishing up stew. “ ’Twas my wish to go back to Ireland a rich girl and have the pick o’ the lads there.”

“You’re dreamin’, girl.” The older man spoke harshly. “How much gold have you seen? It’s here, but there’s only a few of them has it.”

“You watch. I shall find my gold and go home a great lady.”

The younger one asked, “Did you come right here from the old country? Or did you stop in Virginia?”

“Virginia? I dinna ken the place. ’Twas to Boston I came and worked there until I could get the fare for the stage to come west. It was California where I was bound, but when I heard there was gold in Colorado and it was a thousand mile the closer, I chose Colorado.”

There was no more talk. They settled to their eating, and as Matty had noticed, eating in the West was a serious business not to be interrupted by idle conversation. From time to time, she refilled their cups. She knew tough men when she saw them, and these were all of that.

Where was Mary Breydon? It was unlike her to leave Matty to handle things alone. She glanced at Wat, and he stretched, brushing a finger past his lips as he did so.

Trouble, was it? She refilled the teakettle and stirred the fire. The water in the kettle had been hot, and soon there would be more.

“Meetin’ the stage?” she asked.

“Passin’ through. Headin’ west.”

One of them muttered something to the other, and the older man said, “Ain’t likely.”

“…what I think,” the younger man said. “Some mistake.”

They finished eating, and one of the men rolled a smoke. The younger glanced around again. “Tidy,” he said, “right tidy.”

“Thank you, sir! It’s the only way a poor girl can hold a job these days, to do something better than the men.”

The younger man got up. “Come on, Joe. We’ll see the boss in Laporte.”

They went out the door, stepped into their saddles, and rode away.

Wat turned to Matty. “I thought I knew him! That’s Turkey Joe Longman. He’s a horse thief and gunman, only he’s never been caught at it. I don’t know the younger one.”

When the sound of hoofs had died away, Mary came back to the station. Matty turned as she came in. “Wat says he knows the older one. He’s a horse thief.”

“So is the younger one.” Mary Breydon’s eyes showed her anger. “The horse he’s riding was one of ours from back home. I know that horse, and he would know me, I think.”

“It’s been how long, ma’am?”

“Almost two years since that horse was stolen. He was one of the last ones driven off by Flandrau’s men.”

“Can you say for sure it was him?”

“I can say it, but I cannot prove it, and he was using another name then. Flandrau was the name he used when he was not robbing and stealing.”

“We must tell Mr. Boone, ma’am. He will know what to do.”

“What to do is my problem, not his. I’ll not be getting him into a shooting because of my troubles. This is for me to do.”

“You’ve made friends, ma’am, good friends. They’ll not see you put upon.”

“Leave them out of it. I’ll handle it.”

But how? She could not continue to hide whenever a stranger came by. She had done so this once because she needed time. There was a chance now they would not realize for a few days, at least, that Matty was not the woman in charge. Then they would come back.

“They’ll not be fooled,” Wat said. “By now there will be talk of you all along the line. Ma’am, I know cowboys, and I know the West, and by now they will be speakin’ of you from El Paso to Uvalde to Salt Lake. A good-lookin’ woman who can
cook
?

“Word gets around, ma’am. The West has no secrets. There’s little enough that’s news, and a man in El Paso will know what the town marshal looks like in Denver, he will know there’s a card sharp in Kansas City who looks at his watch just before he deals. They know there’s something crooked going on, but nobody’s caught him at it yet. So they will know you’re here.”

“Thank you, Wat. I needed a little time, just a little.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but you’re goin’ to need a lot more than that. Those are mean men, mighty mean.”

She stood looking out the window, looking down the road. Of course, Wat was right. All she had done was to gain a little time, time to think, to plan.

Of course, Jason Flandrau must be careful. To go further with his plans, he must not allow any taint of suspicion to touch him. He must seem to have nothing at all to do with what happened, so it was unlikely he would use any men who were known to work for him or be friendly to him.

Whatever else he might be, Jason Flandrau was no fool. He had acted quickly to kill her husband, but he had no choice, and that was a gun battle, and there were many men in Colorado and the West who had engaged in gun battles. Why even Andrew Jackson had once killed a man in a gunfight!

To kill a woman was another thing, so it would be done with care by somebody unconnected to him, by somebody…perhaps even a renegade Indian?

She must get a pistol.

She would go into Laporte, for, of course, they needed much else. There were odds and ends of clothing she must obtain for Peg and herself and a little other shopping. And she must be thinking of schooling for Peg, and as there were no schools close by, she must handle that herself. For Peg and Wat, she reminded herself.

Long ago, her father had taught her to shoot, and she remembered what he had said. “A gun is a responsibility. Never shoot blind. Always know what you are shooting at and never shoot unless there is no other alternative. And consider every gun as loaded. Most of them are.”

She must think. The first item was clear and obvious. She might never tell anyone about Flandrau’s guerrilla activities, but he could not be sure of that. He had killed her husband; now he would kill her. So she must consider how it might be done and who might do it. Coolly, cold-bloodedly, she must consider every aspect and then be prepared.

She was not a man who might be challenged and killed, as her husband had been. They might hold up the stage and kill her in the process, but already she had learned enough of western ways to know that even the worst of men would hesitate at killing a woman. Kill a man and the West might shrug, but kill a woman and men would arise in their wrath and hunt down the killer and hang him without hesitation.

Ambush…shot while crossing the area from the stage station to her dwelling or moving about between the barn and the corral.

Somebody hidden up in the trees on the low hillside with a horse waiting back in the brush. There could be other ways, but that was the most obvious and the one she must consider.

Her father, an old army man, had once said that a battle well planned was half won. Perhaps. There was always the unexpected, but if one had prepared for every contingency, one could then cope with the unexpected. She must be cool; she must be objective.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for this, yet when she came to think of it, she had often heard her husband and father talking of war, Indian fights on the frontier, and there were some things she remembered. She could not, would not, ask for help. That was not the way it was done on the frontier, but even if it had been, what right had she to embroil others in her problems, perhaps at the risk of their lives?

Attack, her father had said, always attack.

To protect herself was not enough; she must not permit a man of Jason Flandrau’s type to come to a position of authority.

Who was it who told her that her neighbor, whom she had never met, was a political power as well as a wealthy rancher? What was his name? Collier, Preston Collier. She must meet him, and soon.

Who would oppose Flandrau in running for office? Who stood to lose most if he won? Whoever he was, he was a potential ally, and she would need all the help she could get. Yet she could not come right out and accuse Flandrau, for how could she prove it? This was far from Virginia, Kentucky, and Ohio where he had operated before going West to Missouri and Kansas. Those who might have known of his activities as a guerrilla were scattered, still in the armed forces or perhaps even killed. It would be her unsupported word against his, and he had been making himself prominent in church circles in Denver and elsewhere, had avoided the saloons and gambling halls, and had already won some standing in the area. As for her, she was just a stranger, a woman who, of all things, operated a stage station.

She turned away from the window and glanced at Wat, eating a piece of apple pie. Wat, that strange, wild boy from only God knew where.

“Wat,” she said suddenly, “if I had a son, I would want him to be like you.”

Startled, Wat looked up, his face flushing with embarrassment. She crossed to him. “I mean it, Wat. I mean every word.”

He looked down quickly, tears in his eyes. When he looked up, he had blinked them away.

“Ma’am? If you’re goin’ into Laporte, I think you should leave me go with you. I could circulate around a little.”

“We’ll see, Wat. I’ll go in tomorrow, I think.”

“You goin’ on the stage? You take the stage, ma’am. It’s safer. Wilbur will be drivin’, and he’s a good whip.”

What would she wear? Her traveling suit? She could press that, and the white blouse? Crossing the room, she looked critically at her hair. She’d have to do something with it and make a list of things to do, things to get.