The station keeper nodded and let out a yelp. A young man came out of a shed with a full bucket. Clay looked from one to the other and said, “Thank you.” Not wanting to be rude by inspecting the water for bugs, he took off his canteen and let the other rider fill it. Capping the container, he said, “Thank you,” and got back on the horse.
He rode on, still thirsty. Dirty water didn’t bother him as much as chewy water. He’d use the shirt tied around his neck as a strainer before he’d drink bug-filled anything. A small, almost nothing building lay ahead on the road. The place looked deserted, and he galloped past an abandoned shed in the middle of a wide valley. He had the horse slow to a walk and opened his canteen.
Clay put the tail of his loose shirt over the mouth of the container and drank. Not as bad as he’d feared. A little mossy tasting, and he didn’t want to think too much about what might be floating around in there, anyway. He dismounted and poured a handful for the horse. The animal drank, pushing his velvety nose against Clay for more. He chuckled, obliging the animal before resuming the run.
Miles and miles passed. Just when he was ready to give up and admit to being lost, a small shack appeared in the distance. If the sad building was the station, Clay was going to recommend extra care for his horse. They’d run a good forty miles and not all of the terrain had been flat or easy going. He whistled to let them know he was near.
Two boys, young ones, ran up from the creek to meet up with an elderly man. The three of them stood by the shed with a ready mount. Clay’s horse skidded to a stop and he slid off. “Howdy.”
The station keeper moved the mochila. “You got extra water? Deep Creek’s thirty-two miles away.”
None of the dry gulches he’d passed seemed promising but thirty-two miles in any weather left man and beast parched. “I need a refill and the horse needs care, too. The station west of here is gone.”
He shook his head. “Figured as much. Tom, Bob, get this man some water.”
Clay gave the oldest one his canteen and the boy ran over to a pail. The keeper began pulling the saddle from the tired horse. “Hope you don’t mind a warm drink. I figure it’s better to have a full bucket so you boys don’t have to wait.”
“Good thinking, thank you.” He took the full canteen from the youngster and hopped up onto the fresh horse. “I appreciate the hospitality.” They murmured replies as he nudged the horse’s flanks to go. As tired and hungry as Clay was, the next thirty or so miles seemed impossible to cross. He wouldn’t say no to a fast meal at the next station if time allowed.
August on a flat desert left a man feeling crispy. Riding fast helped, but every time he stopped the heat suffocated him. He glanced to his right. A dust storm kept pace to his south. Clay hoped the cloud stayed there. Otherwise, he and the horse would need to find some sort of gully to hunker down in. He reckoned they’d been lucky to miss the thunderstorms. The ones his family endured during their travels to California still gave him nightmares.
The road led him up the low mountain and in among some sage lining the ravine. He figured they’d make up any time lost once on the downhill side. As long as the dust storm stayed away, they’d both be good.
At the summit, he could look down and see several buildings. The station looked almost like a town. He and the horse picked their way down, its hooves slipping on the loose rocks every so often. Each time chilled his blood as he readied for the fall. Clay focused on each step, only to look up and find they were on level ground. The station sat in front of him, bigger than most of the other outfits so far.
Impressive, but what he needed was a chance to grab a few bites of anything before riding on to the next station. He nudged the horse a little faster. They flew into town and he yelped a few times to let them know he was on the way.
Changing horses took a while so he dug in his bag for this morning biscuits. The other contents had beaten everything to crumbs and he groaned in frustration. Clay asked the man cinching the saddle, “Do you have anything left over from dinner?”
“Sure do.” He paused, and then nodded at the door to a wooden two-story building.” Go on in and ask Polly for whatever you need.”
“Thank you, I’ll be quick.” He hurried in, finding himself in a large whitewashed kitchen. The woman, Polly, stood at a washtub and Clay said, “Good afternoon.”
She turned to him and gave a smile. “You’re a pony boy, aren’t ya?”
He rather liked how Polly’s eyes sparkled and couldn’t help but grin back at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh bosh, don’t ma’am me. I’m not much older than you are.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’re in here for some vittles, ain’t ya?”
The promise of a meal turned a pretty girl into a downright beautiful lady in his mind. Clay grinned. “If you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I have pickles, dried fruit, peanuts, cold meat, and bread. Whatever you’d like.”
“Everything sounds good. Anything you can spare will do.”
Polly squinted, looking him up and down before going to a cupboard. She opened the doors. “Fruits, nuts, and bread will carry the best.” She reached into a large jar and took out a pickle, wrapping it in a cloth. “Here’s a pickle to keep you healthy. Keep the handkerchief. It’s clean and you might need it.”
After she threw various items in a larger cloth and tied it with twine, Polly gave him the bundle. “Here, and keep your eyes open. The Gochutes are riled up out there.”
“The go shoots?”
“It’s one word. They’re natives who aren’t happy to see us and the soldiers.” A whistle from outside caught her attention before she turned back to him. “Get going then, and keep away from arrows.”
“Yes, ma’—, uh, Miss Polly.” He tucked the food under his arm and ran outside.
The station keeper stood there with his hands on his hips. “Did you plan on staying all day, boy?”
“No, sir.” Clay felt it best to not engage the now red-faced man and hopped onto the fresh horse. Before giving the animal a nudge towards the next station, he put the food in his bag and fastened the button.
Just as the leather closed around the wooden fastener, the station keeper slapped the horse on the butt. The animal took off like a shot. Clay grabbed the reins and pommel for a few seconds before recovering his scraps of dignity. He had a few choice words for the man, none of them polite.
The miles fell away. He waited until well clear of town before slowing the horse for something, anything, to eat. Clay hated being late to the next station. But he hated a growly stomach more. Eating fast, he rolled up the shirt from around his neck, shoved the garment into his bag, and was soon ready to go full speed again. The food and water had fueled and refreshed him. He wouldn’t mind riding another seventy-five miles or so to Salt Lake City.
Clay laughed at the idea. He might have a second wind, but the sky didn’t have a full moon. He’d have to pass this time. Judging by the slope of sagebrush shadows, he had another seven hours of daylight at the most. The road turned into a narrow crevasse. Narrow in comparison to the wide, flat valleys anyway. The high walls on either side closed in and he struggled to ignore the feeling.
Something buzzed by his ear and he slapped at the insect. Clay had missed hitting whatever it was. The next buzz sailed behind him and he turned. Nothing behind him. As he started to face forward, something hit his hat, hard. “What the hell,” he began, and reached to mash down his loosened hat.
His hand connected with a wood stick. His heart leapt into his throat as he yelled “Hyah!” Clay kicked the horse into a faster gallop. Pony boys were given the fastest mounts for a reason. They needed the ability to outrun an Indian pony no matter what. Guns, while useful for hunting, did little good when the odds were a tribe to one.
He stretched out over the horse to make a smaller target. Polly had warned him but never mentioned any deaths. The Gochutes were either bad at killing or merely wanted to scare him. Either way, he didn’t want to stay any longer than they wanted
him to.
Letting the horse run full speed, he slowed them both when spotting a few buildings ahead. The road led to a station nestled in a grove of cottonwoods along a creek. He warned them with a whistle and rode up to the waiting horse. He nodded a greeting at the manager holding the new horse’s reins. The man stood, mouth agape, staring at Clay’s head. He remembered his hat and the arrow. “Yeah, I ran into a little trouble.”
He removed his head cover to find the arrow went clean through and stuck. Any lower and the point wouldn’t have missed his head. He pulled out the arrow and shoved both it and his hat into his bag, muttering, “I’ll have to fix this later.” He slid off of the animal so the mochila could be placed on the other saddle.
Clay patted the horse’s blanketed back. “Be good to this guy. He probably saved my life.” He swung up onto the new horse and took off, eager to leave the Indian attacks behind him.
Still rattled by the arrow grazing him, he didn’t pay attention to the next two stations. Both were small, and copies of ones he’d already visited. Not until several miles past the second did he notice how long the shadows stretched out beside him. He’d have to overnight at the next place no matter what the sleeping conditions were.
The road wrapped around a hill jutting from the valley floor. He followed as first the road went east before turning south. A stone building’s white rocks shone in the beginnings of twilight. He’d have to stop here and didn’t mind so much. Trees surrounded the station and the air smelled like lake water.
He let out a whistle to let them know he was a rider as they approached. The man holding the fresh horse hollered something he couldn’t hear. By the time he dismounted another rider stood there, ready to go. The mochila left with him and the fresh horse. Clay grinned. “How did you know I’d stay?”
“I figured you had to. We never met. I’d heard word of a rider headed east. It’s getting dark.” He unsaddled the horse and removed the blanket. “There’s mutton stew on the fire. Bert, he just left, drank our last bit of tea, but there will be coffee in the morning.”
After the past two days, Clay knew his usual run had left him spoiled rotten. Coffee was a luxury he’d be sure to wake up for early enough to enjoy tomorrow. “Thank you.”
“Glad to help. I’m William, and Joe’s our other rider. He’ll be headed west in the morning.”
Clay followed him to the corral where several other horses stood around. “When will the east run start?”
“’Round midmorning usually. Burt is supposed to come back, but most times he stays an extra day and sends someone else.”
The trip sounded even more erratic than his own journey. “How far east does he go?”
William pumped fresh water into the trough. “Salt Lake. There’s a young lady up there he’s taken to.”
He chuckled, understanding the other rider’s reasons more than usual. “Ah, a good reason.”
“I reckon a lady is why you’re going so far from home, too.” He grabbed a grooming brush from where it’d been hung by a strap on a fencepost.
Clay stared at the sky. The clouds glowed with orange light from the dying sun. The cool air settled, broken only by the sound of livestock moving, getting comfortable for the night. He considered not admitting anything before settling on confiding in an older and wiser person. “You reckon correctly. I’d intended to deliver bad news about her betrothed, and now I’m bringing her back letters she wrote him.”
“Oh.” William paused in brushing the horse before continuing. “I suppose no one could resist reading a little. Just to see if their effort would be appreciated.”
He could deny everything but they’d both know he was lying. “I didn’t mean to read anything. My family’s from Missouri, and I’d intended to visit them. Not become interested in a woman I’ve never met.”
“Suppose not.” He put the brush back and lifted his chin toward the house. “Your dinner’s getting cold and Joe might think what’s left is for him.”
Clay grinned. “I’d better go set him straight.” He went inside to find the lamps already lighted. The burning wicks cast a yellow tint to everything in the room. He nodded at the young man half-lying, half-sitting on a bed. He must be the Joe that William had mentioned. “Howdy.”
He didn’t glance up from his book. “Hey. I suppose the last bowl of stew is yours. Burt drank our tea.”
“So I heard.” A bowl and spoon sat on a wooden shelf near the black stove. He looked at the pot’s contents. The mutton smelled good and his stomach growled in response. Clay took the last bit and just enough to fill his bowl before sitting at the table.
Joe stood and unfolded his long, lanky body. “I’m thirsty. Want a cup of water?”
He nodded. William came in from chores at the same time Joe left with a pitcher. William sat opposite of Clay. “I’d usually stay up and trade stories. Especially since you’re new here.”
Clay paused in taking a bite to ask, “Usually?”
“Indians tried to run off all our stock early this morning.” He shrugged. “I’m tuckered out from chasing them.”
He swallowed, glad to hear Joe coming in with fresh water. “Can’t say I blame you.” Clay nodded his thanks as the young man filled water cups for the three of them. He drained the cup fast. After pushing his bowl and spoon to the center of the table, he took the canteen and bag from around his neck. “I had a run-in with a local tribe on the way here.” He took out his hat, arrow still piercing the crown.
The two men crowded around. William took the hat, turning it upside down and right side up before handing the head cover to Joe for his examination.“ You’re lucky it missed you.” He glanced up at Clay’s hair. “I suppose it did miss? There’s no bandage, and you have all your faculties.”
He laughed. “Yep. They missed me. I thought the bugs were extra big when they whizzed past me.” He accepted the hat back from Joe. “Could have been worse. They could have been bullets.” The other two men chuckled.
Clay spotted how bread from the destroyed biscuits covered the bottom of his leather bag. “I don’t suppose you have chickens? Seems I have crumbs to feed them.”
“We do. They’re roosting,” Joe said.
William gathered the soup bowls and spoons. He put the dishes in a bucket and went to his bed. “You can throw the crumbs out in the yard. The chickens will find them in the morning.”
“Will do,” Clay said. He’d like to just undress and go to bed, but the food in his bag nagged at him. Nothing bad could happen to Abigail’s letters. He spread the handkerchief from Polly out on the table and placed the bag on top to catch the crumbs.
One by one, he took out the book, a smaller kerchief holding dried fruit and peanuts, the loose twine, and his route logbook. He needed to jot down where he was now, too, before he forgot. “What do you call this station?”
“Fish Springs,” Joe said, and William nodded from where he lay.
He searched for the pencil and then made a note in the book. Clay glanced at William. The man’s eyes were closed and he decided asking for the initials could wait. He looked at his book on the table, still wrapped in the ribbon. He couldn’t do as good a job as Miss Jenny had with the bow, yet hoped he’d done well enough. His retying abilities didn’t matter because he needed to see if the biscuits’ greasy crumbs damaged the letters.
He untied the ribbon and flipped the book’s pages. The first three letters seemed unharmed. None of the crumbs had slid between the book’s pages. Her papers were reasonably safe. He relaxed and stared at the fourth letter.
Clay glanced up to see what the other two men were doing. Joe was still reading, while William lay still. Only his chest moved a little to prove he was still alive. Clay looked at the fourth letter which seemed to tease him. He slid the envelope from the book. She still gave Miss. A. Sterling as her name on the return address.
He stared at the script. If she and Crandall had been as close as Bartlett said, wouldn’t she be writing her full name instead of an
initial by now? He turned the envelope over to find nothing written on the back. Maybe they weren’t as close as everyone had thought and he was on a fool’s errand.
What if as soon as he reached her doorstep, she laughed and said Crandall had been a fun diversion to write to? He’d been nearly run through the skull by an arrow today and for what? Some little ole gal toying with a gold miner’s affections? Clay figured he ought to at least read the salutation on the fourth letter. See if Miss Sterling would even care about Crandall’s death.
The letter still in his hand, he opened the envelope before talking himself out of reading anything else.
Dear Richard,
I feel odd addressing you so informally. I might have told the others a story about not receiving a letter from you this month. Claudette had hoped you might single her out as a bride. She’s far too young and full of romantic notions. I suppose you and I are as well. Otherwise, we’d not be writing each other so warmly. I have to confess being worried about how you might think ill of me when I admit to being glad you’ve written me personally. I felt a little presumptuous in my delight until I reread your letter. Your feelings are very much returned. I adore you even though we’ve yet to meet.
Thank you also for the enclosed photograph of you. I appreciate the time and effort you took away from your work. I also think you’re a fine-looking man. Not at all how I’d expect a miner to appear and much more handsome than my imagination led me to believe. If you were so bold as to include a sketch of yourself with your bride advertisement, I’d suspect your post office would be full of replies. Selfishly, I’m glad you didn’t. I’d prefer to be your only pen friend.
When I think upon your worship from afar, I confess I’d prefer to be flesh and blood instead of a goddess. You’re right, in that our making a life in the wilderness gives me cause for concern. I would like the challenge but am afraid I’d fail miserably. I would prefer to be a worthy wife to you, not a shrinking violet you’d have to constantly protect.
This letter is short only because I’m impatient to send and thus receive your reply.
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