Messenger by Moonlight

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Dozens of immigrant camps dotted the landscape between the creek and the long, low building with the peaked, shingled roof. When Luther learned the barn was “full up,” he pulled his freight wagon alongside a large corral. Everyone in their train worked together, unsaddling, unharnessing, and unhitching their nearly twenty animals and turning them into the corral. By the time the horses and mules were tended and the tack stored beneath the freight wagon, the evening star had come out.

  Luther led the way up the hill to the clapboard building. Opening the main door, he waved Annie in ahead of him. She stepped into a large room with gleaming, whitewashed walls. An open door in the far wall revealed shelves laden with goods. A tidy woman dressed in an indigo calico dress and a spotless apron stood behind a counter to the left of that doorway, talking to a buckskin-clad customer. Nearby, a two-burner stove radiated warmth. Luther pointed to a door to their right, “The stairs to the loft—the ‘hotel’ part of the operation.”

  At the sound of Luther’s voice, the woman behind the counter looked up with a welcoming smile. “Luther Mufsy! You are in luck! Today we have dumplings.” She handed a small cloth bag to her customer and stepped out from behind the counter. Without waiting for an introduction, she motioned for everyone to follow her as she led the way past the small stove and into the next room, where a large cookstove dominated the far wall and a rustic table and two benches provided seating for at least a dozen.

  “I’ve been telling them they’re in for a treat,” Luther said, as everyone took a seat at the table. “Frank, Emmet, and Jake are the latest Pony Express riders. Jake’s for Liberty Farm up in Nebraska. The Paxtons are going on to Clearwater. Annie’s the new cook there.”

  Mrs. Hollenberg looked Annie up and down and, without comment, retrieved bowls from a corner shelf and began to ladle dumplings out of a massive stew pot on the stove. As she set Annie’s bowl before her, she asked, “So. She is to be working”—she glanced over wire-rimmed spectacles at Luther—“for George Morgan?”

  Luther nodded and clapped Frank on the back—a little too heartily, Annie thought. “Frank and Emmet weren’t about to leave their sister alone in St. Jo.”

  Mrs. Hollenberg only grunted as she retrieved spoons from a drawer in the same cupboard housing stacked white dishes. She poured fresh buttermilk from a large white pitcher into tin mugs. Plunking the pitcher down on the table, she sat down across from Annie. “Is hard life, Fräulein.” She looked over at Luther. “Is too much for young girl.”

  Annoyed at being so quickly dismissed, Annie said, “I’ve been cooking for my family since I was nine years old.”

  Mrs. Hollenberg pursed her lips. “How many in this family?”

  “Pa and Frank and Emmet and me.”

  Mrs. Hollenberg counted silently, tapping each tip of the fingers on her left hand. “Four.”

  Annie nodded.

  Mrs. Hollenberg pushed herself to her feet. “Most days I am feeding many times that. I am having also Mr. Hollenberg’s niece, Louisa, to help with cooking, cleaning, washing, tending chickens—and garden. She works very hard. I work very hard. Still, is not so easy to keep up.” Again, she looked at Luther. “Is too much for one tiny woman.” After the pronouncement, she rose and busied herself on the kitchen side of the room, rattling this and tasting that.

  Annie defended herself—perhaps a little too loudly. She was young—she emphasized the word young perhaps a little too strenuously, but honestly Mrs. Hollenberg was, if not old, at least middle-aged. Definitely past her prime. Annie was young, healthy, and “perfectly capable of cooking for fifty people if the job demands it.”

  Mrs. Hollenberg said nothing.

  When Annie opened her mouth to say more, Luther nudged her with his elbow and muttered, “Have a dumpling.”

  Annie scowled at him. Jake asked for more to eat. Mrs. Hollenberg served it, and then moved back to the stove and opened the oven door. When the aroma of fresh baked bread wafted into the room, Annie’s mouth began to water. Her stomach growled. Mrs. Hollenberg served up thick slices of fresh bread, each one slathered with butter. Annie swallowed a spoonful of the broth in the bowl. She ate a dumpling. And another. She savored the tang of salted butter and the yeasty warmth of bread. The older woman might be outspoken to the point of rudeness, but there was no denying she was a wonderful cook. Annie dared a question. “Would you tell me how to make your dumplings before we leave in the morning?”

  Mrs. Hollenberg turned around, a shocked look on her face. “You don’t know to make dumplings?”

  Annie bristled. “Anyone can make dumplings. But I see flecks of green, and it doesn’t taste like parsley. Sage, maybe?” There. At least the old woman knew she wasn’t a complete idiot.

  Mrs. Hollenberg studied her for a moment before responding. “Also bread crumbs fried in butter for stuffing. I can teach,” she said, but then waved the idea way. “But there is no point. George Morgan don’t keep chickens.”

  Annie looked over at Luther for confirmation. He shrugged. She looked back at Mrs. Hollenberg. “Maybe I’ll make Clearwater famous for buffalo and dumplings.”

  Mrs. Hollenberg glanced over at Luther. Looked back at Annie. Finally, with a low laugh, she pointed at Annie’s bowl. “Eat. Dumplings aren’t so good cold.” She spoke to the men. “Who wishes for more?” After serving thirds to Jake and seconds to everyone else, she went into the other room. When she returned a few moments later, she set a note on the table beside Annie.

  Sophia’s Dumplings

  2 cups flour–4 teaspoons baking powder–½ teaspoon salt—sifted together. Add butter, cream, herbs for nice dough. Roll out. Cut in squares. Bread crumbs fried in butter into center of each square. Fold over. Pinch. Seal edge with cream. Boil in broth with meat of one whole hen. (Boil longer for buffalo to make tender.)

  Annie suppressed a smile when she read the reminder regarding buffalo meat. The nonspecific word herbs was more than a little disappointing, but it paled in importance in light of Mrs. Hollenberg’s pronouncement about chickens and George Morgan. He didn’t keep chickens? She couldn’t possibly do without eggs—not for two years.

  As the party finished eating and rose to leave, Annie thanked Mrs. Hollenberg for the recipe and tucked it in her skirt pocket. Once outside, she followed the men down to their camp, her mind whirling with doubt. No eggs. She’d taken chickens for granted. If Clearwater didn’t have a chicken coop… she hurried to catch up with Luther. “Do you know if there’s a milk cow at Clearwater?”

  “Could be one now, I suppose.”

  “But there wasn’t the last time you were there.”

  Luther shook his head. “No, Ma’am. Not as of last October.”

  “And no chickens.”

  “It’d be a hard place to keep chickens. Hot, hot, summers. Cold, cold winters. Hawks in the air, varmints on the ground. Not to say it can’t be done, mind you, but it’d take time and determination. I don’t think Clearwater’s ever had a cook with much of either. Most don’t stay on through the winter. Far as I know, you’ll be the first.”

  “But—how do I keep hungry men well fed without eggs—let alone without milk or butter?”

  “Just keep it simple. Beans. Ham. Grits. Repeat.” Luther busied himself building a small campfire to fight the chill of the early spring night.

  Annie had hoped to take advantage of the “loft to let” over the Hollenberg’s main rooms, but the men wanted to keep an eye on the animals. Pulling her bedroll out from beneath the wagon, she wrapped herself up in it. The mournful sound of a mouth harp floated up from someone’s camp. She looked toward the other campfires glowing in the night. From the sounds of that music, someone over there felt the same way she did tonight. She was beginning to have her own doubts. And why had Mrs. Hollenberg spoken George Morgan’s name in that tone of voice?

  Annie woke long before dawn. The moment she saw golden light flickering in the kitchen window up at Hollenberg Station, she rose and made her way to the well pump to wash up. Fran
k must not have slept well, either, for when she returned to the wagon to roll up her bedroll, it had already been done for her.

  “There’s a light in the kitchen window up the hill,” he said in a low voice. “Won’t be long and there’ll be coffee. Want to walk up with me?”

  Emmet, Jake, and Luther joined Frank and Annie at breakfast, this meal served by Mrs. Hollenberg’s niece, Louisa, who did not seem particularly happy to be doing it as she shuffled back and forth between the stove and the table with plates of Johnny cakes and fried ham. When Frank’s attempts to flirt were met with blank stares, he gulped his meal and excused himself.

  Luther must have thought they were taking too long at breakfast, because Emmet, Jake, and Frank were still sorting horses in the corral when he set off up the trail.

  “Is Luther upset about something?” Annie asked, as she saddled Shadow.

  Frank shrugged. “Didn’t say much. Just headed out.”

  Annie decided to ride with Frank for a while, but just as she’d passed the station, someone called her name. When she looked back, Mrs. Hollenberg was standing at the back door of the gray building, waving a white handkerchief in the air to get her attention. As soon as Annie got close, the older woman held up a battered coffee tin filled with dirt—and a barely sprouted plant.

  “Rosemary,” she said as she handed it up. “For dumplings.” She smiled. “Is to be our secret, ja? You keep inside for at least four weeks more. Too much cold and it will die.”

  Annie swallowed a lump in her throat. This was the kind of thing that could happen every day if only they lived in town. Neighbors sharing a cutting from the garden. Women giving each other advice. “Thank you. Very much.”

  Mrs. Hollenberg’s voice was gentle when she said, “You will be all right, Fräulein. Is much hard work, but those brothers? They are good boys. I see they care for their sister.”

  Annie nodded. She peered into the woman’s blue eyes. “You don’t like Mr. Morgan. Why not?”

  “Ach,” the old woman shook her head. “I don’t know so much as that. Is most probably gossip. Don’t be frightened.” She smiled. “You make buffalo and Sophia’s dumplings, yes? You will do well.”

  Annie blurted out the truth. “I never wanted to go west. I wanted to stay in St. Joseph. But”—she looked toward the trail—“I couldn’t let them go without me. They’re all I have.”

  The older woman nodded. “When I am young, I dream of nice little house in village. Many friends. Many children. God gives instead much work. No neighbors. No children.” She smiled. “But also much blessing.” She pulled an envelope from her apron pocket and tucked it into Annie’s saddlebag. “Flower seeds from Sophia for to make you smile.” She took a step back. “Now you must go. But also you must visit Sophia when you are coming back, yes?”

  Annie nodded. “I will. I promise.”

  “Is gut. Maybe you are bringing me new herb you find in that Nebraska, ja? New secret ingredient.” She nodded. “Go with Gott, Fräulein. For you I am praying.”

  Annie barely managed to say thank you. No one had ever promised to pray for her. She wondered what Mrs. Hollenberg would say in those prayers. Nudging Shadow into a lope, Annie rode up alongside Luther’s wagon and held up the coffee tin. “A gift from Mrs. Hollenberg.”

  Luther nodded toward the back of the wagon. “I’ll pull up and you can put the can inside the supply box. After you do that, you might want to take a gander at the off side of the wagon. Your brothers rustled up a little surprise, too.”

  As soon as Luther stopped, Annie nudged Shadow close to the box suspended at the back of the wagon, lifted the lid, and deposited the plant. Next, she urged the horse forward so that she could see the opposite side of the wagon. Someone had suspended a basket between the tall wheels. Sidling up to the basket, Annie lifted the lid. One, two, three, four… twelve. A dozen chicks. She glanced back toward Hollenberg Station.

  “They’re Rhode Island Reds,” Luther said, after Annie closed the lid and rode up alongside the mules. “Your brothers wanted to buy a few chicks, but Sophia wouldn’t take the money. You’ve got yourself a friend in Kansas, Miss Paxton.”

  By the time the Pony Express crew crossed into Nebraska Territory, Mother Nature had begun to do exactly what Luther had promised. Spring was beginning to transform the barren winter landscape. Buds on bushes and trees began to swell, and early blossoms dotted the greening hillsides. Once they were across the new toll bridge at Rock Creek Station, Annie looked back at the precipitous creek banks and wondered aloud how anyone could have gotten a wagon across the creek without the bridge.

  “We used chains,” Luther said. “Chains and horsepower to lower wagons down into the creek bed, and then more chains and more horse or mule power to haul them back up the other side. It could take hours—for just one wagon. I’ve known folks to be in camp for more than a week, just waiting their turn to cross. And come a spring storm to set the creek to running high?” He just shook his head. “There’s folks who complain about the toll, but I’ll never begrudge McCanles the money. He built a bridge, and I say God bless him for it.”

  After Rock Creek Station, trail conditions steadily degenerated. Luther ended up walking alongside his team, slapping his thigh with a quirt to encourage them as they struggled to pull the heavily loaded wagon through loose, sandy soil. Immigrant wagons struggled, too, often forced to double-team just to get things moving again.

  When it came time, Annie hated leaving Jake behind at Liberty Farm. She really had come to care for the boy. As she said good-bye, she appointed herself big sister for just long enough to kiss his cheek and murmur, “Good-bye, little brother.”

  “No need to say good-bye, Miss Annie. Won’t be long, and I’ll be tearing into Clearwater on a bolt of lightning and handing the mail off to Frank.”

  “I’ll have a hot meal waiting,” Annie said. “The best one possible.” She looked back toward Liberty Farm more than once as she rode away. Every time, Jake was still standing exactly where they’d left him. Watching.

  At Thirty-Two-Mile Creek, Annie met Mrs. Comstock, whose odd accent elicited questions about her homeland and the unexpected answer that she was from Vermont. She kept cozy clean rooms and a fine flock of plump, black-and-white chickens.

  “Dominiquers,” she said, when Annie asked after the breed. “They were good enough for the Puritans and they’re good enough for me.” She was not impressed with the Rhode Island Reds. When she offered the travelers canned peaches for dessert, Annie wondered aloud at the bounty. The older woman winked at her. “A pretty face like yours could lure lobster from the far seas, my dear. Be kind to the freighters and the soldiers, and they’ll return the same in goods.”

  Soldiers? “I don’t expect I’ll see many soldiers. Fort Kearny is miles and miles beyond Clearwater.”

  “You’re entering the Platte Valley, dear. Flat land for hundreds of miles to the west. Patrols from the fort can cover a lot of ground in a half day. Once word gets around that George Morgan’s got a beautiful new cook working at Clearwater, you’ll have your hands full keeping them at bay.”

  That night as they made camp, Luther said they’d easily cover the last fifteen miles to Clearwater by sunset the next day. While Emmet and the others picketed the horses, Annie asked him about what Mrs. Comstock had said about soldiers from Fort Kearny frequenting the station.

  “Flocking to is more likely what will happen,” Luther teased. “Once they get news of Miss Annie Paxton, I expect the boys in blue will be fighting over who gets to patrol down your way.” When Annie didn’t smile, he quickly reassured her. “Now, now, don’t worry over it. Soldiers can be a rowdy bunch, but there’s a gutter called Dobytown west of the fort for all that kind of thing. They won’t be bringing it to Clearwater. George don’t allow it.”

  Frank and Emmet returned, and Annie said nothing more. As the moon rose, she lay on her back staring up at the stars. It was a pleasant night. The horses were picketed close enough to the camp that she co
uld hear them tearing off and munching grass as they grazed. In the glow of the dying campfire, she did her best to stop worrying and to think on good things. She was fairly certain the Good Book said something about that. Think on these things. She had rosemary to tend and flower seeds to plant and a dozen chicks. She had Sophia’s recipe for dumplings. And she promised to pray for me. A woman who made a promise like that probably knew quite a lot about praying. There was comfort in the notion. Just as the Shepherd’s Psalm promised, maybe goodness and mercy would follow her. All the way to Clearwater.

  Chapter 8

  The evening the company of riders approached Clearwater Station, a spectacular sunset provided a golden-red backdrop for the weathered buildings in the distance. Overhead, yellow-and-pink clouds glistened against an aqua sky that faded first to lavender and then to indigo on the eastern horizon.

  When Annie exclaimed over it, Emmet, who was riding next to her, smiled. “God’s painted a sky to welcome us.”

  Annie liked the idea, but thoughts of God were quickly dispelled by the hellish sounds pouring out the front door of the station as they approached. Shouts. Crashes. Thuds. Curses. A chair sailing out the open front door, followed by a man who, after slamming against the flagpole flying the Stars and Stripes, charged back inside.

  When Shadow snorted a protest and skittered sideways, Emmet suggested that Annie “skedaddle on back to the barn and see to Shadow until things get sorted out up here.”

  With still more curses pouring out of the open station door, Annie was happy to obey. She’d heard plenty of bad language in her life—most notably back in the day when she hunkered in her room while the boys tried to get Pa to bed. But this was so vile it made her blush. Nudging Shadow, she hurried around the small sod portion of the long, low building constructed mainly of massive, square-cut logs. The station’s front door faced the east-west trail. In the back lot to the south of the building, dozens of oxen and a few mules milled about in a series of corrals spanning the space between the station and a massive barn.