One day, Annie stole away to gather a bouquet. Back in the kitchen, she laid the flowers on her worktable and retreated to her room to retrieve the damaged lavender and white teapot she’d often used as a vase. The finish was crackled, the spout chipped, and there was no lid, but none of that mattered. It had been Ma’s, and that made it precious. The delicate design—a drawing of a well-dressed couple standing on a path leading to a castle in the distance—contrasted sharply with Clearwater’s rustic crockery and plain white dishes. As she arranged the flowers, Annie smiled, envisioning the day when she’d be able to order an entire set of dishes reminiscent of Ma’s teapot.
She had just set the finished bouquet on her worktable when George Morgan opened the exterior door that led into her kitchen storeroom and asked her to come outside. After gathering up the leaves and stems she’d trimmed away while arranging her bouquet, Annie complied. Morgan indicated a pile of weathered boards in the back of a nearby wagon before pointing to the space between the open storeroom door and the arbor shading the back entrance to the main room.
“I thought you’d want it close.”
Annie stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Billy has more important things to do than tending chickens.” He pointed at the space again. “So. Is this all right?
Oh. He’s going to build a chicken coop. “I—yes,” Annie stammered.
“It shouldn’t take long.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I could have rented that stall more than once last week if it wasn’t housing a hen party. So I’ll build your coop. But I still don’t think they’ll last. They’re too scrawny to thrive out here.” He began to unload the lumber.
Annie went back inside. Grabbing the broom, she began sweeping, muttering to herself as she worked. Just when the man seemed to be doing something nice, he buried it beneath a thick layer of don’ts. Don’t thank him. Don’t expect the chickens to live. And for goodness sake, don’t expect Billy to tend them. As if she’d asked Billy to do that. She’d actually told him not to pay them any mind. She’d told him she’d see to them. Was it her fault if Billy seemed to like tending chickens?
Huh. Cobbling together a chicken coop from scraps of half-rotten lumber was more about George Morgan’s getting free of a nuisance in his barn than being kind to his cook. He was sure they’d drop dead before laying any eggs. Well. She’d show George Morgan a thing or two. The sweeping finished, Annie put the broom away. Come heck or high water, she would serve that man chicken and dumplings before the year was out or die trying. She scowled at the storeroom door. “And for your information, George Morgan, not a single one of those birds is scrawny.”
Neither Emmet nor Frank was at Clearwater when Whiskey John brought news of trouble in Nevada. Paiute Indians had raided a Pony Express Station and killed five men. “They had a bad winter out that way,” the stage driver said, “and things were already warming up for trouble this spring. Heard about one chief fasting for peace, but no one’s listening to him. Now the settlers are arming themselves. They even called up a Texas Ranger to help ’em fight a war.”
When Frank arrived a few days later with the last of the mail from California, the deep furrow between his brows was back. As he watched Jake Finney charge eastward, he swore softly. “That’s the last of it until things get sorted out with the Paiutes.”
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Annie said.
“Why wouldn’t I be safe? There’s no Indian trouble anywhere near Clearwater.”
All right. Change the subject. “The paymaster came through,” Annie said. “We’ve got a good start on the future. Want to see it for yourself?”
Frank just grunted. “Make sure you hold on to it. If this trouble lasts, the Pony Express will go dead broke. We might not see another penny.”
There wasn’t much point in trying to talk him out of his mood. Frank would have to wallow a bit. Later tonight, she’d show him the gauntlets Luther had delivered a few days ago. Maybe she’d convince him to draw the pattern for the red star he wanted her to stich to each one. For now, though, Annie changed the subject to the chickens. “George Morgan built a chicken coop. He said you talked him into it. Want to see it?”
Frank followed her around to the back of the station, but he wasn’t impressed with the ramshackle assembly of weathered boards. He grabbed one and gave it a wiggle, impervious to the protests from the Rhode Island Reds inside.
“They’re a little skittish,” Annie said.
Frank went to the divided door and peered over the closed lower half and into the gloom. “No nesting boxes?”
“That’ll come. Morgan didn’t have the time—and they’re too little to need them, anyway.”
Frank grunted. “One thing I’ll have now is time. I’ll see what I can do.” The furrow smoothed out a bit as he turned to her and said, “I’m not angry at you, ya know.”
“Of course I know.”
He nodded and then looked toward the covered wagon down by the blacksmith’s soddy. “Looks like Hitch is doing a good business.”
“I’d say so. That forge is going sunup to sundown. I had no idea Clearwater would be such a busy place.”
“One of the riders up the trail said they counted the traffic coming by Fort Kearny one day last summer.” He paused to take the bandanna from about his neck. Walking over to the near well pump, he soaked the bandanna and mopped his face before asking, “Want to guess how many wagons rolled past?”
Annie considered. With a little shrug she said, “A hundred?”
“Hard to believe, but it was five hundred. Guess you’ll be serving plenty of meals whether the Pony’s running or not.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “You make peace with the black iron beast yet?”
“More or less. I’m truly thankful the extra crew brought their own cook along. There’s plenty to do without cooking for them, too.”
Frank nodded. “Fall off any crates lately?”
Finally. A glimmer of humor in his dark eyes. Annie nudged him. “You fall off any horses lately?”
“Almost. There’s this one mare named Jezebel…”
Frank talked all the while Annie poured fresh water for the chicks. He was still talking when he followed her inside so she could make him something to eat. By the time he’d eaten, Annie had learned about more than just Jezebel.
Frank had asked the station keepers along the way to handle Outlaw with a gentle hand. He described the various stations and the men who ran them—and a girl who worked the ranch built up around Midway Station. A girl her father called Pete because “she’s his right-hand man.”
Something in the way Frank talked about her made Annie suspect that Pete was more woman than girl.
Chapter 14
The Paiute War raged on in the West all through May and into June. A restless Frank rode out on any excuse he could find. Emmet was more content to stay at Clearwater, happily performing whatever task George Morgan assigned. When he finally heard from Luvina, she mentioned her hope chest and a wedding quilt. Emmet’s spirits soared.
Thankfully, the Pony Express continued to pay its employees.
“Your employers are determined to see the effort succeed,” the paymaster said, “and they’ve got the financial backing to do it. The Pony is too important to fail just because of a little rebellion in the West.”
For several nights in a row after the paymaster left in early June, Annie opened the black cash box and recounted the stack of bills. She palmed the three gold coins she’d earned and wondered at the miracle of Annie Paxton having the key to a cash box containing over $600. And she worried. What if this was all the money they would earn? The paymaster’s assessment of the “little rebellion in the West” did little to assuage her fears, especially when news arrived of yet another death at yet another Pony Express Station.
Still, Annie tried to be thankful. At least they’d been assigned to a peaceful station. At least the trouble was far away. Until, one morning, war cries and gunf
ire sounded, and a mounted war party charged in from the North and surrounded the station.
Paralyzed by fear, Annie saw little more than a flash of color outside the kitchen window before Emmet charged into the room, grabbed her, and propelled her beneath the worktable. He crouched down, placing himself between her and the doorway. Annie didn’t know when he’d snatched up a knife, but at the sound of footsteps pounding through the main room toward the kitchen, Emmet shielded her with one arm while he brandished the weapon.
An unarmed George Morgan bolted into the room. Why hadn’t he grabbed the shotgun mounted just inside the door leading into the storeroom? But it was too late for that, because the attackers were here now. Inside the station.
A painted face loomed in the doorway behind Morgan. He whirled about and roared, “Are you out of your mind?” Then he charged the Indian, pushing him backward and bellowing words Annie didn’t understand.
Expecting to hear a desperate fight, she cowered behind Emmet. But there was no fight. As quickly as the melee had begun, it ended. Everything grew quiet.
Finally, George Morgan stepped back into the kitchen. “It’s all right,” he said. “You can put the knife down, Emmet. It’s just Badger and his friends having a little fun. He’s gone now.”
Emmet sprang to his feet. “Wh-what did you just say?” He held on to the knife.
Morgan leaned down and spoke directly to Annie. “Come out. It’s safe.”
Annie crept out from beneath the table, trembling so violently she kept one hand on the table to steady herself.
Morgan scratched his beard. He looked away for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect them for at least another week.”
Emmet put the knife down.
Morgan explained further. “They stop by every year, right before the spring buffalo hunt.”
Annie pointed out the window and stammered, “Th-that is not ‘stopping by.’”
“I know. And one of these years, someone who doesn’t know what’s going on is going to start shooting back and all he—heck will break loose.” He shrugged. “There’s not much I can do about it. It’s their way. They’ll only be here for a few days.”
Annie sputtered, “A few days?”
“Yes. To celebrate spring. And the hunt. Feasting and talk around the campfire. I hang a side of beef in the soddy. Age it. Save it for spring. We feast. Later, we trade.”
“Trade what?” Emmet asked.
“Buffalo robes. Dried tongue. I pay a dollar a hide for the robes and a quarter a dozen for tongue. By fall, I’ll have a stack of hides—and pelts—to send east. Last year, I made three dollars apiece profit on the hides alone. I sell the dried tongue to folks on the trail.”
As he talked, Morgan was standing with his back to the main room. Annie was the first one to notice when the same Indian he’d forced out of the kitchen moments ago stepped in the back door. Half of his face was painted white, the other half red. A wide black stripe accented each cheek. His two braids were wrapped with some kind of fur, his muscular neck adorned with a necklace made of what looked like giant claws—or bones. He wore fringed buckskin leggings and carried a huge knife thrust into a wine-colored sash wound about his waist. When he saw Annie, he stopped. She took a step toward Emmet. Morgan glanced behind him. “That’s Badger,” he said. “He’s Billy’s uncle.” He raised his voice and spoke to the Indian, then turned back to Annie and Emmet. “I’ll introduce you.”
Annie hesitated, but Emmet nodded and together they followed Morgan into the main room. While Morgan talked, the Indian studied her, his eyes roving from the top of her head, downward, and then back up again. When the Indian looked away from her and over at Emmet, Annie relaxed a bit. Whatever was going on behind those dark eyes, she didn’t think the man intended harm. Finally, he spoke to Mr. Morgan and then, laughing, turned to go. Annie couldn’t help but smile at the way he swaggered as he retreated toward the barn where a half-dozen other Indians waited.
“You said he’s Billy’s uncle?” Annie asked.
Morgan nodded. “The last of that family, as far as I know.”
“How so?”
“Small pox.”
Annie flinched at mention of the dreaded disease. “I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been.”
“Hell on earth,” Morgan rumbled.
“You were there?”
“I was.” He grunted. “And finally, being a doctor’s son did me some good. I was vaccinated. So I carried water and did what I could.”
Annie gazed toward the barn. “So Billy and Badger owe you their lives.”
Bitterness dripped from every word as Morgan said, “They owe me nothing. I did the same thing for every single person in the band. Everyone died—except Billy and Badger. You’ll see the scars when Badger isn’t painted. Billy didn’t scar as much. I don’t know why.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why any of it had to happen.”
Not an hour after the Pawnee made camp, another ruckus erupted outside. This time it was the army—a double column of mounted men, charging this way. Annie hurried out the front door. The soldiers were just a short distance away when they pulled up abruptly, sending a cloud of dust into the air. George Morgan trudged into view and hurried out to meet them. The man at the head of the column dismounted and together, he and Morgan walked toward the station. The rest of the column remained in the saddle.
Annie could hear every word. “Really, Morgan, you’ve got to talk to Badger. He’s going to get someone killed. Everyone between here and Fort Kearny thought the Paiute War had spread to Nebraska. The poor civilian who saw them charging toward Clearwater had nearly lost his voice by the time he stormed up the stairs to the captain’s office. He’d been yelling warnings the whole—” He noticed Annie for the first time and stopped, midsentence. Tugging on the brim of his hat he greeted her. “Ma’am.”
“This is Annie Paxton,” Morgan said. “Cook for the Pony Express. Her brothers ride out of here.”
The soldier swept his hat off his head. “Lieutenant Wade Hart, Ma’am. I’ve heard about you. I’m pleased to finally make your acquaintance.” He looked back at George Morgan, speaking sternly. “You’re lucky I caught sight of Badger’s camp before we came in with guns blazing.”
“I know it. I warn them every year.”
“Well warn them louder,” the soldier said, and gestured toward the column of mounted men. “A dozen men missed chow because of some infernal wild-goose chase.”
Annie spoke up. “I don’t mind cooking if they don’t mind waiting.” She glanced up at George Morgan, a question in her eyes.
He nodded and looked back over at the lieutenant. “How’s that, Hart? Unless you think it’s a bad idea to have your boys out front while my friends are camped out back.”
“I’ll order them to hitch their horses right here—and to mind their manners. Then you and I can try to talk some sense into Badger about his penchant for dramatics. Does that suit?”
Annie could not take her eyes off the man. He was almost as tall as George Morgan, but any resemblance ended there. Morgan had dark hair and gray-blue eyes. Lieutenant Hart was blond-haired, with china blue eyes. Shaggy, lumbering George Morgan reminded Annie of a barely tamed bear. Clean-shaven, dark-eyed Lieutenant Wade Hart was the most beautiful man Annie had ever seen.
News of the Pawnee encampment at Clearwater traveled all up and down the trail, and a steady stream of the curious found its way to Badger’s camp. Many visitors stayed either to buy something from the Clearwater store or to eat a meal. Annie expected the Pawnee to resent being intruded upon. Instead, they extended hospitality, sharing meals around their campfire. When Annie expressed surprise, George Morgan explained that Pawnee culture revolved around a notion of hospitality foreign to whites.
“White people think of ‘home’ as a place they withdraw to,” he said. “They share, but only on their terms. The Pawnee see welcoming guests as a point of honor. Sharing is expected. In fact, the man who gives most is respected mo
st.”
The explanation gave Annie a lot to think about. It also helped her understand why it was so important to Morgan’s business that Badger and the other hunters feel welcome at Clearwater. Her own part in showing hospitality was an odd one. She was an almost-constant object of fascination—a fascination that led Badger’s men to gather just outside the kitchen window and watch her work.
The first time she looked up from kneading dough and saw Badger and another young brave watching her, Annie yelped. Badger’s expression transformed and he spoke a rapid apology. Annie didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear. His intent was friendly, if unnerving. Remembering what Morgan had said about Pawnee ways, Annie snatched up a basket of leftover biscuits and held it out. The men scooped them up with obvious appreciation. Later that evening, George Morgan thanked her.
“It was just leftover biscuits,” Annie said. “I was embarrassed. Do you think they’d appreciate a delivery of fresh bread in the morning?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“But if I wanted to bake a couple extra loaves of bread, you wouldn’t object?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I’ll double the batch for tomorrow morning.”
The next morning, satisfied that her four loaves of bread would turn out nicely, Annie stepped outside to tend her Rhode Island Reds. She paused for just a moment, turning her face to the sky and reveling in the fresh breeze and the warmth of the sun on her face. She gazed toward the prairie, mindful of the wildflowers bobbing and dancing in the breeze. For just that brief moment, she understood what might draw people west. And then she peered over the half door and into the chicken coop.
“No-no-no-no!” Yelling at the top of her lungs, she unlatched the door. She didn’t even think before snatching up the huge snake coiled about three terrified chicks and flinging it out the door with all her might. The snake flew through the air, landed a few feet away, and was still. Annie dropped to her knees. Holding the two corners of her apron together, she counted as she dropped the cheeping chicks into the resulting pouch. Ten. Only ten. It wasn’t until she’d given up the search that she sensed someone standing behind her. Emmet, George Morgan, and Badger. Blushing, she staggered to her feet. “D-darned snake got two of my chicks. Somebody needs to kill it.”
Messenger by Moonlight Page 13