by T. K. Lukas
“What do you mean, till you got back?” Barleigh pulled away, Hughes’s hands slow to release her.
“I’ve had my eye on the Archers. They’re part of a larger group who’ve been tampering with the mail. They hire renegade Utes and Shoshones to do their dirty work so that it appears like a common Indian attack. Tonight came as a cold surprise. I was expecting it to happen next week with the westbound mail to California.”
“But you were drunk—so drunk you could hardly stand,” said Barleigh, confused.
“I was on my way to a good drunk. When I learned this was happening tonight, I switched the whiskey for tea to put on a show for those watching.”
“So it was a ruse,” said Barleigh, putting the details of the evening in order.
“A ruse—yes.”
“Stoney said the black ghost visited him, talked to him. That was you,” she said, stealing a glance at Stoney lying still and quiet under her poncho.
Barleigh fisted a hand against her mouth, afraid that if she were to remove it, a flood of unbearable sadness would come rushing out. It was better to hold it inside where it belonged—buried alongside the other memories she tried to hush.
“I guess I’m the black ghost,” acknowledged Hughes, nodding. “Stoney handled the Indians just fine, but Johnny Archer had Stoney pinned. I shot once—it grazed him. Archer fled, but his blood made the trail easy to follow in the moonlight. That Stoney was a brave son-of-a-gun.”
“Brave—yes, he was brave,” she said, pacing, clenching her fists into her hair, then kneeling next to where Stoney lay—but it was she who should be lying there, not him. “It was my mail run . . .” Barleigh’s voice trailed off.
“It’s not your fault, Barleigh. Don’t go down that road.” Hughes knelt beside her, turning her to face him.
“I’m very familiar with that road,” she said. This wasn’t the first death for which she felt responsible.
“What are you saying?”
“My first was my mother, when she gave birth to me. Then there was Papa and Birdie and Uncle Jack, when I ran like a frightened child and hid in the cellar instead of fighting alongside Papa like I should have. Now, Stoney.” She looked down at her hands, as if she would see blood.
“Stop it.” Hughes’s hands gripped her shoulders. “Don’t do this to yourself. All this false guilt will do nothing but keep you from ever finding happiness.”
“I’m not looking for happiness. I don’t expect it’s looking for me, either.” She shrugged away from his grip. “All I’m looking for is a way to get back to the city. I’m horseless. Wolves spooked mine away. And I’m taking Stoney with me. I’m not leaving him here.”
“I’ve got Archer’s body outside tied to his horse. We can leave it in the cave, tell the authorities where to find him, and use his horse to get Stoney home. You can ride behind me.”
They wrapped Stoney’s body in Hughes’s bedroll after Hughes removed the arrows from his back, and then draped him over the saddle of the outlaw Archer’s horse. Barleigh tied the sombrero to the pommel, letting Stoney take it home. If they rode nonstop at a steady pace, the trek back to Salt Lake City would take well into the night.
Barleigh rode behind Hughes, holding onto his coat, trying not to think of Stoney lying across the saddle of the horse that trailed behind—trying not to think at all. She pounded her forehead against Hughes’s back, over and over again.
Hughes never flinched but reached a hand around to squeeze her thigh. The tenderness and the intimacy was almost too much for Barleigh to bear. She stopped pounding her forehead and, instead, lay her cheek against his back and tightly closed her eyes, staunching the flow of tears.
As evening wore on, Hughes decided to make a small campfire to reheat the coffee in Barleigh’s canteen. Hughes didn’t have his saddlebags packed with his usual fancy picnic, so dinner was beans and sourdough biscuits. For Barleigh’s starving stomach, it was a feast.
Sitting on a log close to the crackling fire, she sipped steaming coffee from the tin cup Hughes handed her. “When I took off looking for Stoney, I told Mario that I might . . . that I was thinking about going back to Texas after I found him. I didn’t think I’d be bringing him back like this.”
Hughes stirred the embers, adding more kindling. The flames sparked and danced upward like how lightening bugs do in a warm summer sky. He looked back over his shoulder, the look of relief evident on his face.
“You’re going back to Texas? I am so relieved to hear you say that.”
“I thought I’d made up my mind. But I can’t leave Mario like this. I have to stay now. For a while, at least.”
Hughes came to kneel in front of the log she was sitting on, taking her hands in his. “Barleigh, look at me. Stoney’s dead. There’re many others like the men who killed him. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way. The Archer brothers were a small fraction of those involved who’d like to keep certain letters from going between Washington and California. These Southern sympathizers will stop at nothing to convince California to side with the Confederacy. You have no idea the danger you ride into every time you pick up that damn mochila.”
“Are you saying that this is just the beginning?” A chill shivered down her spine, despite the fire and the coffee providing their own warmth.
“That’s right,” he said, his eyes dark and serious. “An intricate conspiracy with a far-reaching association is at work. Tensions escalating between North and South spur these conspirators to more heinous acts in their efforts to pull California’s gold into the Rebel war coffers. Lincoln has to keep California loyal to the Union, thereby keeping control of its gold. Whichever way California sides could sway the outcome.”
“You talk as if war is certain.”
“I believe it is.”
“Then that’s all the more reason for me to help get the mail through. Look at what’s at stake.”
“Look at what’s over there and tied to that horse,” he said, his voice harsh and low. “Are you willing to take that risk?”
“Maybe I am. Maybe it doesn’t matter.” Barleigh’s eyes filled with sadness at the brutal thought jabbing at her heart. “Starling would be better off being raised by Aunt Winnie, anyway.”
Hughes tossed the rest of his coffee in the fire. Settling his eyes on her, his words were sharp and emphatic. “Look at me, Barleigh. That’s not true. Your sister needs you. Risking your life on purpose—taking dangerous chances you don’t have to—is not the answer.”
Barleigh stood, kicking sand into the fire. “Why can’t there be easy answers, where decisions don’t seem impossible?”
“Not all decisions are impossible. Damn it—I can’t let this go on. It has to stop.” Hughes walked over to where Barleigh stood, his amber eyes reflecting the fire’s flickering light.
“What do you mean? What has to stop?”
“There are things . . .” He paused, sucking in a deep breath, letting it seep out slowly through gritted teeth. “. . . that you need to know.” Hughes rubbed the back of his neck and looked to the sky, as if the moon would give him the right words.
“Hughes? What are you trying to say?” she asked, alarmed by the look on his face, the set of his jaw, and the grave tone of his voice.
“It’s killing me, seeing you like this, so torn up, so sad and guilt-ridden over something that didn’t happen.” Hughes held her at arm’s length, fixing his penetrating eyes on hers. “You can’t go on thinking that you’re responsible for your mother’s death. Barleigh, your mother didn’t die giving birth to you. Your mother is alive.”
*****
She had done as he had requested—listened and let him speak uninterrupted. He talked until the fire went cold, giving Barleigh an abbreviated telling of her mother’s life, sparing a few details, he had said, that Leighselle might wish to keep to herself.
He told of the sorrow he felt that Barleigh’s mother might die before he could persuade her to change her mind about keeping this a secret, and that he had t
ried to convince her to agree to let him tell Barleigh the truth. Now, he wasn’t sure if there would be enough time.
Barleigh felt assaulted by his words. They covered her with shame and filled her with anguish. They numbed every fiber and nerve of her being. In a span of time that lasted less than one hour, he undid her past. His story revised her history. It stripped away what she’d known to be true of the life she’d worn so comfortably.
She sat, listening, unmoving, a statue without feelings. Birdie, whom she’d always thought was so beautiful, so exotic—it’s no wonder her papa had fallen in love with her. Birdie reminded him of his first love.
Barleigh sat frozen in place, hearing, absorbing, processing. The dark, frosty woods swirled around her. Noises far away made hollow echoes. A ghost wind skimmed across her skin, not touching, just passing over. Nothing seemed real.
“Barleigh, are you all right? I know it’s a lot to take in. You haven’t said anything.”
“You wanted me to listen to your story while you spoke uninterrupted. I’ve listened.”
“Please,” said Hughes, taking her hand. “Say something now. Ask me a question.”
“How much further to Salt Lake?” She walked to where the horses were tied, shaking her head, both arms extended, her palms pressing outward against this foreign world closing in on her.
She waited for Hughes to follow, and she couldn’t speak. Words that formed in her head crumbled to dust before escaping her mouth. Hughes let her have her silence. When he was in the saddle, she mounted the horse behind him, with the lead rope that connected them to Stoney’s horse dallied around their saddle horn.
Barleigh’s mind was tangled with distressed thoughts and images. Her entire life had been a lie. Did Papa know that her mother didn’t die in childbirth? Did it not matter because he had grown to love Birdie? And Grandfather—Grandfather lied and manipulated the totality of her existence. Was Birdie complicit in the charade, or did she, a slave, not have a choice? A mother, alive all that time—all that guilt—that with every birthday Barleigh enjoyed, it was an anniversary of her mother’s death.
And Hughes—hired to track her down—and on finding her, knowing who she was, yet pretending not to. The telegraphs to her mother in San Antonio, giving her updates. Letting Barleigh think that he was falling for her with his kisses and his false worry. And Barleigh, falling for him.
The silent words banged around in her head until she couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t breathe. A roiling panic began swelling from deep within. Cold, prickly sweat beaded on her skin as waves of nausea washed over her.
“Please, stop the horse,” she said, but before she could finish the words, her stomach betrayed her, retching the sourdough biscuits and reheated coffee. Leaning away, she tried to throw up so that it didn’t foul the horse or Hughes.
Hughes reined to a stop and lowered her to the ground, retrieving a canteen of water from his bag. “Are you all right?”
“Am I all right? Am I? How can I be all right when I don’t know who I am?”
“You’re still you. You have not changed. Only your story’s changed. You look pale,” he said, dismounting and taking her by the shoulders.
“I feel pale.”
“Barleigh, please understand. I was doing what I thought was right. I couldn’t betray the promise I’d sworn to your mother. I have, and I hope she’ll forgive me. But damn it—it was the right thing to do.”
“Honoring that promise to her, then selectively choosing which secrets to keep or which lies or half-truths to uphold with me? I don’t understand you or your code of ethics. I don’t want to understand. When we get back to the city, I don’t want to ever see you again.”
She shrugged away from his grip on her shoulders and knelt down, scooping snow into her hands, washing her face and her mouth. She pressed her icy fingers against her cheeks, wanting to feel the biting cold on her skin, and she breathed the frigid air deep into her lungs until they burned and she coughed. Still, everything felt unreal, as if she were disconnected from each of her senses. Even the beauty of the rugged landscape, the smell of the pine trees, and the crunching sound her boots made in the snow seemed like forgeries.
“Since I’ve known you,” said Hughes, “you keep your emotions in check, buried deep inside. Your world’s been ripped to pieces today. I wish you could let it out somehow. Scream. Cry. Throw a fit. Throw a punch or two. Release a bit of emotional steam.”
“I did release emotion. I spewed it all over the back of your coat.”
Hughes forced a grin. “I’m serious.”
“I am, too. Your coat’s a mess. Sorry.”
He took his coat off and looked at the stain. “I’ve seen worse.” Then, rubbing a handful of snow on it, washing away what he could, he put the coat back on. “There. That should do the trick.”
Back in the saddle, he held out his hand for Barleigh to remount behind him. “Ready to ride?”
“Yes,” she replied with a nod. “We’ve a long way to go.”
She put her foot in the stirrup to climb up behind him, but a wave of dizziness caused her to totter backward. Regrouping, she tried again. Before she could manage a third attempt, Hughes leaned down from the saddle, lifting her, sitting her in front of him sidesaddle. He cradled her against him with his arms encircling her as he held the reins in each hand, guiding the horse home.
With no strength to protest, Barleigh lay her head against his chest, but her eyes remained alert and watchful as the trail wound its way down into the valley. The bright, full moon overhead cast silvery shadows of their procession onto the hard-packed, frozen ground.
*****
It was midnight when they rode into the Pony Express stables. Barleigh had moved behind Hughes, not wanting to give cause for any questions or raised eyebrows. The streets were quiet, a few lights burned in windows, cats prowled in corners, and snow crunched under the weight of the horses’ hooves.
The tranquil scene made Barleigh want to scream.
They were met by Mario, who took the horse carrying Stoney’s body. “My God, my God. He was a fine young man. My God—” Mario didn’t try to hide his tears. “I’ll make arrangements to send him back to Arkansas and to his family. A boy should be buried where his folks can tend the grave.”
“He wouldn’t want that,” Barleigh said, giving Mario’s arm a squeeze. “He never wanted to go home again. He’d want to be buried here along the Pony Express trail.”
“That’s what we’ll do, then,” said Mario. “I’ll tend to his grave. Get some rest now. I’ll take care of things here.”
“Stoney saved the mochila. We left it with Colonel Hill at Head of Canyon Station so it could continue on to Saint Joe. Stoney died saving the mail. Someone ought to be told about that. It was heroic, what he did.” She gave Mario a brief description of events, Hughes filling in the gaps of her information.
“Everyone will hear of Stoney’s story. It don’t take long for something like that to make the rounds. But I’ll send word to Carson City and have them telegraph headquarters to make sure the right people know, too.” Mario removed the sombrero from the saddle horn, handing it to Barleigh, and then led Stoney’s horse away.
Hughes and Barleigh walked to the Salt Lake House, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and said goodnight, she turning to her room, he to his.
“Are you going to be all right?” Hughes asked, turning back around.
“I wish you’d quit asking that.”
“Are all the riders away? Do you have anyone to bunk with tonight?” Hughes looked at her, concern wrinkling his brow.
“Are you worried about me?”
“Yes, damn it, I’m worried about you, all right?”
“I thought you didn’t have time to worry about me.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, but turned and opened the door to the bunk room. “It appears I have the room to myself tonight. Brody must be on Stoney’s . . . on the eastbound run. I guess the new guy, Lars, is on mine.”
&
nbsp; “Give me a minute, please. I’ll be back.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”
“It’s not necessary, Hughes. Besides, what if I want to be alone.”
“I’ll be quiet. You can pretend to be alone. Why do you always have to argue?”
“Why do you always assume you know what’s best?”
“It’s not an assumption.” He turned and walked away.
A quick sponge bath from the basin vessel, a brushing of her teeth, a comb through her hair, and a change into clean long johns made her feel almost human again. She was in bed by the time Hughes returned. Though half asleep, she noticed he’d put on clean clothes, too.
“I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.” Bending over the bed, he kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be on the bottom bunk, if you need anything. I hope you sleep well.”
But she didn’t. She tossed and turned, fits and starts of dreams tormenting her sleep. Disembodied faces floated in and out, chasing, yelling, hovering. Grandfather’s face, laughing. Papa and Birdie clutched in a skeletal embrace. Barleigh falling. Stoney trying to catch her but his hands were bloody and slippery and they couldn’t hold on. He let go. Then he was tumbling down, down, down a mountain that never ended, but it was her bloody, slippery hands that let him fall. A wolf howled. Her dream wolf. He was shaking her. Wake up. You’re all right. It’s all right.
“I’m right here, Barleigh. It’s all right.” Hughes sat on the side of the bed, holding her hand, stroking her face. “Shhh. Everything’s all right. I’m right here.”
Barleigh bolted upright in bed, jerking away from his touch, drawing her knees into a protective shield. “I don’t want you here. Leave. Leave me alone.”
“You were having a nightmare,” Hughes said, offering her a glass of water.
She pushed the glass and his hand away. “I’m living a nightmare.”
Feeling buried under all the lies she’d been told all her life, now Hughes’s lies, how he’d traded the truth for her affection, she began to hyperventilate—a cold panic rising, swelling, suffocating her. Kicking the covers away, she lashed out at Hughes, tried to push him off the bed with both of her feet, kicking and clawing at anything that was him.