The man pointing a gun at the prisoner’s chest didn’t fare much better than his partner, appearance-wise, though he was a tad thinner. A nasty red scar cut a path from his brow to his chin whiskers, making his face appear lopsided.
Scarface looked her up and down, while next to him, Toothless lifted a brown jug to his mouth and took a swig. The two hangmen weren’t exactly drunk, but they weren’t exactly sober either.
Of the three strangers, the one with the rope around his neck, looked the most promising. Or at least the most clearheaded.
Swallowing, she found her voice. “Surely you don’t intend to hang that man.” They didn’t look like lawmen, at least no lawmen she’d had occasion to meet.
“Found him snoopin’ around,” Toothless said. “Cain’t have no thievery.”
Doubting that Toothless and his partner had anything worth stealing, she studied the prisoner. The whiskers shadowing his square-cut jaw didn’t seem to belong with his neatly trimmed hair. Cut shorter than the current style, his brown hair fell to the side of his head from a single part. Intense cobalt eyes appeared to be conveying a private message.
Scarface spat, and a stream of chewing tobacco hit the ground with a plop. “As you can see, ma’am, we’re kind of occupied at the moment. So ’less you have bus’ness here, I suggest you mosey along.”
She pulled her gaze away from the captive. “I’ll leave. Soon as you tell me where I might find a nearby farm or ranch.”
Toothless scratched his chest. “Used to be about ten miles north, but you won’t find nothin’ there now. Indians burned it to the ground.”
Her heart sank. Since leaving St. Jo, good news had been scarce as hen’s teeth.
“How far to Plum Creek?”
“I’d say about fifteen miles. What do you say, Big Red?”
His partner nodded. “Sounds ’bout right to me.”
She would never make it that far on foot before nightfall. That would mean spending the night alone on the trail without so much as a guide.
“Is there nothing closer?” she asked.
Toothless hung his thumbs from his suspenders. “You look like one a them—whatcha callums—a modern miss.” The gummy smile grew bigger. “So you probably won’t take no offense if me and my pardner here invite you back to our cabin. It’s only a half mile downstream.” He took another gulp, tossed the empty brown jug to the ground, and wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “You’re welcome to stay long as you want. We’ll show you a good time.”
Scarface concurred. “A real good time.” He licked his lips and scratched his belly with his weapon-free hand.
She glanced at the jug on the ground and then swung her gaze to the prisoner. “I can offer you both a better time.”
Big Red’s eyes grew round as wagon wheels. “Can you now?”
“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars to let the prisoner go.” It was money she could ill-afford to part with. The proceeds from the sale of the family farm would have to last until she found another source of income, and who knew how long that would take? Already the trip had cost more than she’d planned. Still, she wasn’t about to let a man be hanged at the whim of a couple of hard-drinking scoundrels.
“You can buy a lot of moonshine for twenty-five bucks,” she added.
Toothless considered this a moment before advancing toward her. “I like our plan better.”
“Don’t…don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot.” She pointed her shotgun and thumbed back the hammer. The shh-click-click of metal did what her threats failed to do; stopped him in his tracks.
“Now what’sha want to go and do that fer?” he slurred.
She stepped back. The heel of her boot snagged on a tree branch, and her feet flew out from under her. Just as her backside hit the ground, her shotgun fired. The blast blew the hat clear off his head. He turned white and slapped his hands on top of his shiny bald pate.
Her mouth dropped open. If she was in any way responsible for the lack of fur on his head, she’d proven herself a better shot by accident than she ever was on purpose.
Fortunately, she managed to regain her composure before Toothless found his. She staggered to her feet, and moving her finger to the second trigger, swung the barrel of her gun from man to man.
The captive’s gaze followed her shotgun from side to side. He looked more worried about her weapon than the rope around his neck.
She cleared her voice. “Twenty-five dollars for your friend there. Do we have a deal or don’t we?”
Toothless looked at Scarface, who shrugged. He then turned back to EllieMay. “Deal.”
She nodded. Whew! That was close. Confidence restored, she lifted her chin and rose to her full five-foot-five height. “Now tell your friend to put away his gun and cut the prisoner loose.”
Toothless reached for his crownless hat. He slapped the felt brim on his head, and his shiny bald cranium stuck out like an egg in a nest. “You heard the lady,” he slurred.
Scarface pulled an Arkansas toothpick out of his waist and cut the rope. He then replaced his knife.
“Now step away from him,” she ordered, indicating with her weapon where she wanted them to go. She reached into her skirt pocket, drew out two gold coins—one a double eagle—and tossed them onto the ground. “Not git, both of you!”
Scarface scooped up the money and ran, spurs jingling, toward the horses, his partner at his heels. Soon the pounding of hooves signaled their fast departures.
The prisoner picked his wide-brim hat off the ground, slapped it against his thigh, and pressed it on his head. He stood straight and tall, shoulders wide, giving his dusty trousers, rumpled shirt, and wrinkled vest more dignity than they deserved.
“Thank you, ma’am. Sure appreciate it. The name’s Corbett. Michael Corbett. And you are… ?”
“Ellie-May Newman.”
“Much obliged, Miss Newman.” He then turned and casually walked away, the second man to do so that day.
“Wait!” she yelled. “Where do you think you’re going?” He kept walking, so she lifted the shotgun skyward and fired.
That stopped him. He held his back toward her for a full moment before making a slow turn. “Gonna get the horse those hombres stole from me.”
She frowned. “That sounds like a bad idea.”
“I paid ten dollars for that sorry mare not two days ago.”
“And I paid twenty-five dollars for you.”
He hung his thumbs from his vest pockets. “That was your mistake, ma’am. I’m not worth more than fifteen.”
“Maybe so, but I intend to get what I paid for.”
He considered this a moment before asking, “And what might that be, Miss Newman?”
“You, Mr. Corbett, are going to help me find my brother.”
Chapter 2
Traveled 1,000 miles and aged 10 years.
At this rate I’ll be an old man by Christmas.
—Carved into Chimney Rock in 1862 by Edgar Dobbs
Mike Corbett circled Miss Newman’s covered wagon. It was a simple farm conveyance, homemade by the looks of it, and fitted with a canvas bonnet. The wagon had seen better days, but he doubted the mules had. The woman said she was heading for Chimney Rock. She had to be kidding. She’d be lucky to make it to the next farm.
“Where’d you get them mules?” he asked.
“They belonged to my pa, and I kept them when I sold the farm,” she said. “Bought the wagon from a neighbor.” After a pause, she added, “Cost less than you did.”
“I believe it.”
The iron rim on the back left wheel had slipped and the wood cracked, but at least Miss Newman had the good sense to carry a spare.
“Tools?” he asked.
“In the wagon.”
He walked to the back and peered inside the wagon bed. Two polished wooden trunks sat side by side. He opened the nearest one, and a faint smell of lavender wafted from its depths. A white lacey garment lay on top of a pile of neatly folded clothes
. His gaze traveled through the inside of the wagon.
He could see Miss Newman tending the mules through the canvas opening in front. She’d removed her floppy straw hat, and tendrils of blond hair had slipped out of her bun and blew around her face.
She was pretty, he realized with a start. Mighty pretty. Couldn’t imagine why it took so long to notice, unless it was that confounded outfit. Is that what women wore these days? Knee-high skirts over ankle-bound trousers? A man is locked away for two years, and look what happens.
His gaze settled on the satiny underriggings in the trunk. It was hard to believe that the strong-willed, gun-wielding woman would favor such feminine frippery. Especially one who obviously preferred comfort and practicality over fashion. He closed the lid of the first trunk and opened the second.
This one was filled with bolts, linchpins, skeins, and nails. It also held a homemade jack.
She left him alone as he worked, and in no time at all, he’d changed the wheel and checked the other three.
He hung the broken wheel on the outside of the wagon and returned the tools to their proper place, but he couldn’t help taking another look at the wooden trunk carrying the lady’s apparel. The sweet smell of lavender still lingered in the air. Deprived of anything pleasant for longer than he cared to remember, he allowed himself the luxury of inhaling the delicate fragrance for a moment before turning away.
At the nearby stream, he washed his hands and face, the cold water stinging his skin. Still, it felt good. Just being alive and free felt good.
He still couldn’t believe he’d let those ruffians sneak up on him. Nothing like that would have happened in the past. The last two years hadn’t just knocked the stuffing out of him but had evidently dulled his senses.
Returning to camp, he accepted a cup of coffee from the lady. It was hot and strong, just as he liked it. The smell of bacon sizzling over a campfire made his stomach growl, and he tried to recall the last time he ate anything that smelled that good.
Miss Newman sat by the fire and tended the bacon, allowing him to study her unnoticed. In the light of the fast-fading sun, her hair looked like spun gold.
“Soon as you reach civilization, you better have a blacksmith repair that wheel to use as a spare.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Corbett.”
He leaned against the wagon and sipped his coffee. The crisp air promised a cold night ahead. The blanket spread out on the ground was set with two tin plates and silverware.
“Why are you looking for your brother?” he asked.
She glanced up at him. “He’s missing.”
“I figured that.”
She stabbed at the bacon with a fork and placed the strips one by one on a tin plate. “He was a Pony Express rider. After the company shut down last fall, I expected him to come back home to the farm. He didn’t.”
“No surprise there. Once a man sees the world, he’s not likely to want to go back to his old ways.”
“Speaking from experience, Mr. Corbett?”
“Experience is all I have, ma’am.”
She studied him a moment before rising to her feet. She set the plate in the center of the blanket, along with a loaf of bread. “Sorry I can’t offer you more.”
He sat on a rock next to the blanket. “Looks mighty appetizin’.” He filled his plate and gobbled his food. He’d almost forgotten how good a meal could taste. Aware that she was staring at him, he frowned.
“What?”
“Would you care to join me in grace, Mr. Corbett?”
“Anything you say, ma’am.” He dropped his fork and lowered his head and tried to remember the last time he’d talked to the Lord. Giving thanks for the slop fed him over the last two years would have been an insult to God.
The moment she said amen, he dove back into his food, giving no mind to manners. That would come later. Now he had to fill the hunger gnawing at his insides.
“So when’s the last time you heard from your brother?” he asked between bites.
“It’s been awhile, and there’s been nothing from him since the Pony Express stopped running. However, I did receive a package from the Russell, Majors, and Waddell Company.”
“The express firm.”
She nodded. “The package contained a small calfskin Bible with his name inside. I tried contacting them for more information, but the company was bought out, and no one knows what happened to the records.”
“Every express rider was given a Bible and a gun,” he said. The riders had been told to use the Bible at all times and the gun only when necessary. Seemed to him they got that backwards.
“The package contained nothing else. Not even a sketch.”
He looked up from his plate. “A sketch?”
“My brother was an artist.” She reached into a pocket and drew out a sheet of paper, which she carefully unfolded. It was a drawing. “It’s called Chimney Rock,” she explained, “but my brother named it the Hand of God.” She pointed to the tall, funnel-shaped rock surrounded by clouds. “He said this was God’s finger pointing the way.”
Corbett was no expert in art, but even he could see the boy had talent. “It’s a fine drawing.” His compliment brought a smile to her face, and he suddenly realized how young she was—probably no more than nineteen or twenty.
She carefully refolded the paper. “His dream is that one day his work will be displayed in art galleries around the world and maybe even kings’ palaces.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for the remainder of the bread. Her brother’s aspirations struck him as odd. Who cared what hung on obscure walls viewed only by the rich or elite? Nonetheless, he envied the boy his dreams. Been a long time since he had dreams of his own.
“You said the company mailed the Bible to you,” he said.
She nodded. “That’s what makes me believe my brother’s in trouble. He would never willingly give up his Bible.”
He helped himself to more bacon and slapped it on the bread. “How do you propose finding him?”
“I think Chimney Rock might have been his home station. I hope to find a ledger or records of some kind with his current address—maybe even someone who knows him. If not, I’ll visit every last Pony Express station between there and Sacramento. I’ve already checked the ones between here and St. Jo.”
He did some quick calculations and thought out loud. “The stations are placed approximately ten to twenty miles apart, depending on terrain and water supplies. That means there has to be something like—”
“A hundred and ninety. Many are deserted, and a few are in ruins.” After a short pause, she added, “I hope I don’t have to travel as far as Sacramento.”
He glanced at the rickety wagon and two homely mules. “Me, too, ma’am. Me, too.”
She took a dainty bite of bacon before continuing. “That’s why I need your help, Mr. Corbett. I need someone to keep the wagon in good repair.”
He gazed at the wagon again, but when a vision of white lace came to mind, he quickly looked away. “And who is going to fight off Indians and robbers?”
She slanted her head. “I was hoping you could help me in that regard. I have a spare gun you can use and—”
“You gonna trust me with a gun?” He stuffed another piece of bacon in his mouth. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know you have an honest face. I doubt you’re a thief like those men said.” She tossed a nod at the empty plates and raised her eyebrows. “I also know you have a voracious appetite.”
He leaned forward “And here’s what you don’t know. I’m not crazy.” He tossed away the grounds from his coffee cup. “It’s almost December. Do you know what that means? Has it occurred to you why one of the busiest westernbound trails is now deserted? Anyone with half a brain knows not to start a journey this late in the year.”
“My trail guide assured me we would reach Castle Rock before the winter snows!”
“And you believed him?” He glanced around. “An
d where is your trail guide now?”
Two spots of red flared on her cheeks “He…he ran off.”
“Smart man.” Corbett reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup. If he had a lick of sense, he’d follow in the trail guide’s tracks. He set the pot down. “You haven’t the chance of a bug in an anthill of making it to Chimney Rock before it snows. Not with that wagon.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes. Did she think this was some sort of joke? “Indians and thieves are the least of it. Have you ever been in a blizzard?”
“We have blizzards in Iowa.”
“Then you know it’s cold and miserable and you can’t see a blasted thing.”
She rose from the blanket. “I guess we won’t have to worry about being attacked, then, will we, Mr. Corbett? If we can’t see a thing, neither can anyone else.”
Chapter 3
What war?
—Carved into Chimney Rock in 1862 by Deadwood Dave Hugo
Ellie May couldn’t sleep. The night was filled with sounds. Identifying them gave her little peace of mind. With every coyote howl and owl’s hoot, she imagined Indians creeping through the dark, tomahawks raised.
Fearing she would wake and find Mr. Corbett gone, she kept peering out of the wagon to the dark shape on the ground. Odd as it seemed, she found comfort in the surly man’s presence even as he slept.
She felt in the dark for her brother’s Bible and clutched it to her chest. Where are you, Andy?
The day her brother left home seemed like only yesterday. He had no interest in taking over the family farm and spent every spare moment with his sketch pads.
Their father was a simple man with no appreciation for art. Manual labor is what he knew, so he and her brother argued. But the day Andy left home was the worst, for that was the day her father tossed her brother’s drawings into the fire. She’d tried to save them, burning her hands in the process, but it was too late. It was also too late to stop her brother from leaving, never to return.
Her papa wept after Andy left. Realizing what he had done, he shoveled the ashes out of the fireplace as if to make amends. He buried them in the family plot next to Mama, who would have loved Andy’s work.
A Pioneer Christmas Collection Page 20