Jo's Triumph

by Nikki Tate

  It worked, as it usually did. Those weanlings sold at a price that made Pa grin from ear to ear.

  I wiped my cheeks with my sleeve. Don’t think about him, I told myself. Think about where you are and what you are doing. Hadn’t Pa always said, A man whose mind wanders on the job ain’t on the job at all?

  Before me, the sun rose above the mountains, bathing the peaks in a curious dry light. Flame was blowing hard and I slowed him so he could catch his breath. He stretched his neck forward and down and I knew he appreciated the chance to loosen the tight muscles in his back. We trotted along, the saddle creaking with each step. Flame’s neck was dark with sweat and his breath came in short puffs. The ground began to slope down again, falling away before Flame’s nimble feet.

  “Oh, Pa,” I said with a moan. “Pa, why’d you have to go and leave me?”

  Back on level ground, I urged Flame into a canter.

  No, I thought, slapping my gloved hand on my thigh. It wasn’t Pa who’d left me. It was my darned brothers. ’Course, if it weren’t for those two I wouldn’t have been carrying the mail all by myself, either. And, I wouldn’t have met Sarah.

  I chewed on that thought for awhile as we followed the trail along the side of a creek. Flame had slowed down again and I had to urge him on, hissing into his ear and squeezing my boots to his sides.

  Up ahead, half a mile or so, I saw smoke rising from the chimney of Mountain Springs station.

  “Git up, Flame. Go on! Your dinner’s waiting.” I scooped my hat off my head and whacked him on his rump.

  “Haalloooo!” I jammed my hat back on and squinted to see two figures and a horse emerge from behind the low building. The waiting horse whinnied and Flame’s ears twitched.

  We slid to a stop in front of the cabin at Mountain Springs and I half jumped, half fell to the ground, my legs wobbly.

  “Jo,” I said.

  “Trail’s clear?” the stationkeeper asked, not concerned that I could hardly stand. If all the other riders got off and back on with no trouble, then so would I. I straightened up.

  “Yup. No problems.”

  “Very good. Hope you don’t have no trouble from here on.”

  As he talked, the stationkeeper pulled the mochila from Flame’s back and threw it across a big roan’s saddle.

  “This is Bear. Faster than he looks.” The horse was big-boned and lanky, with a soft expression about the face.

  The second man had already led Flame away to walk him until he had cooled down. I stood at Bear’s head, rubbing the horse’s face, gulping down the mug of coffee the other man had handed me. The new horse puffed warm breath against my neck and I turned and blew gently into his nostrils. Pa had told me once that the Indians greeted their horses that way because that’s how horses greet each other.

  Bear puffed back at me and I grinned, forgetting for a moment how badly my legs ached.

  “Sixty-four minutes. Not bad for a first ride from Ruby.”

  Sixty-four minutes? If he’d said sixty-four hours I would have believed him.

  Still, when he nodded up at the saddle I handed him my half-empty cup and climbed aboard, using Bear’s mane and the saddle horn to heave myself all the way up.

  The stationmaster jotted down the exact time we had taken to switch horses. “Two-o’-four. A bit slow here at the station. Git going.”

  And off we went, charging down the track leading to Cherry Bend some ten miles away.

  Bear’s gallop strides must have been full twice as long as spunky little Flame’s. Soon we drew even with the big dead pine at the bend in the trail. I looked back just in time to catch a last glance of the station. “Big dead pine just past Mountain Springs,” Smokey had said. “Turn slightly south and then pick up the trail again a quarter mile on.”

  Almost without thought I adjusted to the bigger horse’s different movement, keeping my back and hips loose so as not to work against him. In turn, Bear lengthened his stride even more and dropped his head. I patted his neck and an ear twitched back toward me, listening.

  “Good boy,” I said.

  Once again I was alone with a good horse and my thoughts. As we galloped on, my thoughts grew as sticky as the mud on this part of the trail. Difference was, I could dodge around the worst of the muck, but I couldn’t do a danged thing about what I was thinking.

  I’d been lucky so far, sure enough, but the men at the stations along the trail only cared about their pocket watches and keeping the mail moving. What would happen during my days of rest between runs? The men would have time to get to know me then. Somebody was sure to notice that I didn’t walk quite right, or that I had no Adam’s apple and really didn’t need to shave at all. Ever.

  Bear thundered along, carrying me closer to the next change of horses at Cherry Bend. We were soon covered with mud and the horse was tiring quickly because of the poor footing. Without Bear under me, both the mail and I would be in deep trouble.

  “Whoa, now,” I said, stopping him so I could dismount to let him slither down a steep hillside without my weight in the saddle.

  Once at the bottom, I scrambled back up as fast as I could and urged Bear on. Pa would have been proud, though Ma would have thought her only daughter a fool — an ungodly fool out in the middle of nowhere, instead of learning how to stitch samplers.

  “My Lord! Bear!” I grabbed for the saddle horn when Bear gave a great leap sideways, nearly losing me in a puddle. A jackrabbit bounded away and I cursed the horse for being so foolish as to think a rabbit could have hurt him. Then I cursed myself for not paying attention.

  After that, I watched more carefully. Anything could be hiding in the bushes along the side of the trail. Coyotes. Wolves. Bandits. Miners mad with the fever. Indians at war. The more I thought about what might lurk around every bend, the more frightened I became.

  “I’m real sorry, sir,” I’d say to the stationmaster at Butte. “I won’t be doing another run. I just remembered a very important meeting in California with my brothers.” Or, “You see I can’t possibly keep this job because I’m a girl.”

  That would give them a turn! Dang it, Joselyn. Stop thinking that way! You ain’t stopping what you’ve started.

  Pa didn’t like quitters. I was going to the gold fields whether or not I ever found my no-good brothers. Besides, there was the small problem of the money I had to pay back for the gear I’d bought. A man’s only as good as the debts he pays, Pa used to say. Pa wouldn’t have quit before he paid back every penny and neither would I.

  Chapter Seven

  The sun rose higher and higher. About mid-morning, maybe a mile before Cherry Bend, I saw four wagons and about a dozen men and boys on horses up ahead. I knew better than to stop to say hello, but I fully intended to tip my hat as I rode past.

  I never had a chance ’cause as we drew even with the settlers, a sharp crack sent Bear skittering sideways. The loud noise was followed by an ear -splitting bang. The settlers were shooting at me!

  “Hey! Stop! Mail coming through!” I screamed, looking frantically for a place to hide. “Stop firing!”

  My hand went to my pistol, but I was already moving so fast that I figured I’d best not slow down, draw, and aim.

  As I flashed past the sorry-looking group, I saw two men and a boy no bigger than I was, reloading their guns!

  “Lord Almighty, help me!” I hollered to the high heavens. “Git up!” I hammered my heels against Bear’s sides and the poor horse, exhausted though he was, plunged down the trail.

  One last crack exploded behind us and then we were too far past them — unless they decided to come after us. Hunched forward over the big horse’s withers I urged him on.

  He tried, I know he tried, but Bear stumbled hard and this time, I came off.

  I lay flat on my back on the trail not able to move, not able to breathe.

  After a moment, I lifted my head and tried to suck in a little air.

  “Whoa, Bear,” I whispered. All I needed was for my horse to take off an
d those crazy settlers to come after me. But Bear wasn’t going anywhere. His head hung low and his eyes were no longer soft and gentle. They were glazed with pain.

  Joselyn, git on up. You’re just winded. I rolled over onto my side, drew my knees up to my chest, and lay there in the dirt counting slowly to five. Every breath I drew hurt like the dickens. Now. Git up now. I pushed up onto my knees and stood.

  Bear stayed where he was, blowing hard.

  “Easy there, boy. What’s wrong?”

  Ignoring the ache in my own back I touched his neck and then moved slowly around to his other side. “Oh, Bear!” His haunch was split wide open. Blood oozed along the length of the wound and dribbled in dark red streaks down his hind leg.

  We’d come around a bend and down a small hill so I couldn’t see the wagons any more, but I knew the fools who’d shot my horse weren’t far behind. I pulled my gun from its holster. Judging by how long we’d been riding, Cherry Bend had to be close by. With any luck, I wouldn’t have to shoot anyone before I arrived.

  I pulled at the mochila and slung it over my shoulders. Then I lifted off Bear’s saddle and hid it behind some bushes at the side of the trail. Someone could come back for that later. Slipping the reins over the horse’s head, I gave a gentle pull. Reluctantly, Bear followed me.

  His head jerked with each painful step. Over and over we stopped. Over and over I made him walk on again.

  I kept shifting the heavy mochila, but the stiff leather chafed against my neck. It was all I could do not to drop the danged thing and leave it for someone else to find.

  With each step my back felt a bit better and I was able to breathe easier, but poor Bear was not so well off. It was harder and harder to get him going again after our little rests.

  What a welcome sight it was when I finally spotted the peaked roof of the cabin at Cherry Bend. I let out a whoop loud enough to wake the dead and near dragged Bear off his feet trying to hurry him along.

  Two men outside the cabin shouted back. When they saw I was on foot, they ran down the trail toward me, leading the fresh horse.

  “Good Lord, son! What happened?”

  “Would ’ya look at this?” the second man said from the other side of Bear. He held up his hand, fingertips crimson with fresh blood.

  Bear’s flanks heaved and white foam covered his neck.

  “I got shot at,” I said. “Is he hurt bad?”

  The other man shook his head. “Don’t look like it’s too deep. We’ll clean him up, stitch that wound, and give him some extra rest.” He patted Bear’s neck. “Come on, boy. You done good.” The man took Bear from me. My heart tugged. I wanted to stay with the horse, make sure he was all right.

  The first man, who I presumed to be the stationmaster, looked me up and down.

  “Indians?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Settlers.”

  “Settlers? For Pete’s sake. What in tarnation do they think they’re doing unloading buckshot into our good horses?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” I said. My hands shook and I pressed them to my sides. “Their wagons are stuck in the mud back down the trail a mile or so. I reckon you could ride back and find out.”

  “Take my dog and my gun with me,” he said grimly. Then he turned to me. “You all right to keep on going?”

  I didn’t feel right at all. My legs trembled and I felt queasy deep in my gut.

  We both looked back in the direction of the settlers and then I nodded. Who knew when those crazy folk might just get it in their heads to come to the stationhouse looking to rob anyone they might find?

  “Good. This here is Blackie.” He helped me up onto the big, black thoroughbred whose white blaze gleamed as if someone had polished it up. The horse shifted uneasily and I patted his neck as much to calm myself as anything.

  “Go, then,” the stationmaster said. I turned Blackie and he knew just what to do.

  “Godspeed!” the stationmaster shouted after me as we galloped away. I was beginning to understand just what the oath I had sworn really meant.

  Mail first. Horse second. Rider last.

  About half an hour past Cherry Bend, Blackie took a bad step and nearly went down.

  Now what? I wondered, choking back tears.

  “Whoa. Easy boy.”

  I tried to pull him up, but he kept trotting, limping badly.

  “Whoa now,” I insisted. The minute I was off his back, Blackie snaked his head out, and snatched a mouthful of grass.

  “Sure. Think of your belly first.”

  He shifted his weight to ease the pressure on his left foreleg. “Easy, fella. Stand still. Let me have a look.”

  I squinted back along the trail, shielding my eyes against the sun’s glare. An injury here meant a long walk back to Cherry Bend and, close as I could figure, just as far on to Butte. I chewed my bottom lip. Truth be told, if I didn’t exactly feel happy riding fast along the trail, I felt real uneasy standing around just waiting for someone to come by and pick me off.

  “Pa, what should I do?” Sure as day, Pa would not just stand around feeling sorry for himself. He’d look after his horse.

  “How does that feel, boy?” I asked as I ran my hand down Blackie’s leg. No heat or swelling — that was good.

  “Pick it up.” Without any trouble at all he let me check his foot. My, what a relief to see a sharp stone wedged between the soft frog and the back of his shoe. I fished out my penknife and worked at the stone, wiggling it back and forth until it popped out.

  Blackie was happy enough after that and seemed sure of the way. As the day grew warmer, I almost managed to convince myself the ride was no more than a pleasant canter, the kind of easy gallop I used to take to condition young horses — except, of course, my backside ached from my fall. Every so often a shudder took hold of me as I thought of my horse getting shot out from underneath my saddle.

  I watched for the fork in the trail just past the entrance to the box canyon Smokey McPhail had warned me about, but Blackie knew before I did to keep heading east.

  We trotted on and on, cantering when the ground was level enough to allow it, walking when the way was steep or particularly rough. And each step of the way I agonized about how I was going to get out of my job.

  Nearly three-and-a-half hours after leaving Ruby Valley, feeling like I’d been riding for eighty-two years, I cantered up to the house at Butte Station.

  Three men waited with a fresh horse. “Off you get. We’ve got Bill Winslow here ready to go. My name’s Mr. Thomas.”

  Never in my life had I felt so happy to be sliding off the back of a horse.

  “Steady now.” I wasn’t sure if the stationmaster was speaking to me or to Blackie, for my knees were so weak I could hardly stay upright.

  “Fifty-nine seconds!” Mr. Thomas smacked the cantina shut and the sorrel mustang jumped forward, his rider holding onto his hat with one hand, the reins with the other.

  “Y’er new,” said a wiry little man with squinty eyes.

  “Jo,” I said, coughing to make my voice sound rougher.

  “Hmph. They’ll be sending us suckling babes before long.”

  “Arnie, I’ll thank you to hold your tongue,” Mr. Thomas said.

  I flushed, glad of the coat of mud I wore on my face. Arnie couldn’t have been much more than eighteen or nineteen himself.

  “Joe, come in and have yourself some coffee,” Mr. Thomas continued, extending his hand. “I suppose you might like some bacon and bread?”

  I stuck my hand out to meet his, squeezing as tight as I could so he’d have no cause to think I was but a weakling girl.

  “Yes, sir.” At the thought of bacon, my mouth watered.

  Arnie led Blackie away and I followed Mr. Thomas into the stationhouse. In-side, a young man with a mess of wild black hair hanging into his eyes sat on a three-legged stool by the fire.

  “James — this is Joe. Joe — James.”

  James nodded in our direction. His tin mug rested on a table of rough p
lanks. The cup of coffee Mr. Thomas poured from a battered tin coffeepot was near enough the best I’d ever tasted in my whole life.

  “Have a good ride?” Mr. Thomas asked.

  I shrugged and said, “Only got shot at once.”

  The two men stared at me. Appar ently, being fired at didn’t happen every day. That, I told myself, was a good thing to know.

  “You hurt?” Mr. Thomas asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Lousy aim,” wild-haired James said, slouching over his mug again.

  “They got my horse,” I said. “A gash on his flank is all. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good to hear,” Mr. Thomas said. “You can rest up here for a couple of days. We got patrols heading back to-ward Ruby Valley. They’ll take care of any Indians fixing to ambush — ”

  “No sir,” I interrupted. “Weren’t no Indians. Was settlers with wagons that shot at me.”

  “Danged eastern folk shoot at any-thing that moves,” James said, draining the rest of his coffee. “Next time anybody gives you trouble, put a bullet right here.”

  He jabbed his thumb into the spot right between his eyes. The way his crazy blue eyes glittered made me real nervous.

  I looked away, over toward the bunks at the back. The dirt floor, I noticed, was soaking wet.

  “Wet in here,” I said.

  Mr. Thomas grunted. “That there’s the edge of the stream.”

  At first I thought he was pulling my leg, but the water moved slowly. It was seeping in under the cabin wall. The only area of the dirt floor that was well and truly dry was the narrow strip in front of the great stone hearth where we sat at the table.

  With my belly full of bacon, biscuits, and beans, my eyelids drooped and Mr. Thomas pointed at an empty bunk. “Have a sleep,” he said. There was no argument from me. I stepped over the muddy puddle and, though it was still early in the afternoon, crawled into an empty bunk.

  But sleep didn’t come easily. As I lay on the rough straw mattress, my arms and legs twitched and jerked as though I were still keeping my balance on a horse. My thoughts whirled and tumbled, each more unsettling than the next. Bear’s blood-spattered leg, my fall on the trail, a thousand and one ways to get lost, shot, hurt, or killed on the trail made the twenty-five dollars a week seem like an insult.