He spoke carefully to be sure they heard him before he started to put his hand in his pocket. He took out some coins, placed the proper coin on the table, and took a slow step back, then walked quietly toward the door, followed by Mercer, who also paid.
The man came in from outside. "The C is there, ma'am. Looks to me like the horse is yours."
"I have the papers here," she said, "and the description of the horse." Horse stealing was a hanging offense. There was a stage driver and a hostler out there; there were several men in here-he could almost feel the rope.
"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't know the horse was stole. Can I ride him back to town?"
"No, you cannot. The horse will remain here. If you will remove your saddle and bridle, please? You may ride the stage into town." She paused. "If you have the fare."
Neff s eyes were ugly. "If you were a man-to "
"I'm a man," Boone suggested mildly.
"Not in here!" Matty had the shotgun.
"Outside with you alll Now!"
They moved outside, and some of the passengers began to board the stage. Mercer and Williams stood to one side, about ten feet apart, facing the stage station.
Neff walked toward the barn, then turned sharply around, waiting. Boone was at the door, but before he could stop her, Mary was past him. "Gentlemen? Will you board, please?
"Wilbur? When the passengers are aboard, will you take the stage out, please? At once?" She turned. "Mr. Neff? Unless you wish to walk, I'd suggest you get your gear and get aboard."
"I got business here," he said, watching the door. Temple Boone spoke quietly from within the door. "Ma'am? Don't you see? It's you they want to kill."
For an instant, she stood still. Of course, how could she have been such a foot? Yet how could she now get inside? If she made such a move, would they not kill her at once? The stage started to move.
"Take them out, Wilburl" she said. "howl"
The stage rolled; dust arose and settled. They could hear it rattling off down the road, the sound slowly receding.
She stood alone in the bare trail before the stage station, and there were three men whose intention it was that she die. She stood very still, head held high, trying to think of a way out. What should she do now?
Walk to the door? Walk toward them? Softly, the voice from the doorway said, "When I step out, you hit the dirt. Hit it hard, ma'am. It will be your only chancel"
Matte moved to a window. "Mr.
Boone, I have the shotgun. I will take Mr.
Williams."
Boone waited, running his tongue over his lips. From where he stood, he could not see Jordy Neff, but he knew where he stood. The advantage was Neffs. The instant Boone's body showed, Neff would fire. All right, he told himself. You may have to take one, but kill ham!
Don't leave these women ,alone with him. Whatever happens, kill him! Another voice suddenly came from the barn. "All right, Matty, you take Williams. I got Mercer. I got him right in the sights o' this of buffler gunl"
At that moment, another voice, a strange voice, broke in. "We three. We kill."
Three rifle barrels appeared from the corral bars. Jordy Neff, poised to go for his gun, held his hand. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Slowly, very carefully, he lowered his hand.
"Get your horse, Mercer," he said after a moment.
"You've got the biggest horse. I'll have to double up with you."
Mercer crossed the yard, untied both horses, and led them out into the road. Williams mounted up, his features showing the shock. Mercer hesitated, then mounted, and then Jordy Neff swung up behind him. The horse sidestepped at the unusual load, obviously unhappy with it, but they started off.
Neff turned. "I'll be around, Boonel You can expect mel" When they were gone, Mary walked into the house and sat down. "Thank you, Mr.
Boone. Thank you, very muchl"
Matty went to the door, shading her eyes. "Who were the others?" she demanded. "Who-?"
Three Indians rode out from behind the corral, drawing up at the door. "You? Oh, thank youl"
Their faces were solemn. "Not for you," one said.
"For the papoosesl" And they rode away, laughing.
"I d'clare, woman," Ridge Fenton said, "livin' around you is like livin' next to a battleground. I'm an old man, ma'am. I ain't up to all this excitement. I figured I was in for a quiet, peaceful time when I come here. I aimed to settle down, calm my nerves, kind of ease into old age, sort of."
"Thank you, Mr. Fenton. When I heard your voice, I knew one man would be taken out of the fight."
"Mebbe. I don't miss very often. Not at that range andwitha buffalo gun. I'd have cut him loose from his pockets, believe me."
"It isn't over," Boone said. "I think I should ride into town. It's me an' jordy Neff now."
"Please . . . leave him alone."
Temple Boone turned toward Mary. "I do not have much choice, ma'am. This is my country. I live here. I shall always live here. I do not want trouble, but there are some kinds of trouble than cannot be avoided. "From now on, wherever I go, there is a chance he will be there, waiting. It is better to get it over with, once and for all."
"Makes sense, ma'am. Of course, 'twas me, now, I'd set up on a ridge somewhere and wait for him. He opened the ball, ma'am. He stated it clear that he meant to kill Boone, so as far as Boone is concerned, it's open season on Neff. He laid it down, implied he'd shoot on sight, and when you do that, all the rules are off.
You shoot "em whenever an" however you can. On'y Boone won't do that. He'll go down there to face him fair an' square. That's a good way to get hisself kilt."
Stages came, and stages left. It was an endless round of meals, stages, passengers of all sorts and kinds. Actors, prospectors, gamblers, miners, hunters, newspapermen, homemakers and shady ladies, whiskey peddlers and weapons' salesmen, Indian agents, drummers, men and women from all over the world, of every sort and nationality.
The work fell into patterns that made it easier, though never easy. In a time and place when women were scarce, they averaged a proposal every three days, the proposals coming from old men and young men, from established mining, ranching, or business men, from drifting cowhands, prospectors, and every variety of male creature afloat.
"An' some of them mean it," Matty said, "but there be some who are only talkin' an' would be frightened to their death if you said "yes' to theml But "tis a lonely time for folks out here and no pleasure in returnin" to an empty house to hear naught but the echo of your own voicel "Here, with us, tis different, for we're a family-like, and we've each other to share with. A family is a place where a body can share the no-account things, can talk of the little matters important only to ourselves, where we can laugh and cry and tell of the day-by-day happenings and then forget them." Matty took off her apron. "So now I'll be settin' by with a warm cup for myself and to chat a bit. was Mary Breydon went outside, standing for a moment in the warm sunlight.
Suddenly, all this was very familiar, very real. Was it here, then, that she would make her home? Was Virginia no longer to be a part of her life? Here she was doing something important. She was a part of the west- ward movement. In her own small way, she was helping to build America, helping to make so many dreams come true.
Before the war, she knew of this only as a vague place called the West. It was where people went and from where so few returned. The East she knew was a place of established families, businesses that had been in operation for many years, children whose great-grandparents had been young together, and it had been a good world in so many ways, a safe world. That was not true here. Everything was new; everything was building. It was rough, hard, and unpolished. The law was around but never in the way.
Men were expected to handle their own difficulties, and courage was the most respected virtue, with integrity a close second. Many a man whom you might call a thief with impunity would shoot you if you called him a liar or a coward.
Temple Boone came outside and stood beside her.
"It's a good country," he said. "Don't be judging it too harshly. We're young yet. We're still growin' up. Where society doesn't have the organization to handle trouble, we have to handle it for ourselves."
"I know." She watched the road. The stage would be coming soon. She smiled to herself as the thought came.
Was her life to be governed now by arrivals and departures?
"I understand," she said to Boone, "that you are an admirer of Sir Walter Scott?"
He glanced at her. "I have read him, although I read badly. The people he writes of are much like us, I think, in temperament and war. My mother was from the Highlands of Scotland. My first ancestor in this country was a rebel transported from England to Barbados. I know too little of my family but tradition. That much I've been told, and even the name of the vessel. It was the John Freggat of Bristol."
He glanced up the road. "Yes, I like Scott. He speaks to us, I think, and in the Carolinas where I once lived and in Georgia, he is very popular." "We will be reading from him tonight if you care to stay. I've been reading to Wat and to Peg nearly every night."
"I shall be there if all goes well." He touched his hat. "Now I have other business."
"Mother?" Peg took her hand, watching him walk away. "Do you like him?" "He is a good man, I think."
"But do you like him?"
Mary smiled. "Don't be so persistent) I am not ready to think of that yet. Your father is still too close to me, and when I think of a man, I think of him. When I remember the good things, he was always a part of them. I want to keep those memories, for they were the richest and most beautiful part of my life.
"Besides, I have much to dol I have to keep this station and make it better. I have to find a school for you and Wat and make our home better than it is. I can do this myself."
"I think you like Mr. Stacy."
She laughed. "Are you trying to find a romance for me? Mark Stacy is a good man, too, I think.
He's a successful man, and I believe he is a man who will go far.
[*thorngg'ally want to remember, Peg, just romance is not enough. You may often imagine yourself in love, but always remember you have to live with that person from day to day, in sickness and in health, as they say.
"You will want to be proud of him when you introduce him to your friends, and you want him to be comfortable with them, as you must be with his friends. One must never marry a man thinking he will change or that you will change him. If he does or you do, then he will not be the same man you married, and the less for it.
"But this is no time to think of that) And I am not even sure I know what I am talking about. Go help Matty set the table for the stage)" Where was Wat?
She walked across to the stable and looked inside.
"Wat?" There was no answer.
The door of the tack room stood open. His bed was neatly made, but there was no sign of him.
Stepping outside, she glanced around. Ridge Fenton was sewing a piece of leather.
"Mr. Fenton? Have you seen Wat?"
"No, ma'am, not in some time. He's around somewhere. You looked in the barn?"
"He's not there."
"Come to think about it, he did say something about huntin' arrowheads. Said he was all caught up on his work, and he wanted to find somethin' special for Peg."
Of course! She should have thought of that; still it was not a place she wanted him to go. It was close enough, yet out of sight of the station. What was she thinking about?
The boy had run free as a wild animal before he joined them. He was a tough little fellow and knew more about getting along in the wilderness than she did.
Perhaps more than any of them, Ridge included.
Still, she was going to read a little later, and she had not told him. She turned up the narrow path into the trees. It was only a little way. She'd have to hurry because Temple Boone would be coming back soon. It was very quiet. Once around the corner of the hill, if you could call it a corner, all sound of the station seemed to be cut off. She went down through the trees. It was an open place, right down there---
There was a cry from the brush. "Ma'am) Go back)
Run!"
She stepped through the trees, and Scant Luther was standing there, feet apart, grinning at her. Nearby, tied in a bundle, was Wat. "Figured you'd come lookin'," he said. "Been any of the others, I'd just a kept from sight. You, I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to see what you was up against."
"Mr. Luther, you are a very foolish man. If I were you, I'd leave now, while you have the chance.
Mr. Boone and Mr. Fenton will be looking for me soon. I am afraid they both have rather short tempers."
"They do, do they?" He chuckled without humor.
"I reckon I can handle the both of them, settin' back here like I'm gonna be. Settin' waitin' for them."
"I should think, Mr. Luther, that your first experience with us would have been enough. One would think that anybody of intelligence would stay away."
I came to get even. I'm a gonna start with you an' this boy. I'm goin' to let you see what I do to him, an' then I'll do worse to you."
"Mr. Luther, will you go now? They are expecting me back at the station. I am afraid I cannot wait any longer."
Oddly, she was not frightened. She knew what she must do and that she had no choice. He was big, a hulking brute, and she hoped- "You can't wait no longer? Well, what d'you know? Miss Uppity here can't waitl "Won't do you no good to scream. I already know that hill just cuts off any sound. You an' me, we're alone."
Desperately, Wat struggled. He almost sat up; then he threw himself at Luther's legs.
Scant, with a bored look, kicked him, then kicked him again. "Mr. Luther? One more time." Her face was very cold. She felt very poised, very still inside. She had expected it to be different than this, but He started toward her, and with one easy motion she drew one of the derringers from her pocket and shot him.
It was totally unexpected. She had no weapon in sight, and Scant Luther was sure that even if she had one, she would not have the courage or the good sense to use it.
The derringer was a .44 caliber, and it had two barrels. He was no more than fifteen feet away, and the slug staggered him. He backed up two paces. "Why you-I"
She walked around him toward Wat. She paused, the derringer in her hand. "Mr. Luther, I would suggest you take your wound and get somewhere right away.
You are going to need help."
"Damn youl You-t"
Her heart was pounding heavily, and she could not seem to swallow, but she held the gun steady. Luther took a step toward her. "Mr. Luther, I have another barrel. If I must shoot you, I will."
He stared at her, his eyes mean and ugly; then, sudden- ly, his expression changed. His eyes widened; he gasped, and his skin turned an ugly gray.
"You had best go where you can get help, Mr.
Luther. You're going to need it."
He backed away, then started through the brush in a stumbling run. Beyond, through the trees, she caught a glimpse of his horse. Putting the gun in her pocket, she knelt beside Wat and began to pluck at the knots with nervous fingers. They were very tight.
"Ma'am? There's a jackknife in my hip pocket."
She got it out, opened the big blade, and cut him free. When he stood up, she handed the knife back to him. "Gee, ma'am, you sure fixed of Scant! I never seen the like!"
"Let's go home, Wat. I-I don't feel well."
They had reached the station when they met Ridge Fenton, rifle in hand, hurrying toward them. Matty was on the steps of the station. "We heard a shot," Ridge said. Then he added, suddenly concerned at her appearance, "Ma'am? Are you all right?"
"She shot Scant Luther!" Wat exclaimed.
"Shot him right through the brisketl"
"You shot Scant?" Fenton was incredulous.
"What-?" "Pleasel Not now. I want to lie down. Matty-l" "Sure, mum. You come along with me now." With an arm around her waist, Matty took her inside. "You just sit down now, mum.
A cup of hot tea, that's what you need. It's been a shock."
The cup rattled against the saucer when she took it. A swallow, then another.
"Many, it was awful! Awful! That man-he had poor Wat all tied up. He was planning to kill me. He was going to kill Wat first, and then-"
"Don't talk about it, mum. It's done. It's over an" done with." Matty added tea to her cup.
"Mum? There's another thing to think about." "What's that?"
"You did it, mum. You met him face to face, and when you had to defend yourself, you did it. You stood right on your own two feet and looked him right in the eye, and when there was no help for it, you shot him.
"It is not easy for a woman to be alone, mum, but you did what had to be done. Nothing can take that away from you, and believe me, nobody is goin' to feel sorry that you shot Scant Luther."
She shuddered. "I think-I'm going to lie down, Matty. I hate to leave you with everything to be done, but I'm afraid I-- "You just go lie down. Peg an' me, we'll handle it. Won't we, Peg?"
"Yes, we will." She ran for the sideboard.
"I'll set the table." With Matty beside her, she crossed to the house and lay down on the bed. Matty returned to the station, and she lay for a long time, staring up at the ceiling.
She had shot a man.
It was unbelievable. She Mary Claybourne, Mary Breydon, had actually shot a man with a pistol.
It was long after dark when she awakened. She lay still for a minute, listening. Lights were on in the station, and several horses were tied at the corral.
Lighting a match, she lifted the chimney from the lamp and touched the match to the wick. When it caught, she replaced the chimney and looked at herself in the mirror.
She looked a sight, and there were people at the station.
Suddenly, she remembered.
She had not reloaded the empty barrel after the gun was fired. Her father had taught her that, and she had heard Temple Boone mention it, also. She got a cartridge and reloaded the gun, glad the derringer was so easily loaded. Her larger gun was cap and ball and took more time. Some of the older men did not like what they called the "newfangled" guns.
the Cherokee Trail (1982) Page 15