by Nan O'Berry
“Promise me, Stephen that you will only come out here with me or Drew.”
He swallowed heavily. “I promise.”
The tension eased. Emma loosened her grip on his arm. She smiled. “This is only because I worry about you. If something were to happen, Ma and Poppa would be so upset.”
Stephen nodded. “I promise.” He turned and looked in the distance toward the road. “Come on, let’s hurry.”
Minutes later, the two came to the edge of the property.
“Which way?” Emma asked.
“That way.” Stephen pointed east toward Three Rivers Station. “He will come from that way.”
“Are you sure?” Emma raised a hand to shield the sun from her eyes.
Her brother nodded. “Two days ago, one rider rode toward Three Rivers. They had to wait for the post to get there. Another rider will be bringing it back heading toward Benson’s Crossing. That is their next stop.”
“How do you know so much?”
Stephen grinned. “Poppa brought home a paper. He was going to throw it away. I asked if I could keep it. I want to be an express rider.”
“Stephen,” Emma began, but her brother’s attention had already shifted.
He rose in his stirrups. “LOOK!”
Emma turned toward the horizon. A dark pillar of dust hovered, then seemed to grow. She watched in fascination as the dot grew to a figure on horseback moving ever faster towards them. Her heart seemed to beat with the sound of the hoof beats. Her hand rose to press the second button on her blouse ready, just in case her heart should desire to leap from beneath her rib cage.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” Stephen called. Lifting his hat, he waved it over his head.
The rider approached. There was something in his manner that she remembered. He must have heard her brother’s cries, for to Emma’s surprise, he slowed. Her heart skipped a beat when he raised his head and she caught sight of those warm brown eyes that looked like the caramel she’d eaten for Christmas. Her mouth went dry as he brought the heaving horse to a stop.
“Good Morning,” he called.
“You stopped?” Stephen asked looking shocked.
The rider smiled. “You were waving your hat so wildly; I figured there might be trouble.”
Stephen had the good graces to at least appear embarrassed. “I wished to cheer you on.”
“Ah, I see.” The rider turned his glance to Emma. “Ma’am, I believe we have met.”
Emma could feel heat rise in her cheeks. “We have sir, at O’Neals.”
He lifted the left side of his mouth into a bit of a smile. “You were wearing a lovely lavender dress.”
Her heart went from no beats to several hundred per minute. “Indeed, sir, I was.”
He leaned forward to pet the damp neck of his mount. “I believe that shade shall become my favorite color.”
Despite herself, Emma grinned.
“Your route comes right beside our ranch,” Stephen broke in.
The express rider glanced over at him. “So it does. Then you will have to keep track of our riders and let me know how quick they come and go.”
Stephen grinned. “I’m going to be a rider when I get old enough. The paper says I only have to be fourteen.”
The rider leaned an arm across the pommel and gave a nod. “I hear that is true, but it also states that they prefer orphans.” He nodded toward Emma. “I feel your sister might object to letting you go.”
Emma watched her brother’s crestfallen face.
“But, until you can clear it with the station master, I suppose it will be okay to make you a junior rider.”
Stephen’s face perked up.
“A Pony Express rider always follows orders.” He gave Emma a sly glance. “So you will have to follow your mother and sister’s orders.”
“I will,” Stephen promised.
He glanced ahead. “I have to be going.”
“God speed, Clayton Adams.”
He blinked as if in surprise that she would remember his name, then slowly a large grin spread across his face. “And you too, Miss Rawlings. When we meet again, be wearing that particular shade of lavender.”
Emma’s eyes widened as he pulled back on the reins and the mighty pony rose on its hind feet. With a wave of his hand, the horse came down and trotted forward.
Reuben Pierson brushed the dust from his brown bowler with the cuff of his jacket and stared out at the barren landscape. Benson’s Crossing, the nearest next to nothing on the face of the earth. He turned to watch the station master.
The old man shuffled from the wood pile to the front porch where he stood. His boot flaps bounced like the ears of a dog as he kicked up the dry soil in his wake. The old man’s arms were filled with bits of kindling wood, but Reuben didn’t offer help. No, jobs like that were demeaning to a man whose family owned the stage line.
The closer he came, the more he could make out the man’s features. His skin tone was near the same as the dirt. His nose sharp and the hollow of his cheeks echoed the meager rations he was living on. As he drew closer, his eyes remained focused on the doorway, yet his pupils remained dull as if he were resigned to the nonexistence of life. He marched past and their shoulder’s brushed. The station master gave a grunt instead of an apology.
Reuben looked down at his elbow and the smear of dirt left behind. With a deep sign, he brushed it away. Turning his head to gaze at the horizon, his eyes narrowed and he made a harsh vow, “I will not stay here long. You will see. I will be back in San Francisco before the year is out.”
As if to emphasize his determination, he screwed up his mouth and summoned the moisture within. Giving his head a mighty jerk, he spit to the ground. Then turning his head, he moved into the low slung building.
It took only a brief moment to blink away the brightness and allow his eyes to readjust to the cold interior of the station house. One large room served a variety of purposes, from feeding the weary travelers, to offering a lavation for those willing to brave the watered beer or second rate alcohol. Reuben made his way to the wide plank that had been thrown over two water barrels. On the left corner, a keg sat ready to dispense its contents into a set of glasses that looked as if they had not met soap or water in many months.
Standing in the middle of the bar, he waited for the station master to return. In the back room, he could hear the banging of pots and pans as a fire was started in the cast iron stove to accommodate the meager meal to be served to the hungry passengers on the stage. The scruff of boots drew nearer. Reuben waited until the station master appeared in the doorway.
His eyes flared and he stared in Rueben’s direction. “What can I do for you?”
Reuben took a deep breath. “I’d like a drink.”
The older man’s grey brows arched toward his hairline. “Bar ain’t open.” He cast a glance toward the crude structure. “Won’t open till four.”
Reuben turned toward the regular clock that hung on the back wall. The hands stood poised at three forty-five. “What’s fifteen minutes?” he asked turning back to the station master.
The older man squared his shoulders. “Ain’t Pierson company policy.”
Reuben inhaled sharply. “Of course, grandfather’s iron clad rules must be handed down even in this God forsaken land.”
“Huh?” Puzzled, the station master stared.
It would be too much to reveal how his father, his uncles had turned on him for a trivial indiscretion. Now, he was relegated to this hell hole and people who took his grandfather’s rules done to the letter. “Who is to know, if you opened it early?”
The station master glanced at the clock. The firm line of his mouth and the twitch of the muscles along his jaw revealed the utter distain at the assault on his authority.
However, Reuben was in no mood to back down.
Their gazes locked in a test of wills.
Finally, the station master blinked. “Only one,” he groused and moved behind the bar.
A victo
ry no matter how small, but a victory never the less, Rueben stood, his hands upon his hips.
The other man slunk around behind the plank then turned to face him. “What will it be?”
He wanted to smile. It took all the restraint Reuben had to not the smile. Instead, he moved to the bar and glanced at the dull streaked glasses that stood at one end. Drinks from those might kill a man within seconds. An unnamed bottle behind the station master, stood as a sentinel. He nodded toward the wall. “Whiskey.”
The station master turned and reached for the bottle. Setting it on the board, he grabbed a glass.
In a flash, Reuben’s hand shot out and his fingers clamped around the station master’s wrist.
The pressure drained the color from the older man’s face.
“Clean it.” Reuben hissed. He increased the pressure and watched the man’s eyes widen before he let go.
The station master stumbled a step back and brought his other hand up to massage his wrist. Blood restored, he picked up a well used towel and without breaking eye contact, wiped the interior of the glass before pouring a neat two fingers worth into the glass. He didn’t hand it to Reuben. Instead, he slid it across the wood.
Reuben stopped it with his hand. He stared for a moment, then picked up the glass, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the alcohol to the back of his throat. Closing his eyes, he swallowed. The burn ignited a route that led from his throat to the pit of his belly. He waited allowing it to simmer, then opened his eyes, and set the glass on the bar with a thud. “Another,” he rasped.
This time, the station master stood his ground. His eyes upped the level of distain as he spoke, “One drink per customer.”
Reuben lifted the right side of his upper lip in a sneer. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
The old man across from him stood a bit taller. The dullness of his eyes, now replaced by anger. “I do not care if you are Satan himself, Pierson rules state: one drink per customer.”
Reuben swallowed but before he could speak, a flurry of hoof beats and a rattle of chains drew their attention to the yard just beyond the door.
“Stage coming in.” The old man grabbed the cork and pressed it into the neck of the bottle before Reuben had a chance to protest. He took a step toward the door before turning back. He cast a suspicious glance at Rueben, then stepped back long enough to snatch the bottle away and put it back on the back shelf. “Safe keeping,” he grumbled, then turned on his heel and moved away.
“I own you,” Reuben hissed to the emptiness of the room. Stepping beneath the bar, he made his way to the bottle. “You work for me.” He seethed and wrenched the cork from the bottle, pouring another half glass of whiskey. “No one. No one, not my grandfather, my uncle, or some flea bitten old man, who thinks he runs the world, is going to stop me.” He lifted the glass and sent the alcohol past his lips. “To blazes with them all.”
Chapter 4
After change of horses and another two hour ride, Clay’s journey ended. Exhausted, he slipped from the saddle and tossed the next rider the leather pouch. Shouts sent the young man leaping into the saddle and rushing toward the setting sun.
“You made good time,” the station master called as he stepped away from the low slung building and moving toward Clay.
“Not so bad,” he agreed.
“You Emmett King?” the station master asked.
Clay shook his head. “Clayton Adams.”
The man paused. “Three Rivers Station?”
“Yep.”
The man raised his right hand and pushed his hat back to scratch his head. “How long have you been in the saddle, son?”
“A while.”
The man smiled. “That is probably the best answer to give. Come on, let’s get you in the station, and put some food in front of you.” He clapped Clay on the back. The force, though not great, caused Clay to stumble. The station master’s hand reached out to steady him. “Easy,” he murmured.
Walking beside the station master, Clay’s legs felt as though the bones had dissolved allowing the muscles to flounder beneath his skin. As he led him into the log structure, he was struck by the lack of warmth in the spartan structure. There were no curtains at the window, no pictures on the wall, he wasn’t even invited to wash his hands or face before coming to the table. At that moment, Clay could not have appreciated Mrs. Hawkins more.
“Here, sit,” the order came.
Clay folded his legs and poured himself into the chair he was offered. He watched the man moved to the stove and stir the contents of the pot warming there.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah.” Clay nodded his voice echoing the exhaustion he felt.
The man placed a steaming white stoneware mug before him. He sat straighter in the chair and wrapped his hands around it to warm them.
Across from him, the station master drew out another chair and placed his own mug on the table. “I was expecting another rider.”
Clay lifted the mug to his face and took a deep sip. “Got to the first trade off at Burroughs. No one was there, so I rode on.”
The manager’s face furrowed. “Did he up and quit?”
Clay shrugged and brought the cup to his lips for a deep draft of the warm liquid. The sensation of slipping beneath a languid pool of water moved from his shoulders to his toes. The taunt muscles from the hours in the saddle eased and he fought to keep his eyes open.
“You said your home station was Three Rivers?”
“Yes.”
The man turned his cup on its edge to stare at the last drops on the bottom. The station master’s gaze lifted. “No trouble there?”
Clay paused thinking of the taunts Levi spoke about before he left. Cautiously, he answered, “Not that I know of.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the man across from him. After a moment’s pause, he nodded. “Here now, let’s get you up the stairs for a good rest. Twelve hours in the saddle is enough for any man.”
Clay rose and his knees threaten to buckle. A hand on the table steadied him. “Thank you.” He blinked. “I am afraid I didn’t catch your name, sir.”
The man smiled. “Name’s Elijah Keene. All right, Clay, upstairs with you now.”
With Elijah in the lead, Clay followed him up the tight stairway to the long room across the top of the log structure. There six beds lined the front wall and another two stood sentinel along the back. Three still had the blankets draped across the top while the others sported small trunks at the foot with a few personal items on the top.
“Pick a bed where there is a blanket,” Elijah explained. “The other riders are out doing chores. They should not be back until evening.”
“Thank you, sir,” Clay responded and slowly moved toward the second bed in the front row.
“There will be a hot meal waiting when you wake.” With that, Elijah Keene moved back down the stairs.
With the greatest of care, Clay eased his tired body onto the mattress. The ropes beneath were still tight giving the thin cushion a feel of firmness. Bending over, he tugged off his boots and dropped them to the floor. Looking up, he spied a small washstand. Mrs. Hawkins would have required he at least wash his face. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the fortitude to motivate himself to stand.
A small groan followed as he eased his body down upon the bed. The dried corn husks that filled the mattress crackled releasing the smell of earth. Clay thought about his bedding back at Three Rivers and missed the scent of fresh linen that always seemed to be there. Sleep quickly stole over him. He found resistance pointless. As he closed his eyes, the last conscious vision that filled his mind was of a beautiful young woman with sky blue eyes that seemed to be smiling down upon him. Clay smiled back.
The buzz of voices echoed in the great room of the stage stop as the lamps were lit for the evening. Reuben leaned against the bar, nursing the glass of whiskey in his hand. His ears strained to pick up the conversations behind him.
“Stunning,” one woman remar
ked. “To see that young man riding at break neck speed.”
“Miracle he didn’t kill himself or that horse,” a man scoffed.
A chair leg scraped across the floor.
“I hear it said that it only takes ten days to get a letter from Saint Joseph to Sacramento. Amazing when you think how long it takes regular mail.”
Reuben’s mouth tightened as he listened to their chatter.
“Yes, imagine. I hear that it will put the stage companies out of business.”
A gruff laugh followed as the driver butted in, “No ma’am, not likely. There is the question of passengers. Letters might be easy to carry, but I doubt they can put a little lady like you on the back of those jugheads and ride cross country.”
The men snickered.
“I don’t think I’d mind,” another woman spoke in the defense of the express. “My arms wrapped around the middle of some handsome cowboy might be more pleasant that sitting beneath a grizzled imitation of a grizzly bear.”
An uproar filled the room as the driver snorted and stomped out to check on the horses.
Reuben slowly turned so he could catch a glimpse of those speaking.
A man in a dark jacket with a huge brim hat stared at the table. “It won’t last,” he said, quietly.
“And why not?” a woman in a dark blue traveling dress inquired.
“Men and horses can be run into the ground.”
“This is the land of opportunity;” another chimed in. “There are horses and men to take up the challenge.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps,” the man echoed.
The group grew silent as the stage master brought plates of hot food out and set it in front of them.
Across the way, another man rose and moved toward Reuben. The collar of his white shirt strained against the button beneath the loose tie. He had black slicked back hair. “Is there another glass?” he asked pointing to the bottle on the bar.
Reuben said nothing, instead he pointed to the stack of glasses at the end.
The man’s thick fingers wrapped around the glass as he moved it toward the bottle, with a nod of his head, he spoke, “A neat two fingers worth, please.”