Louis L'Amour

by The Cherokee Trail

  Yet he would be coming soon, and what he must find was a better station. No, not a better one. It must be the best. It must be neat, clean, with good food ready to serve when the stages arrived.

  The teams must be changed promptly, the barns must be clean, all the mess Scant Luther had left must be cleaned up.

  How much time did she have? A day? Two days? She might even have a week. There were other stations, and Stacy was a busy man.

  The station first, for here they would feed the passengers, handle the mail and any shipments there were, and that would be the first place Stacy would notice. Above all, good food, served hot, something passengers could go away talking about.

  They had begun cleaning but had barely touched the work to be done. That needed to go forward.

  Next, an inventory of what supplies were on hand and what was needed. A careful check of the stables to see what needed to be done. At that moment, she thought of her father.

  Sitting up in bed, she swung her feet to the floor, feeling for her slippers. “Thank God, papa,” she whispered to herself, “you never had a son!”

  He would have been shocked to hear her say it, but had there been a son, she would never have learned how to do so many things that now she knew. He had loved having her ride out with him in the morning, and she had learned how to handle horses, how to keep a stable, even how to use a whip.

  “This will all be yours someday,” her father had said, “and you’d better know how to run it. If the man you marry is no better than some of those I’ve seen coming around here, you will need to know.

  “And, honey, you handle your own affairs yourself. Manage your own money. Let nobody else do it no matter how well they think they can handle it. Always keep your own money in your own hands!”

  Luckily, Marshall had agreed. Even before they were married, he assured her, “Keep what’s your own. Our children will have something to start with no matter what. I’ll take care of you.”

  They had not planned for a war. They had not expected the lovely plantation to be devastated, the buildings burned, fences torn down, stock driven off by guerrillas.

  She would check the supplies in the station storeroom, the tools, the harness, the horses, and the feed situation. In the kitchen, she sat down and made a list of things that would need doing. Only then did she bathe and dress.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Matty had coffee on and was preparing breakfast. “I found some bacon, mum, and there’s eggs.”

  “Matty? I don’t want to frighten you, but keep your pistol where you can reach it.”

  “Yes, mum. I don’t frighten easy, mum. I grew up with four big brothers and had to fight for it all until they were growed enough to respect me.” She filled Mary’s cup. “They were troubling times, mum, and there was many a time when I wished for a gun but had none.”

  There was a tap on the door, and when Matty opened it, Wat was there, and behind him, Temple Boone.

  Mary hesitated, looking into her cup. It had to be done; she must ask them because she must have them. She could not do it all alone.

  “Wat? Would you like to work for me? Here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, as long as it’s men’s work.”

  “It is. The first thing will be to clean the stable.”

  “That’s a mighty big job for one man,” Boone protested. “I mean, the way Luther left it.”

  “I can do it.” Wat looked up belligerently. “I’ll want five dollars a month and found.”

  “Do a good job and I’ll pay you ten.” She lifted her eyes to Boone. “How about you? Are you looking for work?”

  “No.” He spoke quickly, and something seemed to give way inside her. She could not do it alone. The outside work would be too much. “But I promised myself I’d stay on and see you get settled. I might ride over to Bonner’s. I hear tell there’s been a man rustlin’ work over there.”

  “Neither of you will probably want to help when you hear what I have planned.” She paused again. “I want this job. I need this job. I’ve got to have this place in such shape by the time Mark Stacy gets here that he’ll have no reason to discharge me.”

  “He’s a reasonable man.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I do. He’s a widower. No family. Eats, sleeps, and breathes this stage line.”

  “A young man?”

  “Depends on where you start countin’. I’d say he’s about forty. I’d say he’s young enough to see that you’re a mighty handsome woman.”

  She flushed and looked straight into his eyes. “I am not thinking of that. However I may look is not going to help me one bit on this job. It will be what I do and how well I do.”

  “You’re right about that. Stacy will see you’re a pretty woman, but like I said, he lives this stage line. If you’re not doin’ the job, he wouldn’t keep you on if you was Cleopatra.”

  “I would feel the same way, Mr. Boone. What I want to do is have this place spotless and working efficiently by the time he gets here.”

  She drank the last of her coffee. “Matty? Fix him some breakfast. He’s going to work.”

  Boone started to speak, then turned toward the table. “You heard the lady, Matty. Breakfast it is.”

  Outside, the sun was bright. For a moment, she looked around. The cottage over there, that was where she was to live, but that could wait. The corrals, at least, were well built. She walked past them to the barn and hesitated at the door. It was literally a mess.

  The earth floor was covered with old horse manure, with trampled hay and straw. It had not been cleaned in weeks, probably in months. There were no horses in the stalls. Frowning, she turned to look at the corrals.

  Six horses…and she had a stage coming in this morning. She looked again. That was the team that had brought her into this station, and they should have more rest.

  “What will I do with the manure, ma’am?”

  Wat had come up beside her with a shovel whose handle was taller than he was.

  “Put it out back of the barn for now, Wat. I may use some of the older material to fertilize a garden.”

  He looked at her. “A garden, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Wat. If we are going to feed people here, we have no reason not to raise our own vegetables. At least, we can try.”

  Temple Boone was walking toward her. “I can help the boy,” he offered.

  “Mr. Boone? Shouldn’t there be more horses? That’s the team that brought us in last night. I assume they are fit to take a stage out again, but it would be better if they had more rest. And what if one of them was indisposed?”

  He smiled at the word but looked thoughtful when he glanced toward the corral. “There should be more horses here, ma’am. In fact, my horse should be here.”

  He paused, and glancing at him, she saw his eyes had lost the lurking smile. “You’d better let me handle this, ma’am. But you’re right. There should be at least six more horses in that corral aside from mine. That Luther’s been a lot of things, but I didn’t think he was a horse thief.”

  “That’s a very serious accusation.”

  “It is, ma’am, but a man who steals a man’s horse can steal his life. Many a time a man’s horse is all that’s between him and a mighty ugly death. We don’t have much patience with horse thieves, ma’am.”

  “The law—”

  “Ma’am, I respect the law. We need it, but we don’t have any more protection than we can give ourselves. There ain’t an officer of any kind within a hundred miles, and even if they were around, they can’t act until after the fact, ma’am. After your horse is stole or you’re dead, they can hunt down those who done it, but you’re just as dead as if there was no law. Any man who steals my horse has bought hisself a ticket.”

  She was thinking, frowning a little. “Mr. Boone? Do you think Scant Luther would steal from Ben Holladay?”

  “He’d be careful, mighty careful. Ben’s not a man to fool around with, and Scant’s not one to take chances.”


  “What facts do we have, Mr. Boone? Six horses, seven, including yours, are missing. You say Scant is no fool, so where are the horses?

  “Suppose,” she suggested, “he planned to steal them but did not want to take chances? What would he do?”

  Boone pushed his hat back on his head. “Well—I reckon he might just drive those horses off, not too far, mind you, an’ hold them where he could produce them if need be. Then he might wait to see what happened.”

  “And where would he hold them?”

  Temple Boone looked off down the valley, thinking. After a moment, he said, “This here’s pretty wide-open country. There’s canyons here and there, some good hideaways if you know the country, but I’d say the best place would be Steamboat Rock, but that’s quite a ways.”

  “Wouldn’t there be tracks?”

  Boone hesitated. “Could be. Ain’t been much rain lately.”

  “Are you a good tracker, Mr. Boone? I understood you’d been a scout for the army?”

  “Now see here! What’re you thinkin’ about?”

  “I’m going after those horses, Mr. Boone. I am the agent for the company, and I am responsible.”

  “Ma’am, you’re crazy! Off in those hills, alone, that Luther would shoot you down like a dog! You just back off now. You leave this to me.”

  She turned swiftly away without replying and walked back to the house. Once inside the station, she stood thinking; then she turned to helping Matty prepare for the incoming stage.

  “Matty? I don’t know who is on the next stage, but we have to feed them, and Matty, I want to send them away from here talking about it.” She looked around at Matty. “Are you a fighter, Matty?”

  “I’m Irish, mum.”

  “All right, we’re fighting for your job and mine. Let’s win.”

  When the stage rolled in, the food was on the table, and it was hot. There had been little to choose from, for she had yet to order supplies, but there was ham and beans and two apple pies made from dried apples.

  Among the supplies, she found some bolts of calico for trading with the Indians. From one of them, she cut enough material for a tablecloth. It was bright red, but it was also attractive.

  There were six passengers, one of them a woman; the others were city men and one army officer headed for Fort Laramie.

  One of the city men, a tall, serious-looking man with a beard, paused in leaving, hat in hand. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s the best food we’ve had on the trip.”

  “Thank you, sir. Come back next week when I’ve had a chance to order supplies.”

  He smiled. “I’ll do that, ma’am. I really will.”

  When the stage was gone, she took off her apron. “Matty? You’re in charge. I’ll be gone for a few hours.”

  “Hours?”

  “I’ve got a job to do, Matty. Some of our horses are missing.”

  “What—?”

  “Ma’am?” Wat interrupted Matty. “I can track.”

  “You can?”

  “I growed up out here, ma’am. I been trackin’ lost cows or findin’ hid calves since I was able to walk. Anyway, I figure I know where those horses are.”

  For a moment, she hesitated. “All right, Wat. Get our horses—Oh, I forgot! We don’t have any horses but those from the stage that just came in.”

  “Can you walk a couple of miles?” Wat asked. “It ain’t no further.”

  “All right, Wat. Shall we go?”

  He hesitated. “There’s liable to be somebody there, an’ I think we’d better have a gun.”

  “I’ll get my rifle.”

  “No, ma’am. There’s a shotgun in there. It’s a spare for the express messenger. I seen it, and I seen some loads for it. You take your rifle and they ain’t goin’ to pay much attention, but you take that shotgun an’ get close—they’ll listen to you, ma’am.”

  She looked at him again and hesitated. She was a fool, and Mr. Boone was right. She would be more than a fool if she went after those horses with nothing but a small boy to show her the way. Nevertheless—

  Her jaw muscles tightened. She would go. If a man could do it, why couldn’t she?

  Wat led the way, taking off down a narrow, dusty path back of the corral that led off across the road and under the trees. When they had walked almost a mile, Wat dropped back beside her. “Ma’am? If you want to say somethin’ to me now, you hsst at me. Don’t you go to speakin’ out. They’ll hear you, sure.”

  “What’s there, Wat? Do you know?”

  “Yes’m. It’s just a rope corral an’ a place under the trees where they bed down. There’s water there, an’ stole horses been held there many a time.”

  It was very quiet. A fly buzzed past her face. She felt a small trickle of perspiration on her cheek. She brushed it away and shifted the shotgun again. It was heavy, heavier than she thought.

  Wat stopped again, then motioned her forward, and she saw them. There were nine horses in a small rope corral, and beyond them, under a tree, a man was sleeping on his rolled-out bed. Nearby, there were some ashes and a coffeepot on the fire. As she started to step forward, Wat put up a restraining hand.

  Another man came down from the trees, and walking over to the bed, he bent over to pick up his gun belt. Quickly, she stepped out into the open. “Leave that alone!”

  Startled, the man paused and looked around. He saw only a woman and a small boy. He spoke. “Bob?”

  “Lemme alone. I’m sleepin’.”

  “Bob, we got comp’ny.”

  The man sat up. “Huh? What—” He looked again. “Hell, it’s that woman from the stage station. The one who took the whip to Scant.”

  “That’s right, gentlemen, and I’ve come for the stage-company horses and also that saddle horse that belongs to Temple Boone.”

  “To who?” The seated man got quickly to his feet. “Damn it, Pike! You never told me that was Boone’s horse!”

  “What difrence does it make? Who the hell is Boone?”

  “If he finds we got his horse, you’ll sure be findin’ out who he is.” He turned toward Mary Breydon, who had walked closer.

  “Lady,” he started to say.

  “Back up and sit down again. You, too, Pike.”

  “Now, look here, ma’am,” Pike started to say, “I—”

  “Mr. Pike, or whatever your name is, I’ve got an express gun here, it is loaded, and I’m very nervous. If you should frighten me, I am apt to shoot it, and I have done a lot of shooting at ducks. I think it would be much easier to hit you. I hope I don’t have to.”

  She gestured with a movement of her head. “Wat, get our horses.”

  “Like hell!” Pike started to take a step, and her thumb eared back the hammer on one barrel. It was a sharp, very audible click. Pike stopped so quick he teetered on his toes, then settled back.

  “For God’s sake, Pike!” Bob said. “She means it!”

  Wat was running a lead rope from halter to halter with all the skill of an old-timer. Then he caught a mane hold on one of the stage horses and swung to its back.

  “Kid,” Pike shouted, “you get off that hoss an’ leave them be or by the eternal I’ll have your hide!”

  “You got to catch me first!” Wat yelled. “Come on, ma’am! Give ’em a barrel just for luck!”

  “Not this time.” She was very cool. “Stay away from Cherokee Station,” she said quietly, amazed at her own steadiness. “I don’t want to kill a man again.”

  Only when she was under the trees did she turn her back to them, and behind her she heard Bob say, “Did you hear that? She said she didn’t want to kill a man again!”

  Wat looked down from his horse. “Who’d you kill, ma’am? Was it one of them sojers who tore up your plantation?”

  “I have never killed anyone, Wat. I don’t know why I said ‘again.’ It just slipped out.”

  “It was the right word, ma’am. You surely gave ’em the right word.” He began to chuckle. “Wait until Scant Luther hears about this!”
>
  Chapter 4

  *

  SHE REMEMBERED SO well what her father had said, “Don’t waste time worrying about the mistakes of yesterday. Each morning is a beginning. Start from there.”

  As she had begun, so she continued. Each night, before going to bed, she took a small tablet and planned her work for the next day, thinking out each step that must be taken.

  Wat, working like a man twice his size, had cleaned the stable. She walked through it, inspecting the job he had done. When she finished, she said, “Wat? Come back to the station with me.”

  At the station, she said, “Matty? There was a piece of that apple pie left. Is it still there?”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “Give it to Wat. Let him eat it now. He’s just finished a job he can be proud of.”

  As she was leaving the station, she turned to him again. “Wat? Can you whittle?”

  “Whittle? Ma’am, any boy who has a jackknife can whittle. I been whittlin’ since…well, I been whittlin’ seems like forever.”

  “All right, in your spare time, or whenever you feel like it, I want you to whittle some pegs about a foot long, about an inch thick, and I want them peeled.”

  “How many?”

  “About two dozen, I think.” At his puzzled expression, she said, “I want some pegs on which to hang the harness in the tack room.”

  “You could use nails. That’s what most folks do.”

  “Wooden pegs are better, Wat. They are less destructive of the harness.”

  “All right, ma’am. I’ll sure do it.” He turned back to the table and the slice of apple pie.

  *

  WHEN WILBUR PATTISHAL wheeled his stage into the street of Laporte, Mark Stacy was waiting for him on the boardwalk in front of the stage.

  “Wilbur? What’s this I hear? Who’s that woman running the station out at Cherokee?”

  Wilbur’s face was expressionless. Only his eyes showed a faint amusement. “You hired M. O. Breydon. That’s her.”

  “A woman? At Cherokee?”