Yet somehow it must be done. She wanted for Peg the graceful, gracious, pleasant life she had known when her father was alive and before the war had torn their lives to shreds.
“Matty,” she said suddenly, “when spring comes, we must plant some flowers. I miss them so!”
“And I, mum. Last night, I was thinkin’ back to Ireland again.”
Mary laughed. “And I to Virginia! Well, it does no harm to remember. Often I worry about Peg. I am afraid her life is so barren here.”
“ ’Tis no such thing, mum. She’ll see more kinds of folks here than ever she’d see elsewhere!”
“Like the Mormon man who wanted you for his second wife?” she said, teasing.
Matty flushed. “Ah, he’d no such thought, mum. He was but teasing, as you are now. But he had a nice smile, a smile from the heart, it was. A girl can always make do with a man who smiles from the heart, mum.”
Matty paused, putting down the cup she was drying. “Have you noticed Wat, mum? He’s taken to combing his hair before meals, and he washes his hands clean before drying them on the towel.”
Mary had been too busy to be lonely, and only occasionally did she stop to remember that life so suddenly gone that it seemed like a dream, like an enchanted time, as indeed it had been.
For all of that, what she did here was useful. It was essential, and she was essential. Had she been that back in Virginia? She might have become so, but when all went to pieces back there, she was but another pretty young lady with pretty gowns and a lot of would be beaus attracted by her father’s plantation, perhaps, as much as by her.
“It’s useful work, Matty.” She voiced her thoughts suddenly. “What we’re doing here can be important. These are busy people, but they are often lonely people, too. They are making a long, hard trip, and many of them have no idea what to expect at the end of it. We can leave them with a bright, happy memory, and we can give them a friendly welcome when they come.”
“ ’Tis my thought exactly, mum. Travelers are either lonely folk, all by themselves, like, or they are herded about like cattle, and a kind word is remembered long after.”
“We must have a word for each one if we can, Matty, and we must remember those who come again, as some will. It is flattering to be remembered and called by name.”
“Aye.” Matty swept a hand around. “We’ve changed it, mum. It was a dull, dirty room when we came, but now, with the tableclothes, curtains, and all, it’s a cheerful room. It’s a happy room.”
“And clean,” Mary agreed.
Mentally, she checked over the stage station, the corrals, the barn, the house. All had been swept, mopped, and cleaned. In the barns, the harness was neatly hung, as in her father’s stable. The stalls were clean, and there was fresh hay scattered on the dirt floor in place of the straw they did not have.
Tables had been set outside, ready for the incoming passengers, and inside, about the stove and the fireplace, pots were polished and neatly hung. It was a far different place from what they had come upon first.
Peg and Wat had helped, but much had been done by Ridge Fenton, the hostler she hired from Laporte. Grudgingly, at first, because he detested working for a woman, then with more enthusiasm, he accepted her way of doing things.
“Mr. Fenton,” she had said, “you may not like my way of doing things at first, but you are a reasonable man, a man of good judgment and discrimination. Let’s try it my way, and then if it does not work, we can always try another.”
She paused and then said, “Mr. Fenton, I understand you are from Virginia?”
“West Virginny, ma’am.”
“Did you ever get down to Virginia?”
“I did, ma’am, a time or two with my pappy. He taken me to see the capital city one time. Gran’pappy fit in the Revolution, and he wanted me to see what come of it and to see Mr. Jefferson’s home and Mount Vernon.”
“And did you not pass by a plantation named the Harlequin Oaks?”
“Surely did, ma’am. One o’ the finest places in Virginny. My pappy stopped by there to show me the horses runnin’ in the pastures behind those whitewashed rail fences and all. Some of the finest stock I ever did see.”
“Harlequin Oaks was my home, Mr. Fenton. My father owned it, and the first of my family settled there in 1660.”
Ridge Fenton took the pipe from his mouth. He was badly flustered. “Ma’am? You mean, you—”
“It was destroyed in the first year of the war, Mr. Fenton. Someday I hope to return and rebuild it as it was, but for the present I must work, make a home for my daughter, and we must survive, Mr. Fenton. My father taught me to be a survivor.”
“Well, I’ll be—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. I’d no idea.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Fenton. All that is past. Whatever there was at Harlequin Oaks was built by my ancestors. Whatever I have here I must build myself, with your help. And I shall very much need your help, Mr. Fenton. When I first arrived, I had some foolish notion that I must do it all myself, to prove myself. I now realize it cannot be done by one person. You are an experienced man, and Mr. Boone has said you are the best stock tender and blacksmith around. I shall value any suggestions you have to make.”
“Thanky, ma’am. I’ll do what I can.”
“Please do, and if you see something that needs doing, that your experience tells you should be done, do not hesitate.”
Jason Flandrau…she had almost forgotten him, and to forget him even for a minute was a risk. He was somewhere about, and his entire career, even his life, was at stake.
Nevertheless, that was her affair. It was not the business of the Overland Stage Company or of Mark Stacy or anyone but herself. Nor must she permit it to interfere with what must be done at Cherokee Station.
Each morning after the first stage had departed, she made a brief tour of inspection of the stables, the corrals, and the horses available.
There had been Indian raids on several of the stations, and their horses were stolen. If that happened at Cherokee, as sooner or later, it must, what would she do? What could she do?
First, to survive the raid. Second, to get on with the business of the stage company.
She was thinking of that when Temple Boone rode in. “Mr. Boone, I was wondering what might be done if Indians run off with my horses?”
“Be thankful you’re alive.” He stepped down from the saddle. “You got some coffee on?”
“I do, and you’re welcome, but what about the next stage?”
“Unless you can conjure up some horses, they’d have to go on with a tired team.” He paused. “The nearest ranch with any extra stock is Preston Collier’s place. Have you met him?”
“I have not.”
“He runs several hundred head of stock over there. Got himself a big, mighty beautiful house. White columns and all. He’s also got a wife and two snooty daughters. Pretty girls, but to me pretty is as pretty does, and they don’t do much but go to parties, balls, and teas.”
“What is he like?”
“Collier? He’s a decent enough man, active in politics, ranching, gold mining, and such. Spends a lot of time in Denver. He’s a rich man who keeps busy gettin’ richer, but he’s straight. He’ll have no truck with trickery or double-dealin’. He sets store by his horses, won’t have them misused. Any stock tender who gets rough with his horses gets his walkin’ papers.”
“Would he lend me horses if I needed them?”
Boone shrugged. “Ma’am, that would be between you and Collier. I know he refused Scant Luther, refused him point blank, and ordered him off the place.
“Him and Ben Holladay butted heads a few times, so he’s got no use for the stage company. Never rides it, either. Has his own teams and drivers, as you’d guess.
“He must have eight or ten coaches and surreys, and sometimes, when he has folks visitin’, they go for picnics back in the hills with servants in white coats to serve ’em. You’ve never seen the like.
“Everybody who co
mes from back East seems to head toward his home. Most times he has three or four visitors there, politicians, army officers, European noblemen huntin’ big game, that sort of thing. But aside from bein’ bull-headed about anything of Ben Holladay’s, he’s a reasonable man.”
“Then if I needed horses, it wouldn’t be much help to talk to him?”
“I’d advise you to forget it, ma’am. Even if you got to see him, the fact that you work for Ben would be against you.”
When they were seated over coffee, he asked casually, “Had any visitors lately? Men ridin’ alone?”
Apprehension was her first feeling. Keeping her voice calm, she said, “No, not really. Should I have?”
He drank some coffee. “Saw some tracks on the trail, but they turned off just before they came in sight of the station. Seems the rider took to the hills, and a thing like that makes me curious. So I sort of follered them. Seems like he scouted around in the brush and trees up yonder, like he was lookin’ for a good spot to watch the station.”
“An Indian?”
“He was ridin’ a shod horse, ma’am, and that usually spells white man, although an Indian ridin’ a stole horse might have one that’s shod. I’d bet on it this was a white man.”
“Did he find the place he wanted? If so, could I see it from here?”
“You couldn’t see it, but if you look up there, you can see that tree, the last one in the row? He’ll be somewhere right at the base of that tree, maybe restin’ his rifle on the stub of a broken branch or somethin’.”
Casually, she looked around, located the tree. “How far would you say? One hundred and fifty yards?”
“You’re a good judge of distance. I’d guess that would be right close.”
“My father taught me to shoot a rifle and shotgun. He used to take me hunting.”
“Ever kill anything?”
“A deer…I cried.”
Boone smiled. “Man’s a predator. He’s a hunter by instinct. I suspect he’s taken his livin’ from the wild animals and plants as long as he’s been around. But he was a hunter first, bred to be a hunter.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I didn’t suspect you did. But think on it. All the predators have their eyes lookin’ forward to keep their eyes on the hunted. The game that’s hunted has eyes on the side of their head so they can watch better. You take notice, ma’am, the wolf, the lion, the bear, all animals that hunt others have eyes lookin’ straight forward. So does man.”
“I don’t like to think of that. I hope we’ve gone beyond such attitudes. Isn’t that what civilization does, Mr. Boone? To teach us to live together in peace?”
“I reckon that’s the ideal, ma’am, but all folks don’t become civilized to onct. There’s some of us lag behind, some of us have to protect the rest of you civilized folks from those who haven’t gotten beyond the huntin’ stage. When a man comes at you with a gun or a knife or a spear, you don’t have much time to convince him that he’s actin’ uncivilized, and he isn’t likely to listen. That’s when you yourself become uncivilized in a hurry or you die.”
“I wouldn’t want to kill a man.”
“No decent-minded person does, but if there’s somebody up on that ridge with a rifle who is about to kill Peg’s mother, you’d better kill him first.
“You see, ma’am, when a man sets out to rob and kill, he’s strikin’ a blow not only at you, at Peg, Wat, and Matty here but at all civilization. He’s striking a blow at all man has done to rise from savagery.
“I’m not a scholar, but the way I see it is that men have learned to become what we call civilized men by stages, and every child growing up retraces that pattern during his lifetime.
“There’s a time when youngsters like to play capture games, a time when they like to build play houses and huts, if it is only to put a blanket over a couple of chairs and crawl under it.
“There’s a time when they like to make bows and arrows, dodging around and hunting each other. Hide-an’-seek is one way of doing it. After a while, he grows beyond that stage, or most of them do.
“Some folks just lag behind. They never grow beyond that hunting and hiding stage. They become thieves and robbers.
“Only a few years ago, a young man could go to war, and if he did enough looting or captured enough horses or arms, he could come home a rich man. Most of those who originally had titles over there in Europe had them because they were especially good at killing and robbing and were given titles for doing it in support of their king.
“Well, we’ve outgrown that. Or some of us have. The others are still lingering back there in a hunting, gathering, and raiding stage, and if you meet one of them alone in the dark, you’d better remember he’s not a human being but a savage, a wild animal, and will act like one.”
“So I must descend to his level?”
“If you want to be civilized, ma’am, you’re going to have to fight to protect it, or all the civilized will be dead, and we will be back in the darkness of savagery.”
“You sound like a philosopher, Mr. Boone.”
“No, ma’am, but out there in the night, sometimes with a campfire, a man has time to think. He can’t get his thoughts from books. He has to think things out for himself, and a man likes to understand what life he’s living and why he must do some things.
“I’m not sure all my thoughts are right. Some of them need a lot more thinking, but you don’t try to reason with a man who is trying to kill you, or else you will be dead, and violence will have won another victory over peace.
“You take that man who shot your husband, ma’am. He did it because he saw your husband as a threat to him, and when he tries to kill you, it will be for the same reason.
“Are you goin’ to let him do it?”
Chapter 12
*
WHAT CAN I do?” She gestured. “I have my work to do, and I must move around a good bit. I have to be outside part of the time.”
“First thing, ma’am, this Flandrau feller who you think wants you dead wouldn’t want it tied to him. He’ll try to send somebody to do the job who isn’t close to him but somebody who knows his business.
“That makes it unlikely that he will take a shot at you when the stage is in with folks milling about. Remember, I said it is unlikely, but he might. If he’s smart, as I believe, he will try to catch you alone in the yard where there’s nobody around to see where the shot came from or to start hunting him.
“He would like to slip in here, kill you, and get away clean. If he handles it right, that is just what he will do.”
“You don’t give me much of a chance.”
“No, ma’am, not unless you use your head. Don’t walk across the yard alone in broad daylight. Don’t establish any habits. That’s what he will be looking for. If you go to the stables at a certain hour each morning, he’ll be waiting.”
She watched him as he walked away. Who was he? What was he? He was said to be good with a gun, and there was a whisper around that he was a very dangerous man. To her, he seemed merely a quiet, still-faced man who rarely smiled but who went about his business with a cool assurance.
What he felt about her or thought of her, she had no idea, yet he had never once suggested this was not her kind of work or that she should get out of this business, as many others had.
She preferred it that way, yet it nettled her a little, also. Thinking of it, she laughed at herself for being so feminine. He was, after all, a very attractive man.
Her eyes strayed toward the tree, and from the corners of her eyes she studied it. Slowly, then, her eyes swept the yard. Of course, that might not be the position the gunman would take up, but if he did, what places in the yard were beyond his vision?
She could go from here around the corral to the back of the barn, or she could go from her house to the blacksmith shop without exposing herself to what might be his firing position.
Her father had served in the Blackhawk War, and there were times when he
and her husband would talk for hours about tactics, firing positions, and the ranges of various weapons. She wished she had paid more attention, but who would have guessed she would find herself in such a position as she now held?
*
IN THE BACK room on Larimer Street in Denver, Jason Flandrau sat tipped back in a chair, his boots on the table.
“She’s there,” he said. “You boys saw the wrong woman.”
“She was Irish as Paddy’s Pig, the one we saw,” Turkey Joe Longman said.
“She doesn’t count. It’s the other one we want. If she’s still around when I run for office, she will talk even if she doesn’t say something before that.”
“Does she know your name?”
“I’ve no idea, but she’s seen me; she saw me right out in the open. I tried to get her then, but she slipped away, God knows how.” He swore softly. “Who would ever think she’d show up out here? Of all places?”
“It ain’t like back East,” Longman said. “You can shoot a man, and nobody blinks. But you even bump into a woman on the street, and you might get hung. I don’t like it, Colonel. I don’t like it at all.”
“Neither do I. Nor do I want to see you hang, which will surely happen if they find out who you are. Or who I am.” He took his boots from the table and turned in his chair. “Indians, that’s the answer. Run off the horses and kill her while it’s being done. Round up a few bad Indians and let them have the horses. In the process, she gets killed, and they are blamed.”
“I still don’t like it.”
Irritated, Flandrau turned on him. “Have you got a better plan? You said yourself you’re not getting much of a chance at a shot out there.”
“Let me try it a few more days.”
“All right. You’ve always done what you set out to do. But be careful. Be very, very careful. And tell nobody, even our own boys, what you’re doing.”
When Longman was gone, he ordered a glass of wine and remained at the table. Returning to Laporte was out of the question when there was a possibility she might see him. Did she realize it was he who killed her husband?
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