“Don’t need no ‘sir.’ I’m just Bill.”
“Thank you kindly, Bill.”
He nodded. “So, you want to drive.”
“I do. I surely do.” For a split second, she thought he might offer to let her take the reins.
Bill spit a stream of tobacco juice off into the brush. “What’d you ever drive before?”
“My daddy’s horses.”
“How long ago?”
She couldn’t hold his gaze. “Awhile.”
“Like ten years or more?”
“Something like that.”
“Hmm.” They were approaching a steep incline. Bill let out a little rein and called to the mules, “Hup now. Step along, boys.”
Vashti held on and kept quiet. When they got to the top of the rise, the road leveled out for a short stretch.
“Driving a farm wagon h’ain’t like driving a stage,” Bill said.
“No, sir, I expect you’re right. My daddy had a carriage and four.”
Bill’s eyes narrowed, and he shot her a sidelong glance. “That true?”
“Well… the team of four is.”
“Ha.”
“Johnny Conway said when he was a nipper, somebody made him a rig to practice driving on.”
“That’s a passable way to learn. At first. If you can’t learn on real horses.”
“Well, I don’t see how I can learn on real horses when I don’t have any of my own and Mr. Bane won’t let me drive his.”
“Hmm.”
Vashti watched him cautiously for a bit then cleared her throat. “Would you make me a rig, Bill? I’ve got a place to put it.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, sir. I mean Bill.”
He pursed his lips and, after a moment, shot more tobacco juice over the side. “I’ll think on it.”
They rode along for another hour without much talk. Vashti stared out over the valley below them and across at the distant peaks and rock formations. Some of the stone columns had fanciful shapes. She imagined one group as a quartet of trolls, watching them strain up the ribbon of road.
“Look ahead now,” Bill said.
She turned forward. They approached a place where a huge boulder crowded to the edge of the road.
“Anyplace there’s cover, you need to be watching.”
“You think there might be outlaws hiding behind that rock?”
“You just never know. They say that back in the old days when the most ore was coming down, this was a favorite spot.”
Vashti’s neck prickled. The road was so steep, the mules walked slowly, leaning into their collars. She sat straighter and flicked glances at every conceivable hiding place along both sides of the road, always coming back to the base of the boulder. The only sounds were creaking leather, the mules’ labored breathing and snorting, and the crunch of the wheels on the sandy ground.
When they’d passed the spot, she sighed and relaxed a little.
Bill nudged her with his elbow. “It also makes a good courting spot, on top of that boulder.”
She laughed. “Did Mr. Bane tell you his nephew’s coming?” “I heard.”
“He’s boarding him at the Fennel House.”
Bill grunted. They reached a somewhat flat spot in the road, with no trees or large rocks about, and he halted the team. “I like to let them take a breather here. More uphill ahead.”
Vashti nodded. “What would you have done if bandits jumped out from behind that rock back there?”
He frowned and spit again. “It’s a bad place. Can’t run away from ’em, ’cause the road’s so steep. Can’t turn around. Reckon I’d have to stop and give ’em what they wanted—unless you shot ’em first.”
She gulped. “You think I should shoot if that happens?”
“If someone jumps out, aiming a gun at us, I’d just as soon you let off a round and didn’t wait to parley. If they’s only one or two of ’em, that might be enough. If they’s a whole gang… well, that’s different. At a tight spot like that, it’s better to give in than get killed.” He shrugged. “Just be glad we don’t have to worry about Injuns anymore in these parts.”
By the time they reached Silver City, every muscle in Vashti’s body ached. The passengers grinned at her as they left the coach. “Thanks, young fella,” one of them said.
“You’re welcome.” She kept her hat on as Bill drove the coach around to where the liveryman would unharness the team.
As she climbed down again, she heard the man say to Bill, “You’ve got a new messenger.”
“That’s right.” Bill came around to her side of the coach. “All right, George, let’s get over to the hotel.”
Vashti quietly walked alongside Bill, carrying the small canvas bag she’d brought.
“I generally share a room with the shotgun rider,” Bill said as they reached the steps of the Idaho Hotel.
She paused with one foot on the bottom step. “Mr. Bane said to get a separate room.”
“He paying for it?”
“I reckon.”
Bill shook his head. “He won’t want to keep doing that.”
“Well, he was in a bind today.”
“So this is a onetime thing for you?”
She raised her chin and met his gaze just below her hat brim. “No, sir. I want to learn to drive and do this regular, like I told you.”
“Then you need to think about your bunking arrangements. Folks will think it’s odd if you have a separate room. And that Griff pays for it, or pays you enough for you to do it. People will think about that.”
“What do you think I should do?”
Bill lifted his hat and scratched his head. “Don’t know. There’s a widow woman over on Placer Street. Maybe if you told her who you are, she’d let you board with her whenever you come up here.”
“Then wouldn’t folks wonder why the widow took in a boy as her boarder?”
“Maybe so.” Bill spit off to the side of the steps. “You got any ideas?”
“Well, I’m not sleeping in the same room with you.”
He pulled back, frowning. “Didn’t mean to suggest you should.”
“Then let’s get in there and ask for two rooms.”
He threw his hands in the air, managing to keep hold of his whip as he did so. “Fine with me, Georgie. Come on.”
CHAPTER 7
Griffin kept in his anger all the way to the hotel. What right did this upstart boy have to tell him what he was and wasn’t going to do? Evelyn had sent him here to get straightened out. Well, Griffin didn’t know much about parenting, and he’d be the first to admit it. But he knew about hard work. Hard labor had made a man of him, and he figured it could do the same for Justin. But what if the boy wouldn’t work? He couldn’t force him to do it.
He had a mind to wire Evelyn and tell her he was sending the boy back. But that wouldn’t solve any of the problems that had traveled across the country with his nephew. He’d have to give it some thought. Calm down, that was it. Keep from getting mad and saying things he’d regret later.
“When did you eat last?” he asked as he pushed open the door to the Pacifica Hotel.
“I had breakfast.”
“Breakfast? What about dinner?”
Justin shrugged. “Some folks bought dinner where we stopped last.”
“What? You didn’t have any money?” Griffin eyed him closely. The boy shrugged and squinted his eyes.
“Well, we’re going to have us a whopping big supper, I’ll tell you that.” Griffin tromped to the desk. “We’d like a room, my nephew and me.”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk turned the guest registry toward him. “Sign here, please. That’ll be a dollar.”
“Thank you. And we’d like supper as soon as possible.”
“Our dining room opens at four thirty for early diners.”
“Can’t get nothing now?”
“No, sir. Unless you go into the bar, but your nephew looks a bit young for that. If the marshal came along while
you were in there, I couldn’t guarantee you wouldn’t face charges.”
Griffin looked over at Justin. “How old are you?”
Justin hesitated. “Seventeen?”
“I doubt it.”
The boy hung his head and muttered, “Fifteen and a half.”
“Right. We’ll go down the street and find a place where we can get something to tide us over ’til supper. Let’s go put our kit in the room first.”
They found a boardinghouse down the street, and the proprietor was willing to heat up some leftovers for them. A bowl of beef stew and a brace of biscuits went down quickly. Griffin considered ordering a refill, but decided it would benefit the boy more to have a small meal now and another later, rather than to stuff himself.
“How about apple pandowdy?” the woman who had served them asked.
“Surely.” Griffin looked over at Justin. “You could do with a dish of that, couldn’t you?”
“I guess.”
Griffin scowled. “That’s no way to answer. You say, ‘Yes, sir.’”
“All right, yes, sir. I’d like coffee with it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Shouldn’t boys drink milk? Griff tried to remember back when he was fifteen on the farm. He’d drunk a lot of milk. But somewhere in there, he’d started drinking coffee with his father, too. “All right.” He looked up at the woman. “Another cup of coffee, please.”
When she’d gone, Justin said, “How far is it to Fergus?”
“About forty miles. We’ll get there tomorrow afternoon.”
“Ma said you’ve got a smithy and a livery stable.”
“Yes, and this past year I’ve been running the branch line for the stagecoach company. Guess I didn’t tell your mother about that.” He ought to write to Evelyn more often, but he seldom had time to sit down and craft a letter.
Justin’s chin came up a notch. “Are you rich?”
Griffin laughed heartily. “That’s a good one, son.”
The boy’s face clouded. “You’re not my pa. In case you didn’t hear, my pa’s dead.”
“Yes, I heard. I’m sorry about that.”
“Well, just so’s you know, I don’t plan to be your boy.”
Griffin studied him for a long moment. About the time he’d decided silence was the prudent thing, the woman came back with their dessert and coffee.
Maybe he was doing his nephew a disservice by feeding him. Maybe he’d ought to invoke that Scripture verse Pastor Benton mentioned a few weeks back—the one about people who didn’t work not eating. He’d give that some thought.
“I’ve got a few errands to do before supper.” He lifted his thick china mug and sipped the coffee. It was much better than what he’d gotten at the depot. And better than what he made in the old tin pot he kept on the shelf near the forge. His always tasted a little burnt.
“I can amuse myself while you’re at it,” Justin said.
That didn’t seem right in Griff’s mind. He recalled Evelyn’s words about the boy getting in with the wrong friends. “He comes and goes as he pleases. I don’t like to mention it, but I fear he stole some money from my reticule last week. Not only that, but he’s taken up smoking.”
Just recalling those lines made Griff’s nose wrinkle. He hadn’t smelled any tobacco on the boy, but then, Justin wouldn’t likely smoke on the stagecoach with other passengers present. And he appeared to have arrived broke. But if he wasn’t above stealing, he might get himself into trouble if Griff turned him loose in Boise. Yep, a young fellow like Justin could find a heap of trouble in this half-grown, half-tamed town.
“You stay with me.” He took a gulp of coffee.
“What?” The boy obviously took the command as an insult.
“I said, you come around with me. See what I do. I’m going to do a little livestock shopping. We could use an extra team of six, and I need another riding horse or two for the livery trade. After that, I’ll go around to the Wells Fargo office again and see if the division agent is back. I need to talk to him about some stagecoach business.”
“I don’t want to stand around while you do all that.”
“What would you do?”
The line of Justin’s mouth hardened. “Explore.”
“Oh yes, I can just envision that. You stay with me.” Griff took another sip.
Justin cautiously slurped his coffee. He didn’t make a face or ask for sugar. Maybe he’d been drinking coffee for a while, though Griff couldn’t imagine Evelyn allowing it. Of course, he had no idea how Jacob Frye had raised his children; didn’t know Jacob at all, for that matter. Griff tackled his apple pandowdy.
“Your pa let you drink coffee all the time?” he asked when he’d scraped out the last bite.
“Nope.”
Griff drained his cup and pushed his chair back. “Come on. Let’s get over to the stockyard.”
The ride down from Silver City went twice as fast as the long pull uphill had gone. Vashti clung to the edge of the seat at least two-thirds of the way. Sometimes Bill drove faster than she’d have thought prudent, but on some of the slopes, it would be impossible to make the mules walk. By the time the road flattened out some, her hands ached from gripping the seat and the shotgun. Despite the warm sunshine, she could feel the tang of winter in the mountain breeze.
“Hey, young George, you done all right this trip,” Bill said with a lopsided grin.
“How long ’til we get home?”
“Another hour.”
Vashti nodded. They had no passengers on the return trip, but the heavy treasure box was always on her mind. That cargo had to make it safely to Fergus, and someone else would take it on to Boise.
“Think Mr. Bane will let me do it again?”
“No idea. But if he asks me, I’ll tell him you did good.”
“Thanks.” She lifted her hat and let the sun shine on her head for a moment. It was warmer down here than it had been up at Silver.
She shot a glance at Bill. “What are you laughing about?”
“Don’t ever do that when there’s men about. No way they’d think you was a boy when they saw that pile of red hair.”
“My hair is not red,” she said with precision and dignity.
“That right?”
“It’s auburn.”
“Ha.” Bill drove on for a bit, still smiling. “How’d you come to be with Bitsy, anyhow?”
Vashti hesitated. No one in Fergus knew her story. Not even Bitsy and Goldie, her two closest friends.
After about half a minute, Bill looked over at her. “You don’t need to tell me. I just thought… well, you know. You could have gotten some other job besides working in saloons.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s right, I don’t.”
Her joy in the sunlight, the breeze, the trotting mules, and the creaking coach crumbled. Her stomach began to ache. They came to another steep hill, and Bill let the mules extend their trot but kept the reins taut so they wouldn’t break into a run and go out of control. Vashti clapped her hat on. They flew down the grade, with her clenching the edge of the seat once more and bracing with her feet.
When they slowed to a businesslike trot, she said, “My folks died when I was eleven.”
“Didn’t know that.”
She nodded.
“Didn’t you have no kin?”
“I did.” She didn’t like thinking about those times. For a good many years, she’d tried to forget.
“Guess they didn’t treat you right.”
“Something like that.”
They rode in silence for another mile.
“We’re almost to town.” Bill leaned down and reached under the seat for his horn.
“Is this where I plug my ears?”
“You’d better not. If you do, it’ll mean you’re not holding on to that shotgun.”
Up ahead, she glimpsed the roofline of the Spur & Saddle. Beyond it, the steeple of the new church pierced the achingly blue sky.
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Bill put the horn to his lips.
She’d have to go back to see Libby at the emporium. Next time, she’d have some cotton wool in her pocket to stuff in her ears when they approached a stop.
The mules broke into a canter as the blast of the horn rang out. They charged into town in a flurry of dust. Vashti wished Griffin could see them, but he wasn’t due back for another four hours at least.
“How we going to open the safe?” She turned to Bill, but he didn’t seem flustered.
“Miz Adams says we can put it in hers until Griff gets back.”
“Oh.” Vashti looked ahead to where they would stop and unload the strongbox. There on the boardwalk in front of the Wells Fargo office and stretching up the street before the emporium almost as far as the post office, waving and calling congratulations, stood the members of the Ladies’ Shooting Club of Fergus.
“I thought we were going to take the stage to Fergus.” Justin scowled as he eyed the mule his uncle expected him to mount.
Just like a kid. They wanted change and excitement, but when it came along as someone else’s idea, they balked. Speaking of mules…
“We were. But I need this string, so I bought it, and I don’t know another way to get ’em home. So get in the saddle and let’s move.”
The boy had no idea that he had it easy. Griffin rode the one horse he’d purchased—he’d considered letting Justin take it, but if anything went wrong, he had to be able to get around quickly. Besides, this was the horse he’d chosen for Hiram to give his bride as a wedding present. The ten-year-old palomino gelding looked flashy, but he was settled and well behaved. Libby could handle him with no problems.
Griffin would ride the palomino and lead along the string of three more mules he’d bought. Six new mules would have been better, but he’d settle for four. These looked healthy and strong, and the seller had guaranteed they’d pull a coach. Griffin had already strapped Justin’s satchel to one of them and his own small pack to another. The sun was up, and the day was a-wasting. “Come on,” Griffin said. “Mount up.”
Justin held the mule’s reins and turned to face the saddle. He wiggled this way and that and finally raised his left foot to the stirrup. Griffin almost called out to him but held back. Was the boy really as green as he seemed? He’d lived in the city. Maybe he hadn’t ridden much.
The Blacksmith’s Bravery Page 7