She blushed at the words, realizing what he meant. “All right. I’ll carry the six-gun.”
Their gaze held their thoughts unspoken. Finally he nodded to her. “May your God be with you, Faith Sommers.”
She felt a lump rising in her throat. “And yours with you, Tall Bear.”
Tall Bear realized he did not want to leave her, but he had no choice. She was a white woman, and he was not ready to be a white man. “You will do well. I know this in my heart.”
He turned and rode off before Faith could reply. She stood there watching him until he was out of sight. He never looked back.
“Never look back,” she told herself. That was how life would have to be for a while. She must never look back if she wanted the strength to go forward. She decided she should begin keeping a diary, and her first entry would be about the man called Tall Bear.
Part Two
Chapter Twelve
At last Faith spotted several log buildings in the distance. It was nearly dusk, and she’d been afraid she would have to spend the night alone.
What big country this was! She had stopped on the crest of a rise at least a mile from the depot ahead, in a wide-open area surrounded by majestic mountains. These rolling foothills had only a few pine trees here and there, and boulders smattered the land as though God had taken a handful and thrown them down.
The little depot looked peaceful. Smoke curled from a chimney, and horses grazed inside a wooden fence. She goaded the oxen forward. As she moved up and down rock-strewn hills, the station sometimes disappeared from sight only to appear again moments later. The distance was farther than it appeared, and after forty-five minutes she finally came close enough to see a broken-down stagecoach sitting beside a shed.
She figured she had only about a quarter of a mile to go when she heard a noise behind her, a clattering, thundering sound, a man whistling and shouting. She turned to see what she knew must be an approaching stagecoach, even though she could barely see it for the roll of dust the coach and horses churned up. She was amazed at how fast it reached her, charging down the hillside over which she had just traveled.
The coach clattered past, its yellow wheels spinning. She saw a couple of faces inside, admired the charging horses and the colorful red coach with yellow-and-black lettering, HOLLADAY OVERLAND EXPRESS. She could not help wondering who was inside, where they were going, how they had enough money to be able to afford to travel that way. Back in Kansas she had checked on traveling west by stage, just out of curiosity, and she had been astonished to discover it would cost $320, a virtual fortune to get to Salt Lake City!
She coughed on the dust the coach stirred as it charged toward the station, and she got her own oxen under way again, her spirits reviving. People! It would be good to see people. She hurried the oxen as fast as it was possible for the big lumbering animals to go, and within fifteen minutes she made her own way to the small log station house.
A weathered-looking old man was unhitching the team of horses from the stagecoach, another man helping him. The doors to the coach were open, and as Faith led her wagon past the coach, she could see black leather seats inside. She wondered what it would be like to travel in such style.
She could hear voices now, the two drivers talking, other voices inside the station. When she’d been alone and lost after Johnny had been killed, she had wondered if she would ever hear such things again. She thought how strange this land was, so desolate and lonely, yet someone like Tall Bear had found her in all that emptiness, and here was a stage depot, in the middle of a land so big and threatening, it seemed no human would want to come there. Yet here they were. Where there was a will, man would find a way.
She had no idea what she was going to do now, had tried not even to think about it…or about Johnny. Yet how could she not think about him, buried out there somewhere in that lonely grave? She was on her own now. She had to survive any way she could find. But first she had to rest, perhaps find a chance to bathe. “Hello,” she called out to the older man, who was leading two of the horses to a corral.
“Evenin’, missy.” He frowned, looking around. “You alone?”
“Yes, sir. Lost my husband about three days back.”
“Well, I’ll be.” He scratched at a shadow of a gray beard, and Faith thought he was awfully small and wiry to be driving such a big team of horses; but for his size and age he was apparently strong and lively. “All by yourself?” he asked again.
“All by myself, but I’ve been through a lot and I need a few days’ rest. Is it possible to stay here?”
“Sure! The woman inside that runs the station—her name’s Hilda Banks—she’d be glad to put you up, glad for the company. These here stops get mighty lonesome between runs. Go on inside, and me and Cal here will unhitch your team for ya and put ’em up.”
“I would be very grateful.”
“Well, a man will do just about anything for a pretty little lady like you.” The old man cackled. “Name’s Buck. Buck Jones. This here is Cal, my shotgun.” He nodded toward the younger man, who led the other two horses. Faith guessed him to be in his thirties. He was a rough-looking character of medium build, wearing dusty clothes and a floppy leather hat.
“Shotgun?” she asked.
“He keeps watch for outlaws and Indians, shoots anything that don’t look like it ought to be in our path, if you know what I mean.”
Cal nodded to her, then smiled, showing a tooth missing at one side of his mouth. “Somebody’s gotta guard the passengers,” he told Faith.
“I see. Well, I thank you both for your help.” She put the switch in its holder. “I’ll get some things from my wagon while you unhitch my team. Will the wagon be safe out here—my belongings, I mean?”
Buck shrugged while Cal took all four horses into the corral. “Who knows? These depots can be dangerous. Never know when Indians are gonna skulk around at night and steal from you, or when outlaws might attack. Both are always after horses, but sometimes Indians like to steal other things—food, clothes, any supplies you’re carryin’. Right now the Cheyenne seem to be concentratin’ their attacks farther south, and the Sioux farther north, so maybe there won’t be no trouble. It’s just a chance you take.”
Faith thought about Tall Bear. Where was he now? Would he go back to making war soon? Maybe he would be killed and she would never know it. “I’ll take the chance. It’s just so good to see people and have a place to stay, especially knowing I’ll have another woman to talk to.” She climbed into the wagon and stuffed a carpetbag with overnight necessities, assuming she would be able to sleep inside the depot rather than out here in the wagon. If Indians sometimes “skulked around” at night, as Buck had put it, she didn’t care to be caught alone in the wagon. She climbed out and walked to the log building. Clucking chickens scampered about as she brushed past them. She pounded dust from her dress, wondering how dirty her face was. She looked up at a sign over the door. HOLLADAY OVERLAND MAIL & EXPRESS CO. it read.
Inside were three men and a woman sitting at a table drinking coffee, and an old woman standing at an iron cookstove stirring something. All of them looked at her, and she felt suddenly self-conscious. The woman at the table was beautiful, with white-blond hair and painted lips. Faith could not help wondering if she was one of those “dance-hall girls” Clete had told Johnny about several times, women at mining camps who wore fancy low-cut dresses and danced with the men for money. Sometimes they did more than dance. This woman wore a green linen dress beautifully cut to fit her perfectly, the ruffled bodice embarrassingly low, which she supposed the men didn’t mind at all.
The man sitting next to her wore a fancy dark suit, a top hat on the table next to his plate. He was middle-aged, handsome, his hair graying. The other two men sat across the table from the fancy man and woman, one wearing a suit, the other dressed more plainly, cotton pants and shirt and a leather vest. The old woman at the stove wore a simple calico dress, her gray hair wound into a bun at the nape of her nec
k. Her face showed a thousand wrinkles, even more when she smiled, her aging brown eyes glittering with kindness.
“Well, who have we here? You folks didn’t tell me there was another passenger.”
The fancy lady looked Faith over. “This pretty little thing wasn’t on the coach, Hilda. Where’d you come from, honey?”
Faith set her carpetbag on the floor. “I…my name is Faith Sommers. My husband and I were on our way to Montana when—” Should she tell them? Was there something wrong with what she’d done to Clete? How did people look at things like that out here? Surely she wouldn’t be accused of anything. It was self-defense. Still, maybe somebody here knew Clete. “My husband got sick and died. Consumption, I think.”
“You’re alone out here?” the fancy lady asked.
“Yes. I…an Indian man came along and helped me bury my husband.”
“An Indian!” Old Hilda shook her head. “I ain’t never heard of no Indian helpin’ a white woman. There’s only one thing Indians do to white women. You all right, girl?”
Faith blushed. “Yes, ma’am.” She explained about Tall Bear being half-white and speaking English, how kind he had been to her.
“That’s the strangest story I ever heard,” Hilda said. “My goodness, what you’ve been through! Sit down, child. I’ll feed you some stew and you can sleep right in here. There’s cots in the back room not awfully comfortable, but better than sleepin’ outside. Oh, you poor thing. All alone out here. What’s your name again, child?”
“Faith Sommers. I’m from Pennsylvania.” Faith removed her slat bonnet and smoothed back some stray hairs. “That’s where I met Johnny. We were going to come out here and homestead, but Johnny wanted to go look for gold first.”
“Ain’t many who will truly get rich looking for gold, honey,” the fancy lady told her. She patted the chair next to her. “Sit down, Mrs. Sommers. My name is Bret Flowers, and this fine man next to me here is my, uh, friend, Ben Carson.”
“How do you do?” Faith replied as the other two men chuckled. She glanced at them, realizing with more certainty what Bret Flowers must be by the way the men were watching her.
“Joe Dugan,” the man in the suit introduced himself.
“Matt Howley,” the second man spoke up.
Faith nodded. “Please excuse my appearance. The last three days have been very hard, and I had to conserve my water, so I couldn’t do much washing.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the old lady told her. She set a bowl of stew in front of her. “I’m Hilda Banks. Just call me Hilda. And I know what it’s like to lose a husband. I lost mine to outlaws only a few weeks ago. I’ve been runnin’ this station alone ever since, so I know how you’re feelin’, child.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, for your loss.” Outlaws! Hilda’s husband had been killed by outlaws. Who better to understand what had really happened to Johnny than this old woman? She needed to talk to someone about it. Maybe later, after these passengers left, she could tell Hilda.
The old woman set a basket of biscuits on the table and began dishing up more stew. “What are you going to do now that your husband’s gone, child?” Hilda asked Faith.
“I don’t know yet. This country is new to me. I’m not sure where to go, what to do with myself.”
“Well, Ben and I are on our way to the mining camps in Idaho,” Bret told her. “You can come with us if you want. I know one way you could get rich real quick, but then you might not be cut out for that. With your looks, honey, you could make a million.”
The other two men chuckled again, but Hilda scowled as she set a plate in front of Bret. “I’ll have none of that talk in here, Miss Flowers. She appears like a proper little lady to me.”
Bret patted Faith’s shoulder. “Oh, I don’t mean no offense. Just offering to help, that’s all. If there’s some other way we can help, you just let us know. Ben here, he’s a gambler. Does real good, and he’s real personable. We could both ask around for you, help you find work or something if you wanted to tag along with us. We ain’t bad people, honey. We just do what we do and we enjoy it, but we don’t mind helping out good folks.”
Faith looked into the woman’s gray eyes, and she saw nothing but sincerity. She had never considered that women like Bret might have feelings or a good heart—had never thought to find herself sitting next to a prostitute and talking to her. But there was something she already liked about Bret, her honesty about what she was, the wild spirit of the woman. She didn’t believe what Bret did was right, but she admired the woman’s brash courage and the total freedom about her personality. “Thank you, Miss Flowers, but I think I’ll just stay here a couple of days to rest up and then maybe go down to Salt Lake City.”
Bret laughed. “Honey, you don’t want to go down among those Mormons. You’ll end up some preacher man’s fifth or sixth wife and never be heard from again. As long as you’re out here, honey, there’s lots of ways to make it on your own without having to do what I do for a living. Might as well make the most of it and be an independent woman.”
“Miss Flowers, have some understanding for the poor girl,” Hilda scolded. “She’s young and new out here, and she’s just lost a husband. She can’t be thinkin’ about bein’ independent and such things. Give her time to think and rest.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” Bret said. “You eat up. You look like you need it. Maybe later you can tell us more about that Indian man who helped you. I’ve never heard of a half-breed warrior who speaks English. What a combination! Was he good-lookin’?”
“Miss Flowers!” Hilda chastised. “Eat your stew and leave the girl alone!”
Bret chuckled and began eating. As the men talked, Faith listened intently, wanting, needing to know all she could about this land and the people who roamed it. Already she was meeting a kind of people she would never have known back in Pennsylvania. A prostitute sat next to her. Beside her sat a man talking about gambling, about good poker hands, dice games. She learned Joe Dugan was a banker, on his way to Salt Lake City from Omaha to see about lending money to Mormons involved in a building project. The other man was a rancher from Colorado, headed for California to see about buying a special breed of horses called palominos, supposedly a beautiful breed that could prove to be quite valuable. He was considering bringing some back with him for breeding.
Faith relished the stew, the first good food she’d had in a long time, perhaps tasting better because she didn’t have to cook it herself. Her emotions ran the gamut from sorrow to excitement and fear. She had not told any of these people she was carrying a baby in her belly. That would have a great effect on the decisions she would make. She had to think about the baby. Still, what an exciting place this was—prostitutes, gamblers, miners, stagecoach drivers and guards, an old woman who ran a stagecoach station out in the middle of nowhere, scouts, bankers, ranchers, Indians, outlaws. She had wanted adventure, and she had found it. It seemed to her that living in a remote station like this could be exciting. Just think of all the different kinds of people who must come through on their way to their own destinies. She only wished she knew what her own destiny would be.
Sleep. Blessed sleep. The passengers had stayed the night while Buck and Cal tended a mare that had fallen sick in its stall. They finally had to shoot the horse, then hitch it to a team and drag it off to bury it, which had taken the rest of the day and into dark, with Joe Dugan, Ben Carson, and the rancher all helping. The women slept in the back room, the men on bedrolls outside, Ben inside the stagecoach.
This morning Hilda had cooked a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs, promising Faith that once everyone left, she would get out a tin tub and let her take a real bath. Now she sat in that tub, glorying in the luxury of hot water, the luxury of just being truly clean again. Once the stage was gone, it was just she and Hilda. Faith enjoyed the peace, enjoyed talking to an understanding woman. She dressed and combed her wet hair, leaving it straight to dry. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t properly done up for the
moment, with only Hilda there. She went into the outer room then, sitting down in a rocking chair. “I’m so grateful, Hilda. Thank you so much for the hot water.”
“No trouble, child. I’m enjoying the company. Gets mighty lonesome out here between runs.”
“How often does a stage come through?”
“I never know. Sometimes one three days in a row, then nothing for a week. Depends on a lot of things—outlaws, Indians, weather, breakdowns—a lot of things.” The old woman walked over to sit across from her, handing her a cup of coffee. “Now, how about telling me the whole truth about your husband?”
Faith frowned, reddening a little. “What do you mean?”
“Honey, anyone can see by your eyes there’s somethin’ terrible wrong. I don’t think your Johnny died of consumption. Is it that Indian man who killed him maybe? Maybe he violated you?”
“Oh, no! Tall Bear was very good to me. Honestly he was! He came along after…after Johnny was shot.” She hung her head, retelling the story through tears. “I was afraid to tell anyone I shot Clete Brown.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that. It was self-defense, and he’d just murdered your husband.” Hilda reached out and patted her knee. “You poor thing. Maybe you should just go home, back to Pennsylvania.”
Faith shook her head. “I come from a family of Quakers, and my mother is dead. She was the only one back there I could talk to, the only one who understood me. My father is a good man, but very strict, and he was going to force me into marriage to a much older man I could never have loved. He never understood how much I loved Johnny.” She wiped at her eyes. “But Johnny broke a lot of promises, and now he’s dead. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I can’t go all the way back to Pennsylvania. I have no way of getting back there, and not enough money left. And if I did make it back, I’d probably never find a way to leave again, and I can’t live that way. I just can’t!” She met Hilda’s gaze. “Hilda, I’m carrying a baby. What am I going to do?”
Tame the Wild Wind Page 14