Messenger by Moonlight (9 page)

Annie barely managed to say thank you. No one had ever promised to pray for her. She wondered what Mrs. Hollenberg would say in those prayers. Nudging Shadow into a lope, Annie rode up alongside Luther’s wagon and held up the coffee tin. “A gift from Mrs. Hollenberg.”

Luther nodded toward the back of the wagon. “I’ll pull up and you can put the can inside the supply box. After you do that, you might want to take a gander at the off side of the wagon. Your brothers rustled up a little surprise, too.”

As soon as Luther stopped, Annie nudged Shadow close to the box suspended at the back of the wagon, lifted the lid, and deposited the plant. Next, she urged the horse forward so that she could see the opposite side of the wagon. Someone had suspended a basket between the tall wheels. Sidling up to the basket, Annie lifted the lid. One, two, three, four…
twelve
. A dozen chicks. She glanced back toward Hollenberg Station.

“They’re Rhode Island Reds,” Luther said, after Annie closed the lid and rode up alongside the mules. “Your brothers wanted to buy a few chicks, but Sophia wouldn’t take the money. You’ve got yourself a friend in Kansas, Miss Paxton.”

By the time the Pony Express crew crossed into Nebraska Territory, Mother Nature had begun to do exactly what Luther had promised. Spring was beginning to transform the barren winter landscape. Buds on bushes and trees began to swell, and early blossoms dotted the greening hillsides. Once they were across the new toll bridge at Rock Creek Station, Annie looked back at the precipitous creek banks and wondered aloud how anyone could have gotten a wagon across the creek without the bridge.

“We used chains,” Luther said. “Chains and horsepower to lower wagons down into the creek bed, and then more chains and more horse or mule power to haul them back up the other side. It could take hours—for just one wagon. I’ve known folks to be in camp for more than a week, just waiting their turn to cross. And come a spring storm to set the creek to running high?” He just shook his head. “There’s folks who complain about the toll, but I’ll never begrudge McCanles the money. He built a bridge, and I say God bless him for it.”

After Rock Creek Station, trail conditions steadily degenerated. Luther ended up walking alongside his team, slapping his thigh with a quirt to encourage them as they struggled to pull the heavily loaded wagon through loose, sandy soil. Immigrant wagons struggled, too, often forced to double-team just to get things moving again.

When it came time, Annie hated leaving Jake behind at Liberty Farm. She really had come to care for the boy. As she said good-bye, she appointed herself big sister for just long enough to kiss his cheek and murmur, “Good-bye, little brother.”

“No need to say good-bye, Miss Annie. Won’t be long, and I’ll be tearing into Clearwater on a bolt of lightning and handing the mail off to Frank.”

“I’ll have a hot meal waiting,” Annie said. “The best one possible.” She looked back toward Liberty Farm more than once as she rode away. Every time, Jake was still standing exactly where they’d left him. Watching.

At Thirty-Two-Mile Creek, Annie met Mrs. Comstock, whose odd accent elicited questions about her homeland and the unexpected answer that she was from Vermont. She kept cozy clean rooms and a fine flock of plump, black-and-white chickens.

“Dominiquers,” she said, when Annie asked after the breed. “They were good enough for the Puritans and they’re good enough for me.” She was not impressed with the Rhode Island Reds. When she offered the travelers canned peaches for dessert, Annie wondered aloud at the bounty. The older woman winked at her. “A pretty face like yours could lure lobster from the far seas, my dear. Be kind to the freighters and the soldiers, and they’ll return the same in goods.”

Soldiers?
“I don’t expect I’ll see many soldiers. Fort Kearny is miles and miles beyond Clearwater.”

“You’re entering the Platte Valley, dear. Flat land for hundreds of miles to the west. Patrols from the fort can cover a lot of ground in a half day. Once word gets around that George Morgan’s got a beautiful new cook working at Clearwater, you’ll have your hands full keeping them at bay.”

That night as they made camp, Luther said they’d easily cover the last fifteen miles to Clearwater by sunset the next day. While Emmet and the others picketed the horses, Annie asked him about what Mrs. Comstock had said about soldiers from Fort Kearny frequenting the station.

“
Flocking to
is more likely what will happen,” Luther teased. “Once they get news of Miss Annie Paxton, I expect the boys in blue will be fighting over who gets to patrol down your way.” When Annie didn’t smile, he quickly reassured her. “Now, now, don’t worry over it. Soldiers can be a rowdy bunch, but there’s a gutter called Dobytown west of the fort for all that kind of thing. They won’t be bringing it to Clearwater. George don’t allow it.”

Frank and Emmet returned, and Annie said nothing more. As the moon rose, she lay on her back staring up at the stars. It was a pleasant night. The horses were picketed close enough to the camp that she could hear them tearing off and munching grass as they grazed. In the glow of the dying campfire, she did her best to stop worrying and to think on good things. She was fairly certain the Good Book said something about that.
Think on these things
. She had rosemary to tend and flower seeds to plant and a dozen chicks. She had Sophia’s recipe for dumplings.
And she promised to pray for me.
A woman who made a promise like that probably knew quite a lot about praying. There was comfort in the notion. Just as the Shepherd’s Psalm promised, maybe goodness and mercy would follow her. All the way to Clearwater.

The evening the company of riders approached Clearwater Station, a spectacular sunset provided a golden-red backdrop for the weathered buildings in the distance. Overhead, yellow-and-pink clouds glistened against an aqua sky that faded first to lavender and then to indigo on the eastern horizon.

When Annie exclaimed over it, Emmet, who was riding next to her, smiled. “God’s painted a sky to welcome us.”

Annie liked the idea, but thoughts of God were quickly dispelled by the hellish sounds pouring out the front door of the station as they approached. Shouts. Crashes. Thuds. Curses. A chair sailing out the open front door, followed by a man who, after slamming against the flagpole flying the Stars and Stripes, charged back inside.

When Shadow snorted a protest and skittered sideways, Emmet suggested that Annie “skedaddle on back to the barn and see to Shadow until things get sorted out up here.”

With still more curses pouring out of the open station door, Annie was happy to obey. She’d heard plenty of bad language in her life—most notably back in the day when she hunkered in her room while the boys tried to get Pa to bed. But this was so vile it made her blush. Nudging Shadow, she hurried around the small sod portion of the long, low building constructed mainly of massive, square-cut logs. The station’s
front door faced the east-west trail. In the back lot to the south of the building, dozens of oxen and a few mules milled about in a series of corrals spanning the space between the station and a massive barn.

Dismounting and hitching Shadow just outside the open double barn doors, Annie stood, patting the horse’s neck while she waited. The back side of the log station boasted two south-facing doors. A rustic arbor shaded the one opposite the front door and extended eastward, also shading a small window set in the sod wall. There was no door to the sod part of the building. The only other door, this one closer to the far west corner of the building, was closed. Next to it, a larger window admitted daylight into what must be a bedroom, for Annie could just see the outline of curtains through the glass.
Is that lace dangling from the edges of those curtains?

Luther was leading the way for the others, driving his wagon past the main station building and pulling up alongside the only empty corral on the place. Emmet and Frank waited while he climbed down and opened the gate. Once inside the corral, Emmet dismounted, yanked on the rope wrapped around his saddle horn, and quickly freed his three ponies. Luther kept the gate open just wide enough for Frank to follow suit. It was all working quite well—until someone up at the station fired a shotgun. Outlaw screamed and reared straight up. Frank spurred him ahead and into the corral, but before Luther could get the gate closed, the three horses Emmet had just freed pushed through. The three men watched, helpless, as the ponies fled south.

In the melee, Shadow stepped sideways. A distracted Annie failed to get out of the way, and the mare stepped on her foot. With a yelp, she threw all her weight against the horse’s flank. Shadow danced away. Annie pulled free just in
time to see Emmet and Frank remount and tear off after the escaped ponies. She was grimacing and flexing her sore foot when she heard someone ask if she was all right. She looked about, trying to find the source of the voice.

“Up here. In the haymow.” A handsome boy with raven-black hair and startlingly blue eyes motioned toward the open barn door. “Best to take cover in here until it’s over. It probably won’t be much longer. Once George gets the shotgun down, folks realize he means business.”

The boy ducked out of sight. Glancing back at the station, Annie limped toward the open barn doors. She’d just ducked inside when the boy appeared at the far end of the row of stalls. He carried a small keg to where Annie was standing and set it beside her. “Have a seat. Not broken, I hope.”

Annie flexed her foot again. Wiggled her toes. “Not broken.”

The boy nodded. “I’m Billy. You with Luther?”

He wore heavy boots, gray work pants, and a checked flannel shirt. No beads. No feathers. Flawless bronze skin. Feeling self-conscious beneath the gaze of those blue eyes, Annie stammered her name. “A-Annie. Annie Paxton. My brothers are the Pony Express riders. Luther brought us out.” She didn’t want to stare, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
Her first Indian.

Someone up at the station yelled Billy’s name. Annie looked that way just as a hulking figure staggered out the back door beneath the arbor and onto the rustic porch. When he stepped off the porch, Annie saw the blood. It streamed from somewhere along his hairline, down the side of his face, and into a thick beard. The giant managed only a few steps before falling to his knees.

As Billy hurried to the injured man’s side, movement
inside the station drew Annie’s attention. She realized the front and back doors were aligned so that, when both doors were open as they were now, a person could see through the place. She saw two men flee through the front door. Seconds later, they were little more than blue smudges astride two horses galloping west.
Blue. Soldiers.

The giant put a filthy paw to his face. Swiping at the blood, he stared down at his fingers with a frown. Just as Luther reached his side, he crashed to the earth. Together, Luther and Billy helped him to his feet and back inside.

Annie watched it all with a combination of fascination and horror. She glanced toward the south. Saw nothing but flat land and pink-tinged sky. To the west, the sun was sinking fast, and there was no sign of Emmet. No sign of Frank. No sign of the lost ponies. She looked back toward the station.

Soldiers. A brawl. And the man who must be George Morgan.
Lord, have mercy.

Clearwater grew quiet, save for the swishing of tails and the grunting of the oxen crowded into two corrals. With a slight wince, Annie hobbled over to the corral to free the three ponies who were still tied together. When one of the ponies nudged the empty water trough, Annie sighed. “All right, all right. I hear you.” For the next few minutes she carried bucket after bucket of water from the well near the barn to the trough. At least the well had a pump. She wouldn’t have had the strength to haul up a dozen buckets of water with a windlass. At least not this evening.

When there was enough water in the trough to keep the ponies from suffering, she carried water to Luther’s team, one bucket for each of the six animals. Next, she turned her
attention to Shadow, who was still hitched outside the barn. What was taking Frank and Emmet so long? How far could those ponies have gotten, anyway? She was not going anywhere near the disaster up at the station until they got back.

Leading Shadow inside the barn, she turned the mare into an empty stall. Once she had the saddle off, she went in search of a brush and hoof pick, finding both in a bucket sitting on the floor in a corner just beyond stalls. Apparently, this end of the barn was the western version of a tack room, with two rows of saddle racks mounted on the walls, hooks for bridles, halters, and lead ropes, and a row of grain bins lining the wall beneath the saddle racks.

After claiming a rack and a hook for Shadow’s saddle and bridle, Annie stepped into the stall and brushed her down. At some point she realized her foot had stopped throbbing. Finally, she pumped one last bucket of water, hung it on a hook in the corner of Shadow’s stall, and closed the door.

Just when she’d decided to return to the empty wooden keg and sit down, Billy trotted into the barn. “Luther’s sewing him up. You should be able to go inside soon.” He took a feed bag down from a hook just above the grain bins and scooped a measure of grain in. He looked up at her and with a mischievous grin said, “Luther tells me I’m your first Indian.”

Embarrassed, she stammered, “I—um—not really. We saw plenty of Indians on the way here.”
Exactly four.

“
Kansas
tribes?” Billy snorted with derision. He changed the subject. “Luther also said something about chickens?”

The chicks!
With a groan of dread, Annie spun about and hurried to the wagon. She lifted the basket lid and was relieved to see the chicks seemed all right. When she realized Billy had followed her, she motioned for him to look in. “A
woman in Kansas gave them to me. Rhode Island Reds, she said.”

“Mrs. Hollenberg?” When Annie nodded, he said, “Luther talks about her cooking. A lot.” He reached into the basket and scooped up a chick, cradling it in the palm of his hand and stroking its downy head with the tip of one finger.

Annie pointed toward a nearby soddy. “Is it true they’re cool in summer and warm in winter? That’d be good for chickens.”

The boy sounded incredulous. “You might want to wait a few days before you ask George about turning his blacksmith’s shop into a chicken coop.”

After what she’d just seen of the man, Annie doubted she’d be asking George Morgan for anything. In fact, she’d be doing her best to avoid him. “Frank and Emmet could build one.” They’d never worked with sod, but surely they could figure something out—with Luther’s help. Something small. “If I’m going to raise them, I won’t want them freezing to death.”

Billy put the chick down and began to untie the rope holding the basket in place. “You’re staying the winter?”

“Of course. Why would you ask?”

“George’s crew always goes east for the winter.”

“We’re not really part of George’s crew. We work for the Pony Express, and in spite of your employer’s antics, I don’t plan on leaving until my brothers do.”

Billy coiled the rope that had attached the basket to Luther’s wagon and draped it over one of the wheel spokes. He picked up the basket. “
Antics.
I don’t know that word.”

“Fighting. Swearing. Shooting. Causing trouble.” She followed Billy into the barn, where he set the basket down in a
stall and opened the lid, laughing as the chicks tumbled into the clean straw.

“George didn’t start the fight. And he doesn’t swear.”

Annie interrupted him. “I heard him with my own ears. It was… vile.”

“
Vile.
Another word I don’t know. But it sounds bad.” He looked over at her. “That wasn’t George.”

If Billy didn’t know words like
vile
and
antics
, he probably didn’t know what
swearing
was, either. It was pointless to argue. She knew what she’d heard. And seen.

Billy returned to the topic of the chicks. “I’ll scatter some grain for them and find something to hold water.” He flashed a smile. “I hope you do stay. George is a terrible cook. Even Whiskey John’s been complaining.”

“Whiskey John?”

“One of the stage drivers.
Big
appetite. You’ll meet him tomorrow when the stage rolls in.”

Annie stood at the stall door watching the chicks. At the sound of horses approaching from the south, she hurried to the barn door.
Thank heaven.
Frank and Emmet with the runaways in tow. Billy hurried to open the corral gate for them. Moments later, Frank and Emmet led Outlaw and Emmet’s bay into the barn.

Outlaw snorted and backed away when Billy approached. “Better give him a few days to get to know you first,” Frank said.

“Or weeks,” Emmet quipped.

“Instead of insulting Outlaw,” Frank said, “how about you let me see to the horses and you check in with Luther and Morgan. See if Morgan’s sobered up. I imagine Annie would appreciate it if she didn’t have to spend another night in a barn loft.”

Billy interrupted before Emmet could reply. “George doesn’t drink. The fight was
about
drinking. Just not George’s.”

“Really?”

Billy nodded. “Two friends from George’s trading days rode in earlier today. One white. One Cheyenne. George explained his ‘no liquor to Indians’ rule and offered to make coffee. They didn’t like the rule and tried to make him change it. You saw how it ended.” Billy backed away as Frank led Outlaw past him and into a stall. “That’s a beautiful horse. Does sugar do anything to improve his opinion of strangers?”

Frank smiled. “It might.”

Emmet left for the station. As he trotted up the dusty path leading past the half dozen pens and corrals, something wound tight inside Annie relaxed a little. The men she’d thought to be drunken soldiers racing back to Fort Kearny weren’t soldiers, after all. And Emmet and Frank were obviously feeling protective of her.