Hoofbeats of Danger (2 page)

“I bet they was Blackfeet. Blackfeet are the fiercest of all,” Davy said. His face shone with admiration for Billy. “Weren't you scairt?”

“Naw, I'm never scared,” Billy said, tousling Davy's fair hair. “But I sure enough felt a couple arrows whistle past my ears.”

Annie halted in her tracks. “Oh, Billy! You didn't get hit, did you?”

Billy drew a deep sigh. “Had to ride like the wind, but I got away. I kept my scalp—this time.”

Just then Mrs. Dawson stuck her head out of the station-house doorway. “Bill Cody,” she said dryly, “is that you bragging out there?”

Billy gave Annie and Davy a guilty grimace and hopped to his feet. “Yes, ma'am.”

Mrs. Dawson set her hands, rough from hard work, on her hips. She narrowed her hazel eyes. “Why, I can hardly recognize you for all the mud and dust,” she scolded Billy lightly. “You give yourself a good scrubbing, hear? I took the liberty of washing your other shirt while you was away, but I won't let you have it 'til you're clean.”

Billy made an exaggerated bow. “Yes,
ma'am
.”

“Don't give me any of your sass now, boy,” she replied. “And you, Annie—soon as you've tended to that horse, haul me some water from the river.” She turned and went back inside the dim, cool cabin.

“I better scoot down to the hay meadow and pick a nosegay for your ma,” Billy said, nudging Annie with his elbow. “Don't want to be getting on her bad side. Mrs. Moore at Three Crossings don't do my laundry for me. Her cooking ain't near as good as your ma's, either.”

Annie smiled, remembering what her mother had said just this morning.
I never can tell whether to treat that Billy Cody like a boy or a man,
she'd said. From her joshing tone, Annie could tell how much Mrs. Dawson liked Billy, in spite of all his mischief. A good thing, too, with Billy staying here every few days, waiting to ride the next relay back to Three Crossings.

Billy started to stroll down the trail he'd just ridden up. Annie knew he was heading for the meadow by the river, where the station's stablehand, Jeremiah, was harvesting the tall grass for hay. A ragged patch of wildflowers always grew at the edge of the meadow—sweet vetch, prairie-star, saxifrage, roseroot. Davy trailed behind Billy, idly whipping with a willow frond at the bushes beside the trail.

Annie turned her attention back to Magpie. Laying a hand on the mare's side, Annie could feel that her breathing and heartbeat had eased. She leaned against Magpie's powerful flanks, fitting the hollow of her temple against the familiar place where the mare's hipbone curved outward. Magpie shifted her weight to press gently against Annie, too. Close up, Annie studied the way the black hairs grew in round whorls on the mare's barrel.

Annie sighed and shook herself. She had to remember that Magpie—like all the other horses in the Red Buttes barn—belonged to the Overland Express company, not to her. She'd better cover Magpie with a blanket before her sweaty coat got cold. She clucked softly and turned the horse's head toward the barn.

A trail of smoke rose from the chimney pipe of the forge, a wooden shed set to one side of the barn. Back in the California gold-mining camps, Annie's father had set himself to learn the blacksmith's trade when he'd wearily begun to give up his dreams of finding gold. That skill had helped him get hired as a stationmaster almost a year ago.

Though few white settlers lived on these bleak plains, this track was the main route west through the Rockies. The North Platte River ran particularly shallow below this rocky rise, and pioneers had long used it as a fording place. A couple of years ago, the Overland Express company had taken over a meager trading post on the bluff to serve various Overland enterprises. The Pony Express, with twice-a-week relays in each direction, was the Overland's newest service. Two weekly Overland stagecoaches also rumbled through the station—one eastbound, one westbound. Mule-drawn wagon trains of freight rolled in from time to time, too, and in the summer there were occasional wagons of settlers, bound for Oregon or California. There was always plenty of blacksmithing for Mr. Dawson.

Now Annie's father stood in the forge doorway, wiping his large, strong hands on a dirty cloth. He was a stocky, silent man with a dark beard. Annie could feel his eyes on her as she walked Magpie past.

“Annie!” he barked.

Annie jumped. What had she done wrong now?

Mr. Dawson stepped forward with a worried scowl. “What's wrong with that horse?” he demanded.

C
HAPTER
2

W
ATCHING
AND
W
ORRYING

Annie froze. Something wrong with Magpie? “What do you mean—” she began.

Mr. Dawson's eyebrows met in one dark line. “Can't you see she's favoring her left hind foot?”

He strode quickly across the yard and picked up the mare's back leg, steadying her flank with his other hand. Magpie, taken by surprise, jerked her head up, then lowered it. Annie cradled the mare's trembling head against her chest. She ran her fingertips gently over Magpie's hard cheekbones, feeling the horse's muscles gradually uncoil, trusting human hands.

Mr. Dawson grunted. “Loose shoe.” He set down Magpie's leg. “Who rode this horse in?”

“Bill Cody,” Annie answered in a small voice.

Mr. Dawson shook his head. “I should have known. Where's he gone to?”

Annie's throat tightened. She gestured silently toward the hay meadow.

Her father set his jaw, his mouth disappearing in the bearlike beard. He strode toward the meadow, bellowing, “Cody!”

Annie hunched her shoulders, feeling somehow responsible for getting Billy in trouble. When things around the station went wrong, her father always seemed to overreact like this. She'd seen him be so gentle with animals; why didn't he realize that the same kind manner worked best with people, too? Miserably, she gathered Magpie's reins and led her inside the wooden barn.

The scent of hay and horses hung heavy in the dimness. Annie tethered Magpie beside the tack room, near the barn door. The surrounding stalls were full of the soothing sounds of horses munching, sighing, and stamping. But as she began to unsaddle Magpie, loud voices entering the station yard outside cut into the barn's calm.

“How can I believe you?” her father was saying angrily. “It ain't the first time you've been careless with the horses. Just last week you saddled Surefoot over a crumpled saddle blanket. He got a sore on his withers from it.”

Billy's voice rose in protest. “But Magpie's hoof was fine, honest. She must have knocked it loose after—”

Mr. Dawson cut him off. “The Overland Express paid top dollar to buy the best horseflesh in the West. These little nags run their hearts out for the Overland Express. How else could they get mail from St. Joe to Sacramento in ten days? You riders—you're just the weight in the saddle. You haven't got the right to mistreat the company's animals.”

Annie felt tears spring to her eyes as she flung a coarse wool blanket over the mare's back. She knew exactly how Billy must be feeling. Just like Billy, she all too often did the wrong thing in front of her pa. She wanted so much to please him, but when he got that anxious look in his eyes, she immediately became tense, clumsy, and forgetful.

His stocky shape loomed suddenly in the barn doorway. Annie jumped, as if he'd read her thoughts. “You done with that horse?” he asked. Annie nodded. “Then bring her 'round to the forge.”

As he began to step away, Annie cleared her throat. “Pa? You know, Magpie wasn't limping when she first arrived. I saw her run in and she was perfectly fine. But later she was pawing at some rocks in the yard—”

Mr. Dawson turned, still frowning. “Riders like Billy—they only want to be adventure heroes,” he grumbled. “They ain't got responsibility to the Overland Express owners. But I do.”

Annie almost blurted out “Pa, you're being unfair!”—but she bit the words back. It was useless to quarrel with her father when he was worried about station matters.

Pa lifted Magpie's hoof again. “Well, her hoof don't look injured,” he admitted. “We'd best take precautions, though.” He set down her hoof and took her halter. “Go to the remedy cabinet, Annie, and get some salve. Meet me in the forge.”

As he led Magpie out of the barn, Annie slipped into the tack room, where a wooden cupboard hung in the corner. Inside were medicines for various horse ailments. Pushing aside a couple of bottles of belladonna and some muscle liniment, she found a small red tin of hoof salve. She took it and hurried back to the forge.

As she came around the corner of the barn, she saw her mother standing in the forge doorway. “I heard you light into Billy,” she was saying to her husband. “What did he do?”

Slipping around her ma, Annie saw her father lower his head. “He misused a horse,” he muttered as Annie gave him the salve. She realized with surprise that he seemed embarrassed about his outburst.

“Well, the animal's all right now,” her mother said mildly. “Billy's just a boy, remember. He can be careless, but I don't reckon he meant any harm.”

Mr. Dawson turned away, bending over the glowing coals of the forge's fire. He thrust a new horseshoe into the coals with a long-handled pair of tongs. Annie silently took Magpie's head, circling one arm around the mare's bowed neck. She lightly rubbed the special spot below the white streak in Magpie's mane. Her eyes fastened on her pa's strong hands, deftly handling the tools of his trade.

Pa carried the red-hot shoe over to his anvil to hammer it into shape. He hit it three times fiercely—
clang, clang, clang!
Then he hung his arm at his side. “This is no time to let things go slack, Effie,” he said to Annie's mother, his voice thick with emotion. “Just when we've finally got things going right. This place has been good for us, for all of us. I can't let you down again. If I lose this job—”

“You ain't going to lose this job,” Ma said with quiet conviction.

A darkness flickered over Pa's face—the same darkness Annie had seen when things went sour in California. He shook his head grimly. “The Overland Express is having money troubles—one of the coach drivers told me about it last week. The Butterfield company's trying to run us out of business. The Overland needs to win the government mail contract, but Butterfield and his cronies are fighting 'em in Congress. You know what happens when bosses start to get edgy. They crack down on the stationmasters—crack down hard.”

Annie anxiously clutched Magpie's halter as her father bent to hammer on the new shoe. What if her pa lost this job? Annie had been sad to leave the mining camp in California, but now she'd hate to go back. There was food on the table every day now. They lived in a sturdy cabin, not a flimsy mining-town shack. She loved the wide blue sky, the rolling river, the fierce red clay and gray stone thrusting in strange shapes out of the earth. And she loved the excitement of living at the Overland station, with wagon trains and stagecoaches and Pony Express riders passing through. She felt proud, like she herself was the gatekeeper to the West.

Magpie raised her velvety muzzle, as if she sensed the worry settling in Annie's chest like a lump of lead. Annie scratched the mare's neck again, to soothe herself as much as Magpie. Then another thought stabbed Annie's heart. If Pa got fired by the Overland, she'd have to leave Magpie, too!

Mr. Dawson stood up. “Let's see how that fits.” Annie silently led Magpie out of the smoky forge to circle around the sun-dappled station yard. The mare walked perfectly. Pa nodded, satisfied with his skilled work, and ducked back inside.

Whistling softly, Annie led Magpie back into the shadowy barn, going to her stall at the back of the barn. She stripped off the blanket, then took a clean rag to rub the mare dry. Using strong circular strokes, she ruffled Magpie's dense coat, feeling how much thicker it had grown in just a few days. “Putting on your winter coat already, aren't you, girl?” she murmured. Magpie whickered and gave her head a little toss.

Laying down the rag, Annie picked up a stiff-bristled brush. She pulled it expertly over the contours of the horse's back, eyes closed, her hands following every curve and hollow by heart. As she brushed, Annie felt her spirits rise. She opened her eyes and lovingly traced the white-on-black patches she knew like a map—the butterfly shape on her haunches, the mantle across her withers, the perfectly round splotch on the left side of her neck, the small white spots splattered along her forelegs.

Suddenly her fingertips grazed against the “XP” branded high on Magpie's hindquarters. She halted with a small sigh. That was the proud mark of a horse fine enough to be owned by the Pony Express—and a reminder that Magpie belonged to Annie in heart only.

From the stall, Annie heard a wagon rumble into the yard. She slipped out to see who it was. The station's stablehand, Jeremiah, stood with a pitchfork on the seat of a ramshackle wagon filled with sun-dried cut grass. “You finished harvesting the meadow?” Annie asked him.