Louis L'Amour (13 page)

She paused. “I am sending East for some trunks I left behind. Maybe there’s something in them we can make over.”

“Will they still be there, mum? I mean with the fighting and all?”

“I hope so.” She hesitated, thinking. She would write to Martha Brewster, but it might be well to write to someone else, someone in authority. She considered that. Yes, yes, of course!

She went outside after a careful look around from the door, then walked around the corral. She must stop that, too. She remembered Temple Boone’s warning and something she had heard her father say about avoiding patterns of behavior when fighting Indians, for they quickly grasped the pattern and were waiting for you.

When she had gone through the barn where Ridge Fenton was harnessing the team for the incoming stage, she paused at the door. “Mr. Fenton? Have you heard anything about the war?”

“Not much, ma’am. They’re still fightin’.” He straightened up, resting a hand on a horse’s shoulder. “It’s so far away, ma’am, and we got so much to think of out here.”

She scanned the hills slowly, deliberately, looking for anything that might suggest the presence of an enemy. She was not very good at it, and she might miss what would be obvious to men like Temple Boone or Ridge Fenton.

She crossed the yard then, her heart pounding. Was it fear she felt? Apprehension?

Once inside, she looked around the station, wondering what might be done to make it more inviting. From the first, she had understood that she could not compete with old, experienced station agents, not at least until she had more on-the-job experience. What she could do was to create a more restful, homelike atmosphere. On the way out from Missouri, she had noticed most of the stations were untidy, and the food was often just thrown on the tables.

She was perfectly aware that Mark Stacy had not made up his mind, and Ben Holladay knew nothing about her at all. She could not be just as good as the others; she had to be a little bit better.

What of Scant Luther? From time to time, she had heard that he was still around, that he was nursing a grudge.

She had turned in the doorway when the first of the carriages came into the yard. Under the coating of dust from the trail, it was black and shining, as were the six horses that drew it. There were a half-dozen men and four women in the carriage laughing and chatting.

A moment later, a second carriage pulled up, and someone leaned out and said, “Why are we stopping? This isn’t the ranch!”

“No”—a young man got down from the seat beside the driver—“but it is the last time you will have a chance to get a cup of coffee or tea before we get there. We’ve miles to go.”

“That suits me.” A young woman accepted his hand and got down. “Regina? Are you coming?”

“Why don’t we wait? This is just a stage station, and their food is awful!”

The young man with the curly hair turned to Mary. “Is that true? Is your food awful?”

She smiled. “Why don’t you try it? Our coffee is really very good, and we’ve tea. Won’t you come in?”

“Archie!” Regina called. “
Really!
”

“I am thirsty,” Archie said, “and besides that”—he turned to look at Mary again—“she’s very pretty!”

One of the other men stepped down, holding his hand to help another young woman down. “He’s right, Regina. We are thirsty. Even if it is only a few miles, I’d feel better for something to drink, if it is only water.”

“Go in, if you like,” Regina said. “I shall be served here.”

She turned to look at Mary. “A cup of tea, please.”

Mary Breydon smiled. “I am sorry. We only serve at the tables.”

“But I am Regina Collier!”

“How nice for you! But we do serve only at the tables.”

Regina Collier was angry. Was this stage person being impudent? “I am afraid you do not understand,” she said icily. “I am Preston Collier’s daughter!”

Mary Breydon smiled. “I understand perfectly, Miss Collier. We are very busy here and do not have time to serve people in carriages or stages.” She smiled again. “I could not serve you in your carriage if you were President Lincoln. Of course,” she added, “he would not ask me to!”

Turning, she went back to the tables where nine young people had gathered, laughing and talking. Matty was just serving the last of them and had put a platter of cookies on the table.

Archie went back to Regina’s carriage. “Come on!” he invited. “The coffee’s really very good, and so are the cookies!” He offered his hand.

“No,” Regina said stubbornly. “I shall stay here. I will not yield to that—that woman!”

“Oh, come now, Regina! They have their rules, you know! And she’s really a very nice woman!”

“You do as you like. I will not be insulted by a common waitress!”

Archie’s smile faded. “I am sorry,” he said, and returned to the table, joining again in the excited talk.

Mary refilled his cup. “Thank you,” he said. “We haven’t far to go, but we were all very thirsty. It’s a dusty ride.”

“I know. You are going to Preston Collier’s?”

“Yes, there’s a party there, a reception for some chap from England who has come over to hunt and see how the colonials are progressing. He’s a nice chap, really, and this is his second trip, although I do not believe he was ever this far west.”

“He will enjoy it, I am sure. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Not at all, and thank you.” Archie hesitated, then said, “I must apologize for Miss Collier.”

“Please don’t. I am not in the least offended. We all have our bad moments, and no doubt she is tired.”

Archie looked at her, somewhat puzzled. “You have not been here long, Miss—?”

“Breydon. Mrs. Mary Breydon.”

“Oh? Your husband is here, then?”

“Major Breydon was killed. I am a widow.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I am sure you did not.” She glanced around to see the others drifting back to their carriages. “I hope your weekend is a pleasant one. Now if you will forgive me?” She turned and went back to the table and began gathering the empty cups and the saucers.

He glanced after her, still puzzled, then walked back to the carriage.

“I hope you enjoyed your chat,” Regina said irritably.

“I did, indeed,” Archie replied. “Your neighbor is a surprising young woman.”

“She is
not
my neighbor! This is merely a station on the Overland Stage Line, and I suppose she works for them. We never stop here,” she added.

“Is Sir Charles already at the ranch?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, he is. He came down yesterday with father. I believe he wanted to do some shooting this morning. There are always deer, you know, but father says the elk are disappearing. They are going into the high country as the snow goes off.”

“He has been here before, you said?”

“Some kind of a diplomatic mission, I believe. He was in Washington, D.C., before the war began, but it was only for a few weeks.”

“I know something about him, but we’ve never met,” Archie commented. “My brother knew him in Paris when they were at school there. For such a young man, he’s become quite a famous diplomat. He’s been to Cairo, to Constantinople, to Vienna and Rome on missions of some sort or other.”

“Father met him in Washington, and when he expressed a wish to hunt, father invited him out.”

“Who else will be there?”

“Oh, you know! The usual crowd. The Talbots, the Kings, the Williamses, and some new man whom I’ve never met, although they say he is both very handsome and very important, a Colonel Flandrau.”

“He’s been around Denver. I believe he’s investing in mines. There are so many new people around now that it’s hard to keep up with them. They keep coming and going, investing in mines or cattle or town sites. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”

Archie glanced ahead. In the distance, at the end of a winding road, he glimpsed the white columns of the Collier ranch house.

Peg stood in the door watching the carriages go by. Four more passed during the hour, then a fifth. “Where are they all going, mama?”

“Mr. Collier is having some friends down for the weekend, I believe.”

“Was it like that at Harlequin Oaks when you were a little girl?”

“Yes, it was, only the country back there is greener, and there were more carriages, and many people rode over on horseback from neighboring places. We lived closer together than people do here.”

Temple Boone rode in before noon. “Mrs. Breydon? Better stay close to the station and keep the youngsters inside. There’s a report of an Injun raid on a small place east of Virginia Dale.”

“But isn’t that quite far off?”

“Ma’am, they burned the house and killed two men. They were riding south according to the tracks.” He swung his horse. “I’ll tell Ridge.” He looked back. “You be careful now!”

Indians…here?

Chapter 15

W
ITH THE RISING sun, there was a change in the weather. The sky, which had been clear, clouded over, and there was a spatter of cold rain, then a brief gust of wind that sent the leaves skittering across the hard-packed ground.

Trees bent before the wind, and a loose door banged. Temple Boone, bowing before the wind, came from the barn, closing the door behind him.

When he reached the station, he said, “Looks like a storm coming.” There was another brief spatter of rain that ceased abruptly.

“Where is Ridge?” Matty asked. “Is he all right, then?”

“He’s in the barn, ma’am, and you know Ridge. He’ll sleep there.” Boone rested his rifle against the wall near the window. “Saw some tracks out yonder a few hours ago. Pony tracks.”

“Indians?”

“Sioux, I’d guess, and that means trouble.”

“Where is Wat?” Peg asked.

“He’ll stay in the tack room. He’ll be with Ridge, and they’ll take turns watchin’. That lad’s as good as any man when it comes to that.”

He held his hands to the fire. “Wind’s cold,” he said. “Uncommon for this time of year.”

“Will it be safe for the stages?” Peg asked. “Won’t they have to stop?”

“Stages don’t stop for nothin’, Peg,” Boone said. “They carry mail, and they have to keep movin’. Most of the passengers would prefer to keep goin’, too.”

He added fuel to the fire and edged the coffeepot farther over to heat the coffee. “I came by Preston Collier’s and stopped off to warn them. They’d had the news, but they don’t seem worried. Must be forty or fifty people over there to meet that English lord.”

“He isn’t really a lord, is he, mama? Isn’t a ‘sir’ just a knight?”

“You’re right, Peg. So many Americans think anyone with a title such as ‘count’ or ‘earl’ is royalty. It isn’t true. Only members of a royal family are royalty. The others belong to the nobility.”

“Never set much store on such things,” Boone commented. “A man should be two things. He should be a man, and he should be a gentleman. I mean a gentleman in his behavior. That’s the way I was raised.”

“How does one become an earl or a count?” Peg asked.

“Usually, from service to his king. Once it was a reward for bravery or skill in battle, then for other services to the king. Usually, with the title went a grant of land, and the nobleman was expected to respond on call with a certain number of soldiers to serve his king during a war.

“Such titles were often passed down from father to son or occasionally to a near relative, always with the expectation of service to the king. Some of the noblemen became so powerful they threatened the power of the king himself. Others had their estates and titles taken from them and given to others.

“Nowadays, a title is often given for other services, even for diplomatic or business successes, and the titles vary in importance according to the country where they are given.”

There was a brief roll of thunder, then, after a moment, a flash of distant lightning.

“You won’t have many travelers in this kind of weather,” Boone said. “Probably nobody until the stage comes by in the morning.”

He finished his coffee. “I’ve got to ride on over to Fort Collins,” he explained. “I should be back before daybreak. I’m carryin’ dispatches for the army.” He glanced over at Mary. “Will you be all right here?”

“Of course. You’ve no cause to worry about us. Ridge is here, and we’re armed.”

“I’ve never seen a red Indian,” Matty said, “except that old man who came through on the stage. He seemed a fine old man.”

Boone chuckled. “Him? You just bet he is a fine old man, but in his day he was a holy terror. He was a Ute. They are mountain Indians, properly speakin’, and he’s probably taken thirty or forty scalps in his time.”

“That nice old man?” Mary exclaimed. “He had such an amused expression on his face.”

“He probably was amused,” Boone said. “He was probably thinkin’ how silly some of our ways are, compared to his. Every people seems to think their way is the best, and maybe it is, for them.”

Temple Boone took his rifle, paused a moment at the door, glanced back at Mary, and lifted his hand. Then he went outside.

“I’d better get in another armful of wood,” Matty said. “It will be a cold night.”

As she was going out, they heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and Temple Boone was gone. “I wish he had stayed,” Peg said. “I feel safer when he’s here.”

“We all do,” her mother said, “but he has his work to do.”

She glanced out the window. There were six horses in the corral huddled together against the wind. For a moment, she hesitated. Should she have them put in the barn? With Ridge’s saddle horse, there was scarcely room for them all, and they did not have to be harnessed until morning. There was hay in the corral, and these were mustangs, bred to the wild, unused to barns.

“Come on, Matty, we’ll fix supper, and then I’ll read a bit to you all. It’s a good night to be inside.”

She went to the window again and looked out. Nothing moved. From old habit, her eyes scanned the trees and the brush. The thought of Indians worried her, but she did not want to frighten Peg.

Had she been wrong to bring a child to this wild country? Or to come herself?

No. It had been their only chance, and when spring came, she would find a place and file on some land herself.