Louis L'Amour (14 page)

Why not? She could prove up on a homestead as well as anyone, and it would be one more thing Peg would have if anything happened to her.

“You should file on a homestead, Matty,” she said suddenly. “There’s nothing like owning land.”

“How much could I get, then?”

“One hundred and sixty acres, but you have to build a shack, sink a well, and plow some land.”

“One hundred and sixty acres!” Matty was aghast. “It is a rich woman I’d be!”

“Not quite that, Matty, but it is something for yourself, something that would belong to you.”

“We’d better fix supper,” Matty said. “Mr. Fenton will be hungry.”

“I’m hungry, too!” Peg declared.

“The light is fading,” Mary said. “What there is of it!”

Suddenly, even as she watched, the corral gate swung open as if of its own volition. She started. “Why somebody must have—!”

There was a shrill whoop, and then the horses came stampeding from the corral, a running Indian behind them. Ridge Fenton’s old buffalo gun boomed from the barn, and she saw a dozen mounted Indians come sweeping around the corral and from behind the barn and take in after the stage horses. One of the Indians was clinging to his horse, blood streaming from a wound and turning the side of his horse crimson.

“Matty!” she cried. “They are stealing our horses!”

She caught up her rifle and, without thinking, threw open the door and fired. She saw an Indian turn his head toward her, and he waved at her derisively, then was gone. She fired again, too late.

Slowly, she lowered her rifle. She had failed. The horses were gone. What was she to do?

Peg was staring at her, round-eyed. “You shot at them? Did you hit one?”

“I don’t think so, Peg. I missed. And the horses are gone—gone! When the stage comes in the morning—!”

Ridge Fenton, rifle in hand, came in from the barn. “Sorry, ma’am, they was on us afore I realized. Must’ve been a dozen of them, right out of nowhere!”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Fenton. At least you wounded one of them.”

“No, ma’am,” Ridge said, “I killed him. Any time a man bleeds like that, he’s a goner. Make ’em more careful next time. But don’t you worry, ma’am. Those Injuns know who done it. They know better than to try an’ steal bosses when I’m around.”

“But they did get the horses, Mr. Fenton, and we have a stage coming in tomorrow morning.”

“Nothin’ we can do, ma’am, until Stacy gets us some more hosses.”

“Doesn’t Mr. Collier have horses?” Matty asked. “If you were to ask—?”

“Wouldn’t give you the time o’ day!” Fenton said. “He’s got no use for Ben Holladay. Never did have. Them two just don’t get along. Too much alike, I reckon.”

Mary Breydon took off her apron. “Nevertheless, I’m going to try! I don’t want people saying that if a man had been running this station, it wouldn’t have happened. I’m going over there.”

“Ma’am, it’s coming on to storm, and there’s Injuns about. You just set down, an’—”

“Mr. Fenton, you take care of things here. And if you would let me, I’d like to borrow your horse.”

“Now see here, ma’am! That there’s a mighty uneasy animal! He don’t take to women no way, and he doesn’t like other folks ridin’ him.”

“Are you saying I can’t have him?”

Fenton looked right and left. He rubbed his jaw, glanced sheepishly at her, and cleared his throat. “No, ma’am, it ain’t that. I jest—”

“Thank you, Mr. Fenton. I’ll get my cape.”

Ridge started to speak, then muttered angrily about “fool woman!” and started off toward the barn.

Matty stared at her. “Ma’am? Do you think you should? There’s Indians and all, and Peg here—she’s already lost her daddy.”

“I have a job to do, Matty. Don’t worry. I ride very well, and I shall be back before you realize it. Just you stay inside and keep Peg in.”

Ridge was holding his horse at the door. He had saddled it with her sidesaddle. “Don’t know how you ride one of them durned things!” he protested. “Moreover, I don’t think Arthur will stand for it.”

“Arthur? You call him
Arthur
?”

“He was give to me by a man named Arthur, so I just got to callin’ him that Arthur horse, and it sort of worked itself down to just Arthur.”

She walked up to the horse and put a hand on his neck. “Hello, Arthur. We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?”

Arthur rolled a wary eye at her but did not seem displeased at the soft touch on his neck. Accepting a hand from Fenton, she mounted quickly. Arthur shied at the unfamiliar feel of the skirt against his flank and the different weight, but he recognized an authoritative, knowing hand on the reins.

The night had grown colder; the sky was still overcast. Arthur seemed ready to go, so she let him have his head. She wore the heavy pistol under her coat and had both derringers in pockets in the rough skirt she was wearing.

Indians…

They could be anywhere! Suddenly, and for the first time, she was frightened. What in the world had possessed her that she would start off in the middle of the night…but it really wasn’t that late, scarcely more than nine o’clock.

The risk had not entered her mind. Not really. All she thought of was that stage coming in, the horses weary from the long run, another run ahead of them.

She had to have a fresh team. Whose was the responsibility if not hers? She did not ask herself what Scant Luther would have done or Mark Stacy or Boone. She thought only of what she must do.

The horse’s hoofs pounded on the hard road. The rain had no more than settled the dust. Wind tore at her clothes and lashed the brush into weird shapes. She slowed Arthur, not wanting him to run himself out. She had heard that mustangs could run on and on, but she was accustomed to the finely bred horses of Virginia and Maryland.

Arthur slowed at her urging, but he was perfectly prepared to keep running. She patted his neck and talked to him, and he cocked a surprised ear at her and kept going.

Again, it started to rain, a quick flurry of hard-driven drops, cold as ice. It stung on her flesh and slapped at her cape like angry fingers.

Suddenly, Arthur shied, snorted, and something moved in the woods alongside the trail. Mary reached under the cape and put her fingers around the butt of the pistol.

Arthur kept going. Whatever was back there was something he did not like, but he was not about to be stopped by it.

She rode into the open, and there, atop the knoll before them, was the house, ablaze with lights, lights that reflected on the glistening, varnished sides of the carriages. She rode on, weaving through the carriages to the white railing of the hitching posts. Dismounting, she tied Arthur and ran up the steps.

At the doorway, she paused, throwing her cape off her hair. A surprised butler, a black man, turned to her. “Yes, miss? Was there something?”

“May I see Mr. Collier, please? It is quite important.”

“Are you a guest, miss?” He noticed her muddy boots and beyond her the cow pony tied at the rail. “I see you are not.”

He was politely apologetic. “You see, ma’am, Mr. Collier does not like to be disturbed when he is with his guests.”

“It is really very important, and I have ridden a long way—”

The door was open, and she could see them dancing within. They were playing a waltz, and she was not a guest; she was an outsider. For a moment, she started to turn away; then her lips tightened.

“Will you take me to him, please? Or ask him to see me?”

Something in her voice made him look at her again. Not only her voice but her manner.

“Certainly, miss, I shall see what I can do.”

Suddenly, several couples came out on the wide veranda. One of them was Regina Collier. “What is it, Richard?”

“It’s a young lady, Miss Regina. She wishes to speak to your father.”

Regina looked past Richard, and her eyes met Mary’s. “Oh, it’s not important, Richard. It’s just that woman from the stage station. If it is important, father can stop by there in the morning.”

Mary stepped forward into the light. “Please, Miss Collier, it is very important. Could I see him now?”

What she might have answered, Mary had no idea. Suddenly, there was a cry from the doorway. A tall man in the uniform of a British officer started toward her.

“Mary! Mary Claybourne! Of all people! What in the world are
you
doing
here
!”

Chapter 16

S
IR CHARLES!” SHE held out both hands to him. “You are the one who should answer that question! What are
you
doing here?”

“I came to hunt buffalo,” he said, “and Preston was kind enough to invite me to stay with him.” He glanced at her clothing. “But, Mary? You haven’t come to the party?”

“I’m afraid not, Charles. Harlequin Oaks was destroyed early in the war, our horses were stolen, and my father died just before the war.

“I married Major Marshall Breydon. Do you remember him? The plantation was destroyed, and there was nothing for us to do but find another way to earn a living until the war was over. The land is still mine, of course, but in the meanwhile, I’m operating a stage station.”

He laughed. “But that is charming! You, Mary Claybourne, a station agent?” He laughed again. “Only in America!”

Several of the guests had come to the door, and Mary was suddenly self-conscious. “Really, Charles, I just came to see Preston Collier. It is something of an emergency.”

“You know him, of course?”

“No, we’ve never met. I’ve been here such a short time.”

“Mary, I will find him for you, but first you must dance with me!”

“Dance? Here, now? Oh, no! I am not a guest, Charles, and I am not dressed for—”

“You are my guest! I insist, for old times’ sake!”

The musicians were playing another waltz. Suddenly, she laughed. “Why not, Charles? I’d love to!”

On the wide veranda, with a light rain falling outside and the other guests watching from the doorways, she danced, muddy boots and all. Suddenly, she felt gay, happy.…It was like old times!

For the moment, all was forgotten, only the music, an old friend from far off, better times, and the steps of the waltz. She had always loved to dance, and Sir Charles was a marvelous dancer. Carried away, she danced as she had not danced in years, and when they stopped, there was a brief spattering of applause.

Preston Collier came up to them. “Sir Charles? Please present me. I am afraid I have not had the pleasure.”

“Preston, this is Mary Claybourne. I mean, Mrs. Mary Breydon. She is an old, old friend from Virginia! Many times when I was in Washington, she and her family entertained me in their home, at Harlequin Oaks.

“They were the most beautiful parties, and I spent many, many happy hours in her home! Her father was alive then, and he was a remarkable man. Remarkable in every way. Besides that, he had the finest horses I’ve ever ridden.

“I just couldn’t believe it when I saw her here, of all places.”

“This is a pleasure, Mrs. Breydon. Won’t you join us?”

“Thank you, Mr. Collier, but I am not dressed for it, nor do I, unfortunately, have the time. As a matter of fact, I rode over here in a great hurry to see you on business.”

“Business?”

“I am the station agent at Cherokee now, Mr. Collier, and we’ve just experienced an Indian raid. Nobody was injured unless it was one Indian, but they drove off our horses.”

“So? I am sorry, but I do not understand.”

“I was hoping to borrow six horses from you so the morning stage could leave on time.”

Collier was embarrassed, and suddenly Mary felt sorry for him. It was unfair to make the request in the presence of a guest, but—

“I know you are not friendly with Ben Holladay, Mr. Collier, but would you lend the horses to me personally? After the one round trip, I shall return them to you.”

“Mrs. Breydon,” Collier said suddenly, “I sincerely regret that we have not met before. I am afraid that the loss is ours, and you may be sure we will make amends for the oversight.

“As to the horses, I shall instruct Burke to deliver them to you at once. The morning stage, you say?”

“Yes, and thank you, Mr. Collier.”

“Say no more.” He glanced around. “Will you join me in my study for coffee? It will take Burke a few minutes to get the horses for you and will give us time to get acquainted?”

“I’d be delighted, Mr. Collier.”

“You will join us, Sir Charles?”

“Delighted!”

The study was a small, quiet room off the hall. It was lined with books and had huge leather chairs—a man’s room, furnished for comfort. “Please be seated, I’ll have some coffee brought in.”

When he had given the order, he came back and seated himself. “Now tell me about it. What happened to bring you West?”

“My father passed away at the beginning of the war and only a few months after my marriage to Major Breydon. The major was away with his command, and during and after the Battle of Bull Run, the plantation was virtually destroyed; our stock was driven off and the crops ruined.

“Major Breydon was wounded, lost an arm, in fact, and while he was still in the hospital, our plantation was raided by guerrillas. They stole the few of our horses that remained, burned Harlequin Oaks, and killed some of our people. Fortunately, I escaped.”

“I am sorry. Sorry for the destruction but glad you escaped.”

“The first part was the fortune of war, Mr. Collier. Our plantation happened to be in the way. The second part, the raid by guerrillas, men who were simply thieves, was another thing entirely. These men were despised by soldiers of both the Union and the Confederacy, men who simply took advantage of a state of war to rob and kill. But there is no need to talk of that here.”

The coffee was served with some small cakes. “It is good to see you again, Mary. You will never believe how much we, who were away from home, loved those long weekends at Harlequin Oaks. Not long ago, I was in Paris, and some of us who had been military attaches in Washington at the time were talking of those soirees at the plantation.”

They talked then of riding to the hounds, of horses, and of people.

“And Major Breydon?” Sir Charles asked. “He is here now?”