Louis L'Amour (7 page)

She
was
lonely. Until now, she had been too busy to think of such things, certainly to think of herself. She was lonely for someone with whom she could talk, not just of horses, the station, or of the people here but of books, music, the greater, wider world. Not necessarily, she realized, a better world.

There was little leisure here, little time for self-examination or things concerned with the self. People here were, for good or ill, too busy doing things, living, building, creating in a physical sense. There was almost no backbiting, little gossip as such. What talk there was concerned events, people, cattle, horses, the prospects in any one of a dozen fields. Nobody seemed to be sitting still; nobody had empty hands. There were some who might only be stirring up dust, but they were trying.

She must not allow herself to stagnate. There were books, as Temple Boone had reminded her, and she should read to Peg, and to Wat, for that matter. Standing by the window looking out on the rain-wet morning, she turned over in her mind and the men she had met.

One and all, they seemed inwardly strong; each was responsible for himself. If one of them made a wrong step, he seemed willing to accept the blame, and nobody asked favors of another. Deliberately, intentionally, they were self-reliant.

Later, when Boone came in from the stable, she mentioned it to him. “Ma’am? You ever notice a child? If he falls down and hurts himself, most times he won’t start to cry until he’s close to his mama. There’s no sense in crying if there’s nobody to listen. Out here, a man does for himself, or it ain’t done. You just don’t wait for somebody to do it for you. And there’s no sense in cryin’ or complainin’ because nobody has the time to listen.

“If somebody is hurtin’, somebody will help and then go on about his business. They’ll help you cross a river, pull a wagon out of the mud, splint a broken leg, round up cattle, or whatever. They’ll
help
you, ma’am, but unless you’re down sick or somethin’, they won’t do it for you. Everybody saddles his own broncs out here.”

“Mr. Boone? It is probably needless to warn you, but be careful. Be very careful. I recognized the man you called Williams. He was one of the guerrillas who raided my home during the war. While the North and the South were fighting, they were riding, looting, burning, and killing.”

“Seems likely.”

“My husband saw their leader out here. He started to accuse him, and the man shot him. He killed my husband, Mr. Boone. And my husband was a very good shot.”

“Bein’ a good shot is one thing. Sometimes it simply ain’t enough. People who do their shootin’ out here don’t waste around.”

“I know. I am afraid Marshall was not expecting it just that way. He was prepared to fight, but the other man just drew his gun and shot Marshall.”

“I suspect. You know who that other man was?”

“His name was Jason Flandrau.”

Chapter 7

T
HERE WAS A long moment of silence. A stick fell in the stove, and Matty came in from the cottage. She looked across at them, then asked suddenly, “Mum? Is something wrong, then?”

Temple Boone did not respond, but he put his cup down and leaned his forearms on the table. “Ma’am? Have you any idea why Jason Flandrau shot your husband?”

“Perhaps because he expected Marshall to challenge him. Perhaps because he expected to be shot.”

“Listen to me now,” Boone said, “and listen close. You’re a mighty smart woman, and nobody is goin’ to have to draw you pictures.

“Jason Flandrau is callin’ himself ‘Colonel’ Jason Flandrau now, and he’s bein’ spoken of for governor. He’s livin’ down to Denver, an’ livin’ mighty high on the hog, if you know what I mean. He’s joined the church. He’s been singin’ in the choir, takin’ a big hand in all the public meetin’s.

“The minute he seen your husband, he saw an end to all that, for once the story got out, he’d be finished. Folks might accept a former Confederate, although there’s considerable doubt of that, but nobody has any use for a guerrilla. They’d run him out of the country, maybe hang him. He claimed self-defense, ma’am, and he was surely tellin’ the truth. He had to kill your husband before he could talk, and he done it.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“Doesn’t that mean something else to you, ma’am?”

“Of course, Mr. Boone. I see that he must kill me, too, as soon as he discovers I am here.”

“You ever met him?”

“No, I have not.”

“No matter. Soon as he hears about you, he will know what he has to do, and he will hear. There’s already been a lot of talk up an’ down the line about you.”

“About me?”

“Ma’am, you’re a mighty beautiful woman, and beautiful women are scarce in this country right now. Sooner or later, he’s goin’ to hear about you and make the connection. As far as that goes, Williams will probably rush to tell him. He recognized you, didn’t he?”

“I doubt it. I do not believe he ever saw me before. I saw him from our window. I was inside the house until it started to burn; then we fled out the back. No, I don’t believe he ever saw me.”

She paused. “Mr. Boone? Why did they want Wat?”

“Surprised you haven’t guessed. They want him because he knows where they are hid out. Don’t you see? They’ve found a place, and that was where Wat ran away from. They’re afraid he’ll tell the law, or somebody. If they get him, they’ll either keep him locked up, or they’ll kill him.”

“Kill a little boy?”

“Ma’am, in Lawrenceville and some other places, they killed women, children, and old men. Besides, the stakes are bigger now. Jason Flandrau has not only been mentioned for governor, he wants to
be
governor. You’ve got to get out of here, Mrs. Breydon. You’ve got to take that little girl of yours and run.”

“I can’t.” She looked directly into his eyes. “This is my home now. This is my job. As far as Jason Flandrau is concerned, he will not be governor if I can help it.”

“He’ll know that, ma’am. He will also know that with you operating this stage station, you’ve no place to hide. Any passersby, any passenger on the stage, anybody who wants to lay up in the woods back yonder, any one of them can kill you.”

“This is my job. I shall stay here.”

Boone stared at her, then got up quickly. “All right, but you be careful, d’you hear?”

“He was one of those who came down from the hills and burned my home. He ran off our cattle. He killed a couple of our people who got in his way. And then he killed my husband. Oh, I’ll be careful, Mr. Boone, but I shall go down to Denver and tell them.”

“He’d laugh at you. So would other folks. Ma’am, didn’t you
hear
me? He’s a church member over yonder. He sings in the choir, gives money to good causes. He’s a pillar of the community, and who are you? You’re just some no-account woman who runs a stage station. Least, that’s what they’ll say.”

Of course, he was right. Long after he was gone, she sat in her chair thinking. Matty came up to her and stood across the table. “Mum? I heard what was said. I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ or the like. You’ve got to be careful, mum.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I must be careful. I have Peg to think of, and Wat.” She looked up at Matty with a wan smile. “See? I am already thinking of him as one of the family.”

“He’s a good lad. I doubt you’ve noticed, mum, but he’s tryin’ to improve his table manners. I see him watching you and Peg. He makes his bed ever’ morning, too.”

Mary Breydon heard, but she did not reply. Jason Flandrau was evil. He was cruel, vicious, and a thief. To think of him being governor or holding any public office was to shudder. Somehow, someway, she must defeat him. But Boone was right. To many of the women around Denver and Laporte, she would be suspect. She was working at a job usually only held by a man—something not quite “nice.”

The stage came in, and she glanced at the passengers as they stepped down, suddenly aware that she must pay careful attention not only to who they were but to their actions.

Two of the eight passengers were men obviously bound for the gold camps to the west, one a drummer peddling, as he soon let them know, hand-me-downs for men who bought their suits off the shelf. There was a rather pretty young woman who was, she said, a performer. There was an older woman on her way to Fort Laramie, traveling with her husband, a captain in the army, stationed there.

The seventh was a tall, very thin man with a neatly trimmed handle-bar mustache and auburn hair. He had the air of a gentleman, but his clothes, although still neat after the long stage trip, were shabby.

He glanced very quickly at Mary, frowned slightly, and looked away, then back again, as if puzzled.

Wilbur came inside behind her and said, “One man got off right up the line. Preston Collier had a carriage waitin’ for him. Englishman, by the sound of him, and some high muckety-muck by the look.”

“Collier? He’s the rancher, isn’t he?”

“He is that, rich as all get out,” Wilbur replied as Boone joined them. “Has him a ranch home with white pillars and two good-lookin’ daughters so prim sugar wouldn’t melt in their mouths. His wife’s the same type. This here Englishman brought some guns along. Says he’s goin’ to hunt bears and buffalo and such. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get himself killed.”

She laughed, then said, “Don’t jump to conclusions, Wilbur. Some of those Englishmen can really shoot. When I was a girl, some of them used to stop at our house while hunting in the Bull Run Mountains or the Blue Ridge.”

“Yes, ma’am, you could be right. There was an Irishman or Englishman named Gore. He come out a few years back and shot everything in sight. He shot up enough wild critturs to fatten a tribe of Shoshones, left most of it lay. Me, I never shot anything least I wanted to eat it.” Wilbur walked out to check on the horses.

“Collier’s all right,” Boone said. “He’s a solid man. A good cattleman. I don’t always hold with his politics, but his word is as good as his bond.” Boone hesitated, then commented casually, “If a man wanted to run for office in this part of the territory, Preston Collier would be a man to cultivate.”

Mary glanced at Boone, but he was looking away, watching the passengers filing in to the table. Was he trying to tell her something? To warn her?

Temple Boone was a puzzle. Just who
was
he? Where did he come from? There was much about him that puzzled her, yet he said nothing of his background, and the little she had heard was that he had worked at a usual round of frontier jobs. Wat…she must ask Wat. He seemed to know a good bit about everyone.

For that matter, who was Wat? Had he no family? Where was his mother? A “sagebrush orphan,” they called him, a name given to children whose parents had died or disappeared. Usually, they attached themselves to some other family or found work helping on a ranch until they finally drifted on to wherever such people go.

Well, that would not happen to Wat! He was a nice boy, and she would see he had a chance. Peg liked him, and they were close enough in age that they could be companions.

Nobody asked questions out here. That was one of the first things she had to learn. Every man was taken at face value until he proved himself otherwise. What you had been before was unimportant.

The West, she had come to understand, was a place where you started over. When you came West, you wiped off the slate, and whatever you were to be began here and now. If you had courage, did your job, and were a man of your word, nobody cared whatever you might have been. It was a good thing, she decided. There should always be a place for people to begin again.

Some, like herself, had lost loved ones. Some had gone bankrupt, some had gotten themselves into trouble with the law, into debts that were a burden, some were simply men and women who did not fit into any pattern. They were not the kind to become tellers in the corner bank, grocery clerks, ministers, or lawyers. They were born with a restlessness in them, an urge to move, to get on with it. If you proved yourself a responsible person, nobody cared where you came from.

She was learning, she realized, and ridding herself of preconceived ideas. She had heard the West was lawless, but that had been a mistake. Organized law was, for the most part, remote and far away. However, there were unwritten laws that all obeyed, and if there were a few who did not, the response was apt to be abrupt and very, very final.

The West was tolerant, to a point. When tolerance reached its limit, there was usually a rope or a bullet waiting.

The passengers ate, got up, stretched, and walked outside, lingering around, waiting until the last minute to board the stage.

Wilbur came to the door, his whip in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He stopped beside Mary.

“Wilbur? Do you know Jason Flandrau?”

“I do, ma’am.”

“If you see him down this way, tell me, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her his empty cup. “He’ll be comin’ down soon, ma’am. He’ll be wantin’ to talk to Preston Collier.”

She was not afraid now, yet she knew what fear was, and the only time she had ever been frightened was when Jason Flandrau and his guerrillas had raided their plantation, striking suddenly across the mountains from their hideout in Kentucky.

She fled with Peg in her arms and a neighbor girl, guided by Beloit, an old black man whom her husband had bought and freed several years before. He hid them in a cave behind some bushes, and they had seen their homes go up in flames, seen the stock driven off, and Beloit, who had run back to get some papers from the house, shot down in cold blood by Flandrau himself.

Now he was here. He had destroyed her home, killed her husband, and to survive and become what he intended, he must kill her.

What she had sought here was a new start, to build a new home, to make a living for herself and her daughter, but Flandrau was here, too, and she had no choice. Should she sit by weakly and be destroyed?

Long ago, a soldier visiting her father had said something she remembered. “The secret of victory is to attack, always attack. If you have ten thousand men, attack. If you have but two men, attack. There is always a way.”