The Cherokee Trail Part 6

"Or what, Mr. Williams? The boy is here, in my care, and I shall not turn him over to you without an order from a judge."

"What if I just take him?"

"You wouldn't take him very far with a belly full of lead, would you?" The voice was casual, even pleasant.

She did not turn, keeping her eyes on Williams, the cup of hot coffee in her hand.

Temple Boone moved farther into the room from the door of the pantry. His hat was wet, his jacket dripping.

"Howdy, Boone." Williams's tone was as quiet as Boone's. "I didn't expect to see you around here."

"Roundin' up stock for the stage line," Boone explained conversationally. "It's a livin'."

"If you like what you're doin'," Williams suggested, "I'd say stick with it and you'll do a lot more livin'. We want that boy, Boone."

"Seems like a lot of fuss over one youngster," Boone said, "but like the lady said, you can meet in front of a judge an' make your claim." He smiled suddenly, a flashing, handsome smile. "And I'd bet a new saddle it wouldn't be the first judge you've been up before."

Slowly, Williams put down his cup, resting his fingertips on the edge of the table as if about to rise.

"I wouldn't if I was you," Temple said. "You never seen the day."

Slowly, the hands eased back into the center of the table, one of them reaching for the empty cup. "They won't like it," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "They sent me for the boy."

"Leave him alone," Boone replied. "He's doing no harm to anybody. You boys push him and he's liable to get scared-or mad. Might make all the difference."

"You tell that to Denver."

Boone sat down opposite Williams. "Denver an' me don't see eye to eye. We never did. You just tell him the boy is doin' all right and to leave him be."

"You wouldn't think a youngster would be that canny," Williams said. "He left just no trail at all. I'd run out of chances until I heard somebody at Virginia Dale Station say there was a boy-kid workin' down here."

Williams drained his cup, seeking for the few last drops. "You can have him. He's a durned thief, anyways. Stole Johnny's boots off him after he was dead."

"I did no such thing!" Wat Tanner spoke from the door. "Johnny asked me to pull 'em off. Promised his ma he'd never die with his boots on. Then he told me they was almost new, and I was to take them.

"I said they was too big, and he said I'd grow into them. He said some of you boys would steal 'em, anyway. He was the one tol' me to git, said your lot was no fit comp'ny for a boy."

Williams flushed, stealing a shamed look at Mary Breydon. "I don't believe he said any such thing! Anyway, who was Johnny to talk?"

"He was best of that crowd," Boone said. "Why else was he killed?"

Williams got up. "I'm ridin'."

"You do that. And you tell Denver Cross the boy is a friend of mine, and so are the folks at this station. You just tell him that and make sure he hears it."

When Williams had gone, Mary Breydon accepted the breakfast Matty fixed for her and sat down across from Boone. "You have some strange friends, Mr. Boone."

Boone smiled. "It's a big country, but there aren't all that many people. Sooner or later, you get to know everybody. Ofttimes the men who are outlaws and those who are the law once worked side by side or fought in the war together.

"Take you, now. You've just met Williams, and he's an outlaw. You've become mighty important to Scant Luther, another man of doubtful character."

He smiled widely. "Seems to me, Mrs. Breydon, that you have some strange friends!"

She laughed. "All right. But thank you for speaking up for Wat."

"He'd do as much for me," Boone said lightly. "After all, he's one of the few of us who is really *western.' Everybody out here is from somewhere else."

"You, too, Mr. Boone?"

He ignored the question. "Seen you unloadin' some books. Do you read books like that?"

"I do."

"Never read me many books." He paused, embarra.s.sed. "Always figured to, sometime. I seen a few around. One time, a long while back, I worked some in a store back in Missouri. They had all manner of books. Folks goin' West used to buy 'em. I just couldn't believe there was so many folks who not only could read but wanted to."

"If one has a book, Mr. Boone, one is never alone. They will talk to you when you want to listen, and when you tire of what they are saying, you just close the book. It will be waiting for you when you come back to it."

He pushed back from the table. "I'd better get the team ready. The stage will be comin' in."

When he left, trailed by Wat, she looked after him. "He's a strange man, Matty."

"Good-lookin', too," Matty said, her expression innocent. "He's a fine figure of a man."

"I suppose so. My husband was, too, and I miss him, Matty."

"You're a young woman."

Mary flashed her a quick look. "I wasn't thinking of that. Marshall was a wonderful man. I doubt if I should ever be so lucky again."

"The odds would seem to be against it, ma'am, but some women just seem to attract the good men. Others just attract the good-lookin' rascals."

She went to the stove. "I'll just warm up some of that stew. It is a wet, unpleasant morning."

Mary walked to the window and looked down the road. Since arriving, she had been nowhere, done nothing but get the station and the cottage into some kind of shape and find her way in a strange situation. When the weather cleared, she would get a horse and ride down the valley. Or she might even go into Laporte.

It was an old town, although small. Once it had been mentioned as a possible state capital, but Denver had grown rapidly after the gold discoveries. Yet a visit to Laporte was an essential. There were things she needed and some she could no longer do without. Also, she needed a hostler here at the station. Boone was just helping until they got settled.

The rain on the roof was a pleasant sound. Matty opened the stove and added some fuel. They used the fireplace only occasionally now, although she had always loved an open fire.

Her thoughts returned to the events of the morning. What did those men want with Wat? Williams, she gathered, was a man of doubtful character, probably an outlaw. And who was Wat? The man called Johnny, of whom they had spoken, was obviously not his father, yet what was the connection? She must ask Boone. He would probably tell her nothing, for these western men were oddly reticent about talking of each other unless they had something good to say.

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. n.o.body seemed to be sitting still; n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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.

THERE 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 n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sersby, any pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sengers 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?"