The Cherokee Trail Part 7

"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 pa.s.sengers 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.

n.o.body 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, n.o.body 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, n.o.body 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 pa.s.sengers 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."

Was there? What could she do? Yet the idea was right. She must not sit by, waiting to be killed, waiting to be destroyed. She must move herself.

But what could she, a woman, do? What weapons did she have?

She had the truth, yet she was not so naive as to believe the truth alone would prevail.

The truth was a weapon, and if wisely used, it might destroy him. She did not intend to sit by and wait for attack. She would choose her time, and then she would move. But what time? When? How?

She must have a pistol. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would go into Laporte and buy one.

She watched the dust settle after the departure of the stage; then she walked out to the stable. Wat was there, pitchfork in hand. He was, she noted, keeping things neat and clean. "Thank you, Wat. Everything looks very nice."

"It's a job, ma'am."

"Wat? You seem to know most of the people around here. How do you happen to know so many?"

"I sort of watch and listen."

"Where are your family, Wat?"

"I got no family." He looked up at her, then quickly away. "I got n.o.body."

"Now that isn't a nice thing to say. What about me? What about Peg?"

"You ain't kinfolk."

"There is more than one kind of kinfolk, Wat. Some are kin by blood and some by heart. Peg wants to think you are her brother, and I like that. You have a family, Wat, if you want it."

"Yes, ma'am."

"What happened to your family, Wat? Your father and mother?"

He shuffled his feet, then stabbed at the earthen floor with his pitchfork. "Mama died when I was two, maybe three. I remember her a little. Pa, he was shot."

"Shot? By whom?"

"It makes no difrence."

They were interrupted by the sound of hoofs. "Riders comin'," Wat said. "Two of them."

She glanced out of the stable door. Two men on horseback, and they were strangers.

Chapter 8.

LONG AGO, HER father had told her to see. "Not many do, Mary. Learn to see what you are looking at." And about these riders there was something different.

"They have fine horses," she said aloud.

"Yes, ma'am," Wat said. "No cowhand can afford horses like that. They are either mighty well off, or they are outlaws."

"Outlaws?"

"Yes, ma'am, an outlaw needs a horse that can run. A horse with stayin' quality, too. He dasn't trust himself to just any ol' crow bait."

"Wat, please go into the station and tell Matty not to mention me. Just feed them and let them ride on. I'll wait until they are inside, and then I'll go over to the house."

"You scared of them?"

"Not scared, just careful." She put her hand on his shoulder. "Wat, I am going to tell you something, but keep it to yourself. My husband was shot and killed by a man named Jason Flandrau. He shot my husband because of what we knew about him, and he does not want people out here to know.

"He killed my husband to keep him from talking, and he may have heard that I am here."

Wat walked across to the station as the men were tying their horses. She saw the door open and close. The men looked around, then followed him in, and as soon as the door closed, when they would be looking about the room, she crossed to the house.

Peg looked up from the tablet where she was drawing. "Mama? What's the matter?"

"There are some men at the station. I do not want them to see me."

"Did they?"

"I don't believe so. We will have to wait and see."

Inside the station, Wat moved over beside Matty. "How's about some of that pie? As long as there's only the two of us to eat it-"

"You'll have to wait until I feed these gentlemen. They might want some pie." Her attention caught at his comment "only the two of us." He was staring at her, his eyes intent as if trying to tell her something.

"I know you got to feed these fellers, but if there's any left...I mean, you don't eat pie, and that leaves only me."

Matty glanced toward the two men, two strong, rough-looking men, both wearing guns. Of course, nearly everybody out here did wear guns, but- "Coffee?" she asked. "Is it coffee you're wanting?"

"And a bite to eat if you've something put by."

"We've a bit of stew left, and we've bread, fresh baked by meself."

"We'll have it." The younger man glanced around. "We heard there was a woman runnin' the station, but I'd no thought she'd be Irish."

"Are you Irish yourself, then? You've a bit of the look."

"Aye, a bit. My grandmother was from Donegal." He glanced around again. "Is it you who runs the station?"

"Who else? Could the boy run it, now? He's long in the country, though, and I couldna do it without him."

She put down two cups and filled them. "But I didna come for that, not for runnin' of a station or what all. I come for the gold they said was lyin' about everywhere."

Taking a long-handled wooden spoon, she began dishing up stew. " 'Twas my wish to go back to Ireland a rich girl and have the pick o' the lads there."

"You're dreamin', girl." The older man spoke harshly. "How much gold have you seen? It's here, but there's only a few of them has it."

"You watch. I shall find my gold and go home a great lady."

The younger one asked, "Did you come right here from the old country? Or did you stop in Virginia?"

"Virginia? I dinna ken the place. 'Twas to Boston I came and worked there until I could get the fare for the stage to come west. It was California where I was bound, but when I heard there was gold in Colorado and it was a thousand mile the closer, I chose Colorado."

There was no more talk. They settled to their eating, and as Matty had noticed, eating in the West was a serious business not to be interrupted by idle conversation. From time to time, she refilled their cups. She knew tough men when she saw them, and these were all of that.

Where was Mary Breydon? It was unlike her to leave Matty to handle things alone. She glanced at Wat, and he stretched, brushing a finger past his lips as he did so.

Trouble, was it? She refilled the teakettle and stirred the fire. The water in the kettle had been hot, and soon there would be more.

"Meetin' the stage?" she asked.

"Pa.s.sin' through. Headin' west."

One of them muttered something to the other, and the older man said, "Ain't likely."

"...what I think," the younger man said. "Some mistake."

They finished eating, and one of the men rolled a smoke. The younger glanced around again. "Tidy," he said, "right tidy."

"Thank you, sir! It's the only way a poor girl can hold a job these days, to do something better than the men."

The younger man got up. "Come on, Joe. We'll see the boss in Laporte."

They went out the door, stepped into their saddles, and rode away.

Wat turned to Matty. "I thought I knew him! That's Turkey Joe Longman. He's a horse thief and gunman, only he's never been caught at it. I don't know the younger one."

When the sound of hoofs had died away, Mary came back to the station. Matty turned as she came in. "Wat says he knows the older one. He's a horse thief."

"So is the younger one." Mary Breydon's eyes showed her anger. "The horse he's riding was one of ours from back home. I know that horse, and he would know me, I think."

"It's been how long, ma'am?"

"Almost two years since that horse was stolen. He was one of the last ones driven off by Flandrau's men."

"Can you say for sure it was him?"

"I can say it, but I cannot prove it, and he was using another name then. Flandrau was the name he used when he was not robbing and stealing."

"We must tell Mr. Boone, ma'am. He will know what to do."