The Cherokee Trail Part 8

"What to do is my problem, not his. I'll not be getting him into a shooting because of my troubles. This is for me to do."

"You've made friends, ma'am, good friends. They'll not see you put upon."

"Leave them out of it. I'll handle it."

But how? She could not continue to hide whenever a stranger came by. She had done so this once because she needed time. There was a chance now they would not realize for a few days, at least, that Matty was not the woman in charge. Then they would come back.

"They'll not be fooled," Wat said. "By now there will be talk of you all along the line. Ma'am, I know cowboys, and I know the West, and by now they will be speakin' of you from El Paso to Uvalde to Salt Lake. A good-lookin' woman who can cook?

"Word gets around, ma'am. The West has no secrets. There's little enough that's news, and a man in El Paso will know what the town marshal looks like in Denver, he will know there's a card sharp in Kansas City who looks at his watch just before he deals. They know there's something crooked going on, but n.o.body's caught him at it yet. So they will know you're here."

"Thank you, Wat. I needed a little time, just a little."

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but you're goin' to need a lot more than that. Those are mean men, mighty mean."

She stood looking out the window, looking down the road. Of course, Wat was right. All she had done was to gain a little time, time to think, to plan.

Of course, Jason Flandrau must be careful. To go further with his plans, he must not allow any taint of suspicion to touch him. He must seem to have nothing at all to do with what happened, so it was unlikely he would use any men who were known to work for him or be friendly to him.

Whatever else he might be, Jason Flandrau was no fool. He had acted quickly to kill her husband, but he had no choice, and that was a gun battle, and there were many men in Colorado and the West who had engaged in gun battles. Why even Andrew Jackson had once killed a man in a gunfight!

To kill a woman was another thing, so it would be done with care by somebody unconnected to him, by somebody...perhaps even a renegade Indian?

She must get a pistol.

She would go into Laporte, for, of course, they needed much else. There were odds and ends of clothing she must obtain for Peg and herself and a little other shopping. And she must be thinking of schooling for Peg, and as there were no schools close by, she must handle that herself. For Peg and Wat, she reminded herself.

Long ago, her father had taught her to shoot, and she remembered what he had said. "A gun is a responsibility. Never shoot blind. Always know what you are shooting at and never shoot unless there is no other alternative. And consider every gun as loaded. Most of them are."

She must think. The first item was clear and obvious. She might never tell anyone about Flandrau's guerrilla activities, but he could not be sure of that. He had killed her husband; now he would kill her. So she must consider how it might be done and who might do it. Coolly, cold-bloodedly, she must consider every aspect and then be prepared.

She was not a man who might be challenged and killed, as her husband had been. They might hold up the stage and kill her in the process, but already she had learned enough of western ways to know that even the worst of men would hesitate at killing a woman. Kill a man and the West might shrug, but kill a woman and men would arise in their wrath and hunt down the killer and hang him without hesitation.

Ambush...shot while crossing the area from the stage station to her dwelling or moving about between the barn and the corral.

Somebody hidden up in the trees on the low hillside with a horse waiting back in the brush. There could be other ways, but that was the most obvious and the one she must consider.

Her father, an old army man, had once said that a battle well planned was half won. Perhaps. There was always the unexpected, but if one had prepared for every contingency, one could then cope with the unexpected. She must be cool; she must be objective.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for this, yet when she came to think of it, she had often heard her husband and father talking of war, Indian fights on the frontier, and there were some things she remembered. She could not, would not, ask for help. That was not the way it was done on the frontier, but even if it had been, what right had she to embroil others in her problems, perhaps at the risk of their lives?

Attack, her father had said, always attack.

To protect herself was not enough; she must not permit a man of Jason Flandrau's type to come to a position of authority.

Who was it who told her that her neighbor, whom she had never met, was a political power as well as a wealthy rancher? What was his name? Collier, Preston Collier. She must meet him, and soon.

Who would oppose Flandrau in running for office? Who stood to lose most if he won? Whoever he was, he was a potential ally, and she would need all the help she could get. Yet she could not come right out and accuse Flandrau, for how could she prove it? This was far from Virginia, Kentucky, and Ohio where he had operated before going West to Missouri and Kansas. Those who might have known of his activities as a guerrilla were scattered, still in the armed forces or perhaps even killed. It would be her unsupported word against his, and he had been making himself prominent in church circles in Denver and elsewhere, had avoided the saloons and gambling halls, and had already won some standing in the area. As for her, she was just a stranger, a woman who, of all things, operated a stage station.

She turned away from the window and glanced at Wat, eating a piece of apple pie. Wat, that strange, wild boy from only G.o.d knew where.

"Wat," she said suddenly, "if I had a son, I would want him to be like you."

Startled, Wat looked up, his face flushing with embarra.s.sment. She crossed to him. "I mean it, Wat. I mean every word."

He looked down quickly, tears in his eyes. When he looked up, he had blinked them away.

"Ma'am? If you're goin' into Laporte, I think you should leave me go with you. I could circulate around a little."

"We'll see, Wat. I'll go in tomorrow, I think."

"You goin' on the stage? You take the stage, ma'am. It's safer. Wilbur will be drivin', and he's a good whip."

What would she wear? Her traveling suit? She could press that, and the white blouse? Crossing the room, she looked critically at her hair. She'd have to do something with it and make a list of things to do, things to get.

At the head of the list, a pistol.

Chapter 9.

LAPORTE LAY QUIET in the morning sun. At the hitching rail in front of a saloon were two horses, at the hardware store, a wagon and team.

Wilbur, glancing along the street, helped her from the stage. "Now you be careful, ma'am." He paused. "You going to eat in town? If you are, try the boardin' house yonder. They've got a private room for such as you an' Peg. Might be better. Sometimes those boys forget theirselves and talk rough. They'd be ashamed, ma'am."

"Are you protecting them or me?" She smiled.

"Both." He held out a hand. "You want me to take that list in to Stacy?"

"No, I'll see him myself. There may be some items that call for explanation. In fact, I'll just go in now."

With Peg by the hand, she pushed open the office door and stepped inside.

Mark Stacy was seated in a swivel chair at a roll-top desk. Seeing her, he got quickly to his feet and reached for his coat.

"You needn't, Mr. Stacy. I am not a guest, only an employee!"

He bowed. "Ma'am, here you are always a guest! Out at the station, I'm the guest"-he grinned-"and you are an employee!"

"This is the list-"

"Won't you sit down? Please?"

"Well-only for a minute. We have some shopping to do, and I want to get back to the station."

When she was seated, he shuffled some papers on his desk. "Never heard so many nice things said about the grub-the food, I mean. You're making a name for yourself, ma'am."

"I hope Mr. Holladay will approve."

"Let me tell you something, Mrs. Breydon. Ben Holladay doesn't care whether you are man, woman, red, black, or yellow as long as the stages run on time and folks don't complain. But you can bet on one thing. He'll come along one of these days when you least expect it."

He glanced at her. "Ma'am? What happened? With your husband, I mean."

She hesitated, then said quietly, "Major Breydon was wearing a gun in a b.u.t.ton-down holster. He was not a gunfighter. He was not used to western ways. He met a man on the street in Julesburg who had reason not to like him. That man simply drew his gun and fired. My husband was killed instantly."

"You know who killed him?"

"It was Jason Flandrau."

"Jason Flandrau! Ma'am, you must be mistaken. Mr. Flandrau is not a gunfighter. He's a very respectable and respected gentleman!"

He frowned. "Come to think of it, I recall some talk of Major Breydon being killed, but his killer wasn't named. Fact is, I doubt if anybody knew who he was."

"I knew, Mr. Stacy."

"Was it some old quarrel? Something that happened back East?"

"It was no quarrel. My husband only quarreled with gentlemen, Mr. Stacy, when he quarreled at all, which was rare, indeed. Mr. Flandrau killed my husband because the major recognized him."

Stacy hesitated. There was something here he did not understand. Jason Flandrau was a very popular man in Denver. Friendly, easygoing, and a free spender who a.s.sociated only with the most respectable people. Killed because the major recognized him?

"I am afraid I don't follow you, Mrs. Breydon."

She arose. "There is no reason why you should. My troubles are my own. One thing I might ask. Do not mention me to Mr. Flandrau and, please, do not repeat this conversation."

"I certainly will not mention it, but I must warn you, ma'am. Mr. Flandrau has many friends. He is a great favorite. More than that-"

"Yes?"

"He has an office right down the street. Over the bank. I believe he is there now."

Taking Peg by the hand, she went out. For a moment, she hesitated. If there had been a way, she would have turned right around and gone back to Cherokee, but there was no way. Not until late in the afternoon. There was nothing to do but do what she came for.

Swiftly, she crossed the street and entered the hardware store. When a man with sleeve protectors came up to her, she said, "I want to buy a pistol."

He glanced at her. The request was not unusual. "I have a fine little twenty-two here, ma'am."

"I do not want a twenty-two. I want a navy pistol, thirty-six caliber."

"That's large for a woman-"

"I have fired them. My husband taught me."

"Oh? That's different, ma'am." He took a pistol from under the counter. "Brand, spankin' new, ma'am. One of the best."

She glanced at it. "I'll take it. I want some powder and ball, too." She had started to turn away to where Peg was looking at some ribbons when she saw the matched derringers. "What are they worth?"

"Ma'am, they are very fine weapons. Small but very well made. Cost you forty dollars for the pair. And they are forty-four caliber, ma'am."

Forty dollars? And she was already buying one pistol. Yet how much was a life worth? "I'll take them. Will you charge them, please?"

"You want to carry them loaded, ma'am? I think-"

"I am leaving on the stage this afternoon, sir. They wouldn't be much good to me unloaded, would they?" She smiled.

He smiled back. "I guess not. I'll load 'em, ma'am." He nodded toward the other side of the store where the dry goods lay. "Looks to me like your sister has found somethin' she likes."

She smiled again. "Thank you, sir. The young lady is my daughter."

"Daughter? Say, you wouldn't be Mrs. Breydon, would you? The one who operates Cherokee? They do say you've the finest grub this side of Georgetown."

"Thank you. I am Mrs. Breydon."

She crossed to the other side of the store. In a few minutes, her other shopping completed, she returned for the loaded guns and left the store.

IN THE OFFICE over the bank, Jason Flandrau stood at the window. He was talking to two men in business suits who were seated near his desk. He turned to face them, his back to the window.

"Gentlemen, you do me honor! To tell you the truth, I have thought of running for governor. I know a bill was introduced with the idea that Colorado would become a state. In such case, I am sure they would prefer the territorial governor they have now to any newcomer. However"-he smiled graciously-"if enough people were to ask me-"

"I am sure they will, Mr. Flandrau. Some of us want a change. We feel a change is essential, and such an up-and-coming man as yourself-Well, we are sure you are what the voters want, Mr. Flandrau."

"You gentlemen understand these things better than I. But if the bill pa.s.ses, then think of me, and if you wish it, I will run."

He turned back to the window, scarcely able to conceal his elation. Of course, they could not know how he had carefully set the stage for just this to happen, and now- He looked down into the street. A woman and a small girl were crossing the street, an uncommonly beautiful woman- He stiffened, and his hands gripped the curtain pole that crossed the middle of the window so hard it nearly snapped.

Mary Breydon! Mary Breydon here! Of all the d.a.m.ned miserable luck! He stared, started to turn away, then looked again, but she was out of sight on the walk below him.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Flandrau?"

He managed a smile. "No, no, of course not. I was just thinking. We could do a lot together, gentlemen. Now if you'll permit me?"

They got to their feet. "Of course. We are interrupting."

"No, but I do have some business. Let us wait, gentlemen, and see what happens to that statehood bill."

When they were gone, Flandrau sat down at his desk. Who would ever have believed Mary Breydon would come West? Had she accompanied her husband, or had she come later because of his death?