The Cherokee Trail Part 9

He had heard the rumors, of course, but he could not believe that the Mary Breydon he knew would be the woman operating a stage station, yet they had to be one and the same. Turkey Joe had been mistaken then, or he had missed seeing Mary Breydon.

He swore softly but bitterly. Killing Breydon had been one thing; gun duels were happening all the time. In this western country, if you killed an armed enemy, it was to your credit, but another killing of anyone would begin to raise doubts, and the killing of a woman was not to be considered. Yet die she must. She knew too much, and she had too many well-connected friends.

Major Breydon had been a well-liked man. Suppose she got an investigation started? Breydon would have had friends at Fort Collins nearby, and they would certainly investigate if there seemed to be doubtful circ.u.mstances. So far, there had been no investigation, as it had appeared to be a cut-and-dried gunfight.

But how? How?

How to be rid of her without any suspicion being directed toward himself?

A simple holdup in which she was killed by accident? No...if a woman was killed, they'd pursue the killers until they were caught, and before being hung, one of them might talk.

A shot from ambush? He would have the area scouted to see if there was a chance that would also permit an escape. Steal an Indian pony and let the killer ride it until he reached a safe spot to switch to another and better horse, probably in the vicinity of an Indian village or camp?

Or an Indian attack on the station? Or men dressed as Indians?

He got up from his desk and walked to the window. There was no sign of her on the street, yet he must not risk being seen by her, and d.a.m.n it! He wanted a drink!

How long would she be in town? He tried to remember when the next stage left for Cherokee.

Stampede the stage? Set fire to the stage station?

Laporte was virtually a one-street town; at least all the shops and stores as well as the saloons were on the one street, so there was small chance of avoiding anyone you did not wish to see.

If ambush was the way, who could he trust to handle it? Of the old outfit, which had numbered more than sixty men, he had kept but a dozen to bring West with him. The others were scattered, some of them gone to their homes, some slain in the fighting of '63. One by one he considered each man. The killer would have to believe himself in danger, too. Slowly, he began to concoct the story he would tell the man he sent, that if she recognized one of them, she would go at once to the law or to Fort Collins and the army.

Once the job was done, he would eliminate the man who did it. If he was to be governor or senator, he must have a clean slate. He would grow a beard, slowly change his style of dress to a more sober, dignified habit.

As for Mary Breydon- He would go to Denver and remain there until the job was done. Small chance of her coming on there, and he certainly would avoid Cherokee.

He scowled. d.a.m.n it, what about Preston Collier? The rancher was throwing some kind of a party for some English n.o.bleman who was coming to the mountains to hunt, and Collier had invited him.

It was the best chance he had to cultivate Collier, who was something of a power in a political sense, always behind the scenes but always in on the action. That was what they said of Collier. Besides, there would be others present, and it would be a good chance to enter that more rarefied social strata where he was still unknown. Yet it was small risk. Collier might think of inviting a woman who ran a stage station, but his wife certainly would not, nor her daughters.

MARY BREYDON GATHERED the last of her packages, her eyes straying toward the small shelf of books on sale. They were, as always, the cla.s.sics, most of which she had read, but what of Peg? And Wat?

"You're interested in books, ma'am?"

She looked around at the storekeeper, surprised. "I've only a few, but folks like the very best. They like books they can read over and over. Right down the street, there's a bookstore. He carries quite a stock, along with pencils, paper, notions, and such. That's where Mark Stacy buys his books."

"Mark Stacy? Somehow I did not imagine him to be a reader."

"Some of these folks surprise you, ma'am. You never know who is the reader or who has the education. That's why there's few western towns without a bookstore."

The storekeeper paused, then said, "He's a mighty fine man, Mr. Stacy is. Single, too. Was I a widow-lady-"

She turned around and looked at him coolly. "Sir, this *widow-lady' is quite content. I have my daughter, and I have my work to do. Also, my marriage was a very happy one."

"I just thought-"

"No doubt you did, sir, but my personal affairs are just that, my personal affairs. Thank you, sir."

She was angry, and it showed. Out on the street, she stopped, fuming. "That man-!"

"I thought he was a nice man."

"He's a busybody. My life is no business of his. Let's go home!"

"We aren't going to the bookstore?"

"Another time, Peg. Another time."

Yet she glanced down the street toward the beckoning sign, a narrow, two-story building huddled between a harness shop and a bakery.

Chapter 10.

NOT UNTIL SHE was seated in the darkness of the stage with Peg asleep against her shoulder did she admit she was frightened. Alone in the darkness, she fought back the tears. If anything happened to her, what would become of Peg?

Jason Flandrau was in Laporte. He had many friends there and was a respected man. He had both money and power. He was a careful man who knew how to cultivate the most influential people. If she told what she knew of him, who would listen? He need only to smile tolerantly and make some mild comment about hysterical women.

She was n.o.body here. Back home she could have gone to a senator, a member of the cabinet, even to the president himself. Now she was just a woman who operated a stage station.

All that she had been was far away in Washington or Richmond where they were busy fighting a war. If she were killed out here, it would be weeks, perhaps months, before anybody back there even heard of it.

Her father, a prominent man with political leverage, was dead. Her husband was dead. She was alone, with no one to turn to.

Of course, she had friends in Virginia and Maryland, many of them, but they were far from here. By the time they realized her situation, it would be too late. Moreover, they and their families were involved in a war, and she had no right to distract them with her troubles. Nor was it in her to call for help. "The strongest," her father often said, "is he who stands alone."

She was not weak. She could not be, dared not be. This was her battle, and she must fight it, win it alone.

Yet if something happened to her, what would become of Peg?

She must think of that coolly, realistically. It was all right to be brave, but what if her bravery destroyed her daughter? She was not one of those fools who believe they are invulnerable, that nothing could ever happen to her. Death had no respect for individuals. It came to the good, the bad, and the indifferent with equal indifference.

She must consider all aspects, for the man who was her enemy was utterly ruthless, would kill her without a qualm...or have her killed.

She was still thinking of that when the stage rolled into Cherokee Station and the door opened, light streaming from the stage-station door across the legs of the horses, the wheels, and the step she took down into the dust.

Wilbur offered her a hand down, then lifted Peg from the stage. Peg awakened, clinging to her hand. "Mama? Are we home?" she asked sleepily.

Mary Breydon looked at the shabby station. "Yes, honey, we're home."

"The little one is all in, ma'am," Wilbur said. He removed his hat and wiped his brow with a sleeve. "Ma'am? If there's anything I can do? Are you in trouble, ma'am?"

She looked at him with a wan smile. "Yes, Wilbur, I am in trouble, but it is my trouble. There's nothing, nothing anyone can do."

Gathering her skirt, holding Peg with the other hand, she took a step up to the stoop, then hesitated. "There is one thing, Wilbur. If you see any strange riders-you know the kind-will you tell me?"

When she had gone inside, Temple Boone came from the shadows near the corral. "What's wrong, Wilbur?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know, but something is. She wouldn't admit to it, but she's a scared woman." He paused. "Boone? What d'you know about Jason Flandrau?"

Boone turned his eyes to Wilbur. "He's been around. Right now he's bein' so sanctimonious b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but he's got a way about him. The way he takes in a street, the way he walks, where he sits...somewhere he's given himself reason to be careful. Others may not see it, but anybody who's been on the dodge knows the signs."

"Stacy asked me what I knew about him. She says Flandrau killed her husband over to Julesburg at the time of the Cheyenne trouble."

"I heard the talk. This officer-her husband-called him by name, and Flandrau shot him, quick as that." Boone took a cigar from his pocket. "Flandrau said the officer had threatened to shoot him on sight, but the way I heard it, that officer never even had his holster unb.u.t.toned. He never had a chance."

Wilbur shrugged. "You make war talk, you'd better be ready to make war," he said. "You know as well as me that if you threaten to kill a man, he can shoot you wherever he finds you. It's simple common sense. What do we know about Flandrau?"

Boone lit his cigar. "What do we know about anybody? Folks don't ask questions out here. It's what you do, not who you were, that matters. The way I hear it, he's a churchgoing man, doesn't waste around with anybody but those who carry weight, who have the power. Only for a churchgoing man he was awful fast with that gun. Folks said he shot only once, but there were two bullet holes not an inch apart."

"That fast, was he?"

"Fast and accurate, and you don't get that good unless there's a trail behind you somewhere."

Temple Boone went into the barn. He glanced toward the tack room where Wat slept. Softly, he said, "Are you awake?"

"Yes, sir."

" *Sir,' is it now?"

"Yes, sir. She'd like me to speak respectful."

"Wat. She's a good woman, and she's in trouble."

"Yes, sir." After a moment's hesitation, he said, "A couple of men rode by t' other day. Nosin' around. One of them was Turkey Joe Longman."

"Know him, do you?"

"I know him. The other one is new. Younger, part Irish. Wears his gun on the left side, b.u.t.t forward."

"Notice his gun?"

"One o' them Dance pistols made by the South durin' the war. Looks like a Colt."

"They were copies, but different. You've got sharp eyes, youngster."

"He's slick with it, too. That's what I think. Turkey Joe kind of steps aside for him."

"They didn't see Mrs. Breydon?"

"No, sir. She kep' from sight. They talked to Matty, and when they left, they talked like there'd been some mistake." After a moment, Wat said, "They asked Matty if she come West by way of Virginia."

"Thanks, Wat. You go to sleep now."

He was spreading his blanket in the hay when Wat said, "Mr. Boone? We got to watch out for her. She's new in this country."

"We will, Wat. We will."

BRUSHING HER HAIR before the mirror, Mary thought back over the day's activities. Mark Stacy, she decided, was a nice man and without doubt a good man at his job.

Deliberately, she avoided thoughts of Flandrau and her own problems. There would be time enough for that. Now she must think of her job. Mark Stacy might be pleasant, but he was also a division agent, or whatever they called them, and with him the division would come first, and that meant every station on the route. The Cherokee Trail, she had heard on the way out, was the toughest division on the Overland Trail. He was obviously skeptical about her ability to handle it. Not just her ability but that of any woman in what had always been considered a man's job, so she would try a little harder.

Food along the line, as she had discovered while traveling it, was far from the best, so that was one mark in her favor. She decided then they would make doughnuts, and she'd make some cookies. It wasn't much but would probably send the pa.s.sengers on their way, pleased with what they had found.

Later, she would have a patch plowed or dug up, and she would plant a kitchen garden. It would help a little and would vary the fare.

Cleanliness first, good food second, and always fast and efficient service and correct timing. Coming West, she had discovered that if one did not rush through a meal, one left much of it behind. Hence, the food must be ready to serve the instant they walked through the door, and she would delay the teams just a little to provide for the time, to eat. Take the first team to the barn before the second was brought out. It was not the policy, but it would provide just the margin of difference. She would time the meals, time the changing of the teams. It could be worked out, she was sure.

Peg...she must think of her education, and there was no school close by. Marshall had read to Peg, and she loved it, so she would do the same. They had a few books, and when those were finished, there was the bookstore in town.

She asked Temple Boone about it at breakfast. "Does well, ma'am, mighty well. Folks out here are hungry for something to read. I've seen 'em memorize the labels on tin cans just for something to read.

"Never read much, myself. Seen a few plays from time to time. That Hamlet now, seen that one twice. There was some mighty fine talkin' in that play, but folks were makin' a lot of what they called his indecision, and that seemed kind of silly to me. After all, he had no evidence of wrongdoin' there, only the word of a ghost.

"Now a man's got to be reasonable. A man who would attack somebody or even accuse somebody on the word of a ghost would have to be off his trail mentally.

"A couple of years ago, back in St. Louis, a man killed another man with an ax *because the Lord told him to,' and they ruled him insane. It's the same thing. Hamlet wasn't indecisive; he just didn't have enough evidence for a sane man, so he tried to lead them to betray themselves."

He sipped his coffee. "My mother was Danish, and she used to tell me stories, and one of them was a story about Hamlet. That's an old, old story in Iceland, and there are many versions of it."

"I would not have guessed you were Danish."

"I'm not. Actually, although my mother was raised-up that way, it was her mother who was from Iceland. When I was small, I lived where the winters were long, and the winters were for story-telling close to the fire."

"And your father?"

"He was from the Isle of Man, born a fisherman and a sailor on the deep waters. We had no books, so it was stories we told to one another, and I miss hearin' those old yarns."

"I am not a story-teller," she said, "but often I read stories to Peg. You're welcome to listen."