As he and the horse trotted up, a station hand said, “You’re ahead of schedule.”
Clay liked being ahead far more than being behind and swung down off of the horse. “By how much?”
“Looks like a quarter hour or so.”
He almost hollered out a cheer but said, “Outhouse and water?”
The kid nodded to his left. “Back there and by the corral.”
“Thanks and be right back.” Clay hurried around the adobe building and found the outhouse. Once done and glad to be out of the small, stifling building, he hurried to the stone corral and nearby water trough.
Clay emptied his canteen and refilled it with fresh water. He pumped while drinking his fill. With it and his leather bag resting on his back and out of the way, he washed his face. He ran a damp hand through his hair and heard a call. Time was wasting.
Hurrying to the front of the station, he said, “Appreciate the time.”
“You’re welcome.” He watched as Clay mounted the new horse and added, “The natives are a lot calmer east of here. I can’t guarantee nothing, but the boys making the runs say no one messes with them until Reese River or Simpson’s Park. Be ready to ride on through if need be.”
“You bet.” He nudged the horse and the animal jumped into a full gallop. Nice thing about the Express ponies, they knew their job. Clay rode on through the desolate area. He stayed low over the horse, especially when seeing Indians on either side of the road.
The Sand Springs manager had been right. The first, Reese River, wasn’t anything but vacated ruins. He continued to the next station and nearly rode past the shed and corral.
He pulled back to a hard stop. “Howdy.”
A slow-moving man sauntered over to the only horse around besides Clay’s. “You ain’t Monty.” He slapped a blanket over the animal.
“No, just headed east,” he said, impatient to get going. A burnt foundation lay beyond the makeshift corral.
“Huh.” The guy grunted as he swung a saddle onto the animal’s back. “We don’t get many going that way from around here.” He moved the mochila from one horse to the other.
“I bet not.” As soon as the saddle was cinched, Clay hopped on. “Thank you.” He nudged the horse into a gallop and grimaced. The animal was as lethargic as the station manager was. He didn’t know what they’d endured back at Simpson’s Park, but was glad to be riding away from the place.
The sun slunk down the western horizon. Shadows grew longer and the wind against his face cooled in the evening air. He’d have to stop at the next station for the night. Otherwise, the horse would have to rely on habit to get him anywhere.
He glanced back as the low mountains hid the last bit of the sun. The pony slowed to a sluggish gallop before shifting to a fast trot. Clay nudged the horse’s flanks to no avail. “Come on. I have to get somewhere tonight.”
The horse’s gait slowed yet again and Clay saw why. A campfire burned ahead and he guessed that’s where the next station was. He patted the animal’s neck. “Sorry, buddy. I guess you know what you’re doing after all.”
They rode up and two men stood. One went to the lone horse while the other walked forward. “Good evenin’. Where’s Monty?”
Clay figured he must have met or missed Monty back before Sand Springs and fibbed. “I’m making a run to St. Joe and he let me take over for a while.”
The other man saddled up the rested animal and asked, “Are you done for the night?”
He didn’t want to admit defeat, but also didn’t want to stumble around in the dark for hours until dawn. “Yeah.”
“I figured, since you’re new to the area.” He moved the mochila and hopped up onto the fresh horse. “See ya later, Ralph.”
He was gone before Ralph could reply. Clay turned to him. “I’m Clay. Good to meet you.”
“Same here.” He reached out and shook hands. “Hope you’re in the mood to spend the night outside. We’re in the second stage of rebuilding.”
Clay pulled the canteen, now empty, and his bag from around his neck. Even in the dim twilight, he couldn’t see any sort of construction. “What was the first stage?”
“Being burned out by the Paiutes,” Ralph said as he slid the saddle from the horse’s back.
“It’s a work in progress, I guess.”
“Something like that.” He set the saddle up so the weight rested on the pommel. “There’s tea in the kettle if you’re thirsty. The water around here isn’t the best, but it’s potable.” Ralph peeled off the horse blanket and laid it over the saddle. “Dinner is pretty sparse, too.”
He figured as much, considering the lack of shelter left after the attack. “What? No biscuits and gravy with peach cobbler for dessert?”
“More like hardtack and deer jerky.” He disappeared into the night and returned with a tin and a fabric-wrapped package. “Help yourself.”
Clay took the items, finding the aforementioned hardtack in the tin container and jerky in the wrapping. “Thank you.” He looked up, only to find Ralph gone. Larger rocks formed a semicircle around the campfire and he sat on one of them. A kettle was to the side of the fire, sitting on the stone circle surrounding the embers. He picked up the container, pleased at how full it seemed.
The man’s voice floated out from the darkness. “Pour what’s left of the tea into your canteen. I’ve had my share.” He reappeared with a grooming brush and went to the horse. While brushing down the animal, he said, “There’ll be more of the same in the morning, but with coffee to kick our butts into moving.”
Clay poured the tea, careful to save every drop in case the nearest creek was a long ways off. The hardtack lived up to its name as he tried to break off a corner. The tough cracker snapped with a pop, leaving him grateful he had good teeth. He took a bite of the jerky and chewed while watching Ralph groom the horse. The manager of the station, such as it was, scratched between the animal’s ears and unbuckled the bit from the bridle. He swallowed the jerky to ask, “Will you have food and water for him, too?”
“Yeah, a little ways from here. I’ll let him eat and drink his fill before coming back to the fire.” He scanned the horizon. “The military has increased their patrols since the attacks, but I’m not leaving him out alone.”
He also looked around but saw nothing but jet-black. The moonless sky was full of stars, but none shone bright enough to push back the darkness. He chewed on the hardtack and shivered in the chilly night air. He remembered from his California trail time how cold early August became in the high desert.
After several minutes, Ralph reentered the circle of light. “I don’t suppose you brought a bedroll?”
Making up an exciting story might be more appealing, but he went with the truth instead. “No. I didn’t plan that far ahead.”
“Yeah, that happens sometimes.” He went opposite the stone seats and across the fire to begin unfolding blankets. “It gets a little frosty at night but should be dry.” Ralph created two beds for them. “I reckon you can use your bag as a pillow of sorts and I can punch up the fire every so often. We’ll have another rider in the morning, early, unless you want to take that run, too.”
The doughy mush stuck a little in his throat. He tried to wash it down with tea before replying, “I probably will.”
Ralph settled in on his bed. “Throw some jerky and biscuits into your bag for later. I suspect your little ol’ gal wants to see you fat and healthy.”
He choked on the tea. Miss Sterling wasn’t anything but a person he wanted to help. That’s all. Clay swallowed down a cough. “What? I don’t have a gal.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I don’t,” he said, trying to convince them both.
“So you’re just riding to Missouri with no provisions and no way to sleep on the ground all the way from…?”
“Sacramento,” Clay offered.
“Yeah.” Ralph turned toward the fire. “You, a well-paid pony boy, don’t have a gal to ride all that way for.” He chuckled. “No o
ne at all.”
He hadn’t said no one, and said, “There’s family in St. Joe.”
Ralph chuckled and closed his eyes. “Sure.”
The lack of belief irritated Clay. Mainly because he didn’t believe himself, either. He was lying and they both knew it. “Fine.” He went over to his bed and lay down. As Ralph suggested he turned his bag into a pillow, book inside and all. “It’s a long story, but I’m delivering letters to their original sender.”
His eyes snapped open. “Not official Pony mail?”
“No, they were sent a month or two ago.” He’d looked at the dates but hadn’t memorized them. Staring at the letters too long led to him reading too much. Clay admitted, “The last one was a month ago, anyway.”
“You read them?”
He cleared his throat and lied, “No.”
Ralph chuckled and closed his eyes again. “That’s about the most yes-sounding-no I ever heard.”
Clay groaned and put an arm over his eyes. “I accidently read one. Maybe two.”
“Not three?” he murmured.
“No.”
“So there’s only two letters?”
He chuckled at the insinuation. “More than that. Six.”
“When are you gonna sit down and read them all?”
What little he’d read was bad enough. Even worse, he wanted to eat up every word Abigail had written. Twice. “Never, I hope. The lady deserves her privacy.”
“Hm.”
The silence stretched between them, broken by crackles of the fire. “I didn’t plan on reading any of them. I figured I’d do a good deed and see family at the same time.” He turned over on his back and stared out into infinity. “Thing is, the more I read the more I like her. She sounds like a fine lady, and deserved better than to be writing to a miner.”
Ralph grunted. “Most ladies deserve better than they get in life.”
He nodded in agreement and added, “She sews, has a parlor, a sewing circle of other ladies, is unmarried, and writes very well.”
“How well does her miner write?”
“I don’t know. She has the letters he wrote.” He cleared his throat before admitting, “I knew Rich around town and in the saloon is all.”
“You knew him, huh? In the past?”
“He died in a cave-in.”
“Oh.” A few seconds passed before he asked, “And you want to comfort the grieving woman?”
The way Ralph put Clay’s motivations gave him pause. “She doesn’t know he’s gone, I don’t think.”
“Well, I’d better quit talking and let you sleep. You have a serious task ahead of you.”
He sighed, all of a sudden imagining her reaction to his news about Crandall. “I’m not looking forward to telling her about his death.”
“Better you than me,” Ralph snorted. “I’ve had enough of crying women in my lifetime.”
Clay winced. He had a good point. Turning over onto his side he fell asleep, wondering how to soften the news for her.
***
“Wake up or you’ll miss the first run.”
Clay opened his eyes. The day had barely begun as the faintest streaks of light painted the morning sky. “Do I have time for coffee?”
“I’d say a minute or two.”
Ralph had built up the fire and brought the saddle blanket closer. He watched as the station manager saddled up the horse. He’d asked all the questions last night, not giving Clay a chance to learn anything about him, too. Maybe Ralph should be the one going to meet a lady, judging by how decent a man he seemed to be.
He carefully poured coffee into his canteen. Ralph was right. He was ill-equipped for a trip east. A “Yip yip,” alerted them to the other rider’s approach. He took a quick drink. “How close is Salt Lake City to here?”
“You have another two day’s easy ride. One day if you push on through.” He fitted the bit onto the bridle. “I wouldn’t take Henry. He’s pretty partial to his run between here and Sandy Springs.”
“So he wouldn’t have gone all night no matter what I did?”
“No, and many have tried.” The other rider skidded to a stop and slid to the ground and Ralph said, “Hey, Jimmy. I don’t have anything but Henry for you.”
“Good enough,” Jimmy said and jumped up onto the ready horse. Both were gone in a sudden cloud of dust.
Clay wasn’t as fast to get on the new animal. It took him a few seconds to put a foot in the stirrup and hop on. Before he could take off, Ralph put a hand on the animal’s nose and peered up at him. “A word of advice. Don’t mention any mail but the ones in your mochilas. I don’t know the rules about carrying extra mail, but don’t imagine they’d take kindly to you carrying letters for free.”
Chapter Five
Clay gulped; suddenly glad Ralph was a good person. “Yes, sir.”
He patted the horse’s neck. “Also, remember to get better supplies at Salt Lake, hear?”
“I will.” He nudged the horse away and tapped his flanks to gallop east. The first mile or two took some getting used to. Clay wasn’t a greenhorn by any means, but the past three days now felt like seven on his behind. If he reached a posh station between here and Salt Lake, he wanted to spend the night healing up.
Body heat from the running horse kept him warm. Once the sun cleared the eastern mountains, Clay wished he’d refilled his canteen with cool water. The next station came up fast, another burned-out building. The wooden corral was in better shape than the new barn and shed. He whistled his approach and saw the station keeper ready with the fresh horse.
“G’mornin’,” the man said. “Injuns have been quiet these past few days.”
Clay was in the saddle almost as soon as the mochila hit it. “Morning, and good to know. Thank you.” He rode on through the desert valley lined with low mountains. The country had an empty beauty. He appreciated the landscape, but wouldn’t mind a shot of whiskey and steak dinner right now.
The next station loomed ahead. A larger building than he’d seen since Buckland’s Station. Limestone slabs instead of adobe or wood had been used for its construction. He approached, lost in thought about the work someone did to carve out stone. Clay was almost at the station before remembering to let them know he was riding up. He let out a couple of whistles.
Two men exited the building and a third led a saddled horse from the barn. One, the older gray-haired man, stepped up as Clay stopped in front of the station. He made quick work of moving the mochila. The third man was gone in a flash.
“Howdy,” the older man said. “I’m Will and this here’s Bobby. Jack wanted this run like he had chiggers in his pants.” He motioned to the building. “Come on in and sit a spell. The next pony won’t be here for another hour.”
Before Clay could thank him, Will continued while opening the door for him. “I reckon Dry Creek is still a campfire and dry?” At his nod, Will nodded. “I thought as much. Paiutes started attacking in May and haven’t let up since. Some stations get a barn and it’s burnt to the ground before the living quarters are started.”
Clay smiled. He’d met people like Will before. Someone who liked being around others but spent a lot of time alone. The one-room station still smelled like breakfast and his stomach growled.
“Was that you?” Will asked, and before Clay could answer he said, “I’ll bet Ralph is still living off of hardtack and jerky. He comes over for a good meal once in a while. We get meat from back east and Ruby Valley enough to share.” He uncovered a basket half-full of biscuits. “I make extra every morning for him and the boys.”
“I wouldn’t mind a rest break and fresh water, either.”
“The outhouse isn’t built around the hole. I figure I have time until winter settles in. It’s in the back and the well is on the opposite side of the corral.”
“Thank you.” Clay left before getting trapped by more talk. He did his business, feeling a little exposed in the open. Will was right, though. An outhouse could wait when a barn made out of some
thing less flammable than wood needed building.
At the well, he emptied the last drops of coffee and rinsed the canteen before refilling it. A horn sounded in the distance. He washed his face and hands in the warm water fast. Clay ran to the front of the station. If he hurried, he’d be able to gobble a biscuit or two before leaving.
“There you are. He’s ahead of schedule. Go on and grab you some dinner while I saddle a horse for ya.” He hurried around the corner.
Clay didn’t waste time. He ate one biscuit and put another into his shirt pocket. The hoof- beats grew louder and he went outside. Will waited there with a fresh horse and asked in rapid fire, “Ready to go? Canteen full? Bladder empty?”
He answered each with a nod. Soon the other rider jumped down and asked, “You’re taking the run?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“Naw. I’ve been riding since Cold Springs.”
Clay winced in sympathy and hopped up onto the horse. “Appreciate the hospitality,” he said to Will, and nudged the horse into a gallop. By the time the next station appeared, he was ready to settle in for the night. He made a deal with himself: If another rider waited for the next run, he’d stay. Otherwise, he’d ride on and get closer to Salt Lake City before stopping.
By now, he clearly saw the main building was stone. He’d guess rebuilt from wood. More people walked around the site than he’d seen since Buckland. He whistled in warning. A horse and rider waited, making his choice to stay an easy one. Clay hopped down and the mochila was swapped in a flash.
“Welcome. You’re new around here. We heard about you coming in from Sacramento.”
He grinned. He ought to send a letter up ahead to every station, warning them he’d be arriving. Otherwise, he’d be telling his story over and over. Riding straight through would be the only way to quell people’s curiosity. “I am. Thought I’d visit family in the east and make a little money at the same time.”
“Only the young,” he muttered before sticking out his hand. “Name’s Fred. I take care of things around here for Uncle Billy. There’s hunting at the lake to the east. Make yourself at home.”
Rider's Desire Page 5
