by S. L. Stoner
“Well, I’m sorry for the fix you’re in but I don’t see why I should get involved. I have this business to run. I don’t know Central Oregon. I’m sure no cowboy. I don’t even like horses. And, the only sheep with which I’m acquainted, arrive in lightly seasoned soup or coated with a pineapple glaze.” He heard himself say the words, but to his own ears, they didn’t sound all that convincing. A bad situation was indeed developing in Central Oregon, one that needed to be stopped.
Inwardly he chuckled at the realization he was feeling sorry for this Dickensen agent. Still, it had to be said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Siringo. I wish I could help but I’m needed here. I can’t leave.” This was the truth. Sage had to remain available in case St. Alban needed to send him on another mission. He couldn’t go haring off to the Central Oregon prairie.
Siringo sat back, saying, “She kinda thought that might be your answer.”
“She, who is she?” Sage asked, his throat tightening. Somehow, buried in the pit of his gut, he knew the answer even before Siringo opened his mouth to say the name.
The cowboy pulled a white envelope from an inside pocket and tossed it onto the table. “Lucinda Collins,” he said, but his voice was gentle as if he knew the name would hurt.
Sage watched his own hand reach out and pick up the envelope. His fingers fumbled as they broke the seal and unfolded a single sheet of paper. He recognized the handwriting. And so he should. For a few months last year, she had sent him loving notes and other messages. Up until just days before she’d left town.
His mind’s eye replayed that last scene again—crisp fall sunlight snagged by honey-colored hair. Her stepping into an expensive carriage—riding away beside another man. Later he’d learned she’d headed to Chicago, leaving her upscale bordello in the capable hands of a trusted employee. Leaving Sage behind.
He read the few words twice over, “Please come. We need your help. Otherwise, good people will get hurt. L.”
Sage looked up into the face of the man across the table. “Is she all right?” he asked.
Siringo shook his head. “Nope, can’t say that she is.”
Sage rose from his chair, both hands flat on the table as he leaned toward Siringo. “What do you mean, man? Is Lucinda in trouble? Is she in some kind of danger?” he demanded.
Siringo’s smile twisted as he said in his slow Texas drawl, “Wahl, now, I guess you’ll need to cross the mountains to find that out, won’t you Mr. Adair? And, I ain’t going to tell you exactly where to find her until you turn up Prineville. I know that’s harsh but I’ve got to have help.”
THREE
So now here he was, staring into a desolate canyon, far from Mozart’s and all that was familiar. Sage took one last look down the road before turning back and climbing onto the stagecoach. The sales drummer also climbed back aboard and swung the coach door shut. They were ready to go. Dexter grabbed his flask, tipped it up, and then offered it to Sage who shook his head. Years of such whiskey tippling probably allowed the slightly drunk Dexter to respond well in emergencies. Sage could not say the same about himself. Bad whiskey, merciless heat and glaring light were already a mind-dulling mix—even before throwing in a dose of fright.
Flask tucked away, Dexter yanked down his stained hat and picked up the lines. Gently shaking the reins he called, “Heigh now, let’s git a goin’ boys.” With huffs and snorts the horses stepped out, the leads soon cresting the canyon’s edge.
As the coach tilted, Sage pushed stiff-legged against the kick board.“What was the coach’s weight?” he wondered. Besides five people, it carried a pot-bellied stove atop a full rear boot, an iron strongbox anchored beneath the driver’s seat and suitcases and parcels piled high on its roof. Tied atop that mound was an iron plow. On a flat grade, the horses had strained to set it rolling.
He glanced over his shoulder. The roof top items looked secure. But, had the whole load just slid forward? If a rope broke, that pile would surely sweep them both off the seat. “Breathe” he told himself. Dexter would have made sure those ropes were tight. Best to ignore the looming mound. So, he looked ahead but was not reassured. The horses’ haunches were already bunching in an effort to restrain the weight. How long could the animals prevent the whole kit and caboodle from breaking loose?
Beside him, Dexter straightened and locked his own boots against the kick board. He shot Sage a crazy-eyed, clenched-toothed grin as he leant backward to keep a steady tug on the reins. He gave no sign that he’d noticed Sage’s nervous survey of the coach’s rooftop.
“It’s hard on the horses to go downhill before a heavy load. The trick here,” he said, “is to keep them moving slow. Pretty soon we’ll reach the first hairpin turn. There are seven, sharpish switchbacks ‘afore we reach the creek bed. Each one of them’s a grizzly bear. We’ll be needing your hand on the brake fairly soon,” he added.
Sage glanced to his right. A steep hillside fell away from the track. The front wheel on his side of the coach mounted a rock and then slammed down making the coach cant sharply first to one side and then the other. Cries sounded from inside the coach. He wasn’t the only one eyeing the precipice at his elbow. He studied the wooden brake handle, all smooth and shiny from use. He hadn’t noticed that earlier. By the time they reached the first switchback, they’d gained speed. Sage “hopped to” when instructed, yanking the lever back to jam the rubber-covered brake block against the rear wheel on his side.
Dexter pulled hard on the reins while muttering some incoherent invocation. At the sloped corner, their high perch tilted sharply. Sage worked the brake lever and felt his toes trying to grip the footboard through his boots. Only empty space showed between the pricked ears of the lead horses. Once the corner was rounded and the stagecoach was again plunging down a straightaway, Dexter ordered him to ease off the brake. He cautioned Sage to remain ready to grab and “pull for all his worth.” Sage relaxed somewhat once they’d made the turn. Now, the upward slope was on his side. “At least,” he reassured himself, “if I have to jump off, it won’t be over the edge.” Then he felt ashamed. The passengers wouldn’t have that option if the coach broke loose. He took a deep breath, relaxed his legs and studied the canyon. Not much to see. Just rock, dirt, stunted juniper, scrub bush and tufted bunch grass. A shadow passed over the road ahead. The same two turkey vultures wheeled in tight circles directly above, their wing spans huge against the solid blue sky.
Dexter seemed to sense his nervousness because he chuckled and said, “You did real good, Mr. Miner. Just six more of those turns to go.” Suddenly Dexter started frantically pulling on the reins. Before Sage realized the reason for Dexter’s action, a huge boulder tumbled down the steep slope. Hitting hard and fast, it bounded out of sight over the edge nearly hitting the lead horses, causing them to snort and jerk their heads.
“Whoo-wee, that was a mite close,” was the driver’s only comment. His hand twitched toward the flask but he apparently thought better of it and tightened his two-handed grip on the reins instead.
They made it around the remaining switchbacks with only a few more heart-lurching moments and no more bounding boulders. That didn’t mean their trials were over. Ahead, the road was little more than a winding path through the dry streambed. The task of keeping it open had to be endless. Whatever water traveled the course would shift the rocks.
Around a bend, Sage saw that a rock outcrop made for a passage too narrow for the stagecoach to pass through. Dexter turned the horses to one side, starting them up a rocky path. This time the horses strained to pull the load, breaths gusting from their heaving chests. After reaching the outcrop’s top, the stagecoach plunged down the other side. Once again, Sage levered the brake block tight against the wheel while Dexter did the same on the other side.
Finally, they returned to the relative safety of the streambed. It still sloped sharply downward but at least there were no drop offs on either side. Sage rubbed the shaking muscles of his arm and relaxed.
His relief was short lived
.“You’d best cradle that there shotgun,” Dexter said, nodding toward the weapon still in its scabbard.“Here abouts is where we can expect to see that rabid coyote. The toll station is just a half mile ahead. Keep a sharp lookout.”
Sage did as told. He grabbed the gun and began scanning their surroundings. He wondered whether sand-colored coyote fur would stand out against the drab brown of rock and dirt. As if to make his job harder, the uneven ground beneath their wheels set the coach slewing side to side. Sage clutched the shotgun with one hand and the iron side rail with the other.
The horses saw the coyote first. Or, maybe, they smelled it. The head of the lead horse on Sage’s side snapped up and sideways. Its ears pricked forward. Sage saw the huge brown eye widen until white showed and the horse snorted loudly. He’d seen those signs before. Usually just before the horse he was riding bolted.
Sage released his grip on the side rail, braced his feet against the kick board and, with a single smooth move, raised the gun aiming it at the spot where the horse stared. Sure enough, a rough-coated coyote staggered out from behind a boulder, white froth dribbling from its muzzle. Sage felt the stagecoach slowing as Dexter started hauling back on the reins.
Sighting on the coyote, Sage’s arms held steady. He made himself wait. The damn coyote was still too far away but it was coming on, crazed determination driving it forward, its fangs glistening. Sage sucked in air and then slowly released it. Fong’s voice sounded in his head for the first time that day.“Relax, Sage. Be one with weapon.” Sage relaxed as much as he could. The seat bucked beneath him as the horses reared and plunged and Dexter’s curses blued the air. Inside, the frightened passengers squealed with alarm.
The commotion seemed muted, distant and out of focus. For him, there was only the coyote advancing toward the end of the gun barrel. It was twenty yards away and closing fast. Fifteen yards. Any closer and a shotgun pellet might hit the horse. Sage snugged the gun butt tightly against his shoulder and fired. The kick slammed him backward, but his training with Fong let him move and turn with the force. Still, it hurt.
At first, the animal kept coming. Then it dropped in midstride as if hitting an invisible wall. Once down, it didn’t move.
The danger was over but the horses didn’t know it. If anything, the loud boom of the shotgun spurred them into greater hysteria. Apparently the lead horses became of one mind for suddenly their hooves slammed down onto the rocky bed, their hind legs dug in and they shot forward. With a jerk, the stagecoach catapulted after them. It careened past the coyote’s carcass, plunging down the streambed so fast that it felt like the whole contraption was flying apart.
Dropping the shotgun into the scabbard, Sage reached to help Dexter haul back on the reins. Just as he did so, the plow strapped atop the suitcases snapped free. It slid forward to slam into the back of Dexter’s head and sent his hat flying off into the dust. The plow followed.
Dexter’s body slumped and his nerveless fingers released the reins. Sage threw himself across the driver, stopping him from following the hat and plow. At the same time, he grabbed for the reins. Too late. They slithered over the kick board’s edge and out of his reach to land atop the left wheel horse, having somehow caught on a harness buckle. Keeping his body across Dexter, Sage clutched the kick board and stretched as far forward as he could. Not far enough. The reins lay a foot beyond his finger tips.
Meanwhile the team was picking up speed. The coach wheels seemed to be jumping from rock to rock. Tilting first to one side and then the other, each tilt becoming more extreme. They had to be just seconds away from tipping over. At the speed they were traveling, everyone on the coach could die.
In that moment, Sage remembered Dexter’s instructions to jump before that happened. Yah, right, he thought ruefully. The unconscious man slid forward, his dead weight pushing against Sage’s back. Shoving the driver onto the floor, Sage prayed Dexter was wedged in tight enough to stay.
Turning toward the horses, Sage saw that the reins were still there, still snagged and still just out of reach. All four of them.
“Never have liked horses all that much,” he muttered through gritted teeth just before he jumped, flying out over the wheel horse’s back, arms and legs spread.
Landing with an “oopmh,” his hands grabbed for the harness strap around the creature’s midsection. The horse shied at the sudden weight, sending Sage in a backward slide until his legs dangled off its rear end. Using the harness straps, he inched forward again, finally latching onto the heavier strap around the horse’s chest. The critter’s mane slapped his face but he barely noticed. He was too busy scrabbling for the reins.
At last he had them in his clutch. Slowly, he pulled himself upright until he sat astride the horse’s back, gripping its heaving body with his knees. Beneath him, the animal settled into a steady run as if somewhat calmed by the familiar sensation of having a man on its back. Sage hauled on the reins, hoping that his offside position wouldn’t cause the lead horses to stumble. All around him the sound of crashing hooves and rattling coach filled the air. The passengers’ cries had stilled.
He looked forward, thinking for the first time that maybe he could slow the coach before it rolled over or got smashed to smithereens. That hope was replaced by horror. Ahead, a huge boulder sat squarely in the middle of the road.
FOUR
Sage frantically hauled on the reins, until his arms and shoulders burned and his body arched backward over the horse. The team finally began slowing but too little and way too late. At this speed, if the lead horses split and tried to thunder past on either side of that boulder, the coach bottom wouldn’t clear it. They’d overturn for sure. The only hope was for the lead horses to pass by one side or the other. Figuring out which reins would pull the horses to the right, he hauled on those even harder. It seemed to make no difference.
Suddenly, two men on horseback came galloping around the bend on the far side of the boulder. They swept past the boulder only to halt and turn their horses sideways, creating a solid barrier of man and horseflesh.
Maybe it was seeing others of their own kind or, maybe Sage’s hauling on the reins had finally penetrated their terror, because the team immediately slowed to a sedate trot. When they passed around the obstruction, the coach barely tilted.
Sage glanced back. Dexter’s body still lay behind the kick board. The jostling hadn’t bounced him off. With no way to climb back onto the driver’s seat, Sage remained astride the wheel horse, his body as sweaty as that of the lathered animal beneath him. He reached forward to scratch between its ears, “Good job, Mister Horse,” he said.
The two cowboys rode up on either side to provide an escort. One was a young fellow, his hands browned by the sun. His weathered, wide-brimmed hat shaded laughing blue eyes and grin of white teeth. “Well, now. That must have been one thrilling ride,” he said. Sage could only nod.
Their entourage rounded the bend. There sat the toll station. Unpainted plank sides, a few windows and a bumpy shake roof said this was an outpost of necessity. Behind the small building, snug against the rock wall of the canyon, stood an equally rough building. Shelter for the station’s livestock and feed. Farther away was a third structure, this one built partially of rock and open on one side. Large tongs hung on the back wall behind a blackened anvil. Yah, you’d need to do some blacksmith work in Cow Canyon alright, Sage thought.
Still, there was pride in the surroundings. A row of tall Lombardy poplars caught the breeze and shaded the station’s south side. A flagstone path bordered by lumpy canyon rocks bisected a tidy dirt yard. The path ended at the steps of the building’s wide-roofed veranda.
The horses halted of their own accord and lowered their heads. Their blowing and the murmuring of the three passengers were the only sounds. Coach rocking, doors flung open, the passengers scrambled out on either side. In an act of discourtesy, the sales drummer didn’t hand the women down from the coach. Instead, he took off at an undignified run toward a distant privy.
“Hee-hee,” came a weak chuckle. Dexter was struggling upright. He raised a shaky finger, pointing at the privy just as its door banged shut. “They say a scared coyote will crap himself. Happens to men too, I seen it more than once. ‘Specially on this here Cow Canyon run.”
Once again atop his seat, Dexter took charge.“Toss up them reins and then we’ll see about getting you safely off the back of that horse. They’re still a might skittish.”
Sage tossed him the reins. Dexter spoke soothingly to the animals while one of the cowboys held the horse’s head.
Sage carefully slid off its back. When his boots hit the dirt, his knees sagged.
“Sorry I done slept through the most exciting part,” Dexter said, taking Sage’s elbow and steering him toward the station. “I did manage to see that you got that pesky coyote but I’m afraid I missed the rest. Lathered up as the team is, I suspect they still don’t believe that critter is dead.”
Sage cleared his throat. “It was the shotgun blast that really seemed to set ‘em off. Can’t say that I blame them. It boomed mighty loud off those canyon walls.”
“I see you remembered what I told you about keeping a’hold of the lead reins,” Dexter said, patting Sage’s back. “Well, I think our little adventure calls for a whiskey or two,” he added. Dexter grimaced, reached up and ran a hand across a nearly bald head.“I expect we’ll tarry here a bit. Someone’s got to go up canyon. We need that plow and my durn hat. And, the team needs some heavy watering and a bit of calming.”
