Messenger by Moonlight

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Dismounting and hitching Shadow just outside the open double barn doors, Annie stood, patting the horse’s neck while she waited. The back side of the log station boasted two south-facing doors. A rustic arbor shaded the one opposite the front door and extended eastward, also shading a small window set in the sod wall. There was no door to the sod part of the building. The only other door, this one closer to the far west corner of the building, was closed. Next to it, a larger window admitted daylight into what must be a bedroom, for Annie could just see the outline of curtains through the glass. Is that lace dangling from the edges of those curtains?

  Luther was leading the way for the others, driving his wagon past the main station building and pulling up alongside the only empty corral on the place. Emmet and Frank waited while he climbed down and opened the gate. Once inside the corral, Emmet dismounted, yanked on the rope wrapped around his saddle horn, and quickly freed his three ponies. Luther kept the gate open just wide enough for Frank to follow suit. It was all working quite well—until someone up at the station fired a shotgun. Outlaw screamed and reared straight up. Frank spurred him ahead and into the corral, but before Luther could get the gate closed, the three horses Emmet had just freed pushed through. The three men watched, helpless, as the ponies fled south.

  In the melee, Shadow stepped sideways. A distracted Annie failed to get out of the way, and the mare stepped on her foot. With a yelp, she threw all her weight against the horse’s flank. Shadow danced away. Annie pulled free just in time to see Emmet and Frank remount and tear off after the escaped ponies. She was grimacing and flexing her sore foot when she heard someone ask if she was all right. She looked about, trying to find the source of the voice.

  “Up here. In the haymow.” A handsome boy with raven-black hair and startlingly blue eyes motioned toward the open barn door. “Best to take cover in here until it’s over. It probably won’t be much longer. Once George gets the shotgun down, folks realize he means business.”

  The boy ducked out of sight. Glancing back at the station, Annie limped toward the open barn doors. She’d just ducked inside when the boy appeared at the far end of the row of stalls. He carried a small keg to where Annie was standing and set it beside her. “Have a seat. Not broken, I hope.”

  Annie flexed her foot again. Wiggled her toes. “Not broken.”

  The boy nodded. “I’m Billy. You with Luther?”

  He wore heavy boots, gray work pants, and a checked flannel shirt. No beads. No feathers. Flawless bronze skin. Feeling self-conscious beneath the gaze of those blue eyes, Annie stammered her name. “A-Annie. Annie Paxton. My brothers are the Pony Express riders. Luther brought us out.” She didn’t want to stare, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Her first Indian.

  Someone up at the station yelled Billy’s name. Annie looked that way just as a hulking figure staggered out the back door beneath the arbor and onto the rustic porch. When he stepped off the porch, Annie saw the blood. It streamed from somewhere along his hairline, down the side of his face, and into a thick beard. The giant managed only a few steps before falling to his knees.

  As Billy hurried to the injured man’s side, movement inside the station drew Annie’s attention. She realized the front and back doors were aligned so that, when both doors were open as they were now, a person could see through the place. She saw two men flee through the front door. Seconds later, they were little more than blue smudges astride two horses galloping west. Blue. Soldiers.

  The giant put a filthy paw to his face. Swiping at the blood, he stared down at his fingers with a frown. Just as Luther reached his side, he crashed to the earth. Together, Luther and Billy helped him to his feet and back inside.

  Annie watched it all with a combination of fascination and horror. She glanced toward the south. Saw nothing but flat land and pink-tinged sky. To the west, the sun was sinking fast, and there was no sign of Emmet. No sign of Frank. No sign of the lost ponies. She looked back toward the station.

  Soldiers. A brawl. And the man who must be George Morgan. Lord, have mercy.

  Clearwater grew quiet, save for the swishing of tails and the grunting of the oxen crowded into two corrals. With a slight wince, Annie hobbled over to the corral to free the three ponies who were still tied together. When one of the ponies nudged the empty water trough, Annie sighed. “All right, all right. I hear you.” For the next few minutes she carried bucket after bucket of water from the well near the barn to the trough. At least the well had a pump. She wouldn’t have had the strength to haul up a dozen buckets of water with a windlass. At least not this evening.

  When there was enough water in the trough to keep the ponies from suffering, she carried water to Luther’s team, one bucket for each of the six animals. Next, she turned her attention to Shadow, who was still hitched outside the barn. What was taking Frank and Emmet so long? How far could those ponies have gotten, anyway? She was not going anywhere near the disaster up at the station until they got back.

  Leading Shadow inside the barn, she turned the mare into an empty stall. Once she had the saddle off, she went in search of a brush and hoof pick, finding both in a bucket sitting on the floor in a corner just beyond stalls. Apparently, this end of the barn was the western version of a tack room, with two rows of saddle racks mounted on the walls, hooks for bridles, halters, and lead ropes, and a row of grain bins lining the wall beneath the saddle racks.

  After claiming a rack and a hook for Shadow’s saddle and bridle, Annie stepped into the stall and brushed her down. At some point she realized her foot had stopped throbbing. Finally, she pumped one last bucket of water, hung it on a hook in the corner of Shadow’s stall, and closed the door.

  Just when she’d decided to return to the empty wooden keg and sit down, Billy trotted into the barn. “Luther’s sewing him up. You should be able to go inside soon.” He took a feed bag down from a hook just above the grain bins and scooped a measure of grain in. He looked up at her and with a mischievous grin said, “Luther tells me I’m your first Indian.”

  Embarrassed, she stammered, “I—um—not really. We saw plenty of Indians on the way here.” Exactly four.

  “Kansas tribes?” Billy snorted with derision. He changed the subject. “Luther also said something about chickens?”

  The chicks! With a groan of dread, Annie spun about and hurried to the wagon. She lifted the basket lid and was relieved to see the chicks seemed all right. When she realized Billy had followed her, she motioned for him to look in. “A woman in Kansas gave them to me. Rhode Island Reds, she said.”

  “Mrs. Hollenberg?” When Annie nodded, he said, “Luther talks about her cooking. A lot.” He reached into the basket and scooped up a chick, cradling it in the palm of his hand and stroking its downy head with the tip of one finger.

  Annie pointed toward a nearby soddy. “Is it true they’re cool in summer and warm in winter? That’d be good for chickens.”

  The boy sounded incredulous. “You might want to wait a few days before you ask George about turning his blacksmith’s shop into a chicken coop.”

  After what she’d just seen of the man, Annie doubted she’d be asking George Morgan for anything. In fact, she’d be doing her best to avoid him. “Frank and Emmet could build one.” They’d never worked with sod, but surely they could figure something out—with Luther’s help. Something small. “If I’m going to raise them, I won’t want them freezing to death.”

  Billy put the chick down and began to untie the rope holding the basket in place. “You’re staying the winter?”

  “Of course. Why would you ask?”

  “George’s crew always goes east for the winter.”

  “We’re not really part of George’s crew. We work for the Pony Express, and in spite of your employer’s antics, I don’t plan on leaving until my brothers do.”

  Billy coiled the rope that had attached the basket to Luther’s wagon and draped it over one of the wheel spokes. He picked up the basket. “Antics. I don’t know that word.” />
  “Fighting. Swearing. Shooting. Causing trouble.” She followed Billy into the barn, where he set the basket down in a stall and opened the lid, laughing as the chicks tumbled into the clean straw.

  “George didn’t start the fight. And he doesn’t swear.”

  Annie interrupted him. “I heard him with my own ears. It was… vile.”

  “Vile. Another word I don’t know. But it sounds bad.” He looked over at her. “That wasn’t George.”

  If Billy didn’t know words like vile and antics, he probably didn’t know what swearing was, either. It was pointless to argue. She knew what she’d heard. And seen.

  Billy returned to the topic of the chicks. “I’ll scatter some grain for them and find something to hold water.” He flashed a smile. “I hope you do stay. George is a terrible cook. Even Whiskey John’s been complaining.”

  “Whiskey John?”

  “One of the stage drivers. Big appetite. You’ll meet him tomorrow when the stage rolls in.”

  Annie stood at the stall door watching the chicks. At the sound of horses approaching from the south, she hurried to the barn door. Thank heaven. Frank and Emmet with the runaways in tow. Billy hurried to open the corral gate for them. Moments later, Frank and Emmet led Outlaw and Emmet’s bay into the barn.

  Outlaw snorted and backed away when Billy approached. “Better give him a few days to get to know you first,” Frank said.

  “Or weeks,” Emmet quipped.

  “Instead of insulting Outlaw,” Frank said, “how about you let me see to the horses and you check in with Luther and Morgan. See if Morgan’s sobered up. I imagine Annie would appreciate it if she didn’t have to spend another night in a barn loft.”

  Billy interrupted before Emmet could reply. “George doesn’t drink. The fight was about drinking. Just not George’s.”

  “Really?”

  Billy nodded. “Two friends from George’s trading days rode in earlier today. One white. One Cheyenne. George explained his ‘no liquor to Indians’ rule and offered to make coffee. They didn’t like the rule and tried to make him change it. You saw how it ended.” Billy backed away as Frank led Outlaw past him and into a stall. “That’s a beautiful horse. Does sugar do anything to improve his opinion of strangers?”

  Frank smiled. “It might.”

  Emmet left for the station. As he trotted up the dusty path leading past the half dozen pens and corrals, something wound tight inside Annie relaxed a little. The men she’d thought to be drunken soldiers racing back to Fort Kearny weren’t soldiers, after all. And Emmet and Frank were obviously feeling protective of her.

  After Emmet disappeared inside the station, and Frank had seen to the horses, Billy suggested they unhitch Luther’s team. Darkness had fallen by the time Big Boy, Andy, and the four mules were contentedly munching hay alongside the Pony Express horses in the corral. And still, Emmet had not emerged from the station. When Billy lit a lantern and hung it in the barn, Annie busied herself brushing Shadow and combing through her long mane. Finally, Frank asked Billy about their sleeping in the barn “until things got settled.”

  Billy glanced above them. “All right. Just—let me get my bedroll down.”

  Frank looked toward the soddy. “I thought—”

  Billy shook his head. “I sleep in the loft most nights. I like it better.”

  Annie spoke up. “Let’s just get our saddlebags and bedrolls and go up to the station.” It was time she met George Morgan.

  The main room of the station was well lit, thanks to small mirrors reflecting the light of a dozen oil lamps nestled in wall brackets spaced at regular intervals around the room. Narrow stairs in the corner opposite the back door led up to a loft marked off by a short railing. A massive stone fireplace took up much of the wall to Annie’s right. Beyond it and set into the same wall was a doorway that must lead into the sod room. To the left, a good-sized counter jutted out into the room a couple of feet and then made a ninety-degree turn toward the far wall. The counter was clear except for a lighted lantern and a large water cooler with a tin mug hanging from its spigot.

  Behind the counter a door led into a storeroom. It was impossible to see much more than the shadowy outlines of goods lined up on the shelves. This main room was large enough to accommodate four square tables, each one apparently constructed from shipping cartons. The ones nearest Annie advertised Father John’s Medicine and D. F. Stauffer Fancy Cakes and Biscuits. Upended crates and barrels sufficed for seating.

  The room was rustic but spotlessly clean. No cobwebs hung from the bare rafters, no lampblack clung to the lamp chimneys. One end of a large stove was visible through the door centered on the far wall. To the left of that door, a sign advertised meals for fifty cents.

  Annie and Frank had only been standing at the door for a moment when George Morgan, Luther, and Emmet filed through the doorway beyond the stove in the next room. Morgan still looked wild, but he seemed to have made some attempt to tame his unruly long hair.

  Emmet broke the silence. “George was showing me your room, Annie—and ours.” He glanced over at Frank and then looked back at Annie. “You’ll like it.”

  Luther cleared his throat. Placing his hand on Morgan’s shoulder, he said, “Frank Paxton and Miss Annie Paxton, allow me to introduce Mr. George Morgan, the owner of Clearwater Road Ranch.”

  The bare wood floor creaked as Morgan crossed to where Annie and Frank stood. She hadn’t realized how big the man was. It was as if a great brown bear loomed over her as he rumbled, “Sorry about earlier.” He shook hands with Frank and then held out a massive paw to Annie. “Welcome to Clearwater.” Her hand was completely swallowed up by his, although his grip was surprisingly gentle. He released her hand and looked over at Emmet. “You want to show the way?”

  Emmet picked up the lighted lantern. Morgan retreated behind the counter and pulled out a checkerboard and a box of checkers. He didn’t so much as look Annie’s way as she and Frank followed Emmet past the counter and toward a doorway in the far wall that led to the kitchen.

  As they passed through the kitchen, Emmet held the lantern high. “It’s not the Patee House, but it’s impressive.”

  “I’d say so,” Frank agreed, pointing to a stove that looked every bit as nice as Mrs. Hollenberg’s.

  A faded quilt hung in another doorway just beyond the stove. Emmet pushed it aside, turned left, and led the way into a bedroom. When he set the lantern atop a dresser in the corner, Annie looked about with wonder. The light reflected by the dresser mirror revealed a tidy room with interior shutters closed across each of two windows, one facing west, one south. A white pitcher and bowl stood on a washstand across from the dresser. Above the washstand, a towel embroidered with a bouquet of flowers hung on a brass bar. Both the dresser and the washstand boasted pale gray marble tops. Frank gave a low whistle of appreciation. Annie crossed the bare wood floor and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Emmet smiled. “Told you you’d like it.”

  “But how—I mean—why wouldn’t Mr. Morgan keep this for himself?”

  “He stays in the soddy at the opposite end of the main room. That’s the original Clearwater Road Ranch. Said it suits him just fine.”

  “Then—what’s this all for?”

  “The cook.”

  Annie just shook her head. It still didn’t make sense. Why such a fancy room? That dresser was almost as nice as the one in the room at the Patee House. And she’d been right about the curtains. The edges dripped with lace.

  Emmet gestured about them. “Maybe this will make the next couple of years a little easier to bear.” He pointed toward the heavy plank door. “Frank and I bunk just through there. You turn left out of the kitchen, we go right. Need anything before we turn in?” Annie shook her head. “Sleep as late as you want tomorrow,” he said. “Morgan’s managed without a cook for this long, he can go another day.”

  “And I’ll see to your chicks,” Frank said. He draped her sad
dlebags across the foot of the bed and left.

  Before Emmet left, he kissed her cheek. His mustache tickled. Annie put her hand to the spot, surprised by the unexpected show of affection from her quiet older brother.

  “I told you we’d be all right, didn’t I?”

  Annie nodded. As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, she rose and doused the lamp, undressing in the dark and leaving everything where it fell. When she pulled back the bedcovering and lay down, the mattress crinkled. The aroma that wafted into the air wasn’t the scent of lemons, but it told her the straw bedding was fresh.

  Chapter 9

  Cold. When had it gotten so cold? Content to remain suspended between sleep and wakefulness, Annie burrowed into her pillow and dozed for a few more minutes. Finally, she opened her eyes. Light… sunlight pouring through shutters. What time was it?

  Slipping out of bed, she tiptoed to the south-facing window and unlatched the shutters. Snow… collecting on the ground, piling up against fence posts and the walls of buildings, frosting the backs of the animals in the corrals. And it was cold. So cold. On April 3. What had happened to spring? The Pony Express mail was supposed to leave St. Joseph at five o’clock this evening. They would probably hear Jake Finney’s approach here at Clearwater at midday tomorrow. A couple of days after that, it would be Emmet’s turn to carry the California mail eastward. And it was snowing.

  Annie shivered. She hadn’t given much thought to Frank and Emmet’s riding the trail in the dead of winter. She’d comforted herself with the idea that by the time snow covered all but the most prominent landmarks, riders and horses alike would have memorized the trail. All her brothers would have to do by then was to hang on. And hope not to freeze to death.