“Somebody already did,” Morgan said, as Badger held up the dead snake. The hideous thing was long enough to span the space from his outstretched hand to the earth.
Annie looked up at Morgan. “Please thank him for me. Darned bull snake.”
Emmet’s voice sounded odd. “It’s not a bull snake.”
“It is, too. It’s brown and mottled just like…”
Badger snatched up the snake’s tail and gave it a shake. One, two, three, four… five rattles.
Annie took a step back. She gulped. “Well. It’s dead now.” Trembling, she turned back around, releasing the surviving chicks and closing the coop door.
“Guess we’d better be patching the holes in the walls,” Morgan said.
Badger walked a few feet away, took the knife out of the sash at his waist, and cut the rattles off the snake. He cast the carcass aside and presented the rattles to Annie as he said something that made George Morgan smile.
Annie tucked her hands beneath her apron, hoping Badger would take the hint. She didn’t want the rattles from the hideous thing. “What?” she asked. “What now?”
“He’s going to call you Rattlesnake Woman.” Morgan laughed softly. “How about that? Less than three months in the West and you’ve already earned yourself a Pawnee name. Not many Missouri girls can claim that honor. Then again, I doubt many Missouri girls have killed a rattler with their bare hands.”
“I just wanted to get it away from my chickens. I don’t even know how the thing died. And I thought it was a bull snake.”
“Well, it wasn’t. And it’s dead. As far as Badger’s concerned, you are not a woman to be trifled with. He’ll be telling that story for the rest of hunting season. Maybe for the rest of his life.”
Chapter 15
Not long after Badger and the hunters went on their way, a freighter named Jim Willard rolled in with three loaded wagons pulled by six pairs of oxen. Annie heard both his bellowing and his bullwhip long before he arrived. Unloading the supplies intended for Clearwater took the better part of two days, but by the time it was done, every shelf in both the store and the storeroom groaned with ammunition, canned goods, barrels of whiskey, pork, ham, coffee, salt, pepper, vinegar, soda, flour, corn, dried apples, peaches, oysters in tins, and, wonder of wonders, eggs, the last nestled in a barrel of sawdust.
Having fewer failures in the kitchen nowadays gave Annie the courage to bring up the subject of milk and butter early one morning when George Morgan was tending the rat traps. “If anyone mentions wanting to trade for a milk cow, I’d be very pleased if you’d take them up on it.”
Morgan looked at her as if she wanted to fly to the moon. “Seems to me you have enough to do just keeping those chickens alive. And anyway, I’ve never been offered a cow.”
“Think about all the business it would bring if word got out that folks could buy butter at Clearwater. And milk. Anyone traveling with children would want to stop.”
He shook his head. “You’re asking for more work than you realize.”
“I’m not,” Annie insisted. “We had a cow when my mother died. I was nine years old. I managed.” It wasn’t a lie. She had managed—eventually. “Without milk and butter, there’s only so much a cook can do.”
Morgan seemed to be considering the point. But then he said, “Nobody’s complained about the food. It ain’t broke. No need to fix it.”
Frank lay on his side staring at the wall. Four weeks. It had been four weeks and nobody knew when—or if, for that matter—the Pony Express would get off the ground again. He thought about the white gauntlets Luther had delivered. He might not even get to wear them. And Annie had sewed the red stars on the cuffs. What a waste.
Emmet was sleeping soundly just across the room. Waiting patiently. Rereading Luvina’s letters as if they contained the secret of life. He didn’t seem one bit worried about the Pony. He wasn’t unhappy, either. Emmet found a million things to do around the station. Of course there was always plenty to do, and that was all well and good, but Frank wanted to… run. He wanted to see Pete again. He wanted to be on the move. If he could at least go out with the wranglers and herd cattle or go cut wood with that crew, it wouldn’t be so bad. But riders weren’t supposed to go farther from the station than four hundred yards. They had to be ready to go the minute the Pony started up again. If that ever happened.
Frank closed his eyes. He turned over. Yanked on his blanket. Tried to settle. But it was no good. He wasn’t going to sleep and there was no reason to keep trying. Slowly, he dressed. Quietly, he left the station, pausing for a moment to look up at the moon and the stars. He’d ignored the lure of Dobytown for an entire month of long days and longer nights. There couldn’t be any harm in a moonlight ride. He’d be back at Clearwater before anyone so much as knew he was gone.
The minute Frank stepped into a stall to slip the bridle on Rachel, the sweet bay mare he’d ridden in, Billy called from up above. “That you, Frank?”
“Going to take a little moonlight ride. Be back before sunup.” Billy said nothing, and before long, Frank was headed away from Clearwater, riding at an easy pace, getting the feel of the trail and thinking about having a little fun tonight. All night, maybe. Two hours there, a good long rest for Rachel while he tried his luck with a hand or two of poker, and then two hours back. He’d learned a thing or two about poker when he was riding for old man Hillsdale. Who knew but what he could add a little unexpected cash to the family till. Maybe, just maybe, if Good Luck rode with him tonight, Frank could once-and-for-all destroy Rotten Luck, the red-eyed shadow that had dogged the Paxtons since the day Ma died.
RL poured drinks for an old man with one foot in the grave and scattered weeds on poor soil. It shrieked with joy when a banker evicted a good family and, just when things looked like they might be turning around, RL stirred up Indian trouble in the West and brought the Pony Express to a screeching halt.
Frank spoke to the horse. “Tonight’s going to be different, ain’t it Rachel?” When the mare whickered and tossed her head, Frank looked up at the night sky and called out, “Hear that, RL? Tonight’s the night I kick you out of our lives for good.” Rachel snorted, and Frank laughed. He’d have a few drinks and a little fun with one of them pretty little gals who’d waved when he rode past Dobytown the last time. He’d tell a few stories and win a few dollars and be back in bed at Clearwater before sunrise, with nothing but good memories.
He heard Dobytown long before seeing its light in the distance. A rambling piano. Laughter. And the report of gunfire, which made Rachel pull up. “Go along, there,” Frank said, touching her sides with his spurs. As he closed in on the place, the golden light spilling out over a dozen different saloon doors and half as many windows beckoned. Raucous laughter helped him decide which one to visit first. The place looked and sounded much more inviting at night than it had by day.
Frank had just dismounted and was wrapping Rachel’s reins around the hitching post, when the general noise inside the saloon quieted. A lone voice called out, “I tell you, unless you repent, you shall all likewise perish.” Frank frowned, wondering at the level of drunkenness required to inspire a saloon customer to shout religion. The smudged outline of a black-clad form with one arm raised appeared just inside the filthy window to the left of the door. Again, a voice rang out. “You know not the hour when the Lord may come. Today is the day of salvation.”
The only response was more laughter, accompanied by a taunt or two in regards to what the folks inside the saloon did and did not know. But the preacher wasn’t giving up. “Brethren. I preach unto you the gospel by which ye must be saved. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive. Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall—”
The sermon ended with an unintelligible squawk as someone grabbed the preacher. In the next moment, he came flying out the door and landed
in the dirt at Frank’s feet. Rachel snorted and danced away. “Whoa, there, girl. Whoa, now.” Frank settled the horse before looking down at the man in the dirt. “This is no place for a preacher.”
The man sat up. Blood trickled from his lower lip. He swiped at it with the back of his hand. “That’s where you’re wrong, son. This is exactly the right place for a preacher.” He waved a hand toward the saloon. “Where is the saving power of Christ more needed than in a den of iniquity such as that?” He grabbed Frank’s sleeve. “Don’t go in there, son. If you haven’t gone in yet, I beg of you. Don’t. Get back on your horse and return from whence you came.”
With a groan, the preacher got up. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbed at his split lip. Presently, he put the handkerchief away and headed back inside. This time, he didn’t get a chance to open his mouth. Frank didn’t see what happened, but the result was the preacher’s being propelled backward through the door with such force that when he landed on his backside in the dirt, it was more than a minute before he could get his breath.
When he finally sucked in air, Frank helped him up. “You’re going to get yourself killed. Haven’t you heard of Dobytown?”
“Of course I have,” the man said. “That’s why I came. They all said I was insane. But God said, ‘Go.’”
They were right—whoever they were. “You telling me you hear God’s voice?” He really was crazy.
The preacher reached inside his coat, pulled out a small book, and held it up. “He speaks to all who read His Word. Matthew twenty-eight, verses nineteen and twenty. ‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.’”
Frank waved a hand up and down the row of saloons. “And you think this is a good place to do that?”
“The Lord himself went to the poor and lowly.”
“And from what I hear, they thought He was crazy, too.” Frank dusted off the back of the guy’s dark coat. “Come on, now, Parson. How about you ride back with me to Clearwater? Have a little breakfast. If preaching’s what you want to do, you can preach there. At least you won’t get yourself killed.”
The parson seemed to consider it. “You’d do that? Call people to a service?”
It was about as far as you could get from what Frank had in mind, but Annie would like it. Going to church was probably one of the things she was looking forward to about living in St. Jo. “There’s already enough people at Clearwater to give you a good hearing. Besides that, the stage is due in tomorrow. What with them and the rest of us, I’d say you’d have a congregation of nigh onto thirty people.” He was exaggerating, but if the stage was full, not by much. “And they’ll be polite.”
“I’ll think on it. But first—”
The old guy could move, that was for sure. Like a flash, he darted back into the saloon. And just as quick as a flash, he was pushed back outside. This time when he got up he was rubbing his jaw. Blood dropped from a new cut over his left eye. He bent to retrieve the small Bible, groaning with the effort of standing upright. Surveying the row of saloons, he muttered, “Maybe I should try another door. One will open. I’m certain of it.”
Frank just shook his head. This was a strange kind of rotten luck, but it was old RL all over again. Try to steal away for a little drink and some harmless fun, and who lands in the way but a parson with no sense to know when to quit. It would be funny if it wasn’t so darned annoying. “I’m opening a door. At Clearwater.”
“Clearwater.” The parson said the word as if he’d never heard of the place.
“First road ranch east of Fort Kearny,” Frank said. “You must have come past it on your way out here.”
“No, son, I’ve come from California by way of Fort Laramie.”
“There’s a war on out that way,” Frank said. “How’d you get through?”
“By the full and merciful grace of the almighty God.”
Or dumb luck. “Where’s your horse?”
The preacher waved a hand toward the far end of the row of saloons where the ugliest mule Frank had ever seen waited at a hitching post. “I am currently being refined in the matter of transportation,” he said. “Her name’s Cordelia.”
“Well, mount up. I need to get back before anyone misses me.”
The old guy peered at Frank for a moment. “Deeds of darkness and deception are not worthy of a fine young man such as yourself. Perhaps our meeting was foreordained by the Almighty to keep you out of trouble.”
“Or to keep you from getting yourself killed?”
The old guy chuckled. “A secondary benefit.” He began to limp down the row of saloons toward the mule. As they passed first one door and then the next, he hesitated, muttering and mumbling. By the third doorway, Frank realized the preacher was praying. Thank goodness, though, he didn’t dart into any more doorways.
The mule wasn’t just the ugliest Frank had ever seen. She was also probably the oldest. When the parson fumbled to stow his Bible in a battered saddlebag and she turned her head to watch, Frank noticed white hairs about her eyes. Her muzzle was white, too. She brayed a protest when the parson mounted up. “Cordelia is as crotchety and recalcitrant as they come,” he said, “but she is sure-footed and for that, I praise the good Lord Who made her.”
“You know,” Frank said as they plodded toward Clearwater, “you’d have ended up with more than a sore jaw and a black eye if I hadn’t come along. Nice coincidence, eh?”
The old man chuckled. “Think what you will, young man, but there are no coincidences in God’s economy.”
Frank just shook his head. The parson might not be the kind of crazy that landed people in an asylum, but he wasn’t normal, either.
It was barely past dawn, but Annie had the coffee made and the biscuits baked before she stepped outside to tend her chickens. Movement down at the barn drew her attention. Frank. And another rider. What on earth? Where had Frank been? She glanced east, and her heart sank. Please. Not Dobytown. She’d been more than a little worried about Frank for a while now. Whereas Emmet could manage most things with patient acceptance, Frank fidgeted and fumed. Annie didn’t like thinking it, but there were times when her twin brother reminded her of the worst things about Pa.
Ah, well. Wherever Frank had been and whoever that was astride the mule, they’d both expect breakfast. Scattering the last bit of grain held in her apron–turned–feed bag, she filled a bucket with well water at the pump and then went back inside. When Emmet stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes later, Annie asked, “Did you hear Frank leave?”
Emmet shook his head. “Why?”
“Because he just came back. On that bay mare named Rachel. With someone else riding a mule.”
Emmet’s expression went from surprise to doubt to annoyance. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
Annie nodded. But she did worry. She couldn’t help it.
Chapter 16
The parson was like no preacher or reverend or missionary Frank had ever heard of. Not that Frank was all that up on the subject, but a person just grew up with a certain impression of what a preacher was, and Charlie Pender wasn’t it. First of all, he insisted they call him “just plain old Charlie.” “Never cared much for fancy titles,” he said. Second of all, he told George Morgan over breakfast that he’d appreciate the chance to stay at Clearwater while he healed up—his eye was swollen almost closed and from the looks of it would be turning several different shades of blue and purple over the next day or two—but he did not accept handouts and he could only stay if George let him “earn his keep.”
“I’m a terrible shot, so I’m no good at hunting, but I can wield a hammer or a saw. I’ve been a wrangler and a bronc buster and a gold miner, and if I were even a decade younger I’d have wanted to be riding right along with these rambunctious Pony Express boys.
So put me to work. Or I can’t stay.”
Morgan considered for a moment. “How are you with chicken coops?”
Annie looked up. She seemed surprised, and Frank winked at her.
Morgan nodded and then spoke to Frank. “You mind helping the parson?”
Frank was glad for the assignment—for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was a chance to understand what was really behind Charlie Pender’s odd behavior. Whoever heard of a preacher choosing to go to a place like Dobytown? Beyond his curiosity about Charlie, Frank hoped that helping the parson with Annie’s chicken coop would keep him from having to listen to Emmet go on and on about Frank and Dobytown. The last thing Frank needed was a lecture on that subject. Fixing up the chicken coop would also show Annie how sorry he was for causing her worry. It wasn’t enough, though. He needed to apologize.
While the parson looked over the project, Frank stepped inside. Annie was standing at her worktable, measuring ingredients into a bowl. Frank spoke from the doorway. “I was wrong to go over to Dobytown. I’m sorry.”
Annie glanced up. “Okay.”
Oh no. She was trying to hide it, but that was definitely a tear leaking out of one eye. With a sigh, Frank crossed to where she was standing. As he approached, she began putting more energy than usual into the process of pinching flour, lard, and cold water together to make piecrust.
“Raisin molasses,” she said.
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