Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  Hughes smiled and thanked the stars above for making this so easy. Raymond and Monroe Whitt lay on the far side of their fire next to a rocky outcropping, an empty bottle of whiskey between them. The injured man moaned in his blanket, which was bloody and wet with a rusty brown stain, the small campfire offering up a thin string of pale gray smoke.

  “I’m cold, Raymond. Get up and stir that fire back to life.” Monroe’s voice sounded raspy and weak. “And I’m thirsty. Gimme a sip of whiskey.”

  Raymond Whitt rolled over, the blanket that was covering him falling away. He sat up, cursing. “Well, shit. Can’t a man even get some sleep?” He hobbled over to the fire and began to poke it with a stick. “Ain’t no more whiskey.”

  “I’m thirsty, brother. I’m hurting. Just put a bullet in me and get it over with,” Monroe begged.

  “Hold your horses. I’m stirring the fire.”

  Hughes crept in further, ducking behind the trunk of an enormous pin oak tree. Assessing the situation, forming a plan, he picked at the dirt under his nails, scraping them clean with a twig. Go on, Raymond, he thought, give your brother some water. Step on over there, nice and close.

  “I’m thirsty. . . ” Monroe’s voice faded away to a whimper.

  “Well, I’m cold. I want coffee.” Raymond busied himself with the task at hand, stirring the ashes, the fire crackling to life once again.

  “Water. Now.”

  “Damn it, Monroe, we should a headed to Tennessee.” Raymond spun around, stir stick in hand, thrusting it in the air for emphasis. “That bitch at the tavern said that’s where Lévesque went. But no. You took the blacksmith’s word. We’ve been in goddamned Texas a day and a half now and ain’t seen a single sign. Not a one. Now you’re dying, and it’ll be on me alone to find Lévesque and kill him, wherever the hell he is. We should a gone to Tennessee.”

  “I’m the one with the gut wound and you’re the one bellyaching—”

  “Tennessee,” insisted Raymond. “Tennessee.”

  “Put a bullet in me and get it over with. At least I won’t have to listen to you harp on about Tennessee.” Monroe, feverish and moaning, rolled back and forth in his blanket, clutching his distended belly that was oozing blood. “Water. I’m thirsty . . .”

  “You got a gun. Do it yourself,” said Raymond over his shoulder.

  “Goddamn you,” moaned Monroe. “Suicide’s a sure ticket to hell.”

  “I think murdering your brother’ll get you there, too.”

  Hughes watched as Raymond picked up a canteen and rose to his feet, shuffling to where Monroe lay shivering on the ground. He opened the canteen and lifted his brother’s head with one hand, pouring a trickle of water into his mouth.

  Now. Go.

  Hughes rushed from behind the oak tree, a pistol in each hand. He covered the distance to the Whitts in long, ground-clearing strides. “Get your hands in the air, both of you,” he shouted, “or I’ll shoot. I’ve had enough of all your fucking arguing.”

  Raymond dropped both the canteen and Monroe’s head, then stood up, hands in the air. “Don’t shoot, mister.”

  “You on the ground, ease your hands out of that blanket. Let me see them. Nice and slow.”

  A noise coming from behind, twigs snapping, a horse nickering, caused Hughes to divert his eyes to the side a fraction of a second. In that moment, Raymond drew his gun, fumbling, pulling the trigger too soon. The bullet struck the ground at Hughes’s feet, spraying dirt into the air. Hughes fired back, the bullet ripping a hole through the heart of Raymond, sending him sprawling backward, spread-eagle to the ground.

  A white-hot, searing pain tore through Hughes’s left shoulder—the flashing of a gun—the loud pop echoing in his ear. The force from the blast spun him around, knocking him off his feet.

  On the ground, Monroe crawled out from the blanket, gun in hand. He stood but sank down to his knees, struggling to hold the weight of the weapon. He brought the pistol up, gripping it in both hands slippery with blood. Unsteady, shaking, he blinked his eyes in rapid succession in an apparent effort to keep his target in focus.

  Rolling over on his belly, ignoring the pain underneath the bloody bandage on his side, Hughes took quick aim. He fired, sending Monroe Whitt to join his brothers in hell.

  The whoosh-click of a shotgun being readied just behind his head caused him to freeze—and then to comply with the “get up on your feet and put your hands in the air” command. The voice was patient and pleasant, gentle yet assertive, the kind of voice that could talk a kid into giving up a piece of candy or convince a hornet into not stinging.

  “Toss your guns over here, then hands in the air,” said the pleasant voice.

  Hughes stood and did as he was told. Two men he could see, one with the shotgun, another behind in the trees. He tossed his guns on the ground, shoved his hands in the air.

  “What’s your name, mister?” The tall, thin man stood under a large brown hat that hid his eyes and the top half of his face, his thick, black mustache covering his mouth and the bottom half. His slow, easy words dripped like thick, rich molasses.

  “Hughes Lévesque.”

  “Where’re you from, and why are you here?” he asked with a nice tone to his voice.

  “New Orleans. Tracking these outlaws.”

  “You’re as sparse with your words as you are your bullets.”

  “I’m efficient.”

  “Looks like you tracked them all right—tracked them to the gates of hell.”

  “They tried to kill me first. I shot in defense. My plan was to take them back to New Orleans where their brothers Dalton and Arthur paid the same price for trying to kill me. These two are Raymond and Monroe Whitt.”

  “We know who they are, son, and saw what happened,” said a gravelly voiced man stepping out from the trees. “We’ve come from Orleans. Heard what happened there. We suspected it might be you who was following these two.”

  “We’ve been after the Whitts for some time,” said the pleasant, hatted man holding the shotgun. “Looks like you made tidy work with them in short order.”

  “Hell, I didn’t know who they were until two days ago. I had no quarrel with them, until what happened to Monique. Then I had a quarrel.” Hands still in the air, Hughes’s shoulder throbbed. He ignored it.

  “Well, son, you did us a favor,” said the man with the gravelly voice. “Seems you have a knack for tracking and killing. You ought to think about joining up with us.”

  “I’m not some common brigand looking to join up with an outlaw gang,” said Hughes, the wound to his shoulder dripping with blood.

  “We’re not outlaws, son. We’re Texas Rangers.”

  *****

  September 28, 1860

  The train pulled into New Orleans Station, its shrill whistle drawing Hughes out of a deep sleep. He pressed his forearm against the foggy window, swiping a clear circle, allowing a watery, distorted view of the platform. John-Pierre stood shivering, hands in pockets, hat pulled down, coat collar turned up against the autumn chill. He never did take to the outdoors. It wasn’t even that cold outside.

  Hughes stepped onto the platform and the brothers shook hands, then embraced in a quick hug. Exchanging pleasantries, they made their way to the station’s café where they spent an hour drinking coffee, telling stories, and reminiscing.

  Before long, John-Pierre pulled his watch from his pocket, apologizing for having to leave so soon. Business demanded it. The two brothers embraced again—longer, tighter—before John-Pierre departed, disappearing through the crowd of uniformed soldiers milling about the train station.

  Hughes sat a while longer and sipped another coffee. Everywhere he looked, he saw soldiers. Young, fresh-faced boys pumping fists in the air, eager for excitement, eager for adventure, eager for the chance to prove their manhood. Eager to die.

  They spoke about going to war, their voices filled with the enthusiasm and energy of youth, as if “War” were a welcoming place to put your bags down and sta
y a while. Some would stay—for eternity. But maybe there wouldn’t be a war. Maybe this next presidential election would steer the country away from that. These boys should stay boys a little longer.

  Hughes saw lovers kissing lingering good-byes, mothers and fathers embracing sons eager to pull away and board the trains, and teary-eyed wives and children waving as soldier-fathers disappeared into thick crowds. A feeling that he was missing out, that he was not reaching for something that he should take a tighter hold of, washed over him as he thought about his brother.

  But he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have what John-Pierre had—a wife and a child, with another on the way. A family. People who need and depend on him. His brother had the luxury of worrying about the safety of his wife and child. Hughes would never know that luxury. Worrying about someone who needed him would alter the way he thought—the way he reacted—with dangerous consequences. He knew the luxury of unencumbered work, and the excitement of a new mission.

  He drummed his fingers on the table, a familiar restlessness rising up from within. His mother had sent a message of her love without an invitation for him to come home for a visit. Father was at home, ill and resting, his brother had said. All these years later and he was still not welcome there. He understood. And really, he didn’t miss it, that place he used to call “home.”

  Hughes slugged down the rest of his coffee and then strolled out of the station café over to where the mare stood tied. She was saddled in expensive hand-tooled tack with roses, oak leaves, and acorns carved into the dark, oiled leather. The polished brass fittings gleamed, the stitching straight and perfect. Matching saddlebags hung on both sides, and a bedroll and slicker was affixed to the cantle. She was shod and ready to go, just as he’d requested.

  Hughes opened one of the saddlebags to store his small valise inside. There was barely enough room. The saddlebags were stuffed full of his mother’s usual gifts she mailed to his hotel: linens, money, gold coins, pewter plates, things every Ranger might need on the trail.

  Shoving his left boot into the stirrup, he swung over and settled down into the saddle. Now this—this feels like home. He smiled. Turning away from New Orleans Station, Hughes relaxed into an easy trot, the fine morning mist burning away as the early autumn sun warmed his back, following him west.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OCTOBER 26, 1860

  The robust stage driver pulled the frothy mules to a stop and climbed down from his perch. He swung the coach door open, grabbing the closest bag of mail in his gloved hands. “Well, boys, this is the end of the line. Welcome to Saint Joseph, Missouri.”

  “Can you tell us where we can find the Pony Express stables?” Barleigh lowered herself from the dusty cab of the wagon, hefting the saddle up onto her shoulder. A mixture of anxiety and excitement bubbled within, and she took a deep breath, hoping to keep those feelings subdued.

  Stoney followed close behind with his dirty bedroll. Two thick straps of greasy brown leather held his belongings together, keeping the contents inside from spilling out—a tin cup, a fork, a threadbare, button-less coat.

  Without slowing his rhythm of slinging mailbags out of the stagecoach and into the waiting arms of a lanky kid wearing a postal clerk’s uniform, the driver grunted a few words and thumbed over his shoulder, indicating the large cedar and brick structure behind him.

  “Much obliged, sir, and thank you for the ride,” said Stoney, tipping his hat as the two strode over to the stables.

  The building’s arched entryway was wide enough to accommodate a wagon or a team of horses being moved about. An overhead sign read “Pike’s Peak Stables.” Inside the cavernous barn, the smell of sweaty horses, manure, sweet oats, oiled leather, and alfalfa hay mingled together to create a heady aroma. The aroma induced both melancholy and feelings of comfort at the same time. Barleigh felt right at home.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Barleigh said, walking over to where a sprite, balding man with a quick pitchfork was filling hay troughs. “We’re looking for the Pony Express Stables. This sign here says Pike’s Peak—”

  “You’re in the right place. The Central Overland California and Pike’s Peak Express Company, also known as the Pony Express. Name’s August Olsen. What can I do you for?” He kept forking hay into the feed troughs, yet his welcoming smile and friendly style invited conversation.

  “Well, sir, Mr. Olsen, sir, I’m Stoney Wooten. This here’s Bar Flanders. We came to hire on as Pony Express riders.” Stoney held out the waybill advertising the job, the same type of paper that blew down the street in Fort Worth and landed at Barleigh’s feet.

  “You can call me ‘August.’ I’m the station manager,” he said with a slight Swedish accent. “You need to see Mr. Waddell about applying for a job. He’s the owner. One of ’em, anyway. There’s three of ’em.”

  “Where can we find Mr. Waddell?” Barleigh asked, keeping her voice measured.

  “Over yonder at the Patee House. The big four-story hotel two blocks east ’o here on the corner of Twelfth and Penn Streets. You can find the Pony Express office there. Tell Mr. Waddell I sent you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” they both said, turning to leave before Olsen’s words drew them back around.

  “Dangerous job, you know. What makes you boys so eager to be Express riders? Risking death daily? Orphans preferred? Those aren’t just words on paper.” August Olsen leaned on his pitchfork, his clear gray eyes not blinking.

  Barleigh shuffled her feet, kicking at a clod of dirt on the ground, waiting for Stoney to answer. Letting Stoney act as the spokesperson was going to be the best strategy in keeping her identity hidden, she’d decided, and Stoney never seemed shy about speaking up.

  “It’s mighty good wages for sitting on a horse,” Stoney said. “Hell, I done that for free all my life. Now someone’s willing to pay me to race a pony back n’ forth? That’s a risk I won’t mind taking, considering the high wages offered.”

  “Know what you’re getting into, boys. This ain’t a frolicking pony ride in the park,” said August, raking a dirty sleeve across his bald head. “There’s many risks to consider. The harsh weather—your bones freezing in the winter—the sun baking you alive in the summer. Monotony. Boredom. Riding fourteen hours—hunger. Long stretches of teeth-itching thirst. Thunderstorms. Blizzards. Midnight, galloping full out over hazardous terrain where you can’t see shit. High noon, the glare of the sun burning your eyeballs that are already scratched to hell from dust and sand. And, if that’s not enough risky excitement for you—you’ll be ducking from angry Indians and dodging gun-slinging outlaws.”

  “I’ve faced bigger risks dodging my pa’s drunken fists,” Stoney said as he turned on his heel and hurried out of the barn.

  “Much obliged, sir.” Barleigh rushed after Stoney and they headed east toward the Patee House Hotel.

  The red-brick, four-story building with white wooden arches and ornate carved window moldings was a short two and a half blocks from the stables. On its wide, columned front porch were ladies under parasols taking afternoon tea; they were seated at dainty tables to the left and to the right of the center steps leading to the double arched entryway doors. Moving up and down the steps entering and exiting the hotel was a hectic network of hatted, suited men scuttling about as if on critical business requiring urgent attention.

  Upon entering the hotel, Barleigh glanced around and spotted a door at the end of the main hallway. The etched glass on the upper half of the door showed a mounted rider bent low over the neck of his pony running at full gallop.

  “That looks promising,” Stoney said, pointing down the hall. “Let’s try that office.” The boy from Frog Level, Arkansas, dirt and dust marring his face and clothes, marched with his shoulders back, head high down the fancy corridor among the well-suited businessmen. He walked with the posture of one moving among his peers.

  The brass nameplate on the door read “Russell, Majors, and Waddell – COC & PPEC.” A shadow moving against the etched glass—a muffled
voice stammering on the other side of the door—paused when Barleigh knocked.

  “Come in,” boomed a voice from inside.

  Taking a deep breath, Barleigh filled her lungs, letting the air seep out slowly. Her hand on the doorknob, she breathed in again, held it a moment, then, turning the knob, strode with purpose into the light-filled room, which shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

  “May I help you?” The nameplate on the desk belonged to Mr. William Bradford Waddell. The stocky man sat in an ox-blood leather upholstered chair with brass nail-head trim. He had a pleasant face despite the corners of his eyes and his mouth being slanted downward in a perpetual pout.

  “Yes, sir. We’re here to apply for the job.” Stoney held out the waybill advertisement. “We’re your new Pony Express riders. Sir.”

  Mr. Waddell leaned back in his chair, chewing his unlighted cigar between clenched teeth. “You with the saddle, what’s your name and age?”

  “Bar Flanders, sir. Eighteen.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m Stoney Wooten, sir. I’m also eighteen.”

  “What’s your story, young Mr. Flanders? Orphan? Runaway? Experienced at riding and shooting?”

  “Orphan. Expert rider, accurate shot.” A blush began to blossom and she fought hard to force it down. Bragging on herself was awkward, but the truth was the truth.

  “You’re small for eighteen. I took you for fourteen, maybe fifteen. But the smaller the better for faster riding. Less weight for the horse to haul around. And you, Mr. Wooten. What’s your story?”

  “I ain’t no orphan, just not welcome at home no more. I growed up on the back of a horse and ain’t never fallen off. Mounted, at full gallop, I can shoot a rabbit and only waste one bullet. That’s if I don’t have a rock and a slingshot to use first—which I prefer. I’m pretty handy with hurling stones. That’s how I got my name, Stoney. I don’t remember my given name. It wasn’t used much. I think it was Walter. Or maybe I just hoped it was that and not Owen. Owen’s my pa’s name.”