Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  “One of you is mighty sparse with your words, the other quite generous,” said Waddell. “Well, tell you what. We’re holding tryouts a week from tomorrow morning at eight o’clock at the Express stables if you’re interested in applying for the job.”

  “Yes, sir. What’s the tryout?” Barleigh asked.

  “We hold tryout races every other Saturday of the month. It’s become quite the spectator event—a popular opportunity for friendly wagering among the locals. So far, they’ll be five riders competing, including you two. You’ll mount your horse, ride to the Ellwood ferry, and take it across the river—race to the Troy relay station, dismount, shoot at two marked targets, remount a fresh horse, and then race back here. If it’s a tie for first place, which hasn’t happened yet, the winner will be the rider who returns with his horse in the best condition as determined by August Olsen, our station manager. Any questions?”

  “How many riders out of the five get hired on?” Stoney asked.

  “Two. One other we might use as a stock handler. Anything else?”

  “How far is Troy Station?” Barleigh asked, shifting the saddle from one hand to the other.

  “Fifteen miles from Ellwood Ferry. Fifteen miles back. My curiosity’s gotten the best of me. Why are you carrying that saddle?” Waddell asked, using his unlit cigar as a pointer.

  “A midnight storm spooked away my horse. This belonged to Uncle Jack. He’s dead now.” Hearing herself speak those words aloud gave Barleigh a peculiar sensation, and she lowered her eyes.

  “I see. Well, if you need a place to sleep, tell August I said to give you an empty stall in the barn. The hay’s soft and the company’s better than what you might find at the local tavern. I’ll see you both there a week from tomorrow morning. Good luck in the race. And, try to stay out of trouble for a week. That’s the hardest part for young riders.”

  “Thank you, sir,” they said in unison.

  After leaving the office of the COC & PPEC, Barleigh decided a bath after four days of dusty traveling in an enclosed coach would be the perfect end to the day. She dropped her saddle off at the stables and got directions from August Olsen where to get a bath.

  “I can’t afford a bath,” said Stoney, jingling the coins in his pocket. “I’ll just head down to the river and wash up there. Save your money and come with me. River water’s free.”

  “Thanks just the same. A long, hot soak in a bathtub is five cents well spent.” She’d have paid twice that.

  *****

  Most businesses in town were decorated in red, white, and blue bunting in anticipation of the presidential election a few days away. Doors and windows were draped, posts were wrapped, ribbons hung from awnings, and contentious arguments filled the air.

  “Let’s go to the saloon,” said Stoney. “We’ve been here all week eating nothing but beans and cornbread. I need something more substantial before the tryouts tomorrow morning. I think I can afford a slice of baloney if they slice it thin.”

  Walking to the saloon from the stables, they passed several different groups of men standing around on sidewalks or gathered around porches, all involved in heated debates about the election. Barleigh kept her ears open and her mouth closed, though she was tempted to throw her opinion into the argument. She felt in her heart that Abraham Lincoln would be the best leader for the country. If she were a man, that’s who’d get her vote.

  “Take your pick of tables, friends. The place is pretty quiet tonight. So far.” The bartender continued to wash glasses as he spoke, looking up once when he first heard the doors swing open and shut. “What can I get you?”

  They sat at one of the two tables by the front window to watch the people walking by. In town a week and both Stoney and Barleigh still marveled at the mass of people moving about. The one other person in the bar was sitting at the other window table, apparently also enjoying the view.

  “Bring us two steak plates and two beers, please.” Barleigh wondered what beer tasted like. “And two coffees.” A manly meal.

  “Steak? We’re not Pony Express riders yet,” Stoney said, laughing out loud. “Make mine a plate of fried taters and a thin slice of baloney if you have it, and a glass of water.” He jingled the change in his pocket. “Baloney budget, not steak budget.”

  “I’ll buy. You can reciprocate after we get hired on tomorrow. We’ll be numbers one and two coming back. I know it.” There was no doubt in her mind that she and Stoney would win the race.

  “I’ll let you be number one, then, since you’re buying the steak,” Stoney said with a grin. “Thanks, Bar. Been a long time since I’ve tasted steak.”

  The gentleman at the adjoining table to Barleigh’s back leaned in close. “Excuse me for intruding into your conversation. Did I hear you say you were Pony Express riders?”

  Stoney chimed in. “Not yet. We try out in the morning. But by noon tomorrow, we will be, you can bank on it.” He leaned on the back two legs of his chair, grinning.

  Barleigh remained quiet, hoping the man would turn back around to his table.

  “Ain’t that right, Bar? We’ll be the best two riders that company’s seen. We’ll show them others a thing or two ’bout racing ponies.” Stoney brought his chair back down on all fours, still grinning from ear to ear.

  “That’s right, Stoney,” Barleigh said, fidgeting in her chair.

  “May I introduce myself?” the gentleman asked. “I’m writing a letter to a friend of mine back home about the Pony Express. I’d love to be able to say I’ve met a couple of the riders, especially if they’re going to be the best in Pony Express history.” He scooted his chair away from the table.

  Barleigh sensed him standing behind her. Anxiety knotted her stomach. She didn’t welcome this stranger’s intrusion. But she told herself to relax; everyone’s accepted her as a boy—no need to worry. She half stood, half turned around, half looked up, gave half a nod, and stuck out her hand.

  “Bar Flanders. Pleased to meet you.” One pump, firm manly handshake, sit back down, eyes on the table, let Stoney do the talking.

  “Hughes Lévesque. Pleased to meet you, too. I’d be honored to buy your dinner for a chance to interview two actual riders and get some firsthand facts for my letter.” He smiled and looked at Stoney.

  “Ain’t riders just yet.” Stoney stood, offered his hand, and introduced himself. “But given your generous offer, you’re welcome to sit at our table. I’ll talk as long as you want to listen. I’ll tell you all about our interview last week with Mr. Waddell and about the tryouts tomorrow.”

  Hughes, taking the window seat, said, “It’s my pleasure, Stoney.”

  “I think I could get used to this, getting paid to talk, then getting paid to ride a fast horse—two things I’m naturally good at.” For a poor country bumpkin, Stoney had the true polish of a politician. He told a story that lasted far longer than the actual interview.

  Though Stoney was the one talking, every time Barleigh chanced a peek, she caught the gentleman looking at her. Not staring, just a few easy glances. Something about his eyes, something in the way he wasn’t shy about looking at her, wasn’t quick to move his eyes away, gave her the feeling that this could be trouble.

  *****

  Stoney and Barleigh woke before dawn and shared a small breakfast of hard biscuits and the last of what remained of the French roasted coffee beans. Lingering a moment, enjoying the final aroma and taste, Barleigh toasted to Mr. Templeton with the last sip from her tin cup, remembering his kindness and hoping he found warm waters.

  “I slept like a stinking dead man. Belly full of steak and beer is how a man should go to sleep every night. Better, even, if in a woman’s arm’s, to boot.” Stoney rolled up his bedroll and shook the hay from his clothes.

  “Yep.” Barleigh put her cup away.

  “Course, after spending four nights and five days sitting in a goddamned stagecoach, then a week sleeping in a feed trough with horses nipping at your hair will do that to a man, too. You sleep all rig
ht?”

  “Yep,” she said, pulling on her coat.

  “You don’t waste too much energy on words, I’ve noticed.”

  “Don’t need to with you around.” Barleigh smiled and clapped Stoney on the back.

  “You two ready to join the others?” asked August Olsen, leading a yellow dun mustang mare and a dark seal brown gelding out of their stalls. “The other two riders already picked out their mounts. Which of you wants Big Brownie?”

  Stoney and Barleigh looked at each other and shrugged.

  “I’ll take Brownie. Reminds me of my old horse back home,” said Stoney, taking the lead rope from August. With gentle yet assertive hands, he checked the gelding’s legs and feet, looking for heat or tenderness. “Big boned—I like that in a horse.”

  Barleigh took the dun mare and ran a hand down her front cannon bone, over the fetlock, and tried to pick up her hoof. The mare, with ears flattened, swung her head around, nipping Barleigh’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood.

  “Ah, a little feisty, eh?” Barleigh said, wincing, rubbing her shoulder.

  August laughed. “Don’t turn your back on her, but once you’re in the saddle, you’re safe enough. She’s fast—hang on tight. Big Brownie’s fast, too, though he don’t look like much.”

  “I thought there were five of us trying out,” said Stoney as they led their horses out into the morning’s soft gray light.

  “One’s already dropped out. Said his ma and pa didn’t want him gone. So, just the four of you left. Tie your ponies over yonder next to them others, then all you boys come on over here.” August waved the other two over.

  “Our odds just got better. We only got to beat two now,” whispered Stoney with a big grin on his face. “We can box them in. You and me’ll stay out front. Work as a team. Keep them two in our dust.”

  “It’d be unwise to underestimate you country boys from Frog Level,” said Barleigh, and she meant it.

  “Here’s how this works,” said August. “When I say ‘Go,’ you run to where the saddles and bridles are set out over yonder lined up next to that water trough. Pick out your gear and get your pony tacked up. Get your ass in the saddle, then hightail it down Francis Street to the Ellwood Ferry, where it’s waiting for you. Take it across the river and then hightail it to Troy Station. It’s a fifteen-mile straight shot off the ferry down the California Road. Once there, get off your horse. There’ll be someone there to hand it to who’ll have another horse similar in color to the one you rode in on. That’s how you’ll know who to ride to. They’ll point you to your target. Shoot your target—not someone else’s. They’ll give you a score on a piece of paper. Bring it back or it’s counted a zero. Hightail it back here. First one back wins. Take care that you don’t run your horse into the ground. A dead horse always makes it back last. Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir.” Barleigh stepped forward. “Will the ferry be waiting on us when we get back to return us to this side of the river? And what’s the allotted time?”

  “The ferry will have made its round-robin before you get back from Troy Station and will be waiting. It should take you a minimum of three hours round-trip if you use a combination of walk, trot, and gallop. Remember, don’t run your pony to death. If two of ya get back at the same time, the rider on the best conditioned horse wins. If it’s still a tie as judged by me, then your target score comes into count. By the way,” said August with a wide, toothy grin, “besides getting hired on as a Pony Express rider, the winner gets a bonus of this five-dollar gold piece, an incentive from Russell, Majors and Waddell.”

  There were “whoops” and shouts of boastful challenge among the four riders as they lined up and waited to hear August shout the command “go.”

  “Look,” Stoney pointed. “That saddle on the end’s like the one you drug up here with you from Texas. You want that one?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll block and take the one next to it.”

  Barleigh saw the others eyeing it, too. Lightweight and more maneuverable than the other heavier saddles, it could mean the difference between winning and losing when pounds counted. She wanted that saddle.

  The word “go” rang out. Stoney blocked the other two and she ran to the McClellan that lay on the ground at the far end next to the trough. The saddle looked identical to the one that had belonged to Uncle Jack. Barleigh thought it must be a sign of good luck or fortune smiling down on her—it calmed her within—as a swarm of activity buzzed all around.

  With quick hands, she tacked up the mare without getting bit again, hopped into the saddle, spun her around, and raced down toward the ferry in less than two minutes.

  Stoney followed right behind, trailed by a long, lean, freckle-faced kid named Ford Dewar riding a flea-bitten gray mare that whinnied and pranced, head high. The fourth chap struggled to get a saddle on his horse without much cooperation from the recalcitrant gelding.

  They pulled the horses up and trotted side-by-side, the three making it to the ferry simultaneously, leaving the fourth rider behind.

  “Well, ain’t that something,” said Stoney. “Look at all them folks lined up at the ferry. Looks like they’re watching us.”

  The throng of onlookers yelled and waved, shouting out encouragement. Some called out the horses by name or by color. “I’ll take Dunny!” “My money’s on Flea!” “Don’t let me down, Big Brownie!” They knew the horses. It seemed this had become a regular entertainment event.

  “Apparently a friendly little wager’s going on as to who gets back first,” said Barleigh.

  “Best bets on me and Flea,” Ford shouted to the onlookers. He stood up in his stirrups, pumping his fist and waving his hat in the air. His antics spooked his horse, causing it to crow-hop sideways, further entertaining the crowd.

  A gentleman in a tailored black riding outfit with a red brocade vest sat astride a fancy bay roan mare that pawed at the ground with impatience. They stood next to where the three riders lined up to board the ferry. His hand-tooled riding saddle and matching bridle with ornate brass fittings, custom revolver and holster, and knee-high black leather boots all gleamed.

  Barleigh gave a slight nod in polite acknowledgement. “Morning, Mr. Lévesque.”

  “Morning, Bar,” he said, touching the brim of his hat with a hand gloved in black leather. “I’m putting twenty-five dollars on you and the dun mare. I’ll earn back double my wager if you win.”

  “I’ll win,” she said with a matter-of-fact air. “I’ll be on a different horse, coming back. One similar, though, in color.”

  “I was told what to watch for when I placed my wager. I understand it’ll be another yellow dun or a buckskin, a similar horse so folks here can cheer their bets as they race back home.”

  He smiled and wished her luck as Barleigh urged her horse onto the ferry. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and in that moment, something caused her breath to catch. Her heartbeat felt erratic and out of sync.

  Looking away and straight ahead, she tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She ran through in her mind if she remembered to lower her voice and speak like a man. She wondered why he raised his hand to his hat as a man does when greeting a lady. He did, didn’t he, or was she confused and remembering that wrong? Had she failed at her disguise before even given a chance at success?

  Concentrate, Barleigh—I mean Bar.

  The ferry pulled to the dock at the opposite shore on the Kansas side of the river. Stoney and Ford rode ahead as the rope lowered, allowing the riders to disembark. Barleigh hesitated and looked back over her shoulder. The man on the bay roan horse sat straight and tall in the saddle, looking directly at Barleigh.

  The sound of hooves pounding the ground jolted her back to reality. She spurred her horse and slapped the latigo hard against the mare’s rear. The horse let out a squeal, then leapt off the ferry, landing like a jackrabbit on hind legs, her front legs pawing the air. The mare’s explosive propulsion off the ferry almost unseated Barleigh, but she grabbed a
handful of mane, pulling herself upright, and they galloped off into the settling dust of Big Brownie and Flea. Within a short time, they closed the gap, the race staying neck-and-neck most of the way to Troy Station.

  Taking the lead by a length as Troy Station came into view, Barleigh galloped into the paddock area and reined to a halt. She dropped to the ground before the mare slid to a complete stop. “Where’s my target?” she yelled to the attendant who grabbed the reins of the sweaty, panting horse, her pistol already clearing leather.

  “Bull’s-eye metal square nailed to the first white post.” He pointed at the target ten paces to the north.

  She dropped to one knee, aimed the revolver, took a deep breath, blew it out halfway, held it, and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession. The distinctive pinging of metal on metal filled the air as the bullets made contact.

  “Dead center, both,” yelled the spotter as he ran to the target. “Perfect twenty-five point shots!” The boy holding the reins of the fresh horse handed Barleigh a square of paper marked with the number “50” scratched in pencil with a hurried hand.

  She pocketed the paper and turned without waiting to hear Stoney’s and Ford’s scores. Taking the reins of her fresh mount, a light-boned buckskin gelding, she jumped back in the saddle, galloping away as the attendant shouted, “His name’s Buckeye. Careful, he kicks.”

  Great. First a biter, now a kicker.

  As with the race to Troy Station, the race back to Elwood Ferry was a constant shifting, maneuvering, and retaking of the lead spot. Walking a little, trotting a lot, and galloping full out where the terrain allowed was the strategy all three adopted.

  Trotting up to the Elwood Ferry platform, Ford on his white mount, Stoney riding a small black mare, Barleigh on the buckskin gelding, they saw a red flag with a galloping horse and rider emblem being hoisted on the Missouri side of the river, a sign alerting the townsfolk that the riders were approaching. What the riders didn’t see was the ferry.