Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  “What’s happening? Why’s the ferry not here?” Barleigh asked the dockhand as she searched up and down the length of the river, a sense of worry creeping in.

  “Something’s wrong with her paddle wheel. They’re sending down a raft to fetch you back,” said the worker. “Look up yonder. Here it comes.”

  She looked and was dismayed. It would take too long for that slow, flat-bottomed raft to get down river. She looked again at the distance up the river, calculated the distance across the river, and made a hasty decision.

  “Come on, Buckeye, let’s go.” She spurred the little gelding forward. He pawed at the water a few times and snorted at the spray, then plunged right in.

  “What are you doing, Bar?” shouted Stoney. “The river’s too wide here. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m not waiting,” she yelled over her shoulder. “We can do this, Buckeye. Easy now.”

  She took a fistful of the horse’s mane with one hand, held tight to the saddle horn with the other, and let the horse lurch and paddle his way into the deep, cold water. The horse struggled against the swiftness of the current, and Barleigh feared that the pair might be swept too far downstream.

  “Well hell fire, don’t leave me behind.” Stoney on his little black mare took the plunge too.

  “I can’t swim, for crying out loud.” Ford pulled hard on his reins, trying to restrain the white mare that seemed desperate to join the herd of two swimming away from her. “Whoa, for shit’s sake. Whoa now.”

  Halfway across the river, Stoney and his mare were closing the gap. “Come on, Blackie, swim faster, girl.”

  The raft on the opposite shore was pulling away from the pier, one angry, pawing, rearing white horse with its red-faced rider aboard. The flat-bottomed vessel flirted dangerously close to capsizing with the horse’s overwrought behavior.

  “Come on, Buckeye. You can do this,” Barleigh urged. She held on for dear life, the gelding lurching forward, his feet thrashing like wild pistons in the water. Pulling her feet free from the stirrups, drawing her knees up, she tried to keep her legs away from the danger of being pummeled by the horse’s sharp hooves.

  Near the bank, the gentleman on the bay roan mare watched, cheering them on. The entire shoreline filled with people shouting, waving, clapping, yelling out encouragement. The boisterous crowd had shifted downstream to where Buckeye and Blackie came out of the water to raucous applause and shouts of “run, pony, run!” Neck and neck, they shot off in a flash toward the Pony Express stables, dripping wet and shivering.

  The station manager, August Olsen, was waiting at the stables with COC & PPEC owner William Waddell as the two galloped to a stop. Stoney and Blackie, a neck in the lead, were the first, with Barleigh and Buckeye a close second. The sound of fast hooves striking the ground told that Ford was moments behind.

  A large crowd gathered around, pushing in to see the triumphant return of the three riders. Men on horseback, ladies carrying parasols, children running circles around each other, dogs nipping and barking—all made for a festive atmosphere.

  “What in Pete’s name happened to you two?” asked August Olsen. “You’re all wet.”

  “The ferry wasn’t there,” Barleigh said through chattering teeth.

  “I sent a raft for you. What in the hell happened? Did it turn over?” He looked at Ford. “You’re dry.” August scratched his bald head, his face scrunched in a confused expression.

  “Didn’t care to wait for the boat. We swam.” Her body trembled hard with a deepening chill.

  “Well, why in tarnation did you do that?” The rotund William Waddell, with his mouth in a perpetual frown, waited for an answer.

  “The sign on your office wall, sir, the Pony Express motto. ‘The mail MUST go through.’ I thought of what I’d do if I were carrying the mail and the ferry . . . was out.” She tried to control her chattering teeth and shivering body. “I’d make sure, come hell or high water, that the mail would get through.”

  “Is that right, son? Why, that impresses me immeasurably,” said William Waddell, eyes beaming. “And you, Mr. Wooten? Is that what you were thinking when you swam the river?”

  “Partly, sir,” replied Stoney, teeth chattering. “That five-dollar gold piece may have been on my mind, too.”

  The crowd roared with laughter and wild applause.

  “That impresses me even more—an honest answer.” Waddell’s laugh was hearty and loud. “August, who do you pronounce the winner of our little race?”

  “Well, sir, it looks like the horses are no worse for the wear for taking a cold swim. Hell, it seems like they enjoyed the plunge. Stoney Wooten wins fair and square.”

  August handed the gold coin to Stoney, then pointed at Barleigh. “Now you two get inside to my office. Best you strip off those wet clothes before you both catch pneumonia. I’ll bring you some horse blankets until we can find something dry to wear.”

  “Uh, sir, but I, uh . . . ,” Barleigh stammered.

  “I just doubled my money betting on these two lads,” said the man on the bay roan mare, easing his horse through the crowd. “The least I can do is pay for each of them a hot bath over at Miss Sallie’s Boarding House,” Mr. Lévesque said.

  “That’s mighty generous, sir,” said August. “I’m sure they’d appreciate that.”

  “That was one hell of an exciting finish. Lunch is on me for all the riders over at the tavern, after you’ve dried off, of course. I’ll go set it up with Miss Sallie.” He turned and rode away before anyone could protest.

  “Before you take off, we have an item of business to attend to.” Mr. Waddell handed each rider their own personal Bible. “This Bible is the courtesy of Mr. Alexander Majors, one of the other owners of the company. Being a temperate and religious man, he requires the same of his employees and that each of you shall swear an oath of your allegiance. You all three stand together here and raise your right hand. When I’ve read the oath, state your name and give your verbal agreement.”

  The three stood shoulder to shoulder, Barleigh and Stoney shaking in wet boots, Bible in left hands, right hands raised, and solemnly took the oath of the Pony Express.

  “While I am in the employment of Mr. A. Majors and Company, I agree not to use profane language, that I will drink no intoxicating liquors, I agree not to gamble, not to treat animals cruelly, and not to do anything else that is incompatible with the conduct of a gentleman. I will neither quarrel nor fight with other employees. I will be faithful and honest in my duties and will direct all my acts to win the confidence of my employers. If I violate any of the above conditions, I agree to accept my discharge without any pay for my services. So help me God.”

  In good faith, her heart honest and without malice, Barleigh took the oath that said she would conduct herself as a gentleman. She didn’t swear that she was a gentleman. The other parts of the oath gave her no pause: no drinking, gambling, cursing, or fighting; be faithful and honest in her duties; be kind to the animals. Easy.

  “You are now all three officially Pony Express riders. Ford, you as an alternate and stock tender. See me back in my office after lunch.” Mr. Waddell shook each rider’s hand. “Congratulations.”

  “Just curious. What ever happened to the fourth chap from this morning?” Ford asked.

  “After ten minutes and finally managing to get his pony saddled, that ol’ horse went to bucking and put on quite a show of it,” August laughed, slapping his knee. “That boy hit the dirt so hard it rattled his teeth. Said then that he’d had enough of it and was going back to his plow.”

  *****

  A hot bath and dry clothes put Barleigh in a fine mood. The lunch, courtesy of Mr. Lévesque, was delicious and more food than she’d seen since leaving Texas. Hungry, she ate like a starving man.

  Mr. Lévesque kept his attention on Stoney and Ford, his queries directed for the most part toward them. He seldom spoke to Barleigh or looked her way except for an odd question here or there. So many nosy questions. Fine. He
r appetite had returned, and all she wanted was to eat.

  After lunch, the short walk over to Patee House to meet with Mr. Waddell took more time than it should have. Everyone who recognized the three riders wanted to shake their hands and offer congratulatory praise, a slap on the back, or a word of advice. Old women kissed their cheeks and said quick prayers for their safety. Blushing young girls offered shy smiles and batted eyelashes, and smudged-faced little boys stepped in the shadows of their boot steps.

  They’d gained notoriety for doing something they all loved to do and which came as naturally to each of them as breathing. Riding horses. Riding fast.

  “I was watching from my window,” said Mr. Waddell, ushering them into his office. “You’re now celebrated young riders of the Pony Express whom everyone wants to touch, hoping that maybe just a little of your derring-do will rub off on them. Have a seat. Let me tell you about our mail service and what you’ll be doing to help ensure its success.”

  Taking seats on the ox-blood leather sofa across from Mr. Waddell’s desk, the three sat and listened with rapt attention as he explained what they should expect.

  “At any given time along the route, I’ve approximately eighty riders. Additionally, there are more than four hundred other employees, from station keepers to stock tenders to route managers. You’ll be assigned two home stations. Home stations are about seventy-five to a hundred miles apart. In between home stations are swing stations which are about ten to fifteen miles apart. How it works is that you’ll start at your first home station, race to the first swing station where a fresh mount will await saddled and ready to go. Switch to your fresh mount and race to the next swing station and so on and so on until you get to your other home station. There, you’ll rest for eight hours or longer, depending on where the return mail is, and then relay the mail back to your initial home station. Questions?”

  Ford spoke up. “How will the swing station know I’m coming and to have a fresh horse ready?”

  “You’ll be issued a bugle. When you’re nearing the station, blow your horn to announce your arrival.”

  “How will we carry the mail?” Barleigh asked, excitement growing at the realization that she’d done it—she was a Pony Express rider.

  “We had a specially designed leather sling made for this endeavor. It’s called a ‘mochila.’ It goes over the saddle. It has a hole in the front for the saddle horn, and a slit in the back for the cantle to fit through. It can easily and quickly be removed from one saddle, then thrown over the next in a split second. The weight of the rider keeps it in place. Which brings me to my next point, Bar.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “That saddle you tote around needs to be stored someplace. You won’t be using your own saddle. It’d take too much time to resaddle horses at each swing station. The horses will be there, saddled, ready to run. Only the mochila goes with you from swing station to swing station. You swing the mochila off your saddle, swing it on to the fresh saddle, then away you go to the next swing station. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded her understanding.

  “Where’s the mail go?” asked Stoney.

  “At the corners of the mochila are four locked leather boxes called ‘cantinas.’ That’s where the mail goes. Each home station manager has a key to add to or remove mail as necessary. Letters are wrapped in oiled silk to prevent water damage.”

  “So we ride from home base to home base about a hundred miles or so before changing riders? Day or night?” asked Ford.

  “Day or night, whether raining, snowing, or in the high heat of the day, the mail must go through.” Waddell pointed his unlit cigar to the wooden plaque engraved with the company’s motto.

  Coming around to sit on the edge of his desk, Waddell took on a serious tone as he spoke. “One thousand nine hundred sixty-six miles separate Saint Joe, Missouri, from Sacramento, California. We’ve proven it can be done in ten days or less. There’ll be tough challenges along the way. Rough terrain. Inclement weather. You’ll get hungry. You’ll get thirsty. You’ll face boredom. You might face a bandit or two. We’ve had incidents with hostile Indians.”

  Waddell paused and looked each one in the eye. “The job is tough, but you have to be tougher. There’s no shame in bowing out now if you don’t think you’re up to the task. We have tryouts every other week. Someone else will gladly take your saddle if you don’t want to sit in it.”

  “When do we start?” they all seemed to ask at once.

  “First thing tomorrow. Ford, you’ll be staying here to help August Olsen with stock tending, moving horses back and forth along the line, breaking new horses, and filling in as an alternate rider when we need you. It pays less since the danger’s less—fifteen dollars a week plus room and board. That sit right with you?”

  “That sits right with me, sir, if I can have a shot at being a full-time mail rider when a slot opens up.” Ford said.

  Mr. Waddell nodded. “You’ll be first in line.”

  Then, “Bar and Stoney, we need riders in the Utah Territory, Carson City Station. I figure if you swim horses across the Missouri without hesitation, you won’t mind riding the most dangerous leg of the relay. Concerning wages, the average rider’s pay is twenty-five dollars a week plus room and board. But you’re not the average rider, are you, Bar? You’re not like the others.”

  “Ex—excuse me, sir?” She looked up, eyes wide.

  “What I mean is, riders who take on bigger risks, for instance, or who ride longer than their normal shift, or who carry special mail might get paid more—more than the average. I think you might be one of those kind of riders.”

  “Yes, sir.” She let out the breath she’d been holding.

  Mr. Waddell handed the riders a map of the trail. “Like I said, we need riders for the relay segment in Utah Territory. It’s Indian Territory. We have a hard time keeping riders and horses out there.”

  “I’ll ride the whole damned, I mean dang, route if you want me to, sir,” said Stoney.

  Waddell laughed. “Now that’s the spirit. You’ll become so familiar with your own part of the route that you’ll know every rock, cactus, and creek along the way. Both you and your pony will be able to ride it with your eyes closed, though I wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll depart tomorrow morning to head for your new home stations. Good luck, and Godspeed.”

  Utah Territory. Indian Territory. There were a lot of miles and mountains to cross before getting to Carson City. Barleigh’s hands trembled as she studied the map of the trail.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NOVEMBER 3, 1860

  Journal Entry: Saturday night. The sun will rise at my back tomorrow as I head west into that gaping frontier which waits beyond the outer fringe of civilization. From studying the map Mr. Waddell gave us, we’ll follow the Oregon Trail most of the way until it leaves us in the vicinity of the Great Salt Lake where The Trail then climbs to its Pacific north-western destination. Stoney and I will press westward.

  Mr. Waddell says the Oregon Trail is well established by fur trappers, traders, and emigrants that have gone before in their oxcarts and wide-wheel wagons. Our swing stations and home stations are marked along the trail and will be easy to identify.

  Tonight, my restless thoughts feel as loosely bound as our fractious country. While the North and the South appear near to tearing apart, the Pony Express chomps at the bit, eager to stitch together the east to the west. Perhaps this swift mail delivery will hold open the lines of communication between America’s opposite shores and will serve as the instrument that holds our tenuous Union together.

  This night may be my last opportunity for some time to write in my journal, as I don’t know what to expect from here forward when each day is done. My journal is the one place where Barleigh can exist. Maybe it would be best if I put away my pencils, stowed my journal, and kept Barleigh safely out of sight.

  But I can’t not have a journal with me. I feel itchy even at the thought. I’ll take one plus a pencil or two, wr
apped together, and will carry them tucked inside my shirt.

  Tomorrow begins our long trek to Carson City. I’m excited, nervous, and anxious—but at the same time, I feel blank and empty. Even laughter and polite conversation have posed a challenge. I feel like a forgery. A phony. And for good reason. I’m pretending to be a boy. Am I also pretending to be human? A hollow shell awaiting to be refilled with feelings and emotions is what I am.

  Longing is the singular sentiment that keeps me faintly tied to myself with a thin thread. I remember nights at Coffee Creek Ranch, Papa and Birdie sitting in front of the fire, me on the floor, Papa reading to us from the newspaper. Oh, Papa …

  Embers of longing, however faint they glow, are best kept buried. Feelings such as those have the potential to become disastrous distractions. I cannot afford distractions.

  I must think things through. Look beyond the immediate. Keep the end goal in sight. Stay focused on the Pony Express and being Bar Flanders.

  Yet tonight my mind wanders …

  Hughes Lévesque is a handsome man, but there is something about him that seems intense—unreal—as if he doesn’t share the same flesh and blood as other men. He’s above it. He is set apart, and he knows it, though his unflinching confidence doesn’t give way to haughty arrogance.

  It’s in his eyes. They know the world’s secrets yet reveal nothing of their own.

  It’s good that tomorrow I’ll put him behind me. He’ll go on about his life, and I mine. I’ll not live in danger of his eyes uncovering my secrets.

  I am, after all, a boy.

  I’m Bar Flanders, a young, skinny, wiry fellow not over eighteen, an expert rider willing to risk death daily.

  An orphan. Nothing more.

  ******

  Early before dawn, Stoney and Barleigh filled their bellies at Miss Sallie’s fancy dining table at her insistence. At her insistence, too, they filled their saddlebags with plenty of biscuits, smoked ham, venison jerky, and dried apples for their journey.

  “Did you feed those boys well?” Mr. Lévesque walked into the kitchen as they finished their breakfast in the other room.