Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  “Fed ’em well, I did,” Miss Sallie said with a hearty laugh. “That blond-headed Stoney, I don’t recollect ever seeing someone so skinny eat so much. And, I’m sending them off with plenty to take with them, too. Stoney and the other little ’un, Bar, who looks too young to shave, are headed to Utah Territory to Carson City.”

  Mr. Lévesque sounded surprised. “Carson City? I assumed they’d be assigned this station.”

  Miss Sallie continued. “Ford, the freckle-faced tall one, is staying here. He took off just a minute ago for the stables. I told him to come back anytime for a visit and a hot meal.”

  “That’s kind of you, Miss Sallie. Well, I stopped by to pay these boys’ tab. How much do I owe you?”

  “Three dollars and seventy-five cents, for all three.”

  “There you are. Please keep the change. Now, I need to post a letter in the mail. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  “If you’re going,” Miss Sallie said to the sound of shuffling papers, “you can be a dear and save me the trip. Bar left this letter for me to mail along with mine. I was going to go later on, but . . .”

  “I’d be delighted to.” Hughes took Barleigh’s letter. “Thank you again, Miss Sallie.”

  From the other room, Barleigh overheard the conversation. She wished Miss Sallie hadn’t done that. Should there be cause to worry? No. Surely Mr. Lévesque would take the letter she wrote to Aunt Winnie and mail it, right and proper, just like Miss Sallie would have done. No cause to worry. Time to go. Time to head to the stables. Time to get on with being Bar Flanders. No time to think about the nosy, frustrating Mr. Hughes Lévesque another second.

  *****

  Standing in the shade of a large oak tree behind the post office, Hughes took his Rezin Bowie knife from inside his right bootleg and slid the gleaming tip of the blade under the seal, careful to open the envelope without tearing the paper. It was addressed to Mrs. Winifred Justin, Hog Mountain Ranch, Palo Pinto, Texas. He removed the thin sheet of paper and held it between thumb and finger, brought it to his nose, detected a faint trace of maple syrup, noticed a sweet, slanted, feminine penmanship, and smiled.

  My Dear Aunt Winnie,

  Mission accomplished. I’m a Pony Express rider. I’ve been assigned a relay route in the Utah Territory. I’m traveling with another rider, Stoney Wooten from Arkansas, a fine fellow and companion who takes me at my word, which makes me feel horrible at having to deceive such a nice and trusting person. But I have no choice. Please kiss Starling and give Deal an extra-large bunch of carrots for me. I hope you are well. I miss you and think of you every day. You may write me in care of the Pony Express, Carson City Station, Utah Territory. Please do, and tell me how you are, how your sons are, how the ranch and the cows are. There is one thing I must tell you that I am very sorry about. King ran off, frightened by a bad thunder and lightning storm. It was our last night camped on the trail. Things were going so well until that night. I pray you’ll walk out onto your porch one fine morning, coffee cup in hand, and King will be there standing at your fence gate waiting to be let in, having found his way home.

  Maybe one morning, you’ll find that I’ve done the same.

  Love and laughter,

  Bar (leigh)

  He replaced the letter into the envelope, then took a pencil and paper from his saddlebag and added his own note:

  Dearest Mrs. Justin,

  This is Hughes Lévesque writing. I’ve (obviously) located Barleigh. She doesn’t know that I’ve added this letter for the reasons I shared with you the day I met you. Thank you again for trusting me, and for telling me of Barleigh’s plans. I find her to be a remarkable and brave young lady, along with a very fast rider—she stayed at least a day’s ride or more ahead of me until Fort Smith, Arkansas. If there had been another seat available on the stage, I’d have taken it, but I was able to make it to Saint Joseph in good time.

  I telegraphed her mother that I’ve found her daughter and what she is now undertaking with the Pony Express. Leighselle’s immediate reply was to ask that I keep an eye on Barleigh and to keep her safe, if that’s possible. As I feel I was making a promise to a friend who is on her death bed, it’s the least that I can do. Although, knowing how dangerous this endeavor of hers is, I am of the opinion that I should inform Barleigh of her mother’s predicament and bring Barleigh back to San Antonio.

  My business in St. Joseph has flexibility, so now I’m off to Utah Territory and will do my very best to make sure Bar (leigh) Flanders stays safe while I remain in the shadows. I will write again and update you once I get to Carson City.

  Respectfully – Hughes Lévesque

  *****

  Journal Entry: Tuesday, November 6, 1860. While the rest of America voted on our next President, Stoney and I dashed our ponies across the plains, never once discussing it. It flat never crossed my mind, until now. Fort Kearney in Nebraska Territory is as far as we mustered today. One hundred miles horseback over rough terrain and at fast speeds wears on you after ten hours, which is how long it took from Saint Joseph to here. We changed to fresh mounts at Troy, Log Chain, Seneca-Smith, Marysville, Cottonwood Station, Rock Creek Station, Thirty-Two Mile Site, and then rode into Fort Kearney tired, hungry, and far too excited for our sore muscles to register a complaint.

  We are Pony Express riders, the first leg of a very long ride now behind us.

  We took turns bugling our arrival as we approached each swing station, and sure enough, fresh horses awaited us saddled and ready to go. The previous day’s mail runner alerted the station managers there would be two riders next coming through. We would hop to the ground off our sweaty, panting horses, pull off the mochila, swing it onto the saddle of the new mount, climb back aboard, then away we would race at a gallop, taking advantage of the fresh horses’ enthusiasm.

  I anticipated privacy issues regarding bathroom breaks, but today, I managed to put off taking care of personal business to when changing horses at the swing station during our ten minute lunch stop where an outhouse was available.

  Stoney was afflicted with an upset stomach much of the day after drinking bad water at Fremont Springs station, and four times had to stop and drop his trousers right on the trail, the diarrhea hitting with embarrassing quickness. His stomach lurched and churned; however, he managed to do his throwing up from the saddle, even while at a full gallop. It troubled me that I might be likewise afflicted and I’d have to drop my trousers. My mind worried over this for a while, but my stomach didn’t betray me.

  Off to sleep. We ride far and hard tomorrow.

  *****

  Journal Entry: Fort Laramie was our intended goal today, but Chimney Rock station was as far as we progressed before exhaustion called a halt to today’s ride. Rough and undulating terrain made walking and trotting the practical pace for much of the distance, but water was plentiful and prairie grass was abundant, so the horses didn’t suffer doing without, and we kept our canteens full.

  Swing stations are stocked with grain for the horses which gives them more energy than horses on a simple grass-only diet. If we encounter danger on the trail such as Hostile Indians, our instructions are to not fight them but to outrun them. Our grain-fed ponies are quite capable of that.

  The mail must go through, and the mail cannot go through if the Express riders are busy engaging Indians in a shoot-out.

  Let the pony do its job. Let the pony RUN. I’m quite content to put space between me and Hostiles.

  *****

  Journal Entry: Last night my journal remained unwritten in, fastened underneath my shirt next to my skin. Sleep was the one thing my body could manage, and it managed that fully clothed and flat-out on a pile of hay out in the stables. I was too exhausted to drag myself from barn to bunkhouse, satisfied to sleep with the horses.

  After a tedious day’s ride that ended with a long descent down a steep hill, we rode into Devil’s Backbone at near midnight. The jagged and broken ridge of the giant sandstone boulders silhouetted
against the moon’s glowing sky looked much like a malevolent serpent.

  We slept for four hours, rose before the rooster crowed, and after a quick cup of thick black coffee and a hard biscuit, we were back in our saddles, pushing nearer to the Great Basin and farther away from the Sweetwater River Valley where it joins the North Platte River.

  The mail went on without us as it must, the relay rider assigned to this leg of the route racing off with the mochila and into the darkness of the night as we slept. Our duty carrying the letters is done thus far until we get to our permanent relay home station. Our duty now is getting there safely and with the same urgency as if we still rode astride the mochila.

  Hundreds of emigrants we’ve passed along the Oregon Trail, many camped at the Sweetwater River Valley where they’re making their final ford across before beginning their trek northward toward Oregon.

  Stoney and I kept our ponies noses pointed west. At day’s end, we found that we’d completed an astounding one hundred twenty miles, ending up in Millersville Swales, one of the home stations along the route. The supper offered was delicious, the bed warm, and the stabling accommodations more than adequate.

  We are at a confluence of where the Great Plains meets the Great Basin as we prepare to leave Kansas Territory behind and enter into Utah Territory. I’ve enjoyed seeing herds of buffalo here and there along the trail, but didn’t spy any today.

  Yesterday, in the area of the North Platt River in the Sweetwater River Valley, an enormous herd of buffalo grazed on the western side of the Platt. From my advantage of witnessing the scene from a distance, it first appeared that the yellow prairie grass was dotted with shadows of clouds drifting across the plains. With a suddenness that surprised me, the clouds transformed in an instant into giant hairy beasts stampeding across the earth. The concussions from their flying hooves shook the ground beneath my horse.

  I wondered what spooked the grazing animals into a frenzied stampede, wondered if it might have been Indians on the hunt. I stayed jumpy, anxious for the rest of the day, with a heightened awareness to potential dangers.

  While water and grass has been abundant on the plains, the danger in the Great Basin is its dryness. The swing stations have water brought in on ox carts, but between stations, there may be long stretches where creeks, streams, and gulley run dry.

  Throughout the Great Basin, there are more rumors of water than actual water, so where you find yourself on the fortunate side of a rumor, the lesson is to drink up and fill up canteens. The next rumor of water may be false.

  The plains Indians we’ve encountered along the way have been friendly, curious, and non-threatening, though we’re always at the ready to spur our ponies away from potential trouble.

  The massacre on May 7th at Williams Station in Nevada, where four station agents were murdered, followed by the May 12th Paiute Indian uprising at Pyramid Lake, where seventy-six local volunteers lost their lives trying to quell the violence, serves as a reminder to never let down our guard. We’ve been reminded of these incidents by every manager or attendant at every station we’ve ridden through.

  After the Paiute Indian War, mail service was suspended temporarily; however, by early this past June, reports of hostilities dropped off as military patrols increased, allowing the Pony Express to ride again.

  Temperatures are dropping. Winter’s frost now covers the ground each morning, the mountains capped in white. Having only seen mountains in paintings and in books, I understand why they inspire artists and poets. Majestic and formidable, yet we must get to the other side.

  *****

  Journal entry: Leaving Millersville Swales this morning left me a touch melancholy. It felt like a home should, warm and inviting, despite the fact that it’s also a stage stop and a Pony Express home station. The proprietor, Mr. Holmes, read aloud from the Book of Mormon, a religion with which I’m not familiar, and his comely English wife played the fiddle after she served our breakfast of boiled potatoes, sliced onions, and scones with jam. Missus Holmes’ direct personality reminded me of Aunt Winnie, and I felt a pang of homesickness. I thought of Starling the majority of the day.

  At first, Stoney tried to engage me in conversations. He has since given in to my silences. “I understand it ain’t your way to talk a lot,” he had said. “I don’t mind doing the talking. Just nod a time or two, if you will, to show you’re still alive.” I nodded, and he laughed.

  If ever passing this way again, I must remember Cache Cave, a dark, deep tunnel in the rock just beyond the watershed of Bear River. It’s a fine place to shelter away from the path of wild weather, dangerous animals, or hostile Indians.

  For at least twenty miles we rode hugging the base of a tall red cliff, the area known as Echo Canyon. The road was smooth, hard packed, and descended at a graceful slope which allowed for intervals of full-out gallops interspersed with long trots and steady walks. We covered that ground fast.

  We arrived at the summit of Big Mountain early afternoon with another fifteen miles yet to go to Salt Lake City. The spectacular view played upon my senses, the dramatic colors of mountain, forest, and valley painted vibrant against the azure sky. The piney smell of clean, pure air deep in my lungs, the soft tickle of cool wind on my skin, the echo of water rushing and spilling in its fall down the mountain filled me with joy. I found myself without a need for words—there were none adequate in my vocabulary to describe the beauty before my eyes. I dismounted, stood next to my horse, and stared for a good while.

  An Overland Stage was at that moment preparing for the seemingly impracticable descent down the perilous slope. The passengers, five of them, were made to walk. It would have been too dangerous to ride inside the sliding, bouncing coach which might at any given moment turn into a run-away. Also, lightening the load for the poor mule team which must control the Stage’s descent was the proper thing to do.

  The driver rough-locked the wheels by shoving a long wooden plank between left and right rear wheels and left and right front wheels, then roping the planks together and tying both pieces off at the tongue, keeping the wheels from turning. The mules hunkered down and tucked their tails to the ground, thus keeping the coach from hurtling down the mountain. Born to the task, the six big-boned beasts executed the maneuver without a protesting grunt.

  Stoney had nodded toward the travelers, his eyes bright. “This moment calls for a wild spectacle of bravery. Let’s give these fine folks something to write home about.” Then, he pulled upward on his reins, causing his horse to rear up like a trick pony.

  I found his exuberance contagious. We waved our hats in the air and whooped like wild banshees as we rode our horses over the pass and straight down the mountain. The passengers of the Overland Stage whooped, too, shouting out words of appreciation to the Pony Express riders’ show of bravado.

  I enjoyed our performance, the rush down the mountain filling me with a surge of vitality. I felt—alive.

  After descending Little Mountain, steeper than Big Mountain though not as high, we changed horses at Emigration Station, and then rode straight into The Great Salt Lake City as the sun was preparing its graceful descent down the other side of the earth.

  The Salt Lake House is a home station for the Pony Express. It’s also a wonderfully appointed hotel that sits right across the street from the post office. There’s a large corral out back with a long row of stables, and next door is the City Bath House and Bakery.

  We checked in with the station manager, Mario Russo, a dark skinned, dark eyed, miniature Italian sporting a thick tuft of salt-and-pepper hair that circled the back of his head from ear to ear. He was relieved to see us, he said, with a sincere, toothy white smile. Word from the west coast warned of an early winter storm moving in from the Sierra Nevadas. In preparation, he had sent two of his experienced riders on west ahead of us to take the vacant positions at Carson City to which Stoney and I had been appointed.

  “This be as far as you go,” he said with a thick accent, an excited waving of h
is arms punctuating his words. “Next door you get you a bath, you get you some bread if you’re hungry, you don’t pay for it, they charge it to our tab, you then come back here. I’ll show you where you bunk over at the Hotel.”

  I don’t know if I’m relieved that Salt Lake House will be my home station or disappointed that I’ll not see and experience more of the trail. Compared to some of the stations we’ve encountered, some no more than a dug-out or a roofless shed, I’ll be living in the lap of luxury, so I should be thankful.

  I’ll be the rider who carries the mail west, riding roughly one hundred miles where I’ll wait at Fish Springs to bring the east bound mail back to Salt Lake House. Here I’ll transfer the eastbound mail to Stoney who’ll ride east back to Millersville Swales where he’ll hand it off to the next eastbound rider, and then Stoney returns the westbound mail to me at Salt Lake where off I go west again to Fish Springs. And so on …

  Stoney and I each have our own small beds since we’re The Riders. Two upper and lower bunks are shared in the same room with two horse breakers and two barn assistants whose names I’ve not yet learned. This arrangement might prove tricky, but I’m learning the fine art of subterfuge.

  This is “home” for now.

  Goodnight.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NOVEMBER 13, 1860

  The Great Salt Lake stretched across the cold, semi-arid desert to the north and west of the city, while the rugged Wasatch Mountains lined the horizon to the east, creating a pastoral valley ripe for growing crops and crosses. Simple wooden symbols marked the graves of those who didn’t survive the winter, or the desert, or the Indians, or the birthing, or the influenza. Crosses sprung from a gunslinger’s bullet or a kick from an untamed mustang—from the dark, cold, silent loneliness—from the myriad ways death crept in and took what it wanted.