by T. K. Lukas
Big Brody rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, and then went back to sweeping.
“I didn’t mean that, Mario,” said Barleigh. “Yes, sir, that sounds like hell to me, too.”
“Don’t mind me.” Mario gave a dismissing wave of his hands. “My toes are cold. So, what’d you do, Bar? Lévesque came back sullen and looking for a good drunk.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said, a little too defensively she thought.
“Maybe he’s lonely for his lady friend in San Antonio that he’s writing to,” said Mario with a mischievous grin. “Maybe his toes and other body parts need warmed.” Mario laughed.
“Maybe it’s because I told him he couldn’t have Dorthea, that I wanted her all for myself.” Barleigh spat on the ground and left the barn, the sounds of laughter from Mario and Big Brody following her out the door.
Barleigh crossed the wide street as she made her way toward the hotel, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed, crawl under the covers, pull the sheet over her head, and hibernate for the rest of the day. She missed Aunt Winnie—missed Starling. She missed Texas. She wanted to go home, even if home was just a burned piece of land.
“Hey, watch where you’re walking,” said a gruff voice, reeling from the surprise impact of two people colliding. The speech was slurred, the clothes reeking with alcohol, dirt, sweat, and urine.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” said Barleigh. “I guess my feet didn’t know where to be.”
“In a holy place of worship is where you should be,” said the old man, straightening his sour-smelling coat. “It’s Sunday morning.”
“And where should you be then?” asked Barleigh.
“That’s none of your business. But if you could spare a few coins to cover my breakfast, I’ll forget about your rude behavior.” The stinking suit held out his hand.
Barleigh fished around in her pockets and came out with some spare change, handing it over to the old man. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll forget about your rude behavior, too.”
“Thank you, miss. God bless you.”
Barleigh stopped in her tracks and stared into the old man’s watery, bloodshot eyes. “What did you say?”
“I said thank you, miss, and God bless you. That was all. You ain’t going to make trouble for me, are you?”
“No. No trouble. Blessings, or whatever, to you too.” Barleigh tossed him another coin and went into the hotel.
Thank you, Miss? Miss? What the hell am I doing here?
The room was dark, quiet, the four bunk beds that Big Brody and Yates shared along with the new stock handlers, Lars and Liam, were empty. The two single beds, hers and Stoney’s, were empty as well. With everyone gone, she had the room to herself for a change. No having to lay here listening to farting and belching—no disgusting, raunchy humor about women’s genitalia, and then pretending to laugh.
Barleigh lay across her bead, stretching out over the top of the covers, enjoying the quiet. She kicked off her boots, loosened the cord on her shirt, and untucked the ends, getting comfortable.
She turned her head and looked at the wall between her and Hughes’s room, trying to envision what he was doing. Would he be lying on his bed with his boots kicked off? With his shirt off? Would he be sitting by the window, sipping his whiskey? Why would he need whiskey this early in the day? Why was he kind one minute, then rude and sullen the next? Was he missing someone—his lady-love in San Antonio?
Why do I care about any of this?
Barleigh slid out of bed and tiptoed over to the wall, pressing her ear against it, trying to make out the muffled sounds she was hearing coming from the other side. She heard voices and wondered who he was speaking to. Was he talking to himself? Did he talk in his sleep? She wondered what it would be like to sleep in his bed, to feel his naked body against hers if she woke up during the night. She pressed harder against the wall, imagining it was Hughes’s body she was feeling pressing against hers in return, like the last kiss from last night in the alley.
The bedroom door swung open and Big Brody and Lars stood in the hallway, Lars’s hand on the doorknob as they entered the room.
“What are you doing, Bar? Eavesdropping on Lévesque?” asked Big Brody.
Barleigh jumped away from the wall, kicking the bed frame in the process. “Ouch! Fuck that hurt.” She bounced around on one foot, holding the big toe of the other. “Goddamnit, you surprised me.”
“We can see that. Why were you listening in on Mr. Lévesque’s room?” Big Brody asked, looking suspicious.
“I, uh . . . I thought I might have heard a woman’s voice in there with him. I just wanted to know what it sounded like when a man and a woman, you know, might be, uh . . .”
Big Brody belted out a laugh. “You mean you’ve never been with a woman? You don’t know what a woman sounds like when she’s in the throes of passion?”
“I didn’t mean any harm.” Barleigh sat on the side of her bed massaging her sore toe. “Why are you looking at me like that? Just—just go fuck off, all right?”
Big Brody and Lars looked at each other, then at Barleigh. As if on cue, both had her by each arm, forcing her boots on her feet, grabbing her coat, dragging her out the door.
“What are you doing? Put me down.” Barleigh struggled, but it was no use. “I said let me go.”
“Let’s all go fuck off,” laughed Lars. “Let’s all go fuck off at the whorehouse.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Big Brody, laughing even harder. “Bar, you won’t have to wonder anymore what a woman sounds like. You’ll experience it firsthand and then be thanking us from here to the other side of next Sunday.”
Hughes’s door cracked open and he stuck his head out into the hallway. “What’s all the commotion?”
“We’ve decided to take a little walk over to see some of Miss Maeve’s girls. Bar seems to have a curious streak this morning that needs satisfying,” said Lars. “If you’re not already so engaged, please feel free to join us.”
“That’s an invitation I don’t believe I should pass up. Give me a minute to pull on my boots.” Hughes slammed the door.
“Those women don’t work on Sunday mornings,” said Barleigh. “Do they?”
“In this town? That’s when they’re the busiest,” said Big Brody.
“Amen and Oh, God, Oh, God,” said Lars.
*****
French perfume and sweet cigar smoke scented the air in the dimly lit rooms at Miss Maeve’s Boarding House. Girls in scanty costumes and in various stages of undress lounged about on billowy pillows, some wearing gaudy amounts of rouge and lipstick, some wearing none at all. The ones wearing none at all saddened Barleigh the most—they looked so young, fresh, and unspoiled.
“Here’s something for you, Miss Maeve,” said Lars, handing her a silver dollar. “Pick someone nice for our friend, Bar. It’s his first time going upstairs. Someone nice, like Berta.” Lars and Big Brody winked at each other, then strolled over to the pillowed floor and selected rouged and lipsticked girls for their own pleasures.
Hughes handed Maeve a five-dollar gold piece. “Buffalo Berta might be a little frightening for what we want to accomplish today. It’s Bar’s first time. He should have the most experienced woman here. Miss Maeve herself.”
“Anything for you, Hughes,” said Miss Maeve, batting her eyelashes like a shy schoolgirl. She held out a hand for Barleigh. “Come with me, boy. But when we’re done, no one can call you a boy any longer.”
Barleigh laughed out loud.
Hughes took Miss Maeve by her elbow and pulled her aside, whispering something to her, handing her another five-dollar gold piece. Miss Maeve surreptitiously glanced at Barleigh for a mere second, nodding as Hughes spoke, smiling, and nodding again.
“My special service, why yes of course. I’d be delighted to give Bar my extra special service,” Miss Maeve said loud enough for everyone to hear, then looked at Barleigh and winked.
An hour later, as Barleigh and M
aeve were ready to step out from her room, Miss Maeve pinched her cheeks to make them appear flush with color, mussed her hair, and threw a lacy robe over her shoulders.
“What a pleasure it was to meet you, Barleigh. I must say, this was the most surprising morning I’ve had in a long time. And, the most pleasure I’ve had earning money, just by sharing a little ‘girl talk.’ Don’t worry, honey, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you, Miss Maeve. What an enlightening hour. I haven’t had another woman to talk to in a while. I hope I didn’t shock you with all my questions.”
“Miss Maeve’s not shocked by much.” The woman gave a hearty laugh.
“Growing up without a mother, I’ve only had my imagination to guide me about the intimacies between a man and a woman.” Barleigh blushed, recalling in vivid detail some of Miss Maeve’s explicit descriptions. “I’ll give some thought to what you said about Hughes—the way a man like him can go from kissing me one minute to almost killing two men the next.”
“It wasn’t just about Hughes, it was about most men. The good ones have a strong need to protect the weaker sex. You can’t fight it or ask them to go against it. It’s in their nature. Especially for a man like Hughes—it’s sacred to his nature. You can use it to your advantage. Not manipulatively, but fairly, where each one gets what they need.”
“But, I don’t know what I need.”
“Then you keep looking until you discover it. The trick is to never give up till you find it, honey. You’ll do just fine. Now, speaking about all men, looks like your buddies are waiting for you. I’ll put on a show of it. Watch this.” She pinched her cheeks again, re-fluffed her hair, and proceeded to enthrall everyone with a breathless story of pure, sensual delight.
“Well, well, congratulations, Bar. Who would’ve thought a little guy like you had it in you to take care of a woman like Miss Maeve?” Big Brody slapped Barleigh on the back, a look of admiration on his face.
“And for a whole hour, too,” added Lars. “My first time? I had my pants back up and cinched in less than five minutes. Or, did I even get them all the way down before I finished?” His thoughts and words trailed off.
“Lars and I want to stay here a while, see what other trouble we can scare up, then maybe go over to Whiskey Street. Want to stay with us? Romeo?” Big Brody laughed, slapping Barleigh on the back again. “Now that you’ve got your first one under your belt, you might as well give Buffalo Berta a ride.”
“Thanks, but no. I’ll wait for Hughes to, uh, finish, to come, to uh, come down the stairs, then I’ll head back to the house.” Barleigh looked up the stairs, hoping to see Hughes.
“Oh, Mr. Lévesque didn’t stay,” said one of the young, fresh-faced girls wearing no makeup and lounging on the pile of pillows. “He said he had other important work to take care of.” She pouted, trying to act affronted.
“You two have fun,” Barleigh said, giving a knowing smile. “I think I’ll go hibernate a while. A man needs his rest after all that excitement.”
After thanking Miss Maeve again, Barleigh walked back to the Salt Lake House alone. With hands in pockets, she passed the large plate-glass window in front of the mercantile store. She stepped back and studied her reflection, wondering what Hughes saw when he looked at her.
She saw rowelled spurs strapped around tall-heeled, knee-high boots, the black leather polished but worn. Blue tweed dungarees tucked into her boot tops. Yellow buckskin shirt threaded up the front closure with a leather cord. Yellow bandana tied around her neck in place of a pearl necklace. Heavy, oil-skin slicker lined in thick sheep’s wool that hung to the ground. Colt .45 strapped to her hip that she’d learned not to leave at home. Brown, short-brimmed, short-crowned western hat she tightened down with a sturdy latigo and a silver concho, the concho for show because she liked the way it looked. Boy-short hair in need of a cut and a comb. Fringed leather gloves to keep her calloused hands warm. An image of the weaker sex in need of a man’s protection? Hardly.
Barleigh took a step closer to the window and contemplated her appearance a moment longer, taking in her expression, pondering the face staring back. Plain. No makeup. Like the young, fresh-faced girls at Miss Maeve’s who looked like they didn’t belong in their jobs, either. She turned and walked away toward the Salt Lake House, feeling tired and melancholy.
How fortunate, though, I only have to ride horses for a living.
*****
Someone banging on the door awoke Barleigh from her sleep, the insistent pounding growing louder. “Wake up. Are you in there?”
Where was everyone else? Barleigh felt disoriented. Normally, at least one other rider was sleeping in the bunk room at any given time. She shuffled to the door in her red long johns, the warm thermal underwear her basic uniform when not in riding attire.
“Coming. Hold on.” Soft light filtering in the window around the curtains indicated it was not yet evening. A glance at the clock showed it to be half past four in the afternoon—she’d almost slept the day away.
“Yes, what is it?” She opened the door a crack and peeked outside.
Hughes was slumped against the wall in disheveled clothes, his hair a mess, a five o’clock shadow peppering his jaw. Too many whiskeys etched the lines on his face. She wanted to jump into his arms, or to pull him into the room, but she reminded herself that that’s not what a Pony Express rider would do.
“Lévesque. You look like shit.”
“Thank you. You look delicious,” he whispered.
“You’re drunk,” she said, annoyed.
“You’re astute.” He held up a bottle of Baer Brothers’ whiskey already three quarters empty and took another swig.
“Why are you here?”
“I went to the barn to check on my mare—”
“Even drunk, you remembered your priorities, before passing out. Good for you.” She stepped back, closing the door.
“Listen to me,” Hughes said, brushing aside her remark, his boot forcing the door open. In a loud voice, speech slurred, he said, “Stoney . . . he’s missing. His horse came back to the barn without him. The mochila’s gone, too. There was blood—a bloody handprint on the horse’s neck.” Hughes leaned against the door frame for balance.
“Oh, dear God. That can’t be.” Barleigh rushed into the room, pulling on her clothes. Shouting over her shoulder, she asked, “Is there someone out looking for him?”
“Mario sent Big Brody and Brody’s little brother—what’s his name, Yates?” Hughes called from the hallway.
“Right, Yates.” Barleigh ran out the door, pushing past Hughes, sending him spinning like a top. As she left, she grabbed Stoney’s Mexican sombrero from the hat rack, putting it on for good luck.
*****
Hughes steadied himself against the wall and stumbled toward his door. Nodding to the two men peering from out of their doorway that was across the hall from the Pony Express room, he raised his bottle in an invitation.
“Evening, gents. Share a toast?” He slung back another gulp and held out the bottle.
The door closed, the lock clicking in place.
Inside his room, Hughes emptied the tea from the whiskey bottle back into the silver tea server. Then, he refilled the whiskey bottle with its original contents of Baer Brothers from his canteen, minus the two shots he’d allowed himself after the morning’s ride with Barleigh. The third and fourth shots missing from the bottle had helped to steady him after he awoke from an unrestful nap and a fitful dream of Quanah Parker engaged in a bloody raid on a North Texas homestead.
After running a quick razor across his face and a comb through his hair, he pulled on his uniform of the night: black trousers, black shirt, vest, and topcoat, black boots, black gloves, and black hat.
Looking at his image in the mirror, he told himself, “You don’t have the luxury of worrying about her. You have a job to do.”
He slipped out of the window, closing it behind him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NOVEMB
ER 26, 1860
A lone figure dashed from the Salt Lake House Hotel, almost running headlong into a small lad standing out front on the sidewalk. Holding an extra edition for the Deseret News – The Pony Dispatch, the young boy, using a rehearsed dialogue, called out to passersby that the Southern secession movement was gaining momentum, pointing to the headlines as proof. In bold type, the script gave detail of South Carolina, Georgia, and Mississippi calling for a special session of legislature for the election of delegates to a secession convention.
Barleigh apologized to the boy as she sped past, ignoring the headlines.
“Mario,” she shouted, running into the barn, trying to push down the panic rising from her gut. “Mario, where are you?”
“Over here.” He came out of a stall leading a small brown mare, tacked up and ready. “I knew you’d be coming as soon as you got word. I can’t tell you not to go, though I wish you wouldn’t. Brody and Yates are already out looking.”
“I have to.” Barleigh took the reins from Mario.
“Don’t forget, you’re on duty tomorrow.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, double checking the cinch.
“Is Mr. Lévesque riding with you? I expected he’d do so,” asked Mario, looking over Barleigh’s shoulder toward the door.
“Lévesque is drunk off his ass. He can barely walk, let alone ride.” Barleigh stepped into the saddle, the reins heavy in her hands, the hard, oiled leather strips beginning to stiffen as the temperature started to slide.
Mario looked confused. “He was here earlier. I didn’t notice him being drunk.”
“He was beyond drunk,” she said, annoyed again at the thought. “Anyway, what happens if I’m not back by morning?”
“What do you mean, if you’re not back?”
“I’m not coming back until I find Stoney. What if it takes longer? What if I—” She dropped her gaze down to her gloved hands holding the stiffening reins, flipping the leather hard against her palm.
A tangle of emotions caused Barleigh’s breath to catch, and she struggled to keep her words even. The thought of heading back to Texas had been planted in her mind—the notion of not riding anymore, of quitting the Pony Express.
