A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Papa was never the same after that day. He had been fighting a cough for months, and after Andy left, it seemed to take over his entire body. On his deathbed, he made her promise to find Andy. “Ask him to forgive me,” he pleaded.

  It was the first time he’d mentioned Andy’s name in more than two years. Now the memory brought tears to her eyes, and she whispered in the darkness. “I’ll find him, Papa. I promise.”

  It was almost dawn by the time she fell asleep. She woke a short while later to the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

  She dressed, ran a brush through her long tresses, and pinned her hair into a bun before stepping out of the wagon.

  Mr. Corbett sat on a fallen log, drinking coffee from a tin cup. Her map was spread on the ground in front of him. She’d taken great pains to mark each Pony Express station with an X, and he traced the line she’d drawn with his finger.

  “I see you decided to stay,” she said. She’d honestly feared he would desert her in the middle of the night.

  He looked up. “Wouldn’t get very far without a horse.”

  “I reckon not,” she said.

  She grabbed a flour-sack towel and a bar of soap and walked to the stream to wash. When she returned, Mr. Corbett handed her a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you.” She moved closer to the fire for warmth.

  “We need to talk.” His tone was as brusque as his manner.

  “Save your breath. I’m not turning back.” She took a sip of the hot brew.

  “So you said.” He hesitated. “You should know that I spent two years in prison.”

  She choked and spilled her coffee.

  He waited for her to recover before adding, “Don’t look so worried. I didn’t escape. I served my full term.”

  She stared at him. Was that why he acted like he hadn’t had a decent meal in a month of Sundays? And why he looked as lean as a desert grasshopper?

  “I’m relieved to hear that, Mr. Corbett.” An ex-prisoner was better than an escaped one, or at least she hoped so.

  “I was on the way to Omaha when I spotted a cabin. Thought I could get a meal there. Instead, I got attacked by those two scoundrels.”

  “Do you mind telling me why you were in prison?” she asked. “You didn’t…kill anyone, did you?”

  “Only in the line of duty,” he drawled. “I was a U.S. deputy marshal, but when I refused to do what they asked of me, I got hauled off to prison.”

  “Most people simply get fired for refusing to do a job.”

  He scoffed. “Most people aren’t expected to track down runaway slaves like animals.”

  “Is that why you went to prison?” She studied him. “Because you refused to chase down slaves?”

  “There’s a thousand-dollar fine for not obeyin’ the Fugitive Slave law.” He shrugged. “When I refused to pay it, they locked me up.” After a beat, he added, “Sometimes a man has to stand for what he believes in.”

  “So does a woman, Mr. Corbett. Which is why I refuse to turn back until I find my brother.”

  He eyed her over the rim of his cup as he sipped his coffee. “What makes you think you’ll find him? It’s a big country. A man can get lost out there.”

  “My brother and I are twins.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You got some sort of special bond or something?” His voice held a note of mockery, which she ignored.

  “Not only do my brother and I look similar, we think alike. When we were children, he had the habit of wandering off. I was the only one who could find him. I intend to do so again.”

  He lowered his cup and stared at the map. “I’ll stay with you as far as Chimney Rock, but that’s all.” He cast a glance at the mules. “Twenty miles a day should get us there in little more than two weeks. I doubt the weather will hold that long, but we can hope. If you don’t find your brother, my advice is to get you a place to stay till spring.”

  She bit her lip. Her chances of finding a place to stay in the wilderness ahead looked mighty slim.

  “Twenty miles a day, huh?” Out of those mules? That she had to see. “Why have you decided to help me?”

  “I didn’t decide anything. You paid twenty-five dollars for me. I aim to give you your money’s worth.”

  Later, after he’d hitched the mules to the wagon, the lady offered him a gun in a holster.

  He couldn’t believe it. “You gonna trust me with that?” he asked. “Even after I told you I was in prison?”

  “It’s because of what you told me that I trust you,” she said.

  He shrugged. No accounting for the way a woman’s mind worked. He took the holster and checked out the gun. It was a Smith and Wesson. He’d prefer a Colt Dragoon, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The firearm was loaded.

  He buckled the holster around his waist. The heavy gun drooped to his side, but it felt good to be armed. If he had a horse, he’d feel almost normal.

  The lady watched him like a hawk. If the dubious look on her face gave any indication, she already had second thoughts about trusting him with a weapon.

  “We better get started,” he said gruffly. “Got a long day ahead.”

  Chapter 4

  Been lost for three weeks straight.

  That’s the last time I’ll let a woman read a map!

  —Painted on Chimney Rock in 1860 by Walter “Buckeye” Sands

  Mr. Corbett insisted on driving the wagon, and Ellie-May was happy to let him. For the most part, the mules behaved, but the rutted trail made progress slow. Twenty miles, indeed. At this rate they’d be lucky to make five.

  She held her brother’s Bible as they rode. That and his drawing were the only tangible links she had to him, and they comforted her.

  Every hour or so, Josie the mule stopped walking and refused to budge. With surprising patience, Mr. Corbett climbed out of the wagon on each occasion to pet and talk to her. Just as surprising, Josie would then lumber along for another hour or so without stopping.

  “I do believe Josie is sweet on you, Mr. Corbett,” she said after one such occasion.

  He released the brake and tugged on the reins, and the wagon rolled forward.

  “I seem to have that effect on ladies,” he said.

  “Do you now?” She studied him through the fringe of her lashes. Even with several days’ growth of whiskers, he was a nice-looking man—some might even say handsome. If only he would smile.

  “Do you have family?” she asked.

  “Yep.” Keeping his hands on the reins, he met her gaze. “In Texas. My pa’s a preacher. He doesn’t have much use for a son who gets himself thrown in prison.”

  “Even if it was for a noble cause?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Prison’s prison.”

  “I guess he doesn’t have much use for the apostle Paul either,” she said.

  “Guess not.”

  “It sounds like you and my brother have something in common.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Your brother spent time in prison, too?”

  “No.” Though Andy might have thought the farm a prison. “You both were at odds with your fathers.”

  “Is that why he left home? ’Cause he didn’t get along with his pa?”

  She nodded, and a heavy feeling filled her heart. She dreaded having to tell Andy that Pa was dead, but he had the right to know. He was also entitled to half the money from the sale of the farm, though he’d probably turn it down.

  “So where were you heading?” she asked. “Back to Texas?”

  He shook his head. “Omaha. Heard work was plentiful.” He clicked his tongue, and the mules picked up speed. “It’s either land a job up north or join the Union army.”

  “Considering how you feel about slaves, I’m surprised you don’t want to fight for them.” Secretly, she worried that her brother had done that very thing. Papa accused Andy of being less than a man. Getting hired with the Pony Express was Andy’s way of proving otherwise. It wasn’t hard to imagine Andy joining the army for the same r
eason.

  “I’ve been fighting for two years just to stay alive.” The steely edge of Corbett’s voice faded away. “I don’t have any more fight left in me.”

  She fervently hoped that wasn’t true; especially since they were traveling through Indian country. His closed expression forbid further comment, and they rode the rest of the morning in silence.

  They traveled all day without seeing a single Indian, or anyone else for that matter. Nor had they found a single Pony Express station. Ellie-May studied the map and scanned the landscape.

  Finally, something caught her eye. Shading her eyes against the late afternoon sun, she spotted a man behind a horse-drawn plow.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing.

  Corbett pulled the wagon alongside a wooden fence.

  She rose from the seat and cupped her hands around her mouth. “We’re looking for a ranch that once served as a Pony Express station,” she called.

  The man brought his dappled horse to a stop. “You found her.” He tossed a nod in the direction of a small building made of logs.

  Calling the little farm a ranch was like calling a spoon a shovel, but the farmer seemed friendly enough.

  “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” she asked. “About the Pony Express?”

  The man whipped off his hat and brushed an arm across his forehead. His face was as wrinkled as a burnt leather boot. “Wait at the house. I’ll finish up here and join you.”

  Ellie-May waved, and Mr. Corbett guided the wagon toward the little farmhouse with a click of his tongue. “We can’t stay long,” he said, impatience written all over his face. “We barely put on five miles today.”

  “I’m not leaving till I talk to the rancher. He might know something.”

  “We only have two, three hours of light left.”

  She tossed her head. “I don’t care.”

  “You better care,” he snapped. “I’m not driving this wagon in the dark.”

  They were so busy arguing that it was several moments before she noticed a round-figured woman watching them from a short distance away.

  Ellie-May jumped to the ground. “I’m Ellie-May Newman. Your husband told us to come here.”

  The woman smiled. “I’m Mrs. Wender.” She spoke with an Irish brogue. A frilly cap rode upon her white hair. A spotless, starched apron covered the front of her gingham dress. The woman’s eyes widened as she took in Ellie-May’s bloomers, but no disapproval showed in her manner.

  “Pleased to meet you. You, too, Mr. Newman.”

  “Oh, we’re not—” Ellie-May’s cheek flared. “This is Mr. Corbett. He’s my…trail guide.”

  Mrs. Wender’s gaze swung between them. “Bless my soul. The way you two were carrying on, I’d have sworn you were husband and wife.”

  Ellie-May ventured a glance at Mr. Corbett, who seemed to suddenly take a great interest in Josie and Molly.

  “So what brings you two here?” Mrs. Wender asked.

  “I have some questions about the Pony Express.”

  Mrs. Wender rolled her eyes and waved her arms up and down as if shaking out a blanket. “You get Harold yammering about the Pony Express, and you won’t be able to shut him up. You better plan on staying for supper. We’re having lamb stew.”

  Ellie-May expected Mr. Corbett to decline, but at the mention of food, he quickly followed the rancher’s wife up the porch steps. In his eagerness, he failed to duck, and the low threshold knocked off his hat.

  Ellie-May picked it up and handed it to him. Their gazes met for an instant before he turned and stomped into the house. Shaking her head, she trailed behind him. Mention food and the man would follow you like a tick on a lamb’s tail.

  Built from hewn logs and mortar, the house was small but comfortable. Sheets of canvas divided the main room into two parts. One half served as both a kitchen and small parlor. A wood block table with four chairs vied for space with a cast-iron cookstove. Two upholstered chairs with matching footstools were arranged in front of a stone fireplace. Orange flames licked lazily at a log.

  The other half of the room served as a small general store. Rough wooden shelves lined an entire wall and were piled high with canned goods and tins of coffee. Bags of flour and rice were stacked on the floor.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Mrs. Wender said. “You’re the first travelers we’ve seen for weeks. Most are in California and Oregon by now. Last thing you want is to get caught traveling in snow.”

  Ellie-May tried to ignore Corbett’s “I told you so” look.

  “We do a booming business in the early summer,” Mrs. Wender continued in her lilting brogue. “Two years ago I remember counting more than eighteen hundred wagons passing by in a single day, and we sold out of supplies by noon. Of course, things have slowed down this past year because of the war.”

  As she spoke, she arranged two additional place settings on the table, along with a plate of freshly baked biscuits. “You’re lucky it hasn’t snowed yet. You think the road is bad now? Just wait.”

  Ellie-May couldn’t imagine the road much worse than it already was. “It was very kind of you to invite us to supper,” she said, “but we don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Yes we do,” Mr. Corbett whispered in her ear. His breath sent warm ripples along her neck. Surprised by her quickening pulse, she glanced back at him and was horrified to find that he’d already helped himself to a bread roll. Such poor manners!

  Fortunately, Mrs. Wender didn’t seem to notice. “No bother.” She walked to the stove, lifted a lid off a cast-iron pot, and stirred. The savory smell of stew wafted across the room, and Ellie-May’s mouth watered.

  Mrs. Wender set the stirring spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron. “You wanted to ask about the Pony Express.”

  “My brother was a rider. His name is Andrew Newman; Andy for short. He’s an artist, and one day his work will hang in art galleries and kings’ palaces.”

  “My word,” Mrs. Wender exclaimed, clearly impressed.

  Ellie-May continued. “He worked out of Chimney Rock. I’m hoping to find someone who might know his whereabouts.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you, but then riders seldom rode farther than a hundred and twenty miles from a home station. If his run included Chimney Rock, he wouldn’t have traveled this far east.”

  It was disappointing news but not altogether unexpected. Basically it’s what she’d been told at previous stations.

  Close to an hour after they had arrived, Mr. Wender stomped into the house and pecked his wife on the cheek before peering into the stew pot. “Ah, my favorite.” He reached for a spoon to dip it into the pot, but his wife gave his hand a playful tap.

  “Sit down and entertain our guests while I serve our meal.”

  He took his seat at the head of the table with Ellie-May and Mr. Corbett on either side of him. Corbett grabbed another biscuit. She tried to catch his eye, but he was too busy reaching for the butter.

  “So what did you want to ask me?” the rancher asked.

  Ellie-May explained her reason for following the trail.

  “Newman, you say. Hmm.” He thought for a moment. “Don’t remember anyone by the name, but that don’t mean nothing. There was somethin’ like eighty or more riders, and I got to know only a couple.”

  “It’s a shame that the Pony Express went out of business so quickly,” she said.

  “No surprise there. It was a successful enterprise for eighteen months in all ways but one: it never made a dime.”

  Mrs. Wender set a bowl of stew in front of Ellie-May. “Now we have the telegram. Soon as they complete the lines, we’ll be able to send messages all around the country. Can you imagine? If we can just get the buffalo and Indians to cooperate, that is.”

  “Cooperate how?” Ellie-May asked.

  While Mrs. Wender finished serving the meal, her husband explained. “The buffalo rub against the poles and sometimes knock them clear out of the ground. Somebody got the idea to put spikes
at the bottom of the poles, but that made the problem worse.”

  Mrs. Wender took her seat. “The buffalo used the spikes to comb their hides.”

  “What about the Indians?” Ellie-May asked. Buffalo didn’t worry her; Indians did.

  Mr. Wender tucked his napkin into his shirt. “It didn’t take ’em long to figure out that the movement of troops follow the telegraph, so they simply burn the poles down. ’Course, you won’t find many troops around now. Most were sent to fight in the war.”

  Ellie-May glanced at Corbett, who was making fast work of his stew. Hoping their hosts didn’t notice that he’d already begun eating, she gave Corbett’s leg a nudge with her foot.

  He looked up, and she mouthed, “Your manners.” To his credit, he set down his fork and waited for his host to give the blessing.

  As they ate, Mr. Wender continued to talk about the Pony Express. He had many fond memories of the riders stopping at his station.

  “Most of them were just kids,” he said, dabbing his mustache with his napkin. “But it was a man’s job. Once the mochila left St. Joe, the rider didn’t stop for anything.”

  “What’s a mochila?” she asked.

  “That’s what we called the locked saddlebag that held the mail.” He pointed to the wall where a four-pocket, sheep-leather satchel hung from two hooks.

  Mrs. Wender nodded. “At first the riders were given a horn to blow to tell us when they were coming. But we could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves, so the horns were soon abandoned.”

  Mr. Wender’s fork stilled. “The rider was allowed two minutes to change horses, but we got it down to fifteen seconds if the weather was good. Longer during a snowstorm. Once it snowed so hard that one poor fellow got turned around. Instead of reaching the next station, he ended up back here where he started.”

  Ellie-May shuddered to think of her gentle-natured brother working under such harsh conditions. Certainly working on the farm wouldn’t have been any harder. If only he hadn’t inherited Pa’s stubborn streak.