Jo's Triumph

by Nikki Tate

  I nodded and he went on.

  “How old are you, boy?” Mr. Roberts asked.

  “Sixteen — sir,” I said, forcing my voice deep into my chest and drawing myself up straight and tall, proud for once of my gangly height. “Been riding since I was eight years old with my pa who is now dead, which makes me an orphan.”

  “What’s your name?” Mr. Roberts asked.

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Ahhh … Jo — ”

  He raised an eyebrow and gave me a hard look.

  “Jo Wh-whyte,” I stammered.

  “Where you from?”

  “Salt Lake City, sir. In the valley. We had ourselves a ranch there, sir.”

  “Utah Territory is where we need riders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hard territory. Some trouble between here and Salt Lake. Indians.”

  “Yes, sir. I got friends among the Paiutes.” I hoped Sarah would still think of me as her friend.

  Mr. Roberts grunted. “I do believe the worst is over. The Paiutes agreed to keep to their land and not attack and we’ve agreed to leave ‘em alone. Not much worth having in the desert where they live anyway.”

  Standing there in the small office wanting that Pony Express job more than anything, I kept my peace.

  “Besides, they’re building a fort on the river — Fort Churchill. When it’s done, two thousand men will live there. That should keep them Indians in line should they forget their danged manners.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded again.

  “I’m short a couple of riders between Ruby and Egan Canyon. Do you know the territory?”

  “Yes, sir. More or less.” Hadn’t I traveled along that very trail with Will and Jackson?

  “That’s fine, Joe Whyte. Be here at first light tomorrow and Smokey McPhail will ride with you up to Ruby Valley.”

  I nodded, scarcely able to keep from crying, I was so happy.

  “Before you go anywhere, you got to swear this oath.”

  I nodded again. I would have sworn anything to be leaving Carson City and earning enough money so I could be on my way to California. Mr. Roberts pushed two objects across the desk: a Bible small enough to fit in a jacket pocket and a pistol.

  “You’ll need both of these,” he said and tapped the Bible with his knuckle. I placed my fingertips on the leather cover and repeated everything Mr. Roberts said.

  “Mail first. Pony second. Rider third. The mail must get through,” I added for good measure.

  “You got that right. Our business is built on trust, speed, and reliability. Sometimes we ship valuable documents, important news, and occasionally, cash deliveries. We count on our riders to get the mail through no matter what.”

  I swore that I’d uphold the ideals of the Pony Express Company — no drinking, no gambling, and no unlawful deeds. I glanced down at my stolen shirt and pants. If I could do this job, my stealing days would be over for good.

  With the advance Mr. Roberts offered me, I bought gloves, a hat and jacket, and a leather holster. Though it must have seemed a mite rude, I never once removed my cap inside for fear I would be recognized. Instead, I kept it right down over my eyes and mumbled my answers, always careful to keep my voice gruff and low as I made my purchases.

  Once I thought I saw Mrs. Pinweather hurrying along the road, and I ducked between two wagons and counted to one hundred before venturing out again.

  Early in the afternoon I took my bundles, a fresh loaf of bread, and some hard cheese back to the barn and hid myself away in the darkest corner.

  That night I slept like an old dog. At dawn I tugged the collar of my new jacket up, felt my pockets for my Bible and the knife my pa had given me, patted my holster, and marched around to the front of the freight office.

  This time when I reached the office door, I walked right in.

  Chapter Five

  Two men, Mr. Bolivar Roberts and a younger man I didn’t recognize, sat at the table.

  “Mornin’, Joe,” Mr. Roberts said.

  I nodded.

  “This here’s Smokey McPhail.”

  The man, who looked to be about the same age as my oldest brother, William, raised his tin mug toward me.

  “Smokey will take you on up to Ruby Valley, where you’ll start your first run. It’ll take you ’bout three days to make the trip.”

  Smokey rocked his chair back and studied me. I blushed. He had guessed my secret; I just knew it.

  “I got a question for you,” he said and I shifted from foot to foot, certain he was going to ask me if I was really a boy.

  “You ain’t yet sixteen, are you?”

  I let out my breath and coughed, staring at my feet so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

  “Near enough.”

  “No need to mumble. I can see you ain’t shaving yet.”

  I put my hand to my chin. I wasn’t likely to start shaving any time soon, either.

  “No matter. If you can ride, I ain’t going to complain. None of the men on this job is much older than you.”

  I coughed again and risked a glance at Mr. Roberts.

  “Have yourself a biscuit and some coffee and then you’d best be going.”

  I took a warm biscuit and stuffed my mouth full. If I was eating, I couldn’t be talking, and if I wasn’t talking, I couldn’t be giving myself away.

  Soon as I was done, the three of us headed to the corral out back. We leaned over the top rail watching the half dozen horses eating their hay. Big Sam was among them and I wondered if I’d be riding him.

  “Take Sheba and Rocko,” Mr. Roberts said indicating a flea-bitten, gray mare and a bay gelding.

  I tried to ignore the fact that both men were watching me as we readied the horses, looking to see just how familiar I was with working around the animals. That much, at least, I wasn’t worried about. I’d helped my pa with the stock for as long as I could remember. Pa used to say some folks had the touch with horses and he was right proud his daughter was one of them.

  We mounted up and set out at a brisk trot for Dayton. Smokey tipped his hat at the stationmaster but we didn’t stop. We rode past Miller’s Station and on to Fort Churchill where we changed horses. The fort bustled with dozens of men hard at work building the stockade and bunkhouses.

  Smokey didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t care to talk much. He filled the time by talking non-stop himself, about his ma back in Boston, some of the rides he’d made with the Pony Express, and before that with the mule trains carrying mail to California.

  “Horses are a damned sight easier to get along with,” he said with a grin. “Mules are too darned smart for their own good.” Even though he talked a lot his eyes never stopped scanning the trail ahead, wary of ambushes. The worst sections were those that passed right through stands of aspen trees. If the way had been straight, it would have been easier, but the path twisted this way and that and the trees and brush were so tight together we couldn’t see far ahead at all. In most places the trail was so narrow that Smokey had to ride on ahead and then the skin on my back fairly crawled. I kept looking back over my shoulder to see if anyone was coming up behind us. We wasted no time at all in those trees, that’s for certain.

  Cantering out along the trail past Fort Churchill, we made good time to Buckland Station. On and on we rode, changing horses once more before we reached Shelly Creek shortly after dark. There we fed and watered the horses before fixing a simple supper in a small, rough cabin that served as the stationhouse.

  “’Course, when you’re carrying the mail, there ain’t no stopping at night,” he said. “You ride by the light of the moon and appreciate real fast just how good horses can see in the dark.”

  I appreciated the dark all right when I excused myself to take care of my private business behind a clump of sagebrush before turning in. There weren’t no such thing as a privy where we stopped. At night every sound seemed close by and the moment I was finished I hiked up my trousers and hurried to join the others in
the cabin. I was some glad to close that door behind me and crawl into a bunk.

  Two miners and several militiamen played cards. The two losers would have to sit outside all night, rifles at the ready. Even knowing we had men outside keeping watch, I didn’t exactly lose myself to happy dreaming that night.

  The next day was much the same and so was the one following as we headed toward Ruby Valley. I always felt uneasy. Even when we were supposed to sleep, I tossed and turned and fretted so much it was hardly worth the effort of lying down in the first place.

  Each day as we rode, Smokey told me all kinds of useful things about the express company, the horses we would be using, and the way things were run. “Finest horses around, I’ll say that,” Smokey said. “Fast and fit and grain- fed. They can go real quick for ten, twelve miles or so. Then you change onto a fresh set of legs and keep on moving up the trail.”

  Smokey explained the route, the stations where I’d stop to change horses, and how long it would take me to ride from Ruby Valley on to Butte Station or Egan Canyon. He told me landmarks to watch for since he would take me only as far as Ruby Valley and my first run would be onwards to Butte. It was a good thing he tended to say things over and over since my head was so weary and muddled I could hardly follow a word.

  In the cabin at Diamond Springs on our last morning together, Smokey blew on his coffee and nodded toward a steaming cup on the rough plank table.

  “Coffee?”

  I nodded and jammed my hat on harder. If I kept my hat on low, and my voice quiet, I might just keep fooling folks.

  “Arbuckle’s. Only the best for our riders.”

  The dark burn of the coffee in my throat was heavenly.

  We continued east on fresh horses that day and made excellent time to Ruby Valley. At mid-morning we rode up to the station house and stock corrals where we found a dozen or so men working around several small buildings.

  “Colonel Rogers, this here is Joe,” Smokey said as I climbed down from my horse. The colonel held out his hand and we shook.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Call me Uncle Billy like most folks do.”

  After we put the horses away, Uncle Billy showed me into the stationhouse. “It’s a short run for you tomorrow — just to Butte. Should be able to do it in three hours with horse changes at Mountain Springs and Cherry Bend.”

  He made it sound like nothing, but, to be honest, I felt a bit faint thinking about galloping so many miles of trail, all before noon, all on my own. I was surely grateful that my first run would be during daylight hours, but worried that I might not remember what Smokey had told me. What if I turned down a wrong canyon and ran headlong into a bunch of Paiutes who might not have heard about the agreement to stop fighting? Even worse, maybe I’d stumble on some Washos wanting revenge for the men who’d been shot in Carson City. My single pistol wouldn’t do me much good. I needed to practice. Then I felt terrible. What if I accidentally shot Sarah’s cousin, Chief Numaga, or her brother, Natchez? Sarah would hate me then, no matter what my reasons might have been for opening fire.

  “You up for chopping some wood?” Uncle Billy asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, happy for the distraction.

  Chop. Whack. The wood was dry and split neatly, the pieces flying to either side of the stump. It didn’t take long before my arms ached something fierce — even hauling wet laundry hadn’t made me strong enough for wood-chopping.

  I’d split maybe twenty logs and my arms felt as if stones were tied to the ends of them.

  “Want me to spell you off?”

  I was so startled the ax missed the stump completely. It swung toward my leg in a long, deadly arc. How I managed to jerk the ax and my leg away from each other I’ll never know.

  “What in the name of—” I dropped the ax and whirled to face whoever had come up behind me. “You could have killed me.”

  “Now hold on just a minute. I was merely — ”

  We glared at each other.

  The boy was no taller than I was, but he was stockier. Everything about him looked sturdy. He wore his trousers tucked into his leather boots and his heavy shirt flapped loosely. It looked like it had been many, many weeks since soap and water had come close to his thick, black hair.

  “Bart Ridley,” he said, sticking his hand out at me. “With the mail service.”

  “Jo,” I replied. “Me too.”

  “Better watch how you swing that ax, Joe, or someone’s gonna’ git hurt.”

  I stared at the ax where it lay in the dirt by the stump.

  “You don’t got to do it all yourself. Why, when I first got this job I thought as how I had to be as strong as the older men, you know — ”

  I nodded my head ever so slightly and didn’t stop Bart when he picked up the ax to chop. When it was my turn again I swung the ax as hard as I could. Dang it all if I didn’t feel a mite proud when Bart Ridley grunted, impressed, when my wood split into four, not just two, even pieces.

  Chapter Six

  That night I fell dead asleep near as soon as I lay down in my bunk. Even the talking of the men and the creaking of the bunks as they came to bed didn’t rouse me from my slumber. Pa used to say that the doomed don’t dream. I tried not to think about what it meant when my sleep was deep and quiet without even a nightmare to save my soul.

  Uncle Billy shook me out of bed before dawn. I sat close as I could to the big, stone fireplace and filled my belly with coffee and grits.

  “Come on out when you’re done,” Uncle Billy said and banged the door behind him. I pulled on my boots and spurs, tugged my hat down over my ears, and touched the gun nestled against my hip.

  Well before the eastbound rider was due to arrive, I joined Uncle Billy out-side. Bart Ridley was already waiting with my horse, a lanky sorrel mustang called Flame.

  “Hey, boy,” I said, smoothing my hand along the horse’s neck. I took care to avoid touching Bart’s hand where he held the reins even though I was wearing my calfskin gloves. If he touched my hand, would he know I was a girl?

  Flame pushed his nose into my ribs and I felt the familiar puff of a horse’s warm breath, recognized the kindness in his soft, brown eyes. I rubbed his neck and smiled. It sure felt good to be near horses once again. How had I managed to keep my senses about me during those long months when I lived at Ormsby House and at the orphanage?

  This was no pleasure ride, I reminded myself. Flame and I had a job to do.

  I readied myself to mount up so I could ride off faster, but Uncle Billy shook his head and put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. I flinched away from the touch, one foot still in the stirrup.

  “Not yet, Joe. You gotta’ help with the mochila.”

  Of course. The mailbags had to go on over the saddle before I could climb aboard. My face burned.

  “Don’t matter,” Uncle Billy said. “You won’t be wet behind the ears for long.”

  A cloud of dust stirred in the distance. Flame’s ears tipped forward and from far off we could hear shouts, whoops, and hollers.

  “Trouble?” I asked, thinking maybe robbers were chasing the rider.

  “Not likely,” Uncle Billy said. He spat a string of tobacco into the dirt and wiped the back of his hand across his chin. “You’d best call out just as loud when you come into Mountain Springs so they’ll be ready for you.”

  The horse and rider grew bigger and then the dust swirled around us. The men shouted greetings and instructions as they held the sweating horse, tore the mochila from the saddle, and threw it onto Flame’s back.

  “Up you get, Joe,” Billy said as he lifted the flap covering the only unlocked pouch. The other three, locked tight, contained the mail.

  Flame quivered beneath me, ready to fly off the moment I asked.

  “Hold on, there—” Uncle Billy scribbled the time the eastbound rider had arrived, checked his watch again, and wrote down a second number. He gave me a wink as he slipped the paper back into the pouch. “The mail’s been stopped one minute and twen
ty seconds,” he said. “That’s more than long enough.” He slapped Flame on the rump and the horse leaped forward as if shot from a cannon.

  The sudden movement caught me off guard and for one horrible moment I thought my career as a Pony Express rider was over before it started.

  “Hang on!” Uncle Billy shouted after me and Bart hooted with laughter.

  Somehow, with a fistful of mane and every ounce of strength I possessed, I pulled myself back into the middle of the saddle, and settled in for the long ride ahead.

  Flame had made the run before. He tore out along the trail heading up the valley. I glanced behind me but couldn’t see much for all the dust.

  Hanging onto the saddle horn with one hand and the reins with the other, I found my balance on Flame’s back. He wasn’t a big horse, but he was quick and sure-footed.

  We weren’t even clear of the valley before Flame and I began to understand each other. Some horses are heavy and sluggish, others cautious, others bold. The sorrel mustang was sensitive — I needed only to touch my heels to his sides and he bounded forward. As we neared a bend in the trail I sat deeper in the saddle and he checked his speed and navigated the turn smoothly, his powerful haunches driving from behind, his mouth soft to the bit.

  There’s nothing like a fast ride on a good horse to free your thoughts, set your heart thumping, and sometimes even bring a tear to your eye. Sure enough, as we crested a little hill, my eyes filled with tears. I was no longer riding hell-bent-for -leather carrying the mail. No, I was back at the end of summer two years ago riding Pa’s stallion, Antonio.

  “Go!” Pa had yelled, his fist punching the air. “Go, Jossie! Go!”

  The tears streamed over my cheeks as I remembered the race at the fair when Antonio had galloped over the finish line. Pa had beamed at me and said, “We’ll get a good price for those foals of his.”

  Mr. Blaine had come by soon after and Pa had said, “See? Even little Jose-lyn, a mere slip of a girl, can handle this magnificent animal. His foals are all fine horses with soo-peer-ior dispositions.”