Always, Clay

by Nan O'Berry

  Reuben arched a brow. “Why?”

  “They will run themselves out of men.” His glaze flickered to Reuben. “Besides, you and I both know the stage lines will not stand for this.”

  “Oh?” He acted surprised.

  “Too much money to be had between the stage company and telegraph.” The man lifted the glass and took a drink. “Besides, these youngsters, orphans they say. Who’s gonna care if they turn up missing? They’re only riff-raff. I don’t think a one could be trusted.”

  Reuben let the remarks roll through his brain. “Yes,” he agreed. “Trust would be an issue.” A smile found its way to his lips and for the first time in weeks, Reuben Pierson felt a bit better about his circumstances. “Let me buy you another.”

  “Be my guest.” The man slid his glass toward the bottle.

  The sunlight stirred Clay to life. Rolling over, he took his time to stretch each appendage. Sounds drifted to his ears. Someone coughed. Another stomped his foot into his boot. Someone else turned over and answered with a soft snore. He opened one eye.

  The man next to him stood and adjusted the belt that held his pants aloft on his lanky frame. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” Clay answered back.

  The rider pushed a hank of blond hair from his eyes and grinned. “I was wondering when you’d wake.”

  Clay wiped his eyes with the back of his hand regretting now that he didn’t wash his face. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  The rider’s face twisted in thought. “Well, that Mr. Keene said not to disturb you, so we’ve left you alone for a day and a half.”

  Clay let the ramifications sink in. Thirty six hours was a lot of time to spend in slumber. In another twenty-four, he would be heading back to Three Rivers. “Is there a bath house nearby?” he asked, pushing back the blanket that covered his body.

  “One in town, run by the stage company. They don’t let us come in.”

  “I see.” Clay stood. “So where do you bathe?”

  “Down at the creek. Waters somewhat warm. Not much tree cover though. Best not to have any shame when you bathe down there. Course, the only thing that might bother you would be cattle.” He grinned. “But they have no shame.”

  Clay laughed. “All right, to the creek it is.”

  “I will grab a bar of soap and towels from the linen. It’s not a far ride.”

  Clay nodded and bent low to pull his boots on.

  The rider called from the doorway, “By the way, names Brett, Brett Monroe.”

  “Glad to meet you Brett, I’m Clayton Adams, most folks call me Clay.”

  “Welcome to Benson’s Crossing, Clay.”

  Boots on, Clay tramped down the stairway to find Brett waiting for him.

  Tossing him a towel and a bar of soap, he turned toward the stove and grabbed two biscuits. “For the road,” he remarked, walking past Clay and sticking the flaky morsel in his mouth.

  Clay tossed the towel over his arm and fell into line. Outside, other riders were busy working on a broken board in the corral and cleaning stalls.

  One young man welding a hammer paused as they moved by. “Hey, Brett, where you going?”

  “Taking, Clay here for a ride around the station. Be back in a bit.”

  A nod of heads followed. It was enough that Brett had spoken and they took his word.

  Horses saddled, Clay stowed the towel and soap in his saddlebags. He mounted his horse and followed Brett into the yard. “Lead the way,” he said.

  Brett grinned and with a gentle squeeze of his legs, sent the bright blood red chestnut jogging toward the north.

  Riding with Brett was like getting all the gossip that had gone on since the express opened. An expert rider, Brett let the reins lay across his mare’s neck and slipped sideways in the saddle, his right leg hooked around the pommel so he could chat. “Where you from, cowboy?”

  “Texas,” Clay answered.

  Brett nodded. “I thought I heard a drawl. Down near San Antonio way?”

  “Near abouts,” Clay replied, hoping to keep it vague. “What about you? Where are you from?”

  The left side of Brett’s mouth twisted cynicism. “I’m a citizen of the west,” he replied.

  “The west?”

  Brett squinted and gazed at the horizon. “I come from nowhere in particular and every place in general.”

  “Man of Mystery, huh?”

  Brett scratched his chin. “Truth?”

  Clay nodded.

  “Truth is, I’ve been shifted from pillar to post. Never really knew my parents. Moved from one orphanage to another until I decided to get out on my own. Working here, for the express, I feel like I’ve finally found a home.

  “I hear ya,” Clay agreed.

  Brett winked. “Doesn’t make it so sad that the pay checks are mighty good too. I never saw so much money. First thing I went and bought was this horse.” He leaned down and patted the animal’s neck. I don’t use her on runs. Mr. Keene charges me a bit for boarding, but it’s worth it.” He flipped his leg back over the saddle and sat astride again.

  Clay noted the only reaction from his mount was to flick a fly away with her tail. “She’s mighty settled.”

  “She’s like me, an old soul. Come on, streams just over the hill.” He led Clay over the hill to a creek that was about fifty yards wide.

  The water ran lazily enough to wade in without being afraid of getting knocked off your feet and drowning.

  “Peaceful.”

  Brett crossed his arms on the pommel and leaned forward. “Oh, peaceful now, but let a good downpour or a gully washer come in and it funnels through that ditch up there.” He pointed to the narrow end of the stream. “I’ve seen horses nearly go under.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Clay remarked as he dismounted and looped his reins over the low hanging branch of the scrub trees that lined the southern side of the river bed.

  The creak of saddle signaled that Brett had climbed down as well. “Just step behind those bushes and toss me those duds.”

  Clay moved around behind the scrub and searched the ground. “Haven’t seen any snakes, have you?”

  Brett chuckled. “No, not lately.”

  Shucking out of his clothes, Clay wrapped the towel around him and ambled out to the water. In one quick motion, he tossed his covering onto a rock and sank beneath the waters up to his neck.

  “Feel good?” Brett called as he draped Clay’s clothing over the branches of the scrub.

  “Not bad.” Rubbing the rough cake soap over his skin, he began to work up a lather.

  “So, tell me, you experienced any trouble?” Brett squatted on the rock were the towel lay and surveyed the horizon.

  “Not really, but there’s been talk. Lots of the folks that work for the stage don’t want the express around. Sort of threatens their livelihood.” Clay disappeared below the surface of the water, then rose again, tossing his hair back and slinging water across the surface in an arc.

  “Yeah, I am hearing the same from Keene.” Brett nodded. “Those who work for Pierson’s line are too smart to start anything they can get nailed for. But further west, the Indians are not as careful.”

  Clay glanced over at him as he brought a handful of lather to his face. “Anything come to mind?”

  “Well, they haven’t been so grateful with the riders crossing their land.”

  Clay filed the information away as he scooped water into his hands and washed the soap away. Half of him wished his new friend could confirm or deny the idea the Indians could be nosing around the express stations. Maybe that’s what kept that rider from his appointed route. The other side of the coin, those with the stage would make it harder to find proof. Honor would not be their motto.

  “Don’t stay in too long, my friend, or important parts will wrinkle,” Brett called.

  Clay scooped a handful of water and sent it flying as Brett’s laughter rang across the Wyoming prairie.

  Clay’s heart beat in tune with th
e thundering beats of his mount’s hooves as they flew down the trail back toward the home station. He was getting closer to the Rocking R and with each mile they logged—his anticipation grew. He knew he should keep up the pace, but if she was there, he had to stop, just to get a few words or to gaze at her pleasant smile once more.

  A cow’s scull stuck on a fence post marked the edge of the Rocking R, he tugged on the reins, and the horse shook his head fighting to run. His eyes were trained on the meadow.

  “Please be there,” he whispered as the horse loped on. “Whoa.”

  He pulled back on the reins and the horse slid to a stop. Against the grasses, a figure moved toward him. His heart skipped a beat. Could it be Emma? The figure grew larger. Clay’s heart sank to his boots, for the figure was much too small to be her. “It must be Stephen.”

  He watched the young man pull his hat from his head and wave wildly. “Hey, Clay! You came back.”

  Clay pulled his mount to a stop and leaned on the pommel. “I sure did.”

  The young man grinned from ear to ear. “I was hoping you would come. I’ve learned a new trick. You want to see?”

  He couldn’t dampen Stephen’s excitement. “Why sure.”

  Emma’s younger brother nudged his pony onto the flat trail then, dismounted. Taking a few steps back, he eyed the saddle and with a running start, jumped to grab the saddle horn. He shoved his foot in the stirrup and swung his other leg over the cantle, settling into the leather. “How’s that?”

  “Why that’s darn near perfect,” Clay congratulated him.

  “I have to practice when I’m done with my chores.”

  Clay nodded at the youngster. “I would think that’s the right time.” He gazed beyond Stephen’s head. “So, is your sister coming?”

  “Emma? Naw,” Stephen dismissed her. “She’s helping Ma with the canning.”

  A bit of Clay’s heart withered.

  Stephen must have noticed for he suddenly chimed in, “But she misses you.”

  Clay blinked. “She does?”

  The young man nodded back. “Yep, she dropped a plate and broke it yesterday when my Pa came home. She even burnt the stew. I thought Ma was going to give her one of those stares that makes you shiver.”

  Clay chuckled. He could well remember receiving one of those back in Texas. “I hope she’s not in any trouble.”

  “No.” Stephen shook his head.

  “Well, I’ve got to get on down the trail.”

  “Can I ride with you?” Emma’s brother piped up. “Please?”

  “Well, I’m not supposed to let anyone ride.”

  The earnest look on the young man’s face was too much to ignore. “Sure, but we can’t tell anyone.”

  Stephen lifted his hand and made the sign of a cross over his open heart.

  Tapping their heels into the sides of their mounts, the two rode along the trail together. Rounding a bend, they came to a straight level piece of the trail about a quarter of a mile long.

  “Let’s race,” Stephen cried. Bringing his heels down, the pony leaped forward.

  Clay pressed his knees against his own mount, who broke into an easy lope. It wasn’t long before the Morgan’s long legs caught up to the smaller pony.

  The young boy turned his head and gave Clay a ragged grin before he leaned low and the pony ran faster.

  Laughing, Clay urged his mount on.

  For a moment, the horses ran side by side. However, Emma’s little brother’s horse was no match for the big Morgan.

  He pulled up as his horse reached the small curve. Clay turned in the saddle and watched as Stephen rode up to him. “You did well.”

  Stephen grinned. “Next time, I’m gonna win.”

  “Next time.” Clay grinned. “Now, get home before your Ma finds out. Remember, a good express rider always obeys his parent’s rules.”

  “Right.” Stephen turned his pony to the north and headed back toward the ranch house that lay beyond the horizon. “See ya next time, Clay.”

  Clay kept his eye on him until he disappeared into the horizon.

  Chapter 5

  Clay had just enough time to shake Ransom’s hand before switching back to Spirit. With a wave of his hand, he galloped toward the east.

  The last rays of sun were splayed across the barn yard as he finally galloped in. Shouts echoed in the air as he tossed the mochila to the other rider.

  Wyeth grabbed the saddle horn, bounced twice on his feet, then flung himself into the saddle, thundering away.

  Spirit still itched to run. She circled Clay pulling on the bridle wishing to give chase.

  “Easy.” He reached up and brushed a hand down his neck.

  The horse snorted and tossed his head but gave into his master’s request.

  Taking hold of the reins, Clay led his horse slowly around in a wide circle to cool him down. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Levi moving from the barn to watch him. Two more laps and Clay led his pony to the corral. Flipping the stirrup over the saddle horn, he loosened the girth.

  From behind, he heard the gravel crunch beneath Levi’s boots.

  Clay pulled the saddle off and Spirit shook.

  “Glad to get that off, are you?” Levi chuckled.

  The horse snorted as Clay picked up an old piece of toweling and submerged it into the water trough.

  “How did it go?” Levi finally asked.

  Clay pulled the cloth across Spirit’s back and let the water cool the horse down. “For me, it was okay.”

  “For you?” Levi crossed his arms over his chest and stared back at Clay.

  Clay dipped the cloth back into the trough and wiped again. “Rider didn’t show up.”

  “Where?”

  “The Burrough’s place. I rode all the way to Benson’s Crossing.”

  Levi’s brow arched. Stepping out of Spirit’s way, he allowed the horse to get a sip of water.

  “They’re having the same uneasiness. Lots of talk from the stage lines.”

  Levi nodded.

  Clay led his pony over to the corral and opened the gate.

  Spirit walked through and waited as he slipped the bridle off. Then, with a shake of his head, he trotted off to a group of horses standing beneath the shade of a huge Oak Tree.

  Slipping through the gate, Clay slipped the rope over the post and draped his arms across the top rail.

  Levi joined him as they watched the horses. “Did the men at Benson’s say anything else?”

  Clay nodded. “There’s talk about the Indians not being too happy about the express riding across their lands. One of the riders, Brett Monroe, said there have been some raids.”

  Levi’s mouth turned grim. “You think that’s what kept the rider from completing the ride?”

  Clay shrugged. “I’m not saying yes or no. I’m saying that it looks like things will get tougher before they get better.”

  Levi gave a nod of agreement. “You need to fill out a report. We best keep our observations incase the Captain needs proof.”

  Clay shifted around and stared at his boss. “You think this is serious?”

  “I do. I think there is too much at stake for the stage companies to give up. Cordell is working for the stage company. He could give them insight into the way our riders think. One thing’s for sure, we are going to have to watch our backs. With Ransom gone, I need you to step up and lead.”

  Clay listened to his words. He took a deep breath of the cool night air and slowly let it go. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “That will be enough.” Levi smiled. “Go, get cleaned up. I know Mrs. Hawkins and Anna will be happy to see your face at the table.”

  Cyrus Drake tilted the glass and watched the amber liquid shift to one side. He and the driver seemed to have made another successful run for the Pierson Line. Only the dust he swallowed seemed a bit bitter. The whole way back, all the passenger’s talked about was the express rider. He lifted the glass and tossed the alcohol to the back
of his throat. The rot gut whiskey burned a hole all the way down.

  “One down and many more to go,” he groused.

  The door to Bender’s opened and he caught sight of his friend squeezing his ample frame through the door. Joe cut his glance in his direction and Cyrus lifted his glass in acknowledgement. Barreling toward the bar, he slapped a dollar on to the wood and called for a bottle before turning and making his way to the table at the back of the bar where he sat.

  “What took you so long?” Cyrus put the glass on the table.

  Joe slid his seat out with his boot. “Picked up our paycheck.” Pulling a brown envelope from his jacket, Joe slid it across to him.

  Hungry for money, Cyrus opened it and ran his fingers across the fresh cash inside. “You know what those express riders make?”

  Joe pulled the cork from the bottle and freshened their glasses. “Nope, but I bet you’ll tell me.”

  Cyrus tossed the envelope onto the table. “One hundred dollars a month. Just to ride back and forth with letters. We carry payroll, gold, valuable stuff. Ride just as far and for what? Half the pay.” He shook his head. “Just don’t make sense.”

  Joe shoved the bottle to the center of the table. “Had a talk with Pierson.”

  “Humph,” Cyrus scoffed. “What’s he want? More work? Less pay?”

  Joe frowned. “Not exactly.”

  Cyrus sat forward. “What’s going on?”

  Joe shrugged. “He wants a few problems to come up.” He took a drink from his glass

  Cyrus waited then asked, “What kind of problems?”

  Joe shrugged. “Didn’t really say. Just mentioned that right now, the Pony Express is every man’s hero. If we can bring them down a peg or two, we might be able to discredit the whole enterprise.”

  “Problems, eh?” Cyrus sat back. “Some lost mail might be the answer.”

  Joe sat back. “It would be a start.”

  Horses fed and watered, morning chores done. Clay waited in line for his pay envelope just like the other riders.

  “Going in to town?” Stone asked.

  Clay turned and glanced at the cowboy behind him. “Thought about it.”