“Just some explosives headed for Cripple Creek.”
“Nitroglycerin? Oh, heavenly Father. Oh, Mother of mercy!” The old man’s gnarled hands flew into the air, the whites of his eyes rounding into two full moons. “Who talked you into that cockeyed idea?”
“Hush, Amos, will you? I haven’t told Mr. Ashmore yet.” Abigail threw her hands out and caressed the air, palms down. “It’s safe. I checked the crates myself. There’s enough straw to secure those bottles and feed a plow horse.”
“Mercy, mercy, child, I don’t care whether it’s in straw or ten tons of fresh goose feathers. You got to be plumb crazy to ride a river with cargo like explosives.”
“Hush, I said!” She shot him a warning look and whispered, “If Mr. Ashmore hears you, he won’t agree to help us. He’s not the most friendly or trusting man I’ve ever met. He thinks the crates are filled with bone china and delicate crystal. And the river will certainly be a lot smoother than some old rutted, backwoods trail, for heaven’s sake.”
“Nitroglycerin ain’t fussy about where or how it blows, Missy. If you think the man isn’t friendly now, I don’t reckon he’ll be any more pleasant when he finds out the truth.” He shook his head. “I ain’t goin’, no sir-reee.”
Abigail squinted up at him. “Well, that’s your choice, Amos. I suggest you light out this very minute and start walking or hitch yourself a ride. We’re going to need help unloading those coffins when we get to Pueblo. We can’t allow them to bob around on a clumsy boat all night, and certainly not with explosives as bunk mates.”
“If the boat blows to pieces, you won’t have to worry about your poor cousins,” Amos said sourly.
Abigail grabbed his sleeve and shook it. Her words came out in a soft hiss. “Now listen. We’ve just been paid ten dollars apiece to get those crates a mere forty miles downstream. I’ve had to pay Mr. Ashmore half of it for his help. With money from the remaining crate and two dollars for the mail, we can at least face my uncle without feeling like a passel of paupers. In fact, we might be able to get something decent to eat in Pueblo before we start raiding his pantry like starving crows. Think about it.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Abby, with what you’re totin’ we have a good chance of never eating again.”
Together they watched Tye Ashmore stride up the bank toward the landing’s platform and the covered crates. “Hold up, there, mister!” Amos called out, brushing past Abigail. His bowed legs high-stepped across the grassy bank. “Let me lend a hand with that there boney china and crystal. Gotta be gentle with it! Mighty gentle. Takes two people to do it right.”
A thin smile played on Abigail’s face as she followed the antics of the old man. It was the fastest she had ever seen him move in the last five years. Elbowing Tye Ashmore aside, he delicately lifted one side of a crate, babbling instructions to the younger man in his soft deep voice.
A northern free slave for many years, Amos had been hired by her father to help with the household after her mother died of pneumonia when they lived in New York. He had no family. He had never once mentioned his exact age, but Abigail guessed he was closer to seventy than sixty.
Minutes later, Abigail picked up her skirts and headed down the bank toward the flatboat. Tasks finished, Tye Ashmore had moved aside and was now in deep conversation with her sister. Abigail wondered how they both would react when she told them about the contents of the crates. And she’d have to tell them soon. Just not too soon—once they were well out on the river and the idea of returning was impossible.
“I imagined the new school teacher to be much older.” She heard Tye say as she hurried to where Maria stood. “To be honest, I didn’t know the town’s selection committee had made a decision.”
Maria flushed a deep crimson. “I’m almost twenty-two, and I have the proper credentials, I assure you. I attended the Harris-Stow Normal School in St. Louis, and I’ve already taught for a year in Utah.” She bent down, took her sketchbook from the top of her trunk, and pressed it possessively to her breast. “And just how old are you, Mr.—?”
“—Ashmore. Tydall Ashmore, but I prefer Tye. I’m twenty-eight.” He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “And I’m certain your credentials are the finest. It’s the rowdy youngsters of our miners, trappers, and ranchers that you may need some help with. But rest assured, you’ll have a dozen men rushing to your aid, no doubt. It’s not often Golden gets two attractive women for the price of one.” He reached down and lifted the trunk to his shoulder like it was a box of air.
Abigail interrupted with a soft snort. “If you, Mr. Ashmore, keep moving at your present pace, I fear the school year will be half over before we arrive.”
He turned and glared at her, then placed the trunk on the boat and spoke to Maria. “Is your sister always so… so…”
“Bossy?” Maria asked.
“I was looking for the word impertinent.” Tye took Maria gently by the elbow and guided her aboard the boat rocking gently on the water.
“Yes. And maybe just a tad temperamental.” They shared a smile. “Abigail was born with a short fuse. She’s older than I am by three years, so she erroneously believes she’s always in charge.”
Once the women were seated, Tye whistled shrilly. From among the reeds along the riverbank, a compact muscular dog with a mottled coat of white and blue black came barreling up the ramp. A dark black patch of fur encircled his left eye. He stopped and sat obediently at Tye’s side, tail beating a staccato tune on the weathered boards. He looked up with deep brown, expectant eyes, waiting for the next command. Tye Ashmore bent, rubbed the dog behind his ears, and pointed to a place at the front of the boat. The dog obediently ambled toward his spot but paused as he reached the first tarp-covered crate. He sniffed it and growled low in his throat.
“It’s all right, Swamp,” Tye said and heaved a weary sigh. “It’s only china and fine women’s doodads. I guess this trip will be much more than we originally bargained for, huh, partner?” He pointed to the spot again, and the dog looked suspiciously at the crate one more time, but obediently ambled over and dropped down, head resting on his front paws, eyes and ears alert. Tye turned and nodded his thanks to the old man who had collected the few loose bags left on shore and was piling them beside the trunks.
“On my blessed mother’s grave, you sure said a mouthful there, sir,” Amos agreed, and with shaking hands, he hurried to the back of the boat to check the lashings on the coffins and crates.
Chapter Two
Tye Ashmore unfastened the crude hemp rope mooring the small flatboat to the weathered dock and cast off. It wasn’t difficult to propel the boat downstream. The river with its gentle current, swollen from incessant late summer rains, offered little resistance. Overhead, the sun spread its amber warmth over the colorful landscape. Pungent green spruce and pine dotted the riverbanks along with various kinds of reeds and scrub brush, thick and tangled, pushing their way down to the shoreline as their roots searched for water. At the back of the boat, Maria was seated atop her trunk with her sister.
The young school teacher’s nervousness did not go unnoticed. Surreptitiously, Tye watched her gaze flit over their meager belongings and linger on the coffins, an undisguised fear marring her face. Her hands fidgeted with a corner of her sketchbook. For a moment, he had the urge to give her some words of condolence. For he, too, once knew the fear of leaving familiar surroundings, coming to the West, and he, too, knew the taste of death.
But the death he had known had always haunted him. He had been only fourteen when a group of men had come to their house in Virginia, insisting his father enlist his oldest sons in the Confederate cause. A fight erupted and someone pulled a gun. His mother, Rebecca, stepped in front of her husband and took the bullet meant for him. Tye and his sister, Betsy, had watched while his older brothers, Flint, Marcus, and Luke took down the five men in a haze of smoke. Their father wasted no time burying his wife and loading their wagons to come west. Thomas Ashmore had wanted no part o
f the Civil War. He had never owned any slaves. Together, the six of them had set out and traded their lives of eastern farmers for western ranchers.
Tye glanced down and studied his hands. Callused and hardened by long hours in the sun and rain, they were hands of a man who knew how to work horses, cattle, and the land. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he had already lived another fourteen years in the West. Next year, the Colorado Territory was hoping for statehood, and he was proud he was going to be part of it. He would be the first to admit he had fallen in love with the rich landscape where everything was wide open and free, and a man could earn a living by sweat, long hours, and honest hard work. And if the days were lengthy, the nights were worth the wait. The heavens above turned as dark as the inside crown of a black felt hat and were strewn with millions and millions of glorious stars.
He shoved his pole into the water and turned to watch Amos lay his pole aside and move between the coffins at the back of the boat, then shuffle over to the crates. The old man was acting fitful, out of sorts. In the last half hour, he had repeated the routine again and again. He reminded Tye of an old trapped barn cat itching to be set free. Each time Amos made his rounds, his wrinkled eyes strayed to Abigail who smiled reassuringly. Maybe he couldn’t swim. Maybe he was afraid of water. Or maybe he feared the flatboat would upset and leave them in the same sad shape as the men inside the two coffins. Whatever was eating at the old codger, Tye knew it was eating at him like a consuming fever.
Now the older O’Donnell sister, Tye decided as he stole a quick look at Abigail perched beside Maria on the trunk, was a woman he would have liked to throttle if he were a man who leaned toward violence. Thanks to her brazen enterprising nature, he had lost his chance of gaining possession of the dang mailbag. And it was the sole reason he had gone to Canon City. He needed to get his hands on the U.S. mail headed to Golden. He should have never lingered on the riverbank to stretch his aching leg.
Several miles downstream, his friend, Brett Trumble, was waiting and counting on him to have the bag on board. He swore softly to himself. Tarnation and damnation! Why in heaven’s name had he promised he would help him intercept it? Why couldn’t he mind his own business? Why couldn’t he say no? He removed his hat and wiped the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his hand. Because Brett was a good friend—and because Brett was in jeopardy of having a record of desertion slapped on his good-looking head along with a humiliating dishonorable discharge which would mar his flawless military career.
Brett’s father, Aaron Trumble, would never understand the letter from the U.S. government was a mistake, a misunderstanding. Nor would the town of Golden ever let Captain Brett Trumble have a moment’s peace if they thought he was a traitor and deserter. Most of all, Tye owed Brett. They were best friends. In addition, he had saved Tye’s life a few years back when they had come upon a rogue band of aggravated Indians with no sense of humor. The Indians had wanted his horse, his hide, and his gun. What they got was some buckshot in their scrawny backsides instead.
His wandering thoughts were interrupted by Abigail. “In all fairness, Mr. Ashmore, there’s something I need to tell you.” The tone of her voice held an uneasy, apprehensive quality.
Tye jabbed his pole into the muddy river bottom to discourage the boat from drifting toward the right riverbank. They would make better time in the swift, strong current in the middle where the river needed little assistance from him. “What’s that?” He turned to face her.
“We’re not carrying crystal and bone china.”
Tye glanced at the two crates for a second and then met her gaze with a cautious one of his own. Warning bells began to jingle inside his head. What was under the tightly bound crates? Why had Swamp earlier shown distrust of mere china and crystal? “What are we toting?”
“Explosives for the Henderson Mining Camp near Cripple Creek.” The words slipped out so innocently, so nonchalantly, she sounded as if she was picking her favorite flavor at an ice cream social.
It took barely a second for the words to register. He almost dropped his pole in the water. “Nitroglycerin? We’re toting nitroglycerin? On this boat?”
Abigail nodded.
“Why? Why in tarnation are we hauling explosives?” It was a strain for him to remain calm. Now a million thoughts tumbled around in his head at one time. If any one of those bottles had a mind of its own, it would blow them clean out of the water.
He looked over at Amos whose face was as white as fresh Georgia cotton. “Please tell me she’s a little possessed and this is a bad dream?”
“Yes, sir, sometimes I think she is, and no, sir, it’s not a bad dream. It’s a downright frightful one.”
Tye moved to the crates, withdrew a sharp knife from his buckskin boot, and carefully sliced through the maze of twine covering one of the crates like a fish net. He peeled back a corner of the stiff canvas cover and lifted the lid high enough to peer inside.
“Confound it! You fool woman! Whatever possessed you to decide to transport explosives?”
He stormed to the back of the boat and grabbed for Abigail, but she was quicker and she stood, defiantly crossing her arms at her chest, eluding his grasp. His voice rose to a shout. “Again, Miss O’Donnell, I’m asking why you agreed to transport explosives?” He stared at her with narrowed eyes. When she didn’t respond, he blew out an exhausted breath of air. He turned to Maria and glared at her. “And you, Miss…Miss Schoolmarm, did you know about this, too? A sensible man would heave the lot of you overboard this very minute and let you swim with the fish and river rats!”
Distraught, Maria scrambled off the trunk, her face ashen, her mud brown eyes full of fear. “No. Oh-hh, please, no,” she choked out. “I had no idea there were explosives in those crates. Abigail never told me.” She laid a trembling hand on his arm. “Please, please don’t hurt her! It’s not her fault. We have barely a penny to our name. We’re poorer than church mice.”
“You won’t need a penny or a name if this boat blows sky high.” He gestured to the coffins. “We’ll beat your dear dead cousins on their journey to meet the Almighty!” With lips thinned in anger, he removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Behind him, sensing danger, Swamp rose from his spot and growled low. Tye turned, signaled, and the dog dropped in his place. Moving to the front of the boat, he recovered his pole. He had to think this madness through, and he had to do it quickly. Less than a few miles downstream, Brett Trumble was waiting to hold up the boat and grab the mail. If he fired even one single errant shot, they would all be dead in a bare second.
Tye glanced at Maria. She was still quivering, gnawing on her lower lip. Abigail, however, was cool, aloof, without a sign of fear marring her delicate blonde features. She stood in a defiant stance and was as unremorseful as a fencepost.
“How much money did the fool dispatcher offer you?” He blew out another exhausted breath of air.
“Ten dollars a crate.”
“You, Miss O’Donnell, have been sorely hoodwinked. Most river boat operators would have asked twice the amount!”
“I had no choice. I would have taken any price the station master offered, just to get us to Pueblo.”
“You certainly don’t place much value on our hides, do you?” He scanned the contents heaped on the boat. Somehow, he had to warn Brett about the nitroglycerin. He knew the man all too well. Once he discovered passengers on board, he’d want to make a spectacle of robbing the mail. Brett had a swashbuckling way about him. The last thing Tye needed was for him to announce himself with a flourish, waving a gun, and firing theatrical errant shots like a blithering idiot.
Tye snatched the pole from Amos’s hands and turned, confronting both women. “Have either of you a white towel or apron, or perhaps a petticoat stashed in those trunks?”
Maria spoke first, her voice faltering, “No, no, just some old dresses and books.”
“What about you?” His eyes came to rest on Abigail.
She shook her head. “Why
do we need something white? What are you planning to do?”
He glared at her. “I’m trying to save our hides and keep us alive. We have dangerous cargo. We need to fashion a makeshift flag to alert others to be cautious.”
“What on earth for? Why all the fuss?” Abigail didn’t try to disguise her annoyance. She flapped both her hands in the air and waved them at the riverbanks. “Do you see even a hint of civilization out here? We’re in the wilderness, Mr. Ashmore, for heaven’s sake. Stark, uninhabited wilderness. Who are you expecting? A few wild ducks to attack us?”
It took all of Tye’s patience not to curse aloud. The last thing he wanted to do was to divulge information about Brett. “There are dozens of scalawags underfoot who ply this river, Miss O’Donnell, just hoping to steal goods and their next meal rather than work for it. This is rough territory out here.”
Maria’s face blanched even whiter, and she shuddered. She looked like she was about to pass out. “Are we going to sink? Are we going to die?” Her eyes filled with tears as she nervously wrung her hands and stared at him with a desperate hopeless expression.
Aware he had frightened her, Tye felt a pang of regret. He shook his head and lowered his voice. “No, hopefully not, but we need to take precautions.”
“You…you can have the petticoat I’m wearing.” She plucked at her skirt with her thumb and forefinger.
Tye whirled on Abigail instead. “How generous of your sister, Miss Abigail, don’t you think?”
Unflinching, hands on her hips, Abigail stared back at him with equal disdain.
He waved his fingers in a beckoning gesture. “Since Maria came up with the idea, it’s only fair you lend a hand and give up yours instead—after all, it was you who got us into this miserable mishap.”
“Now just a second!”
“Come, come, Abigail, we must all learn to sacrifice for the common good.”
She snorted, but turned her back, hiked up her skirt, and untied the petticoat ribbons. It fell to her feet in a white heap, and she stepped out of it. Scooping it up, she flung the delicate confection at him. He deftly caught it and tied it to the pole, propping it between the two coffins. It fluttered in the soft autumn breeze.
Under Starry Skies Page 2
