by Sharon Sala
The lantern light shed a pitiful beam through the dark as Letty rounded the side of the building. She held it high above her head in hopes of lighting a broader area, and followed her nose to the outhouse. The door was hanging on one hinge and she thought she caught a flash of something furry scurrying out the door as she went in, but she couldn’t be bothered. She needed to pee and there wasn’t any kind of creeping denizen that could be worse than some of the men that she’d bedded. What did slow her down was the realization that if she took the lantern into the outhouse, her every action would be backlit for the world to see. Reluctantly, she set it down a few feet from the door, gritted her teeth, and stepped inside into the dark.
Between the scent, the heat, and the pressure on her bladder, she was about to pass out. The smell emanating from the dark hole was only a degree or so worse than the inside of that stagecoach had been, but she’d only been a proper lady less than a year, and this was no time to become delicate. She hitched her skirts up around her waist, pulled down her drawers, and aimed toward what she hoped was the hole in the seat.
About the time her water started to flow, she heard a snort, then a snuffle. To her horror, there was a thump and then the little shed started to sway. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to stop what she’d started, but there are certain things that, once begun, are almost impossible to stop—one being the emptying of a very full bladder.
In the middle of her panic, the snorting stopped and the outhouse settled. She shifted her position just enough to peer out, but all she could see was darkness.
Relaxing, she continued her business with an easier mind until the hole over which she was bending suddenly shifted out from under her. She heard pee hit the floor at the same time the shed started to lean. Instinctively, she dropped her skirt and slapped her hands against the opposite wall, putting all her weight against the rough, hand-hewn wood in an effort to settle it back, trying to ignore the fact that she’d just peed in her shoe. As she did, the tilt of the outhouse stopped, rocked once, and then started to sway back and forth on the uneven foundation.
“Lord have mercy,” Letty cried, and was reaching for the door when something hit the back wall with a thud.
Even as she was falling, she began to scream. She’d heard of being shit-faced, but never thought it would happen to her.
The Amen Trail
Book Two of
The Whippoorwill Trilogy
Sharon Sala
Copyright
The Amen Trail
Copyright © 2004, 2014 by Sharon Sala
Special contents and Electronic Edition © 2014 by RosettaBooks LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Book Cover: Kim Killion of HotDAMN Designs
www.hotdamndesigns.com
ISBN ePub edition: 9780795337840
Dedication
I dedicated this book to my Auntie, Lorraine Stone, who, like the heroine in my book, didn’t accept the word no.
When I first wrote this book in 2004, she had just finished chemotherapy for her third bout of cancer. At the age of 79, and with nothing but faith and persistence to guide her, she refused to quit on herself.
The cancer that was supposed to have killed her a year ago was, at this writing, undetectable, and we celebrated her strength and her news, while accepting the fact that none of us is promised a tomorrow.
As I have revised the story and am now putting it up in digital format, it is necessary to note that she has been gone since 2005, but I feel blessed in knowing that we share the same blood, and I face each day of my future hoping that I will live with as much honor and fortitude as she exhibited to her family.
To Alice Lorraine Shero Stone
Good friend.
Christian woman.
Loving daughter.
Faithful sister.
Devoted wife.
Beloved Mother.
Honored grandmother.
Blessed great-grandmother.
You were, and always will be, an example to us all.
Contents
Author’s Notes
Hark! Thy Name Is Brother
Shutting the Barn Door After the Horse Is Out
In Sickness and in Health
Get Thee Behind Me Satan
Hard Luck and Honeymoons
The Fragility of Woman
Old Sins and New Hope
Lead a Horse to Water but Can’t Make It Drink
Standing on The Promises
Vinegar, Vanity, and Visions
Blessed Assurances and the High Road
Rescue the Perishing
Standing on the Promises
One More Mile to Go—One Last Soul to Save
Fever—Hot and Gold
The Tower of Babel
No Room in the Inn
Raising Lazarus
The Time of Revelations
Hidden Riches
The End of the Trail
Author’s Notes
In research taken from MILE HIGH CITY, by Thomas J. Noel, we know that during the 1840s and 1850s, the Arapaho had been camping along Cherry Creek near its junction with the South Platte. A chief named Little Raven really did exist, and did what he could to maintain a cordial relationship with the white man, whom the Arapaho called ‘spider people’, which was a reference to the white man’s web of roads, survey lines, and fences. Too late, they realized the significance of this practice.
From time to time, it was the practice of the Arapaho to share their women with others and it was not considered immoral among them.
Mexicans had gold diggings before in the area around Cherry Creek, but it was dismissed as inconsequential by the big strike of 1858 and the huge influx of whites to the area.
To my knowledge, there was no smallpox epidemic during this time, although history has shown us time and time again, how devastating it was to the Indians when it did occur.
In creating my story, I took license with some of the historical time lines, as well as historical facts, i.e. the smallpox epidemic.
This story is purely fictional.
In no way is it intended as a book of historical fact.
Enjoy the story of Letty and Eulis’s triumph, but without judgment, as it was meant to be read.
HARK! THY NAME IS BROTHER
For Eulis Potter, stepping into the shoes of a dead preacher had not been his idea. He’d been persuaded to play the role partly because of his weakness for liquor, and partly because of Letty Murphy, the whore at the White Dove Saloon, who’d promised him free pokes for life if he’d help her hide the dead preacher’s body. Poor Letty had been in the act of servicing the real Reverend Randall Ward Howe when he had, literally, up and died on her or in her as the case may be. At the time, creating the deception had seemed imperative, but going through with it had almost been the end of them both.
Who could have known that Eulis, the town drunk/local gravedigger, would actually relish the role into which he’d been thrust? Even more unbelievable was the fact that during the ensuing events of that day, Letty had gotten religion and given up the role of Lizard Flat’s only whore. Those free pokes that she’d promised him were definitely now out of the question, but Eulis didn’t really mind. They were both caught up in their new lives and the new names under which they were living. The difficulties now lay in forgetting who they’d been and concentrating on who they’d become.
***
It had been months since Letty and Eulis had hit the Amen Trail, which is what Eulis like to call the path of his new ca
reer. Months of preaching in places so small that the settlements didn’t even have a name. Traveling by stagecoach when possible, and sleeping in way stations, eating the same menu of beef and beans at every stop and pretending they did not hear or smell the constant waft of bodily gasses that were expelled from the bloated travelers every time the stagecoach hit a pothole, or swayed from the dusty trail.
And on this day, their mode of travel was still the same.
Letty, who now went by the moniker of Sister Leticia, continued to hold a handkerchief to her nose, and glare at the offending travelers on the seat opposite where she and Eulis were sitting.
One was a traveling salesman named Morris Field, who carried a reticule full of fine laces, the other a gambler by the name of Boston Jones, who kept flipping through a deck of cards with monotonous regularity. Letty had seen right off that the cards were marked, but since she wasn’t going to be risking their money at a game with him, she chose to ignore the fact.
Tired of looking at their grumpy faces and smelling their bodily gases, Letty pushed aside the thin panel of green homespun that was passing for a window curtain, for a peek outside at the passing scenery. All she got for her efforts was a face full of dust and a sneezing fit.
“You all right?” Eulis asked.
Letty dropped the curtain back in place and hopelessly brushed at the dust that was settling on the front of her bosom.
“Yes, Brother Howe, but thank you for asking.”
About that time, the coach lurched again. Everyone went up—then everyone came down. Hard. It had to be said that the jolt caused another round of farts to erupt that were so gaseous and vile that even one sniff seemed to threaten a person’s existence.
Letty glared at all three men and then clasped her handkerchief to her face that much tighter.
Eulis had the grace to blush while Boston Jones, the gambler, added a burp to the mix.
Personally, Eulis couldn’t understand how Letty could be so pissed off about a fart and a burp, when less than a year ago, she would have taken any one of them to bed for the price of a dollar. Just in time, Eulis resisted the urge to snort. Her highfalutin ways were still new enough to him to render some amusement, but he didn’t have the guts to laugh.
The coach swayed again, this time sending a fresh cloud of boiling dust in beneath the window curtains, which only added to the heat and misery of the ride. Eulis licked his lips and thought how tasty a shot of whiskey would be about now, but not to get drunk—just a sip to settle his nerves.
He caught Letty staring at him and reached for his bible. Sometimes she was just plain scary. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she’d just read his mind. Then he thought again, if she was such a damned good mind reader, she would know that he’d just been thinking about a drink. He wouldn’t really take one—not even if it was offered to him free. He had a reputation to uphold and preaching and drinking didn’t mix.
He’d quickly learned that he liked the high he got from preaching more than he did the hangover on the morning after, so Letty could just wipe that frown off her face right now before it stuck there.
Confident of his purpose in life, he nodded at the two men facing them, manly ignoring the state of the air and opened his bible, although with the dip and sway of the coach, he couldn’t focus enough on the words to make many of them out. And so the journey continued, always bearing west, hoping to outrun nightfall to the next way station.
***
Forney Calder had been working for Gibson Stage Lines for almost two years. Most of the time he was satisfied with his lot in life. The only thing he really minded was lack of female companionship. In fact, he’d been suffering from the lack for some months now and had toyed with the idea of giving notice. But if he did that, he would forfeit his back pay. Come October, he would be forty-five years old—or forty-six. He never could remember for sure because his mother hadn’t been certain of the year he was born. Either way, he’d come to like the comfort of a roof and a bed too much, to willingly go back to a bedroll on the hard ground.
He stabbed the pitchfork into the hay and tossed a fork full over the fence into the corral. The horses crowded toward the feed, pushing and nipping at each other in an effort to get the first bite.
“Get back you miserable hay burners. There’s plenty for ever’one,” Forney yelled.
He tossed a little more hay into the corral then drew some water for the water trough. Once his chores were done, he went inside the station to give the stew a quick stir. It had been cooking all afternoon and there was a stage due before night. At least he’d have some human conversation to look forward to.
Only now and then did he start wondering what it would be like if things were different. He needed a new pair of shoes, but he hadn’t been paid in two months and didn’t figure he’d be buying anything anytime soon. Even if he had the price of the shoes, he could hardly saddle up and ride off to Ft. Mays to buy them. It was a two day ride and there would be no one left here to tend to the horses or meet the arriving stagecoaches. Until something changed, he was stuck at the way station with holes in his soles, and nothing but dreams of womanly flesh to soothe his manly needs.
A few hours later, the stew was in the warming oven and Forney was humped over the table near the lamplight, trying to cut a piece of old saddle leather to fit inside his right shoe. When he heard the familiar sound of the approaching stagecoach and the thunder of horses’ hooves, he tossed the leather aside and got up. It was about time they got here. He moved the stew from the warming oven to the front of the cook stove, lit a lantern, and headed for the door.
As always, dust boiled up into the air as the weary horses came to a stop.
Shorty the Stagecoach Driver, tossed the reins to Forney as Big Bill, the man riding shotgun, began climbing down. Once down on the ground, Big Bill dropped a step stool in front of the door and opened it wide.
Letty leaned out and whispered something near his ear. Big Bill nodded politely, then turned around and yelled at Forney.
“Hey, Forney, you better have some grub and a lot of it. I’m hungry as a bear and not particular of what I eat… and Sister Leticia needs the facilities.”
“Yeah, yeah, Big Bill, I’ve heard it all before. Stew’s inside and you know damn good and well the facilities are behind the station.”
“We need a lantern,” Big Bill said.
Forney handed him the one he was holding and started to unhitch the team when a flash of color caught his eye. He stopped, and when he saw a small foot, a hint of slender ankle, then the blue fabric of the female passenger’s dress, his jaw went slack. A few moments later he got an even better look at the woman Big Bill referred to as Sister Leticia. A drop of spittle slid out the corner of his mouth as he watched her brushing dust from her skirt.
Lord have mercy. Sister Leticia was a looker.
He dropped the reins and yanked the lantern out of Big Bill’s hands.
“Ma’am, you might best take my arm so as you don’t stumble. I’ll be happy to show you the way,” Forney said.
Letty hesitated then glanced toward Eulis, who was completely oblivious to the improprieties of her being escorted to an outhouse by a total stranger.
“Um… I don’t think… uh, Brother Howe will…”
At that point, Eulis looked up, noticed that a rather grimy, bearded man had hold of Letty’s arm with no signs of letting go.
“I say here… what’s going on?”
Forney frowned. He hadn’t noticed the dandy in the bowler hat.
“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on, mister, ’cept that I’m gonna take this lady here to the outhouse.”
“It’s Reverend… not Mister,” Letty said, and then frowned. She wasn’t sure, but proper ladies wouldn’t be having any of this. Just to be on the safe side, she decided to get pissed and removed herself from Forney’s grasp.
“The lantern, if you please.” She took it from Forney before he could argue, then glared at Eulis, as if it was
his fault she’d been put in this position. “Brother Howe, if you would see to my bag, I’ll be inside shortly.”
Eulis scrambled to get her bag as Forney reluctantly retrieved the reins to the horses, unhooked them from the coach, and led them to the corral. His only consolation was that the dandy with the bowler hat was a preacher, and the woman had called him brother, which meant they were kin. The arrival of a pretty female led Forney to meander through all kinds of fantasies as he fed and watered the weary team of horses. And while Forney was tending to his business, Letty was tending to some business of her own.
The lantern light shed a pitiful beam through the dark as Letty rounded the side of the building. She held the lantern high above her head in hopes of lighting a broader area, and followed her nose to the outhouse. The door was hanging on one hinge and she thought she caught a flash of something furry scurrying out the door as she went in, but she couldn’t be bothered. She needed to pee and there wasn’t any kind of creeping denizen that could be worse than some of the men that she’d bedded. What did slow her down was the realization that if she took the lantern into the outhouse, her every action would be backlit for the world to see. Reluctantly, she set the lantern down a few feet from the door, gritted her teeth, and stepped inside into the dark.
Between the scent, the heat, and the pressure on her bladder, she was about to pass out. The smell emanating from the dark hole was only a degree or so worse than the inside of that stagecoach had been, but she’d only been a proper lady less than a year, and this was no time to become delicate. She hitched her skirts up around her waist, pulled down her drawers, and aimed toward what she hoped was the hole in the seat.
About the time her water started to flow, she heard a snort, then a snuffle. To her horror, there was a thump and then the little shed started to sway. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to stop what she’d started, but there are certain things that, once begun, are almost impossible to stop—one being the emptying of a very full bladder.
