The Blacksmith’s Bravery

by Susan Page Davis

  “No, I don’t expect it will.”

  “Well, I brought a quilt.” Annie went back to the doorway, where she’d left her bundle, and brought it over. “It’s a shame to put it on a dirty bed, though.”

  Vashti pondered the problem while Annie brought out the colorful log cabin quilt.

  “That’s a nice one for a man.” Bitsy reached out and touched the brown and green squares.

  “Thank you,” Annie said. “I was going to put it on my boy Tollie’s bed, but I can make him another one this winter.”

  “Mighty generous of you,” Ellie said.

  Annie shrugged. “Griffin does a lot for folks in this town. Time he was blessed.”

  Goldie laughed. “That’s what we’re doing. Blessing him. I wish we could see his face when he comes home.”

  “Well, we’d best get to work.” Bitsy gave the quilt one last pat.

  “I never did any quilting.”

  “It’s easy,” Annie said. “Do you want me to tell you next time I’m working on a quilt and show you how?”

  Bitsy blinked rapidly. “Why, thank you. I’d like that excessively.”

  Vashti hauled in a breath and took courage. If Mrs. Harper could be that nice, she could do her part. “Ma’am, I could dump the old straw out of that tick and air it out, and then I could get some fresh from the livery.”

  “What about Marty Hoffstead?” Annie asked.

  “I’ll tell him I need straw for a tick, but I won’t tell him whose.”

  Trudy held out two nickels. “This is all I’ve got on me, but I reckon Marty will make you pay for the straw.”

  “Say, maybe I should go with you,” Myra said. “Can I, Ma?”

  Annie frowned. “Well…”

  “It’d be better if both of them went,” Bitsy said. “Marty ain’t the kind of man a gal wants to be alone with.”

  Annie’s frown lines deepened. “That’s exactly why I don’t think Myra should…” She pressed her lips together and shrugged. “If you stick together. Vashti, you’ll look after each other, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Vashti and Myra seized the dank straw tick and dragged it outside. “Let’s dump the old straw out back of the livery on the manure pile,” Vashti said.

  “How we going to rip the seam?” Myra asked when they’d reached their destination.

  Vashti reached into her pocket for the small, mother-of-pearl-sided pocketknife she carried.

  “Ooh, that’s purty,” Myra said.

  “Thanks.” Vashti quickly slit open one end of the tick where it had been rudely stitched together. They tipped it up and shook it. The clumped, smelly straw fell out onto the manure pile.

  “What are you gals doing?” Marty stood in the back door of the livery, watching them.

  “We’re cleaning. Thought we’d get some fresh straw from you for this mattress,” Vashti said.

  He studied them for a moment, and a smile slid across his face. “Surely. Help yourselves. It’s yonder.” He pointed over his shoulder into the livery.

  Myra looked at Vashti and swallowed hard.

  “Don’t worry,” Vashti whispered. “If he tries anything, I’ll clobber him but good.” She shook the tick out again.

  “We ought to let it air for a while,” Myra said. “Ma always washes them before she puts new straw in.”

  “No time,” Vashti said.

  She gathered the fabric and headed for the barn, trying not to show her apprehension. There were two of them, after all.

  Marty watched as Vashti led Myra across the barn floor to the enclosed area where Griffin kept bedding straw. They knelt and began to stuff armfuls into the tick.

  “You ladies need any help?”

  Vashti spun around. Marty was two feet from her. “We’re fine.” “I could—”

  “Marty! Marty, you in here?” The man’s voice calling from the front of the livery was unmistakably Oscar Runnels’s.

  Marty grimaced. “Sounds like I have a customer. If you need anything, let me know.” He turned and walked toward the front of the barn.

  Myra let out a long breath. “That man makes my skin crawl.”

  “I know,” Vashti said. “For once, Oscar Runnels played the delivering angel.”

  “Mr. Runnels isn’t bad.” Myra peered around the board partition at Marty and the stocky freighter talking in the barn’s doorway.

  “And his son’s not bad, either, eh?”

  Myra’s cheeks flushed, but she smiled. The ongoing flirtation between her and Oscar’s son Josiah was no secret.

  “Here, we just need a little more.” Vashti stood and shook the straw down into the tick. “Shove more in.”

  “Are you going to drive the stagecoach again soon?” Myra scooped up a huge armful of straw.

  “Not driving, but I’m going along as messenger tomorrow. It’s my job twice a week until the snow closes the roads.”

  “Really? That’s so exciting! And you look cute in those boy clothes.”

  Vashti shook her head. “I don’t like pretending to be a boy, but it’s easier to do the job in that outfit. I wouldn’t want to climb up onto the box many times in a skirt.”

  “Wish I could wear pants.” Myra looked at her with a little gasp and wide eyes. “Don’t tell Ma I said that, will you?”

  “I won’t.”

  They shoved in a few more handfuls of straw.

  “If we put in any more, we won’t be able to stitch it shut,” Vashti said.

  “Oh dear. How are we going to get it back to Griffin’s?” Myra surveyed the bulging mattress. “We can’t ask Marty to help us, or he’ll know what we’re doing.”

  “We can do it,” Vashti said. “Come on, while the men are still talking.” They wrestled the unwieldy tick out onto the barn floor. Each picked up one end and carried the awkward burden out the back door and around to the smithy. Both were puffing and red-faced when they reached the back.

  “Hey, they’ve got the window open,” Myra said.

  Vashti set down her end of the tick and strode to the window. “Goldie, come help us!”

  Her friend looked out the open window. “Well, look at that. Old Marty let you have the straw.”

  Vashti grinned. “Yep, and he didn’t charge us a penny.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Even though he was bone tired, Griffin brushed Pepper and made sure Justin did a good job of grooming Red. The boy didn’t have to be shown twice—he seemed to take to it. In fact, he rubbed the chestnut’s flanks carefully and smoothed his mane and tail. Griff watched him over Pepper’s back and saw Justin actually pet Red’s neck.

  “Red’s a good horse.” Griffin put his brush back on the shelf between the studs in the barn wall.

  “Yeah. He’s not bad.” Justin brought his brush over and stuck it on the shelf beside Griffin’s. “Now what?”

  “They’ve about finished their oats, so we’ll put them out in the corral for the night.”

  “Don’t they get hay?”

  “There’s a rack full in the corral, and a water trough. Marty should have filled it, but I’ll check to make sure. Unhitch Red and lead him out.” Griffin unhooked Pepper’s lead rope and didn’t look back to see how Justin did, though it was tempting. It was dark already, and colder than it had been all day. Griffin led Pepper to the corral gate, opened it, and released the gelding. Half a dozen other horses whickered a greeting.

  Justin came cautiously out of the barn, holding Red’s halter with one hand. Griff waited until he got right up to the gate and swung it open.

  “Walk him in and turn him around. Then you get yourself out here with me and let him go so I can shut the gate.”

  The boy managed to follow instructions and didn’t let go of the halter until he had Red completely inside the corral and turned toward the gate.

  Griff shut the swinging gate and latched it. “Feels like snow.”

  “Sure does.” Justin shivered and shook himself.

  “I’ll get the colt. Can you take the palo
mino again?”

  “Sure. But why do you keep those two inside at night?”

  “They’re special. Until I deliver that palomino to Mr. Dooley, I need to make sure nothing happens to it. And the colt… well, he’s special. I don’t want to take a chance of him getting loose or somebody stealing him.”

  “When will he be old enough for you to ride him?”

  “Well, someone who doesn’t weigh too much will likely be able to ride him next summer—after his training. But me?” Griffin laughed. “I wouldn’t want to put my weight on a two-year-old. Another year, and his back will be strong enough, but not yet.”

  “So how will you train him if you can’t get on his back?” Justin asked.

  “You’ll see.” Griffin hitched the colt in his stall and left him with his feed to munch. His plans for training would fall into place when the time came. He didn’t want to get too optimistic—things could change in a hurry—but he thought he might have an eager helper close by. “You ready? I need to stop at my place before we go to the Fennel House.”

  “You eating over there with me tonight?” Justin asked.

  “Reckon so.” Griffin didn’t like spending as much on meals as he had been lately, but he’d been gone all day, helping Ethan, and his fire would be out. He didn’t think he had much to eat in the place except a few dried apples and such. He’d never cooked much, anyway. “Come on.” He grabbed the lantern he’d left hanging inside the back of the livery and shut the rolling door.

  They went in through the smithy. When he got to the door to his room, he paused.

  “Uh, wait here. I’ll just be a second.”

  “All right.” Justin looked doubtful, but he stood there between the anvil and the forge, shivering.

  So far, Griff had managed to avoid taking the boy into his private quarters. Sometime he’d get around to redding up the place, and then Justin could see it. Not until.

  Shoving the door open, he held the lantern high. And stopped in his tracks.

  “What—” His heart lurched. Had he been robbed? The place looked almost bare. The floor between where he stood and his bunk was clear. And his bunk! The covers were smooth and… not his covers. A quilt he’d never seen before lay over the mattress, and his pillow actually had a linen cover on it. That was odd. When did thieves leave things behind?

  Justin touched his arm. “Uncle Griff? Something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.” Griffin stepped into the room and swung the lantern around slowly. The room felt fairly warm, like someone had kept a fire in the stove today. His extra wool pants and dungarees, along with his two other shirts, hung from nails on the wall. All his boxes and kegs were neatly stacked, and the shelves, while crowded, had an orderly look. He could actually see the surface of the small plank table he’d lost sight of months ago, and sitting in the middle of that table were a covered basket and a green bottle holding a cluster of dried weeds and red berries. It was kind of pretty.

  “This place isn’t so bad,” Justin said. “I thought you said it wasn’t fit to live in.”

  “Well, I…” Griffin swallowed hard. He didn’t know who’d done this, but his initial shock had faded. Now anger vied with gratitude in his heart. Insight flashed in his brain, like the sparks that flew from his hammer when he struck white-hot iron. He could get mad at the scrubbing bandit, or he could accept an anonymous friend’s act with humility. The first course would be easiest. But someone had cared about him enough to spend a lot of effort making his place nicer. And he had a feeling it wasn’t done for Griffin Bane alone.

  He whipped around and eyed Justin suspiciously. Had the boy complained to someone that his uncle had farmed him out to the boardinghouse? Had he told other people the room behind the smithy was too filthy to take a boy into?

  “You, uh, didn’t say anything to anyone about not liking the Fennel House, did you?”

  Justin shrugged. “Don’t think so. Why would I? It’s not half bad.”

  Griff nodded and looked around again. He strode to the table and lifted the napkin that covered the basket. Biscuits. And a jar of jam.

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?” Justin came over and looked down at the basket. “Say, those look mighty good. Did you make’em?”

  “Nope.” Griff laid the napkin back over the tempting biscuits. “I’d say we had company while we were out to the Chapmans’ ranch.”

  “You mean someone brought you those biscuits while you were away?”

  “No, someone brought us those biscuits.” Griffin thought he might have an idea of whom. Vashti had known they’d be gone today. But how could she have done all this by herself and still made the stagecoach after lunch? He looked cautiously at Justin. “Do you think this place is too small for the both of us?”

  Justin looked around. “Well… there’s only one bunk.”

  “True. But I could build another one over the top.”

  “You mean…” Justin cleared his throat. “You mean you’d want me to stay with you, after all?”

  “If you’d like that. But if you wouldn’t, you can stay over to the boarding—”

  “I would!”

  “Oh.” Griffin nodded slowly. “All right then. Let’s go over and have supper, and I’ll tell Mrs. Thistle that tonight’s your last night with them. And tomorrow we’ll scare up some lumber and build another bunk. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good, Uncle Griff.”

  Griffin smiled. “Great. And for breakfast we’ll have biscuits and jam.”

  Griffin tried to think where he could get some lumber. He didn’t want to go clear out to the sawmill, but maybe he’d have to. On Thursday morning, he rose with the sun and stoked his woodstove. He’d promised Justin he’d get him from the boardinghouse and they’d build a new bunk. The basket of biscuits all but called his name as he pulled on his trousers, suspenders, and boots. But if he ate some before Justin came, the boy would know. Best wait.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Hey, Griff, you up?”

  He clomped over to the door as he slid on his heavy wool overshirt. “Hiram Dooley, you’re out early.” Griffin opened the door wide and let his friend enter.

  “Oh? I need to make a firing pin for Emmaline Landry’s gun.”

  Hiram looked around the small room and nodded. “Mighty spruce, Griff.”

  “That’s what I think, too.” Maybe getting a visit from a scrubbing genie wasn’t so bad. Griffin chuckled. “Used to be you were always fixing the men’s guns. Now the ladies are keeping you in business.”

  “There’s truth to that,” Hiram said.

  “Well, I haven’t fired up the forge for two days, but help yourself.”

  Hiram held up a burlap sack and shook it. It clinked.

  Griffin shook his head. “You didn’t have to bring your own coal.”

  Hiram shrugged. “Might need a piece of steel if you’ve got one that’s right.”

  “Sure. Let me just grab my gloves and hat. I’ve got to go over and get my nephew.”

  “I heard the boy was here. How’s that working?”

  “All right. I’m going to bring him over here to stay with me today, but I need to make him a bunk.” Griff stopped and whirled around. Hiram was the perfect person to ask. “Say, you don’t have any leftover boards and such from building the church or something like that?”

  Hiram nodded. “Over to my old place there’s lots of lumber in the barn. Look it over and take what you want. I’ll swap you for the steel.”

  “All right. And I’ve got a palomino gelding in the livery that I think you’ll like the looks of. I bought it in Boise, with Mrs. Adams in mind. Rode him all the way up here. He’s steady and well mannered, and he doesn’t look half bad, either.”

  “Terrific. Do you have time to show me now?”

  “All right, let’s go.”

  They walked to the back door of the livery, and Griffin rolled the door open. He went into the palomino’s stall and unhooked him. When he led the
horse out onto the barn floor, Hiram’s eyes lit up.

  “He looks fine, Griff.”

  “You want to try him out?”

  “I’ll take your word. How much do I owe you?”

  Griffin named the price he’d paid in Boise.

  “I’ll get it to you later today,” Hiram said.

  “You want to keep him here or take him out to your place?”

  “I might as well take him to the ranch. All right if I take him later when I’m heading home?”

  “Sure.” Griffin put the horse away and came out of the stall. “Say, I’ve got a riddle for you.”

  Hiram silently raised his eyebrows and waited.

  Griffin pulled in a deep breath. Did he really want to spill it?

  Hiram was the quietest man in town. He wouldn’t tell anyone.

  “Come on back to my place.” They walked over to the smithy and into Griffin’s living quarters. He turned to face Hiram. “Yesterday a funny thing happened. Justin and I rode out to Ethan’s ranch to help him all day. When we came back at suppertime, my place was… well, it was the way you see it now. Except the bed was made up fresh.”

  Hiram glanced at the rumpled bunk and nodded.

  “Don’t you think that’s odd?” Griffin asked.

  “That your bed was made? Mighty odd.”

  “Yes, well, somebody came in here while I was gone and cleaned the place up.” Griffin looked around again at the neat supplies and the clean window and lamp chimney. “You know what else?”

  Hiram shook his head.

  “My blankets were gone, and my bed was all made up with linen sheets and a new quilt. That one there.” “It’s not your quilt?”

  “Nope. I think they even put fresh straw in my mattress.”

  Hiram’s eyes widened, and he looked around again. “Know who did it?”

  “I’ve got my suspicions.” Griffin picked up the basket of biscuits.

  “They left this. And that there posy of weeds.”

  Hiram peeked under the napkin and grunted.

  “Biscuits,” Griff said, as if he couldn’t see them.

  “They any good?”

  “Don’t know. Justin and I ate at the Fennel House last night, and I saved these for breakfast.”

  “Well, it’s not Trudy’s basket,” Hiram said.