Jo's Triumph (4 page)

At last I reached the kitchen door. As I struggled to lift the stiff latch, it occurred to me I'd best take some kind
of food along. I helped myself to half a loaf of bread and pushed aside my guilty feelings. All things considered, it was a small enough contribution for the orphanage to make to the rest of my life.

Just like that, I was outside making my way through the dark streets of Carson City. I had to find a place to hide as soon as possible because, come morning, they would be looking for me. I dodged from shadow to shadow, keeping my eyes down and staying out of the way of the few men who staggered along the main street.

Trouble was, I had no idea where to go. My plans had only extended to escape from the orphanage walls. Ormsby House was out of the question. Mrs. Ormsby would send me right back. The night was cool but the breeze carried the smells of early summer. In the distance, a dog barked. From somewhere in the hills, the eerie wails of coyotes answered.

I skirted around the edges of town and when the dawn began to break I
took refuge in a deep pile of straw in the back corner of the stable behind the freight station. I slept uneasily, jumping at each rustle in the straw. Once I sat up, convinced someone was trying to saw a hole in the wall, but it was only the wind working a loose board back and forth.

My growling belly woke me. Every part of my skin scratched and prickled from all the hay. All I could think of was how much I wanted to go back, even if that meant begging for forgiveness from Miss Critchett.

Then I remembered something my pa always used to say, Don't never think on an empty stomach.

Gnawing on the last of the bread, I tried my best to ignore the uneasy squeezing deep in my belly. What had I gone and done? Without a penny to my name I would never be able to get to California. Heck, as it stood, I couldn't even buy me another loaf of bread.

“Here he comes!” someone shouted from just outside the barn. I eased back into the shadows.

Horse's hooves pounded toward the barn at a gallop. They stopped outside and I heard men talking and the heavy breathing of a horse that had been run hard.

“Here, let me walk him.” The tired horse's breathing moved farther from the barn.

“Any trouble on your run?”

“Some Indian fires in the hills, but no trouble.”

“Aye — those militia patrols are doing a good job of keeping the trail open. Bad news, though — the rider didn't show. I heard tell he's been drinking again.”

“So, I got to go on?”

“'Fraid so. Be a bonus in it for you, though.”

The rider gave a short laugh. “Assumin' I'll be in any shape at the other end of the ride to claim it.”

I heard the smack of leather and the uneasy movement of a fresh horse.

“Up you go, then. Godspeed.”

With a grunt, the rider settled onto the new horse. “Gee-yap!” He was off,
his horse's hooves drumming a rapid departure from Carson City.

“We need more men like him,” a voice said and I realized the second man had returned with the first horse. Its breathing had slowed a little.

“Aye. That we do. I have a notice posted. With any luck we'll attract some fresh blood.”

“With any luck, yes. I'll cool Big Sam out a little longer. Then, how about some coffee?”

“Sounds mighty good to me,” the first man said.

For the next little while all I could hear was the slow, even sound of the horse being walked back and forth outside. When the hoof beats came straight toward the barn, I scurried out of sight. I had just enough time to tug a couple of empty feed sacks over top of me before the door opened.

“Good boy, Sammy. Here you go.”

Hay rustled and the man left, the latch clicking shut behind him.

I moved quietly to where a tall, black horse was tethered. Big Sam
was a handsome animal. He steamed slightly in the cool air of the barn as he munched his hay.

The men sounded like they were with the Pony Express. It didn't take long for me to find the notice they had spoken of. It was posted clear as day on the front wall of the freight company.

Wanted: Young, skinny, wiry fellows
.

Not over 18. Must be willing to risk death daily
.

Orphans preferred
.

Wages $25 per week
.

Inquire within
.

Twenty-five dollars a week? That was a small fortune! With work like that it wouldn't take long to save enough money to get to California. A coach ticket from Carson City cost a little more than a hundred dollars. Then I'd need enough put aside to pay for room and board and maybe hire me a guide to take me to the gold fields to find my brothers.

I leaned forward and read the
notice again. It sounded so exciting. I glanced up and down the street and read the notice one more time.

Orphans preferred
. Well, that was me, sure enough.

It was horses, it was riding, and they wanted skinny boys. Sure I was skinny, but did I look enough like a boy to get the job? If I did, the work would get me out of town in a hurry. I looked up the road again. Then, without pondering further on the ifs and maybes, I stepped forward and knocked on the freight office door.

“C'mon in.”

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office wasn't large, but it was warm. Two men looked at me over steaming mugs of coffee.

“What can I do for you, son?”

I ducked my head, cleared my throat, pushed my voice low, and mumbled, “Saw the notice.”

The man who had spoken stood up and thrust his hand toward me. “You've come to the right place. Name is Bolivar Roberts with the Pony Express.
So happens we're looking to replace a few riders in Utah Territory.”

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.

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.