The Blacksmith’s Bravery (28 page)

She walked back to Emmaline and Ned. “Guess I'd better hoof it for the next station. It'll probably take me a half hour, so don't expect anyone to come too soon.”

Emmaline stood. “I'll try to keep Ned comfortable. I was thinking we should get him off the ground, but if that fella's going to light a fire…”

Vashti squinted up the road. “Someone will come along before dark, I'm sure, but we can't count on it. If I get to the Democrat Station, we can bring the relief team of mules to come and haul the coach in.”

Emmaline nodded. “Makes sense to me. They don't have a telegraph, do they?”

“No. But they might send a rider for Sheriff Chapman—or back to Nampa for the lawman there.”

“And the doctor. Don't forget to tell Ethan to bring Doc along.”

“Right.”

Vashti could see the cowboy on the hillside, breaking low branches off a small pine tree. The miners had scattered, chasing the mail. She was thankful for that, but Ned's condition worried her. She waved at Emmaline and set out.

When she was out of sight of the stagecoach, the vastness of the land swept over her. She quickened her steps. These hills could swallow up a woman—or a stagecoach full of people or a band of outlaws.

Years ago, she'd felt alone like this—when she'd left home. She'd set out alone then, too, but not in a desolate place like this. Her only thought then had been to escape Uncle Joshua. Aunt Mary didn't believe her when she'd told her that her uncle had grabbed her in the barn and kissed her. Vashti was Georgia then, and eleven years old. The kiss had repulsed and confused her.

Aunt Mary confronted her husband when he came in later. “What did you do to this child?”

“Nothing. Just teased her a little. What did she say?”

“Said you kissed her.”

He laughed. “She doesn't like me. She'll say anything.”

She'd avoided him for weeks but saw him watching her. Aunt Mary sent her out to gather eggs before school one morning. He caught her as she came from the chicken yard.

“No, no!” she screamed. As she writhed in his grip and tried to pull away, the seam of her dress tore at the waist. At last she got away and ran for the house. She burst through the back door, crying.

“Why are you running, Georgia? And where is your egg basket?”

She halted before Aunt Mary's disapproving glare.

“I… I dropped it.”

“Oh, look, you've torn your dress.”

Uncle Joshua came through the back door. “Is the little girl all right?”

“She ripped her dress.” Aunt Mary looked at him questioningly.

“I told her not to climb over the fence like that.” He shook his head.

Georgia stared at him.

“Go on,” Aunt Mary said with a sigh. “You'll have to wear your Sunday dress today. And if you come home with a tear in it, young lady, you'll be in trouble.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Georgia scurried to her attic room and changed. She hoped Uncle Joshua would be gone when she went down the
ladder and took the torn dress to Aunt Mary, but he was sitting by the cookstove, drinking coffee and talking about planting corn. Vashti snatched her lunch pail off the windowsill and ran out the door. But she didn't go to school that day. Instead, she took the road for Cincinnati.

Now she wasn't terrified the way she had been then, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't afraid. Ned could die before she got back. The outlaws' brazen thievery and disregard for life angered her, but it might have been worse. They could have killed her and the passengers as easily as not.

“Thank You, Lord, for preserving us. Please keep Ned alive until we get him some help.” She began to jog, but the cool wind tore her breath away. She'd heard it was harder to breathe, the higher you got in the mountains. Wolves might lurk out here, and there were outlaws, though they'd probably ridden off a good ways to divide their plunder. Was one of the four in the gang the same man who had tried unsuccessfully to rob the stagecoaches last year? Maybe Ned was right and he'd rounded up some friends to come and help him.

She reckoned she was halfway to the station when she heard footsteps behind her.

CHAPTER 19

G
riffin paced the boardwalk in front of the Wells Fargo office. He shoved his hand in his pants pocket and pulled out Cy Fennel's old watch. No getting around it. The stage was an hour late.

Micah Landry came out of the Nugget and strode across the street toward him. “No sign of them?”

Griffin shook his head and came to a decision. “I'm going for the sheriff.”

Micah tailed him over to the jailhouse, next to where Griffin and Justin now lived. Ethan's paint horse was tied out front. Griffin hurried up the walk and threw the door open. Justin was seated across Ethan's desk from him, playing a game of checkers with the sheriff. The small potbellied stove kept the office toasty, and a pot of coffee steamed on top.

“Howdy, Griff.” Ethan straightened and smiled at him.

“The stage is late.”

“Oh?” Ethan frowned. “How late?”

“A whole hour.”

Micah came in behind Ethan and shut the door. “That's right, Sheriff, and my wife is supposed to be on it.”

“Let's telegraph Nampa and see if they left on time.” “Good thinking.”

Ethan slapped his hat on and reached for his jacket. Justin tagged along as they left the jail. They reached the boardwalk, and Bitsy Moore met them in front of the old haberdashery. Beneath her wool
coat she had on her red bloomer costume, and a jaunty red hat with a dyed pheasant feather graced her head.

“Griffin Bane! Where's Vashti?” She hurried toward them, her high-buttoned boots clomping on the walkway.

“Don't know,” Griffin said.

“So I was right and the stage is late?”

“Looks that way.”

Bitsy seized Ethan's wrist. “What are you going to do, Sheriff?”

“Send a telegram to Nampa. If they left on time, we'll ride out and see if we can get word of them.”

Maitland Dostie's cramped office barely held them all. They waited in silence after Maitland sent Ethan's message off.

After ten minutes, Micah Landry swore. “I could have been halfway to the first stage stop by now.”

“Take it easy,” Ethan said.

Griffin started to speak but thought better of it. The river was high this time of year. Maybe they shouldn't have started running the stages yet. But it hadn't rained for several days, and the ferrymen didn't take foolish chances.

The telegraph clicked. “Here comes something.” Maitland picked up his pencil and began to write. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Not for you.”

They all let out a pent-up breath.

“I've got to take this message to Ted Hire at the Nugget,” Maitland said.

Griffin grabbed his arm. “You can't leave now. This is an emergency.”

“I could deliver the telegram,” Justin said.

Griffin had almost forgotten he was there. “To the Nugget?

I don't think so.”

“I'll run it down there,” Micah said. “But if you hear anything while I'm gone, make sure you let me know.”

Maitland held out the sheet of paper, and Micah ran out the door.

Griffin resumed pacing. Bitsy leaned against the counter and drummed her fingers, while Ethan leaned against the wall with his
arms folded. Justin stood in the corner, quiet for once.

Micah came back five minutes later, and as he opened the door, Maitland's telegraph key began to click again.

“That's your message,” he said after a moment. The others crowded up to the counter and watched him. After a minute, the clicking stopped, and he looked up and read: “‘To Sheriff Chapman, Fergus, from Wells Fargo agent Gayle, Nampa. Confirmed stage left 9:00 a.m., crossed river safely.'”

Griffin exhaled again. “They got across the river.”

Ethan nodded. “That's good news. I guess we'd better ride out and see where they are.”

“I'm coming with you,” Bitsy said.

Ethan frowned. “Best not, Miz Moore.”

“My girl is on that stage. If something's happened, you may need a woman along.”

“My Emmaline's on it, too,” Micah said. He and Bitsy eyed each other.

Bitsy nodded. “I hope they're a comfort to each other. Sheriff, we're going with you.”

Ethan threw his hands in the air. “All right, but hurry.”

“Will you lend me a horse, Griffin?” Bitsy asked.

He nodded. “Let's not waste any more time.”

“Me, too?” Justin jogged along beside him, down the street toward the livery.

Griffin shot him a glance. “You'd best stay home.”

“He's nearly a man grown,” Ethan said quietly.

Griffin frowned. “All right. But if there's trouble, you do what I say, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.” Justin sped ahead of them to the stable.

Vashti whipped around, holding her pistol in front of her. Fifty feet behind her was the cowboy who'd gathered the fuel for a fire. He held his hands up and stopped walking, but he smiled.

“Hey, there! Didn't mean to scare you. I thought, in light of what happened, it might be good for you to have some company.”

Vashti let out her breath and stuck the holster back in her belt. “Come on, then. It's not much farther.”

“A gal like you shouldn't be out here alone.”

“It's broad daylight,” she said.

“Yes, and we was robbed in broad daylight.”

She walked along, kicking at a stone now and then. When it came down to it, she was glad it wasn't dark, but she didn't say so. “Think those outlaws went far?”

The cowboy shoved his hat back a little. “I dunno. They could have a hideout somewhere close.”

“There's a lot of stage lines around here,” Vashti said. “Could be they'll strike again.”

“They didn't get much today.”

“Huh. They got four good horses. I don't know what my boss will say.”

“He won't fire you or anything, will he?”

She shrugged. Her innards dragged, and she'd have turned back if Ned weren't hurt so badly. Griffin had gone white-hot angry when Johnny had tipped the coach over last fall. She could picture his face when she told him what had happened this time.

“My name's Clell,” the cowboy said.

“Oh.” She looked full at him for the first time. He was about thirty, medium height, and spare. “I'm George.” He laughed. “Right.”

Vashti shrugged. She didn't care what he thought.

“What do you do when you're not driving the mail coach?” Clell asked.

Was he trying to flirt with her? What was he thinking, when Ned lay bleeding to death?

“Come on if you're coming.” She hurried her steps as they rounded a corner. Up the slope, she saw the northernmost fence line of the Democrat's pasture.