The Blacksmith’s Bravery (3 page)

She hurried down the stairs and across the empty dining room. Outside, the sun felt good on her shoulders, and the shawl was almost too much. She slowed down and took ladylike steps as she crossed the street and headed for the Wells Fargo. Reaching the office, she stopped and pulled in a deep breath. The door was closed. She knocked and then tried the latch. Locked. That figured. Griffin was probably down at the livery stable or the smithy. She'd go find him.

She held the ends of her shawl close as she turned. The poster on the wall caught her eye again, and she gasped. That man. That exasperating lunk of a man!

After
HELP WANTED,
Griffin had scrawled,
MEN ONLY NEED APPLY
.

She turned on her heel and marched up the street toward the smithy. No smoke came from the chimney, and she didn't hear the clang of Bane's hammer. He mustn't be working at the forge. A quick glance inside confirmed her conclusion. She strode around the corner toward the livery stable.

Marty Hoffstead was bringing in two big geldings from the back paddock. He walked between them, holding one halter with each hand.

“Whoa now.” He stopped them in the middle of the barn floor. He let go of one, and the horse immediately put its head down, snuffling the floor. It walked along, picking up stray wisps of hay with its lips.

“Whoa, you!” Marty spotted Vashti standing in the door and waved his arm. “Can you get that nag and hook him up? There's a rope tied to the ring over there.” He nodded toward the side wall.

Vashti stepped smoothly into the dim barn, without any sudden moves, and stooped to catch a leather strap that ran along the horse's cheek. “Come on, big fella.” The gelding raised his head. She pushed gently on his nose. He backed up, and she was able to lean over and snatch the end of the dangling rope. How Marty had expected to get it and hitch the two big horses without help, she didn't know.

“Thanks,” he said. “This is a two-person job, for sure.” He hooked the other horse to a rope on the other side of the barn floor.

“Where's Mr. Bane?” Vashti asked.

“Gone to Silver City on the morning stage.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yup. Ned Harmon caught whatever Bill Stout had yesterday and was too sick to go, so Griff had to ride shotgun for Bill this morning.”

“Why didn't he send you?”

“Me? I'm not a good enough shot to hold off road agents. But I don't know as I can hitch up the six for the Boise coach alone.” Marty eyed her speculatively. “Guess you're too scrawny. Would you step across to the Nugget and see if anyone over there can help me?”

Vashti scowled. She didn't especially want to get her good clothes smelling like a stable. On the other hand, she resented the implication that she couldn't hitch a horse or two. And while she disliked Marty and didn't trust him farther than she could throw an anvil, a little voice inside her egged her to show him just what
he
knew.

“I can do it. You want me to harness these two, or to bring in the next two?”

Marty's eyes narrowed. “Well, missy, the harness for the two wheelers is hanging yonder.” He nodded toward the barn wall. “Iffen you want to try to sort that out, I'll go bring in the swing team.”

By the time he'd brought in the next pair, Vashti had the first harness over the near wheeler's back and was buckling the belly band. Marty somehow managed to get the two new horses into place and came to survey her work. He grunted and went out the back again.

She had two horses done before he had the team all lined up. Marty grabbed the next harness off the wall and went to work. They labored without speaking. Occasionally Marty said, “Get over, you,” to a horse or swore quietly. Vashti scratched each horse's forelock as she slipped on their bridles. They were good horses. Cyrus Fennel had always bought good stock for the line, and Griffin seemed to be keeping up the standard. Vashti loved to watch the coaches come thundering into town. The drivers always had them run up the main street while they cracked their whips, just for looks.

The lead horses didn't have breech straps, and the harnesses went on quickly. Marty was still messing with a buckle on his side. Vashti took an extra moment to caress the two leaders' silky noses.

“Guess you're all set,” she said.

Marty came around and cast a critical eye over the work she had done. “It appears I am.” He nodded at her grudgingly. “Thank you, missy.”

“You're welcome. Do you expect Mr. Bane back today?”

“Nope. Not until the stage comes in tomorrow. I've got to get up to the office and see if anyone wants tickets for the two o'clock. When the next coach comes in, someone has to be there to meet the passengers. Then the driver will bring the coach around here to switch the teams, so I'll have to run back over here….” He pushed his hat back and sighed. “Best get going.”

“I can tend the office,” Vashti said.

Marty's brow furrowed.

“I can,” she said. “Mr. Bane offered me a position to sell tickets for him. That's why I came here this afternoon. Wanted to tell him I'd do it. So if you want, I can start now. Give me the key, and I'll open the office and meet the incoming coach.”

“You know how to make out the tickets?”

“Well…” She gritted her teeth. “Not especially, but it can't be too hard.”

Marty shook his head. “Griff's got a table telling the prices for all the stops. It changes every now and again, and Wells Fargo sends him a new one. You have to look up the destination and put the price on the ticket.”

“I can do that.”

“You sure?”

“Sure as sunup.”

Still he hesitated. “I'd best go over there with you. Griff didn't say nothing to me about a gal getting to have the key to the office. I'll unlock for you. Most likely there won't be any tickets sold, anyhow. We hardly get any passengers going out on Thursday.”

At a quarter past ten the next morning, the stagecoach rattled up Fergus's main street. Driver Bill Stout flourished his cowhide whip, and the horses obliged by stepping along smartly. On the box next
to Bill, Griffin dug in his pocket for the watch that had once been Cyrus Fennel's.

Griff squinted down at the hands. It always took him a minute to work it out. He'd learned to tell time as a kid but hadn't practiced in more than twenty years. After Cyrus died, his daughter gave Griff the watch when he took over her father's Wells Fargo contract.

The coach was late. He'd known that since before they pulled out of the stop at Dewey. Bill was a good driver, but last night's rain had left the roads a little sloppy, so the delay had increased.

If he was figuring the time right, they were twenty minutes late. Griff sighed and closed the watchcase. Could be worse. Of course, if Cy Fennel were alive, he'd threaten to fire Bill for being late.

They pulled up hard in front of the office. Griff climbed down carefully to open the door for the three passengers—a rancher's wife returning home and two miners coming into town to dispose of their meager findings. Ned Harmon would have jumped down from the box like a monkey, but Griff was too big and too old—yes, he was feeling his age after hours of jolting along on the hard box—to do that.

When he reached the ground and turned around, a vision in blue satin skirts stood on the boardwalk. Vashti Edwards again, complete with a ridiculous feathered bonnet that must have come from that Caplinger woman's millinery shop. She may have quit wearing knee-high skirts and plunging bodices, but she hadn't parked her vanity at the church door when she found her faith, had she?

“Morning, Mr. Bane,” she said. “I hope you had a nice trip down from Silver City.”

He grunted and turned to open the door. Mrs. Tinen grabbed his hand, gingerly climbed down, and stepped toward the rear of the coach to claim her bags. That was the messenger's job, too. Griff waited while the two miners eased down to earth; then he shut the door and shuffled around to the back. Bill had climbed over the top of the coach and opened the boot. He didn't have to, but maybe he did it because the boss had been riding with him.

Griffin went over and caught the bags as Bill tossed them down. He set them on the edge of the boardwalk. “There you go, ma'am.

Thanks for riding with us.” As if she had another choice in these mountains.

Bill scrambled back across the roof to the driver's box.

“Tell Marty I'll be over in a few minutes,” Griffin called.

Bill raised his whip in salute and flicked the reins. The horses started off at a jog, knowing they were nearly home. The two miners hoofed it for the Nugget. Arthur Tinen Sr. had driven his wagon into town to meet his wife. Griffin waved to him and lifted one weary leg, setting his right boot squarely on the boardwalk.

“Bye, Mrs. Tinen.” Vashti still stood on the boardwalk, waving at Jessie and Arthur and looking as pretty as a circus horse in her fancy trappings. Griffin looked her up and down.

“You want another ticket today?”

“No, sir. I came to tell you we sold two tickets while you were gone. One on yesterday's Boise coach, and the other to go to Lamar today. The money's in the tobacco tin in your desk drawer.”

Griff closed one eye and considered her again. “We?”

“We, the Wells Fargo line, Fergus branch.”

“Ah.” He looked past her and noted for the first time that the office door was open. “Where's Marty?”

Her smile slipped for the first time. “Over to the livery, waiting to help Bill swap out the horses. I opened the office yesterday morning, like you said I might, and again today. Well, Marty unlocked for me, but I wrote the tickets and greeted the one passenger who came in yesterday afternoon and directed him to the boardinghouse. I think it's important that passengers see a friendly face when they disembark in a strange town, don't you?”

Griffin grunted.

Orissa Walker and her married daughter came out of the emporium and walked toward them. Orissa always reminded Griff of a fussy crow. The skinny, white-haired woman moved down the walk in a pause-jerk rhythm. Her arthritis must be getting worse.

“Hello, Vashti. Morning, Mr. Bane.”

“Miz Walker. Ma'am.” Griff touched his hat brim, groping in his mind for the daughter's married name and coming up short.

“Good day,” said the daughter. Her brown dress was brightened
by red trim, unlike her mother's totally drab gray fashion. “I'd like to purchase my return ticket to Portland.”

“Oh, you're leaving us,” Vashti said with a regretful smile. “I hope you've enjoyed your stay with your folks, Miz Hodges.”

Hodges. That was it.

“Yes, thank you,” the woman said with a smile. “I've had a delightful stay, but my husband wrote and told me he's lonesome, so I guess I'd better head on home tomorrow.”

Orissa cackled. “I guess it didn't hurt Clay any to cook for himself this month.”

“Well, step right into our office.” Vashti smiled broadly and shot Griff a quick glance. “I can write up your ticket now, and you'll be all set to board the coach tomorrow.”

“Why, thank you.” Mrs. Hodges and her mother followed Vashti to the door.

Griffin opened his mouth and closed it again. Orissa was saying, “Vashti, I'd no idea you'd begun working on this side of the street.”

Vashti's musical chuckle floated out from his office. “Yes, ma'am, Mr. Bane offered me the position a couple of days ago to free him up so's he can tend to his smithing and livery duties better. Now, let me see, you're traveling all the way through to Portland….”

Griff worked his jaw back and forth a few times. He was bone tired. Seemed like he ought to tell Vashti she presumed a hair too much. On the other hand, she appeared to be handling the job well. And dealing with ladies wasn't his strong suit. He stepped a little closer to the doorway and leaned against the wall. Vashti named the price of the ticket, and he thought it sounded right. She acted as though she'd been doing this job for years. He didn't like to remember how befuddled he'd felt the first few times he'd tried to figure out the rate table. Maybe he should leave well enough alone and let her carry on. At a quarter per ticket sold, it would be a cheap way to cut down on his headaches.

“Griffin!”

He whirled around.

Maitland Dostie waved a piece of paper as he hurried across the street. “Telegram just came in for you.”

Griffin stepped uncertainly to the edge of the boardwalk. He wasn't the type of person to get telegrams. That was for the sheriff or maybe the preacher or Doc Kincaid. Who would spend fifty cents a word to send a telegram to a blacksmith?

“You sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.” Maitland stopped and held out the paper. “Sorry to be bringing you bad news.”

“Bad news?” Griffin searched the telegrapher's face. “How bad?”

“Well, you know I have to read these things when I take them down. That is, I can't take them down without seeing what they say. And I'm sorry, Griffin.”