Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (25 page)

Mario understood a horse’s personality and work ethic after spending a few minutes in the saddle with one and would give a rundown of each horse’s peculiarities before each ride. The information was invaluable to the riders whose life depended on their horses.

Mario double-checked the figures as he marked the time of arrival on the mochila’s log. “Stoney, if these figures are accurate and Bar and everyone else on down the line makes as tight of runs, do you know what this means?” He bobbed up and down like a piston, tapping his pencil against the ledger in an excited staccato rhythm before replacing the time log into one of the four cantinas on the mochila and locking it.
 

“All I know, sir, is that I think these ponies know something special’s happening tonight. It’s like they all sprouted a pair of wings. Every time I think one of ’em don’t have nothing left, I just ask for a little bit more, just a little, and they give more than I ask for. I reckon it means California’s gonna get this news pretty darn quick.”

“Pretty darn quick? As quick as stink in a shitstorm. News of this election could make it to California in record time.”
 

“We’re setting a record. Well, ain’t that something?” Stoney punched his fist against Barleigh’s thigh, his eyes as wide as silver dollars. “That’s some crazy fast riding.”

“Fast, yes,” said Mario. “And you could’ve done your run a little faster if you hadn’t had all that wind-drag from that goddamned hat. Where’d you get that thing, off a dead Mexican?”

“I paid good money for this hat. It cost me two dollars, including the silver concho.” Stoney loosened the bolo and lifted the large, yellow sombrero from his head, swatting the dust from his prize. His thin, blond hair stayed plastered to his head with sweat and grime.

“Well, that was four quarters too much. You should have saved them for a bath.”

“A bath’s a nickel,” said Stoney, sounding defensive.
 

“Yep, and at one bath a Saturday, I wouldn’t have to smell your stinking ass for a good goddamned forty weeks, longer than that hat’s going to last. Now get some rest. You ride again tomorrow.”

“It’s a fine hat. I like my hat.”

“Get some rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, Bar, you get out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”
 

“Abraham Lincoln!” Barleigh shouted, the thrill of the election news sending an exciting current through her body. She reined her mare around, galloping down the dusty road toward Mill Creek Crossing, the first of ten swing stations. Throughout the night, she would change to fresh horses at each station before ending her relay 115 miles west and ten hours later at Fish Springs Site, pushing herself and all eleven horses to the limit.

As Salt Lake City grew smaller behind her, lights began to glow in windows. People gathered on porches and out in the streets as news of the election was shouted from neighbor to neighbor and word spread across the Great Salt Lake City that Abraham Lincoln had won the election. Many stayed up all night in celebration, yet there were plenty others who snuffed out their gas lamps, closing their doors to the news.

*****

A fresh horse stood saddled, bridled, and ready to receive the mochila as Barleigh galloped into each swing station. Rare was the mount she considered gentle and well broke. Most were wooly charges fresh off the range, some having been handled just enough to make them curious, others having been handled just enough to make them cantankerous.

The horses back east along the Saint Joe line tended toward the Kentucky Thoroughbred and Morgan types, finer and purer in their pedigrees. Further west, the horses on the Express string were rangier, more the California mustang type, hardier, smaller, and meaner.
 

Once beyond Salt Lake City, she spurred hard for Mill Creek Crossing, the first of the swing stations. She lay low on the bay mare’s neck and let her have her head, staying out of her mouth as Mario instructed.
 

The night was as black as tar pitch except for when lightning punctured the darkness with its sharp flashes. The moon and the stars hid themselves behind thick storm clouds, the smell of cold rain hanging heavy in the dusty night air.
 

Barleigh used flashes of lightning to navigate from stone to stone, from one trail marker to the next. She knew Mill Creek wound through the flats nearby and off to her right, but could not see it, the night was so dark.

As the storm front passed overhead, rolling across the valley, thunder echoed throughout the canyon and intense lightning danced off the jagged granite walls. Well after darkness had descended, temperatures plummeted and a confused concoction of rain, sleet, and snow began to pelt the earth.

Though riding blind through the blackness, impossible to see the trail, she could yet hear her horse’s hooves striking the hard-packed wagon road. This assurance told her that all was well, allowing her the confidence to continue asking the mare to give it her all. The mare complied.

Barleigh knew that the swing station lay just beyond the plank bridge that spanned the creek, and the dull clattering of hooves on wooden planks was a relief to Barleigh’s ears. She relaxed, knowing where she was, despite the blackness of the night.
 

Halfway over the bridge, lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating in a white-hot flash the muddy banks of the creek. The sudden brightness silhouetted two looming figures on horseback letting their horses drink water at the stream.
 

Indians
.
 

She shrieked. In a panic, Barleigh yanked too hard on the reins, which caused the iron bit to dig like a sharp knife against the horse’s sensitive mouth. The sudden, intense pain sent the mare into a high-headed, side-stepping prance right off the side of the bridge and into the freezing creek a few feet below.

The two Indians disappeared into the darkness.

Fear was the tight glue that kept Barleigh’s seat from separating from the saddle. The mare splashed and crow-hopped out of the shallow water, Barleigh clinging tightly to the saddle horn with both hands, the reins lost and hanging uselessly at the ground. They splashed up the slippery bank and were back on the road in an instant, the mare growing more enthusiastic in her bucking the nearer they drew to Mill Creek Crossing. A lantern gave a warm, glowing welcome in the window of the stables just up the hill.

She didn’t dare let go of the saddle horn to reach for the bugle. Instead, she yelled. “Franks! Help me stop this damn horse.” She yelled again, louder. “Franks, grab the reins.”

“What in the hell have we got here?” asked the station master as he grabbed for the bucking horse, throwing his weight against the mare’s shoulder and easing her to a stop. “Why in the hell are you and your horse drenched, boy? You’ll catch your death.”

“Indians at the creek spooked me. I saw two, maybe more. We jumped off the bridge.”

“Jumped off the bridge? Why in the hell did you go and do a thing like that?”

“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“Indians? Ain’t been Indians this close in some time. You sure about that, Bar?”

“I saw what I saw.” She removed the wet mochila from the saddle, threw it across the back of the waiting black mustang, and remounted. “Lincoln won the election.”

“Don’t you want some hot coffee? A quick cup to warm you?”
 

“No coffee. You got a dry blanket or something I can wrap up in?” Barleigh asked, a chill setting in.

“Here. Take my slicker,” said Franks, removing the coat from his back. “It’ll swaller you up, but that’ll be all right. I’ll have yours dried out when you get back.”

Leaving Mill Creek, the territory was harsh, the desert valley scattered with sagebrush, greasewood, and the bleached carcasses of oxen and cattle. Salty dust hung in the air, thirsty for the rain or snow that would turn it into an oozy mud.

Throughout the stormy night, Barleigh raced from station to station, bugling her arrival, shouting the news of the election. She dismounted, mounted, and raced for the next station, taking no breaks for coffee, water, or personal comfort or hygiene. No liquid in—no liquid out. A record-breaking ride was at stake.

The Express Company planned and built swing stations along the route where natural springs were located to provide a source of water for the stock and for the people managing the stock. In the Great Basin, good water was difficult to find, and the water at Simpson’s Springs, the seventh swing station along her route, had long been used by local Indians. This was her least favorite station, the one she hurried through the fastest with the changing of the mochila.

A watery gray dawn of light and mist told that night was over. The morning was steely and damp and dull and cold, but at least it was no longer dark. The mountain peaks at her back were all but invisible in a shroud of sinking clouds as she reined to a stop at Simpson’s Springs.

“Morning, Whizzer.” Barleigh leapt to the ground, pulling the mochila off and flinging it across the saddle of the fresh mount that stood stomping at the hitching post. “Lincoln wins.”
 

Remounting, she galloped off before the news settled on his ears, quick to put as much distance between herself and the Indians whom she felt certain hid in every shadow, in every dip and hollow, behind every stone, behind every blade of grass in and around Simpson’s Springs. She wanted this place behind her, racing now for her western home station, Fish Springs Site, a hard forty-two miles ride further into Utah Territory.

“Hey! We got boiled wolf mutton and rye soup, and plenty of coffee,” Whizzer called to her disappearing back. “What’s the hurry? Oh. Lincoln, eh?”

From there, she changed horses at the haunted Riverbed Station. Other riders told frightening tales of this place, of how they spurred fast through the ghostly flat terrain. She’d never felt or seen one with her own eyes, but others insisted that the canyon swarmed on stormy nights with desert fairies who teased horses into spooky antics, who howled at lone riders, who snatched at their shirt collars and twisted jealous fingers in their hair.

She remounted onto fresh horses twice more, first at Dugway Site and then at Black Rock Site, before at last galloping into Fish Springs Site just shy of eleven o’clock in the morning. With her first overnighter behind her, Barleigh was elated to see her western home station.

A soft snow began to fall, sifting a fine powder over the thatched roof of the low-slung rock building, where a roaring fire blazed in the wide hearth. Gray smoke curled in a thin ribbon out of the crooked stone chimney, disappearing among the low clouds that threatened heavier snow.

Her butt cheeks were raw and felt as if they must be bleeding. Riding all night in wet clothes that freeze to your skin will do that. Craving coffee, wanting warm, dry clothes and sleep, she knew that walking was going to hurt. She braced herself for the expected pain.

“Hello, Mr. Barth. Abraham Lincoln won the election.” She slid from her horse, too exhausted to help remove the mochila.

Yes. Walking. Hurts.
 

“Mr. Lincoln, eh? Well, don’t know if I’m surprised or not. I reckon those Mormons will be glad to see the last of Buchanan, eh? All the trouble he’s caused ’em?”

“I reckon. So, where’s Eckels?” Her relief rider was known to be punctual, always on the spot, horse in hand, ready to take over the relay.

“Eckels ain’t made it back yet. He must be caught up in the storm that’s got the Sierra Nevadas all snagged up.”

“What about Thomason?”
 

“Indians scared him off. Last week back at Black Rock Site, he was ambushed by a passel of them. They shot a bunch of arrows, even a few stray bullets at him. Thomason outran them, but it scared him bad enough not to want to come back.”

Barleigh shivered. “I just passed through there. So, what do we do? We can’t let the mochila stop. It has to keep moving.”

“Then you have to keep on riding, boy. You’re all we got right now. Can you do it?”

“Yes, sir. I can do it.” She’d given her oath. The mail must go through. The thought of letting it stop on her ride was unthinkable.
 

“It pays more money, you riding extra,” Mr. Barth said.
 

“That parts nice, but this is the election results. It has to keep going.” Barleigh felt a sense of obligation, of duty.

“How long you already been in the saddle, son?”

“Since midnight.”

“The snow will be picking up—I don’t know. Don’t seem safe, you not knowing this leg of the route and all.” Mr. Barth shoved his gloved hands into his coat pockets, his breath hovering in a frozen cloud in front of his drawn, thin face.

“I can do it, Mr. Barth. I want to ride.” She stood her ground against the station master and didn’t back down.

“Get some coffee. Fill your canteen. There’s hard biscuits on the stove to fill your pockets. Take my serape to throw over your slicker. Get some dry gloves, too, from the bunk house.”

“Yes, sir. Where do I go from here?”

“Boyd’s Station, due west. The road stays hard-packed if you keep close to the bluff. Don’t stray far off or you’ll end up in the swampy mire that’s worse than quicksand and bog down your horse. The only way out of that mess is a bullet.”

Barleigh nodded her understanding.

“Boyd’s Station is a small stone house with gun ports. They’re there for a reason. If you’re lucky you’ll pass Eckels on the way. If not, then keep on riding west as far as you can without killing yourself or your horse. The sun will be with you unless these clouds regroup, which it looks like they’re doing. You best make good use of your time, and keep an eye out for Eckels.”

She didn’t pass Eckels on her way to Boyd’s Station. The road was flat and fast and she tried outrunning the lowering, thickening snow clouds. Light flurries changed to fat, wet flakes, which turned to a swirling whiteout as she rode into Boyd’s Station.
 

There she changed horses and kept on riding, the lone stock tender a skinny, apprehensive-eyed boy of twelve, pointing her to the next swing station, Willow Springs.