Louis L'Amour by The Cherokee Trail

was the toughest division on the Overland Trail. He was obviously skeptical about her ability to handle it. Not just her ability but that of any woman in what had always been considered a man’s job, so she would try a little harder.
    Food along the line, as she had discovered while traveling it, was far from the best, so that was one mark in her favor. She decided then they would make doughnuts, and she’d make some cookies. It wasn’t much but would probably send the passengers on their way, pleased with what they had found.
    Later, she would have a patch plowed or dug up, and she would plant a kitchen garden. It would help a little and would vary the fare.
    Cleanliness first, good food second, and always fast and efficient service and correct timing. Coming West, she had discovered that if one did not rush through a meal, one left much of it behind. Hence, the food must be ready to serve the instant they walked through the door, and she would delay the teams just a little to provide for the time, to eat. Take the first team to the barn before the second was brought out. It was not the policy, but it would provide just the margin of difference. She would time the meals, time the changing of the teams. It could be worked out, she was sure.
    Peg…she must think of her education, and there was no school close by. Marshall had read to Peg, and she loved it, so she would do the same. They had a few books, and when those were finished, there was the bookstore in town.
    She asked Temple Boone about it at breakfast. “Does well, ma’am, mighty well. Folks out here are hungry for something to read. I’ve seen ’em memorize the labels on tin cans just for something to read.
    “Never read much, myself. Seen a few plays from time to time. That
Hamlet
now, seen that one twice. There was some mighty fine talkin’ in that play, but folks were makin’ a lot of what they called his indecision, and that seemed kind of silly to me. After all, he had no evidence of wrongdoin’ there, only the word of a ghost.
    “Now a man’s got to be reasonable. A man who would attack somebody or even accuse somebody on the word of a ghost would have to be off his trail mentally.
    “A couple of years ago, back in St. Louis, a man killed another man with an ax ‘because the Lord told him to,’ and they ruled him insane. It’s the same thing. Hamlet wasn’t indecisive; he just didn’t have enough evidence for a sane man, so he tried to lead them to betray themselves.”
    He sipped his coffee. “My mother was Danish, and she used to tell me stories, and one of them was a story about Hamlet. That’s an old, old story in Iceland, and there are many versions of it.”
    “I would not have guessed you were Danish.”
    “I’m not. Actually, although my mother was raised-up that way, it was her mother who was from Iceland. When I was small, I lived where the winters were long, and the winters were for story-telling close to the fire.”
    “And your father?”
    “He was from the Isle of Man, born a fisherman and a sailor on the deep waters. We had no books, so it was stories we told to one another, and I miss hearin’ those old yarns.”
    “I am not a story-teller,” she said, “but often I read stories to Peg. You’re welcome to listen.”
    “I’ll do that.” He paused. “Sometimes I think there were only a few stories and men told them over and over until the names were changed and the places. Maybe all the same stories are told in all the lands. I know I’ve heard an Injun tell stories of Indians that were the same as those I knew.”
    “The Isle of Man? Then you’re a Manxman.”
    “Maybe. I wouldn’t know where to look even if I had a map. Pa said it was somewhere off the west coast of Scotland.”
    “Some night soon, we will read, and we will not wait for winter to come to tell our stories.”

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    T HE STAGES CAME and went, and watching the hills and the trees became a habit. Someday a man would come, and with luck she