Louis L'Amour by The Cherokee Trail Page A

would see him first. What would she do? What could she do?
    The navy pistol she kept close at hand. One of the derringers was always with her. Each of them had two barrels.
    Two shots, and she must be close.
    Temple Boone came and went; sometimes, almost without her knowing, he was there and then he was gone. He talked but little, although occasionally there was news. The station at Virginia Dale had been attacked by Indians, a quick, sharp raid. They were there and gone before it was realized, but they drove off the horses, and the stage had to come on to the next station using the same tired horses.
    “Don’t get caught outside,” Boone warned her. “Get in. Sometimes a shot or two will drive them off. Indians want to steal horses, but they don’t want to get killed. They might come at any time, but they prefer an attack at daybreak. Usually, there’s just a small bunch of them.”
    Only a week later, the stage came rolling in on a dead run, and when it drew up at the station, Wilbur dropped to the ground. “Wounded man inside. Injuns shot at us tryin’ to stop the stage. We outrun ’em, but they nailed a passenger.”
    There were five in the stage, and three had joined the shooting at the Indians, helping to drive them off. The wounded man was a soldier in uniform. “Headed for Fort Collins,” he explained as he was helped inside. “I don’t figure I’m hit hard, but I’m losin’ blood.” Mary was working on his shoulder, trying to stop the flow of blood when suddenly he looked at her and said, “You’re Major Breydon’s wife! From Virginia!”
    She turned her eyes to his. He was a stocky, well set up man of perhaps forty years. She remembered him at once.
    “Sergeant Owen? Barry Owen?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I was captured and exchanged on a promise not to fight again in that war, so they sent me out to the frontier. Is the major here?”
    “No, sergeant, he was shot, killed.”
    “Oh? I am sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know.”
    She finished binding his wound. Shakily, he got to his feet. “I am reporting for duty at Fort Collins, ma’am. Maybe I’ll get by again.”
    It was not until the stage was gone that she remembered.
    Sgt. Barry Owen had been among those who pursued Flandrau’s guerrillas!
    But who would know that? Who would guess? Had he ever seen Flandrau? Would he know him if he saw him? Or…worse…would Flandrau recognize him?

Chapter 11
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    T HE DAYS WERE long and hard. There were times at night when she fell into bed exhausted. There were meals to be prepared, the horses to be cared for, and always they were cleaning. Dust settled on everything, and there were times when she almost found herself sympathizing with Scant Luther and the filth in which he had lived. It would have been so easy just to sit down and let the days drift by.
    Yet there were compensations, too. Matty never complained. She did her share of the work and a little more, she bantered with the passengers and the drivers, she teased, cajoled, and made a fuss over Wat until he finally began to loosen up, yet even then he said nothing of his family, nothing of where he had lived before. One thing he denied vehemently. His father was no outlaw and never had been.
    Sometimes at night, she longed for the great four-poster in which she had slept at home. She yearned for a quiet afternoon drinking tea with occasional visitors from Washington and the gatherings at her home when officials from Washington mingled with planters from Virginia and occasional travelers from Europe. The beautiful gowns, the uniforms, the music, and the conversation.
    Often, she paused in her work and looked with dismay at her hands, once so soft and white, her nails perfect. Now her hands were brown, and there were calluses. Could she ever make them beautiful again?
    Most of all, she thought about Peg. What kind of a future would there be for her here? Of course, they still owned the land in Virginia. Battles had been fought over that land, the