“Will you require the telegraph while you’re here? The office is inside the station.” She waited him out while he considered whether or not to avail himself of the service.
“No,” he said finally. “The drive from Denver has been uneventful. I intend to interview the Pharaoh in Stonechurch.”
Laurel frowned slightly. “I hope you don’t mean to use that rather disrespectful moniker for Ramsey Stonechurch in your reporting. He’s Ramsey, not Ramses, no matter what you’ve heard. And you definitely should not mention it in his presence.”
“Surely he knows people refer to him as Pharaoh.”
“He knows. He doesn’t particularly like it.”
“I see.”
Laurel wasn’t sure he did, and she didn’t trouble herself to hide her skepticism.
“You know him, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps I can interview you. Background for my piece.”
“I don’t think so.”
Thomas Brandywine shrugged as if it were neither here nor there. “If you change your mind, let me know. I believe Mr. Pulitzer’s readers would be interested in your story.”
“You mean Mr. Stonechurch’s story.”
“Yes,” he said carelessly. “That’s what I mean.”
Laurel stepped aside so Brandywine had a clear path to the farmhouse and waited for the last passenger to step down from the stage. She was curious about the man who had asked if he could ride shotgun. He was obviously a stranger to the line and didn’t know Brady’s history with Henderson Express or he would have known better than to make the inquiry. It was Brady’s cousin who had been driving the stage when the rebel gang attacked the home station. It was Brady’s cousin who had accepted a last-minute substitute to ride shotgun and found himself sitting next to one of the Grant rebel gang. It was Brady’s cousin who was knifed before he had a chance to draw his weapon. From the window, Laurel had been a witness to the carnage and had a clear view of Brady’s cousin fallingfrom his perch and Ollie Grant grinning down at him before he stood and sheathed his bloody knife and took aim with his shotgun.
Laurel observed the final passenger step out of the coach with an ease that surprised her. It was not unusual to see men lumber clumsily as they alighted, many of them shaking out the bones of their arms and legs, rolling their shoulders, and stretching their necks. Perhaps this man had done that all while he was waiting his turn, or perhaps he was one of the fortunate who could sleep comfortably in the cramped, swaying coach and awake refreshed.
He was taller than any of his companions had been, at least six feet in Laurel’s estimation. Slim and easy on his feet, he walked toward her in no particular hurry. He wore a black oilcloth duster with a caped shoulder similar to what Brady wore, and when it parted as he approached, she saw his gun belt. Frowning, she waved Rooster over.
When he was at her side, she spoke to the visitor. “You’ll have to leave your gun with Rooster before you can go inside. Morrison Station rules, Mr.—”
“Landry,” he said. “McCall Landry.”
Laurel thought he might voice an objection to surrendering his weapon, but he unfastened the gun belt without a murmur and handed it over to Rooster with considerable respect, though whether that was for her, for Rooster, or for his gun, Laurel didn’t know.
Rooster held the belt in two hands and stared down at the butt of the weapon. “I know this model,” he said. “Colt Army issue.”
“That’s right,” said Call. “Cavalry.”
“Yankee, then.”
“Northern side of the Mason-Dixon, about halfway between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Little town called Chambersburg, about a hard stone’s throw from Gettysburg.”
“You fought there?” asked Laurel.
“No. I was... elsewhere by then.”
The pause in his answer left Laurel wanting to know more and certain that questions would be unwelcome even if they were answered politely. “Welcome, Mr. Landry.”
“Call,” he said. “That’s what I answer to.”
Laurel smiled but gave no indication as to how she would address him. She held out a hand. “I’m Laurel Beth Morrison.” She liked that he grasped her hand firmly. He shook it once and then released her, looking expectantly toward the farmhouse but without taking a step in that direction.
“There’s no ceremony here,” she told him. “Go on. There’ll be plenty of room for you at the table. Money jar’s on the mantel. Everyone pays what they can.”
