“Like Henderson Express.”
“Not Henderson. I’m not auditioning for a position, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It occurred to me. And now you’re unemployed?”
“I am. I heard Mr. Stonechurch is hiring security at the mine. Rumor is that he doesn’t want to use Pinkertons. Thought I’d give that a try.”
“Before you came to the table, Mr. Abrams said you told everyone you were a gun for hire. I wasn’t sure you weren’t pulling someone’s leg, but it appears that you were telling the truth.”
“In a manner of speaking. I carry for protection. Mine and those I’m hired to protect. I’m not a gunfighter.”
“Seems like a narrow distinction.”
“Not to me.”
Laurel picked up more plates and balanced them on her forearm. “I’ll speak to Brady. The things you told me, I only have your word for them.”
“That’s right,” he said, holding her frankly assessing gaze with his own direct one. He waited to see if she would call him a liar. She didn’t. Her eyes eventually dropped away, a hint of pink returned to her cheeks, and she turned and headed for the kitchen.
He was still watching her so he saw her glance backward at him before she disappeared. He couldn’t tell if she was annoyed with herself for giving in to the urge to look over her shoulder or because he caught her at it. She didn’t strike him as someone who’d admit her interest, and there was always the possibility that he was mistaken to believeit was there, but the deepening flush to her cheeks was a promising sign.
Call did not see her again until Brady invited him to take a seat on the box. The invitation was offered churlishly, but Call did not let that stop him from accepting it. Laurel appeared from around the side of the house to return his gun belt and weapon. There was something in the way she handed them over that made him think she was trying to avoid touching him. He wanted to grin, but she was so serious that he simply thanked her and had to hope she understood that he was grateful for more than getting his gun back. He strapped on the belt and climbed aboard. Call noticed that Brady took his seat on both sides of the center, not leaving much room on the box for a partner. Figuring the jouncing of the stage would move Brady better than he could, Call let it go and seated himself on Brady’s right.
“You gonna get that twelve-gauge of yours or are you thinking that drawing your sidearm will be enough to stop a holdup?”
Call turned around and reached for his bag and shotgun, which had been strapped to the roof. Because he arrived late, there wasn’t room in the carryall at the rear of the stage for his belongings. They could have fit under the driver’s box, but for reasons Call only suspected, Brady never suggested putting them there. Call grabbed the butt of the shotgun and wiggled it free from under the straps. He carefully brought it forward so he didn’t hit Brady with it. It wouldn’t take much for the driver to send him back inside the stage, Call thought, and he did not want to provoke that action. He stood the shotgun barrel up beside him and nodded in Brady’s direction to indicate he was ready.
Brady scowled, deepening every crease in his weather-lined face. “If you think you’re gonna lose that good meal you just had, make sure you don’t spit it in the wind. That clear enough for you, Mr. Landry?”
“Clear.”
“All right, then. We’re off.” Brady snapped the reins and called out encouragement to the team in his particular manner. “Yee-ha! Hi-yah!”
Call had taken the precaution of holding on to the box with his free hand. The stage’s jerk from stationary to moving would have unseated him otherwise, and it wasn’t beyond all possibility that that had been Brady’s intent. Once they were rolling forward in a smoother fashion, Call released his grip, looked back at the home station, and found Laurel standing with her hands and stage tenders. He raised his hand in a salute and farewell. She did not reciprocate in a similar fashion.
As the station disappeared from view, Call set himself to considering the problem of how he might return.
***
Laurel turned back to the house once the stage was out of sight. She had no instructions for her men. They knew what was expected and separated to go about their tasks. Mr. Pye and Hank went to the barn to finish wiping down the horses, check their shoes for wear and their legs for injuries. Hank always had dried apples in his pockets for treats. Dillon returned to the garden to pick tender herbs for Mrs. Lancaster and then stayed in the kitchen to help clean up. Rooster got out a ladder and set it up against the barn to make repairs on the weather side. Laurel sat at her desk in her study, which was also the post and telegraph office. She looked over the mail that Brady had delivered and slid the letters into individual slots to wait for town folk to wander in and collect them. If a letter remained in a slot for two weeks, Laurel had Dillon or Hank deliver it to the addressee’s home, usually a farm well outside of town. She offered the service primarily as a way to check on isolated families and be certain they had come to no harm. Even seven years after the war, farms were particularly vulnerable to raiders looking for livestock, food, moonshine stills, and the money farmers hidunder floorboards or in their fruit cellars. Falls Hollow had recently added a bank to its main street, but there were folks who didn’t trust turning over what little cash they had and receiving a Jones Prescott savings book in return. It didn’t seem equitable. A barter economy was still preferred by many, but the railroad would eventually put an end to that. Railroad agents couldn’t accept chickens or eggs or flour or feed. The stage company didn’t like it either, but Laurel had managed to work around that to help people who needed to visit Denver.
Laurel sat at her desk, her chin propped on the back of her hands, long after she had finished sorting the mail. At first she simply stared out the window. The stage was gone but it did not require much imagination to see it there. She had seen hundreds, all of them more or less uniform in design, color, and markings. More difficult to see in her mind’s eye was an engine, a mighty black workhorse with steam and smoke rising from its stacks, throwing ash to the rear as it snorted and squealed to a stop so passengers could disembark.
What would it be like? she wondered. Whole families could travel together. There would be individuals, of course, but also couples and kin and more settlers. Stonechurch would call to them, but some would find Falls Hollow more to their liking, and seek out opportunities to start businesses or farm. The grasslands that existed on either side of the hollow were more suited to raising sheep than grazing cattle, but that was also a good living. The town already had a saloon. Sweeny’s was a popular meeting place for drink and conversation. Mrs. Fry’s brothel was another. She supposed the railroad would bring more of both, though she personally thought the town was better off with only one of each.
She wondered about Brady. What would he do when the railroad replaced the stage line? He knew how to command a team, but an engine didn’t respond to yee-ha or hi-yah. It didn’t respond to a whip.
It was natural that her thoughts would wander in thedirection of McCall Landry and his very fine eyes. There was no room in the engine’s cab for a shotgun rider, but she wasn’t as concerned for his welfare as she was for Brady’s. Mr. Landry would find his way easily enough. Skill with a gun was always marketable in these parts. Ramsey Stonechurch would be foolish if he didn’t hire Mr. Landry, and no one had ever thought the Pharaoh was a fool.
She didn’t think McCall Landry was either. Maybe he would think twice about working for Stonechurch Mining and decide that he was better suited for stagecoaching for as long as it lasted. Riding on the box apparently did not affect his delicate constitution.
It was impolite, but no one was around to see Laurel smile when she thought of Call’s constitution as delicate, so her smile broadened until amusement bubbled on her lips.
She lifted her head and dropped her hands to the desktop and folded them. Her smile and laughter faded. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the engine and all of the cars behind it vanished. The stage did not reappear. A few red-comb chickens wandered into the yard, pecking the ground out of habit more than in a search for food.
Laurel rose, pushed herself upright from the desk, and went in search of Mrs. Lancaster to see what help was needed to prepare for the next stage.
***
