The trail to Stonechurch was every bit as arduous as Brady had warned it would be. It was made tolerable only by the fact that there was no rain and no indication that any was on the way. Mud could suck the coach’s wheels like quicksand, and every man aboard would be expected to haul and heave to keep the stage moving. They were expected to get out and walk, even when they were against it in principle. Assemblyman Abrams and the reporter were the last to exit the coach and did not doso until the mountain grade became precipitously steep. The Reverend Marshall and John Spellman walked in front of the stage while Samuel Littlejohn and the others followed it. The reverend had his Bible. Littlejohn carried his case.
The route was hardly wider than the stage, and to a man, they marveled at Brady’s calm and skill in negotiating the ascent. Call Landry, too, stayed in his seat. The animals strained and snorted but never faltered. They were released at the next living station and the new team took them another fifteen miles. The passengers returned to the coach each time the trail leveled off and walked again when it rose or took a hard curve.
It was well on dark when the Henderson Express reached the home station in Stonechurch. The passengers alighted and were shown into a large log structure that was the passenger eating house. In spite of the hour, they readily devoured the spread laid out for them for the nominal cost of one dollar and fifty cents each. The fare was similar to what they had enjoyed at Morrison Station but to a man they were of the opinion that Mrs. Lancaster’s fare was tastier. Abrams and Thomas Brandywine left for the hotel after eating. John Spellman was directed to a wayside home where he could rest for the night and register for work at the mining office in the morning. After reviewing his options, the salesman elected to try the boardinghouse where he could rent a room a few days at a time cheaper than at the hotel. Reverend Marshall was told how to find his church and carried his bag to the small parsonage that shared a yard with the church and the cemetery.
Brady and Call did not follow the passengers into the station. Though Brady never complained, it was clear to Call that the driver was exhausted. He should have been relieved at some point on the trail by a fresh driver just as he had relieved one earlier. For reasons that Call wasn’t sure he understood, Brady had elected to stay with the coach. They were both stiff when they finally stood whilethe horses were being released and cared for. Call’s bones ached some. He didn’t want to think about how much Brady was hurting.
Call stretched, shook out his legs, and breathed deeply. The drive had been harrowing in places but uneventful. Not to say that it was boring. It wasn’t that by any stretch. The view had figuratively taken his breath away when he was casting his eyes around to absorb the vista and literally stolen his breath when the panorama included a sheer vertical drop over the side of a mountain. Brady, he observed, was enjoying himself, and that made Call vow to keep his silence and remain steady on.
Besides, in the less harrowing moments, he’d been able to think about Laurel Beth Morrison. He was tempted to ask Brady about her, starting with how she’d come to be operating the station, but he wasn’t hopeful the driver would supply particulars so he allowed his imagination to wander.
It occurred to him that she was a widow and took up managing the home station after her husband died. He didn’t like that scenario much, didn’t like contemplating her with another man, especially when he couldn’t settle on the sort of man who was good enough for her to marry and then stupidly up and died. He moved on to other thoughts, like the way she looked walking toward him, and then, just as intriguing, the way she looked walking away. It wasn’t often he saw a woman in trousers or had an opportunity to observe the sweet sway of the female form without the exaggerated artifice of a bustle. He could have spent an entire afternoon in one of those rockers on her porch doing nothing but watching her coming and going.
He recalled clearly how she had turned her head to look back at him. She hadn’t wanted him to see her interest. Surprise that he was watching her quickly turned to annoyance. Even annoyed, she was pretty, though he allowed that “pretty” was too insipid a description to do her justice. He only glimpsed her curled upper lip before sheturned away, but it was still a splendid mouth. Curled or not, it was definitely worth kissing.
Call thought about that for a while until thinking made him uncomfortably tight in the groin. After that, he welcomed the steep pitch of the mountain trail to keep him straight until they reached Stonechurch.
“I’ll empty the carryall,” Call said, reaching for his own bag, which was still tied down. He stopped when Brady shook his head.
“Leave it. Mack is the station agent. He’ll take care of the passengers’ cases. There’s something you can help me with, if you don’t mind. Your bag will be here when we get back.”
“Sure. What can I do?”
“I have a delivery for Mr. Stonechurch. No one will be in the office at this time of night, but he and his wife and daughter live above the office while their home is being built. By all accounts it will be a grand domicile when it’s done, but for now we’ll find him in his modest quarters.”
“And you need me for...?”
“Your gun. Keep it close. I’ve got the payroll.”
Call knew then that he had been sitting on a fortune. The payroll for the miners had to be substantial. “Is it in a strongbox? Maybe you want me to carry it.”
“Not in this lifetime, Mr. Landry. I’ll get it. You keep an eye out for whatever doesn’t look right. I aim to get this safely to the Pharaoh.”
Call nodded. “As you wish.” He hefted his shotgun and climbed down from the box. The stage tenders carried lanterns and there was sufficient moonlight for Call to watch Brady raise the lid on their perch and lift the strongbox out. The driver held the strongbox under one arm and made an awkward descent. Call suggested that Brady toss it to him, but the man was having none of that. When the driver was on terra firma, he started off in the direction of town. After a moment’s hesitation, Call strode forward until they were walking abreast.
“You ever been robbed before carrying that thing?” asked Call.
“Nope, and it’s my sincere wish that this trip is no exception.”
Call smiled to himself. It was the longest sentence Brady had spoken to him since leaving Morrison Station. The man was becoming downright loquacious. “Big responsibility.”
“Yup.”
There wasn’t anything Call could think of to extend the conversation so he fell silent and remained watchful. The town’s main thoroughfare wasn’t far from the station, perhaps no more than a quarter of a mile. The street had no lamps and there were only a few windows above businesses that were lit with the activity of the occupants.
“You thought about where you’re going to stay tonight?” asked Brady.
“Figured there’d be a wayside home or a rooming house.”
“I take a room at the Jameson place. Boardinghouse. No meals, so if you want to get a bite before you turn in, you’ll have to head back to the station. They’ll feed you at all hours.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?”
“I’m straight for bed. Dreaming about it now. Mrs. Jameson keeps a room for us drivers. Can’t promise that there’s room for you, but the station has a cot in their tack room that will do you at no cost since you rode with me.”
That sounded fine to Call. “Thanks.”
Brady slowed his steps as they neared the saloon. “Have a care,” he told Call. There were several men loitering on the boardwalk outside the barroom. One was sitting on a barrel, another was leaning heavily against the saloon’s outer wall, and the third had his hands deep in his pockets and was swaying slightly on his feet.
