Massacre at Whip Station Page 4

  B.W. frowned. “Your pa would never permit it.”

  “The coach may still be in danger,” Slash snickered. “I think I can work it.”

  “Son,” B.W. said, “do your magic, then, with my gratitude. Me? I’m going to sleep.”

  Since his usual cot in the root cellar was presently occupied, B.W. lay down in a small closet-like space just beyond the root cellar. It had a cot typically kept there for passengers who felt faint from the journey. Joe offered his own bed, but B.W. had sweat almost as much as his horses during that race from Civil Gulch. He liked Joe too much to subject his bedding to what he smelt of.

  That, he thought, is a smell, not an aroma.

  Plus, in a bed, he’d have to remove his boots. His feet were too swollen now to risk getting them back on. As he dropped down, the cot didn’t seem to care. And he ignored the loud complaints of his stomach. B.W. was hungry but he would do what he always did for meals. Eat jerky during the ride, along with fruit or vegetables a station could provide. Right now, rest was a priority.

  He was asleep within moments.

  * * *

  Jackson had moved the horses to the stable for a change of teams and Slash went out to help him—and to discuss his idea. The two Mission Indians stood in the darkening expanse of backyard, smoking pipes. Joe went to check the baggage on the coach, making sure it had not come loose during the flight from the gunmen. The men knew the routine and how much time they had to perform it.

  The Butterfield Overland Mail schedule allowed twenty-five days to cover the 2,800-mile distance from St. Louis to San Francisco, traveling without any stops longer than were necessary to swap out the horses and see to the comfort—however briefly—of the passengers. Two coaches departed weekly. To allocate exactly the amount of space needed for postal cargo—the government offered highly lucrative contracts to carry their mail on time—passengers were required to purchase tickets that put them in narrow, thinly padded seats for the entire journey, whether terminal to terminal or intermediate stops.

  It was a brutal journey with two meals each day, those breaks being the only rest stops. Riders slept in the coach, if at all. They could not do more than wash hands and face at the stations, and bribes were required to convince any Butterfield hands to retrieve luggage for a change of clothes or footwear or perfume. The stench in the carriage was often nauseating and the company did not warrant the mental or physical well-being of its customers. Departure points noted that the route took passengers through hostile territory where only God could guarantee their safety.

  This California leg of the journey called for the stagecoach to remain at Whip Station for this one fast-passing hour and then head to Warren Ranch, which was due north. They would ride through the night and reach the spread by dawn. Even the events of the last mile could not hold them up. Not even the death of a horse, which was more severe to the company than the death of a passenger.

  These passengers were presently seated at the long table in the main room of the station. Aware of the time, Sarah O’Malley had gently but in a timely manner got them settled. They were situated just as they had been during the ride, with the shaman and his guards on one side, the priest and his sister and the man with the overstuffed vest on the other. The latter had put out his cigarette before sitting, in deference to the lady.

  The table had already been set, stew was on the fire—comprised primarily of slices of bacon steak, carrots, water, and flour—and Sarah was placing bread on every plate. She had found it was better to cut it rather than offend the ladies, and some men, by having dirty men’s hands pull at the still-warm loaf.

  There was no sense of camaraderie at the table. There never was. Sarah had long ago stopped trying to create conversation. By this point in the journey passengers were tired of one another if not downright hostile. One of the men was always around in case any fights broke out.

  Only the lone male traveler spoke, and Sarah had no idea whether anyone at the table but himself was listening. It was the smoker. He pointed across the table before speaking.

  “I have been puzzling over this gentleman,” he said, indicating the Serrano sitting tall in the center. “As a journalist—Fletcher Small is my name—I try to understand all sides of a thing, whatever my personal opinions. My own opinions and prejudices cannot influence any report I file, you understand.”

  If anyone did understand, they did not say so. Each was involved in his or her own thoughts and business. Stew was ladled onto his plate and he sopped some of it with a chunk of bread. The man turned to his left, to the pastor. Sarah called over the collies who were milling about the table seeking scraps and sent them outside.

  Fletcher Small continued.

  “Reverend Michaels,” he said, chewing the bread. “What is your opinion of these savages and their spiritual figures?”

  The pastor picked up his knife and fork and cut a large slice of carrot into small pieces. “I have no opinion of faiths other than my own, Mr. Small.”

  “Then you acknowledge that magical beliefs are a faith?” the journalist pressed.

  The reverend seemed uncomfortable with the question. “To me, no,” he replied. “To this gentleman, the answer may be yes. You would have to inquire of him.”

  Michaels put a piece of carrot in his mouth and chewed it quietly. Bumping elbows, Fletcher Small tucked into his own stew with a fork.

  “These are mighty good carrots,” the reporter told his hostess. “Mighty good. Plump. Tasty.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Clarity said. She sounded eager to change the direction of the conversation.

  Sarah acknowledged with a smile.

  “I guess being a preacher means you have to be fair to everyone, even if you disagree,” Small expanded on his previous thoughts.

  “Especially when you’re in their land,” Gert responded.

  Having finished in the root cellar, the young woman had come out to help her mother. She handed the flattened bullet to her grandfather, who had finished with the luggage and had just entered with water from the well. He placed the indoor bucket down, stepped near a window, and examined the lead in the fading light. He did not approve of his granddaughter’s statement but there were guests present. He ignored it.

  Small was intrigued. “An outspoken young lady,” he said. “Do you believe that this is Indian land?”

  Now her grandfather looked over. It was an expression that admonished caution. He disapproved of hearing her opinions under most circumstances, but disapproved more when they were spoken around guests.

  Gert backed down but did not entirely retreat.

  “I suspect President Johnson must believe that,” she answered, “or he would not have asked to see this medicine man.”

  The two men on either side of the shaman turned to look at the young woman.

  “Now I’m utterly enchanted and intrigued,” Small said, sitting back. “What makes you say that Mrs.—?”

  “Miss O’Malley,” she said, busying herself with the apple pie on the cutting table. “The two gentlemen told me so.”

  Both turned around as one, frowning.

  “Oh, not in words,” Gert added quickly. “But those are Eastern city tweeds you’re wearing. I know them from Frank Leslie’s Ladies’ Gazette of Fashion and Fancy Needlework. And you haven’t had sun on your faces in months.”

  The barrel-chested man finished chewing a potato. “How do you know we weren’t on business in New York or Philadelphia?”

  “You might have been, but not the Serrano,” Gert said. “He is a high figure, according to his dress. He would only meet with a high figure. And he would not have sought one out. Mr. Johnson would have had to come to him, through an agent.”

  The Indian laughed once.

  The man with the bulldog face nodded. “We ought to hire this little lady to work for us, Hathaway,” he said. “You’ve quite an eye, Miss O’Malley.”

  “Yes,” the reporter agreed. “What can you tell about any of the
others around this table?”

  Joe closed his hand tight around the bullet. “Gentlemen, my granddaughter is not a counting horse at a carnival,” he said sternly.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Small said. “I meant no impertinence.”

  Gert said, “We have your collected work ready for composting in the—”

  “No more!” Joe said.

  Gert pouted and cut the pie as if it were the rope that hung her abolitionist hero John Brown.

  Joe regarded the reporter. “It was the girl’s fault, Mr. Small, for hanging up her banner. It’s been taken down now.”

  Small nodded gratefully and chuckled. “Lovely turns of phrase. You don’t hear that much in Saint Louis. That’s where I’m from,” he went on. “I write the Trade and Business column for the Daily Missouri Republican. My publisher asked me to take this trip and write about the Butterfield line.” He picked up his two-pronged fork and started spearing the fine-cut beef. “But personally, I am more interested in what Miss O’Malley called the ‘high figure.’” He put the fork in his mouth and cleared off the meat, making an mmmmm sound as he fixed his eyes on the two men and the shaman. “This is very tasty, Mrs. O’Malley,” he said.

  “Thank you,” the woman replied.

  Small was still regarding the trio. “Why was this man in Washington meeting with the president?”

  “You’ll have to write to the president, ask him,” answered the barrel-chested man. He touched his napkin to his mouth, folded it back on his lap, and resumed eating.

  “You are surely with the Indian Bureau,” Small said. “No other civilian would be authorized to escort this personage across the continent.”

  “I am,” the man answered. He smiled broadly. “But before you go on, trust me, Mr. Small. We are the last to know what is going on with the Indians.”

  “I gather, from the laugh earlier, that this man speaks English?” Small nodded at the Indian.

  “The man has a name, I’m sure,” Gert said with annoyance.

  “Girl, this is not your affair,” Joe cautioned her with quiet authority.

  The young woman presented her back to the group and retrieved plates for the pie.

  Joe regarded the barrel-chested man. “I’m sorry, Mr.—?”

  “Doug Kennedy,” he said. “My partner is Jessup Hathaway. And there’s no need to apologize.” He regarded Small. “The lady is quite right. The man does have a name, sir. It is Tuchahu.”

  Sarah returned with a second plate of bread. A brief silence settled on the table. Joe took advantage of it. Ordinarily, he did not intrude on the interactions of his guests. But he had seen Slash buttonhole B.W. outside the root cellar. From the boy’s lightning-wide grin, he had an idea what that had been about.

  “I have a question, Mr. Kennedy, and I’ll ask it since it may involve the safety of the individuals sitting at this table,” Joe said. He put the bullet down in front of the barrel-chested man. “Who would want to try and shoot the Shotgun or Brother Whip to a stage that carries no valuables? Is someone after the Serrano?”

  “We have had no intelligence of such a scenario,” Kennedy answered. “Our presence here is simply precautionary. An honor guard, if you will.”

  Joe looked at Hathaway. He didn’t look like a guard or particularly honorable. His eyes shifted to the reporter.

  “Mr. Small,” Joe said. “Could there be someone who didn’t like something you wrote?”

  Small guffawed. “A great many people!” he answered. “The truth doesn’t always sit well with the politicians, businessmen, and other persons I write about. But I wouldn’t flatter myself into imagining that I’m worth an ambush.”

  Joe’s gaze went to Reverend Michaels. “You preach something that folks didn’t want to hear?”

  “No sinner wants to hear of his sins,” the parson said.

  Sarah walked over with a pot and offered second helpings. “I think that is quite enough, Pa,” she said softly. She nudged her father-in-law with her elbow in a way that he recognized. He backed away.

  Peace returned to the O’Malley table. But only briefly. All the while, Small had been watching the two siblings.

  “Hold on,” Small said.

  “Pardon?” Sarah answered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Malley. I didn’t mean you.” Small looked at the brother and sister seated beside him. “Maybe there’s something else?” he said. His eyes shifted to the woman. “Is there? Something else?”

  Clarity averted her eyes and her brother put a hand on hers. He looked over at Small.

  “You are being a boor,” the reverend said.

  “The middle name of every good reporter,” Small said. “No, Mr. O’Malley had a point. This affects every one of us. Is there something else?”

  The reverend said, “Nothing that would affect anyone present. We have exculpated ourselves through prayer.”

  Kennedy barked out a laugh. “That’s a mess of nothing. I hear it in Washington all the time.”

  “What’d you have to atone for?” Small asked.

  Clarity’s lips were pressed together but her brother replied, “My sister accidentally killed a bystander at a sharpshooting exhibition.”

  The table fell hard into a dead-of-night silence.

  “You . . . are a marksman?” Gert asked her.

  Joe ignored his granddaughter’s latest intrusion—mostly because he was interested in the answer.

  Clarity nodded.

  “Who’d you murder?” Joe asked.

  “Not ‘murder,’ ‘kill,’” her brother clarified.

  “‘Murder,’ ‘kill,’” Small said. “One of the Commandments got shattered.”

  “By accident,” Reverend Michaels said.

  The table waited for an answer.

  “My former fiancé,” Clarity finally replied in a little voice.

  Small sat back proudly, was about to ask for details when Jackson O’Malley limped through the back door.

  “Pa, we got riders coming in from the east.”

  CHAPTER 4

  When Whip Station first opened for business, Jackson O’Malley continued doing what he had done before the family came to California. He captured and broke horses for the United States Cavalry. He had them stabled out back, settled them from wild to tame in a corral that once stood where the expanding vegetable garden now sat. He and Slash both tended to the stage teams, the boy shouldering most of that responsibility.

  Then, shortly after opening the station, he got bucked good and came down hard on his left leg. He heard the snap though he didn’t feel it. The leg went numb.

  While recuperating, Jackson became acquainted by something the late President Lincoln had said. He found the words in one of the newspapers stacked in the root cellar and bound for the fireplace or composting:

  “With malice toward none . . .”

  The young cowboy thought a lot about those words while he lay in bed, recovering. At first, lying where Dick Ocean now lay, Jackson was inconsolable. He was bitter each time he had to fling scented oil at his injury. It was summer and Jackson perspired. The padding between his leg and the wooden splint grew rank and drew flies. Gert’s placement of the garlic and other herbs helped keep away the pests some—a trick she learned from the Indians. That was why he wasn’t critical of her concord with the Red Men.

  For weeks after the fall, Jackson hated the horse that threw him and he hated himself for being thrown. That fire inside him only intensified.

  As a rule that bordered on religion, O’Malleys did not forgive. He heard stories about his cousins Harp and Long John and their fever for revenge. They were Texas Rangers, and during the Civil War their job was to protect the families of soldiers who were off fighting. It was an urgent need: the Indians, the Comanche in particular, looked to take advantage of the absence of the menfolk. That meant cutting down the savages without hesitation—or mercy. After the war, when the Rangers were disbanded, the two men and the Comanche continued to hold their red, red blood-grudg
es. Jackson heard that the O’Malleys were still fighting those old battles on their Texas ranch.

  But horses weren’t Comanche and Jackson wanted to be around them, still.

  “With malice toward none,” Mr. Lincoln said. “With charity toward all.”

  Over time, Jackson realized that the horse had meant him no ill. He relived the fall in his mind and started to feel grateful when he realized how much worse it could have been. He might have been trampled and the leg would have had to come off. He might have snapped his spine and been paralyzed, like Ivan Pine who got shot in the small of the back at Gettysburg.

  He began to consider, instead, what might come next. Jackson had spent his entire life around horses and cattle and he could not bear for that to change.

  “What else would I do?” he had asked Sarah at the time. “O’Malleys don’t run general stores.”

  With the help of Sarah and his father, he healed as best as he could and learned to embrace the words of Mr. Lincoln. As soon as he could walk, he made peace with Young Thunder and spent all his time with the incoming and outgoing stagecoaches. That freed Slash to take more and more of the hunting responsibilities from Joe. The boy quickly started making sounds like a man, and Jackson realized that the accident had been for a reason.

  At first, Jackson had to hold on to the harnesses, the coaches, or use a crutch to walk. By the time summer turned to fall, he was free from all of those. He had never been much for gunplay but practiced his shooting and became proficient with his Colts. He kept one of them tucked in his belt, off to the left for a right-handed draw.

  Typically, when anyone came in from the north, Jackson stood to meet them. This was different.

  There were four riders bearing down hard on the station. They crossed the stream a quarter-mile distant that marked the boundary of the station. That was the area rented by Butterfield. The men were still on O’Malley land, uninvited, which stretched another hundred and three acres to the north. Jackson had once had it in mind to put a horse ranch there.

  Given what had transpired at Civil Gulch, Jackson did not want to face them alone. He also did not want to send up a shot to alert the house. If the intent of the visitors was hostile, they might return fire. Even with Slash beside him in the stable, those were not ideal odds.