Louis L'Amour (9 page)

At the head of the list, a pistol.

Chapter 9

L
APORTE LAY QUIET in the morning sun. At the hitching rail in front of a saloon were two horses, at the hardware store, a wagon and team.

Wilbur, glancing along the street, helped her from the stage. “Now you be careful, ma’am.” He paused. “You going to eat in town? If you are, try the boardin’ house yonder. They’ve got a private room for such as you an’ Peg. Might be better. Sometimes those boys forget theirselves and talk rough. They’d be ashamed, ma’am.”

“Are you protecting them or me?” She smiled.

“Both.” He held out a hand. “You want me to take that list in to Stacy?”

“No, I’ll see him myself. There may be some items that call for explanation. In fact, I’ll just go in now.”

With Peg by the hand, she pushed open the office door and stepped inside.

Mark Stacy was seated in a swivel chair at a roll-top desk. Seeing her, he got quickly to his feet and reached for his coat.

“You needn’t, Mr. Stacy. I am not a guest, only an employee!”

He bowed. “Ma’am, here you are always a guest! Out at the station, I’m the guest”—he grinned—“and you
are
an employee!”

“This is the list—”

“Won’t you sit down? Please?”

“Well—only for a minute. We have some shopping to do, and I want to get back to the station.”

When she was seated, he shuffled some papers on his desk. “Never heard so many nice things said about the grub—the food, I mean. You’re making a name for yourself, ma’am.”

“I hope Mr. Holladay will approve.”

“Let me tell you something, Mrs. Breydon. Ben Holladay doesn’t care whether you are man, woman, red, black, or yellow as long as the stages run on time and folks don’t complain. But you can bet on one thing. He’ll come along one of these days when you least expect it.”

He glanced at her. “Ma’am? What happened? With your husband, I mean.”

She hesitated, then said quietly, “Major Breydon was wearing a gun in a button-down holster. He was not a gunfighter. He was not used to western ways. He met a man on the street in Julesburg who had reason not to like him. That man simply drew his gun and fired. My husband was killed instantly.”

“You know who killed him?”

“It was Jason Flandrau.”

“
Jason Flandrau!
Ma’am, you must be mistaken. Mr. Flandrau is not a gunfighter. He’s a very respectable and respected gentleman!”

He frowned. “Come to think of it, I recall some talk of Major Breydon being killed, but his killer wasn’t named. Fact is, I doubt if anybody knew who he was.”

“I knew, Mr. Stacy.”

“Was it some old quarrel? Something that happened back East?”

“It was no quarrel. My husband only quarreled with gentlemen, Mr. Stacy, when he quarreled at all, which was rare, indeed. Mr. Flandrau killed my husband because the major recognized him.”

Stacy hesitated. There was something here he did not understand. Jason Flandrau was a very popular man in Denver. Friendly, easygoing, and a free spender who associated only with the most respectable people. Killed because the major
recognized
him?

“I am afraid I don’t follow you, Mrs. Breydon.”

She arose. “There is no reason why you should. My troubles are my own. One thing I might ask. Do not mention me to Mr. Flandrau and, please, do not repeat this conversation.”

“I certainly will not mention it, but I must warn you, ma’am. Mr. Flandrau has many friends. He is a great favorite. More than that—”

“Yes?”

“He has an office right down the street. Over the bank. I believe he is there now.”

Taking Peg by the hand, she went out. For a moment, she hesitated. If there had been a way, she would have turned right around and gone back to Cherokee, but there was no way. Not until late in the afternoon. There was nothing to do but do what she came for.

Swiftly, she crossed the street and entered the hardware store. When a man with sleeve protectors came up to her, she said, “I want to buy a pistol.”

He glanced at her. The request was not unusual. “I have a fine little twenty-two here, ma’am.”

“I do not want a twenty-two. I want a navy pistol, thirty-six caliber.”

“That’s large for a woman—”

“I have fired them. My husband taught me.”

“Oh? That’s different, ma’am.” He took a pistol from under the counter. “Brand, spankin’ new, ma’am. One of the best.”

She glanced at it. “I’ll take it. I want some powder and ball, too.” She had started to turn away to where Peg was looking at some ribbons when she saw the matched derringers. “What are they worth?”

“Ma’am, they are very fine weapons. Small but very well made. Cost you forty dollars for the pair. And they are forty-four caliber, ma’am.”

Forty dollars? And she was already buying one pistol. Yet how much was a life worth? “I’ll take them. Will you charge them, please?”

“You want to carry them loaded, ma’am? I think—”

“I am leaving on the stage this afternoon, sir. They wouldn’t be much good to me unloaded, would they?” She smiled.

He smiled back. “I guess not. I’ll load ’em, ma’am.” He nodded toward the other side of the store where the dry goods lay. “Looks to me like your sister has found somethin’ she likes.”

She smiled again. “Thank you, sir. The young lady is my daughter.”

“Daughter? Say, you wouldn’t be Mrs. Breydon, would you? The one who operates Cherokee? They do say you’ve the finest grub this side of Georgetown.”

“Thank you. I am Mrs. Breydon.”

She crossed to the other side of the store. In a few minutes, her other shopping completed, she returned for the loaded guns and left the store.

I
N THE OFFICE over the bank, Jason Flandrau stood at the window. He was talking to two men in business suits who were seated near his desk. He turned to face them, his back to the window.

“Gentlemen, you do me honor! To tell you the truth, I have thought of running for governor. I know a bill was introduced with the idea that Colorado would become a state. In such case, I am sure they would prefer the territorial governor they have now to any newcomer. However”—he smiled graciously—“if enough people were to ask me—”

“I am sure they will, Mr. Flandrau. Some of us want a change. We feel a change is essential, and such an up-and-coming man as yourself—Well, we are sure you are what the voters want, Mr. Flandrau.”

“You gentlemen understand these things better than I. But if the bill passes, then think of me, and if you wish it, I will run.”

He turned back to the window, scarcely able to conceal his elation. Of course, they could not know how he had carefully set the stage for just this to happen, and now—

He looked down into the street. A woman and a small girl were crossing the street, an uncommonly beautiful woman—

He stiffened, and his hands gripped the curtain pole that crossed the middle of the window so hard it nearly snapped.

Mary Breydon!
Mary Breydon here! Of all the damned miserable luck! He stared, started to turn away, then looked again, but she was out of sight on the walk below him.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Flandrau?”

He managed a smile. “No, no, of course not. I was just thinking. We could do a lot together, gentlemen. Now if you’ll permit me?”

They got to their feet. “Of course. We are interrupting.”

“No, but I do have some business. Let us wait, gentlemen, and see what happens to that statehood bill.”

When they were gone, Flandrau sat down at his desk. Who would ever have believed Mary Breydon would come West? Had she accompanied her husband, or had she come later because of his death?

He had heard the rumors, of course, but he could not believe that the Mary Breydon he knew would be the woman operating a stage station, yet they had to be one and the same. Turkey Joe had been mistaken then, or he had missed seeing Mary Breydon.

He swore softly but bitterly. Killing Breydon had been one thing; gun duels were happening all the time. In this western country, if you killed an armed enemy, it was to your credit, but another killing of anyone would begin to raise doubts, and the killing of a woman was not to be considered. Yet die she must. She knew too much, and she had too many well-connected friends.

Major Breydon had been a well-liked man. Suppose she got an investigation started? Breydon would have had friends at Fort Collins nearby, and they would certainly investigate if there seemed to be doubtful circumstances. So far, there had been no investigation, as it had appeared to be a cut-and-dried gunfight.

But how? How?

How to be rid of her without any suspicion being directed toward himself?

A simple holdup in which she was killed by accident? No…if a woman was killed, they’d pursue the killers until they were caught, and before being hung, one of them might talk.

A shot from ambush? He would have the area scouted to see if there was a chance that would also permit an escape. Steal an Indian pony and let the killer ride it until he reached a safe spot to switch to another and better horse, probably in the vicinity of an Indian village or camp?

Or an Indian attack on the station? Or men dressed as Indians?

He got up from his desk and walked to the window. There was no sign of her on the street, yet he must not risk being seen by her, and damn it! He wanted a drink!

How long would she be in town? He tried to remember when the next stage left for Cherokee.

Stampede the stage? Set fire to the stage station?

Laporte was virtually a one-street town; at least all the shops and stores as well as the saloons were on the one street, so there was small chance of avoiding anyone you did not wish to see.

If ambush was the way, who could he trust to handle it? Of the old outfit, which had numbered more than sixty men, he had kept but a dozen to bring West with him. The others were scattered, some of them gone to their homes, some slain in the fighting of ’63. One by one he considered each man. The killer would have to believe himself in danger, too. Slowly, he began to concoct the story he would tell the man he sent, that if she recognized one of them, she would go at once to the law or to Fort Collins and the army.

Once the job was done, he would eliminate the man who did it. If he was to be governor or senator, he must have a clean slate. He would grow a beard, slowly change his style of dress to a more sober, dignified habit.

As for Mary Breydon—

He would go to Denver and remain there until the job was done. Small chance of her coming on there, and he certainly would avoid Cherokee.

He scowled. Damn it, what about Preston Collier? The rancher was throwing some kind of a party for some English nobleman who was coming to the mountains to hunt, and Collier had invited him.

It was the best chance he had to cultivate Collier, who was something of a power in a political sense, always behind the scenes but always in on the action. That was what they said of Collier. Besides, there would be others present, and it would be a good chance to enter that more rarefied social strata where he was still unknown. Yet it was small risk. Collier might think of inviting a woman who ran a stage station, but his wife certainly would not, nor her daughters.

M
ARY BREYDON GATHERED the last of her packages, her eyes straying toward the small shelf of books on sale. They were, as always, the classics, most of which she had read, but what of Peg? And Wat?

“You’re interested in books, ma’am?”

She looked around at the storekeeper, surprised. “I’ve only a few, but folks like the very best. They like books they can read over and over. Right down the street, there’s a bookstore. He carries quite a stock, along with pencils, paper, notions, and such. That’s where Mark Stacy buys his books.”

“Mark Stacy? Somehow I did not imagine him to be a reader.”

“Some of these folks surprise you, ma’am. You never know who is the reader or who has the education. That’s why there’s few western towns without a bookstore.”

The storekeeper paused, then said, “He’s a mighty fine man, Mr. Stacy is. Single, too. Was I a widow-lady—”

She turned around and looked at him coolly. “Sir, this ‘widow-lady’ is quite content. I have my daughter, and I have my work to do. Also, my marriage was a very happy one.”

“I just thought—”

“No doubt you did, sir, but my personal affairs are just that, my personal affairs. Thank you, sir.”

She was angry, and it showed. Out on the street, she stopped, fuming. “That man—!”

“I thought he was a nice man.”

“He’s a busybody. My life is no business of his. Let’s go home!”

“We aren’t going to the bookstore?”

“Another time, Peg. Another time.”

Yet she glanced down the street toward the beckoning sign, a narrow, two-story building huddled between a harness shop and a bakery.

Chapter 10

N
OT UNTIL SHE was seated in the darkness of the stage with Peg asleep against her shoulder did she admit she was frightened. Alone in the darkness, she fought back the tears. If anything happened to her, what would become of Peg?

Jason Flandrau was in Laporte. He had many friends there and was a respected man. He had both money and power. He was a careful man who knew how to cultivate the most influential people. If she told what she knew of him, who would listen? He need only to smile tolerantly and make some mild comment about hysterical women.

She was nobody here. Back home she could have gone to a senator, a member of the cabinet, even to the president himself. Now she was just a woman who operated a stage station.

All that she had been was far away in Washington or Richmond where they were busy fighting a war. If she were killed out here, it would be weeks, perhaps months, before anybody back there even heard of it.

Her father, a prominent man with political leverage, was dead. Her husband was dead. She was alone, with no one to turn to.

Of course, she had friends in Virginia and Maryland, many of them, but they were far from here. By the time they realized her situation, it would be too late. Moreover, they and their families were involved in a war, and she had no right to distract them with her troubles. Nor was it in her to call for help. “The strongest,” her father often said, “is he who stands alone.”