Pony Dreams (4 page)

“David, stop throwing rocks at the girls,” Ma
had yelled. “I'll hunt up my broom if you don't.”

So, the boy's name was David, but that still
didn't tell me who he really was. I thought hard but jerked when a
door slammed, dragging me back to reality.

“Get moving,” she yelled out the open door.
“My broom is right handy this morning.”

I smiled and thought about how she hadn't
changed much. She always looked for her broom when a child acted
up.

She marched into the kitchen, dusting her
hands and throwing disgusted looks out the window.

“Those two will be the death of me.” She
peered into the pots. “Cobbler or pie?”

“Pies,” I said. “I know it's childish, but I
thought if I made two the others would come home today.”

She gave me a hard look that softened as a
smile turned up the corners of her lips.

“Chicken sounds good for tonight.” She opened
the kitchen door. “Bring me a couple of chickens. Make sure they're
nice and fat,” she hollered and turned to face me. “It's not
childish, Abigail, to wish your family home safe. That's a burden
all women carry.”

Funny thing about her was how she showed
gratitude. She never turned all mushy; like my grandma had the one
time she rode a train for a week to visit. Ma's gruff explanations
offered more comfort than a hug. I had long ago figured out she had
developed a tough outer skin to survive the harsh frontier.

* * * *

When it was time to prepare supper, I made
the pies first. The peaches and apples filled the deep pans and
heaped high in the middle. After sliding them into the oven, I
shelled peas while Ma floured chicken pieces. She dropped them into
hot fat in two cast iron skillets on our wood burning stove. Pops
and spatters punctuated the silence. We didn't speak but once in a
while, our eyes drifted to the window.

She tsked after staring at the barn, where
Peter and Paul should have finished their chores long ago. Whoops
and hollers drifted on the quiet air back to us.

Something moved out of the corner of my eye.
I glanced out the window in time to see Peter jumping from the
upper window of the barn. He swung back and forth on a rope hanging
from a beam. She would pitch a hissy if she discovered him playing
instead of mucking out the stalls.

“Stop daydreaming!” Her sharp tone alerted me
to my own peril.

Pa and the others still weren't home, and
supper would be done soon. Since the midday meal, she had grown
more and more tense. I was beginning to worry something awful might
have happened to the absent members of my family. But unless I paid
better attention, her hand would light up my backside. Then those
lazy brothers playing outside would have enough amusement to
embarrass me for years.

“Yes, ma'am.” I tipped the peas into a pot of
warm water.

“Call Peter and Paul inside.” Ma turned the
chicken pieces and checked on a large pot where potatoes
boiled.

I ran to the door, happy for a release from
my chores. The heat inside our kitchen made it almost impossible to
breathe, even with the kitchen door and windows open wide.

“Don't run off, just holler for them,” she
said. “You need to get the pies out of the oven and set them in the
window to cool.”

Holy heck! Foiled again.

The forbidden expression eased some of my
anger at having to remain in the house instead of playing for at
least fifteen minutes. Yet, the smell of peach and apple pies as
they finished baking made my mouth water.

“Peter, Paul, Ma wants you inside,” I
shouted.

“Ah, don't get your knickers in a twist!”
Peter shouted in return.

Goodness, was he in trouble. Pa had told both
of them they could never use that expression after they heard it
from one of our neighbors.

Ma's eyes widened, and she stared out the
window as Paul swung out of the upper barn opening. Her lips
twisted into a grimace, and she grunted.

“Take care of supper.” She handed me the
fork.

With a flash of snow-white petticoats, she
sped across the open expanse between the house and barn. A few
minutes later, the twins' howls echoed as her hand connected with
their bottoms. Smiling, I returned to the stove and saved the pies
in the nick of time.

Ma returned with an apologetic Peter and
Paul. I had flipped the chicken when it turned the perfect hue of
golden brown, stirred the potatoes and tested them, and settled the
peas on the back of the stove so they would simmer without
overcooking.

“Good job, but you need to set the table. You
guessed right.” She gave me one of her rare smiles that were worth
more than the fabled gold any number of men were seeking further
west. “I saw dust on the horizon. Your pa and older brothers will
be here soon.”

Peter and Paul rushed around the room, almost
tripping me as I laid out tin plates and flatware. Nine place
settings soon graced the long trestle table. I stopped and stared
as a memory returned. We used to put ten place settings down, and I
wondered why that had changed.

A boy sat at the table in my memories, a
seventh boy in a family I already thought was too big.

“Don't slow down,” Ma said.

The image of another boy at the table faded.
I scurried back and forth while settling platters and bowls of
food, and then covering everything with cloth napkins to keep the
flies off.

Right as Peter placed two pitchers of milk on
either end, and Paul poured the rest of the creamy liquid into a
butter churn, two shots startled us. Two shots meant trouble on the
frontier.

“Find out what's going on,” Ma ordered. “You
too, Abigail. It must be bad or your pa would have waited until he
was in the corral before setting off the warning.”

I scampered out the door before Peter and
Paul.

“Wait for us,” Peter yelled.

“Don't rush for the corral,” Paul shouted.
“It's too dangerous.”

They wouldn't stop me from getting to the
gate first. I leapt upon the wooden crossbeams and poised my hand
over the leather strap holding the gate closed.

Pa thundered ahead of a herd of ponies. His
horse ran as if Satan himself had pursued them the entire trip.

“Abby, open the gate. Peter, Paul, mount up
and help,” he hollered.

My four oldest brothers kept the stampeding
horses together with little success. Peter and Paul darted into the
barn and then burst out atop their mustangs. Neither had bothered
with a saddle. I released the leather loop and kicked against the
fence to swing the gate wide as Pa pulled up beside me.

“Wait for Adam and do as he tells you,” he
said in a no nonsense voice.

He took off before I could answer, and I was
faced with all those horses racing in my direction.

My brothers herded the horses into the
corral. After the longest and most blissful interval, Adam rode up
and grabbed me around the waist.

“Come on, short stuff,” he said. “I'll take
you back to the house.”

He swung me onto the saddle behind him and
turned the animal. Just as he spurred his horse, Pa looked over at
us.

“Adam, load all the rifles. Make sure your ma
and Abby stay safe,” he said. “Don't come back out here, no matter
what you hear.”

My blood turned to ice in spite of the warmth
still seeping from the ground. Something bad must have happened.
Not only did Pa still have our latest shipment, he had brought
almost as many other horses with him. Paiute must have taken him
unaware, or bandits may have tried to steal the mustangs.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I'll explain inside,” Adam said. “I suppose
Ma made a huge spread.”

“Fried chicken with all the works. I made
pies.”

“What kind?” His question almost disappeared
into a snort from his horse as he slowed to a stop near the kitchen
door.

“Peach and apple,” I said.

He leapt from his mustang and landed near the
back porch. He then helped me down. A slap on the horse's flank
with his hat sent the animal racing for the barn.

“Get inside,” he said and pushed me into the
house.

“What's wrong?” Ma asked from the stove.

“Pony's stopped. Stations burned. Horses
stolen,” he said without a greeting or stopping for a breath. “The
Paiute are on the warpath. We need to load the rifles.”

He stalked through the kitchen and toward
Pa's gunroom without making sure I had obeyed him. There was no way
I could have moved to go outside and protect Blaze or any of the
other horses.

“Abigail, take over here.” She trotted after
him.

Worry overwhelmed me. Adam must have made a
mistake. Surely, nothing could stop The Pony Express.

Chapter Five

My mouth dropped
open, wider than the kitchen door still letting every fly in the
state into the house. I closed my mouth, grabbed a dishtowel, and
twisted it tight, and then I proceeded to chase the bothersome
creatures outside. Those attempting to light on the pies, I
executed without a second thought.

“Oh, bother!” I exclaimed after I had the
kitchen free of living flies. “Where's the broom?”

Ma and I kept a clean house, no matter how
much I hated doing my chores. We did it for our menfolk but mostly
for Pa. While he would never criticize how we did it, seeing all
those flies littering the floor bothered me. He and my brothers
must have had a terrifying ride home, what with wondering if Paiute
had attacked us in addition to what they found at the station. With
all the worries pressing against my family, I wouldn't let them eat
such a delicious meal in a room where the floor looked like the one
in the barn.

It took me ten minutes to hunt up the broom.
I had to go outside, where I finally spotted it lying in the narrow
space between the wash shed and the house.

“Do Peter and Paul really believe Ma won't
punish them if she can't find this?” I snatched up the broom. “Why,
she'd chase them clear to Carson City and chew off their ears with
the worst scolding they've ever heard every step of the way.”

Before going inside, I checked out the
corral. Pa worked to settle the horses with Bart and Charles. I saw
no sign of Mark, Peter, and Paul.

“Those cows need milking until you empty
their udders,” Mark hollered from the barn. “Not until your fingers
hurt. Grab those pails and get to work.”

Two loud smacks followed his order. A few
minutes later, he carried two large pails to the corral and filled
a wooden trough beside a massive tin one used to water the
horses.

“I suppose I'll have to talk to Peter and
Paul again.” Pa shaded his eyes and faced the barn. “Did you see
any other chores they shirked?”

“Yes, sir,” Mark said. “Weeds are nearly
choking the vegetable garden, and the pig looks a bit peaked. She
squealed quite a bit when I gave her fresh water.”

“I'll take care of it now.” Pa walked toward
the barn. “Bart, you're in charge.”

His stiff stance and thumping stride prodded
me into action. I went inside and swept every bit of dirt and all
the flies out the door. The grit and loathsome creatures didn't
stop flying until they landed far from the porch.

Not long after I finished, Adam and Ma came
back into the kitchen with a rifle under each arm. They left the
weapons beside the door and went back to the gunroom. Bart and
Charles leaned in and grabbed the guns.

“Looks like you and Ma worked hard on that
spread,” Bart said. “Maybe we'll get a chance to chow down
later.”

Charles snuck into the room and snatched a
chicken leg. I grabbed the cooking fork, a large, two-pronged
utensil, and chased them out the door. They yelped and ran for the
corral.

“Good job, short stuff.” Adam chuckled.

I spun around to find him standing in the
doorway with another rifle tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Can't you take a break? Ma and I worked hard
on supper. It's a shame for all that food to go to waste.” I set
the fork on the table.

He ruffled my hair. “Sure would like to, but
those Paiute chased us halfway home. Pa wants to make sure we're
safe.”

“Did they come near the house?” I asked.

For as long back as I could remember, the
Paiute had presented a danger. It was a danger as in they might
attack at any time, rather than them breathing down our necks.
Tales from neighbors had frightened me about the possibility, but
I'd never experienced an Indian attack. And I never wanted to!

“Nah.”

“Pa probably made you split up the herd and
go in all sorts of directions.”

“Sure did.” Adam shook his head. “You sound
almost like you watched us, but you know Pa as well as the rest of
us. He won't rest easy until he's sure the Paiute won't attack the
house.”

“Can't you sit down for a nice meal while the
food is hot? We'd hear the Indians coming,” I said. “It'll near
break Ma's heart if you don't appreciate what she took so long to
make.”

He leaned over the table and drew in a deep
breath. “She used buttermilk on the chicken, didn't she?”

The whole kitchen still smelled of Ma's
special buttermilk mix. She not only used the milk that came off
the top from the cows, but also a few seasonings she promised to
tell me about one day.

“Yup,” I said.

“Pa would never forgive himself if he missed
all this good food.” He raised his voice. “Ma, I'm taking Abigail
to round up the hungry horde.”

She scurried back into the kitchen. “Are you
sure she won't get hurt?”

Had I imagined more than normal worry in her
voice? Was there something to all my strange dreams? Without
thought, my hand rose to touch the scar on my neck. She
frowned.

“She'll probably sweet talk the Indians into
peace.” Adam grinned. “Our little gal can charm a man into
anything.”