Knight in a Black Hat Page 3

  "Oh, my, no. Mr. Beckett is his valet. He knows only enough about botany to help Uncle collect."

  He muttered something under his breath.

  Nellie was certain she did not wish to know what it was. She waited, expectantly.

  "Tell me something, Miss Sanders, if you please. How do you get anywhere if you don't ride?"

  She lifted her chin. "I walk. I am a very good walker."

  "Ahuh! All day?"

  She nodded.

  "Day after day?" he persisted. His tone was skeptical.

  "Of course. I have often spent a week at a time in the field."

  Malachi scratched his chin. She seemed pretty sure of herself, but he knew she had no idea of the kind of country they were heading into. "How did you carry those--what did your list say--plant presses, blotters, digging implements, and vacillums?"

  "Vasculum, Mr. Bradley. A metal container to keep plants fresh until they can be pressed." She chewed her lower lip for a moment, then looked up at him.

  Those eyes will be the death of me, yet!

  "I sometimes used a donkey to carry my equipment. They are small and very dependable."

  "Now we're getting somewhere." Malachi resisted the temptation to rub his hands together in satisfaction. "I can get you a donkey. You can ride it."

  "I should much prefer to walk." She sounded almost frightened.

  "Miss Sanders, if you want to go over the passes with us, you will do it astride. I know strong men who'd have trouble walking the kind of trail we'll follow. Besides, we'll travel faster than you can possibly walk." He turned away, to check on Beckett. The skinny fellow was petting Beauty like he'd known her all his life.

  I sure hope he can stay in the saddle all day. Malachi had a feeling it was going to be a long, difficult summer.

  * * * * *

  They left Ogden Wednesday afternoon, as planned and reached Kelton close to midnight. Their rooms were waiting for them in the small hotel that served travelers transferring to the Overland stage. In the morning Malachi came down the stairs and found Miss Sanders waiting in the lobby. The professor and his servant were nowhere to be seen.

  "Good morning," she said to him, sounding less confident than usual. "I'm afraid there will be a slight delay."

  "Not too long," he warned her, "or we'll miss the stage."

  "Well, that's the delay, you see. Uncle...my uncle is quite unhappy about riding a public stage, and wants you to hire a conveyance to carry us to Boise City."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm sure you heard me quite clearly, Mr. Bradley. Please hire a private vehicle to carry our party to Boise City."

  Tenderfeet! "Miss Sanders, in the first place, there probably isn't a...a 'private conveyance' within a hundred miles that would make faster time than the freight wagons. In the second, our contract clearly spelled out traveling arrangements. Now if your uncle wants to pay a premium, we can probably make arrangements to get a buggy shipped from Ogden, but otherwise..." He shrugged, leaving her to draw her own conclusions.

  "Thank you, Mr. Bradley. I was hoping that was what you'd tell us. Now, if you will make arrangements for us to delay our departure by one day, I will go and apprise Uncle of the situation." She slipped past him and went up the stairs.

  Looking after her, he simply shook his head in bewilderment.

  The Overland Stage was about as comfortable as such a conveyance could be, but the Professor found fault with it anyhow. There were three passengers besides his party of four, so there was plenty of room, in Malachi's opinion. The coach would carry nine comfortably on its three seats. Two of the other passengers looked like miners and smelled like they hadn't had a bath this year, and the Professor made no bones about his opinion of their scent. On the other hand, he kept smiling and nodding at the woman dressed in silks and furs, who ignored him, but kept giving Malachi quick, speculative looks. Malachi kept his mouth shut and pretended to sleep most of the first day. All things considered, he'd rather be with Willard, herding the horses.

  Miss Sanders spent her time cajoling and teasing her uncle, but he stayed in a bad humor.

  "I don't know why they can't give us time to relax after our meal," Malachi heard him grumbling as they reboarded the stage after the dinner stop. "I'm sure I'll have dyspepsia due to the jostling and swaying." Later he complained, "You can be certain I will write a letter to the management when we arrive at Boise City. Not giving us time to stretch our legs at the stops."

  Malachi was tempted to ask him how many days he wanted the trip to last. One thing the Overland Stage prided itself on was its fast schedule--Kelton to Boise City in 48 hours was remarkable, considering that the distance was 232 miles over rough country on primitive roads.

  He pulled his hat lower and contemplated the man on the opposite seat. Of medium height, Dr. Kremer was on the scrawny side, except for the round pot-belly that his well-tailored coat did little to disguise. His complexion was florid, as if he ate too well and imbibed too freely. His features were most often set in a pout, like a spoiled child who hadn't quite gotten his own way. When he moved, it was with a certain stiffness, as if his feet hurt.

  In Malachi's opinion, he wasn't ready to face the rigors of the trail. The first few days after Boise City were apt to be a trial.

  At supper they were served beef, beans and bacon, with coffee to drink. Dr. Kremer demanded tea. When darkness fell, he insisted he couldn't be expected to sleep sitting up, until Beckett and Miss Sanders crowded together next to Malachi so the old man could have a seat to himself.

  They finally reached Rock Creek Station about nine that night. Both Miss Sanders and young Beckett looked asleep on their feet. Even Malachi, who'd found riding inside almost as tiring as sitting next to the driver, was ready for bed.

  As they were walking into the stone building where narrow bunks awaited them, the Professor stopped Malachi. "Young man, I do not think you understand who is in charge of this expedition," he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "I am paying you to guide us, not to determine our schedule or to command us."

  Several responses crowded to the front of Malachi's tongue, but he held them back. "Yes sir?" he said, keeping his voice mild. "I understand that."

  "Humph! Well, then, in the future, I will determine our travel schedule. You will keep me apprised of our route and tell me in advance where we will be stopping for the night."

  "All right, I can do that."

  "Well, then, please make arrangements for us to lay over here for twenty-four hours. I am exhausted, not having slept at all. Traveling on tomorrow is out of the question."

  Biting his tongue, Malachi nodded. He went over to the store where the station keeper was just locking up for the night. "Any chance of us laying over and catching Saturday's stage?"

  "You can if you want. We've got beds. But I can't make any promises about open seats. We usually get a full stage on Saturday. Lots of folks going up to see the Shoshone Falls."

  "What are the odds?"

  "I'd say about even"

  "Thanks. We'll leave tomorrow, then." No one was stirring when he got back to the bunkhouse, which suited him fine. Time enough in the morning to let them know the plan.

  He woke before dawn and called young Beckett. Then he knocked on the wall outside the small room where Miss Sanders slept. " Breakfast in half an hour. We'll leave at eight."

  Her soft "Yes, thank you," made up for the grumbles he could hear from the professor's bunk.

  He went to the station where platters of flapjacks and bacon were already set out on the long table. The others entered as he was pouring his second cup of coffee.

  "What's the meaning of this, Bradley? I thought I told you last night that we'd stay over a full day."

  Malachi told them what the station keeper had said.

  "That is not acceptable," the professor sputtered. "Tell that man that we will pay extra to get places tomorrow."

  Before Malachi could tell him how little effect his money might have
on the availability of seats, Miss Sanders spoke up.

  "Uncle, Mr. Bradley is familiar with this route and we are not. Perhaps it would be better to let him do his job, which is getting us safely and quickly to our destination. I'm sure he is doing his best. After all, he has no control over how many passengers board the stage before it arrives here."

  Malachi struggled to hide his grin. She might be a bossy, contentious woman, but she sure knew how to handle the professor.

  A freight caravan pulled in while they were eating breakfast. Nellie was delighted when Mr. Bradley told her that it could be an hour before they got away. She decided to go for a walk.

  Oxen were grazing on the new grass in a meadow along the creek, having quenched their thirst at a small pond. She strolled beside the stream, picking her way carefully along the muddy bank, cut and torn by the feet of the oxen. The water gurgled over rocks as it meandered, and she followed it, scrambling over rocks and wading when she could not avoid it. She had oiled her boots well just before packing them, so didn't fear wetting her feet. Despite the chilly wind, a slight dampness to her skirt would do her no harm.

  Rocks clattered behind her "Where the dickens do you think you're going?"

  She turned, almost losing her balance as she did so. "I am exploring, Mr. Bradley. This is an excellent opportunity to examine the local vegetation. I thought to take advantage of it."

  He came upstream, jumping from rock to rock, never wetting his feet. How she envied him the freedom of trousers. "Watch for snakes," he said, edging around her. "This is just the kind of place they like."

  "I am aware of that, Mr. Bradley." She ignored the hand he held out to her. "We have snakes in Ohio, too."

  "Not like these. Rattlers. Big ones." He held his hands two feet apart. "Mean, too."

  "I do believe you are trying to frighten me. The Eastern Timber rattlesnake is known to be half again the size of the Great Basin rattlesnake. Furthermore, it is far more aggressive."

  "Have you ever met a rattlesnake?"

  She accepted his assistance to climb over a large, angular boulder. "Only once. I stepped out of its path."

  "You stepped-- Lady, you are something else! Weren't you scared?" He jumped a wide gap between boulders, turned back and caught her at the waist, lifted her across.

  Nellie gasped. His hands on her burned like hot irons. When her breathing returned to normal, she said, "Of course I was frightened. Only a fool would not be."

  They climbed to the top of a tumbled outcrop of sharp-edged, black rock, up to a narrow lichen-crusted ridge. Far away to the north stood a line of snow-covered peaks, their pointed summits like the teeth of a saw. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, my! The Sawtooth Mountains! Look, Mr. Bradley. That has to be them."

  "I believe you're right," he said.

  Nellie turned to him in amazement. "Don't you know?"

  "Uh, well, yes. But I've never seen them from here before."

  She stared at him, testing his words. They had the ring of truth to them. His deep-set eyes, his unsmiling mouth held her gaze. She found herself wondering if his dark hair was as silky to the touch as it appeared to be. What would his lips feel like, against hers?

  Wrenching her thoughts away from a question that would never be answered, she turned her back to him.

  To the south, were more hills, each higher than the one before, all gray-green with sagebrush, soft with distance. Once more the sense of smallness, of insignificance assailed her. "This land! It is so...so empty."

  "It's a hard land," he said, his voice low and vibrant. It came from just behind her, and Nellie thought she could feel the heat of him along her spine. "Only the strong survive."

  "Yes but it is magnificent. There is a ...a challenge here. Something that calls to me." Not for the first time, she was aware of an ache within her, an unanswered need for...for what? You are crying for the moon, Nellie told herself sternly, closing her mind and her heart to the man at her back, the view before her. She was here, in the West, with the opportunity of a lifetime before her. This summer she would prove herself as a botanist. That would be enough. Then she would stop wishing for a life she could never have.

  Chapter Three

  "Uncle, this is Kunzia, isn't it?"

  He took the twig from her, examined its grayish, trilobed leaves through the hand lens he wore on a ribbon around his neck. Then he sniffed at the tiny yellow flowers. "Of course," he said. "I should think the odor would have told you that."

  It had. As soon as she'd smelled the strong aroma of cinnamon, Nellie had known what the shrub was. She had brought it to Uncle because letting him instruct her was the politic thing to do. "I've room in my small press," she told him, "just in case we don't find it again."

  "Nonsense. Don't waste your time collecting anything until we reach the headwaters of the Salmon. You'll just have to discard it to make room for what we collect there."

  Nellie threw the twig away, but she tucked some leaves and two of the flowers between the pages of her journal. Perhaps the cinnamon smell would persist.

  * * * * *

  This was the kind of place he dreamed of owning, Malachi thought, as he guided the buggy between the peeled cottonwood logs marking the gate to the Savage ranch. Rich bottomland, grass growing knee high to a tall horse. And beyond the split rail fence, mares and foals, all fat and healthy, testifying that this was a well-run operation.

  "I hadn't expected to see farmland like this in the midst of a desert," Miss Sanders said.

  She'd been silent for most of the two-hour trip out from Boise City, but he'd seen how her head kept swiveling back and forth as she looked at the countryside, dry, sagebrush-covered hills to the north, dense cottonwood and willow stands bordering the Boise River to the south. Although the trees were still bare of leaves, there was a green haze about them that promised spring. The cottonwood buds were fat and glistening with the sticky matter his grandmother had called Balm of Gilead.

  "It's only a desert where there isn't water. This is rich land. If a man could get water to it, he could grow just about anything out here." His people had been farmers, and Malachi had been raised with his feet in the furrows. After so many years away, he wondered if he even knew which end of a plow to take hold of. Well, he'd find out, soon as this job was done. He had some money set aside, and once he was known hereabouts as Malcolm Bradley, he'd find himself a place and settle.

  It was time.

  A woman stepped out onto the porch of the log cabin as they approached. She carried a shotgun in the crook of her elbow.

  Why did she remind him of someone he'd known?

  "Great heavens. That woman is holding a gun!"

  "We're a ways from town. She'd be stupid not to," he said, pulling up a fair distance from the porch. "Hello," he called. "We're looking for Mr. Savage. George Franklin said he had some stock for us."

  The woman looked them over. "Luke's out at the barn. Just a minute. I'll take you there." She turned and went back inside.

  Luke? Luke Savage? Malachi had a sinking feeling his past was about to catch up with him. He helped Miss Sanders from the buggy.

  Once she had her feet on the ground, she looked around curiously. "This is quite primitive, isn't it? So raw, almost as if it's unfinished." She was whispering, as if she didn't want to offend.

  "It probably is. Remember Boise City is only about ten years old. I doubt this place has been here half that long."

  When the woman came back out, she was carrying a baby but no shotgun. "Back here," she said, stepping off the end of the porch and going around the house. They followed, gradually catching up with her as she walked across the dusty space between house and barn.

  The barn was little more than a collection of lean-tos, each one attached to the next. They were built of scrap wood, peeled logs, and brush piled up between stakes driven into the ground. Out back, he could see corrals, made from split rails and more peeled logs. Despite the makeshift appearance, everything was neat and looked well cared-for. S
omebody had put a lot of work into this place, but he had a whole lot more to do.

  A man came out of the barn, his bright red hair gleaming in the sunlight.

  Malachi wondered if he was about to pay for his sins.

  Luke Savage took one look at him and shoved the woman behind him. But not before Malachi remembered who she was. Katie...Savage?

  "State your business, Breedlove," Savage said. "Then get out. We don't want your like here."

  "Wait, Luke," Katie said. "He said he came from George Franklin."

  "I do," Malachi said, holding his hands well away from his body, showing that he wore no holster. He had a sleeve gun, and a Colt stuck down the back of his pants, but they didn't show. Given his reputation, he'd be a fool to go unarmed. "I'm here to see about the stock you contracted to furnish Franklin. This is Miss Sanders, one of the party that's headed up into the Sawtooths. I'm their guide." He gestured to the woman standing silently beside him. He could just hear the questions piling up behind her pretty lips. Thank God she had the sense not to ask them now.

  Savage touched the brim of his hat. "Miss Sanders." Then he turned back to Malachi. "What's a shootist doing guiding a party of tenderfeet into the high country?"

  "A shootist?" Miss Sanders squeaked.

  "Miss Sanders, why don't you come up to the house with me and have some tea," Katie Savage said, breaking the tension. "It's a long, dry ride out from town."

  Nellie went with Mrs. Savage--she supposed the woman was Mr. Savage's wife--her mind awhirl with questions. A shootist? She had read of them, men who lived, and often died, by the gun. Ruffians, with nothing civilized about them, never mind how the penny dreadfuls glamorized them.

  Once the baby had been returned to his cradle and tea was steeping in a fat, brown pot, Mrs. Savage sat across the table from her. "I just know you're wondering what you've got yourself into."

  She smiled, and Nellie found herself smiling back.

  "I am. Mr. Bradley--but you called him something else, didn't you? He seems like a nice man. A little abrupt sometimes, and impatient, but polite and extremely competent." She bit her lip. Much as she had come to respect Mr. Bradley, she could not trust her life and Uncle's to a scoundrel "Tell me about him. I gather your relationship with him was not entirely friendly."