"That he is."

She was tired. Hungry though she was, it was an effort to eat. She turned the wick down so the lamp gave off only a feeble glow. Then she went into the room where Peg lay sleeping and lay down beside her.

Tomorrow there would be much to do. First to clean up the mess Luther had left behind, then to organize some efficient procedure for handling the stages, feeding the pa.s.sengers, and getting them on the road again. She wished she could visit some of the other stations along the Cherokee Trail to see how they were doing it.

In the darkness, the man called Boone was only another shadow in a maze of shadows cast by the barn, the corral, the house across the road. The only sounds came from the horses, and his senses isolated their vague sounds from the others, leaving a vacant place where strange sounds could register. Near a corner of the corral where the shadows were deepest, he sat on the ground, the rifle stock on the earth between his legs, the barrel leaning against his shoulder.

And then, for a long time, there was only stillness, with the wind moving, a soft wind, barely stirring the leaves, a wind so light that its stirring left a place for the faint sounds of a man moving.

Inside the house, there was only a dim, reddish glow from the dying embers in the fireplace and a faint glow of light around the turned-down lamp. Outside, the leaves rustled, and Matty turned over on her cot dreaming of the sea rustling on the sands of Kerry.

Mary Breydon awakened suddenly. Her eyes flared open, but she lay still, unmoving, listening, every sense alert.

At first, there was no sound but the whisper from the kettle on the fire. From where she lay, she could see, in the faint glow from the turned-down lamp, the movement of the door latch. Ever so gently, it was lifted. There was a pressure on the door, which held firmly in place; then the latch eased down again.

Mary Breydon threw back the blankets and swung her feet to the floor, feeling for her slippers. She stood up, slipping into her robe.

What was it Matty had said? Anything was a weapon if you used it as such. Even if much of the water had boiled away, the teakettle should be half full, the coffeepot, also.

Somebody was trying to get in. Scant Luther? Perhaps. Or Temple Boone? After all, what did she know about him? Why had he stayed behind? Did he really wish to help or was he simply- She waited, listening. How silly could she be? It was probably only Boone wanting a cup of coffee!

It must be cold out there, and he was keeping watch. If anyone came to the stage station, he would surely know. She glanced at the window. The shutters were closed. Walking to the fireplace, she added water to the kettle, then replaced the lid and edged it closer to the coals.

She thought about her rifle. If only it wasn't so long! What she needed was a handgun, something that could not be wrested from her hands. Still, if she could shoot fast enough- Her husband had said he had heard of men firing a rifle from waist level, but could she? And be sure of hitting anything? Of course, at that distance- She sat down at the table with her coffee, suddenly realizing what she had was cold coffee in a cold cup. How silly! She had forgotten to fill her own cup before putting fresh water in the coffee!

Why not go back to sleep? It had probably just been Boone. Anyway, nothing had happened, and she might have imagined it. No, she had not. She had seen the latch lift!

She was so tired, so very tired. n.o.body could get in with that bar across the door, so why not go back to sleep?

Returning to the bedroom, she lay down again. From where she lay, the door was in view. Her eyes closed.

Outside in the darkness, the wind stirred, and dried leaves skittered across the hard-packed earth of the yard.

The man named Boone opened his eyes. He had not slept, only closing his eyes, resting a little, but his senses were alert. He heard nothing, yet he was uneasy, and he had learned to trust those feelings. Usually, they stemmed from some subconscious awareness his consciousness had not noted. Luther was a bitter, brutal man, not accustomed to being thwarted in any way. Careful to make no sound, Boone shifted his position, taking the rifle in his hands.

He looked toward the house. He would like a cup of coffee, but to go there now might frighten them, and that Irish girl had a pistol. He eased his belt gun into a better position and tightened his coat around him. It was chilly, mighty chilly. What had he gotten into this for, anyway? It was none of his business. If a woman wanted to come out here and take a job like that, she should expect trouble.

A very pretty woman, too. And a lady. Anybody could see that. Her way of looking at you, the way she gathered her skirts, the way she moved- One of the horses blew softly, showing alarm. Boone took a fresh grip on his rifle and looked around carefully, searching every shadow. Some of those horses were broncs, wild stuff broken to drive. They were as alert as any wild animal would be.

Nothing...no sound, no- It was just a whisper of sound, some coa.r.s.e material brushing against something else. The corral bars? Perhaps.

Mentally, he swore. He was not in a good position for quick movement. To rise up now would make some sound, however small, and if it was Scant Luther come back, he would not be alone.

Then, so close it scared him, he heard a faint whisper. "She'll have the door barred."

"I say take the horses an' go. That's a good bunch of stock."

"Like h.e.l.l! What d'you think I brought this whip along for? We're goin' in there! h.e.l.l, that bar don't mean nothin'! I lived here too long! I can get that bar out of the way! What d'you think I done the time Buck pa.s.sed out in there? Him with the door barred? I got in, didn't I?"

"I don't like it, Scant. What about that Boone feller?"

"Aw, he's long gone! What would he stick around for?"

"Maybe he's gettin' sweet on her. He taken up for her, didn't he?"

They moved away, and Boone reached up, grasping one of the corral bars to pull himself erect. He had an urge to shoot, but beyond them was the house, and a bullet from his rifle would go through several inches of pine, and he might injure one of the women or that little girl. A man with a gun had not only to think of what he was shooting at but where the bullet might go if it missed, and almost any kind of a gun might carry up to a mile.

If he could just get across the corral and come up on their flank- He rested a boot on the lower pole, then the next. Quickly, he threw himself over and landed on his feet on the soft earth inside. His boots made a soft thump as he landed.

A boot grated on gravel, and someone whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "What was that?"

Luther's tone was impatient. "A horse, d.a.m.n it! Just a horse stampin'!"

Like a ghost, Boone crossed the corral. They were at the house now. Luther said he could unbar the door from the outside. How?

There might be a crack in the door through which a stick or a stiff wire might be slipped to lift the bar. Of course, when it fell, it would make a sound, but they would be inside before there could be any reaction.

He hesitated. Should he take a chance and go over the corral bars? Or should he shoot from the partial protection of the corral? It was a little safety to be traded for increased mobility, and he wanted to go over. They would be doubly alert now. One of them thought he had heard something, and also, as they were nearing the house, their every sense would be alert.

Inside the house, Mary Breydon turned restlessly in her half sleep. Her robe, which she had kept on, had tightened around her legs, and irritated by it, she had half sat up to free herself from it when she heard a faint scratching from the door.

Instantly, she was on her feet, tightening her robe. The sound was coming from the door.

Frightened, she stepped into the room. What should she do? What could she do?

Suddenly, unbelievably, the bar seemed to lift of its own volition. It tipped back, then fell to the floor with a thump. Instantly, the latch lifted, and men plunged into the room. Turning swiftly, without thinking, she caught up the coffeepot and with one sweeping, swinging movement, threw the scalding coffee into their faces!

A man screamed as the scalding coffee struck and began pawing at his eyes as if he would tear them out. Another wheeled and plunged through the door, fighting to get out. At the door, he tripped and fell sprawling, and Scant Luther leaped over him to get into the room. Dropping the now-empty coffeepot, Mary grabbed up the broom but did not swing it. At the moment it came into her hands, she remembered something the major had told her long ago, and as Luther lunged to grab her, she thrust hard with the end of the broomstick.

The thrust caught him in the pit of the stomach, and he stopped, gasping for a breath. Swiftly, she struck again. Out of wind, his wild grasp at the broom failed, and he took a glancing blow to the face that ripped his cheek.

From outside, there was a shot, then another one. Luther scrambled for the door, and she struck him again, this time with the business end of the broom.

Matty appeared in her door, pistol in hand.

Mary Breydon stopped, staring after them, half sick with fright.

"They're gone, mum," Matty said. "You did 'em in."

From outside, there was a sound of running, then of horses charging away into the night.

Temple Boone appeared in the doorway, rifle in hand. He stepped inside, picking up the now-empty coffeepot. "Now ain't that h.e.l.l? Just when I wanted a good cup of coffee!"

Chapter 3.

MARY AWAKENED IN the first gray light of day and lay still, staring up at the ceiling and trying to organize her day.

She had moved in and taken charge, and she had survived that and her first night. The word that she was a woman would by now have reached Mark Stacy, who was division agent, and running a stage station was no job for a lady. That would be his first thought. Yet she had taken charge, and she had fired Scant Luther. No man could have done it better.

Yet he would be coming soon, and what he must find was a better station. No, not a better one. It must be the best. It must be neat, clean, with good food ready to serve when the stages arrived.

The teams must be changed promptly, the barns must be clean, all the mess Scant Luther had left must be cleaned up.

How much time did she have? A day? Two days? She might even have a week. There were other stations, and Stacy was a busy man.

The station first, for here they would feed the pa.s.sengers, handle the mail and any shipments there were, and that would be the first place Stacy would notice. Above all, good food, served hot, something pa.s.sengers could go away talking about.

They had begun cleaning but had barely touched the work to be done. That needed to go forward.

Next, an inventory of what supplies were on hand and what was needed. A careful check of the stables to see what needed to be done. At that moment, she thought of her father.

Sitting up in bed, she swung her feet to the floor, feeling for her slippers. "Thank G.o.d, papa," she whispered to herself, "you never had a son!"

He would have been shocked to hear her say it, but had there been a son, she would never have learned how to do so many things that now she knew. He had loved having her ride out with him in the morning, and she had learned how to handle horses, how to keep a stable, even how to use a whip.

"This will all be yours someday," her father had said, "and you'd better know how to run it. If the man you marry is no better than some of those I've seen coming around here, you will need to know.

"And, honey, you handle your own affairs yourself. Manage your own money. Let n.o.body else do it no matter how well they think they can handle it. Always keep your own money in your own hands!"

Luckily, Marshall had agreed. Even before they were married, he a.s.sured her, "Keep what's your own. Our children will have something to start with no matter what. I'll take care of you."

They had not planned for a war. They had not expected the lovely plantation to be devastated, the buildings burned, fences torn down, stock driven off by guerrillas.

She would check the supplies in the station storeroom, the tools, the harness, the horses, and the feed situation. In the kitchen, she sat down and made a list of things that would need doing. Only then did she bathe and dress.

When she returned to the kitchen, Matty had coffee on and was preparing breakfast. "I found some bacon, mum, and there's eggs."

"Matty? I don't want to frighten you, but keep your pistol where you can reach it."

"Yes, mum. I don't frighten easy, mum. I grew up with four big brothers and had to fight for it all until they were growed enough to respect me." She filled Mary's cup. "They were troubling times, mum, and there was many a time when I wished for a gun but had none."

There was a tap on the door, and when Matty opened it, Wat was there, and behind him, Temple Boone.

Mary hesitated, looking into her cup. It had to be done; she must ask them because she must have them. She could not do it all alone.

"Wat? Would you like to work for me? Here?"

"Yes, ma'am, as long as it's men's work."

"It is. The first thing will be to clean the stable."

"That's a mighty big job for one man," Boone protested. "I mean, the way Luther left it."

"I can do it." Wat looked up belligerently. "I'll want five dollars a month and found."

"Do a good job and I'll pay you ten." She lifted her eyes to Boone. "How about you? Are you looking for work?"

"No." He spoke quickly, and something seemed to give way inside her. She could not do it alone. The outside work would be too much. "But I promised myself I'd stay on and see you get settled. I might ride over to Bonner's. I hear tell there's been a man rustlin' work over there."

"Neither of you will probably want to help when you hear what I have planned." She paused again. "I want this job. I need this job. I've got to have this place in such shape by the time Mark Stacy gets here that he'll have no reason to discharge me."

"He's a reasonable man."

"Do you know him?"

"I do. He's a widower. No family. Eats, sleeps, and breathes this stage line."

"A young man?"

"Depends on where you start countin'. I'd say he's about forty. I'd say he's young enough to see that you're a mighty handsome woman."

She flushed and looked straight into his eyes. "I am not thinking of that. However I may look is not going to help me one bit on this job. It will be what I do and how well I do."

"You're right about that. Stacy will see you're a pretty woman, but like I said, he lives this stage line. If you're not doin' the job, he wouldn't keep you on if you was Cleopatra."

"I would feel the same way, Mr. Boone. What I want to do is have this place spotless and working efficiently by the time he gets here."

She drank the last of her coffee. "Matty? Fix him some breakfast. He's going to work."

Boone started to speak, then turned toward the table. "You heard the lady, Matty. Breakfast it is."

Outside, the sun was bright. For a moment, she looked around. The cottage over there, that was where she was to live, but that could wait. The corrals, at least, were well built. She walked past them to the barn and hesitated at the door. It was literally a mess.

The earth floor was covered with old horse manure, with trampled hay and straw. It had not been cleaned in weeks, probably in months. There were no horses in the stalls. Frowning, she turned to look at the corrals.

Six horses...and she had a stage coming in this morning. She looked again. That was the team that had brought her into this station, and they should have more rest.

"What will I do with the manure, ma'am?"

Wat had come up beside her with a shovel whose handle was taller than he was.

"Put it out back of the barn for now, Wat. I may use some of the older material to fertilize a garden."

He looked at her. "A garden, ma'am?"

"Yes, Wat. If we are going to feed people here, we have no reason not to raise our own vegetables. At least, we can try."

Temple Boone was walking toward her. "I can help the boy," he offered.