Merline Lovelace Read Online Free PDF Page A

the sod shanty set in the shade of the cottonwoods.
    The larger way stations strung every fifty miles or so along the stage line usually included stables, a granary, a blacksmith and repair shop, as well as overnight accommodations for passengers, and the inevitable saloon or two. Smaller swing stations like this boasted only sod or cedar-log huts with a barn and corral large enough to handle twelve or fifteen horses. As Suzanne knew from their previous stop some hours back, Ten Mile Station consisted of a single-room hut, dark and smelling of old smoke. A tattered muslin partition separated the kitchen from the sleeping area. More muslin covered the walls in a futile attempt to keep the crumbling sod from sifting down on everything inside.
    As crude as the place was, Suzanne couldn’t wait to reach it. All she wanted was a basin of water to soak her toes, followed in quick order bysome of the bitter coffee and cold beans the station manager had offered the travelers during their earlier stop. Clamping her jaw down against the pain in her toes, she limped up to the door. She’d just reached for the iron latch when it swung open.
    The bandy-legged station manager stopped on the threshold. His whiskered jaw sagged in surprise as he took in the dust-covered travelers. “What in thunderation happened to you folks?”
    “Road agents,” Sloan said succinctly. “Big Nose Parrott and his gang were waiting for the stage just past Three Mule Creek.”
    “Well, shee-it!”
    Snatching off his hat, the manager threw it down and stomped the battered felt.
    “Pardon my Chinese, ma’am, but that’s twice this month we been holt up! Damned bushwhackers oughta be strung up from the nearest tree.”
    “I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said as he stood back to allow them entry.
    Inside, Suzanne sank gratefully onto one of the hand-hewn wooden benches drawn up to the table. The others followed, with the station manager popping questions like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.
    “Was anyone hurt? Where’s Jim Billups, the driver? What about the rest of the passengers? And the strongbox? Did Parrott get the strongbox?”
    “We don’t know.” Plunking his merchandisecase onto a table, Benjamin Greenleaf collapsed onto the bench opposite Suzanne. “The three of us had just climbed out of the coach when someone started shooting. Last we saw of the stage, it was tearing lickety-split around the bend with Big Nose Parrott and his men chasing after it.”
    “Well, I’ll be damned! I’d better get my partner and saddle up to go lookin’ for it. You folks take your ease until we get back.”
    “Hold on!”
    Sloan’s preemptory command stopped the man in his tracks.
    “When’s the next stage to Deadwood?”
    The manager hooked a thumb at a yellowed waybill tacked to the wall. “Thursday, if they hold to the schedule.”
    “Four days from now? That’s not good enough. I’ve got business in Deadwood that can’t wait. How much for a horse and saddle?”
    “Sixty-five dollars for the horse. They’re turned out to graze in the flats behind the barn. Take your pick of any wearing the Express Line brand. As for the saddle, we keep a few spares in the barn. Twenty dollars ought to cover the cost.”
    “Done.” Digging a roll of greenbacks from the pocket of his leather vest, Sloan peeled off several bills. “I’ll be heading out in the morning.”
    “Suit yourself. The rest of you folks make yourself to home. There’s beer in the barrel and a slabof salted bacon on the shelf. I’ll be back soon’s I can.”
    He stomped to the door, his boot heels thudding on the floorboards. Sloan paused only long enough to lift the lid off the wooden ale keg, swish a tin-handled dipper around and guzzle down several long swallows before he, too, strode out.
    The door banged shut behind him.
    “Well, how do you like that?” Greenleaf muttered, staring at the closed door. “Off he goes again, without so much as a tip-de-doo or