Chapter One
When the two dusty, smelly cowboys tumbled into the stagecoach, I knew that trouble would come along too. They both tipped their hats to Ma, and the thin man nodded at me.
“You and your sister travelin’ alone, Boy?” he asked.
“She ain’t—I mean, she isn’t my sister, Sir; she’s my ma,” I replied.
Though they were both about average in height, one was a lot heavier than the other. The fat one was all sweaty, and he smelled of whiskey. His belly hung over his gun belt and jiggled as the coach bounced along. He was dirty and greasy and hadn’t shaved for at least a week, or maybe not even for two or three.
The other man was mean looking. His clothes weren’t as dusty, and he wore two fancy guns. He was about thirty or thirty-five and was clean-shaven, and he was smiling at Ma, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was the kind of smile a buzzard would give a dying rabbit—if buzzards could smile.
He shifted his gaze from me back to Ma, where it had been since we had pulled away from the station. I wasn’t surprised. A skinny, sandy-haired, brown-eyed, freckle-faced boy doesn’t get much attention from anybody unless he’s in trouble.
“You and the boy alone, Ma’am?” he drawled. “This is mighty rough country for a lone lady and—”
“We’re not really alone, Sir,” she interrupted, smiling. “My Father is keeping an eye on us, and we’re quite safe.”
The man looked puzzled. I don’t think he understood that Ma meant God was watching over us, and I guess Pa was watching from Heaven too.
It was hard to believe that we were headed west to claim our ranch without Pa. Just a year ago I had watched him walk across the street on his way to the store. That was the day the store had burned to the ground with Pa inside. I never saw him again. Ma and me, we missed him a whole lot, and we hurt a whole lot; but we still had God and each other. We knew that Pa was watching us and wanting us to carry out his plans. So here we were, going out to work the ranch that Pa had bought—two Ohio greenhorns who were planning to work a West Texas ranch, complete with eight hundred head of cattle. Ma and me—we’d make it work!
“Your pa is here?” the thin man asked Ma. “I only seen the driver.”
“She means God, Mister,” I said. “He’s our Father. Pa’s dead, but he’s—”
“That’s enough, Artemus,” Ma warned me.
The thin man relaxed and smiled that smile again. His friend was asleep and was snoring. He leaned forward and half whispered to Ma, “Well, Ma’am, you shore do look like an angel, so I guess that maybe your pa could be God. I’m Jeff Chastain, and my pard here is Rafe Alman. Since we’re headed in the same direction and may be together for a spell, I thought we might get to know each other a little better.”
Ma smiled just a little at him, but she didn’t speak. He began to talk—mostly about himself—and I got bored, I guess, and dozed for a while. I awoke a bit fuzzy in my head, but I heard Mr. Chastain’s voice still rambling away.
“Your dress, Ma’am,” he was saying, “certainly is pretty.”
I pretended to be asleep and watched him through squinting eyes. Mr. Alman was awake now but not paying any attention to the conversation.
When the stage jolted to a stop in front of a relay station, we got out to stretch a bit while the driver hitched up a new team. When Ma and I went to get back into the stage, she started in first, gave a little gasp, and backed out again. I weaseled past her and peeped into the stage. Mr. Alman was in the seat where he had been, but Mr. Chastain had taken my seat so that Ma would have to sit beside him or Mr. Alman. Mr. Chastain smiled.
I thought Rafe and the boy would be snoozing some more and you and I could get to know each other better if I sat over here.”
Ma didn’t smile this time, and I saw some little red blotches jump out on her neck. Those blotches meant she was either scared or mad or maybe both.
“The original seating arrangement was fine,” she said coldly.
“The dress, Ma’am, is shore pretty. I’d guess a pretty dress like that must have cost a—”
“Please, Mr. Chastain—”
“My friends call me Jeff, Ma’am.”
“Please, Mr. Chastain, would you move to the other seat?”
Mr. Alman began to chuckle, and Mr. Chastain’s face began to get mighty red. When Mr. Chastain looked at him, Mr. Alman locked up his lips in a hurry. Ma just stood there, looking Mr. Chastain in the eye. Ma was beautiful, really beautiful, with her long, black hair pulled up behind her head for traveling and her fine, pretty face looking very firm but still pleasant.
Mr. Chastain moved. As we bumped along the trail again, he looked mad and said nothing to anyone. He took a small, flat bottle from his pocket and began to drink from it.
I dozed again; and when I opened my eyes, Mr. Chastain was leaning close to Ma, smiling that ugly smile and reaching for her bag. But Pa had taught her well. Quick as a wink, her right hand pulled a derringer from that bag, and Mr. Chastain was looking into two .41 caliber barrels.
I had known about the gun, but I had never expected to see Ma use it. She was pointing it right at his middle; her face was calm, and her hand was steady.
Mr. Chastain looked pale, but he tried to act brave. “Now Ma’am,” he began, “I was just joking about trying to take your money. I—”
“I know exactly what you were trying to do,” she said calmly. The red blotches were on her neck again. Mr. Alman was working his hand toward his gun in a really sneaky way,
“Mr. Alman, that would be a foolish thing to do because I couldn’t miss from here.” He forced a smile and moved his hand away from his gun.
I don’t know what makes twelve-year-old boys do what they do, but I made myself look real scared and blurted out, “O Ma, please don’t kill anyone, please! Think what a mess this stage would be if you gizzard-shoot them!” I covered my face and pretended to cry.
“No offense intended, Ma’am,” began Mr. Chastain. “I’m only human, and, well, we’ve had a run of bad luck lately.” He stopped as Ma pulled the hammer back on the derringer. Both men were suntanned, but they looked mighty white just them, and Mr. Chastain was sweating more than what the heat of the day called for. It was Mr. Alman’s turn to speak.
“Please don’t k-kill us, ma’am. We won’t bother you no more, we swear—will we, Jeff?” All of this time Ma had been thinking. Now she looked wild-eyed as she spoke. “Get out, both of you; get out, and don’t ever let me see you again, or I’ll…,” but there was no need to finish because both men had jumped from the stage and were rolling over and over on the ground, kicking up clouds of dust and screaming.
I pulled the door shut and looked at Ma. She had put the derringer away and was looking kinda confused. “Gizzard-shoot them?” She busted out laughing and squeezed me hard. We both laughed, but I felt her shaking, and her cheeks were wet with tears. She held me for a long time like that, and then I guess we both went to sleep.
When I woke, we had stopped to change horses again. I had that same ache in my heart that always seemed to have these days when I woke up. I knew I’d been dreaming about Pa again—dreaming that he’d come with us on this trip that he’d planned for so long.
My dream had seemed so real. Pa had been with us in the stagecoach when Mr. Alman and Mr. Chastain had insulted Ma. He had stopped the coach and challenged Mr. Chastain to a draw. Dressed in fancy cowboy clothes and wearing two shiny six-guns, Pa had beaten Mr. Chastain to the draw. Before Pa could shoot, though, Mr. Alman had shot Pa in the back, and Pa had fallen on his face in the dust—dead. Then Mr. Chastain had walked over and, smiling his ugly smile, tried to put his arm around Ma. That was when the stagecoach had stopped, waking me.
I was glad to find that I had been dreaming—except for the part about Pa. He was really dead, and my heart really ached; and God had let him die. Although Ma had tried to explain to me that God works everything for our good, I couldn’t see it; and I couldn’t stop the ache.
As we started on our way again, I smiled at the thought of the two bad men rolling over and over in the dust and sagebrush. “I guess we’ve seen the last of them!” I said.
I hope so, Artemus,” Ma replied. “I sincerely hope so!”
Chapter Two
The next two weeks of our trip were just dandy. The summer days were pretty, and the nights were cool and clear. Ma and I had no more trouble with the six or seven passengers who rode for short stretches of the way.
It was almost lunchtime when we pulled into White Rock, Texas, the town closest to our ranch. The town—if that was the right name for it—was a wide spot in the road with buildings on both sides. There was a bank on the east side of the road and a general store on the bank’s right; next to that was a saloon, then a hotel. Across the street from the hotel was a building that looked to be a church and schoolhouse. Next to it, coming back up the street, were a doctor’s office, a barbershop and undertaker’s, a sheriff’s office and jail, and a livery stable.
The driver and shotgun rider put our baggage on the walk; but Ma and I just stood by the coach, not sure about which way to go.
“Welcome to White Rock, Ma’am, Son,” said a deep, strong voice beside us. We both jumped, and we turned to see our first United States marshal. He was a big man—tall and strong—and handsome too, judging by the look on Ma’s face she first saw him. He wore a six-gun and a badge, and he held his hat in his hand.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he began in a drawl, “but I saw you from down the street a piece, Ma’am, and I noticed your dress. It’s—”
“Oh, you noticed my dress, did you?”
I saw a red spot on her neck.
“Yes Ma’am. You see, it’s—”
“You don’t need to finish that statement, Mister Marshal.” Three spots were out. “I’m a little surprised at a lawman who would speak to a lady in such a manner; but then, a badge doesn’t make a gentleman, does it, Mister Marshal?” Too many spots to count had shown up,
“Ma’am, I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions. I just—”
Then a bunch of things happened at the same time: the stagecoach driver made his final call to last-minute passengers, the marshal started to reach for Ma to help her out of the way, Ma walloped him with her traveling bag, the driver cracked his whip, and the team took off with the stage and with a piece of Ma’s dress caught in the door and waving from the side like a banner of some sort.
The jerk that ripped Ma’s dress flung her down in the dusty street where she sat, looking like she had looked when she’d found Henry, my pet snake, in my pants pocket. She had that “I-don’t-believe-this-is-happening-to-me” look.
The marshal stretched out his hand to help Ma back to her feet. When I looked at his face, I saw that he was trying to look serious but not doing a very good job. Ma took his hand, and he pulled her up. Ma’s face was as red as the marshal’s bandanna, and she was looking everywhere except at the marshal.
“Thank you, Marshal. I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I misunderstood your intentions because—” Ma stopped. The marshal had held on as long as he could, but he burst out laughing.
“I don’t think this is funny, Ma’am,” he said as soon as he caught his breath, “and I’m sorry about your dress. I’m glad you’re unharmed. I’m not even sure why I’m laughing, except that—”
“I’m not sure why you’re laughing either, Mister Marshal.” Ma was really angry or really embarrassed or both. Her neck was covered with spots, and I was glad she wasn’t looking at me.
“Artemus,” she said, “get our bags and come with me to the hotel.” She turned around and walked toward the hotel, walking a little stooped over so she could try to cover the tear in her dress. The marshal looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and grinned. I grinned back at him and then took off after Ma.
I liked this marshal, and I was sure Ma would too. But then, what did I know anyhow?
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