Chapter 4: HEADING OUT

Two days later, as Jess and Andy approached the curve in the stage road that would take them out of sight of the ranchhouse, Andy turned around to wave at Aunt Daisy and Miz Martha Jackson standing on the front porch. Miz Martha's husband, Mister Avery had taken their three young children and Mike on a hayride earlier that morning, mainly to take Mike's mind off the distressing fact that he wasn't being included on the fishing trip. Orrie—Mister Avery's eighteen-year-old son from a previous marriage—was in the corral, checking with practiced hands and eyes the feet of the four horses being prepped for the ten o'clock stage. Tall and heavily muscled like his father, Orrie was learning the farrier trade along with two other former slaves—Jem Morpeth and Alonzo White—in the family's blacksmith/livery stable business.

Jess hadn't quite understood the concept of 'vacation' until Andy'd explained it to him at Christmas break. And he'd completely forgot about it until the fishing trip brouhaha brought it to mind again... along with the bright idea. No one was more surprised than Jess himself when his plan came together so neatly... which was to offer the Jacksons a month's working 'vacation' at the ranch. Jess in turn had explained it to Avery, who hadn't heard of such a thing as 'vacation' either, but agreed it would be a nice divertissement for his family. As for himself, minding a dozen head of horses, four orphan calves and a milk cow, and changing out a team of stagecoach horses twice a day was a welcome change from dawn-to-dusk backbreaking blacksmithing work at his forge. He had no qualms about leaving the business in Jem's and Lonzo's capable hands.

Martha Jackson was an educated freedwoman who'd been born and raised up north, so she and Daisy Cooper had a lot in common and got on like two bugs in a rug. For some time now Daisy had been fretting about the impossibility of making an extended visit to visit her ailing sister in Cheyenne. With Miz Martha there to take care of Mike and the ranchhouse, Daisy could in clear conscience spend several weeks with Rose. For Miz Martha, four weeks away from town was an attractive prospect. Her fractious children could run free in the sunshine and play in the creek and make as much noise as they liked without offending any white folks.

Likewise, Slim—now in town—was satisfied that he needn't worry. Avery was just about the most dependable man in Laramie and they'd been friends for years. The ranch couldn't be in safer hands and Miz Martha would keep the house spotless and look after Mike as if he were her own. Daisy would be catching the afternoon coach into town, then boarding the train for Cheyenne.

Andy was astride Ranger, Slim's second-favorite mount, and Jess was aboard Scout, his own remount. The ranch-bred bay geldings were compact, chunky, seemingly tireless animals with calm temperaments—ideal for the fifty-two miles of trail ahead of the prospective campers. According to Jess, with their broad backs and smooth gaits, they were like riding in a rocking chair.

Although the personnel issue was resolved, a few other minor ones remained to be addressed. One of them was the problem with Jess' boot... the fact that he couldn't get the right one on. After seventy-two hours of ice packs—whenever Aunt Daisy could cajole Jess into sitting still long enough—the swelling hadn't gone down far enough to allow the injured foot to slide down into his favorite cowhide boots. He'd been wearing Comanche-style deerskin boot moccasins that laced up to the knee with bead, quill and fringe embellishments—ceremonial finery received as a gift in earlier years. Not something your average white man would be caught dead wearing in a saloon, but that was all he had and he was wearing them now. Andy knew better than to snicker.

Jess' original intention was to camp rough with only whatever they could carry on their horses—he'd got by for five years on the drift that way and didn't see any need for more. However, Slim and Daisy had other ideas—to Andy's relief, because he knew he'd been living soft for too long now. He wasn't especially looking forward to sleeping on bare ground with a thin blanket and no protection from the elements. Slim and Daisy had each prepared their own lists of what they regarded as bare essentials for four weeks away from civilization. Consequently, the expedition now included two sturdy—and surly—pack mules loaded to the gunwales.

Abner and Clyde were on loan from the Sherman's long-time neighbor Garland Bartlett and had only recently been broken to harness. Mister Bartlett had said a good long pack trip was just the thing to finish them off and 'work out the knots'. Jess and Andy had ridden over to Bartlett's spread two days ago to fetch them and get them used to wearing pack saddles. Easier said than done! Abner and Clyde weren't small mules to begin with—out of Tennessee Walker mares by a mammoth jack—and not in the least bit cooperative.

Abner was a chronic bucker-and-kicker and Clyde was a compulsive biter. Andy quickly learned to snug Clyde's head tight to whatever was handy—fence rail, post, tree—before attempting to put anything on his back. Jess had been knocked down three times and kicked in the left knee before he finally got a pack saddle secured in place on Abner. Andy'd suggested maybe they'd better just go with the mules they owned, but Jess'd declared no mule was gonna get the better of him! Even when Abner got loose and went on a bucking spree, hurling the contents of his pack saddle in all directions all over the corral, Jess had grimly picked up everything and started over.

They'd meant to depart at sunrise but the mule problem'd taken longer than expected to sort out. At the moment the miscreants were meekly following along behind their respective leaders but Andy had no confidence in their continuing obedience. Mules were sneaky like that.

The kick to the knee had further reduced Jess' mobility although he was doubly careful to straighten up and not let Daisy catch him limping or she'd come down on him like a ton of bricks. Ninety-eight pounds' worth, anyway. To add insult to injury, his usual method of mounting—hop, skip and jump—was out and he had to stand on an upturned bucket. When he was finally, comfortably, in the saddle, he let out a big sigh of relief and signaled Andy to move out.

The first four miles were uneventful. Abner and Clyde, with that long, fluid plantation walker stride in their blood, had no trouble keeping up with the horses. As neither rider was feeling excessively conversational and it was near time for the ten o'clock stage to come along, Andy was riding tandem behind Jess along the north verge of the roadway. He was practically bouncing in the saddle with good will and high spirits—and only the tiniest twinge of guilt at poor Slim being stuck in town. On the other hand, he'd been owed this camping trip since forever—since he was just a little kid—so what was so wrong about finally getting it? Every year since he'd come home from The War, Slim had promised his little brother he'd take him camping... and every year he'd cancelled out for one reason or another.

Andy had Clyde's leadline wrapped around his left hand rather than around the horn of his saddle—just as Jess had taught him. On a narrow mountain trail, with a sheer dropoff on one side and a rockwall on the other, mules were a lot more surefooted than horses. Where a horse might misstep and go hurtling into the abyss, a mule would be glued to that trail like a mountain goat. Unless, of course, it was tethered to the horse—in which case it would be dragged along to an early demise... along with the horse's rider. So, Jess had counseled... keep the lead wrapped around your hand. That way, if your mount slips and falls, you can jump off and be anchored to the trail by the mule.

Andy did note, however, that this was another 'Jess Dictum' on the order of 'do as I say, not as I do'... because the man himself had the leadline to his mule attached to the horn of his saddle. Andy knew that if he mentioned it, Jess would point out that he needed a free hand in case he had to reach for his pistol. You just never knew.

At any rate, Andy realized that his left arm was meeting increasing resistance. Furthermore, Clyde had drifted toward the center of the road so that Andy's arm was now being stretched sideways. This wouldn't do. Andy angled Ranger toward the center as well to bring his arm back to a more comfortable position, which is when the line suddenly went taut, nearly jerking him right out of the saddle.

"What the...?"The boy angled his head to see what in heck was going on behind him just as Clyde sank to his haunches, then folded his front legs and settled in the middle of the road with a pitiful groan. Ranger must have concluded he had a steer on the end of the rope, quickly swiveling his hindquarters and backing up. Andy was sure his arm would be pulled right out of its socket.

"Ranger, NO! Jess! JESS! HELP!"

Jess whoa'd and turned around. "Git 'im up... quick! Stage'll be along any minute."

"I'm trying... I'm trying..." Andy drummed his legs against Ranger's sides to no avail, finally resorting to spurs to get his mount to understand he was meant to move forward instead of backwards, which Ranger finally, grudgingly, did.

Jess was yelling. "Dally that rope while ya got some slack!"

Andy dallied. Jess yelled some more.

"NOW pull back!"

Getting the new signal, Ranger craned his head around to give his rider the evil eye, as if to say 'make up your mind, already!" But he obligingly backed up until Clyde's neck was stretched tight as a guitar string.

Jess didn't like quirts and rarely carried one. Neither did Andy. They had nothing with which to compel that dadblamed mule to get up... and, sure enough, coming over the rise in the distance was that morning coach. The only thing they had going for them was that they were on a relatively level, straight stretch of road with a decent sight line. The coach itself was just topping the long, tortuous incline from town, which the team had to take at a steady jog. Normally, at this point in the route they'd be breaking into a lope, if not a full gallop, but the driver had seen the obstruction ahead and held them back.

Eventually the stagecoach came to a complete halt. There wasn't enough room on either side of the recumbent mule to go around, and the shoulders were littered with rocks and boulders too big to roll over. Mose Shell leaned forward with elbows on knees, torn between aggravation and amusement, shaking his head mournfully.

"What's this? You boys studyin' on holdin' us up this fine mornin'?"

Of course, Mose—being significantly hard-of-hearing—was making his announcement loudly enough (as old deaf people invariably do) so that his words were clearly audible to the passengers inside the coach. Before either Jess or Andy could reply to their friend of many years, a gabble of excited voices and feminine shrieks of alarm broke out inside the conveyance.

"Thieves!"

"Robbers!"

"Highwaymen!"

And then a determined baritone with a clipped British accent... "Never fear, ladies! I shall make short work of these verminous brigands!"

A ruddy, round, monocled and pencil-mustached face surmounted by a dusty derby presented itself at a window, followed by a pair of kid-gloved hands and a rifle. The first shot went through the crown of Jess' hat, blowing it off. Jess' immediate reaction—as always when being shot at—was to dive off his mount into a tuck-and-roll. But this time—hampered by his sore foot dangling outside the stirrup—he landed flat on his back instead, with the wind knocked out of him.

"Take that, you ruffian!"

The second shot hit Abner's pack saddle. A sack of flour detonated in the immediate vicinity and so did Abner, sunfishing like a rodeo champ and braying loud enough to wake the dead from Denver to Dublin. Scout, still attached to the mule, retaliated by neighing and bucking in the other direction. Clouds of flour erupted into the atmosphere, obscuring the scene. Andy panicked—for sure Jess was going to get himself trampled in the melee!

Mose flew off the driver's box, screaming. "Stop shootin'! Don't shoot! They's friends a mine!"

The door to the coach swung open and Dusty Derby hopped out, rifle in hand. "Not outlaws, you say? Then why the devil are we stopped?" His eyes went to the mule couchant, following the rope up to the young man on the horse at the other end... the young man who was now getting off the horse.

"I say! Get that bloody animal out of the way!"

"Do it yourself, mister!" Andy shouted as he ran past to render aid to his gasping companion, who was just becoming visible as the flour explosion dissipated. Heedless of the danger to himself, Andy dropped to his knees beside his fallen comrade. "Jess... JESS! You alright? Jess... you gotta BREATHE!"

The stage team, already agitated by the rifle shots and the two other animals bucking all over the place, were pawing and snorting. Mose was desperately trying to calm the two leads before they were provoked into bolting... mule or no mule in their path.

Dusty Derby, in the meantime, skipped up to the driver's box to retrieve Mose's long whip. Jumping back down, he strode toward Clyde, muttering to no one in particular about showing these lily-livered Americans how one handled a cantankerous beast back in Mother England. With a professional furling and unfurling of the whip, he laid the tip end directly across Clyde's nose.

Nine hundred pounds of outraged mule exploded off the ground and charged the Englishman, lips pulled back from enormous yellow teeth and ears laid flat back. Seeing he wouldn't be able to get back inside the coach in time, Dusty Derby dove underneath it instead.

Unable to reach his quarry, Clyde started attacking the coach itself, kicking and biting at the spokes of the wheels and the brightwork on the body. He even reared up and stuck his head through the window, causing screams of eardrum-shattering proportions.

The fury of the demented mule was so awesome it even got the attentions of Scout and Abner, who ceased their own gyrations to observe with great interest, ears pricked forward. Abner was probably taking notes for future reference. Mules are smart that way.

Mose was clinging to the harness of one of the lead horses, cackling so hard tears were coursing down his seamed cheeks. Even Andy, anxiously helping Jess sit up, couldn't keep his eyes off the spectacle. Clyde's tether having undallied itself, Ranger was also watching... from a discreet remove.

Clyde's bloodlust eventually expended itself and he gave up on the coach and its contents. He gave a mighty shake and a few more items detached themselves from his pack to join everything else already strewn across the road from Abner's performance. Jess was on his feet now, leaning against Andy for support but still wheezing to restore oxygen to his depleted lungs. The first thing out of his mouth when he was able to speak was: 'Get my rifle!'

"What for?"

"I'm gonna kill me a mule..."

"No, you can't..."

"Why not?"

"Well... for one thing he ain't... isn't... our mule to shoot."

"Oh... yeah... right... get me my rifle anyway..."

"Why?"

"I'm gonna shoot that little pissant what took a shot at me..."

"Now Jess... calm down. You can't shoot him, either."

"I guess you're right. Where's my hat?"

Andy turned loose of Jess for a few seconds to bend down and pick up Jess' hat, which he handed over, withholding comment about the two new holes in it and the fact that it was coated in white flour. So was the rest of Jess, for that matter. And Abner.

Mose had finally collected himself enough to sidle over and look Jess up and down. "You hurt, son? You kin ride in the coach back to the ranch, you need to..."

"Nah. I'll be okay. Soon as we reset them packs, me 'an Andy'll be on our way... we're goin' fishin' up to the Snowies for a coupla weeks..."

"That a fact? I reckon I'll be on my way, too, then. Good luck with the fishin' an' all..." Mose recovered his whip and clambered back up to the box, chucking to the horses to move out. The coach squealed away with one wonky wheel missing two shattered spokes.

Andy and Jess set about picking up various bits and pieces that had come out of the packs. Jess was moving stiffly, but moving. Both mules stood quietly as their packs were adjusted. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths.

"Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"We don't seem to be getting off to a good start, here. Maybe we should just forget about it and turn back..."

That little muscle alongside Jess' jaw was twitching... sure sign he was teetolly pissed off. "I said we was goin' fishin'... an' that's where we're goin'."

"Um... okay."

Andy interleaved his fingers to make a sling Jess could step into to get back aboard Scout. Soon they resumed their trek westward toward town. With every footfall, puffs of flour poofed off Jess and Abner.