Chapter Twenty
Wyoming
Winter 1861
Clayton Young’s horse, Bones, slowly picked his way down the dirt road that led to the Fillmore Ranch. The leather of the saddle on the horse’s back squeaked and shifted as the horse stumbled a bit. Clayton patted the horse’s neck. “Good job, Bones. Hang in there. We’re almost to the barn, ole boy, and then we’ll see what can be found to eat in our new home.” Clayton straightened up and drew in a deep breath.
This was the third and final day of his journey. The Fillmore Ranch offered much in the way of comfort, or so he’d been told. Right before he quit, the previous relay station manager, Bill Evers, had said the ranch had been his easiest assignment with the Pony Express.
Clayton sighed. This assignment was his last job with the Pony Express. The telegraph lines and offices were swiftly taking over the Express’s routes. Why send your mail by pony when it could go by train in a day’s time or wire in mere minutes? People were whispering that the Pony Express was in financial distress and would soon be extinct once telegraph lines were completed from the East Coast to the West. Because of all the talk, Bill had found another job and quit the Pony Express. He had a small family and couldn’t afford to be out of work even a day.
Unlike his friend Bill, Clayton didn’t have a family to support so he figured he’d stick with the Pony Express to the end. Then he’d pursue his dream of becoming a doctor. He’d saved almost every dime of the money he’d earned working for the Pony Express, and that would hold him over for a while after this job ended.
Bones began traveling up the hill. Clayton leaned forward in the saddle. Like this road, it seemed that shortly after Christmas his life had become an uphill climb. His fiancée, Eunice, had broken off their engagement and quickly married the banker’s son, and then he’d learned that the Pony Express could shut down at any moment. Mixed emotions warred for his attention. On one hand, he’d miss the stability the Pony Express had brought to his income and his life. On the other hand, he’d be free to pursue doctoring, something he’d dreamed of doing for as long as he could remember.
He topped the hill and saw the ranch house below. The sun was lowering in the west, casting rust-colored rays over the barn, yard and two-story house. It was a nice place with a couple of large trees in the front and what looked like fruit trees off to the side.
Pleasure and a tiny spiral of hope teased his mind. This was his chance to start over. With blessings from the Lord and hard work, he just might see his dream of becoming a doctor come to fruition.
Movement below drew his attention. A little girl ran from the house to the barn. Clayton figured that was five-year-old Dinah. Bill had said the little girl was the sister to Jack Fillmore’s young wife. Jack had died three months earlier and left a widow behind.
He gently touched his knees to Bones’s ribs. The horse took his time easing down the hill. All the while, Clayton watched the child. She exited the barn pulling a mustang pony behind her. What was a five-year-old girl doing messing with a horse? His gaze swept the rest of the yard and surrounding area. Where were the ranch hands? Where was Jack’s widow?
His gut clenched, a sure sign that all was not well at the ranch. “Let’s go, ole boy.”
Bones heard the words let’s go and tore down the hill like the ranch was on fire. Being a Pony Express horse, Bones had been trained by Clayton that when his rider said “let’s go,” he was to move fast. Clayton would have grinned, if he weren’t concerned about the child below.
He knew the exact moment the little girl spotted him. She stopped in her tracks, wrapped the horse’s reins around the wagon and ran at top speed toward the house. She had barely made it onto the front porch when Bones skidded to a stop below her.
Clayton saw her hand tremble as she reached for the doorknob. He knew a scared little filly when he saw one, and his instincts kicked in just as they did when he sensed Indians and bandits on the Pony Express trail. What he needed to do now was keep calm and find out what the trouble was.
He spoke in a soft, even voice. “You must be Dinah.”
The little girl nodded.
“I’m Clayton Young and I was sent to manage the Pony Express station. Is Mrs. Maggie Fillmore here? Bill told me she would show me the ropes.”
The little girl turned loose of the door and rushed toward him. “My sissy just had...um, the baby’s having trouble breathing.” She paused in uncertainty.
Big tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her chubby cheeks, and a tiny dimple peeked through strands of hair that had fallen from her braids. “He’s not crying or nothing. Sissy says we have to get to town where the doctor lives.” She twisted her small hands in her dress in agitation. “I have to hitch the horse to the buggy so we can get Sissy and the babe to Doc Anderson.”
Bill hadn’t mentioned that Mrs. Fillmore was with child. Clayton forced himself to remain calm, knowing that the babe might already be dead. “Tell you what. Why don’t you take me to the baby and let me see if I can help?” He saw the indecision on her face and slid off his horse. “I’ve doctored my brothers for years. Please, let me help your sister.” Clayton wrapped his horse’s reins around the porch post.
Dinah nodded and held the door open. When she started up the stairs, Clayton could no longer remain calm, and he slipped past her two steps at a time. If the baby had turned blue, he might already be too late.
Clayton followed the sound of weeping and entered a room of pure chaos. Linen was strewn over the floor. A pan of water sat on the floor beside the bed, and sitting on the side of the bed wearing a dressing gown was a larger version of Dinah. She held the still baby in her hands. Her mournful weeping filled the room.
The setting sun shone through the window behind her, creating a halo of sorts, and golden ringlets tumbled across her shoulders, reaching almost to her waist. When she looked up at him, pure unadulterated grief twisted her features, and without a word she held the baby out to him, silently begging for his help.
Clayton gently lifted the baby to his chest. A white line circled his tiny mouth, and his lips held a tinge of blue. Clayton laid the baby on the bed and with his little finger pulled down on the lower lip.
Carefully, using the edge of the sheet, he cleared the child’s air passages. The baby kicked and then gagged. Clayton turned him over and lightly swatted his bare bottom. The baby emitted
