And under it on its side was a freight wagon. crates split open, sacks of flour bursting white into the brown, two mules down and screaming in their traces, and a man pinned, the rear axle across his leg, mud rising around his chest. "Hold the reins," Anel said. He was already off the wagon. Mud to his shins, then his knees.
The pinned man was the freight driver. Harland something. A fellow who had crossed the street every time Anel came into town. His face was gray, his eyes rolled up white. Branick.
Oh, Branick. Don't Don't What? Don't help. Don't touch me. Anel did not have time for it.
He set his back against the wagon bed, dug his boots into the slope, and lifted. The wagon groaned. Wood cracked. Mud sucked at the wheels like it did not want to let go. Anel felt the cords stand out in his neck.
Felt his spine bow. A sound came out of his chest that he did not recognize. The axle rose 1 in, two, six. Now he roared. Somebody pull him.
and somebody did. Not Harland's partner, not a passing rider, Odessa Hail. Skirts hiked to her knees, down in the mud on her belly. Both small hands locked under the driver's arms. Hauling, she dragged him clear, just barely, just as Anel's grip went, and the wagon crashed back down into the place where the man's leg had been.
Silence. Rain, a mule, groaning. Then she was moving fast, calm. Her wooden case was open on the wagon seat and she was back with it, kneeling in the slop, her hands already at the man's leg. Broken, she said.
Clean, thank God. Mr. Branick, I need a straight board. Two of them and your belt. My belt? Is there a problem with your belt?
No, ma'am. He tore two boards off a split crate with his bare hands. She did not even blink at that. She splinted the leg, bound a gash on his thigh so tight the bleeding stopped. spoke to the man the whole time in a low even voice the way you might talk to a frightened child.
You're all right. You're all right. Look at me. Not at him. At me.
What's your name? Harlon. Harlon. You are going to keep that leg. Do you hear me?
Yes, ma'am. Good. Anel stood over them breathing hard mud to the waist and thought, "Who is this woman?" hoofbeats. A fine bay horse came picking its way down the switchback and on it rain slicker gleaming was Leland Ashcom 55 years old silver mustache gold watch chain the face of a man who had never once been caught out in the rain without a planel. Good lord.
Is that Harlon? Is he alive? He's alive. Thank heaven. That's my freight.
My driver. I came as soon as I heard the slope went. He swung down from the saddle and gripped Anel's arm with both gloved hands. You lifted that by yourself? Anel said nothing.
He never knew what to say to that. Ashcom turned, saw Odessa in the mud, saw her face, and something flickered. Just for a second, just a hitch in that smooth banker's smile. Then it was gone. And you must be Mrs. Hail.
He swept off his hat. Rain on his silver hair. Leland Ashcom. I handle Anel's correspondence. Welcome to Copper Hollow, ma'am.
I hope the town treats you better than its roads. So do I, Odessa said. She did not offer her hand. Both of them were full of Harland's blood. Ashcom looked back at Anel, clapped him on the shoulder.
I'll have men up here to clear this by nightfall. And Anel, listen. There are railroad men poking around the pass again. Surveyors, if they come up on your land, you send them to me. Understand?
I'm on your side. I always have been. I know, Leland. Always. He climbed back into the saddle and rode down toward town for help.
Odessa watched him go long after he had disappeared around the bend. "What?" Anel said. "Nothing. You're chewing on something." She looked up at him. And for the first time, there was a flash of real humor in those dark eyes.
"2 miles," she said. "Give me 2 miles." Then you can ask. The dining room of the Gilded Pick went silent the moment Anel ducked through the door. It always did. Spoon stopped.
Fork stopped. Two men at the bar found something deeply fascinating at the bottom of their whiskey glasses. A girl carrying a coffee pot froze halfway across the room. And then Odessa came in behind him. Mud to the knees, blood on her sleeves, and the silence got heavier.
She looked around the room slowly, taking each face in. "Friendly place," she said. There was a snort from behind the bar. Ione Mulgrew came out from behind it like a ship leaving harbor. Near 70 near as wide as she was tall, a face like a walnut, a voice like a rusty hinge.
And she had run this dining room since 1867. She was the one soul in Copper Hollow, who had never been afraid of Anel Branick, mostly because I Mulgrew had never been afraid of anything in her life. She planted her fists on her hips and looked Odessa up and down. So you're the eighth. I suppose I am.
Hm. Up, down, up again. You've got blood on you. Not mine. Whose?
Harland Pikes. The mountain fell on him. Did it now? Ione's eyebrows climbed. And he's alive.
He is because of you. Because of him. Odessa nodded at Anel. He lifted the wagon. And you?
I pulled. Ione Mulgrew looked at Odessa for a long, long moment. Then she turned and bellowed at the frozen girl. Coffee too. Black.
And bring the good biscuits, not the ones from Tuesday. She swung back to Odessa. Well, you've got more sense in your face than the last seven put together. The seventh had a face like a startled hen. She jerked a thumb at Anel.