Random Post Late Delivery

By Peter Foye

A second collection of novellas, complete stories written for the reader to enjoy while travelling or having a quiet break from the stresses of modern life. They range across many subjects and times, some written to suit a theme for a competition while others were purely for the amusement of friends and family but all with the gentle reader in mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Foye
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301845422

Peter Foye

Peter Foye is now happily retired after a career in engineering spanning 42 years, now living in Oxfordshire and Cornwall. He has written over 30 short stories mostly for the enjoyment of friends and family, some have been, published in local newspapers, excerps read on radio and a few have won competitions. He has also written novels under the pen-name 'Peter Wallace'.

Book preview

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Random Post

Late Delivery

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by

Peter Foye

and

Ruth Markam

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Random Post

Late Delivery

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Copyright © 2013 by the author:

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet via any other means without permission of the author is illegal.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Published by Peter Foye at Smashwords

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Smashwords Edition License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may notbe resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another,please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you arereading this book and didnot purchase it and it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard workof the author.

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Random Post

Late Delivery

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Author's Dedication:

For our children

JO, SIMON, DANIEL and KEVIN

and our grandchildren

OLLIE, HARRY, ILYA and ALFIE,

and all who have enjoyed reading these stories.

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Table of Contents

The Oregon Trail

The Camphor Angel

Rite Of Passage

The Boy Who... Saved A King

About the Author

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The Oregon Trail

Peter Foye

The mules slowed as the trail became engulfed by drifting sand, blown by the fierce desert wind, a buck-skinned driver stood with the reins firmly grasped in a gloved hand. With his teeth clenched tight together, his eyes half-closed against the stinging fusillade of sharp edged grit and fine sand; he whirled the leather-thonged whip around his coon-skinned capped head in a whirling arc. The whip slashed through the turbulent air faster than a striking rattler and cracked like a pistol shot across the heaving dusty backs of the leading mules. The eight mule team lurched in discordant response to the lead pair desperately trying to find better footing and increase their pace away from the biting serpent lashing at their dusty rumps.

Shift yer mangy hides! the driver yelled at the top of his gravelly voice, while bracing his legs to keep his balance in the bouncing wagon box. Git up here Billy Boy an’ grab these ‘ere ribbons.

His companion was much younger, only in his early twenties but already a mule skinner of some experience; his weather tanned face testament to long hard days of wagon driving across hard terrain. Dragging down his gaudy neckerchief he opened his mouth to reply and almost choked in a cloud of roiling powdered sand.

Urggg … Jim, it’s Jim. That’s my name. Give ’em to me Gabe, he finally got out, as the bouncing wagon slewed crazily sideways.

Gerrup you critters… The whip cracked again at the tip of the lash, returning like a twisting snake in response to a flick of the muleskinners wrist. On the recovery stroke he glanced down scornfully at the younger man holding the reins. But his weathered and deeply lined face betrayed a ghost of a smile without parting his cracked lips. If he had done so, a line of misshapen and much abused, tobacco stained teeth would have been viewed. The driver answered tersely.

Me, I’m Jim, least ways thet’s my given. So you gotta be ‘Bill’, if’un you rides with me young’un. Ah’s allus calls my pard ‘Bill’, thet ways I don’t have to beat my memory cells much. Too much rot-gut over the years makes me fergit things and such, ah reckon.

Gabe was suddenly in a talkative mood as the dust swirled over them, coating their faces in fine particles. Bracing himself he stood up in the box, pulling his right arm back, wrist cocked, to crack the long whip again. The desert grit showered from his grease stained buckskins as he struggled to maintain his balance to keep his upright stance. The wagon lurched from side to side as it corkscrewed its way through the soft sand of the arroyo.

Git them mules Bill!

Yeah, Yeah, Hickok replied, deciding to humour the old fella before he fell off. The mule team was finding better ground now and control was becoming easier lessening the pressure on the wrists. The eight-mule wagon straightened as the trail levelled and now he could hear the yells and curses coming from further back in the covered area. The passengers were less than pleased with the comfort offered by their conveyance and were making their views known. Gabe looked back and cracked open his dried lips in a tight smile.

The day had been long and tiring for all of them, driving across rough territory, parched dry and shrivelled by the lack of rain. The trail from Maryville, where Hickock had first met Gabe and his mule train was fairly easy going at the start but progressively deteriorated the further they went west. Back there at the station the stockmen had actually called the driver, ‘Old Gabe’, his grizzled features making him look old enough to be George Washington’s Uncle. But the younger Hickock was wary of this imposing mountain man, who by all accounts was every bit as tough as the bears he once hunted. Many were in awe of the man and it was easy to see that he could handle a mule team like he was born to it.

The big orange sun was kissing the tops of the tops of the purple mountain range on the far horizon as Gabe brought the mules to a slower pace, sensing tiredness in their straining sinews. Their combined strength would be needed and sorely tested by the rugged terrain tomorrow. They could also be asked to pull them to safety should they run into an Arapaho warband looking for easy prey.

Chief Barking Wolf had the ear of the elders in the big tepee and was getting support from the young bucks eager to blood their lances. They were uneasy and chary of the white-eyes from where the great Sun God is birthed every new day. The wise men of the village saw their coming as an omen of dark days to come and foretold of wailing squaws lamenting the loss of suckling children dying of starvation at the empty breast. Already scouts had reported that the great buffalo herds though still as many as the leaves in the forest had strayed far away from their normal breeding grounds. The white man must be turned away from the land of their fathers, if not by treaty it must be by the arrow and the war lance, this was the counsel of the elders of the tribe.

Hickok’s sharp eyes spotted a buzzard circling above over to their left, in the last of the sun’s rays. Lifting an arm he pointed across to it. Gabe had seen it already, hardly anything escaped his notice on the trail, and his hand was held across his brow shading his eyes as he squinted against the glare.

Yep, ah seen it Bill, was all he said and taking the reins from Hickok he guided the wagon off the trail. He had reasoned that the bird of prey had seen a possible meal from its circle in the sky. It also meant that there was probably some vegetation nearby and even perhaps a watering hole. As an early rider of this trail, which one day soon would stretch as far as Oregon, he knew that there should be some water hereabouts even in the driest of seasons but without an accurate chart it would be a matter of some guess work. Shifting sand and violent storms distorted the landscape every year and he never used this part of the trail very often, preferring the wide-open spaces of Kansas. There were fewer surprises on the plains and being a sure shot with his favoured Sharps rifled musket he could knock the eye out of a squirrel at a hundred paces. A conflict between his musketry and a party of raiding Arapaho would be a declared ‘no contest’, but here … the outcome could be less certain?

The creek they found was wooded with strange stunted trees, whose bark had been partially flayed off by the hot abrasive winds that prevailed at this time of year. As the wagon stopped the nervousness of the mules indicated that there was water above ground, somewhere close. Gabe believed that they could actually smell it. A mule had led him to water several times in past dry seasons and he marvelled at their inborn instinct for survival. Lowering the reins he turned to his co-driver sitting alongside.

Don’t be fooled by the daft look of them long-eared critters Bill, they’re smarter than horses or cow ponies and will always lead you to water. Smart as paint they are.

With that statement of ‘fact’ he tossed the reins over to Hickok and leapt down from the box, landing on the harder ground with both feet together. For a couple of seconds he stood still, an ear cocked listening to the sounds of nature in the vicinity, then as Hickok watched fascinated, Gabe scuffed his ancient calf-length boots on the small reddish rocks near him. The frontiersman explained his strange behaviour as a precaution, he hated snakes and knowing that most of the ‘foul’ serpents were sensitive to vibrations his boot scraping would alert any lurking rattlers to his presence and that they would slither out of the way. It was an old scouting trick that he had learnt from Stalking Pony Man in his much younger days when he was trapping up in the Yellowstone Country. Gabe smiled at the memory of it now but then when they were caught out by a sudden blizzard and they had to hole up in cave after they battled to remove its original occupant, a young grizzly. The bear would not leave without a fight and old Stalking Pony did not want to kill it and anger the Bear Spirit, so in the end they gathered some green brush wood, piled it close to the cave entrance and smoked it out. When it came down to survival they were smarter than the bear, he never trusted bears after that though he gave them due respect.

The time spent with Stalking Pony Man was a valued lesson in survival craft and he learnt both the ways of the Redman and the world in which he lived. The old Indian was of the Crow nation and at one time passed the arduous initiation rites to become a ‘sangomar’ or medicine man, as the Whites would call him. He knew of natural herbs and essences, their many uses for both good and bad but he was much more than a tribal doctor. His knowledge was about the world around him, why the seasons changed, where the animals migrated to, when things would change by reading the subtle signs and the sounds and smells of the forest. Generations and generations of the People-of-the-Crow had passed the accumulative experiences of every year ever down to one that had ‘the sight’.

During their many nights spent together sat close to a campfire in the wilderness, they sometimes gazed up at the velvet sky and wondered about the stars as they crossed the heavens. Their discussions covered all manner of things about heaven and earth and the many folk tales that were told in the lodges of the Crow. They spoke together, not as two people from differing worlds but as a loving father might to a favourite son. The skills he learnt during those days would never be forgotten.

Dropping the tailboard at the back of the covered wagon, Gabe snatched the canvas aside in one sharp movement and spoke to the passengers sat behind them.

Out yer git and stretch yer bones. This is as far as we go today, but stay close to the wagon an’ don’t git to wandering off. There might be a young buck out there watching and awfully keen to test the edge on his scalping knife.

A frightened tired face peered cautiously out of the darker interior, hoping to see the solid stone walls of a pony change station and the welcoming face of its owner.

Mister Bridger, Sir … where exactly are we? Where are the facilities…?

Vessel what…?" the frontiersman responded, a broad gap-toothed grin splitting his frizzled greying beard, speckled with a day’s sand and grit.

Mister …Jim, Jim Bridger, isn’t it?" said his companion, now alighting carefully from the stationary wagon as though it was a boat on water while looking backward to see where to place his polished leather boots least he step on a serpent or in some mule droppings.

Where are our lodgings to be this night? he demanded looking to each side with a worried bemused expression then turning back to face the driver.

Jim Bridger, frontiersman, or ‘Gabe’ as he was sometimes known in Kansas and Missouri, was tall and broad shouldered and although now at the ripe old age of fifty-eight years he looked every inch the western legend he was to become, stood there dressed in his dusty fringed buckskin. Squaring his shoulders he slowly removed his coon skin cap, with a ringed tail still attached, holding it in front of him in both hands like he was stood before a parson.

Well it’s like this, it’s gonna be dark soon and we gotta get a fire going an’ draw some water. These mules are just about worn out, now they don’t complain much, not like some and they give an honest day’s work; so I figure not to kill ’em today, ‘cos we are sure gonna need ‘em t’morrow. When we git done you kin both get up there an’ sleep in the wagon if you want.

Then where are we… the fatter one began, not liking or understanding what he had just heard.

I suggest you do what you gotta while me an’ Bill over there git to watering them critters an’ get a fire going. Then mebee I’ll get a chance to trap some game, if not it’ll be biscuits an’ jerky.

That was all Bridger had to say on the matter and he made his way back to the mule team, scuffing and kicking as he went. The passengers were from the newly formed Pony Express Company, which were in the process of setting up way stations along ‘The Oregon Trail’, as they called it, though most folks in Missouri thought that it should be The Bridger Trail and called it such. Some stations had been built and many others were planned but up to now most of the completed ones were near population centres to attract investment from back East; but many more sites needed to be surveyed out here in the wilderness.

The ‘Stiff Shirts’, as Hickok called them, were soon busy sorting through their luggage for various items to freshen-up. The shorter of the two, the one with the pinched weasel face and the complexion of a mortician, choked and coughed while he flapped his hands at his Eastern style frock coat. The resulting clouds of dust aggravated his delicate membranes and sent his aching lungs into convulsion. The bout of coughing doubled him over causing him to grab at the side of the wagon for support. Seeing his fellow travellers plight the other passenger plucked a gunmetal flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and after removing the cork proffered it to him. Weasel Face accepted it gratefully and took a draught; the strong liquor causing his cheeks to redden.