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The antlers caught Drucilla's eye. Back-lit by the last rays of the sun, the silhouette looked like a man seated upon a horse. Which was a common site in the Nebraska Territory. But deer antlers sprouting from a rider's head were not.
Maybe it's a Cheyenne or Arapaho headdress, she mused. It seemed plausible—even though she'd never seen or heard about one of the local tribes wearing antlers.
When she galloped closer, the figure melted into the shadows. Instead of being comforted by the disappearance of the deer man, Dru felt uneasy.
She'd made good time from Kearney Station to Fort Kearny on the little chestnut mare galloping beneath her. With only seven miles between the two stops, Fort Kearny wasn't even a swing station. Like usual, she'd stayed aboard her horse as a soldier slipped another correspondence into the mochila slung across her saddle. After the letter was secured, she'd given the soldier a wave. Eager to get to Platte's Station, Dru had urged the mare to a trot, then a canter, and finally, to a gallop.
“He's probably nothing to worry about,” she said.
The chestnut's ears twitched.
Perhaps spurned on by fear of the deer man, Dru and the mare galloped the rest of the distance to Platte's. They even arrived a little early.
The station keeper at Platte's had a piebald filly waiting for Dru to ride. The mochila and Dru quickly transferred to the piebald's saddle. With a nod of his head, the station keeper sent the pair off to Garden Station.
The first half of the leg between Platte's and Garden went smoothly. Without warning, a screeching owl swooped down and flew alongside Dru and the piebald. The bird refused to leave. It kept sailing past, circling back, then flying next to them.
Nonetheless, the determined filly galloped on.
Suddenly, the piebald stumbled. Dru gasped. She leaned back and pulled on the reins. The half-mustang quickly recovered, then settled into a smooth canter. Though rutted from prairie schooners headed to Oregon and California, this stretch of the trail was relatively flat. Dru ought to know. She'd ridden the fourteen miles between Platte's Station and Garden Station during daylight hours several times a week for the past four months. But this was her first night ride.
Darkness, much less being followed by an owl, made even the familiar frightening. Dru supposed that was one explanation for her pounding heart. Of course, it could be the deer man she'd seen when she left Fort Kearny.
Dru tried not to think about the fireside stories Gramps told. In the evening after dinner, her grandfather often spoke of magical creatures from across the ocean. “People like to think fairies, goblins, old gods, forest spirits, and the like stayed behind. But they didn't,” he'd begin. Next, a yarn of magic would unwind. Frequently, the tales were funny. Occasionally, they were sad. But sometimes, the stories were terrifying accounts of an encounter with a dark being.
“Nothing to worry about,” she told the piebald cantering beneath her. “They're just make-believe.”
Dru knew a gallop was the preferred gait. But at this point, the moon was obscured by clouds and the pony was exhausted. Riding at a canter seemed prudent.
“Better to get to Garden than not,” she said. The pony snorted. “We're almost there,” she assured the tired horse as she spotted the lantern hung outside the Central Overland California & Pike's Peak Express Company's Garden Station.
Such a mouthful of words, thought Dru. No wonder folks call it the Pony Express. It's easier to say, and to remember.
Seeing her next mount saddled and waiting for her, Dru slowed the piebald. Once the filly stopped, she lifted the mochila and handed it to Biddleman.
“On time, Dru,” said the station keeper as he placed the mail bag on the saddle of Dru's next mount—a buckskin. “Careful on the rest of your run. Heard Cheyenne and Arapaho have chased a few of the boys.”
“Thanks for the warning,” responded Drucilla before gulping down the cup of water offered to her by the station keeper.
Like every other rider, station keeper, and stable hand, Biddleman thought her a young man. Had any of them known she was Drucilla Blosser from Doby Town, Nebraska, she'd have been fired. Dru, like dozens of other teens, had been lured into applying for a position with the Central Overland California & Pike's Peak Express Company by the promise of fifty dollars per month starting pay. Plus she had to admit, carrying mail for the Pony Express seemed an exciting adventure to embark upon.
“Do the Cheyenne or Arapaho wear deer antler headdresses?” she asked Biddleman. She handed him back the now empty cup.
“Not that I heard of.” The station keeper shrugged his shoulders. “But another rider asked me the same question last night. Now, get going.”
“See you on my return trip,” said Dru as her pony started to trot.
She nudged the buckskin to a faster gait with her heels. Moments later as they began to gallop, she recalled the first time she saw the Pony Express poster. It had been tacked on the wall of the Doby Town boarding house where she'd worked. The poster announced: “Wanted: Young, skinny fellows, unmarried. Must be expert riders, willing to risk death daily. $50 per month pay plus board.” Then, she'd noticed scrawled in ink below the official requirements the words, “Orphans preferred.” Whether the additional phrase was the result of someone's attempt at gallows humor or a real requirement, it didn't matter. Dru fit the bill.
Except for one detail, she mused as her mount galloped westward toward the Plum Creek Station. But a haircut and a change of clothes fixed that.
The fifteen mile leg to Plum Creek should be uneventful. The even-tempered buckskin beneath her was named Dusty. Like most of the Pony Express's mounts, Dusty stood about 14.2 hands.
Dru yawned. She'd set aside thoughts of deer men, and settled into a comfortable position leaning over the horse's neck. All of sudden, she heard howls.
“Better be coyotes, and not wolves,” she muttered.
Dusty's ears flicked.
Hidden by darkness, Drucilla knew on either side of the trail were countless items discarded by pioneers, fortune-seekers, and miners. Sadly, broken equipment and boxes of heavy, useless goods weren't the only things littering the trail. Sick and dying oxen, mules, horses, and other livestock were left behind as well. They became easy meals for predators. In the daylight, their scattered bones told a cruel tale.
“But we're not going to be dinner for a hungry pack,” said Dru.
Dusty never broke stride. The thumping of the buckskin's hooves offered her rider some comfort as the howling continued.
“I don't think they are any closer.” She spoke out loud to boost her morale more than to comfort her mount. Loud howls behind them seemed to challenge her statement. “But I could be wrong,” she added.
Moments later, she heard the pack closing in. Drucilla considered pulling her pistol from its holster. She'd have to be judicious with her shots. Weight, always a factor in the equipment allowed a rider, dictated she carry only a dozen extra bullets. A fair shot when standing still, Dru had no idea if she'd be able to hit a coyote or wolf while riding at breakneck speed across the prairie.
The moon slipped out from behind the clouds. Near full, the bright orb illuminated the terrain both before and behind Dru. She saw the pack that followed.
“Two wolves.” She squinted. “Or at least I think they're wolves.” Dru exhaled the lung full of breath she'd been holding. Still dangerous, two wolves were less likely to take down a horse and rider than a larger pack. She squinted again. There was a third figure pursuing them. It appeared larger. Then, she spotted the antlers.
She faced forward again. Dusty might know this section of the trail, but the parade of people, animals, and wagons heading west left unexpected obstacles daily. With the wolf pair and the deer man so close, there was no room for mistakes.
Suddenly, an ox appeared before them. The beast struggled to stand, but seemed unable to do so. It bellowed pitifully.
A slight tug of the reins, and Dusty swerved a little closer to the Platte River. Good pony, thought Dru as they avoided the injured bovine and raced on.
Drucilla didn't glance back as she heard the wolves attacking the ox. The dying creature's cries were soon drowned out by the growls and barks of the hungry predators. She hoped the antlered man had stayed with his wolves.
In the months she'd been riding for the Pony Express, Dru had been in other dangerous situations. But just like tonight, her horse had been steady and luck had been on her side. Still, any close call made her reconsider her present employment.
In the spring, she'd been living three miles west of Fort Kearny with her grandfather in Doby Town. Good with horses, Gramps worked for the stagecoach company. It had only been the two of them for the last nine years. In the first half dozen years of her life, one by one Dru's parents, younger brother, and Grammy had succumbed to disease. It didn't matter if they'd been taken by the ague, small pox, or scarlet fever. Gone was gone.
“Let's not add Dusty and me to that list.” She patted Dusty's neck with her right hand. The horse was lathered. She wiped the buckskin's sweat off on her pants. With this fifteen mile leg of the trip almost complete, it made sense the pony was sweating.
“Hal will cool you down,” she promised, “once we get to Plum Creek.”
The words had hardly left her mouth, when Drucilla saw the light from eight or nine campfires. She shook her head as she slowed Dusty to a canter. Stories of Cheyenne and Arapaho had no doubt caused the wagons to spend the night at the relay station under the false notion it offered protection. She knew the smaller stations were attacked regularly. Provisions and corrals of ponies were an irresistible lure for the tribes of the Nebraska Territory.
She supposed one of these pioneers was the owner of the fallen ox. Unfortunately, the owner's fate might be no different than his bovine's end. This group of settlers was late. In all likelihood, they wouldn't make it over the Rockies before snowfall.
“Whoa!” shouted Hal Halloway as Dru slowed Dusty to a trot, then a walk. “Don't go galloping by, son.”
“Not to worry,” replied Dru as she handed the station keeper the mochila. “Dusty is spent. I don't think she'd let me pass by food, water, and a day's rest.”
“She's one of my best,” said Hal as he held the reins of both Dusty and a wall-eyed skewbald. “But Patches here is a fine horse, too.”
Dru considered telling Hal about the antlered man and his wolves. But he was sure to dismiss her fears as nothing more than an overactive imagination. Then, he'd share the tale with the other riders.
No, keeping quiet about the deer man is best, she decided.
Nearly as quick as a rattlesnake strike, Dru was on the skewbald's back. She double-checked the mail pouch, gave the station keeper a nod, and urged her mount into a canter. Soon, the brown and white pony broke into a gallop.
“Next stop, Willow Island,” she told Patches Though Dru was certain the skewbald heard her, the horse didn't move her ears.
As her mount galloped away the miles, Dru relaxed.
She heard no owl screeches or howls. She saw no wolves or antlered men. The only thing bothering her was her grandfather's stories. He'd told tales of antlered huntsmen. She couldn't recall all the names, though Herne and Wodan popped into her mind. Old gods, they rode with their hounds hunting the unwary. Sometimes, their prey were forced to join a forever hunt. Other times, they were slain.
“Pay attention to the trail,” she reminded herself.
Though the skewbald must have heard her rider talking, Patches again gave no sign of it. Instead, the steadfast pony ran like the wind. Without incident, she trotted to a stop at Willow Island.
Bud Cozad, the station keep, stood outside the large log cabin which served as the Willow Island Station. Per usual, there were ranch hands from several spreads playing cards and drinking inside the cabin. Their cow ponies were tied up in front of the station.
“On time,” said Bud as he grabbed the skewbald's bridle.
“Yes, sir.” Dru slid off Patches, flung the mochila over the saddle of a waiting gray, then climbed aboard the near-white horse.
“This here's Misty.” Bud patted the gray's shoulder. “She used to run between Gilman's Station and Cottonwood Springs. But she's with us now.”
“She's a beauty,” said Dru as the pale filly and she trotted west toward Midway.
Only fifteen more miles to go, she thought. Midway was a home station. As long as her replacement was there, Dru was done her part of tonight's ride.
Moonlight silvered the landscape as Misty began to gallop. The gray's hooves thumping like a heartbeat, Dru felt her shoulders relax.
All of a sudden, an owl flew by them. Then, the howls from earlier in the evening returned. Dru knew it was the antlered huntsman and his wolves. This time, it was unlikely an injured ox would save her.
“Run, girl,” she urged the gray. She held tight and leaned forward.
Pony Express horses were kept in excellent condition. They had to be, to out-run the mounts of Cheyenne, Arapaho, and outlaws. Now, Dru hoped her pony could out race an old god—for her future rested on Misty's churning legs.
The wolves howled again. Dru glanced back. Thundering behind her was the antlered god astride a huge ebony horse. On either side of him raced a wolf as black as a nightmare. The eyes of the horse and wolves burned crimson. As for the Huntsman, his eyes glowed green.
Dru faced forward once more. She scanned the trail ahead by looking between Misty's white ears. That's when she saw hundreds of spectral oxen, horses, dogs, mules, hogs, men, and women had gathered on either side of the trail.
Dru remembered one of Gramps' sayings: “If you stare between the ears of a white horse, you can see the dead.”
“Save us,” screamed Dru to the throng of wraiths.
The phantoms studied Dru and her pursers. Then, they floated near and surrounded Misty. Like a nearly forgotten dream, the spirits hovered around horse and rider in a ghostly fog. Dru felt their manes, muzzles, paws, and hands touch her. She saw the kind expressions on their translucent faces. After several miles, the ghosts groaned a terrible moan. Then, the other-worldly horde dropped behind Dru and her horse. To catch them, the Huntsman and his hounds would have to deal with the dead.
Ignoring the hair-raising screams, bellows, howls, and roars behind her, Dru clung to Misty and prayed. Though it seemed like hours, within minutes the gray and her rider trotted into Midway Station.
“You two look spent,” commented Harry Shuggs, the station keeper. “Good thing, Slim is taking the next lap.”
Harry grabbed the mochila. He transferred it to the saddle of the bay Slim was riding. Then, slapped the horse's rump. Off trotted Slim and the bay.
Dru slid down from Misty. She pressed her forehead against the gray.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “And thank the dead.”
The almost white horse lowered her head. She gazed at Dru with knowing eyes. Then, Misty nuzzled her rider as if to say, “You're safe with me.”
“We out ran the Huntsman this time,” Dru told the gray. “But I think this rider is ready to return to Doby Town for good.”
As Dru walked the gray pony toward the corral, she added, “Better a quiet life, than no life at all.”
Misty stopped, pressed her pale cheek against Dru's face, and sighed.