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  JO’S TRIUMPH

  1. Carson City

  2. Dayton

  3. Miller’s

  4. Fort Churchill

  5. Buckland’s

  6. Shelly Creek

  7. Cold Springs

  8. Jacob’s Spring

  9. Dry Creek

  10. Grubb’s Well

  11. Robert’s Creek

  12. Sulphur Springs

  13. Diamond Springs

  14. Jacob’s Well

  15. Ruby

  16. Mountain Springs

  17. Cherry Bend

  18. Butte

  19. Egan Canyon

  JO’S TRIUMPH

  Nikki Tate

  Copyright © 2002 Nikki Tate

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Tate, Nikki, 1962-

  Jo’s triumph

  ISBN 1-55143-199-8

  1. Pony express--Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8589.A8735J67 2002 jC813’54 C2002-910250-2

  PZ7.T2113Jo 2002

  Summary: In 1860, a young girl escapes from an orphanage in Carson City, disguises herself as a boy, and joins the Pony Express where danger and adventure await.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002102203

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support of its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Department of Canadian Heritage, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Cover design by Christine Toller

  Cover & interior illustrations by Stephen McCallum

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Teachers’ guide available.

  1-800-210-5277

  www.orcabook.com

  IN CANADA

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  IN THE UNITED STATES

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  04 03 02 • 5 4 3 2 1

  For Toby in anticipation of future reading adventures

  and for Dad and Stew, who both urged me

  to “Go West.”

  Chapter One

  “Faster, Marigold!”

  The chestnut mare galloped across the flats outside Salt Lake City.

  “Go!” I pressed my heels to her sides, wrapped my fingers in her wild tangle of mane, and urged her on, my own hair whipping about my face.

  I laughed, thinking of the warm biscuits and gravy Ma would have ready when I got home. I’d give Marigold’s legs a good rubdown when we got back to the farm. Already I could feel her muscles unknotting beneath my hands.

  Marigold took the bit between her teeth and bolted.

  “Watch out!” I screamed, hauling her head to the side, desperate to turn her so she didn’t step in the —

  Marigold lurched as her foot hit the rabbit hole. With a sickening crack, she stumbled. Down she went, her eyes wild. I sailed over her shoulder, my mouth gaping as I tried to scream. Only a harsh gargle came out as I hit the ground.

  Clip-clop-clip-clop. For a moment I thought it was Marigold, trotting away without me. But the chink and jingle of harness and the rumble of a heavy cart made no sense.

  I opened my eyes to the shadowy gray shapes of the orphanage sleeping room. I swear, I didn’t know whether to laugh with joy because Marigold hadn’t really broken her leg or weep with the knowledge that I was still at the Carson City Home for Unfortunate Girls. There would be no warm biscuits and gravy, for my mother was dead, lost in childbirth along with my tiny baby sister, Grace. At the thought of my dear mother and sister, my eyes stung and I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in the pillow.

  Sliding my hand along the rough sheet, I felt for my penknife hidden under the pillow. All around, thirteen other girls slept, their breathing deep and even. I envied them their last moments of rest. Heaven knows, Miss Critchett would be coming around soon enough to wake us.

  “Six o’clock, ladies,” she’d say. Then we’d pray and Mrs. Pinweather would deliver a solemn sermon about proper deportment and the evils of gin before we would be allowed to form two smart lines and march — in silence — to the eating hall.

  Breakfast was never a meal to get excited about. Porridge and weak tea filled our bellies, I suppose, but my, how I missed Ma’s biscuits and bacon. Worst of all, we had to eat that paltry meal without speaking a single word. Now why, I ask you, would the good Lord have put tongues in our heads if he didn’t mean for us to make good use of them?

  Miss Critchett and Mrs. Pinweather saw things otherwise. Both held the opinion that excessive chatter was one of many behaviors considered pernicious. They never explained exactly what pernicious meant, but they made it clear that it was neither pious nor conducive to the development of good moral character.

  Supposing nobody dropped dead of boredom during the morning lessons in reading, writing, and numbers, we were allowed an hour for a silent dinner before afternoon lessons in deportment and domestic studies. Those, I loathed more than anything. I’m no good at needlepoint and mending. Why should we be judged as valuable or not based on how perfectly we can stitch Lord Bless This Home? Nobody asked whether any of us could gentle a foal, handle a team, or start three-year-olds under saddle. At these I was as skilled as any boy, but at the orphanage it was considered most unladylike to be interested in the work of men.

  Wide awake after my horrible dream about Marigold, I crept to the window and ran my fingers under the window ledge just as I had done every morning since July 8th, 1859, the day my brothers left me behind. One notch for each day of my imprisonment. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. I dug the tip of my knife into the soft wood and made a slanted mark through the previous four.

  “One hundred,” I whispered. One hundred days since my brothers had abandoned me. One hundred and two days since the death of my father on the wagon trail. Fifty-six days since my twelfth birthday.

  I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the windowpane. What would Pa think of me being here and the boys going on to California? Surely that was not what Pa had in mind when, through his pain and fever, he had said, “Jackson? Will? You take care of little Joselyn, you hear?”

  My throat felt funny when I thought of him lying in the back of the wagon, his face flushed, his skin dry and hot, and his wounded foot oozing and swollen so big I couldn’t even see his toes.

  Joselyn, I scolded myself, that’s no way to remember your beloved Pa, God rest his soul. Don’t dwell on such things.

  Outside, two men rode past, hats pulled low and shoulders hunched against the cold. I rubbed my arms: Miss Critchett didn’t believe in wasting coal while we slept. Creeping back into bed, I tugged the gray blanket up around the back of my neck. Miss Critchett didn’t believe in thick blankets, either.

  The one-hundredth day. Perhaps it would be different from the ninetynine others that had come before. I wrapped the blanket more closely about me, for once eager to hear Miss Critchett’s footsteps in the hall.

  Chapter Two

  “But, Ma’am — ”

  “Miss Whyte!”

  I sat back down on the bench, too low to see out the window. The door burst open and Miss Critchett entered, her skirts swirling, her hands twisting together. She whispered something to Mrs. Pinweather and our teacher’s hand flew to her mouth. Both women turned to stare toward the window and the other girls
shifted uneasily on the benches.

  “In – di – ans.” I mouthed the word to Mary Brown who sat beside me. She bit down so hard her teeth made two white lines in her bottom lip.

  “Here?” she whispered.

  I nodded. Outside, the street was filled with Indian men on ponies.

  The two women spoke in hushed voices. Mary Brown reached for my hand.

  “Ladies.” Mrs. Pinweather pressed a knot of fingers against her bosom. “I implore you to remain quiet and calm. Miss Critchett and I have no means to protect you should the Indians decide to—” Her voice trailed off and Mary Brown gasped, clenching her hand around mine so tightly I nearly cried out.

  Miss Critchett stepped forward. “We feel that it would not be wise to allow you to remain here at the orphanage if there is going to be trouble.”

  My back stiffened.

  “But where shall we go?” Emily Hampton asked. Two of the younger girls at the front of the room whimpered.

  “We had word Indians were coming this way. We have found safe homes in town where you will be able to stay until — ”

  Mrs. Pinweather faltered again and Miss Critchett added, “Until the danger of Indian attack has passed.”

  I closed my eyes. Mary Brown’s sweaty hand was still clamped around mine. If the Indians did attack us, we would all be dead no matter where we tried to hide. There were few militia-men in Carson City to protect us. By the time reinforcements arrived … It did not bear thinking about.

  “We shall be all right,” I said to Mary Brown. “Have faith. God will not let us perish.”

  I don’t know whether I believed my own words, but if Mary Brown didn’t release my hand, all my fingers would drop off and roll across the floor like little sausages. This thought was so foolish I nearly laughed aloud, but the terror in Mary’s eyes made me reach over to pat her shoulder and gently ask her to let go of me instead.

  “Mrs. Ormsby, this is Joselyn Whyte. Bless you for opening your home to her during this difficult time.”

  Mrs. Ormsby sniffed and blinked. “This is a dreadful thing, but my husband knows how to deal with the Indians. I’m certain the guilty men will be found.”

  I looked from Miss Critchett to Mrs. Ormsby, wondering what Mrs. Ormsby meant about guilty men.

  “I certainly hope the matter will be settled quickly so you will not be too inconvenienced by Miss Whyte’s time with you. The girl is a hard worker, though not especially good with needlepoint.”

  I bristled at the remark, though I said nothing. Instead, I lowered my eyes and studied the wooden floor beyond Mrs. Ormsby’s wide skirts.

  When Miss Critchett had gone, Mrs. Ormsby showed me to a small room off the kitchen where I was to stay. It did not surprise me that I was to share my room — there were three beds inside — but imagine my horror when I saw before me an Indian girl! I had never seen an Indian up close and presumed them all to be filthy savages. How wrong all my ideas about Indians would turn out to be.

  “Sarah — this is Joselyn. She will stay with us for a short time until … until the troubles have been resolved.”

  I expected Sarah to look angry or afraid. After all, Mrs. Ormsby was speaking of Sarah’s people. Perhaps she had not understood what Mrs. Ormsby had said. But Sarah, who wore a dress not unlike my own, nodded. Her two black braids dipped and rose with her nod. She gestured to the empty bed closest to the door leading back into the kitchen.

  I could not stop staring. She looked nothing like I would have expected. Her brown skin was soft-looking and clean and her black hair was so glossy it shone in the lamplight when she moved her head. Yes, she most certainly was an Indian, and yet, I did not feel afraid. Though her eyes were dark and her nose a little broader than mine, she simply looked like a girl about my age, sturdy and not at all unfriendly.

  “You must not worry,” she said. I started, shocked that the words coming from her mouth were spoken as clearly as if Mary Brown had said them herself. “My brother and cousin are among the men who have come to Carson City. They are friends with Major Ormsby and are here to talk of the trouble. No harm will come to anyone, your people or mine.”

  She seemed so certain that I wondered why everyone was so afraid.

  “What trouble?” I asked. “Why are your men here?” Indian warriors rarely came to Carson City and certainly not in such numbers. “And why are you here, in this house?” For this was the most remarkable thing of all, to find an Indian girl living at Ormsby House.

  Sarah smiled. “My father is the great Chief Winnemucca. Major Ormsby and my father are good friends. My father believes that we must learn the ways of the white people. And so, I have come here with my sister to learn how to live as you do and how to speak your language.”

  “Your sister is here, too?”

  “Yes.” Sarah gestured to the third bed. “We play with Lizzie, Major Ormsby’s daughter. I also help with the cooking and cleaning.”

  At this I had to sit down on the bed by the door.

  “You ask what has happened, why our men are here.”

  All I could do was nod and listen.

  “The chiefs are here to help find the Indians who murdered two white miners.”

  “Your people murdered — ”

  Sarah raised her hand and gave me a look of disgust. “No.” The tips of her braids twitched from side to side as she shook her head. “No. The white men were found with Washo arrows in their wounds. Our people are the Paiutes. Our arrows look different. My cousin, Chief Numaga, knows where to find the Washo Indians. He will ask their chief to send the guilty men so they can be punished.”

  “Your cousin will bring the guilty Indians here, to Carson City?”

  “I told you, my people and Major Ormsby are friends. As friends, we must help make sure right is done.” She tilted her head toward the dark window. “We must hurry now to help prepare the evening meal.” Sarah Winnemucca, her back straight, her walk quiet but confident, moved past me and out of the room.

  Nothing was ordinary about the rest of that evening. Indian men with rabbit fur robes and quivers of arrows across their backs came and went. Sarah pointed out her cousin, Numaga, a huge man with a deep chest and powerful shoulders. Like Sarah, he walked with such sureness that I had no doubt he was a great leader and brave warrior. These men were honorable, I told myself. They had come to Carson City to help Major Ormsby, not to attack those of us living peacefully in town.

  After dinner, Major Ormsby smoked and talked with Chief Numaga in the parlor. Then, later in the evening, the chief prepared to leave. On his way out he said something to Sarah in their language and Sarah rose up on her toes with excitement. She turned to me and said, “Would you like to see a war dance?”

  Mrs. Ormsby, standing in the doorway of the parlor, drew in a sharp breath. “I scarcely think that would be — ”

  Sarah stood even taller. “Chief Numaga has no quarrel with your people. He makes his men ready for travel at dawn to find the criminal Washos.”

  A war dance! “What’s a war dance like?” I asked.

  Sarah smiled. “I have never seen one.”

  My mouth dropped open. Surely she was lying.

  “My people are peaceful. They will not fight unless forced to by trouble brought upon them by others.”

  Mrs. Ormsby’s arms were crossed. Her face was tight.

  A man rushed into the front hall where we stood, banging the door open. He shouted, “Them braves is dancing! They got a big fire in the square.”

  Sure enough, through the open door we could see the glow of a bonfire out in the street. Without waiting for Mrs. Ormsby to gather her senses, Sarah snatched two shawls from the coat rack, took my hand, and pulled me outside.

  I gasped in the cold air and pulled the shawl closer about my shoulders. The night was already so cold that I hardly dared think of what the winter ahead might bring.

  Sarah and I ran toward the blazing fire. It seemed all of Carson City had gathered to watch the Paiutes chanting and stam
p-stamp-stamping around their fire. At first, more than one man held his rifle at the ready. But as the dancers continued, it grew clear that this was a celebration and that the men meant us no harm.

  We stayed and watched for a long time, huddled together for warmth, the glow of the fire casting long shadows into the street behind us. Finally, the dancing stopped and Sarah and I walked, arms linked, back to Ormsby House.

  When we arose the next morning, Chief Numaga and all of his warriors were gone.

  Though the immediate danger seemed to have passed, I stayed at Ormsby House. Sarah and I worked from before first light, cooking and cleaning. She was excellent company and I soon came to think of her as a good friend. I saw little of Sarah’s younger sister who spent most of her time with young Lizzie Ormsby.

  Many men came and went. Most of those who stayed for a night or two in the boarding rooms upstairs were miners or settlers, though occasionally soldiers or Indian agents stopped by. The most interesting of them all were the Pony Express riders. They rode into town at breakneck speed on beautiful, fast horses, mailbags slung across their saddles. Taking turns riding sections of the trail, they carried the mail clear across the country from Missouri to California. They must have been going near as quick as birds to get the mail delivered as fast as they did — in as little as ten days, when all went well.

  For the most part they were good men, many not much more than boys, who stayed away from cards and rum and left the women alone. A couple of times I watched the quick change of men and horses at the Carson City station across the way and wished I could somehow slip into a mailbag and send myself to California.

  When I told Sarah of my foolish idea, she laughed and said, “A job won’t be done unless you do it yourself.” I told her she sounded like my pa and she laughed even louder. Then she told me that she herself had traveled to California and that if I were so inclined I should make arrangements.

  At the time I thought she spoke in jest, for I did not know how a young girl like me could travel so great a distance alone. But the seed had been planted. With time, that seed would grow into a plan.