Lynna Banning - The Angel Of Devil's Camp

He wrenched his attention back to the open accounts book on his desk. Devil’s Camp wasn’t near breaking even, much less making a profit. Payroll was high. The men made good wages, and they deserved it; he’d hand-picked most of them when he mustered out of the army. Logging was dangerous, and he needed a seasoned crew. But lumber prices were dropping.

He wondered sometimes why he’d taken on this operation. Maybe because the first thing he saw when he’d ridden away from Fort Riley was trees, tall Douglas firs so thick a man couldn’t reach around them. After years of killing Johnny Rebs and then Indians, felling timber seemed like a good, clean thing to do. Trees made lumber, and lumber built houses and barns and churches and stores. Civilization. He liked being part of things that would have a future, things that would live on after his own days on earth were over. He guessed he was like his father in that way.

Maybe that was how Walt Peabody felt about that cabin he’d built for Miss Hampton. At the thought of her, he glanced up to see a black skirt vanish into the cookhouse.

He massaged his tight neck muscles and got to his feet. Great balls of fire, a woman at supper. He’d best go over and keep order.

Meggy craned her neck to peer through the screen door of the cookhouse. No sign of activity. No cook. No crew of hungry men. She lifted the watch pendant at her breast. Exactly five o’clock.

But she heard the clatter of pots and lids, and wonderful, tantalizing smells wafted from inside. She’d just step in and—

A slight figure in a black cotton tunic bustled out a doorway, swept onto the long, narrow porch outside and banged an iron spoon against a metal triangle. The sound jangled in her ears, and when it stopped another sound took its place. Marching feet.

Her blood turned to ice water. Yankee soldiers.

“You stand back, missy,” the bell ringer warned. His long pigtail swung behind him as he sped noiselessly across the rough floor. “Men come,” he called over his shoulder. “You come with Fong.”

Meggy took a step in his direction, but in the next instant the screen door slapped open and a herd of jabbering men, all sizes and shapes, poured into the room, climbing over benches and even the long trestle table, to jostle a place for themselves.

Quickly she followed Fong to the sanctuary of the kitchen, then peeked back around the corner and released a sigh of relief. Not one of them looked like a soldier.

The hulking blond Swede she recognized from the burial this morning. And the Irishman. Two gangly youths with identical patches of freckles scuffled over the space next to the Swede until a man with long, straight black hair separated them with one arm and took the place for himself.

More men tumbled in, pushing and shoving and shouting good-natured insults at each other that made her cheeks warm.

“You help, missy. Bullcook quit yesterday.” The Oriental shoved a huge bowl of mashed potatoes into her hands, turned her about and gave her a little push. “Hurry. Colonel Tom not like to wait.”

Meggy gulped. A blob of butter the size of her fist melted in the center of the steaming potatoes. She was so hungry! She inhaled the delicious aroma and felt another nudge at her back. “Go now. Eat later with Fong. Not good one missy with dozen misters.”

Quiet fell like a sheet of chilling rain when Meggy stepped into the dining room. No one moved. No one spoke. Twelve faces stared at her in complete silence.

She forced her feet to carry her forward to the table, where she set down the bowl of potatoes.

The Irishman rose and swept off his cap. “Boys, I’m presentin’ to you Miss Mary Margaret Hampton. She’s Walt Peabody’s next of kin.”

She tried to smile. “Gentlemen.”

“That they aren’t, lass. Some of ’em haven’t seen the likes of a lady up close for six months, so I wouldn’t be fraternizin’ too much.”

“Aw, come on, O’Malley, be reasonable,” a man shouted. A chorus of similar protests followed.

“Gosh, she shore is a purty one. She kin set on my lap and fraternize all she wants!”

“We want to hear her talk! Been a long time since we heard a woman’s voice.”

“Let’s have us a chiv—”

“Hold it!” a voice boomed from the doorway. Tall and lean, Tom Randall strode toward her, his eyes shooting sparks. Meggy’s heart began to skip beats.

“Thought I told you not to bother my men,” he said just loud enough for her to hear.

She swallowed. “I was not ‘bothering,’ Colonel. I was serving potatoes.”

He turned away from her without a word. “Boys, we’ve got us a problem. Maybe one of you can solve it.”

A murmur of interest hummed through the room. Meggy noticed how he used his body to shield her from view. Fong was right; one missy and a dozen misters not good! She edged backward toward the kitchen.

“The problem,” Tom continued, “is this. We’ve got no meat.”

Meggy stopped still and heard her stomach grumble. No meat? What smelled so good, then?

“We haven’t had any meat for weeks, Colonel. How long is this gonna go on?”

“That’s not exactly true, Price. We’ve eaten a rabbit or two, and a squirrel.”

“And some scrawny little pigeons,” someone ventured.

She saw what he was doing—drawing the men’s attention away from her—but she was so interested in the meat problem, she hovered near the door to listen.

Tom reached into his bulging back pocket, pulled out a bottle of amber liquid and thumped it down on the table. “This is fine whiskey, boys. One full quart.”

Every eye studied the bottle.

“Now I’m going to tell you how one of you can claim this joy juice. It’s plain we need meat. Fong tells me a deer’s been nibbling his tomato plants at night. I’ll give this bottle of liquid fire to the first man who shoots us some venison!”

“Hurray for the colonel!”

“I’m one crack shot,” yelled the Swede. “We haf meat by tomorrow.”

“A whole bottle for just one deer? Wouldja give me a gallon of rum if I kill an elk?”

“Elk meat tastes funny,” the man called Price said. “Least it did back in Kansas.”

“Hell, that weren’t no elk, that were a beef cow. Are all Kansans that stupid?”

Tom held up one hand and a hush fell. “Let’s get on with supper so we can be rolling into the timber at first light.”

Fong scurried past Meggy with an oval platter of sliced tomatoes in each hand. He plopped them down to the accompaniment of groans.

“Not more vegetables,” Price moaned. “I’m gonna turn into a carrot before this season’s half over!”

Tom slid onto the end of the bench and tapped the whiskey bottle with a ring he wore on his little finger. “Just a reminder, boys. We need meat to go with the potatoes.”

Meggy had to laugh. The man was a master at guiding people in the direction he wanted. Her father, minister of the Methodist persuasion until his death in the field at Shiloh, had been similarly persuasive. The difference was that Papa fought for men’s souls; Tom Randall cared about men’s stomachs.

Such a man surely lacked depth.

She tore her thoughts away from him and tried to focus on the mission she had set for herself. She calculated she would need about ten minutes to do what she had to do.

She spied two blue china plates loaded with food and set aside on a small kitchen table. First, she decided, she would eat her supper.

And then she would use the very trick Tom Randall had just showed her to benefit her own cause.

She did hope that God would forgive her.

Meggy adjusted her position at the small kitchen table so she could see into the dining hall where the men were eating. As she lifted forkfuls of mashed potatoes and boiled carrots to her mouth, she watched Tom Randall out of the corner of her eye.