Bear Claws

by Robert Lee Murphy

  Ida calmed and stood still beside the tree. Will reached as high as he could and lashed the end of the pole to the trunk. He repeated the process three times until he had both long poles lashed parallel to one another ten feet above the ground. Then he tied a dozen cross braces between the two long poles to complete the platform.

  He dismounted, wincing when his foot hit the ground. While mounted, the pressure was off the leg and he worked comfortably. Now came the hard part. He had to get Bullfrog’s body onto the scaffold.

  He wrapped several turns of rope around the body and knotted it. He threw the loose end over a limb that extended out over the scaffold, tied it to Ida’s saddle, and led her slowly away. Bullfrog’s body inched upward. When he had the mountain man positioned even with the level of the scaffold, he used a trimmed sapling to push the body over onto the platform.

  He remounted and eased the horse up next to the scaffold. “Now stand easy, Ida.”

  Grasping the side pole of the platform he stood up on the horse’s back. Ida whickered and shifted under the unusual act. “Steady, Ida. Steady.”

  From his standing position he straightened Bullfrog’s body and lashed it to the platform. He’d wrapped the buffalo robe completely around the body, covering the face in order to protect it from scavengers and hiding the old man’s features.

  Will placed a hand on Bullfrog’s chest. Perhaps some words were in order. It was a funeral—of sorts. But he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know whether Bullfrog had been religious or not.

  “Goodbye, old friend. I wish you a speedy journey on your way to join Star Dancer.”

  He tapped his own heart with a hand and felt the eagle talon beneath his shirt. He lifted the thong from around his neck and looped it around one of the scaffold poles next to Bullfrog’s body. The eagle talon swayed gently in the breeze beneath the platform. “May this talon bring you good luck in your after life—just as it did for me in this one.”

  Thirty minutes later, Will took a last look around the cabin. He wore Lone Eagle’s buckskin jacket and held Bullfrog’s Hawken rifle. He stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him, ensuring the latch engaged, and paused to glance at the two scaffolds in the cottonwood stand.

  He gathered up Ida’s reins and placed a foot into the stirrup, then paused. The carcass of the grizzly lay twenty yards away. He went back into the cabin and returned with the hand axe, hobbled across to the bear, and chopped the claws off each paw.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Jenny, you tried,” her father said. “Now you’ll just have to forget it.”

  “Papa, I can’t forget her. She’s my sister.”

  “I didn’t mean forget her. I meant forget about trying to influence what she’s going to do with her life.”

  Jenny sighed. She took her bonnet from the peg beside the station door and turned to survey the interior of the Big Laramie home station. The two little, sod-roofed, cedar-log buildings, connected by a breezeway, had been their home for the past six months. Now they were moving farther west where her father would take up the same duties managing the home station at North Platte Crossing. There they would be eighty-five miles closer to the McNabb family’s original destination. They should have reached California, or perhaps Oregon, late last year. But the fates were against them it seemed and they’d just have to make their way west at a slower pace. Jenny tapped the eagle talon that hung beneath the neckline of her dress. Maybe it would bring her some good luck.

  “Ready?” Her father held the door open.

  She nodded and stepped outside. Her brother, Duncan, sat perched on top of the coach in the midst of the passengers’ baggage. This was one of the new Concord coaches. Its pomegranate red body, set off with black, metal trim, sparkled in the bright sunlight. Wells, Fargo & Company, painted in large, gilt letters, ran along the headboard above the door and windows. Matching letters on the door read U.S. Mail.

  “Come on, Jenny,” Duncan called. “Butch’s ready to go.”

  “I’m coming.” She looked up at the driver and smiled. Jenny knew Butch Cartwright’s real name. She was probably the only one here who did, but she kept that to herself.

  Butch returned Jenny’s smile and adjusted the ribbons, as the reins were called in the stagecoach trade, between the fingers of thin, silk-lined, buckskin gloves that enabled precise control of the six-horse hitch. The driver held a whip in the right hand, with a booted right foot propped against the wooden brake lever that was affixed to that side of the coach.

  This hitch of horses would pull the coach to the next swing station, fourteen miles distant, where they’d be exchanged for six fresh ones. Before reaching their destination at North Platte Crossing, the teams would be changed five times. The horses never walked except on extremely steep hills. The driver kept them at a brisk pace, averaging nine miles per hour, cracking a whip over the horses’ heads when they needed encouragement. Time was money and Wells Fargo did not intend to lose either.

  Slim Dempsey sat on the seat beside Butch. As the shotgun messenger, his job was to defend the coach’s passengers against attack and to safeguard the valuable contents of the strongbox. A sawed-off, double-barreled, shotgun lay across his lap. A lever-action, Henry repeating rifle sat propped against the seat beside him. At his waist he wore a Colt revolver. His feet were planted firmly atop the green, iron-bound, Wells Fargo strongbox.

  The shotgun messenger seemed to thoroughly enjoy Jenny’s cooking. Where Slim put all the food he consumed, she had no idea. He truly resembled his name. During his layovers at the station, Jenny liked to sit and chat with him after he’d eaten, while he cleaned his collection of firearms. He was particularly proud of the shotgun, which he’d used during the war while a member of the North Carolina cavalry. He’d sawed the barrel off his father’s favorite British-made, 12-guage, Perkins shotgun when the war started. He’d said his father had threatened to whip him for it, but since he was going off to fight for the South, he’d been forgiven. Slim enjoyed telling the passengers stories about the battles he’d fought in. But he’d never been able to get Jenny’s father to engage in any conversation about the war. It was a topic Alistair McNabb avoided.

  “Come along, Jenny.” Her father handed her up and she took a seat with her back to the front of the coach beneath the driver’s box.

  Even though Jenny had been inside a coach when it was parked at the station, she had yet to ride in one. This standard nine-passenger model had three seats. The middle seat was the least desirable, because the only back support was a net of leather straps.

  Mail bags jammed the floor space between the seats, forcing the passengers to place their feet in an uncomfortable manner on top of them. “Sorry about the mail bags, folks,” her father said. “Still trying to get caught up after that blizzard. Wells Fargo’s government contract specifies mail takes precedence over passengers.”

  Alistair bumped Jenny as he slipped into the window seat next to her. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s going to be a bit crowded.”

  “It’s all right, Papa.” Jenny sat in the center of the seat with her back to the front of the coach. A male passenger occupied the other window seat beside her. Seated between the two men, she would be shielded somewhat from the constant dust that blew through the uncovered windows.

  Nine passengers had squeezed into the coach. By having Duncan ride topside, Jenny’s father had managed to maximize the paying customers on this trip.

  “Giddup!” Butch called to the team and snapped the ribbons. The coach lurched and rolled into motion.

  “Mmm,” Jenny moaned. Was this what sea-sickness felt like? Her father had warned her to be prepared to feel woozy in the beginning. The egg-shaped, coach body, suspended between the wheels on two oxhide thoroughbraces, caused the coach to sway like a hammock. How could a passenger tolerate this rocking back and forth and pitching side to side for a thousand miles to reach the west coast? She was glad she only had to ride the eighty-five miles to North Platte Crossing.


  CHAPTER 13

  Will leaned on a crutch he’d fashioned after reaching North Platte Crossing. His ankle didn’t hurt much, but he thought it best to keep the weight off it a little longer. He watched the Wells Fargo stage approach the home station. A cloud of dust floated around the churning wheels.

  The driver hauled back on the ribbons and stepped hard on the brake lever. “Whoa!” The harness jingled as the teams halted beside the corral, adjacent to the station. The coach swayed slightly, then settled onto its thoroughbraces. Before the driver and the shotgun messenger even dismounted, two stock tenders were busy changing the tired teams for fresh ones. The coach would be on its way west in less than an hour—just enough time for the passengers to eat their meal.

  “Hey, Jenny!” Duncan yelled from atop the coach. “Look who’s here.”

  Jenny’s head appeared in the window and Will smiled when he saw the broad grin appear on her face.

  “William Braddock.” Jenny’s initial grin was replaced with an open-mouthed expression of shock. “What happened to you?”

  Will shrugged and hopped toward the coach on his crutch. “Nothing much.”

  “And where’d you get those fancy buckskins?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re alone.” He nodded at the other passengers who were crowding into the station to get a seat at the meal table.

  Thirty minutes later, Jenny laid her fork beside her plate and leaned back on the bench. “That’s the first meal I’ve eaten in a stagecoach station in six months that I haven’t prepared myself. Guess I’ll be fixing the next meal for the passengers. Have to start eating my own cooking again.”

  “And good cooking it is, too.” Will’s uncle had stepped into the station. “I can assure you of that. I enjoyed several of your meals at Big Laramie Station. It’s nice to see you again, Jenny.”

  “Hello, Mr. Corcoran. You seem to be doing well.”

  “I’m fine now. Thanks once more for nursing me back to health. Maybe you can put your healing touch to work on my nephew.” He pointed a piece of paper he held at Will, who sat opposite Jenny at the table. His uncle shook the paper back and forth. “This telegram from General Dodge directs us to meet him at Sherman Summit right away.”

  “Sherman Summit?” Will asked.

  “Doc Durant and a host of dignitaries are coming from New York to drive a commemorative spike where the Union Pacific’s tracks cross the highest point on the line. The bridge over Dale Canyon is almost complete, and the tracks will soon reach Laramie. General Dodge has invited the survey inspection team to attend the ceremony.”

  “Can I come, too?” Will asked.

  “He said bring the whole team. You’re part of the team, aren’t you? Unless that leg injury of yours has you immobilized.”

  “I don’t need the crutch anymore,” Will said.

  “Good. I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted while I get Homer and the boys started with the packing.” His uncle stepped out through the door.

  The other passengers had finished their meal and had stepped outside to smoke and chat before re-boarding the coach.

  “We’re alone now, Will,” Jenny said. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  Will explained about stepping into the beaver trap and being rescued by Bullfrog Charlie. A tear trickled down her cheek when he described the bear attacking the old mountain man.

  “I left my eagle talon on his burial scaffold. Maybe it will bring him luck in his journey to rejoin Star Dancer.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  He watched Jenny rub her fingers across the front of her dress. He knew she was feeling her eagle talon beneath the neckline.

  “What is that you’re wearing around your neck now?” she asked.

  Will lifted the leather thong over his head and dropped the necklace on the table with a clatter. “Claws from the bear that killed Bullfrog.”

  Jenny looked at Will, then back at the necklace. She gathered it into her hands and rubbed each of the claws. “They’re huge. They’re as long as my fingers.”

  “I made the necklace to remind me of Bullfrog. I won’t wear it much . . . probably look ridiculous. I just finished making it this morning.”

  Jenny reached across the table and hung the necklace around his neck. “It’s a nice keepsake, whether you wear it or not.”

  “You remember Ida, Bullfrog’s pack horse?” Will asked. “You and I rode her down from the Laramie Range to Fort Sanders last year.”

  “Yes, I remember Ida.”

  “She’s here in the corral. I’ve got Buck, so I don’t need Ida. She’s gentle riding. She can be your saddle horse. Bullfrog would be happy to know you have her.”

  “Oh, thank you, Will. That’s very thoughtful. You can be sure I’ll take good care of her.”

  “I guess I’d better go help Uncle Sean.”

  While she’d been eating, Jenny had told him about riding to Cheyenne to try to talk her sister into returning to the family. She reached across the table and placed a hand over one of his hands. “You be careful, Will. Hell on Wheels will soon be in Laramie and I know Paddy O’Hannigan will be looking for you.”

  “Paddy?”

  “Yes. You didn’t kill him last year . . . like we thought. He was in the Lucky Dollar Saloon in Cheyenne. I don’t think he realized that I saw him, but I did. He’s not to be trusted, Will.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Will and his uncle stood alongside the tracks at Sherman Summit, awaiting the arrival of the special train from Cheyenne. The wind blew strongly from out of the west across the flat, barren summit. Will’s buckskin coat defended him well against the cold blasts. An occasional fierce gust forced him to clamp his hand over his old slouch hat to keep it from blowing away.

  Jack Casement stepped across the tracks to join them. Will liked the diminutive former Army general who held the contract with the Union Pacific for the construction of the railroad.

  “Good morning, Corcoran,” Casement said. “Morning, Will. Glad you could join us.” Casement slapped the riding crop he always carried against his leather boot.

  “Does the wind ever stop blowing up here, General Jack?” Will’s uncle asked.

  “Seldom. Nothing much will grow up here . . . except that limber pine over there.” Casement pointed to a gnarled, twisted tree growing out of the center of a jumble of boulders not far from where they stood. The tracks curved widely around the site.

  “We didn’t have the heart to cut down the only tree on the summit,” Casement said, “so we bent the tracks around it.”

  “Looks old,” Will said.

  “One of the track layers is an amateur botanist,” Casement said, “and claims limber pines can live a couple thousand years.”

  A train whistle diverted Will’s attention from the tree. A laboring engine belched a black cloud from its diamond-shaped smokestack as it struggled up the long slope. Will had ridden by horseback over these mountains west of Cheyenne the previous summer with his uncle’s team when they confirmed this was the best route. Still, the grade had been pushed to the maximum of two percent in order to cross the Laramie Range. Any steeper and the 4-4-0 locomotive wouldn’t be able to pull a load.

  Even with the west wind blowing, Will heard the chuffing of the steam engine as it drew nearer. A huge elk antler rack adorned the massive headlight on the front of the boiler. The train slowed to a crawl. The engineer blew a long blast on the whistle and clanged the bell repeatedly. Steam hissed from the cylinders in front of the driving wheels and the big locomotive ground to a stop right beside him.

  Will waved to the engineer and the fireman as he fell into step behind his uncle and General Jack. They moved toward the single passenger car attached at the end of a string of eight freight cars.

  Conductor Hobart Johnson alighted from the coach and placed a stool below the short steps that descended from the rear platform. A tall, lanky, slightly stooped gentleman stepped off the train behind Johnson.

  “The
re’s Doc Durant,” Will’s uncle said. “He arrived in style . . . in the Lincoln car.”

  “Hard to believe he actually refurbished Lincoln’s funeral car to use it as his personal rolling palace.” General Jack shook his head. “The arrogance of the man.”

  Will had never seen the vice president and general manager of the Union Pacific. A drooping mustache concealed the man’s mouth above an unkempt goatee. He lifted a narrow-brimmed, straw hat and brushed his slicked-down hair back with a slender hand. He looked at Will and his companions. He didn’t say anything, although Will was certain he had to know General Jack, and probably even his uncle.

  “And Silas Seymour, the Insulting Engineer,” General Jack said.

  Conductor Johnson held the hand of a heavyset man who struggled to step from the train. Once on the ground, Seymour popped open his ever-present umbrella.

  The surveyors and tracklayers had bestowed the rude title upon Seymour last year because of his meddling in the route General Dodge had selected for crossing the Laramie Range. Will remembered Seymour always insisting on being addressed as “Colonel,” even though he’d never been in the Army. He worked under Durant’s instructions to make sure the route was not necessarily the shortest or straightest, since the government paid the company for the miles of track laid. It didn’t matter to Durant whether or not a route was the best, if he could finagle a way to get more money.

  Will held up a hand in greeting to General Grenville Dodge when he stepped from the coach. Dodge grinned and nodded at Will’s gesture. The Union Pacific’s chief engineer was the real brains behind the construction of the eastern portion of the transcontinental railroad. A surveyor in his own right, Dodge knew almost instinctively which route was best. Being an engineer, he knew how to grade the route, how to lay the tracks, and how to construct the bridges. His mustache and beard appeared more gray than when Will had seen him last fall, but he was still a handsome man who stood ramrod straight.