Bear Claws

by Robert Lee Murphy

  Paddy didn’t plan to ride the coach the eighty-five miles from Laramie to North Platte Crossing, where Jenny McNabb might see him. Toward the end of the day, after passing through narrow Rattlesnake Canyon, a notorious place for Indian ambushes, the coach reached the Pass Creek swing station. Here, sixteen miles east of the North Platte River, was the last opportunity to leave the stagecoach at a point of some civilization. He would spend the night at Pass Creek, arise early in the morning, steal one of the station’s horses, and ride around North Platte Crossing before rejoining the stage on the other side of the river.

  “I’m getting off,” Paddy said. He leaned forward, bringing his face close to the young lady as he rose, and breathed in her perfume. “Ma’am, ye’ll be excusing me if I disturb ye.”

  The woman had looked at him briefly when she’d first taken her seat. After that, she’d avoided eye contact, keeping her head bowed. She raised her head now and grimaced. Paddy grinned his widest gap-tooth smile. He didn’t care that his foul breath probably offended her.

  Two stock men hurriedly changed the six-horse team. The stop would only be for a few minutes. Passengers were not permitted to dismount during the changeover at a swing station. It interfered with keeping to a schedule.

  “Where do you think you’re going, mister?” The driver looked down at him from the seat high on the front of the coach. “We’re not to the end of the run.”

  “Sure, and I got business to attend to hereabouts. I’ll catch up further along, don’t ye know. Toss me down that carpetbag.”

  The driver wrapped the reins around the brake lever and climbed back into the pile of luggage. Paddy’s bag had been one of the last loaded, so it was easy to retrieve. The driver dropped the bag into his waiting arms and stared at him with a fixed expression.

  Paddy didn’t know what was troubling that driver, but he didn’t care for the look he was getting.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Hello, the cabin!” Paddy cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his challenge. He sat the stolen horse on a high bank that rose steeply above a thicket of cottonwoods spread out below him. Through the branches he could see a small log cabin in a clearing that extended to the North Platte’s edge.

  “Hello, down there!” he called again. It wouldn’t be wise to ride into that clearing without ensuring someone wouldn’t greet him with gunfire. He leaned forward in the saddle and held his hand to the brim of his bowler hat to shield his eyes from the bright sun, and waited.

  A few minutes later, a figure stepped out of the trees and looked up at him.

  Paddy’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t expected this. He’d heard Bullfrog Charlie Munro had a cabin along the river. He’d somehow stumbled across it.

  Lone Eagle, dressed in a buckskin, looked up the slope. He said nothing, he didn’t motion, he just stared back at Paddy.

  Paddy kicked the mare and headed down the steep cliff toward the clearing. As he descended, he studied the young man who awaited him below. The mixed-blood Cheyenne’s black hair, tied back into a ponytail with a red cord, glistened in the noonday’s sunlight. Paddy chuckled to himself. Lone Eagle probably slicked it down with bear grease, like Paddy had heard all savages did. But Lone Eagle looked more like a mountain man now, than a warrior.

  “Well, sure, and if it’s not the half-breed.” Paddy reined the horse to a stop in front of the cabin.

  Lone Eagle cradled in his arms a large bundle wrapped in a red trade blanket, which was decorated with bead and quill work.

  “Scrawny Irishman,” Lone Eagle said. “I told you before, I will cut your throat if you continue to insult me.”

  “Aw now, that ain’t no insult. Sure, and it’s just the truth.” Paddy laughed.

  Paddy’s horse shuffled and snorted. A pungent odor assailed Paddy’s nostrils. The stench coming from the cottonwood grove must be what was unsettling his mount. He spotted the scaffolds mounted between tree trunks.

  “Them yer folks buried in the trees?” Paddy asked.

  “My father is.”

  “Sure, and I heard tell the old man fought a grizzly and lost.” He cackled. “Bet that was some sight to see, don’t ye know.”

  Lone Eagle did not respond.

  “What’s that ye’re holding in the blanket?” Paddy asked.

  “These are the bones of my mother, Star Dancer.”

  “I see two scaffolds yonder. Why ain’t her bones up there?”

  “My mother lay there for many years.” Lone Eagle shook the blanket roll. The contents rattled. “Now she is here.”

  Paddy cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow in an unspoken question.

  “Only her bones are left. I will take them to Elk Mountain and bury them in a cave with our ancestors.”

  Paddy’s eyes widened and he reared his head back. He hadn’t heard of this custom.

  “It is a Cheyenne tradition.” Lone Eagle continued. “Many tribes do it. After only the bones are left, the family places them in a sacred place. Someday my father’s bones will join my mother’s.”

  “Sure, and ye savages should be burying yer kin in the ground, like god-fearing white folks do.”

  “We are not savages,” Lone Eagle said. “We honor our dead after they depart this life. We do not dump dirt on their faces and abandon them to the dark.”

  “Well, suit yerself.”

  “What are you doing here, O’Hannigan? What do you want?”

  Paddy sensed the anger in Lone Eagle’s terse questions.

  “Sure, and I’m searching for a place to ford this cussed river, don’t ye know. I’m on my way to California. Secret kinda mission, ye might say.”

  “There is no ford here.”

  “Well, and just how do travelers get across?”

  “They use the ferry at North Platte Crossing . . . or swim.”

  “Well, d’ye see, I ain’t going to be using Wells Fargo’s ferry and if ye remember, I don’t swim. And what be that I see tied up yonder? Sure, and it looks to me like it’s rigged to be a ferry.”

  Paddy motioned to a log raft resting on the near bank. A series of ropes stretched from it to trees on opposite banks of the river.

  “My father’s old raft. He used it to take himself across the river. Not big enough for animals. They have to swim.”

  “I’ll pay ye to take me across.”

  “I don’t want your money, Irishman. I will take you over just to be rid of you.”

  Paddy drew his Navy Colt from its holster and cocked the hammer.

  “Don’t get no ideas about dumping me overboard . . . or I’ll blow yer brains out.”

  Paddy watched Lone Eagle gently place the blanket bundle on a log bench beside a travois that leaned against the front wall of the cabin. He glared back at Paddy, then strode toward the riverbank. “Come, Irishman.”

  Paddy took a deep breath and wished he hadn’t. He choked back a gag. He couldn’t wait to get away from here. The smell of Bullfrog’s decaying body was more than he could stomach.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jenny laid the buckskin dress on her cot and brushed it flat with her hand. She’d folded it last autumn and placed it in a small trunk her father had given her for storing the few belongings she owned. Everything she’d brought with her from Virginia had been burned in the covered wagon that night last year when the Cheyenne had abducted her. This was the first time she’d taken the dress out since the McNabbs had arrived at North Platte Crossing.

  She removed her tattered, woolen shirt and pulled the dress over her head, smoothing it down over her trousers. She fingered the blue and yellow bead work that decorated the bodice of the soft leather. She shuddered when she thought about the time she’d been forced to wear the dress. She placed her palm against the side of her neck. She could almost feel the rawhide thong Chief Tall Bear’s wife, Small Duck, had kept tied around her throat to lead her around the Cheyenne village like a horse while she did the old woman’s chores. The only decent thing Small Duck had ever done for he
r was give her this beautiful buckskin dress. But Small Duck hadn’t done that out of love or respect. The chief didn’t want Jenny wearing a white woman’s clothing in the camp.

  Jenny sat on her cot and replaced her work boots with the moccasins she’d worn during the weeks she’d been a slave in the Indian village.

  The door to the back room where the three McNabbs slept swung open. Her father stood in the doorway.

  “My goodness, what’s the occasion?” he asked.

  “No occasion. I was moving the trunk so I could sweep beneath it and decided to take a look. I hadn’t opened the trunk since we moved here.” She grinned at her father.

  “It is a nice dress, Jenny, but not suitable for wearing around our passengers. There’ll be a stage coming in within the hour. We wouldn’t want to frighten the folks, would we?”

  The front door to the station banged open.

  “Pa! Come quick!” Jenny’s brother shouted. “There’s an Indian out by the corral.”

  “What?” Her father headed for the front door, reaching with his right arm to pick up his carbine from where it leaned in a corner.

  “Franz has his rifle on him, Pa. But the fellow won’t quit petting Buck. Maybe he plans to steal Will’s horse.”

  Duncan stepped aside to let his father pass.

  Jenny hurried out behind her father and brother.

  “Step away from that horse!” Jenny’s father cocked the hammer of the carbine. Because he only had one hand, he held the weapon low beside his waist, keeping the stock pressed against his side with his elbow.

  The buckskin clad man turned slowly to face Jenny’s father, but kept his hand pressed against Buck’s forehead.

  “No, Papa,” Jenny said. “Wait. It’s Lone Eagle.”

  Her father paused and looked at her. “The half-breed that captured you?”

  “The Cheyenne warrior who spared my life . . . and helped me escape.”

  Lone Eagle stood before her in buckskin shirt and trousers. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been bare-chested and clad in a breechcloth. He still wore his black hair tied back with a red cord—but there was no beaded band, nor any feather, adorning his head. Hanging around his neck she saw his eagle talon amulet.

  Jenny brushed her fingers along the talon she wore around her own neck, concealed beneath her clothes.

  Her father eased the hammer down on his carbine. “It’s all right, Franz. You can lower your rifle.”

  Franz Iversen pointed his rifle down, but left it cocked. “You sure, Mr. McNabb?”

  Franz served as the stockman for the station, caring for the horses and changing the teams when a stagecoach arrived. Jenny and her brother helped him when they didn’t have other chores.

  “Yes,” her father said. “Jenny knows him.”

  “What brings you here, Lone Eagle?” Jenny asked.

  “I promised Will Braddock I would keep an eye on you while he is gone to California. I need to talk with you.”

  Jenny turned to her father. “It will be fine, Papa. He’s not going to hurt me. Let me talk with him alone, please?”

  Her father looked from Jenny back to Lone Eagle. “Franz, move back into the stable, but keep your rifle handy. I’ll step back into the station. Only a few minutes, Jenny. We have to prepare for the incoming stage.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Her father motioned for Duncan to join him, and they entered the station.

  Her father did not close the door. Jenny could see him standing back in the shadows of the station’s interior. He continued to hold his carbine.

  Jenny walked over to Lone Eagle. “Will told me what happened to Bullfrog,” she said. “I’m sorry about your father’s death.”

  “Thank you, Jenny.” Lone Eagle’s eyes scanned her up and down. “You are wearing the buckskin dress you wore in our camp. Why?”

  Jenny chuckled. “You sound like my father.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I haven’t worn this dress since I returned to Fort Sanders last year. I came across it in my trunk and decided to put it on. No reason. Simply coincidence that it happened when you arrived.”

  “You look nice in it.”

  She pulled up the hem of the buckskin dress, revealing the old blue pants she wore. “Yes, I’m sure I do.”

  She dropped the hem and grinned at Lone Eagle. “What is it you want to tell me?”

  “Paddy O’Hannigan came by my cabin yesterday. Will asked me to protect you from him. I wanted to be sure you were safe.”

  After the stage had arrived from Big Laramie last evening, Butch Cartwright told Jenny something she hadn’t told her father. Butch told her about the scrawny, scar-faced fellow who’d left the stage at Pass Creek with a flimsy excuse about having local business to conduct. From the description, she knew it was Paddy O’Hannigan. But what business could that ruffian have with the stock handlers who looked after Well Fargo’s stage horses at that tiny swing station? There wasn’t anything else at Pass Creek. And why had he felt it necessary to leave the stage and avoid coming to North Platte Crossing?

  “What did Paddy want?” she asked.

  “He wanted to get across the river, but he didn’t want to come here to do it. I ferried him over. He said something about going to California on a secret assignment. I do not know more than that.”

  Jenny sighed. “Thank you, Lone Eagle. I’ll send a telegram to Will. He needs to know Paddy is on his way to California.”

  She wished Paddy had told Lone Eagle more about why he was making the trip. All she could do was warn Will to be on the lookout for the nasty Irishman.

  CHAPTER 19

  Will, his uncle Sean, and Jacob Blickensderfer walked toward the Continental Hotel in Salt Lake City, a half-dozen steps behind “Colonel” Silas Seymour and Sam Reed. Reed’s request for a meeting with Brigham Young had been postponed numerous times, but now they were to have an audience. Seymour kept wagging his finger at Reed, lecturing him on what Doc Durant would expect Reed to say to the great Mormon leader.

  Blickensderfer had been waiting for them when they arrived in Salt Lake City three days ago. Will had met the brilliant engineer last year, when he served as the government’s inspector charged with determining where the Rocky Mountains started, that magical point at which the railroad had the right to draw on bonds at $48,000 per mile for construction costs. That was three times what the government paid for work on level ground and twice that for effort in the foothills. General Dodge had hired Blickensderfer away from the Department of the Interior to work for the Union Pacific and had assigned him the task of planning the construction across Utah.

  Blickensderfer spoke in a low voice to Will’s uncle. “I don’t know who’s worse, Seymour or Reed. That trumped-up, self-titled colonel creates consternation wherever he goes. And Reed used to have a stronger backbone than I’ve seen him exhibit lately.”

  “Reed can’t seem to decide who he works for,” Will’s uncle said. “He’s having a tough time walking the tight-rope between General Dodge and Doc Durant. Dodge and Durant are at each other’s throats all the time lately. Sometimes it’s hard to believe they both work for the same company.”

  Since their arrival at the foot of the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains, Will had struggled to understand the way of life of the people who inhabited this lovely valley. Polygamy was officially illegal in the United States—but then Utah wasn’t yet a state. Traditional religious thinking didn’t accept the idea of multiple marriages. Will remembered Reverend Kincaid railing against the Latter-day Saints’ practice on numerous occasions from his pulpit in Burlington, Iowa. Until the Mormons abolished polygamy, Utah would probably continue to be denied statehood.

  While they’d waited for the meeting to take place with Brigham Young, Will had found plenty of time to walk around this largest city between the Mississippi River and California. His inspections confirmed that the Mormons were indeed industrious and prosperous. The clean streets were wide, with man-made streams of clear
, mountain water running down each side.

  The houses, surrounded by trees and flowers, were mostly constructed of adobe and logs. The two houses the men walked past now stood out as exceptions. These two-story edifices were built of adobe and sandstone. The Beehive House was larger than the Lion House, but it had been pointed out to Will on one of his earlier walks that they were both the homes of the Mormon leader.

  “Uncle Sean,” Will asked, “why does Brigham Young need two houses?”

  His uncle laughed. “It’s rumored he needs the room to house his multiple wives and numerous children.”

  Will looked ahead to where Seymour continued to shake his finger at Reed. “Remember, Samuel,” Seymour said, “be noncommittal about our route through Utah. Even though Young’s a stockholder in the UP, Durant doesn’t want him to know we don’t plan to run the railroad through Salt Lake City. Young doesn’t have to know yet that we’re staking out a route around the northern end of the lake.”

  An hour later, as their meeting drew to a close, Brigham Young leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his hands over his ample stomach. He stared across his desk at Reed and Seymour. Above his close-trimmed beard, he clamped his clean-shaven upper lip down firmly onto the lower one. “Gentlemen, I think we can reach an accommodation. However, I’d feel more comfortable if you could assure me the railroad intends to come into our capital city.”

  “Well.” Reed shifted in his chair. “That’s a question you’ll have to pose directly to the vice president and general manager . . . when he comes here next.”

  “I intend to do that.”

  “This contract will be for grading, tunneling, and bridge building from the head of Echo Canyon into Ogden, only,” Reed said. “The Irish tracklayers will follow. We’ll do our best to keep the Irish separated from your workers.”

  “I appreciate that. Most of our fellows have the fortitude to avoid strong drink, which is a good thing, since our beliefs forbid it. But avoiding the temptation in the first place is part of the battle.”