Bear Claws

by Robert Lee Murphy

  “Uncle Sean! Homer! Help me get Butch down.”

  “Will?” Jenny McNabb stepped out of the station’s door. “What’re you doing?”

  “Trying to drive this thing. Butch’s been shot.”

  “Where’s Slim?”

  “Dead.”

  The passengers tumbled out of the coach, all telling their own version of the hair-raising experience to Alistair McNabb and the driver waiting to take the stagecoach on the next leg of their journey.

  Will handed the semi-conscious Butch down into the up-stretched arms of his uncle and Homer, then jumped down from the driver’s box.

  “In here,” Jenny said.

  Will’s uncle and Homer passed sideways with their burden through the narrow door Jenny held open, and eased the wounded driver down onto a bench in the station’s main room. Will and some other passengers entered behind them.

  “Hold Butch steady, Will, while I examine the wound,” Jenny said.

  Will held the driver upright on the bench while Jenny checked the injured arm.

  “Bullet went completely through the fleshy part of the upper arm,” Jenny said. “Lots of blood, but no broken bones. I can take care of Butch.”

  “Butch is in capable hands with Jenny,” Will’s uncle said. “I know from personal experience. Let’s get our gear off the coach, Homer. Will, you can stay and help Jenny.”

  The two men exited the station, leaving Will behind.

  Blood soaked Will’s hand where he’d supported Butch. “We have to get this shirt off and stop the bleeding,” he said.

  “Not here,” Jenny whispered.

  Will furrowed his brows. “Not here?”

  “In the back room.” Jenny nodded to a doorway at the rear.

  “What’s wrong with here? These folks have seen men without their shirts on before.” He swept a hand around the room indicating the passengers.

  Jenny’s blue eyes flashed gray at Will. “Butch is a girl!”

  CHAPTER 27

  Paddy rode into Benton, the latest version of Hell on Wheels, and dismounted behind the Lucky Dollar Saloon. If the countryside around the single dusty street weren’t higher and dryer than along the Laramie River, he wouldn’t have known the ramshackle town had moved. The shacks and tents occupied the same positions they did everyplace. Mayor Mortimer Kavanagh, though no election had earned him that title, controlled everything and everybody in this den of thieves. They were all bent on taking every last dollar off the railroad workers.

  Paddy looped the reins around one of the ropes securing the rear of the big tent that enclosed the bar and dance hall of the Lucky Dollar. He slipped his Bowie knife from his boot, sliced the end off his plug of tobacco, then used his rotten, broken teeth to slide the chaw off the blade. He pushed through the canvas flap that served as a back door and stepped inside.

  A good crowd occupied the candelabra-lit expanse for the noon hour. The patrons who bellied up to the bar wore blue uniforms, instead of coveralls—soldiers rather than gandy dancers. Benton was just a short ride from the Army’s new Fort Fred Steele, which had been built on the west bank of the North Platte River. Paddy knew his godfather would be pleased. Until Hell on Wheels picked up and moved west to keep up with the railroad, Kavanagh would have the military to thank for providing him extra customers. Paddy noticed these customers’ uniforms were piped in the light blue of infantry instead of the bright yellow of cavalry.

  A group of laughing soldiers parted and Elspeth McNabb stepped out from their midst. She shook her long blonde hair and waved a pale hand at the admiring men. “Stay right here, boys. I’ll be gone just a moment.”

  She swatted a hand away that attempted to pinch her and wagged a finger at the guilty party. “Now, now. None of that.”

  The soldiers guffawed and turned back to the bar.

  Elspeth whirled away from the soldiers and froze. Her smile dissolved into a sneer.

  “Ah, me darlin’.” Paddy touched the tip of his Bowie knife to the brim of the new bowler hat he’d bought in Carson City to replace the one Will Braddock had shot off his head in California. “What a lovely sight ye be.”

  “Out of my way.” She snarled and stepped sideways.

  Paddy moved to block her way. He glanced over her shoulder to assure himself none of the soldiers were looking. He touched the point of the knife to Elspeth’s cheek, causing her eyes to widen. He had her attention now. He reached out with his other hand and stroked her hair.

  “Get your hands off me. Mort will have your neck if he catches you touching me.”

  “Ah, now, me darlin’. Mort don’t scare me none.”

  “That’s not what I’ve seen.” She snorted.

  He was tempted to push the point into that soft skin—just enough to draw a drop of blood. But he pulled the knife back and bowed his head to her. “Someday, my pretty. Someday, ye’ll be all mine.”

  Paddy turned away from her and crossed the packed dirt floor to reach Kavanagh’s office, tucked in the corner of the wooden false-front of the building. He rapped sharply on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Kavanagh looked up from his desk when Paddy entered. “So, did you get it?”

  “Sure, and I did.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I hid it in a cave up on Elk Mountain. Not far from here.”

  “Good.” Kavanagh leaned forward and scratched a lucifer match across the desktop. He held the flame to the tip of his cigar and sucked in his breath.

  “But we may have a bit of a problem, don’t ye know.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well now, Will Braddock saw me stealing them chemicals. It’s pretty sure I am that he can identify me. And maybe . . . just maybe I’m saying . . . he can associate me with you, Mort.”

  Kavanagh stared at Paddy, rolling his cigar around in his mouth. “And?”

  “I came across Black Wolf’s band of Cheyenne over near Elk Mountain, so I did. I engaged him, ye might say, to get rid of Braddock. And in the process he’d be doing me a favor by getting rid of Sean Corcoran and that nigger at the same time. All three of them are heading back this way on the stage. I told Black Wolf ye’d be giving him ammunition, if he was to get the job done proper like.”

  “You did?”

  “Sure, and I did.”

  “Well, I hate to admit it,” Kavanagh said, “but you used your head this time. I can arrange some ammunition for those Cheyenne . . . if they can shift the blame away from me.”

  Paddy sat up straighter. He hadn’t been sure his boss would like him promising ammunition. He breathed a sigh of relief. And the beauty of this plan was his vendetta could be accomplished without putting himself at risk.

  “I rode past Rattlesnake Tunnel on my way here,” Paddy said. “Sure, and it’s mighty close to that new Army fort.”

  “Yeah, maybe so, but you’ll be away from there when the explosion takes place. And this is going to be even bigger than I thought. I’ve got a plan.”

  A soft knock on the door caused Kavanagh to look beyond Paddy. “Come in, sweetheart.”

  Sally Whitworth stepped in with a bottle and two glasses on a tray. “Here’s the whiskey you asked for, Mort.”

  “Thanks, my dear. Just put it here on the desk.”

  Sally’s red curls swished across her shoulders when she leaned forward to place the tray on the edge of the desk. She stood back and wrinkled her nose. “When’s the last time you bathed, O’Hannigan?”

  “Ah, now, darlin’. I just returned from a long, hard journey. Had I only known I’d be seeing yer beautiful face so soon, I’d of jumped in the horse trough before I came in.” He blew her a kiss.

  “Humph. Don’t blow that foul breath in my direction.” She spun away and left the room.

  Kavanagh laughed. “She likes you as much as she always has.” He drew deeply on his cigar and blew a smoke ring.

  Paddy spat a string of tobacco juice into the spittoon beside Kavanagh’s desk. “Well now, Mort, just what�
�s yer plan?”

  “I have it on the best authority that Ulysses S. Grant will visit end of track in a day or two. He’s out west campaigning for the presidency. Now’s my chance to really get his attention so that he’ll order a slowdown in construction.”

  Paddy eyed the unopened whiskey bottle and the two tumblers beside it. “So, and what does General Grant’s visit have to do with blowing up the tunnel?”

  Kavanagh popped the cork from the bottle and splashed the golden liquid into the tumblers. He pushed one across the desk to Paddy and picked up the other. “You’re going to blow up the tunnel with General Grant inside it.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Jenny stepped out of the small back room and eased the door closed. Will sat at the central table cleaning his revolver. Travelers took their meals in this larger of the two rooms that comprised the North Platte Crossing Station while waiting for the next stagecoach to depart, but now it was empty except for Will.

  He looked up and laid his pistol on the table. Cleaning rags, a small can of oil, and a brush lay in front of him. The Colt glistened with a fresh coat of oil. “How’s Butch?”

  “Sleeping,” Jenny replied.

  “And the wound?”

  “It stopped bleeding.”

  He picked up his revolver again and wiped excess oil off the barrel.

  “Will, are you going to keep this a secret?” she asked.

  He shrugged in response.

  “If Papa, or anybody else in Wells Fargo’s management, finds out, it will cost Butch her job. She’s the best driver the company has, even though they don’t know who she is. Please do this for me . . . if not for her.”

  The door into the station opened and Jenny’s father, Will’s uncle, and Homer filed in. Jenny stared at Will, cocked her head slightly, and raised an eyebrow.

  Will returned her stare for a moment, then nodded.

  “Thank you.” She mouthed the words silently.

  The telegraph key, on a table beneath one of the two small windows, clattered to life.

  “Where’s Duncan?” Jenny’s father asked. “Someone wants to send us a message.”

  “He’s in the corral, Papa. I’ll fetch him.” She hurried outside, closing the door behind her.

  Duncan wasn’t in the corral. She walked around behind the station and found him lugging two buckets of water up from the river. One of his jobs was helping with the stock tending, the other was operating the telegraph.

  “Duncan!” she shouted. “Somebody wants to send us a message!”

  “Coming.” He hurried into the corral and dumped the water into the trough. He joined Jenny and they entered the station.

  Duncan sat at the table and tapped out his call sign. A moment later the telegraph key jumped up and down, emitting a string of dots and dashes. Duncan copied the message directly onto a pad in block capital letters. Jenny was proud of her brother. He no longer needed to write down the code first. She leaned over Duncan’s shoulder and read the message as he transcribed the letters.

  FROM GRENVILLE DODGE TO SEAN CORCORAN STOP MEET ME IN BENTON JULY 25 STOP GRANT TO INSPECT END OF TRACK BEFORE MEETING WITH DURANT AT FORT SANDERS STOP IMPORTANT

  “The telegram is for you, Mr. Corcoran.” Duncan handed the pad to Will’s uncle, who read the message, then handed the pad back to Duncan. “Can you send a reply?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her brother poised a pencil over his pad.

  “Corcoran to Grenville Dodge Stop Message received Stop Taking next stage to Benton.”

  When he’d finished copying the message onto his pad, she watched Duncan grasp the telegraph key between the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand and rapidly click out the message. “Done, Mr. Corcoran,” he said.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five cents each word,” Duncan said. He counted the words he’d written on the pad with a forefinger. “Thirteen words comes to three dollars and twenty-five cents, sir.”

  Will’s uncle handed Duncan three silver dollars and a quarter, then folded Dodge’s telegram and placed it in his pocket. “Will,” he said, “I’m going on ahead on the stage. You and Homer come along with the horses and gear. Try to get to Benton by tomorrow. I’d like you to meet General Grant. He’s probably going to be the next President of the United States.”

  Will nodded.

  Will’s uncle looked at Homer. “Can you do it?”

  “I ’spects we can. We just gotta get the gear rounded up and ride to Benton.”

  “Good.” Will’s uncle turned to Jenny’s father. “When’s the next coach depart, Alistair?”

  “It’s a mud wagon. Leaves in less than an hour.”

  “I’ll be ready.” He left the station building.

  “Papa,” Jenny said, “since we’re moving to the Green River home station next week, I’d like to go to Benton to see Elspeth before we go.”

  “The mud wagon’s full, Jenny. Mr. Corcoran just took the last seat.”

  “Will and Homer are riding to Benton, Papa. I can ride Mr. Corcoran’s horse along with them, then ride the wagon back.”

  “She’s welcome to come with us,” Homer said. “We’s leaving in a couple of hours.”

  “All right,” her father said. “Come on, Duncan, it’s time to harness the teams.”

  Jenny’s father and her brother left the station.

  “I’se going to get started with the packing, Will.”

  “I’ll put this revolver back together and be right there.”

  Homer nodded and stepped outside.

  Jenny looked at Will, but said nothing.

  “You didn’t tell me you were moving,” he said. “Didn’t you think I’d be interested?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell you. I’ve been busy tending to Butch.”

  Will returned the pistol to its holster and lifted his haversack off the back of a chair. “Oh,” he said. “I almost forgot.”

  Jenny watched as he took a book out of the haversack, and saw his mouth fall open.

  “What’s wrong, Will?”

  She followed his stare as it concentrated on a large hole penetrating the center of the front cover. He opened the book and a musket ball clattered to the top of the table. “I bought this for you,” he said. “But now it’s ruined. I felt a thump against my side during the Indian attack, but didn’t realize it was because a bullet had hit the haversack.”

  Jenny took the book out of his hands. “Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. How did you know it was one of my favorites? Papa used to read it to us children each Christmas.”

  “Well, it’s ruined now. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s not. I know the story so well I can easily fill in the missing words. Besides, each time I read it, I’ll know that it probably saved your life.”

  She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on Will’s cheek. She saw him turn several shades of red and his eyes opened wide. Yes, she thought. I like doing that to him.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Hyah!” Paddy slapped the reins against the neck of the horse, urging it up the steep slope of Elk Mountain. “Giddup, ye mangy old nag. Sure, and that cave’s not far now.”

  Mort Kavanagh was determined to slow the pace of construction on the railroad even if it meant killing Ulysses S. Grant in the process. If Paddy didn’t need the money, he’d tell his godfather to go to the devil. What would happen to him if he got caught tangled up in this plot? But he’d just received another letter from his sister informing him that their mother was ill and they couldn’t afford to buy the medicine her doctor prescribed. Paddy shook his head and exhaled. He didn’t know what else to do but go through with this harebrained scheme.

  He’d have to be careful, that’s for certain. Nitroglycerin was nasty stuff. He needed to remember what that Chinaman had said about mixing the chemicals, or he’d blow himself to kingdom come.

  There’s the cave up ahead. “Hyah!” He kicked his mount hard in the ribs. The horse snorted its objection to the abuse. At the base of a ro
cky outcropping he reined in and dismounted. He flipped the reins over a bush at the mouth of the cave and lifted the saddlebags off the horse’s rump.

  The early afternoon sunlight, unobstructed by clouds, streamed directly into the entrance. He wouldn’t need a torch to find the chemicals he’d stashed here several days ago.

  A half-dozen paces into the cave he located the niche in the rock wall where he’d hidden the three large bottles. “Ah, now, wouldn’t ye know it.” Paddy set the saddlebags on the floor of the cave. He hadn’t planned this well enough. He’d only brought one pair of saddlebags, and their pockets were full of the vials he intended to fill with the nitroglycerin. He couldn’t mix the chemicals until he got down to the railroad. The stuff was too volatile to transport already mixed. But how was he going to get the three, large chemical bottles down the mountain?

  Just inside the cave’s entrance, the charred remains of a fire indicated humans had occupied the cave recently. Perhaps something useful had been left deeper inside the cave.

  He stepped back outside and selected a dead branch from beneath a Ponderosa pine. The dry needles would burn rapidly, but he could fashion a torch from it that would satisfy his needs. He reentered the cave, took a lucifer match from his vest pocket, and struck it against the rock wall. He held the match to the branch. The needles burst into flame.

  He held the makeshift torch in front of him and moved deeper into the cave. He slowly swung the burning limb back and forth in an arc as he walked.

  What was that? He stopped, holding the torch farther in front of him to get a closer look. A streak of red stretched across an opening in the side wall of the cave. The color was too consistent to be rock. He reached out and brushed his hand along the object. “A blanket,” he said. “Sure, and what’s a blanket doing here?”

  That would do the trick though. He could wrap the vials in the blanket and sling it from his saddle horn. Then he could pack the chemicals in the saddlebags. What a bit of luck. He jammed the torch into a crevice in the wall to free his hands. The light from the cave’s entrance would guide him back out. He wouldn’t need the torch anymore. It’d burn out in a minute or two, anyway.