Bear Claws

by Robert Lee Murphy

  General Jack’s workers, in their haste to lay as much track as fast as possible, hadn’t wasted time ensuring the crossties were squarely trimmed. Each step Will took landed his foot on a different, uneven surface. He ought to slow down to keep from tripping or twisting an ankle—but he couldn’t afford the delay such caution would require.

  In the distance he saw the approaching train. It’d already cleared the tunnel. Black smoke belched in rhythmic, balloon-shaped puffs from the smokestack with each surge of the pistons. The engineer had the throttle wide open. General Grant was in a hurry to reach Benton.

  Will had taken his eyes off the crossties too long. He stubbed a boot toe against a roughly hewn tie and pitched forward. He threw his hands out to catch his fall, dropping the flag.

  “Umph!” He bounced onto the crossties and the intervening ballast with a thud, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

  He turned his hands up and looked at them. Splinters protruded from his palms where they’d skidded across the rough wood of the tie. He rolled sideways and his head bumped against one of the iron rails. Through his skull he felt the vibrations from the oncoming train.

  He had to get up. He pushed himself onto his knees.

  Where was the flag? How was he going to signal the engineer without the flag?

  Down there. The red cloth fluttered in the ditch. He’d dropped the flag when he fell.

  He forced himself to his feet, stepped off the tracks, and slid down the steep gravel embankment, pulling splinters out of his hands as he went. He lost his footing again, tumbled over, and rolled into the bottom of the ditch, losing his hat.

  The chuffing of the locomotive grew louder with every passing second.

  He grabbed the flag, stumbled back to his feet, and retrieved his hat. He scrambled up the embankment, slipping backward in the loose gravel with each step.

  When he reached the tracks he crossed over them to the north side. Placing his right foot on the rail, as Conductor Johnson had instructed him, he stood directly in line with the engineer’s view out of the right side of the oncoming locomotive’s cab. He felt the rail shake beneath his boot as the train hurtled toward him.

  He unfurled the red flag and raised it above his head in his right hand. He drew his revolver with his left, cocked it twice, then lifted it high overhead.

  He concentrated on the window of the cab, hoping to see the face of the engineer—but the engineer wasn’t looking. Where was the engineer?

  He couldn’t wait any longer. The locomotive was only two hundred yards away. Surely the engineer would appear in the cab window soon.

  Will dropped the flag down to a horizontal position across the center of the tracks, then brought it back up vertically. Conductor Johnson had told him that was the signal to the engineer that the track ahead was blocked. He continued to wave the red flag up and down across the tracks with deliberately precise motions.

  The conductor had said if the train didn’t slow right away, fire two shots into the air. The engineer wouldn’t be able to hear the shots over the noise of the engine, but he should see the black powder smoke shoot up from the pistol’s barrel. This was a signal to the engineer that he should heed the warning of the red flag.

  The engine was only one hundred yards away.

  Finally, the engineer appeared, leaned forward in the window, and reached above his head to pull on the whistle cord. He sounded a succession of short, rapid blasts—the signal to clear the tracks.

  Will fired two shots and waved the flag up and down rapidly. The locomotive bore down on him. The engine was less than twenty yards away. Why didn’t the engineer obey his signal? Had he done it wrong? Had he misunderstood Conductor Johnson’s instructions?

  He stepped off the track, but continued to wave the flag. He shouted, “Stop! Stop!” He knew the engineer couldn’t hear him, but maybe he could read his lips.

  Suddenly the locomotive’s driving wheels screeched on the rails and ceased turning. Sparks flew from between the wheels and the iron rails. The engine slowed and slid past him, steam from the cylinders engulfing him in a white mist. The engineer hung out the side window of the cab staring down at him as he rolled by.

  The tender glided past Will, and then the single passenger car came to a halt beside him.

  “Drop that pistol!” A soldier on the rear platform pointed a carbine at him. “Hands up!”

  Will dropped his revolver into the dirt and raised his hands. He still held the red flag above his head.

  “Shoot him, soldier!” The shouted order came from an open window in the passenger car. “He’s trying to assassinate General Grant. Shoot him!”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Wait! I know that fellow.”

  Will recognized the Italian accent. He lowered the flag and let out the breath he’d been holding while staring into the barrel of the soldier’s carbine.

  Lieutenant Luigi Moretti’s head emerged from one of the passenger car’s windows. “He works for the railroad. Put your weapon down, soldier.”

  The soldier lowered his carbine. Will grinned up at the familiar face with its long, waxed mustache points. “Thanks, Luey.”

  The engineer had alighted from the locomotive and had run back to where Will stood. “What’s the meaning of this!” he shouted. “Don’t you know this is General Grant’s express train?”

  “The bridge is out up ahead, sir. Grady Shaughnessy and his crew are hurrying to rebuild it. But it’s not finished yet. You don’t want to crash into the gulch.”

  The engineer took off his hat and brushed a hand back through his hair. “Boy, you sure took a chance standing out there trying to flag me down at the speed we were making. But you probably saved General Grant’s life . . . and my life, too . . . not to mention the dozen other generals riding in that coach.”

  Luey stepped down from the rear of the passenger car and joined Will and the engineer. “What’s happening, Will? What are you doing out here?”

  Will told him about the demolished trestle and the nitroglycerin bombs he’d disarmed in the tunnel.

  “Come onboard, Will,” Luey said. “General Grant will want to thank you personally for what you’ve done.”

  Will picked up his father’s old Army Colt .44 revolver and rubbed his thumb over a nick in the handle—a souvenir of its fall onto the ballast rock. He brushed the dust off the pistol, rechecked that each cylinder still held its percussion cap, and returned the revolver to his holster.

  A moment later, clutching his slouch hat with both hands in front of his belt, he stood before the great general, who was now the Republican Party’s nominee for President of the United States.

  “Nice work, son.” Ulysses S. Grant blew a cloud of cigar smoke from his bearded face. He reached out and shook Will’s hand. “These gentlemen and I all owe you a debt of thanks.”

  Will recognized some of the dozen men from engravings he’d seen in Harper’s Weekly and Leslie’s Illustrated News during the war. Until his father was killed at the Battle of Atlanta, his mother had borrowed the weekly newsmagazines from Judge Sampson, who subscribed to them. After his father’s death, she’d lost interest in the war.

  If he didn’t know who they were, it would be hard for Will to tell they were all senior general officers of the Army. Except for two of them, they wore civilian suits.

  General William Tecumseh Sherman, who’d made Georgia howl, and with whom Will’s father had served at the Battle of Atlanta, stood taller than all but one of his companions. General Philip Sheridan, known to his soldiers as “Little Phil,” had to look up to all his fellow officers, but he still wasn’t as short as General Jack Casement.

  After receiving the thanks of the officers, Will joined Luey on the rear seat of the passenger car. The train proceeded slowly toward the damaged trestle. When they reached the site of the bridge construction, all of the passengers descended from the coach and gathered in front of the locomotive to watch Grady and his crew complete the construction of the new bridge.
r />   They only had to wait another hour before proceeding the short distance to the end of tracks at Benton.

  On the western edge of Hell on Wheels, General Dodge provided General Grant and his entourage with an explanation of what lay ahead for the Union Pacific. “Beyond here, we face a hundred miles of the Red Desert,” he said. “There’s no suitable water in that great basin for our locomotives, our workers, or our cattle herd. We’ll have to haul water from the North Platte. Maybe we can drill some decent wells, but so far we haven’t found anything other than brackish swill. We have discovered coal in the surrounding hills, and the UP plans to convert our locomotives from wood burning to coal. Much more efficient.”

  Will stood beside his uncle, a short distance from the distinguished visitors, and plainly heard Dodge describe the interference he was experiencing from Doc Durant and “Colonel” Silas Seymour.

  Grant puffed on his ever-present cigar and nodded. “Well, you’re doing a fine job pressing the rails westward, Grenville.” Grant called Dodge by his first name. “Keep up the good work. Don’t want anything to interfere with joining the eastern states with California.”

  While Dodge briefed Grant and his party, the express train had reversed position, using the temporary wye track at Benton. The locomotive engineer’s two short blasts on his whistle signaled he was ready for the return trip to Laramie.

  After Grant and the generals climbed back aboard the passenger coach, Dodge reached for the handrail, placed a foot on the lower step at the rear of the car, then paused. He turned back to Will and his uncle. “Come with us. We’re headed for a big meeting tomorrow between General Grant and Doc Durant. The outcome may very well determine the future of your survey inspection team.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Will stood between his uncle and Lieutenant Moretti along the back wall of the small, log bungalow that served as the Officers’ Club at Fort Sanders. His view of the central table, where Generals Grant and Dodge sat opposite Doc Durant, was partially obscured by a dozen general officers and railroad officials who encircled it. The stocky form of “Colonel” Silas Seymour stood directly behind Durant.

  General Dodge cleared his throat and raised a hand. The murmurings in the room ceased in anticipation of the commencement of the meeting. “Welcome, General Grant,” Dodge said. “Thank you for inspecting the construction of the Union Pacific Railroad. And especially thank you for meeting here today with Doctor Thomas Durant, Vice President and General Manager of our company.”

  Grant inclined his head briefly toward Durant, in a greeting. “My pleasure.” He pulled a cigar from his suit pocket and clipped the end off with a guillotine cutter. An aide reached over his shoulder with a lighted lucifer match and the general puffed the cigar to life. This served as a signal to the others in the room that smoking would be tolerated, and half of the men fired up cigars and pipes. A cloud of tobacco smoke gathered in the open rafters above the heads of the men. Will rubbed his nose with the back of his hand to suppress a sneeze. At least one of the group smoked a particularly pungent cigar. Was it Grant?

  Durant rested his forearms against the edge of the table, tapped the fingertips of one hand against the other a couple of times, then held his hands steepled together before him. “General Grant, I want to make it quite clear that I believe General Dodge is taking entirely too many shortcuts with the construction of the railroad. My consulting engineer, Colonel Seymour, has discovered a far better route for the tracks.”

  Will saw Seymour’s chin rise and his chest expand at the recognition bestowed on him by his boss.

  Grant looked over Durant’s head at Seymour. “Colonel Seymour, is it? I don’t seem to recall which regiment you commanded during the war, Colonel.”

  Will heard several chuckles from the surrounding observers.

  “It’s a . . . an honorary title,” Seymour stammered.

  “Umm-hmm.” Durant cleared his throat. “That’s beside the point, General Grant. The fact of the matter is that General Dodge refuses to acknowledge the superior engineering suggestions Colonel Seymour has presented to him.”

  “Well, General Dodge.” Grant turned to face the man seated beside him, removed the cigar from his mouth, and slowly blew out a stream of smoke. “During the war I could always count on you giving me good advice. What do you have to say about this matter?”

  “Seymour’s route will add time and expense to the construction of the railroad, in my opinion,” Dodge said. “My survey inspection team has confirmed that we have laid out the best route. If we are forced to follow the one proposed by Seymour . . . I will resign.”

  The room had remained quiet since the meeting had been called to order, except for the muffled puffing on cigars and pipes. Even that sound ceased when Dodge uttered his threat.

  Grant turned back to face Durant and jammed the cigar back into his mouth. He dragged deeply, then withdrew the cigar and expelled a flow of smoke directly across the table into Durant’s face.

  “Doctor Durant,” Grant said, “let me make my position abundantly clear. The government expects this railroad to be built rapidly and economically. The Army needs to be able to move troops quickly all across the West to confront the increasing threat from the Indians, and to safeguard the lives and property of the citizens of this great country as they expand across the continent, not to mention protecting your railroad.”

  Grant paused and puffed on his cigar. “You are aware that the Republican Party has selected me to be their candidate for President of the United States. I assure you that I will be elected, notwithstanding that my opponent from the Democratic Party is your consulting engineer’s cousin, Governor Horatio Seymour of New York. You can forget about any support you might hope to receive from that party, because they are going to lose. Therefore, since I will soon be the one making the decisions about whether or not the Union Pacific receives government bonds to finance your construction effort, I insist that General Grenville Dodge remain as chief engineer until the work is done.”

  Durant collapsed his fingers together and squeezed his hands tightly.

  Grant clamped the cigar between his teeth. “Do you understand, Doctor?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Will knew that the loss of government financing would far outweigh the small financial gains Doc Durant might pick up by routing the Union Pacific in a more circuitous fashion.

  “Now that that’s settled,” Grant said, “it’s time we got organized for the trip back East. Campaign responsibilities await.” He pushed back from the table and stood.

  “General Grant.” Dodge stood also. “If you don’t mind, the Union Pacific’s official photographer, Andrew Russell, has set up a camera outside, in front of the Officers’ Club. We would like a photograph of you, all of our visitors, and of course the railroad officials present today, for our historical records.”

  “Certainly.”

  The group vacated the smoky interior and arranged themselves in front of and behind a white, picket fence that ran across the front of the building. The wives and children of some of the officers stationed at the fort were summoned to join the photo shoot.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Russell?” Dodge called from where he stood in the open doorway of the bungalow, directly behind Grant.

  The photographer stuck his head out from beneath the hood that covered the bulky camera perched on its wooden tripod. “I could use a little help with the wet plates, sir.”

  Dodge motioned to Will and pointed toward the photographer.

  Will moved away from his uncle and Luey, where they were standing on the far left of the assembled dignitaries, and hustled over to the camera tripod.

  “Mr. Russell, I’m Will Braddock. Can I be of assistance?”

  “Yes, you can, Will. I have a wet plate already loaded in the camera for the first shot, but I want to take a second one right away to be sure I get a good picture. After the first shot, I’ll remove the exposed plate and hand it to you. I want you to run it over to my porta
ble darkroom mounted on the back of that wagon.” He pointed to a small buggy, on the back of which sat a large, black box about the size of an outhouse. “Lift the back cover, and on the floor you’ll see an identical container in which I have already coated the second plate with chemicals. Simply exchange the two and rush the unexposed one back here as fast as you can. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gentlemen . . . and ladies,” Russell said, “take your positions and remain perfectly still while I slip under the hood to adjust the focus.”

  Russell flipped the heavy, black drape over his head, and Will watched the camera bellows move back and forth until the photographer had the focus he desired. Then Russell stepped out from under the cloth hood.

  “All right, folks. We’re ready. I’m going to remove the lens cover and count to three, while I expose the plate to sunlight. After three seconds, I’ll replace the lens cap, and the picture will have been taken. Do not move while the lens cap is off! That’s important.”

  A final shuffling of the group took place. General Grant stood in the center, leaning both hands on the picket fence. Dodge remained in the club’s doorway. Doc Durant slouched against the open gate of the fence, sulking like a three-year-old. To the far left, Will saw Luey twist the ends of his mustache to straighten them, then stick one hand into the front of his uniform coat. Will couldn’t suppress his grin. Luey was imitating the famous pose of Napoleon Bonaparte.

  “Here we go,” Russell said. He removed the lens cover and counted. “One. Two. Three!” He replaced the lens cap and slid a wooden holder out of the side of the camera, handing it to Will.

  Will ran to the back of the wagon and exchanged the container for the one that he found, just as Russell had told him. He raced back to the photographer, who inserted the new plate into the side of the camera.

  “One more shot, please,” Russell said. “Ready now. One. Two. Three!”