Jordana nodded and followed the rocky grade to where the boxcars stood one after another like an idle wooden serpent. Climbing the steps up to the platform, Jordana took a deep breath before knocking on the already open door.
“Yeah?” A short, wiry man who looked to be in his late forties appeared at the door.
Producing her credentials, Jordana explained, “I’m Joe Baldwin, and I’m writing stories about the railroad for the New York Tribune.” She found immediate approval in the man’s expression. Newspaper stories meant publicity, and publicity equaled public interest. Public interest meant more investors, and that produced dollars for the UP cause.
“Mr. Baldwin,” the redheaded man said, “glad to have you with us.” He shook her hand with such a tight grip that Jordana was sure he’d broken it. She was glad she had thought to wear gloves in case her blunt-cut nails weren’t enough to disguise her small, girlish hands.
“Good to be here, sir,” she replied low and throaty.
“What kind of story are you lookin’ to write?”
“I’ve been doing a regular series for the newspaper,” she told him honestly. “The stories have varied from focuses on the wilderness and settlements beyond the Mississippi to the railroad. I come from a railroading family, and I’d like to see folks back east take a big interest in the transcontinental railroad.”
“I think the boss’ll cotton to you just fine,” the man replied. “You stay here while I go fetch him up.”
Jordana nodded, and once the man had gone, she glanced around the room, mentally comparing it to what she’d seen on the Central Pacific. Part of the boxcar had been turned into an office with a crude partition put in place, no doubt to divide the rest of the car off for private quarters. The office itself was dirty and lacked any charm whatsoever. Papers were strewn about the two desks, and a table set against one wall was covered with surveyor maps. Edging over to take a look at the plans, Jordana nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard heavy boots on the platform outside the door.
“Baldwin, is it?” a bearded man bellowed as he entered. Another man followed close behind the first.
“The name’s Casement. Jack Casement, and this is my brother Dan. I understand you’re writing stories for the paper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of stories are you writing?”
Jordana produced samples from a satchel and handed them to the man. “As I explained to your assistant, I’ve written stories to excite people about the West. I’ve written about the railroad because it’s in my blood.” She used the phrase she’d heard her father use many times over. It had a masculine ring to it, she decided.
Casement looked at the articles, then at Jordana. “Who is your family?”
“My father is James Baldwin. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
“Yes indeed,” the man replied.
Jordana tried to speak as she imagined Brenton might have responded. “My father helped me to get this job, and he is currently in New York.” Jordana pressed on confidently. “My editor wishes to see stories on the development of the railroad, as well as episodes in the lives of men out here working the line. I would like to stay with you for a short time and gather material for my work.” She fixed her gaze on the man’s face and hoped she looked bold and determined.
“I think we can accommodate you, Mr. Baldwin. We have six sleeping cars for the workers. I can put you in there with the other men and you’re sure to get your gut full of their bragging.”
Jordana’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t very well maintain her identity and share a boxcar with a hundred other men. “If you don’t mind, sir, I can just sleep outside under the stars. I have a tent.” She silently praised herself for thinking to buy camping gear. “Most of my gear is outside with the produce freighter,” she added nervously when she noted that Jack appeared to be looking for proof of her statement. “I sometimes stay up late into the night to write my stories, and I wouldn’t want to cause the men to lose sleep just because I was about my work.”
Jack nodded, but it was Dan who replied, “Set up your tent just the other side of the mess car. You can bed down there in privacy and have the place to write up your stories, and still be close enough to the action that I doubt you’ll ever go in want of good conversation.”
Jack agreed. “That would work well. We’re up before sunrise around here and out on the line at first light. You’re welcome to eat with the men, and I’ll see that someone gives you a proper tour of the place after you’re settled. There’s a telegraph office in the rear car, so if you need to send a wire it’s no problem. I’ll be wiring General Dodge later today, and I’ll let him know you’re with us and see if there are any other instructions for you. Do you plan to stay with us for long?”
“I’ll be moving back and forth along the line,” Jordana replied. “I might only be able to stay a day or two for now, but in time I’ll return for more information.”
“Well, it’s good to have you, no matter. Oh, and if you need clothes washed, the laundry’s in the third car back. If you don’t want to use our facilities, there’re some women staying down by the river. You can get your shirts laundered for a fair price and get just about any other comfort you desire for a fair price as well.” He snorted and laughed as if he’d just told some great joke.
Jordana refused to let herself be embarrassed. She wasn’t stupid. She knew full well, or at least imagined she knew, what railroad men did with the bevy of camp followers when time and money permitted moments of pleasure. Charlie had tried to shield her from this aspect of the railroad, but she had chided him soundly, reminding him she was no longer a child. Maybe she’d go down and have a talk with some of those washerwomen and see what possessed them to give themselves over to that particular trade. It might make for a fascinating side story. Then again, it might prove too risqué to even be considered for print.
With the Casement brothers at her side, she reclaimed her gear and paid the freighter for allowing her to ride along. Jack called to a couple of men who were lounging in the shade of the mess car.
“Eberson and Myers will show you around,” Jack told Jordana as they waited for the men to join them. “Men, this is Mr. Baldwin. I want you to give him a tour of the grounds and introduce him to some of the men. Take him out on the line and answer his questions regarding our work here. When it’s your shift, take him with you and show him how it’s done firsthand. You can even let him get his hands dirty, if he wants to give railroad work a try. Oh, and fellas, talk nice to the man—he’s with the newspaper.”
Jordana looked at the two ruffians, not exactly sure she wanted to be left alone with them. The first man was hardly taller than she was, but the stench of body odor and the line of tobacco juice that had made a permanent stain on the side of his mouth almost made Jordana sick to her stomach. The second man was tall, probably over six feet. His broad shoulder frame and thickly muscled arms suggested to Jordana that this man was no stranger to hard work.
“Name’s Eberson,” the big man told her, extending a hand in welcome. “Most folks call me Eb.”
“Good to meet you, Eb,” Jordana replied, hoping she sounded friendly.
“So yar a newspaper feller, eh?” the other man said, taking a moment to spit before continuing. “I’m Sam Myers, but most folks just call me Pup.”
Jordana nodded. “Well, you can just call me Joe,” she replied.
“Well, Joe, let’s see to gettin’ you settled in. There’s a lot of sunlight left and the work sure ain’t back here at the dinner car,” Eb said, grabbing up her things with one hand. He hoisted them over his shoulder as though they weighed nothing at all. “We can put you over there,” he said, slapping her on the back with his free hand.
Somehow Jordana managed to stay on her feet, but just barely. The powerful blow had caught her off guard, and while she knew the man was just giving her a friendly nudge in the right direction, she began wondering how she was going to be able to endure the day
s to come.
Pup laughed and then spit a long brown stream. “I need to take care of business first,” he said and wandered off toward some bushes at the back of the dining car.
“What?” Jordana said, turning to see what the man was doing. She didn’t look long, however, as the man was clearly working to unfasten his trousers. Men! she thought. Had they no manners? Did they not constantly offend one another with all their crudity? She willed herself not to turn red by focusing on her other companion.
“How’d you get a job like this?” Eb asked her. “You ain’t much more than a boy. You ain’t even shavin’ yet.”
Jordana swallowed hard and nodded. “I will be soon enough.” Her tone was as defensive as a boy’s might be at such a comment. “My father is an important man, however, and he got me this job. He thought it might help to grow me up.”
Eb nodded. “Couldn’t hurt. Maybe put some meat on those bones of yours. Can you shoot?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Jordana nodded. “Pretty well.”
“Good,” the man replied.
Jordana frowned. “Why do you say that?”
Eb shrugged. “We get attacked now and then. Indians don’t much like us tearing up the land. We ain’t that far out of Rawlins, but we’re far enough from civilization to keep an eye open.”
By this time Pup was returning, and Jordana felt her cheeks grow hot in spite of herself. Her embarrassment along with a vivid memory of Rich describing some of the Indian attacks on the line caused Jordana to turn away. Pretending to cough, she straightened to see Pup and Eb staring at her oddly.
“What’s the matter?” she asked gruffly, fearful of the answer.
“You ain’t a lunger, are ya?” Pup asked.
“A lunger?” Jordana asked, looking from man to man. “You mean consumptive?” She chuckled at the worried look on their faces. Perhaps they thought she was contagious. “Nah,” she replied, trying her hardest to sound earthy and casual. “I swallowed a bug and about a pound of dust getting here. Just trying to spit some of it back out.”
They grinned, apparently satisfied with her response. “Bugs around here get big enough to shoot,” Eb told her with a laugh. “You’ll get used to ’em soon enough.”
But Jordana wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to anything. Her back still ached from where Eb had slapped her, and she found their open crudity to be in sharp contrast with the exposure she’d had to these workers as a woman. It was amazing how differently they responded to her as a man.
Watching as Eb went to work on her tent and Pup stood scratching himself in a rather disgusting manner, Jordana could only glance heavenward and pray for strength.
9
Brenton looked at Charlie Crocker and shook his head. “I can’t believe you promoted her going.”
Charlie looked sheepish. “I figured since she planned to go anyway, it might be a good way to get some information. It also forces her to keep in touch. Besides, I got a wire. She’s due to meet up with me in Reno next week. You can come along as well and talk to her then.”
Brenton shook his head. The thought that Charlie Crocker had orchestrated his sister’s activity of spying on the Union Pacific was more than he wanted to think about just now. “If she gets hurt—”
“I know . . . I know. It’s not that I didn’t think about that myself. But like I said, she was determined to go one way or the other. I would have preferred you go with her, but I figured you’d want to stick close to Sacramento until your supplies came in. Maybe she’ll hook up with that friend of yours. I told her it might be wise to have someone along. Someone she could trust, however. Do you suppose that Captain O’Brian is trustworthy? He might well be working against us, you know.”
“I certainly don’t know him as well as Jordana does, but I figure him to be all right. He’s been honorable toward our family in many ways. I doubt he’s a double-crosser.”
“Still, he probably wouldn’t see working against the Central Pacific to be the same as double-crossing Jordana and you.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Brenton agreed. “I just don’t know what to tell you, Charlie. I know these problems and troubles aren’t going away.”
Charlie rubbed his chin. “You can say that again. It’s been one problem after another. If it’s not a matter of supplies being delayed or sidetracked along the way, we’re having to fight our own folks over which city deserves to have the railroad run through it.”
“Are you still hearing protests from Carson City?” Brenton questioned.
“Yes and then some. Their own newspaper ran articles suggesting that the Central Pacific was seeking to move the capital to Reno. Like I have time to worry over where they put their capital. I’m trying to build a railroad, nothing more. I’m moving ahead at the fastest possible speed, using the best methods and men I can lay my hands on. Why, already the original estimates of many years till completion of the railroad have been shattered. We could have this thing together in less than a year. How can people have the audacity to accuse me of playing at politics?”
“What about the issues in Utah? Have you cleared the way to grade and lay track?”
“We filed a proposal with the secretary of the interior. I proposed a route from Humboldt Wells, Nevada, to Monument Point in the northwest corner of the Great Salt Lake. Later, so I’ll file to bring the tracks all the way to Echo Summit.”
“Where exactly is that?” asked Brenton.
“About seventy miles east of Ogden.”
Brenton shook his head. “The Union Pacific will never tolerate that. They aren’t going to be happy if you are allowed to build outside of Nevada. If you want to avoid conflict, Charlie, I’d say you’re going about it all wrong.”
“I’m going about it in a manner that will benefit the CP. We’re just as entitled to build this road as they are. The Union Pacific has dillydallied around and that is hardly my fault. They’ve finally managed to lay their track across the barren plains of the Midwest and now sit poking about somewhere west of Laramie. They’ve already arranged grading and track work with Brigham Young, although once that man learns there are few if any reasonable plans to bring the rail through Salt Lake City, General Dodge and his men may find they have a war on their hands instead of a railroad.”
“And you send my sister into the middle of this as a spy?” Brenton commented dryly. “Charlie, I don’t know what ever possessed you.”
“She’s very persuasive,” Charlie admitted. “She had me convinced that she could take care of herself.”
“I’ll bet she did,” Brenton replied. It was time to get back to work, and getting up from the table, Brenton glanced around Charlie’s elaborate railcar office. “You’ve got it pretty nice here, Charlie. All the comforts of home.” He could only hope that Jordana was finding herself just as comfortable. He glanced at the older man, and realizing that berating him further would do no good, he took up his hat and headed to the door. “You’ll let me know the first chance you hear something from her?”
“Of course,” Charlie replied. “The very minute I know something, I’ll send word to you.”
“I guess we just have to wait, then, until Jordana deems it safe enough to check in.”
——
“They’re having a big party in Laramie,” Jack Casement told Jordana as she dined with Eb and Pup in the mess car. “I’ve been told to bring you. It’s some sort of gathering with all the big men on the UP.”
Jordana shook her head. “Why would I be invited?”
“They want to meet you. Apparently some of them know your father and have read your stories.”
“I’m not really much for parties,” said Jordana honestly, “but I suppose I could go and report the matter.”
“You take life too serious, Joe,” Eb said. “Besides, there’s gonna be women at this here party. Maybe you’ll find yourself a western-styled sweetheart.”
Jordana wanted nothing more than to be left alone, but seeing that this wa
sn’t about to happen, she replied, “Well, now, there’s a thought.”
Pup grinned and elbowed Eb. “A good woman and free whiskey will get their attention every time.”
“A free woman and good whiskey, don’t ya mean?” Eb countered. “I’ll bet those UP velvet coats won’t waste decent drink on us.”
“I heard there was gonna be free whiskey,” Pup replied. “And that’s what I’m countin’ on.”
“Who said you were invited?” Casement demanded. “This is a party for the bosses. Why, it’s even rumored that the Republican candidate for president will be there.”
“General Grant?” Jordana questioned with disbelief. “Why would he come all this way?” She wondered if there might be something afoot that would spell trouble for the Central Pacific.
Casement shrugged. “He’s good friends with Dodge. He ain’t gonna be the only brass there. Dodge’s good friends General Sherman and Sheridan are also coming.”
“Sounds like a party to honor the heroes of the Civil War,” Jordana muttered, now more certain than ever that the gathering couldn’t be good for the CP. “I suppose a fellow would have to be daft to miss out on something like that. I’ll go,” she declared, pushing her plate back.
A train whistle blew loud and long, but it didn’t keep Jordana from hearing Pup’s and Eb’s disgruntled complaints about being left behind.
“Sorry, fellows,” she said, getting to her feet. “I promise to get all the interesting facts and tell you about it when I get back.”
Laramie was a youthful town with a bevy of tent dwellings and a few permanent ones. The town itself had been nothing more than a trading post in the shadow of nearby Fort Sanders until the railroad had come through. Now Laramie held great promise to becoming one of the next great cities of the West.
The party, Jordana learned, was to be held in celebration of the Union Pacific and its progress. Durant would be there, as would many of the other important names associated with the UP. Joe Baldwin would be there as well, and hopefully, the occasion would give the Central Pacific some much needed information.
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