“Your concerns are reasonable, but consider this as well,” Rich replied. “Most of the tribes I’ve dealt with want little to do with the whites. They aren’t asking to be a part of our society. They are asking to be left alone.”
“And so why is that a problem?” Jordana asked quite seriously. “Why can’t they just be allowed to go their own way?”
“And where do you suggest they go? Do we give them the choicest land or the worst? Do we allow them to dictate which areas are acceptable to them, especially when the place is already overrun with white settlers who have paid out money for their land and its improvements?”
“I don’t know,” Jordana replied, turning her attention back out the window.
“And neither does anyone else.” Rich sighed wearily. “Oh, they think they do, and unfortunately, most of the reserves given the Indians are far from the best of lands. Then when drought strikes and the game goes to better pastures, the Indians follow after for food and, lo and behold, find themselves incarcerated for violating their peace treaties with the whites. It’s a situation that appears to have no easy answers.”
The train moved along at a decent pace, lulling Jordana into a drowsy state with its rhythmic rocking. She noted that many other passengers, what few there were, had already fallen asleep, their heads nodding up and down as the train progressed down the line. Perhaps it was this gentle sense of security that caused the next few moments to be so startling in contrast.
Without warning, Jordana found herself slammed against the seat in front of her and then her entire world quite literally turned upside down as the train jerked and lurched, seeming to fly into the air and take leave of the tracks. She heard herself scream for Rich in a voice as detached as the train was from its tracks. Then debris crashed down upon her and time stood still as the train slid in sickening thuds against the prairie. In the midst of it all, gunshots blasted above the clash of metal against metal. Although Jordana’s senses were rather dulled as she finally came to a stop under a crush of broken seats, rifles, and bodies, she could not mistake the blood-chilling yells that filled the air.
They were under attack. The Indians must have somehow derailed the train and were now gathering to finish them off. Jordana fearfully remembered Rich writing of previous raids—of no one being left alive to tell the tale.
“Jordana!” Rich called to her, forgetting that she was supposed to be Joe Baldwin.
She grimaced at the weight of something metallic against her legs and pushed to free herself. “I’m here,” she called out.
Then, just as she knew he would, Rich somehow appeared and pulled her free from the wreckage. Their gazes locked, and for a moment Jordana was certain she saw evidence of something more than friendship. In fact, for the briefest instant, she thought he might very well kiss her. And furthermore, she would have accepted it quite willingly.
“You’ll have to put your shooting skills to the test,” he told her, reaching down in the mess to pull up a rifle. He tossed it aside, muttering something about the barrel being bent, then took up another one. “Here, use this.” He handed her the rifle, then went in search of ammunition.
Other passengers were gathering their wits and also responding. Some of the men were already returning fire, while the few women passengers were seeking to gather the UP rifles and ammunition amidst the sound of bullets and death cries.
Rich turned to Jordana. “I want to get up to the engine and see if the engineer and fireman are okay. The passengers have some cover afforded them from the car, but the men up front won’t have anything but the open cab. Hopefully, they have been thrown clear from that. I can present some cover for them and, if they’re alive, get them back in here with the others.”
Because the car had come to rest on its side, most of the defenders were having to climb up the seats to reach the only available windows. Popping up to fire out of what was now the top of the car, Jordana felt sure these defenders were little more than sitting ducks awaiting execution. As Rich jerked around and half walked, half crawled down the aisle of the mangled passenger car, Jordana followed.
Rich managed to pull the door open and let it slam back against the wall with a dull thud. A bullet ricocheted past him as he stuck his head out the opening, causing him to pull back quickly. He slammed up against Jordana, nearly knocking the breath from her.
“Sorry,” he murmured, touching her cheek for the briefest moment. “Get back into the car, Jordana.”
But his eyes were on the front of the train, and he did not notice that she didn’t move. The tender car had spilled over, as had the engine. Rich and Jordana could see the smoke still streaming out from up ahead. Hideous screams could also be heard, and Jordana felt certain that the Indians were probably torturing the engineer and fireman.
“Don’t go out there,” she told Rich, reaching out to take hold of his arm. “You’ll get killed.”
“I have to try to save them,” he said. “You stay here with the others and keep firing at the Indians. That will give me cover. Everyone is going to have to do their part or we aren’t going to get out of this alive.”
He started out the door, but still Jordana held on to him. “Please, Rich. Please be careful.” She knew her emotions could be easily read, but she no longer cared. The idea of Rich getting himself killed and not knowing that she would be devastated by it made it imperative for her to speak her mind. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she murmured a bit lamely. This really wasn’t the time to speak of her feelings for this man, even if she could have put them into words.
He smiled. “Back in North Platte you couldn’t wait to be rid of me. Now you don’t want me to go.” He gave her hand a squeeze while freeing her hold on his coat. “I’ll be back. Don’t you worry about that. Just keep yourself alive.”
Jordana nodded. There was nothing else to say or do. She was needed elsewhere, just as he was. Wasting more time with words probably wasn’t going to benefit either one of them, so she turned back into the car.
——
Rich edged his way along the tender car, taking cover wherever he could. He fired off several rounds as the Indians moved ever closer to the track. Bullets zipped around him, ringing out as they glanced off the iron of the engine and tender. He vaguely noted that there were more bullets flying than arrows, and even from his distance, he saw several of the attackers were carrying good-quality rifles. But these thoughts were quickly obliterated by the screams of some tormented soul, which could still be heard just beyond his sight. He had to try to reach the man and do whatever he could to save him.
Pressing as tightly as he could to the now exposed iron trucks and axles, Rich managed to inch around to the engine. However, what he found once he reached that point was a sight that, though he had feared it, he could have never been prepared for. There on the toppled engineer’s platform, the fireman was slowly being roasted alive—pinned tightly against the red-hot firebox.
“Help me!” the man cried out over and over. “For the love of God . . . help me.” His screams tore at Rich’s heart, but there seemed no way to answer the man’s pleas without burning to death himself.
Just then, the man seemed to sense Rich’s presence. He looked over, his pain-wracked eyes meeting Rich’s. “Please,” he cried mournfully. “Have pity.”
Rich couldn’t have torn himself away from the man’s agonized expression if he’d wanted to. Forgetting all good sense, Rich tore at the iron bar that trapped the man. He tugged and pulled at the thing, his leather gloves scorching at the heat, but it was wedged in as tightly as if it had been meant to be there. Flames from the box began licking up at him. The heat from them singed Rich’s hair, and he had to jump back to keep from being burned as well.
The man screamed as his clothes caught fire.
“Oh, God,” Rich prayed, “I am so sorry.”
Just then an Indian galloped toward the engine, seeming to have caught sight of the helpless figures on the platform. The warrior fired to
ward Rich, who returned fire. Just as flames fully engulfed the man, Rich heard more close rifle fire, but this time not directed at him. Racing toward the engine aback his pony, the painted warrior flew off the horse in attack. Rich’s attention was drawn to the engineer, who lay not fifteen feet away from the engine. The engineer had tried to shoot, but his gun appeared to be empty. The brave now had the man by the hair and, taking his knife in hand, let out a bloodcurdling yell. Without any further hesitation, Rich leveled his gun and shot the Indian, who was threatening to scalp the poor engineer. The engineer flattened himself against the Nebraska prairie ground, appearing determined to stay alive in the only manner left him. Rich wished fervently he could reach the man and was about to inch his way out to him when the fireman gave up one last scream and succumbed to the fire.
Falling back against the iron wall, Rich couldn’t tear his gaze from the burned body of the fireman. The man’s charred arm was extended toward Rich as if attempting one last plea for mercy. It was a sight Rich would not soon forget.
Within a matter of minutes the attack was over. Apparently having tired of their game, the remaining warriors headed their ponies off across the prairie amidst the persistent gunfire from the UP passengers.
Rich hadn’t notice the presence of anyone else until a hand touched his shoulder. The engineer had come to join Rich, tears in his eyes. “He was like a son to me,” he said, nodding toward the burning firebox. “He was a fine man. I wouldn’t have seen anyone die a death like that.”
His tone wasn’t accusing, but Rich took it as such. Somehow all the times he had rescued others, saving lives of settlers and travelers while he was in the army, paled in the glaring light of this horrible failure. He knew he was being unfairly hard on himself, but he could feel no other way, especially when he closed his eyes and still saw the pleading hand of the man reaching out futilely to him.
Angry and confused, Rich left the engineer to mourn and went in search of Jordana. She was already crawling through the door when he reached the passenger car, and without worrying about the appearance, they embraced and held each other tightly for a moment.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” he whispered, wishing he could kiss her lips and run his fingers through her short hair.
“I was so afraid,” she said. “Not for me but for you. I was just sure you’d end up getting yourself shot.”
He pulled away and regained his composure. “You don’t have much confidence in me, do you?”
Jordana frowned. “Of course I do. Do you suppose I would have let you go out of that car alone if I didn’t think you capable of defending yourself? What happened? Did you find the engineer?”
“Yes,” Rich replied, unable to hide the emotion he felt. Tormented by the face of the fireman, he said, “Just don’t go up there, Jordana. Don’t go to the engine.”
He left her standing there and stalked off down the track to the freight cars. He’d arranged for Faithful to ride in the third car from the last, and now it was clear that even these cars had managed to derail in the accident.
It wasn’t easy to pry open the boxcar, and once he had, Rich could see from the flood of sunlight into the pit below that Faithful had suffered most grievously. The horse lay on its side, pinned to the side of the car by a wooden shaft. Whinnying softly, it seemed the horse pleaded with the same doleful look of the fireman for Rich to help relieve his misery.
“Oh, Faithful, you deserved a whole lot better than this,” Rich said, tears coming to his eyes. Taking out his revolver, Rich knew what had to be done. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m so sorry.”
He fired two shots and watched as Faithful drew his last breath. If only he’d been able to do at least that for the dying fireman. Without caring who saw or what they might think, Rich sat down atop the overturned freight car and let his tears fall. His mother had once said it was only a strong man who could allow himself to cry from time to time. He’d only shed tears on one other occasion, and that was when Peggy had died.
God, I so wanted to help that man, Rich prayed silently. I hate it when I am helpless like that.
Had Rich’s grief not been so deep, he might have smiled at his foolish words. He was not infallible, but he believed in a God who was—a God who certainly had the life of that fireman in His care. And Rich knew in his heart that God would have provided a means to help the man if it had been in His will. Rich did not pretend to understand the workings of God’s will, but he did trust God with all his heart. And that was as much as a man could be expected to do.
My helplessness only proves, he prayed once more, that I’ve got to trust you above all things. I have to believe that you had this situation in your hand from the beginning.
16
The dark-headed man squatted beside the campfire and smiled. “Your work was quite good. Of course, it would’ve been better had you been able to kill the passengers and pillage the freight for yourself, but nevertheless, I commend you.”
The painted face of the warrior never changed in expression. “Have you brought our pay?”
“Certainly. There are three wagons down in the ravine. I expect you to unload them so that my men can be about their business. There’s a good quantity of meat, blankets, flour, sugar, and everything else you requested.”
“Good,” the Indian replied, getting to his feet. “We’ll go now.”
“Don’t forget our agreement about the bridge over Lodge Pole Creek.”
The man nodded. “It will be done.”
Satisfied with the Indian’s response, the dark-haired man nodded and also stood. Extending his hand, he offered his thanks. “It may not make much sense to you as to why these things are helpful, but I thank you nevertheless. It is to benefit both our peoples.”
The brave said nothing and, refusing to shake the man’s hand, ventured instead down the side of the rocky path and into the ravine.
The man smiled to himself with a sense of great satisfaction. It was all too simple to get people to do your dirty work for you. There wasn’t a man who couldn’t be bought by one means or another. Pulling a cigar from his pocket, he took out an ornate snipper and clipped the end.
“Child’s play, really,” he said, rather pleased with himself.
——
Jordana had somehow managed to sleep the last fifty miles into Wadsworth. It was a fitful sleep, fraught with images of Indians and wounded soldiers. She was taken back in time to when she and Brenton had been attacked while venturing out with a survey party for the Union Pacific. Tossing and turning, she replayed the attack in her mind, feeling the urgency and fear mount in her like a great volcano about to erupt. The scene of her dream then changed and she found herself with Rich weeks earlier. They were overturning, only this time they seemed to roll and roll and never come to a stop. Somewhere in the midst of the destruction she could see Rich as he was crushed beneath the weight of the train car. With a start, Jordana jerked upright in her seat and would have jumped to her feet but for Rich’s steadying hand. The only other stage passenger, an elderly man, glanced up for a moment before going back to sleep.
“Nightmare?” Rich asked.
She pulled off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. “Yes.” She yawned, feeling more tired than when she’d first fallen asleep. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the train derailment nearly two weeks ago. She had tried to keep herself distracted by gathering material for the newspaper while accompanying Rich on his courier runs. But her nightmares proved she had been only marginally successful.
“You know, if you’d quit this foolishness and stay home with your brother, you wouldn’t have to worry about coming to harm.” He spoke more casually than urgently, as if he were merely doing his duty in making the suggestion, with little hope of its being heeded.
“I’m not worried about coming to harm,” she lied. “I’m just overly tired. My mother always said nightmares were more a byproduct of having too little sleep than of actual events.”
“But fear keeps
you from resting properly,” Rich countered.
“Sometimes joy does the same,” Jordana mused, then fell silent. Ever since their intimate encounter with death and destruction, she’d been completely confused by her feelings for the man at her side. Rich was more important to her than she’d ever allowed any man to be, save for her father and brothers. The turmoil it caused her heart and soul was nearly more than she could deal with. Had she fallen in love with him? Was this what true love was all about?
Her nights were consumed with scenes of Rich lying dead. She often woke up crying his name over and over, sobbing against her tightly hugged pillow, desperately sorrowing that she had lost something deeply important.
The stage began to slow, and a quick glance out the open window revealed they were nearly upon civilization again. The town of Wadsworth lay just ahead, and with it, Jordana knew she would have to face Charlie with what little information she’d managed to gather. He wouldn’t be very satisfied with her report. She doubted seriously that he would be impressed by the numerous Indian attacks rendered against the Union Pacific. Nor would he like what she had to ask in regard to the possibility that their own people might have had something to do with the destruction and delays facing the UP. He wouldn’t understand her concern, because the Central Pacific was all he cared about. He wouldn’t worry over whether Rich met with harm while serving as a courier on the UP, because Charlie would no doubt see Rich as the enemy. It was a no-win situation.
“Will Brenton be here?” Rich asked casually.
Judith Pella, Tracie Peterson - [Ribbons West 03] Page 13