The Union Belle

by Gilbert, Morris

  “No—and it may not be for another couple of hours,” he said when he got in. “Sometimes the service doesn’t close at all, not in the usual way. People just stay and pray all night long.” She was so quiet as they drove back, he looked at her curiously. “What did you think of it all, Moira?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she said, quite honestly. “They all enjoyed it so much!” She laughed ruefully. “They even seemed to like it when the minister raked them for their sins.” She had been strangely affected by the service, disliking some aspects and baffled by much of it. Quietly she asked, “Is it real, Mark? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He spoke to the horse, thinking about her question. Finally he nodded, “It’s real, all right. Most of it. You get that many people together for any reason, some of them won’t be sincere. But most of it is real, I think.”

  “Well, if that’s real religion,” Moira said thoughtfully, “then I don’t have any.”

  “Why, it’s just the form you’re looking at,” Mark said quickly. “It’s not the robe or the lack of it that makes a preacher. And the kind of singing changes from place to place.” He struggled to explain his meaning, “We had a fellow in our outfit, his name was Ophie Sanford. Every place we went, he went to church. Funny thing about it was—he went to any church that was handy—Quaker, Catholic, Methodist, Baptist—anything he could find. I asked him once about it, and he said, ‘Why, I go to worship God, Captain—and I can do that in any church.’ Which is a pretty good way of looking at it, I guess.”

  They arrived at the Union Belle, and Mark said, “Wait here and I’ll see if Ray’s finished.” He disappeared into the club and was back almost at once. “They’re all gone,” he announced. “Guess the meeting was over quicker than Ray thought.” He got in and turned the team around. “I’ll take you to the hotel. Maybe he’ll be there.”

  “I don’t think so,” Moira said. “He’s probably in a poker game somewhere.”

  “Well, I’ll try to find him.”

  “No, let him play.” She didn’t seem angry or upset, which struck Mark as strange.

  “I’m wide awake,” Moira continued, looking around at the town’s commotion. “What time is it?”

  He pulled out his watch and peered at it in the darkness. “Quarter past nine.”

  “What’s over that way?” she asked, pointing north.

  “Well, Bear River—and the Wasatch Mountains.”

  “Is the river far?”

  “Couple of miles.”

  “It’s early. Let’s go see it.”

  “Why—there’s nothing much to see, Moira. It’s not a big river.” He didn’t want to take her, but she was insistent, and he relented. “Well, it won’t take but half an hour or so—then you’ve got to go in.”

  “All right.”

  He drove out of town and found himself enjoying the drive. He knew that she was bored with the life she led, and was glad he could bring her some happiness. The wind was cold, and he dug a blanket out from under the seat. “Better get under this,” he warned.

  She spread it over her shoulders, then threw a fold over his, and moved close to him. She laughed and said, “If you freeze, I’ll be lost. I can’t drive a buggy.”

  They soon came to the river, which was much more beautiful in the rich moonlight than it was during the day. It swirled at the feet of their horse, silver and flickering with tiny points of light, and for a long time they sat there, listening to the gurgle as the water passed over the smooth stones.

  Silence consumed the night air around them, and Moira murmured, “It’s so quiet, Mark!”

  He nodded. “Sure is better than the racket I hear all day. And the talk.” He asked without meaning to, “When are you and Ray getting married? I asked you that before, didn’t I?”

  She moved restlessly, and he was acutely aware of her as she pressed against his side. “Oh, I don’t know, Mark. Things are so mixed up.”

  The silence ran on, and for some reason she was filled with a feeling of great emptiness. Lately she had become painfully aware that her life was never going to be the same as it had been, and in the darkness and the quiet, all her fears and apprehensions seemed to rush in, flooding her with a sadness that she had never dared to show anyone.

  He looked down and saw that her eyes were damp with tears that gleamed in the moonlight. “Why, Moira, what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Mark! I’m so unhappy!” She turned her face toward him and began to sob. Her body shook, and without volition, she leaned against him. He was taken by surprise, and instinctively put his arm around her, holding her. She had appeared so strong, independent and unrestrained that he had never sensed a weakness in her, but now she seemed like a broken-hearted child.

  Finally the sobs began to subside, and she raised her face to his, tears making silver tracks down her smooth cheeks. She trembled, still in his embrace. She was a lovely woman, and he was moved by her sudden display of weakness. “Moira—” he whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then she parted her lips, and with no thought at all of doing so, he lowered his head and kissed her. There was a response in her that stirred him, and for one moment he felt her desires, rich and strong as his own, awaken. Then thoughts of Ray filled his mind and he quickly lifted his head, saying, “You’ve had a bad time—but it’ll be all right.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “We’ve both had a bad time, Mark.”

  He turned the horse around and they drove back to the hotel. He got out and helped her down. “I’ll put the buggy in the stable for Ray.” She was standing close beside him, and she reached out and touched his cheek with an intensely feminine gesture, saying, “You’ve been a help, Mark. Thank you.” Then she turned and walked into the hotel.

  Mark got in the buggy and left, unaware that Ray Hayden stood in the shadows across the street from the hotel. He had gone seeking them, and failing to find them, had waited for their return. He had been close enough to witness the caress that Moira gave Winslow, and seeing it, he smiled grimly. He was not a possessive man as a rule, but something raked across his nerves as he saw the look she gave Mark. His own feelings for Moira had been confused, but now he was determined that he would have her—if for no other reason than to prove to Mark Winslow that he was the better man!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Out of the Past

  December came and with it bad weather. Snowflakes the size of half dollars drove slantwise through the early morning light as the train from the East pulled into the station at Bear River City. The full force of winter lurked just over the glittering tops of the mountains to the west, waiting like a wild beast to leap on the lower valleys.

  Ray Hayden pulled his sheepskin coat tighter around his neck, stamping his feet to restore circulation. The train was late, but the message he had received in a cryptic telegram had left him no choice but to wait in the morning cold. It had said simply, “Morning train, Tuesday. J.W.” Hayden had not met with Wallford since the fateful eavesdropping incident. They had exchanged coded messages twice, but now it was clear that Wallford wanted a personal meeting.

  The engine turned loose a huge blast of steam and ground to a halt. People began disembarking at once, and Hayden kept back, not wanting to be seen with Wallford. Most of the passengers were laborers, with the exception of a couple of small families. He noted a fine-looking woman with silvering hair step down, take in the surroundings, then proceed at once toward the station office. Wallford descended after her, his eyes searching for Ray. Hayden moved out of the shadows of the long depot building and caught his attention. He waited until the man came to him and said with irritation, “Meeting like this isn’t smart, Jason. There was talk after the trouble here that you were tied in with Cherry. If I’m seen talking to you, it’ll ruin our plans.”

  Wallford’s black eyes were expressionless. “I didn’t come for conversation, Ray. The Central and the Union are neck-and-neck. You’ve had plenty of time to think. How can we stop the Union?” He saw Hayden he
sitate, and pulled a package out of his pocket. “There’s ten thousand dollars in here—and I’ve got another one just like it in my bag. It comes from the top—but you’ve got to deliver the goods. Nothing less than a foolproof scheme this time.” He saw greed in the fair man’s eyes and added, “And of course, if you succeed you’re guaranteed a big job with the Central. Stanford himself told me, ‘If Hayden delivers the goods, send him to me. We can use a man like that in the board room.’ ”

  That tipped the scales, and Hayden responded quickly. “I’ve got the way, Jason.” He drew a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and opened it. Wallford examined it carefully while Hayden explained. “Here’s the end of track—where we are right now. Most of the rest of the right of way lies right through the Wasatch Mountains. Now—here’s Echo Canyon. We’ve got crews tunneling from both sides of the mountain using nitroglycerin to blast through. The plan is for them to meet somewhere in the middle. When they do, the worst of Reed’s problems are over. It’ll be rough laying track in the winter, but nothing stops that man!”

  Wallford stared at the map, then lifted his eyes. “You’re saying that the tunnel is the key to stopping them?”

  “Blow that, Jason, and no work force in the world could beat the Central.” Ray’s voice was determined, and he added, “Put some charges in there, set them off. Do it late enough so there’s no hope of re-drilling it. They can’t go around it , and they can’t go over it. We can’t lose.”

  Wallford thought hard, then a smile came to his thin lips. “You’ve got it, Ray.” He handed the money over, saying, “The rest is yours when the tunnel is blown.” He watched the other man’s expression, then added casually, “Of course, you’ll have to do the job yourself.”

  Ray stared at him, startled. “Me! Why, I can’t get away with that, Jason.”

  “Yes, you can. When the time is right, you just let me know. I’ll have some help ready for you, and you can go plant the charges and blow the tunnel. You won’t have to return to the Union. You can join Stanford and the others in California—right in that big board room!”

  It was a development that Hayden had never considered, for he had thought he would be in on the planning rather than the action. Wallford noticed Ray’s hesitation and urged him on. “You’ll have to choose, Ray—and right now. Either give the money back and go down with the Union—or get on board with us at the Central.”

  Wallford had calculated his moves well. He had Hayden right where he wanted him, even though most of what he claimed was a lie. The Big Four knew nothing of Hayden, Leland Stanford included. There was no promise of a job, and no additional money to be had. But he knew Hayden well, and by putting the cash in his hand had drawn the man into his net. Hayden wavered until he looked down at the cash. “I’ll do it, Jason,” he said.

  “I thought you might. You’re a smart fellow, Ray. Now, I’m going to keep under wraps. I’ll be staying at the hotel, doing a little gambling and keeping my ear to the ground. Give me at least two day’s notice, and I’ll have the explosives and the men to help you.” He put a hand on Hayden’s shoulder, adding, “Just a little while, Ray, and you’ll be moving with the big fellows.” As soon as he disappeared, Hayden left as well, going slowly back toward town. His head was bowed in the falling snow, and he was acutely conscious of the package of bills in his pocket. He was also aware of a heaviness that he could not shake off. “A man has to take care of himself!” he muttered defiantly to himself. Such had been his philosophy for a long time—but somehow it did not comfort him as he walked slowly through the falling snow.

  ****

  Mark awoke as the first light of dawn filtered through his window. He had gone to bed after two in the morning, having stayed up to go over figures and grading reports with Reed. As he rolled out of bed, his eyes were gritty and he lacked his former buoyancy. He moved slowly as he dressed and shaved. He recalled the day before with distaste, for there had been a flare-up in Roy Spicer’s saloon. Spicer was a borderline case, a tough man who should have been run out of town with Valance. He had barely kept within the line Mark had set, and yesterday trouble had broken out. One of his dealers had cheated some of Casement’s steel layers, and in the fracas two of them had been killed by Spicer’s men. Mark had gone at once, and Spicer and two of his men had put up a fight. The violence had exploded, and when it was over, all three of the troublemakers were shot—two of them fatally. Both Nick Bolton and Dooley had taken bullets, Nick through his bicep and Dooley along the side of his neck.

  The realization that Dooley could be lying beside Jeff Driver in the cemetery made Mark’s hand suddenly tremble—and he looked at it in shock. “Didn’t know anything could make me shake,” he said in surprise. “Maybe it’s time to quit all this.”

  Lola had said nothing, but he knew that she and Dooley had discussed the incident. There was no rebuke spoken, but her eyes revealed the sadness he had caused. He finished shaving, put his razor away and slipped into his coat, turning abruptly when a knock came at his door.

  He slipped his gun from under his pillow and went to stand to one side of the door, saying, “Who is it?”

  A woman’s voice replied, “Open the door, Mark.”

  He didn’t recognize the voice, and was wary as he turned the key and jerked the door open, gun in hand—then he froze where he was, shock racing through his nerves.

  “Since when did you start greeting your mother with a .44, Mark?”

  Winslow stared at Rebekah Winslow, unable to think. She stood there regarding him as she had done a thousand times before, and his mind reeled with those memories, while at the same time trying to adjust to the sight of her.

  He tossed the gun on the bed, stepped forward and pulled her into the room, his arms around her. He had not seen her since he had left Belle Maison after the war, and she seemed smaller than he remembered. She clung to him fiercely, and he felt her body move with a sob—then she stepped back and dashed the tears from her eyes. She was, he saw, as vigorous as ever, and at the age of fifty still an attractive and vibrant woman. Her auburn hair was streaked with silver, but still as curly and pert as ever.

  “You look worn out, Mark,” she said finally. “Mother—what are you doing here?” he asked in bewilderment. “Is something wrong at home?”

  Rebekah nodded. “It’s your father, Mark. He’s very ill.”

  Mark stood very still. “Is it his heart?”

  “Yes. He’s been going down for a year.”

  Mark nodded. “Dooley told me a little about it. I’ll see my boss and we’ll start back—”

  “No,” Rebekah said with a slight smile. “He’s here—down at the station.” She put her hand up and laid it on his cheek and he saw that she was fighting back the tears. “You know how your father is, Mark. When the doctor told him he didn’t have long, he wanted to see all of you. Dan and Thomas were close. Pet was right there, of course—and Belle came at once. He said his good-byes—and then he said, ‘Rebekah, get my pants. We’re going to see Mark.’ ”

  Mark could not hide the moisture that gathered in his own eyes. He was the oldest son and had been closer to his father than the other boys. The thought of his father coming all the way across the country to see him momentarily robbed him of speech. He cleared his throat. “He’s on the train?”

  “Yes.”

  Mark took her arm and led her down the stairs quickly. “How is he, Mother?”

  “Very weak. I think he’s kept himself alive on the hope of seeing you,” she said. As they left the hotel and moved quickly through the snow, she told him about the trip. “Everyone’s been so kind, Mark—especially west of Omaha. I informed the conductor Sky was your father, and he couldn’t do enough for us. He made the caboose into a private room for Sky and me—just ran the other men right out!” Memory of it gladdened her eyes, and she went on to tell how as the crews changed, each new crew watched over them. She squeezed his arm and said, “I’m proud of you, Mark. You’ve made a name for yourself with the men
of the Union.”

  Mark shook his head, unable to respond. His world was suddenly falling, and when they got to the station, he saw that the caboose had been shuffled off to the side track. Billy Thomas, one of the conductors on the line, hurried up to him, his eyes sympathetic. “I figured you might not want to be moving your father around any more than is necessary, Mr. Winslow, so I had Shorty put the caboose where you could use it for a bedroom for a spell.”

  “I appreciate that, Billy,” Mark said, touching the man on the arm.

  “Well, there’s not much in the way of accommodations,” Thomas offered. “Let me know if I can do anything, Mrs. Winslow,” he said, pulling off his hat to Rebekah.

  “You’ve been so kind!” Rebekah said, putting out her hand. “God bless you, sir.”

  Thomas flushed and moved away, and Rebekah said, “Come along, Mark,” and led the way to the caboose. He helped her up, then followed her through the door. There was a fire in the wood stove, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the man sitting on a straight chair beside it.

  Mark stumbled toward his father, his throat tight. Sky put out his hands, his blue eyes bright and clear, though Mark saw at once that he was very weary. “Mark—!” Sky said, and then Mark did something he had neither planned nor done since he was a boy. He put his arms out and the two men embraced. Sky’s body felt thin and frail, and Mark held him gently, his eyes stinging with tears.

  “Father—” he whispered, unable to say more.

  Sky finally leaned back and looked at his son. His hair was silver, and there were lines of pain around his blue eyes. He reached out with one thin hand and put it on Mark’s arm as if to reassure himself, then cleared his throat and said, “Well, Rebekah, are you going to miss the chance to cook breakfast for two of your favorite men?” He moved back toward the chair, his gruff voice unable to cover his feelings. “Well—sit down, son, and tell me all about this railroad. I’ve seen enough of it the last few days.”