“Thank you for the good meal, Jenny.”
“You’re welcome. Wasn’t that good. We’re running low on supplies. Need to restock in Julesburg.”
Jenny walked with Will to where Buck grazed under a tree. Will gathered up the halter line and heaved himself onto the horse’s back. “I’ll find your wagon master. Promise.”
The light breeze blew Jenny’s black tresses across her face and up against Buck’s mane. They were the same color. “Will, we do appreciate your help. You were true to your name.”
“True to my name?”
“Will means ‘resolute’.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It does. My grandfather told me. His name was William. You were certainly resolute in helping us get that wheel replaced.” She looked into Will’s brown eyes and grinned when he blushed. How long would she be able to do that to him?
“Goodbye, Jenny. Good luck.”
“Good luck to you too, Will.”
Will slapped Buck’s neck with the halter rope and the horse broke into a trot, taking them away from the creek and out across the grassland.
Elspeth had slipped up behind her. “You’re sweet on that boy,” her sister said.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Hush up, Elspeth. Just you hush up.”
Jenny watched until the horse and rider disappeared. Would she ever see him again? He really was just a boy—but a nice boy.
CHAPTER 12
* * *
Will rode late into the night. The waxing moon drifting across a cloudless sky lit his way along the rutted wagon trail. He’d pushed Buck hard enough though. They both needed rest. He halted in the shelter of a copse of trees beside a dry creek bed, another tributary of the South Platte. He used the halter rope to hobble Buck, then stretched out on the ground, his only cover the stars overhead.
But they weren’t stars that twinkled back at him—they were pale, blue eyes. Or were they gray? When she’d first confronted him in sunlight, he thought they were gray. By the light of the campfire, he decided they were blue. She’d stared straight at him while they’d talked after supper. She didn’t drop her eyes—not even once.
Helping his mother on the farm hadn’t left him much time for girls. Alice Armstrong may have been the prettiest girl in his class in Burlington. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in a farm boy like him.
Then there was Rebecca Bottomley. She’d embarrassed him in front of his friends at the church social last Christmas. He’d refused her when she’d asked him to dance. He didn’t know how to dance.
He couldn’t say Jenny was beautiful. Her sister Elspeth was beautiful. But Jenny? She was—what? Independent—stubborn—physically tough. Not big and strong—just tough.
Jenny, with the help of a complaining Elspeth, had wrestled the broken wheel off the hub. The two girls had climbed under the wagon and dragged out the replacement wheel, then slid it onto the axle, while Will and her father lifted on the side of the wagon to aid Buck’s efforts. Elspeth may be the older sister—but Jenny was clearly the leader. Yes, Jenny McNabb was different. And the way she talked—that soft drawl.
He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Jenny when she’d returned from washing up. She’d stood beside the campfire and unwound a towel she’d wrapped around her head, letting her hair spill over her shoulders, shimmering in the firelight.
Will drifted off to sleep picturing Jenny McNabb.
Long black hair, as black as Buck’s mane, brushed across his cheek. It tickled. He awoke with a start. “Dang it, Buck! What’d you do that for?” The horse stood over him, swinging his mane back and forth across Will’s face.
He pushed Buck’s head away. “All right. It’s time to go.”
He only had the clothes he wore and the empty revolver. He had no saddle. He undid the hobble, snapped the rope back onto the halter, and heaved himself onto the horse’s back.
He rode toward Julesburg with the morning sun growing warmer against his back. He fished the cold biscuit Jenny had given him the night before out of his pocket and bit into it. It sure beat that hardtack Mr. Johnson had given him in Columbus.
The deep wagon ruts led him toward the Upper California Crossing on the South Platte River. Buck pricked his ears at a shrill train whistle. Will scanned the horizon to the north. The rolling landscape blocked the view of the tracks, but a faint trace of smoke moved steadily westward on the opposite side of the river.
The undulations of the prairie ended and Will looked down a long slope to the meandering, muddy river. The banks on either side were denuded—just stumps remained. The thousands of immigrants crossing here had chopped down every tree for firewood.
Off to his right, a large Union flag flapped over what must be Fort Sedgwick. Why was the fort on this side of the river? The town was over on the opposite bank.
A half mile away, across the river, the Union Pacific’s twin ribbons of rail glistened in the sunlight. Three locomotives puffed clouds of black smoke from where they were coupled as pusher engines, one behind the other, at the rear of a long construction train idling at track’s end. Dozens of workers scurried around dragging ties and rails into position.
To the east of the train, a jumble of tents and wooden shacks ranged along the single dusty street of Julesburg. To the west, scattered along the north bank of the river, a half dozen circles of covered wagons delineated that many different wagon trains.
Will kicked the horse and Buck splashed across the shallow ford. He inquired at the first wagon train he came to and received directions to Dryden Faulkner’s outfit. He rode into the center of a circle of wagons—the makeshift enclosure serving as a corral for oxen and horses. He found Faulkner and briefed the wagon master on the McNabbs’ dilemma.
“Mr. Faulkner,” Will said. “I thought wagon trains followed the Oregon Trail, up the North Platte River. Why are you all assembled here along the South Platte, heading southwest?”
“Too much Indian trouble along the old Oregon Trail right now,” Faulkner said. “Last December a loud-mouthed Captain Fetterman bragged he could whip the entire Sioux nation with his eighty-man company. Crazy Horse and a band of Sioux and Cheyenne lured him into an ambush and massacred every last soldier, Fetterman included. The Indians have gained confidence they can stop any wagon train crossing their hunting grounds. The Army claims they don’t have enough soldiers to guarantee safe travel up that way, so General Sheridan has ordered all wagon trains to follow the Overland Stage Trail out of Jules-burg. We won’t rejoin the Oregon Trail until five hundred miles west of here, at Fort Bridger.”
“How’s the Army going to protect all these wagon trains when the fort’s over there?” Will pointed across the South Platte.
Faulkner laughed. “Julesburg used to be over there, right next to the fort. When the railroad showed up a while back on this side of the river, the townsfolk picked up, lock, stock, and barrel, and moved over here.”
Satisfied that Faulkner’s train wouldn’t receive the Army’s permission to leave before the McNabbs reached Julesburg, Will rode into the town to find General Dodge. He wished he could’ve saved the other horses, but maybe General Dodge would be appreciative enough with the return of Buck to tell him where to find his uncle. What was he going to do if his uncle got his hands on those guardianship papers before he had a chance to talk to him?
Carts and buggies, riders on horseback, and staggering drunks mingled along the roadway. A stagecoach boarded passengers at a Wells Fargo station. A single telegraph line, sagging between skinny poles, stretched the length of the street. Shouting and laughter drowned out the music from a tinkling piano, making the tune unrecognizable. Hell on Wheels was in full voice this late June morning. Many rowdies hadn’t gone to bed last night.
Will pulled up sharply on Buck to avoid knocking down a man who staggered in front of them. “Watch where you’re going, sonny.” The drunk slurred his words, brandished a half-empty whiskey bottle, and
stumbled on across the street.
The owner of the Lucky Dollar Saloon, the largest structure on the street, obviously wanted to give the impression of permanence with its elaborate false front. Conductor Johnson had told him that the whole town could be torn down in less than a day’s time and hauled to the next Hell on Wheels location.
“Out of the way!” a freighter shouted at him, flicking the reins at a team of horses pulling a heavy wagon. “Don’t stop in the middle of the road, boy.”
“Come on, Buck. Let’s find the depot.”
Shacks and tents of all descriptions lined the narrow street. Hand-painted signs distinguished one from another: a laundry, a general store, a blacksmith. Wagons, horses, and pedestrians jockeyed for the right of way. A pistol shot punctuated a shout from an alley.
At the end of the street, Will pulled up at the Union Pacific depot and dismounted.
“Well, I’ll be.” General Rawlins looked down at him from the depot’s platform. He turned and called over his shoulder. “General Dodge. Come see who just rode in.”
CHAPTER 13
* * *
Following the raid, Paddy had spent a miserable night with Black Wolf and his Cheyenne warriors. He’d kept his Bowie knife within reach the whole time—afraid one of the savages might jump him. At daybreak, when the Indians took the five stolen horses and rode away, he’d made his way back to Ogallala. From there he’d gotten on the first westbound train earlier today.
As the train slowed, Paddy descended the steps of the coach’s platform on the side away from Julesburg’s depot. The other passengers jostled for position to exit on the depot side and paid no attention to him. He jumped from the platform steps before the train stopped. His feet hit the ground running and he stumbled. He quickened his stride, regained his balance, and ducked between two boxcars parked on an adjacent track.
“Sure, and Mort’s gonna like this.” He chuckled and peered out from between the boxcars. He saw no one on this side of the rail yard. He trotted across an open area and turned in behind the row of ramshackle hovels that stretched along the single street of Julesburg. He hurried down an alley, staying in the shadows.
“Aye. Mort’s really gonna like this. I got that black horse this time. Sure, and I did.” He glanced down to the South Platte, to the clump of bushes where he’d told Lone Eagle to hide the Morgan. After he reported to Kavanagh, he’d go retrieve the horse.
He easily located the back entrance to the Lucky Dollar Saloon. The large tent structure extending behind the false wooden front could accommodate a small circus. Paddy pushed through the rear canvas flap door. Chandeliers crowded with candles struggled to illuminate the smoky interior. It was too early for the railroad construction workers, but the Lucky Dollar always had a few customers.
Paddy kicked a drunk passed out on the earthen floor beside the rear entrance. He got a groan in response. One of Kavanagh’s ladies sat beside the piano player, who plinked away on the keys. Later in the evening, she would circulate among the tables encouraging men to drink up and buy a dance with her. At one table, a professional gambler tried to con three men into wagering against him in a game of faro. A handful of customers leaned on the elaborately carved wooden bar that extended the length of one wall of the tent.
“Randy, me good man.” Paddy tipped his bowler to the stocky, bearded man polishing the bar.
“Humph,” Randy Tremble grunted. “The mayor’s been wondering what happened to you.” Randy wiped his hands on his apron and tossed a wrinkled envelope to Paddy. “This came in the mail couple days ago.”
The envelope revealed no return address, but one wasn’t necessary. Paddy recognized the handwriting. He received frequent letters from his sister. They were all the same. His mother didn’t know how to write, so it was his sister who kept reminding him they couldn’t survive on what they earned as laundresses in Brooklyn. He jammed the unopened letter into a vest pocket. Somehow he’d have to scrape up some money to send to them. He never seemed able to satisfy their demands.
Paddy crossed the hard-packed dirt floor and stepped up onto the irregular wooden floor of the false front, where one corner was walled off to serve as Kavanagh’s office. Paddy knocked on the door.
When a gruff voice beckoned from within, Paddy entered the small office and tipped his bowler to Kavanagh.
Sally Whitworth sat in front of Mort’s desk. She glared at Paddy.
“Darling,” Mort said, “be a good girl and fetch me a bottle of that fine Irish whiskey Randy’s got stashed behind the bar.”
“Sure thing, Mort.” Sally stood and smoothed her skirt. Her red curls brushed the tops of her bare shoulders. She was the prettiest of the half dozen girls who worked for Kavanagh, and she knew it. Paddy’s eyes followed her swaying hips as she left the office.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Paddy spun around to face the powerfully built man sitting behind the desk. Why’d Mort use that tone? Paddy had expected praise. “Sure, and I been doing like ye said, Mort. Stealing the Morgan horse.”
“Well, you didn’t do a good job of it now, did you?” Kavanagh brushed a large mustache away from his lips with a finger. In addition to his physical size, he used a keen business sense to control everybody and everything in the portable sin city. Hell on Wheels moved only when “Mayor” Kavanagh said it was time to move.
Paddy furrowed his brow. His upper lip twitched. He fingered the scar on his cheek. Mort must be referring to the bungled attempt at the banker’s stable. The raid on the train had been a success.
“Step over here and look out the window. What do you see in front of the depot?”
Paddy pushed open the window and leaned out. His mouth fell open. Tied to the hitching post at the depot stood the Morgan.
Paddy looked back at Kavanagh. “Well, now, sure and it must be a different horse.”
“No. That’s the Morgan. I was in Omaha the day Dodge brought that horse across from Council Bluffs. I got a good look at it. It’s the same horse.”
“Sure, and I don’t understand. That Cheyenne half-breed Lone Eagle was riding that horse away from the train last I seen him, to be sure. I told him to hide it down by the river. What happened?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t there.”
Paddy closed the window and returned to the front of Kavanagh’s desk. He fidgeted with his bowler hat. “Jeez, Mort. Sure, and I done what ye telegraphed.”
“What am I going to do with you Patrick O’Hannigan? I wish I’d never agreed to be your godfather. If that Yankee major had killed you at the same time he killed your pa, I wouldn’t have had to promise your ma I’d look out for you.” Kavanagh shook his head. “I don’t know how much longer I can afford to have you working for me.”
Sometimes Paddy hated his godfather almost as much as he hated Sean Corcoran. He caressed his scar—a souvenir given to him by the Army major when Corcoran had interfered with his father’s attempt to hang a former slave. “Sorry, Mort. It was sure I was that the Indian got clean away with that horse.”
“Well, obviously he didn’t. I wanted to give that Morgan to Chief Tall Bear. I have to keep bribing the Cheyenne to attack the railroad to slow down the work . . . so I can keep selling whiskey to the workers.” Kavanagh leaned back in his swivel chair. “Sit down.”
Paddy sat opposite his boss and dropped his hat on the floor. He slipped the Bowie knife from his boot and sliced the end off his twist of tobacco. Wasn’t much left of this twist. He’d have to steal another one from some passed-out drunk.
“Twice you’ve failed to steal that horse. Twice!” Kavanagh placed the tips of his fingers together and glared over them at Paddy. “How old are you now, anyway?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen. Well, maybe that’s it. I can’t send a boy to do a man’s job.”
Paddy’s lip twitched faster. He felt his face flush. He bit down hard on the tobacco chaw to keep from swallowing it. “I’ll get the horse, Mort. Sure, and I will.”
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“Forget about the horse . . . for now. I’ve got another job for you. I have it on good authority that General Dodge and his party are trekking up Lodgepole Creek to stake out a new railroad center at the base of the Laramie Mountains.”
A soft knock on the door announced Sally’s return. “Come in, darling,” Kavanagh said.
She entered and set a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the edge of the desk.
Paddy licked his lips when Kavanagh popped the cork and poised the bottle over the glass. “No. You don’t get any of this good stuff, Paddy. When you’re successful in your assigned task, I might think differently.”
Kavanagh splashed amber liquid into the tumbler, downed it in a gulp, and slammed the glass onto the desk. “Mm.” He smacked his lips and spun the swivel chair around to a file cabinet.
Paddy gave Sally his best smile. She sneered back at him. “Don’t leer at me with those rotten, crooked teeth . . . and don’t breathe in my direction either, you slimy Mick. You have the foulest breath of anyone I know.”
Paddy spat a stream of tobacco juice through a gap in his teeth toward a spittoon at the corner of Kavanagh’s desk, missing on purpose. The brown blob splattered on the floor at Sally’s feet. He chuckled when she jumped back, jerking up the hem of her dress.
Kavanagh swung back to his desk. “That’ll be all for now, Sally. Leave us for a while. I need to do some strategizing with this slimy Mick, as you call him.”
Twenty minutes later Paddy handed Kavanagh’s handwritten requisition to Randy Tremble. Randy looked at it and then at Paddy. “A case?”
“Sure, and that’s what the man wrote. A case of whiskey for Chief Tall Bear.”
“There goes today’s profits. Giving away a case of whiskey.” Randy heaved a wooden case of bottled whiskey onto the bar. “They ain’t getting the good stuff. This here rotgut’s good enough for Injuns.”
Paddy grasped the case and dragged it off the bar. He staggered under the weight. The case thudded to the floor.
Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 6