Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One)

by Robert Lee Murphy

  Homer paused and stared over his cup into the fire.

  “Mavis was brought in from another plantation to be a house slave. I’se right smitten. She took to me, too. Weren’t no time till Mavis and me was married. Not like white folks, in a church and such. We jest said the vows and jumped the broom.”

  Homer sighed and sipped from his cup. “But Mavis is gone now. When the war started and things went bad for the South, most plantations couldn’t afford to keep all their slaves. Old man Lafontaine, he was the plantation owner, sold her. Damn his soul! Excuse my cussing.”

  “I say dang myself . . . every once in a while. Mama didn’t approve, but sometimes I can’t help it. It just comes out.”

  “I knows what you mean.”

  “What happened to Mavis?”

  “Don’t rightly know. Heard tell she was sent to Alabama.”

  “That’s not right.”

  “Not right?” Homer sat up. “Nothing’s right about slavery, Will. Nothing!”

  “But you’re not a slave now . . . are you?”

  “No. Thanks to Mr. Lincoln. He made it official with that Emancipation Proclamation. But I made it happen sooner.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I run away. Hightailed it out of Louisiana. It was too dangerous to go to Alabama to look for Mavis. The Rebs delighted in capturing runaway slaves and returning them to their owners. I’d a been captured for sure, and like as not beaten to death. So I followed the underground railroad north. Weren’t no real railroad like the UP. They jest called it that.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “New York City. That’s where I met your uncle.”

  Homer pulled down the collar of his jacket. An ugly white scar encircled his thick black neck. “Ain’t pretty, is it?”

  Will shook his head.

  “Right after the Battle of Gettysburg, I’se working on the docks in New York. President Lincoln wanted to draft more troops to fight the war. But them New York Irish refused . . . said they wouldn’t fight to free no Negras. The Irish felt the free Negras were taking jobs away from them, and if they fought to free the rest of us, there wouldn’t be no jobs left for them.”

  Homer pulled his collar back up.

  “Now I can understand the Irish, or others for that matter, feeling what you call persecution. But they forget, when they run away from their old country and come here, they was given a fighting chance to be somebody . . . to be free. Now we already had freedom where we come from . . . but when we was brought here, we wasn’t given no chance at all.”

  Homer laid his head back against his saddle.

  “It got so bad in New York in sixty-three, the Irish rioted and burned the draft offices. Then they started lynching Negra men. Major Corcoran had come to New York to buy railroad equipment to ship south where the Yanks was rebuilding the lines tore up by the Rebs. I was a stevedore, helping load locomotives onto a ship for your uncle, when a mob of Irish thugs stormed the docks yelling ‘hang the nigger.’ They strung me up to a lamppost. That’s when your uncle lit into them with his sword.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Nothing, ’cept hang onto that rope . . . and pray. They hung me up so fast they forgot to tie my hands. I’se able to reach up and grab the rope, but my hands was so sweaty they kept slipping. That noose got tighter and tighter. But I kept my eyes on the major. Somehow I jest knowed he was my salvation.”

  “What’d Uncle Sean do?”

  “He slashed at them till they backed off. ’Cept for one bully named O’Hannigan.”

  Will sat up.

  “O’Hannigan was the gang leader . . . louder than the rest, shouting orders. He come up behind your uncle brandishing an ax handle. Somehows, I managed to called out a warning. The major whirled round and slashed at O’Hannigan’s arm. Blood spewed everywhere, but that Irishman jest shifted the ax handle to his other hand. When he raised the handle again, the major lunged at him with his sword. Right then a boy ducked in between the two of them, crying ‘Pa.’ The blade sliced across that boy’s face before plunging into the Irishman’s chest. That boy knelt beside his pa’s body, glaring pure hatred at the major, with blood oozing from that slash across his cheek. I heard him swear to kill the major if it was the last thing he did. Then I lost my grip, and the rope strangled me real good. Next thing I knowed I was coming to on the dock. Your uncle had cut me down with his saber.”

  “I know who the boy is,” Will whispered. “Paddy O’Hannigan.”

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  Will’s eyes popped open. He tried to speak, but Homer’s hand clamped his mouth closed.

  “Sh,” Homer whispered. He removed his hand, touched a finger to his lips, and pointed downslope.

  In the early morning light, five Indians rode single-file along the path beside the creek. They kicked each survey stake they passed, grunting satisfaction when they succeeded in toppling one over.

  Black paint obscured the lower half of the lead rider’s face. Will had seen him someplace before. Of course—the train raid. Cheyenne! He scrutinized the other warriors. Lone Eagle wasn’t one of them. For some reason he breathed a sigh of relief.

  He lay alongside Homer, peering through the bushes. His heart thumped so loudly he at first thought the Indians might hear its drumming. Don’t be foolish, he told himself. Just stay calm.

  The two of them remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity before the Indians disappeared up the trail.

  Will studied Homer’s face. Deep lines creased the older man’s forehead, his bushy gray eyebrows scrunched above squinting eyes.

  “They’re the same Cheyenne who raided General Dodge’s train,” Will whispered.

  The black man nodded, ran a hand through his hair, and settled his hat on his head. “Come on.” His voice low and raspy.

  Homer rolled up his blanket and strapped it to the cantle of the saddle he’d used for a pillow. He motioned for Will to do the same, then grabbing his saddle in one hand and his carbine in the other, he shuffled up the slope in a crouch toward the horses.

  Will followed, saddled his horse, strapped on his gear, then turned to Ruby. He lifted the pack over the mule’s back and lowered it slowly. He tightened the cinch as hard as he could without punching the mule in the stomach, hoping he wouldn’t cause her to bray.

  Homer slipped back to their dead campfire, retrieved the coffeepot and frying pan, and added them to the pack. He stroked the mule’s neck. “Ruby, you behave now.”

  She snuffled softly.

  “So far, so good.” Homer climbed into his saddle. “Them Injuns is far enough away now. Let’s get going.”

  Will gathered up the mule’s halter rope and stuck his boot into his stirrup. In his hurry to mount he jabbed the toe of his boot into his horse’s belly. The startled horse kicked out with its hind hooves, striking Ruby in her chest.

  “Hee-haw!” Ruby brayed in protest at being kicked. She bucked up to get away, yanking the halter rope out of Will’s hand.

  “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!” The Indians had heard the raucous commotion.

  He reached for Ruby’s halter rope, but she backed away and brayed louder.

  “Leave the mule!” Homer shouted. Will could clearly see the fear in the whites of his companion’s eyes. “She can save herself!”

  “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!” The cries drew closer.

  Will heaved himself into the saddle and pounded his heels into the horse’s flanks. His mount lunged down the slope following Homer, who lashed his steed with his reins.

  He looked back. The first Indian rounded a bend in the trail, whooping and motioning to those behind.

  “Ride!” Homer shouted. “Gotta get to that grading crew!”

  “Yeah! Can’t be far!”

  A rifle fired behind him. The bullet zipped past his ear. Whew, that was close!

  He kicked his horse repeatedly. “Go! Go!”

  Another shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted beneath Homer’s horse
, spattering rock and gravel.

  Will twisted around in his saddle and tried to steady the weight of the carbine’s barrel over his raised left arm. The jouncing on the horse made aiming impossible, so he just pulled the trigger. The carbine roared. Flame and smoke spat from the barrel.

  The Indians kept coming. He hadn’t hit anybody. Hadn’t even slowed them down.

  He levered another cartridge into the breech, but before he could pull the trigger, a third shot erupted from the Indians.

  Will’s horse screamed.

  That bullet had hit its mark. His horse stumbled. Its legs buckled. The horse collapsed under him.

  “Homer!” Will sailed over the dying horse’s neck and slammed into the ground. The carbine jammed against his chest. He heard a sharp crack.

  The fall knocked the wind from him. Dazed, he gasped for air. He fought to clear his mind. He forced himself to take a deep breath. His ribs ached. Had he broken one? He had to get up—now!

  “Get behind your horse, Will!” Homer shouted as he wheeled his mount around and raced back. He reined in beside a large cottonwood, swung a leg over his saddle, and slid to the ground behind the tree.

  Homer slapped the horse’s rump. “Hyah!” The horse raced off down the trail in the direction of Julesburg and the track graders.

  Will scrambled up behind his horse’s body, dragging the carbine with him. A bullet thumped into the flesh of the dead animal. Another smacked into the leather of his saddle.

  He lifted the carbine. Oh no—the crack he’d heard hadn’t been his ribs. The carbine’s stock dangled below the metal barrel of the weapon. He tossed the broken gun aside and drew his revolver. He steadied the handgun on the saddle, cocked the hammer twice, aimed, and fired.

  The shot fell short. The Indians pulled up fifty yards away and dismounted. The warrior with the partially blackened face stepped forward. Will fired again and once more the shot landed short. The warrior, having tested the range of the pistol, stepped back and motioned for his companions to spread out. Will intended to keep the attackers at that distance.

  The narrow valley at this point gave the Cheyenne little maneuver room. Will and Homer were in a secure position. Two of the Indians had muskets, muzzle loaders that would be slow to load. The others were armed with bows and arrows.

  Will and Homer held a firepower advantage with their remaining seven-shot carbine and two six-shot revolvers. Hopefully, the Indians would think twice about rushing them.

  But the arrows—the arrows posed a special danger. A bullet traveled in a straight line—an arrow could be lobbed overhead.

  Will fired the last shot from his revolver. It would take several minutes to load. He wasn’t practiced at it. “Homer! Keep firing. Gotta reload.”

  He hunkered down behind the horse and drew the revolver’s hammer back to half cock, allowing the cylinder to spin freely. He shoved a paper cartridge containing both black powder and a lead bullet into the front of one of the chambers and tamped it down with the ramrod lever affixed beneath the barrel. He repeated this process five more times. Even then, the gun wasn’t ready to fire.

  While he struggled to reload, he glanced at Homer, who without exposing himself or taking aim, stuck the carbine around the tree and blasted away. Homer couldn’t hit anything that way!

  Fishing a pea-sized percussion cap out of the smaller pouch on his belt, he snapped it onto the nipple at the rear of one of the chambers. He sneaked a look over the saddle to check on the Indians while reaching into the pouch with his fingers for another cap.

  Dang it! He dropped that one. No time to look for it—just dig out another one. Finally, he completed the loading of all six cylinders.

  He clicked the hammer to full cock, raised up, and balanced the gun on the saddle. He aimed at the visible feathers of one of the Indians and pulled the trigger. When the hammer struck the rear of the cylinder it ignited the fulminate of mercury in the percussion cap, driving sparks into the chamber. In a split second those sparks ignited the paper cartridge’s black powder, generating the explosion that drove the bullet down the barrel on its lethal spiral toward its target.

  But he didn’t hit the target. The Indians remained out of range of the revolver.

  “Homer, let me have the carbine!”

  “Here.” Homer tossed the long arm to Will and drew his pistol. “Yore a better shot than me, for sure.”

  Will unlashed a quick-loading cartridge box from behind his saddle. The leather container held ten tubes, each loaded with seven metallic, rim-fire cartridges. He ejected the empty magazine tube from the butt of Homer’s carbine, poured the new cartridges from the quick-loading tube into the magazine tube, then slid it back into the carbine’s butt. That quickly he’d reloaded seven shots. Percussion caps weren’t necessary.

  Faster to load than a pistol, the Spencer was accurate up to two hundred yards. He’d proven to himself that a man couldn’t hit a target beyond fifty yards with a revolver.

  Will eased the carbine over the saddle, cocked the hammer, sighted down the barrel, and waited. One of the Indians armed with a musket moved in a crouch through the brush, away from his companions, and headed up the slope. He was trying to get above them. He aimed at the Indian’s knees. Lieutenant Moretti had cautioned him that the Spencer fired high.

  He led the Indian as if he were hunting a running deer. He tightened the tension on the trigger and waited until the Indian stepped into a clearing. He drew in his breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The carbine boomed. The Indian reared up, dropped his musket, and rolled back down the slope.

  Will stared at the fallen body. The Indian didn’t move. Will had killed a man for the first time. Was it murder to kill an Indian who was intent on killing him? He didn’t have time to think about that. He levered another round into the chamber.

  The firing slowed from both sides. The lack of a breeze held the acrid smoke from the black powder suspended in the air, stinging his lungs.

  Will knew the Cheyenne with the second musket, the blackened-faced leader, would be waiting for him to look over the saddle, so he scooted toward the head of his horse and peered around the dead animal’s muzzle. An Indian raised his bow and launched an arrow. Will followed the arrow’s arc as it descended onto the spot where he’d been lying a moment before.

  The Indians would know the greater danger came from Will’s carbine, and would concentrate their fire on him. Will shuffled backward along his horse’s body and peered over the saddle. The other Indians with bows rose and launched arrows at the same time. Three arrows arced toward him. He pushed himself tighter against the horse’s body.

  One arrow, then a second, thudded into the ground beside him. A sharp blow thumped against his breast bone. A burning sensation raced across his chest. An excruciating pain exploded in his left arm.

  “Agh!” Will shouted.

  That third arrow had cut a path across his chest muscles and driven into his upper arm. “Wow!” He’d never felt such pain.

  “Whew!” He spat his breath out. He tasted bile. He choked down vomit. He gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes. The pain didn’t go away.

  “Oh!” He moaned.

  “Will? You hit?”

  “Yeah . . . arrow.”

  “Hang on, I’m coming.”

  “No! Stay there.”

  Will dragged himself up and balanced the carbine over the saddle with his good arm. He held his injured arm close to his side and took aim at an Indian who exposed himself when he drew back on his bow. Will fired. The Indian collapsed.

  He raised his elbow to get a better look at his wound. The movement hurt! The feathered end of the arrow quivered before his eyes, the arrowhead protruded three inches beneath his arm. Blood dripped from the point. The arrow hadn’t broken the bone—it’d passed cleanly through the bicep muscle. He didn’t see spurting blood—it hadn’t pierced an artery. Still, blood soaked his shirt sleeve. His arm felt wet and sticky. He blinked his eyes—needed to focus. He was losing blood
.

  The roaring sound in his ears grew louder. He shook his head—tried to think. That roaring noise—it was the pounding of hooves. Through bleary eyes he saw a group of mounted men race up the trail toward him. They fired over his head at the Indians.

  Will hauled himself up to look over the saddle. The blackened-faced leader and the other warriors gathered up their two dead companions, mounted their ponies, and beat a retreat.

  Will’s head dropped.

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  Jenny McNabb’s kiss felt wet, yet cool, on his lips. Will opened one eye. Homer held a canteen to his mouth.

  Then the pain hit. “Oh!” He groaned. His arm throbbed. He tried to sit up, but his head spun and he promptly dropped back.

  “Easy,” Homer said.

  Will looked at his left arm. The sleeves of his shirt and undershirt had been cut off. A blood-soaked bandage bound his upper arm. The front of his shirts looked like they’d been ripped open with a razor. Through the gap in the material, a streak of dried blood outlined the path the arrow had followed on its way across his chest to his arm.

  “You done fine, Will. You kept them pesky redskins at bay till the graders got here. Without your shooting, we’d be goners for sure.” Homer helped him to sit up.

  “I never thought an arrow packed that much of a wallop.” Will touched the bandage.

  Homer held the arrow shaft up and pointed to the feathers and the encircling painted rings. “You were right, Will. Cheyenne.”

  “We’re seeing them more often.” One of the track graders who’d come to their rescue spoke from a few feet away. “They’re joining up with the Sioux to try to stop the railroad. This bunch that attacked you were probably the same ones that made a pass at our camp yesterday, until they realized we had a lot more men than they did.”

  “Sorry I passed out, Homer.”