When I was young I used to wait
On massa an’ han’ him his plate
An’ pass de bottle when he got dry
An’ brush away de blue-tail fly
The volume doubled when all the participants chimed in to sing the familiar chorus.
Jimmie crack corn an’ I don’t care
Jimmie crack corn an’ I don’t care
Jimmie crack corn an’ I don’t care
Ol’ Massa’s gone away.
Just like in church back in Burlington—not all the folks knew the words to the verse, but they all knew the refrain.
Everybody in the train must be here. He circled around the celebrants and returned to where he’d started. People were packed so tightly he couldn’t wedge himself in close enough to get a good look at their faces. How was he going to find Jenny in this crowd?
“That’s the way, Elspeth! Show them how Virginians dance!”
He knew that voice. He looked up. Jenny sat on the jockey box of the wagon right next to him. She clapped her hands, the sleeves of her gingham dress fluttering. A gold ribbon held her black hair away from her ears. Will’s eyes drifted back down to the high-button shoes that tapped on the footboard. Each tap provided a fleeting glimpse of white pantaloons flashing between her shoe tops and the hem of her dress.
“William Braddock. Didn’t your mama ever tell you it was bad manners to stare at a lady’s ankles?” Jenny looked straight ahead at the bonfire, tapping her feet and clapping her hands.
Will raised his head. “I . . . I . . . I.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Will. Even though the cat’s got your tongue.”
“Sorry, Jenny. Just surprised.”
“Help me down, so we can dance.” She extended her arms to him.
“I don’t know how to dance and even if I did, my arm wouldn’t—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Jenny had leaned forward and dropped from the wagon seat.
He instinctively raised his arms to catch her. “Oh!” He winced and jumped back, grabbing his arm.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He pressed on his bicep. “Just a wound.”
“A wound?”
“An Indian shot me in the arm with an arrow.”
Jenny touched his arm. “Oh, my. Your sleeve’s wet. I’ve caused it to bleed.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Come on. We’re going back to our wagon to stop that bleeding.”
“It can wait until I get back to the railroad doctor. He’ll do it.”
“You don’t think I can?” Jenny planted her hands firmly on her hips.
“It’s not a young lady’s work.”
“I helped Mama bandage many a wounded soldier during the war. They didn’t object that I was a young lady. And I was a lot younger then.”
“Sorry.” Will dropped his head. “Didn’t think about what you might’ve done in the war.”
Jenny stepped around to his other side. “I guess it’s all right if I take this arm.”
“Sure.” He felt his cheeks grow warm and his smile widen when she slipped her arm through his.
They soon reached the McNabbs’ wagon, parked last in line in the far right column. Jenny’s parents sat near a small fire beside the wagon. Her mother rocked slowly in a wicker chair. Her father perched on an upturned box.
“Nice to see you again, Will,” Jenny’s father said. “Thank you for notifying Dryden Faulkner about our plight.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
“Papa. Mama,” Jenny said. “I have to dress Will’s wound. He’s been shot by an Indian’s arrow. I’ve caused it to bleed. Let me have your shirt, Will.”
Will removed his shirt and stood before Jenny and her parents in his undershirt. The sleeve of the undershirt was wet with blood.
“That has to come off too,” Jenny said.
Will looked at Jenny’s parents. He opened his mouth. Then he looked back at Jenny.
“Oh, don’t be so modest. They’ve seen men without their shirts before . . . and I saw lots of soldiers in the hospitals without theirs. But since you’re so shy, come over here behind the wagon.”
Will unbuttoned his long-sleeved undershirt. She helped him pull it off his injured arm, then she unwound the bloody bandage. She washed the wound, rewrapped his arm with a new bandage, and tugged it snugly to stop the bleeding. Jenny touched the eagle talons on Will’s bare chest. “I noticed these when you helped us fix the wheel. What are they?”
He told her about Lone Eagle and how he came to have the talons.
“And did they bring you good luck?”
Will held up one of the talons and pointed to the nick. “Yes. This one deflected the arrow from my chest.”
She leaned closer to look at the nicked talon. “I’d say they did bring you good luck.”
Will sucked in his breath as he inhaled the cleanliness of her black hair just beneath his nose.
Jenny turned away and pulled a blanket from the wagon. “Here, put this around your shoulders.” She smiled at him. “Now, come sit by the fire while I get the blood out of your shirts.”
Will sat on the ground across from the McNabbs. Jenny washed the shirts and hung them over the handle of a shovel she drove into the ground next to the fire.
“How’d you get the wound?” Jenny’s father asked.
Will told them about the run-in with the Cheyenne and how Homer had pulled out the arrow. He wasn’t sure if the McNabbs would understand his praising a Negro.
“Sounds like this Homer is a good fellow to ride with.” Mr. McNabb’s comment eased Will’s apprehension.
“Yes, sir,” Will said. “I’ll learn a lot from him.”
“Mama,” Jenny said. “Have you ever heard of a more original excuse for refusing to dance with a lady than being shot with an arrow?”
“I really don’t know how to dance, Jenny,” Will said.
“Someday we’ll have to remedy that shortcoming in your upbringing.” She reached out and touched his good shoulder.
The campfire was warm, but the flush he felt on his cheeks didn’t come from that heat. “The wagons are lined up like you’ll be leaving soon,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” Jenny said.
“Me too. Tomorrow, Homer and I head back to rejoin General Dodge’s party.”
“Well then. You need to get some rest before you start that long ride. Your wound will heal, but it needs rest for that to happen.”
“You’re probably right.”
Jenny retrieved his shirts and led him to the rear of the wagon to dress. “Let’s fix you a sling.”
“I have one at the railroad.”
“Then use it, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now what’d I tell you before about calling me ma’am?”
He grinned and she returned it, then led him back to the fire.
“Mr. and Mrs. McNabb,” Will said, “I’ll say good night and wish you a safe journey.”
“Thank you, Will. And you too,” Jenny’s father said.
Jenny linked arms with Will and they walked away from the McNabbs’ wagon.
“Jenny?” Will asked. “Is it too rude to ask how your father lost his arm?”
“No. He was wounded in the battle at Yellow Tavern.”
“Where JEB Stuart was killed?”
“Yes. Papa was there when General Stuart was shot. He was devastated he couldn’t do anything to save the general, but he was too badly wounded himself. After the surgeon amputated Papa’s arm, his men brought him home. Our plantation wasn’t far from Yellow Tavern. The Army used it as a hospital. Mama nursed him back to health.”
“Jenny—”
When he didn’t continue right away, she prompted him. “Yes, Will?”
“It’s embarrassing to ask this . . . but I was wondering if you ever owned slaves?”
They had reached Will’s horse, and Jenny unlinked her arm from his. She turned him toward her and
grasped each of his hands in hers. “I don’t mind you asking, Will. My grandfather William owned slaves. But when Grandpa died, shortly before the war, and Papa inherited the plantation, he freed the Negros. Most stayed with us during the war, until it got so bad we couldn’t feed them anymore.”
“If you didn’t own slaves, why’d your father fight in the war?”
“Now that is a silly question.” Jenny’s eyes flashed gray. “Papa fought for states’ rights. He fought for Virginia. Just like Robert E. Lee. Not everybody in the Confederacy fought to keep slaves.”
Will was silent a moment, then he pointed to her hair. “May I have your ribbon?”
“What? Do you want to wear it as a lady’s favor, like Ivan-hoe?” She laughed.
“No. I want to put one of the eagle talons on it. For luck.”
She untied the gold ribbon. Her hair dropped loose over her shoulders in long, black waves.
Will transferred one of the talons from his thong onto Jenny’s gold ribbon. He motioned with a twirl of his finger for her to turn. He draped the talon around her neck and knotted the ribbon beneath her hair. He breathed in her aroma. The warm flush returned to his cheeks when his fingers brushed her neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She turned and kissed his cheek, then stepped back. “Will Braddock, you’re going to have to start shaving.”
Even in the twilight Will saw the twinkle in her blue eyes.
“Now off you go,” she said. “I pray you continue to have good luck. Maybe we’ll meet again . . . someday.”
She whirled and walked away, not looking back. He watched her until she turned down the last column of wagons. He placed a hand against his cheek. It still felt damp from her kiss. “I hope so, Jenny. I hope so.”
CHAPTER 26
* * *
“Agh!” Paddy pushed the plate away. “Bloody awful.” The yolk of the egg resisted cutting with a knife, much less a fork. The fatty, salty bacon tasted rancid, and he could’ve knocked a man out with the biscuit. If he didn’t have to eat to stay alive, he’d never come into the Paradise Café—but it was the only place in Julesburg that served an affordable meal. Even the fifty cents the old Chinaman charged for breakfast was too much. Paddy was seldom in Hell on Wheels for a noon meal and he couldn’t afford the prices the other establishments charged for supper. So, he ate breakfast here each day rather than not eat at all.
The coffee in the tin cup wasn’t hot—never was. Coffee came with the meal, and he was determined to finish it. He tipped the cup to his lips and tried to filter the grounds out of the last sip, but his rotten teeth failed to form a barrier to strain out the dregs. He sputtered and slammed the cup down, spitting black residue back into it. Damn, that was foul.
He sat at a table in front of the café’s single window, which provided a view of Julesburg’s dusty street. A youth, his arm in a sling, and an African leading a mule rode past.
Paddy leaned closer to the window. “Hmn.” Yesterday he’d been lurking in the shadows alongside the Lucky Dollar Saloon listening to Sally Whitworth talk to Mort Kavanagh. She’d pointed out the boy as Sean Corcoran’s nephew. What had she called him? It wasn’t Corcoran—he had a different last name. Kavanagh had commented to Sally that he was the boy he’d seen ride the black Morgan into town several days ago. Paddy thought he’d seen him before, too. But where?
Of course. The banker’s stable!
He’s the boy who’d foiled Paddy’s attempt to steal General Rawlins’s horse in Omaha. He’d also ruined his attempt to steal the horse during the train raid. Well. Sure it is, you put that all together, plus the fact he’s Sean Corcoran’s nephew—that boy’s gonna pay the price. Will Braddock—that’s what Sally called him. Will Braddock was the reason he was in hot water with Kavanagh. Paddy didn’t like that one bit.
And that Negra riding with Braddock—he looked familiar too. The African removed his neckerchief and wiped his forehead with it. His bare neck revealed an ugly scar.
“Ah!” Paddy’s mouth fell open. He gripped the edge of the table with both hands and squeezed hard. Yes! It’d been four years, but the memory of that day seldom left him. In his nightmares that black face was indistinct. That would no longer be the case. The last time he’d seen that face, Corcoran was slashing the hanging rope from around the fellow’s neck. Paddy hadn’t known his father’s intended victim had survived.
Paddy stroked the scar along his left cheek. Ah, now. Sure, and there are three owing to him. Sean Corcoran for killing his father and giving him his ugly scar, the nigger for being the cause of the confrontation in the first place, and now the lad who thwarted his efforts to steal the horse. He would kill all three—the ex-major, the nigger, and the boy. But Will Braddock will be the first.
Paddy pushed back from the table and dropped two quarters for the meal in the middle of the messy plate. He hurried to the rear door of the café, eased the Navy Colt loose in its holster, and stepped into the alley.
CHAPTER 27
* * *
“We’ve got to get a move on, Homer,” Will said. He rode down the center of Julesburg’s only street. Homer trailed behind a few paces leading Ruby. “The wagon train’s probably left the warehouse already. Mr. Casement said the Pawnees were heading out right after sunup.”
Will and Homer had stopped earlier at the Union Pacific’s depot to pick up the accumulated mail to take to Cheyenne, but they had to wait for the station agent to show up to unlock the door. Will had hurriedly scooped the letters into his saddlebags, but he had noticed a letter from Judge Sampson addressed to General Dodge. It was probably an inquiry about the delivery of the guardianship transfer papers to his uncle. He was tempted to throw the letter away, but the judge would just write another one.
As he rode, Will tried different positions for holding his carbine. The injury made it uncomfortable to hold it in his left hand. The weight of the weapon put too much strain on his arm, even with the benefit of the sling. If he held the carbine in his right hand, he had to control the reins with the left. When the horse tossed its head up and down, the jerk on his sore arm proved unpleasant. He gave up. Best not to carry the carbine at all. He leaned forward and shoved the weapon beneath his leg, wedging it between the stirrup strap and the saddle flap.
A gunshot cracked to his left. A bullet crashed into the carbine’s stock, driving it hard into his horse’s side. The horse reared. Will fought to stay in the saddle. A second shot exploded. The bullet zinged past his face. If the horse hadn’t reared, that shot would’ve gotten him for sure.
Through a narrow opening, between two shacks, Will saw a figure wearing a bowler hat turn and race away. He reined his mount hard to the left and urged the horse into the space between the ramshackle buildings. His knees brushed the walls on either side and he slowed to keep from being dragged out of the saddle. He transferred the reins to his left hand and drew his revolver with his right.
He emerged into the alleyway behind the single row of structures. The fractious horse tossed its head, pulling on his arm. He gritted his teeth against the pain and fought to hold the horse steady. He glanced left and right, but saw nothing. A shaking of bushes leading down to the bank of the South Platte caught his attention.
“Hi!” He kicked the horse and forced his way into the thick brush. Branches clawed at his pants legs. The horse struggled to break through the tangle.
“Will!” Homer shouted from behind. “What’re you doing? Where’re you going?”
“That was Paddy O’Hannigan. I’m going after him.”
Will reached the water’s edge and surveyed the bank. Heavy brush concealed the shoreline. Paddy could hide in there forever.
Homer joined him. “You sure it was O’Hannigan?”
“Pretty sure. Short and skinny. Bowler hat.”
They sat on their horses along the river studying the bank.
“I don’t see him,” Homer said. “Wait. Down there.”
Will looked to where Homer pointed. A bowler hat bob
bed up and down above the brush. Will raised his pistol and fired.
The hat sailed away, carried by the force of the bullet into the river.
“You got the bowler,” Homer said. “I don’t think you got him.”
“No, he got away . . . this time.”
“We’d better get back. The wagon train’s going on without us.”
Will returned the revolver to its holster. “Let’s find the sheriff and report the bushwhacking.”
“Ain’t no sheriff in Julesburg,” Homer said. “The only law’s that self-appointed mayor, Kavanagh. And if O’Hannigan works for him, like we think, what’s the use?”
Will shrugged. Someday Paddy O’Hannigan, we’ll settle this.
He tugged on his reins and turned the horse away from the river. He looked at the broken stock that protruded in front of his knee, a bullet lodged in the wood. “Looks like I owe the railroad for another carbine. Let’s stop by the warehouse and I’ll pick up a new one.”
After Jack Ellis issued a replacement carbine, Will and Homer trotted after the wagon train. They caught up to it a mile outside Julesburg.
Sergeant Coyote, the leader of the Pawnee escort, had spread his men out in two columns along each side of the dozen wagons, half fifty yards away, the rest a hundred yards farther out. The sergeant didn’t intend to be surprised by Sioux or Cheyenne.
The scouts rode in silence. The drivers of the mule teams, ten scruffy whites and two brawny African Americans, did not drive their wagons in silence. The skinners shouted, cursed their teams, and cracked bullwhips over the heads of the mules. Will couldn’t remember when he’d heard so many bad words at the same time.
The column followed the trail up Lodgepole Creek away from the South Platte. They stayed off the graded bed for the railroad. The wagon wheels would tear up the prepared surface.
Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 12