The column of warriors disappeared over the ridge heading southwest. If they continued as they now traveled they’d pass well to the north of the Dale Creek canyon where his uncle’s team worked. The Indians would know that crossing the creek at that location on horseback was difficult. The railroad, unfortunately, was going to have to bridge that canyon in order to maintain the minimum grade up the slope that allowed locomotives to make the climb. His uncle’s team had not found an easier route than the previously plotted grade that led straight to the canyon’s rim.
Will waited several minutes to ensure the warriors didn’t double back. He eased out from under the juniper and skidded down the slope. He leaped onto his horse and kicked him into a gallop. He had two miles to race to reach the team.
“Uncle Sean!” Will cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down into Dale Canyon from the rim. “Uncle Sean!”
Will watched his uncle lean forward and sight through the telescope of the transit. The surveyor raised a hand and signaled to Otto Hirsch, who steadied the measuring rod farther up the canyon. Joe Quinn adjusted the chain that marked off the distance between the transit and the rod. His uncle stepped back from the transit and scribbled in his notebook.
“Uncle Sean!” No response from below. Even though he wasn’t a good whistler he puckered up and tried. Still no response.
The wind blowing across the canyon rim carried all sound away. The men working a hundred twenty feet below didn’t know he was there. Homer wasn’t visible. He must be in the tent preparing the noon meal.
He guided the horse down the rocky cliff, doglegging back and forth. It was too steep to descend straight ahead. If he had a more sure-footed horse like Buck, he’d try it—but the Morgan was back in Cheyenne with General Rawlins. Will didn’t trust this old saddle horse issued by the railroad. He’d just have to ease his way down.
“Uncle Sean!” He called again halfway to the canyon floor. His uncle looked up and waved, but returned to looking through the transit. Will would have to get all the way to the bottom to tell his uncle about the danger.
Loose rocks dislodged by his horse clattered down the slope. His shouting, or more likely the noise of the falling rock, got Homer’s attention. The black man stepped out of the tent, looked up and waved. Will returned the salute.
Five minutes later Will halted before the tent.
“Where’s the game?” Homer asked.
“Didn’t get any.”
“You don’t usually come back empty-handed. Why?”
“Indians. A Cheyenne band passed by, only a couple of miles from here. I was tracking an antelope and moving into position for a shot, when they rode over the ridge right in front of me.”
Homer’s eyes got so wide the crow’s-feet wrinkles around them disappeared.
“They were the same band that attacked us on Lodgepole Creek. I recognized the leader . . . the one with the blackened face.”
Homer lifted his old hat and ran his fingers through his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “I ’spect I best be packing this gear up. We needs to get out of here.”
“That’s what I intend to suggest to Uncle Sean.” Will looked up at the steep walls of the canyon. Indians along the rim would have easy shooting from there—even if they were only equipped with bows and arrows.
Will rode to where his uncle worked with his transit.
“Hey, Will. Get us something good to eat?”
“No, sir. I got chased back by a band of Cheyenne.”
His uncle looked up. “Chased by Indians?”
“Not chased, actually. I stayed out of sight. I hightailed it back here as soon as they were gone. They passed about two miles to the north of here.”
“Not headed in this direction?”
“No, they rode southwest, in the direction of the Overland Trail.”
“We’d better finish up and get on to Fort Sanders. We’re right in the middle of the Cheyenne hunting grounds here.” He signaled to Otto and Joe to come back to him.
“Homer said he’d start packing up the gear. I’d best go help.”
“No,” his uncle said. “You get back up to the rim of the canyon and keep a lookout. We don’t want to be surprised, if that band circles back.”
CHAPTER 31
* * *
“Jenny, why aren’t we getting into place?” Her mother sat beside her on the jockey box of their Conestoga watching the long line of wagons move single file along the Overland Trail past Virginia Dale, the last Wells Fargo stagecoach station in Colorado.
Jenny laid a hand over her mother’s. “Mama, we’re going to rest here a few days.”
“But, we should be going on with the others.”
“You’re too weak to go on now, Mama. Papa thinks you need to get your strength back. That nasty bout of diarrhea and vomiting yesterday means you haven’t really recovered from the bilious fever. You need rest.”
Her mother sighed, her shoulders slumped even more.
“Don’t worry, Mama. We caught up to the wagon train before. We can do it again.”
“Yes, we can, Mama,” Duncan said. Her younger brother stood beside the wagon looking up to where Jenny sat with their mother. “Can’t we Elspeth?”
Elspeth stood in the wagon bed behind Jenny. “I just want to get to California,” she said. “Or Oregon. Or wherever we’re going.”
Her mother reached over her shoulder and took one of Elspeth’s hands. “We’ll be there before you know it, dear. The promised land is just ahead. Then everything will be fine.”
“It certainly can’t get any worse,” Elspeth muttered.
Dryden Faulkner rode up to their wagon, leaned forward in his saddle, and lifted his hat. “Ladies. Young man. My compliments to the McNabb family. Is Alistair around?”
Jenny’s father stepped around the wagon and faced the wagon master across the back of one of his oxen. “Right here, Dry.”
“Alistair, sorry I can’t hold the wagon train here longer. There’s not enough water and forage for all the animals. Fort Sanders, up on the Laramie River, is the next place where a wagon train can find grazing for a herd this big. And the sutler at the fort will have supplies to sell the folks. Even though this is one of Wells Fargo’s home stations, they only have enough supplies to take care of their passengers’ needs.”
“How much farther to Fort Sanders?” Alistair asked.
“Thirty miles. Couple of days . . . maybe three.”
The McNabbs’ wagon stood in front of the one-story, hewn-log station that stretched atop a knoll alongside the trail. Behind the station Jenny could see stables and corrals for the stage horses, along with a smattering of small outbuildings. Jenny watched smoke curl lazily upward from the station building’s stone chimney. “Why do they have a station in this place? There’s nothing here.”
“When the stage company laid out the trail years ago,” Faulkner said, “they built stations every twelve miles, or so. That’s as far as they can run a team pulling a loaded coach before having to change horses.”
This was the sixteenth stage station she’d counted since Faulkner’s wagon train had left Julesburg, two hundred miles back. Jenny held a hand above the brim of her bonnet to better shield her eyes from the sun. Stretched out before her, the row of wagons struggled up the narrow, rocky trail. Drivers shouted and cursed at their yoked oxen teams for greater exertion. Outriders on horseback trotted up and down the line urging everybody to keep moving. A fine cloud of dust hung suspended axle high around the squeaking wagon wheels.
“No Indian trouble on the Overland Trail, Mr. Faulkner?” Jenny asked.
“Army claims they’ve suppressed the trouble through here. That’s not to say there can’t be any.”
Alistair laid his good right hand and the stump of his left arm on the back of the ox. “I want to thank you again, Dry, for slowing the pace the last few miles so we could get here to Virginia Dale with you.”
Jenny looked at the straggling pine and scattered pinion t
rees dotting the rolling hills. She shook her head. “Doesn’t look much like the Virginia I know.”
Faulkner laughed. “It’s named for Jack Slade’s wife. He built this station and named it for her, not for any dale in the Old Dominion state.”
Jenny’s father laughed too. “Guess that explains it. Anyway, thanks for taking it easy for a while. Mary can’t seem to get her strength back. We’ll rest here a day or so and then press on.”
“I’ll hold the wagons at Fort Sanders for a few days to let the teams rest and the stock graze,” Faulkner said. “We’ll refit there and make repairs at the fort’s blacksmith shop before pushing on over the Continental Divide. I can’t wait there too long though.”
“Understood.”
“You come along as fast as you can, McNabb. When you do hit the trail, keep a sharp eye out. They say it’s been quiet through these parts for a while . . . but that’s no guarantee.”
“I guess the Cheyenne are especially riled up over the construction of the railroad,” Alistair said.
“Well, that shouldn’t surprise anybody. We ain’t paying the savages anything for digging up their hunting grounds. They never cottoned much to the stage line cutting through their lands, but the railroad’s worse. Buffalo can walk across a stage road, but they often balk at crossing steel rails.”
Faulkner turned his horse away and raised his hand against the brim of his hat in a salute. “See you in Fort Sanders, Colonel.” Faulkner used McNabb’s former Confederate Army title, even though Jenny’s father didn’t use it himself.
Percy Robillard strode up the slope, his red curls streaming from beneath his hat. “Sir?” Percy addressed Jenny’s father. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to travel with you to Fort Sanders. My folks say they’ll do fine without me for a while. Perhaps I can be of assistance to you and your family.”
Jenny chuckled. “Your interest wouldn’t be in staying close to a blonde-headed sister of mine, would it?”
Jenny watched Percy blush and shuffle his feet. Elspeth swatted at her, but Jenny ducked the blow.
“We’d be pleased to have your help, Percy,” her father said. “You can assist me with the oxen. That’ll free Jenny to spend time with her mother.”
The McNabb family and Percy watched until the last wagon passed over the far ridge and dropped out of sight. Now they were alone again.
Jenny climbed down from the jockey box and walked toward the rear of the wagon. She lifted the gold ribbon she wore around her neck, withdrawing the eagle talon from beneath the front of her dress. She ran her fingers over the talisman.
“Thinking about that boy again?” Elspeth had slipped to the back of the wagon and confronted her from the tailgate.
“Hush up, Elspeth!”
“You’re sure sweet on that boy.” Elspeth’s cultivated Southern accent caressed the word “boy” with sarcasm. “Bet you’ll never see him again.”
“Pooh!” Jenny returned the talon beneath the neckline of her dress, spun around, and walked away. Why did her sister have to be so mean? Maybe she was right about never seeing Will Braddock again. But why did it give her sister such pleasure to rub it in?
CHAPTER 32
* * *
Will, his uncle, and Homer stepped out of the sutler’s store into bright sunlight on the parade ground of Fort Sanders. Each held a small, cloth sack of food items.
“Them wagon train folks done bought out the store,” Homer said. “Nothing left. Not one sack of flour.”
“A disappointment, to be sure,” Will’s uncle said. “We’ll have to go easy on biscuits until we can buy flour.” The team had hoped to replenish its supplies before they proceeded west. It was two hundred and fifty miles to Fort Bridger, the next place they could buy supplies.
“Will?”
Will was staring across the dusty parade ground and didn’t hear his uncle address him.
“Will.” His uncle repeated. “I’m sorry your friends had to remain behind at Virginia Dale. Don’t worry though. You heard that wagon master say he’d rest the group here for a couple more days. He expects the McNabbs to rejoin the wagon train before they press on.”
Will nodded. But he did worry about Jenny, no matter how much his uncle advised him not to. She and her family would have to make the trip from Virginia Dale to Fort Sanders alone. He recalled the difficulties the McNabbs had with a broken wagon wheel when he’d first encountered them east of Jules-burg. They were traveling alone then.
Maybe he should go south to help them—but that could jeopardize his newly won position on his uncle’s team. He still had to prove himself worthy of full-time employment. Besides, the wagon master had said a fellow named Percy Robillard had stayed behind to help them. And the Army patrol that’d ridden in last night said they’d encountered no signs of Indian activity along the Overland Trail south of Fort Sanders. Maybe that band of Cheyenne he’d spotted above Dale Canyon hadn’t gone that far.
“Sergeant of the Guard!” The shout came from the parapet walk next to the two-story blockhouse on the far side of the parade ground. The blockhouse was built into the middle of the north side of the ten-foot-high wooden palisade wall that surrounded the fort.
“Cavalry coming.” The sentry called down to a sergeant who’d stepped out of the blockhouse.
“Open the gate!” the sergeant ordered. Two sentries at the gate lifted a wooden beam from iron brackets and swung the heavy doors inward.
Lieutenant Luigi Moretti led a column of horsemen at a slow trot through the gate. Behind Luey rode General Dodge and General Rawlins, followed by a dozen dusty cavalry troopers. Trailing the troopers came Sergeant Coyote and half a dozen Pawnee Scouts. Rawlins held his reins tight to control a prancing Buck. The Morgan arched his neck, pricked his ears, and shook his mane.
Will laughed. “Buck, you show-off.”
Moretti returned a salute from the sergeant of the guard, then looked back to his own column. “Sergeant Winter, get the men and the horses fed.”
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Winter saluted.
“Sergeant Coyote.” Moretti called to the rear of the column. “You and your scouts are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Coyote saluted the lieutenant.
Moretti reined in at the sutler’s store and raised his hand in another salute. “Major Corcoran. Good day.”
Will’s uncle smiled and waved at his forehead in a halfhearted return of the salute. His uncle usually brushed aside military courtesy since he was no longer in the Army, but Moretti was an old friend and the salute was offered partly in jest to an old comrade in arms. “Hey, Luey. How was the ride from Cheyenne?”
“No Indians, if that’s what you mean. But ask the generals.”
“Good morning, General Dodge,” Will’s uncle said. “Morning, General Rawlins.”
Dodge and Rawlins dismounted and passed their reins to Moretti. “Morning, Sean,” Dodge said. Rawlins nodded his greeting, coughing into his bloodstained handkerchief. Will shook his head. The Western climate didn’t seem to be helping Rawlins’s tuberculosis.
“Good ride?” his uncle asked.
“Not bad.” Dodge rubbed his backside. “And more comfortable now that those dignitaries have gone back to Julesburg. Wouldn’t you say so, John?”
Rawlins stifled another cough. “More comfortable indeed. I understand the necessity of catering to the officials for the benefit of the railroad, but it is a relief to be able to ride through these beautiful Laramie Mountains without the interruption of their constant chatter.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Dodge said.
Will stepped up and patted Buck’s neck. The black horse nickered and nuzzled Will’s cheek. “Good to see you again, too.” Will ran his fingers through the long mane to untangle the glistening hair.
Dodge brushed the trail dust from his jacket sleeves. “Have you had your dinner, Sean?”
“No, sir. We were picking up some meager supplies from the sutler’s store and then heading back to
our tent to fix something.”
“I need to stop by headquarters first and pay my respects to the commanding officer, then we’ll go to the Officers’ Club. My treat.”
“That would be greatly appreciated, General,” Will’s uncle said.
“Have you ever met General John Gibbon?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, come with me. I’ll introduce you to the hero of Gettysburg. It was his division that repulsed Pickett’s Charge, you know. Good soldier. A colonel now. Had to revert to a lower rank to stay on active duty though.”
“Most professional soldiers did.” Will’s uncle looked at Moretti.
“After we eat, I want to go over some plans with you. We can use one of club’s tables to spread out the map.”
“Very good, General.”
“You come with us too, Will,” Dodge said.
“Thank you, sir.” Will gave Buck a final pat.
“I’ll see to the horses, sir.” Moretti led the generals’ horses away.
“Thanks, Major.” Dodge used Moretti’s old wartime rank.
“Mr. Corcoran,” Homer said. “Let me take the sacks. I’ll get these skimpy goods back over to the tent.”
“Thanks, Homer.”
Dodge and Will’s uncle headed toward the headquarters building. Will fell in beside Rawlins.
Dodge pointed up at the large Union flag streaming stiffly in the breeze from a flagstaff that rose a hundred feet above the parade ground. “That’s got to be the most impressive flagpole this side of the Missouri.”
“I agree,” Will’s uncle said. “We could see it for miles when we approached. The staff looks like a ship’s spar. Saw lots of those in New York harbor. I wonder whose ship they stole it from.”
Dodge laughed. “More than likely some former ship’s carpenter joined the Army and was pressed into service to build it.”
Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 14