Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One)

by Robert Lee Murphy

  “It’s nice to see that you and Buck are still on good terms,” Rawlins said to Will. “I have a proposition for you. We’ll discuss it after General Dodge goes over his plans with your uncle.”

  A short time later Dodge pushed his chair back from the table. “That wasn’t bad for Army food, was it?” he said.

  “No, sir,” Will’s uncle replied. “Better than what we could’ve fixed over a campfire.”

  “Did that fare meet with your approval, Will?” Dodge asked.

  Will opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when he realized he was still chewing on a piece of steak. He quickly swallowed the juicy beef. “That’s the best meal I’ve eaten since the Fourth of July celebration in Cheyenne, General.”

  “He’s right about that,” Rawlins said. “Too bad we had to send that good cook back to Julesburg with the dignitaries.”

  Dodge motioned to an attendant to clear the table. “Let’s spread out the map.”

  When they’d entered the Officers’ Club, several of the garrison’s officers were present, but they’d eaten and returned to their duties. Dodge and his party now had a private room in which to discuss railroad business.

  “I’m going to establish another railroad town right outside Fort Sanders here. I’m calling it Laramie, since it’s located along the Laramie River. I want you, Sean, to lay out the plat for the new town just like you did for Cheyenne.”

  Dodge didn’t ask Will to leave the table, so he sat quietly across from the three older men and studied Dodge’s map.

  “That’s a steep climb over the Laramie Range out of Cheyenne,” Dodge said. His finger traced the route on the map. “As hard as we look, we can’t seem to find an easier way. You have any luck?”

  “General,” Will’s uncle said, “my team searched all through this region the past couple of weeks and haven’t found a better route.”

  Dodge placed his finger on a spot on the map. “When we get the tracks laid over Sherman Summit we’ll be at eight thousand two hundred forty-two feet above sea level, higher than anything the Central Pacific has to contend with in the Sierra Nevada.”

  “William Tecumseh Sherman will be mighty pleased you’ve bestowed his name on that pass,” Rawlins said. “Good thinking to keep him appeased. Never know when you’ll have to call on the Army to drive off these pesky Indians.”

  “Just a little tribute to my old commanding officer,” Dodge said.

  While the two generals and his uncle talked, Will memorized the terrain features marked on the map. Knowledge of the territory would be useful as he worked to prove his worth to the Union Pacific. Geography had been his favorite subject in school. He understood what he was looking at.

  “I wish there were a way around Dale Creek though,” Dodge said. His finger pointed to another spot on the map, a few miles west of Sherman Summit. “You can step over that brook at the bottom of that canyon . . . but it’s so far down, we’re going to have to bridge it.”

  “That’s going to be some bridge, Grenville,” Rawlins said.

  “I’ve had plans drawn up for a wooden trestle,” Dodge said. “Like the ones we built during the war, but several times bigger. What do your calculations show, Corcoran?”

  “The bridge will have to rise a hundred twenty-six feet above the creek bed and extend at least fourteen hundred feet to span the ravine.”

  “I hope I live long enough to see that bridge, Grenville,” Rawlins said. He coughed harshly.

  “You will, John,” Dodge said. “You will.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence in my life span, Grenville.” The two generals looked at each other. Neither smiled.

  Dodge sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. “Listen to that,” he said.

  “Listen to what?” Will’s uncle asked.

  “Nothing. Quiet. Except for the occasional hoofbeat on the parade ground, it’s downright peaceful here.”

  Rawlins coughed again, then held the handkerchief away from his mouth. “Hell on Wheels reached Cheyenne just before we rode out, Corcoran. The calm of that lovely valley is gone forever. They’re planning a big celebration this coming Sunday in conjunction with the sale of the first lots in the new town. And that brings me to my proposition, Will.”

  Will looked up from the map where he’d been studying the lay of the mountain ranges, the flow of the streams, and the routing of the trails. “Sir?”

  “Mort Kavanagh is offering a large purse for the winner of a horse race through the town of Cheyenne and around the surrounding hills,” Rawlins said.

  “Humph!” Will’s uncle snorted. “That no-account Kavanagh still around?”

  “Oh, yes,” Rawlins said. “Still fancies himself the mayor of Hell on Wheels. He made a point of issuing the challenge directly to me. He says he has a horse that can beat any other in the territory, including Buck.”

  “Buck’s not a racehorse, sir,” Will said.

  “He’s not a thoroughbred, I’ll grant that. But he’s the fastest horse I’ve ridden. And I rode a lot during the war. I have yet to see a horse on the plains or in the mountains that can match Buck.”

  Will nodded his agreement.

  “And that’s where you come in, Will. I can’t ride Buck in the race. I originally thought to get Private Skelly from Moretti’s detachment to ride him. Skelly was a jockey before the war. Quite well known in Kentucky. One of the best of his day. Trouble is, Skelly’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Will said.

  “Luey told me the last anyone remembers seeing Skelly was near the Lucky Dollar Saloon the night Hell on Wheels opened shop in Cheyenne. He was seen drinking behind the saloon with that Irishman with a scar down his left cheek.”

  “Paddy O’Hannigan!” Will and his uncle spoke at the same time.

  “Fits his description,” Rawlins said. “I’ve never seen the man myself.”

  “O’Hannigan undoubtedly works for Kavanagh,” Will’s uncle said. “Both of them were involved in the New York draft riots in sixty-three. The connection makes sense. This whole thing sounds suspicious. Kavanagh challenging you to a horse race, and then your jockey disappearing. Could be dangerous.”

  “Could be,” Dodge said. “But Colonel John Stevenson . . . he’s constructing Fort D. A. Russell outside Cheyenne . . . has promised me he’ll have his Thirtieth Infantry on guard to keep down any mischief during the celebrations.”

  “What do you say, Will?” Rawlins asked. “Buck likes you. He responds to your direction. You’re bigger than a professional jockey, but that won’t matter. You and Buck make a good team.”

  Will looked at his uncle, then back to Rawlins. “General Rawlins,” he said, “I’m a member of Uncle Sean’s survey inspection team. I can’t do it unless my uncle says it’s all right.”

  “Will,” his uncle said. “If you think you can ride Buck in the race, and if General Rawlins thinks you’re the best man for the job, then the survey inspection team can do without your services for a few days.”

  Will beamed. “I know I can ride Buck. That’s for sure.”

  “Looks like the boys and I’ll be busy laying out the plat for Laramie here for a few days,” his uncle continued. “And since we can eat here at the fort, I can send Homer along with him.”

  “I’ll agree to that plan,” Dodge said. “That’s settled then.”

  Will and his uncle left Dodge and Rawlins in the Officers’ Club and walked across the parade ground.

  “Uncle Sean,” Will said. “You go on. I want to ride over to Big Laramie Stage Station and ask the evening Wells Fargo driver a question. I’ll be back soon.”

  “All right, Will. I think I know your question.” His uncle flashed a grin at him.

  It was a five-mile ride from the fort to the stagecoach station on the Laramie River, but Will wanted to see if he could learn something about Jenny’s status before he went to Cheyenne for the race.

  By keeping his horse at a gentle trot he reached Big Laramie Station in less than an hou
r. The evening stage arrived a few minutes after he did. He rode up beside the driver who was wrapping the bundle of reins around the brake lever on the coach.

  “Pardon me, sir?” Will asked.

  “What, son?”

  “You come from Virginia Dale today?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you see a one-armed man and his family in a covered wagon pulled by a team of oxen?”

  “Yep. Passed ’em on the trail ’bout twenty mile back.”

  “They’re headed this way?”

  “Yep. At their pace, I ’spect they’ll reach Fort Sanders in a couple a days.”

  “Any sign of Indian trouble on the way, sir?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jenny and her family were on their way. They should join up with their wagon train before Dryden Faulkner led them west again. And they were safe—so far.

  CHAPTER 33

  * * *

  Paddy O’Hannigan looked up and down the alleyway behind the Lucky Dollar Saloon. The alley was empty except for a drunk railroad worker sleeping it off beside the rear entrance to the dance hall.

  Paddy knelt beside the passed-out worker and rifled through his pockets. Only a few coins. He’d obviously spent all of his wages on the rotgut whiskey that had been his undoing. But here was what Paddy really wanted. He slid a long plug of tobacco from the fellow’s inside coat pocket. Paddy had been needing a fresh plug and this was almost a complete twist.

  The drunk moaned and shifted against the wall. Paddy pulled his Navy Colt revolver from its holster. “Sure, and ye don’t need to be seeing me, old-timer.” He whacked the drunk over the skull.

  Paddy stepped through the back entrance of the circus tent that covered the packed-dirt floor of the interior. He glanced at the gaming tables and the upright piano, then tipped his bowler hat to Randy Tremble. Kavanagh’s burly, bearded bartender ignored Paddy’s greeting and continued polishing glasses on top of the long wooden bar.

  Paddy crossed the expanse of dirt floor and stepped up onto the wooden floor of the false front. He knocked on a door and waited. A gruff voice invited him in. He entered Mort Kavanagh’s office and sat in the straight-backed chair in front of his boss’s desk.

  “You have a job for me, Mort?” Paddy asked.

  “Have Randy give you another case of whiskey to take to Chief Tall Bear,” Kavanagh said. He blew a smoke ring from his cigar. He leaned back in his swivel chair and plopped his shiny boots on his desk.

  Paddy leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet onto the desk.

  “Get those dirty boots off my desk!” Kavanagh kicked Paddy’s feet aside.

  Paddy lunged forward to keep the chair from tumbling over. The kick had startled him and he nearly swallowed his tobacco chaw. He righted the chair and looked down at his worn boots. They were covered with trail dust and horse manure. He looked at the soles of Kavanagh’s fancy polished ones, which had probably never been near a corral.

  Kavanagh drew on his cigar. “I’ve got a man working on getting that ammunition for Chief Tall Bear. A little bribe to one of the storekeepers in Casement’s warehouse should do the trick. The railroad’s got so much ammunition they won’t miss it. I expect to have it here tonight. As soon as it’s delivered, you get on out to that Cheyenne camp.”

  “Aye, Mort. It’s not so long a ride from here . . . maybe a day. Sure, and it’s faster than from Fort Sanders.”

  “Don’t let them pesky redskins steal a horse from you like you lost that Army one the last time you rode out to that camp.” Kavanagh glared at him and puffed on his cigar.

  Paddy dropped his eyes. Hopefully Sergeant Lunsford would continue to cover up that loss. He’d paid the drunken sergeant at Fort Sanders extra for his promise to do so. That’d reduced the amount of Kavanagh’s money Paddy had hoped to skim off to send to his mother. When he’d returned to Hell on Wheels he’d tried to get Kavanagh to reimburse him, pretending he’d used his own money. Kavanagh had refused. It was another festering point in Paddy’s relationship with his godfather. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to put up with the abuse his relative heaped on him. If he didn’t feel an obligation to provide money to his mother and sister in Brooklyn, he’d cut out now.

  “Those Indians proved good on their promise to attack the railroad,” Kavanagh said. “That ambush of the Mormon track graders scared the pants off the bunch of them . . . not to mention that two of them got killed. Attacks like that’ll slow down the UP’s construction. Those workers will be looking over their shoulder all the time to see if another attack is coming.”

  Paddy nodded. When he’d arrived in Cheyenne with Kavanagh a few days ago to set up the latest version of Hell on Wheels they’d ridden past the new cemetery where the two Mormons were buried. They were the first occupants of what was a necessity for any new Western town.

  “Tell the chief I want that black Morgan stolen for sure this time,” Kavanagh said.

  “Sure, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’d better.” Kavanagh pointed his cigar at O’Hannigan. “And you tell the chief if he pulls this off real proper like, I’ll see he gets more ammunition. And whiskey, too.”

  A soft knock drew Paddy’s attention away from Kavanagh. He looked over his shoulder at the door.

  “Come in,” Kavanagh said.

  Paddy smiled. It’d been the dainty hand of Sally Whitworth that’d knocked. She was always a pleasant sight.

  Sally carried a silver tray on which she balanced a bottle and two glasses. She swished by Paddy’s chair, avoiding eye contact with him. She shook her head from side to side, her red curls swinging. She wrinkled her nose to show Paddy that the foul smell wafting up from his clothes weren’t to her liking.

  “Here’s your special whiskey, Mort.” She smiled brightly at her boss.

  “Thanks, honey. That’ll be all for now.”

  She placed the tray on the edge of the desk and sneered at Paddy. “You’ve got the rottenest teeth and the foulest breath of any man alive,” she said. “Don’t smile at me and don’t breathe in my direction either, if you please.”

  Kavanagh laughed, the cigar clamped tightly between his teeth. He popped the cork out of the whiskey bottle.

  Paddy’s grin broadened. “Well, and d’ye see now Miss Whit-worth. It don’t please me to not be smiling at ye.”

  “Humph.” She snorted and sashayed out of the office.

  Kavanagh poured a full tumbler in one glass and a short shot in the second. He pushed the second glass to Paddy. “You did a reasonably good job in your last trip to Tall Bear’s camp. That raid on the Mormon wagon train was successful. So I’m rewarding you with two fingers of the good whiskey. If you’re successful in arranging the theft of the Morgan during the race, I might even consider giving you a whole bottle. It has to be a permanent theft, mind you.”

  Paddy picked up the glass. He spat the tobacco chaw into the spittoon at the corner of the desk. He brought the glass up to his nose and inhaled the smooth aroma of the Irish whiskey. My, that was good. He couldn’t afford this quality on what Kavanagh paid him. This stuff came from the old country. It certainly wasn’t the cheap liquor the Lucky Dollar served its customers. Paddy looked forward to earning a bottle of this. Yes, sir. He’d ensure the black Morgan was stolen this time.

  “Here’s to success.” Kavanagh raised his glass. “If Rawlins loses that horse permanently, he’ll report back to General Grant that this railroad construction is very dangerous and the Union Pacific needs to proceed with more caution.”

  Paddy raised his glass before his face and nodded to Kavanagh. Paddy thought he might even be able to entice the prissy Miss Sally Whitworth to share a drink with him if he offered her this quality. He tipped the tumbler back and swallowed the fiery liquid in one gulp.

  CHAPTER 34

  * * *

  In the waning light, Jenny trudged up the slope above the Overland Trail. She walked on the balls of her feet to keep the
heels of her high-button dress shoes from sinking into the soft soil. A heavy rain earlier in the day had soaked her work shoes and she’d left them beside the fire to dry.

  When she reached the top of the ridge she looked south with the hope she could still see Virginia Dale, but they’d come too far. Two days ago they’d buried her mother in the station’s tiny cemetery, below a rocky outcropping.

  She leaned close to a ponderosa pine and inhaled the sweet, vanilla aroma of the bark. It reminded her of the cookies her mother used to bake at Christmas time. The rain clouds had pushed off to the east earlier, leaving a crispness to the air. The blustery weather made her glad she’d tucked her hair beneath the confines of her bonnet. She imagined that the breeze soughing through the boughs of the trees was her mother’s voice whispering to her.

  Jenny was thankful they’d been able to provide her mother a decent burial place. When Mrs. Casper had succumbed on the trek across Kansas the wagon master insisted they bury the old woman in the middle of the trail. He had all of the wagons drive over her grave to compact the site to make it impossible for animals to dig up the remains. He’d refused to allow the family to erect a cross. He said it would be an obvious marker for the Indians to rob the grave.

  Alistair McNabb wanted to make it hard for animals to disturb his wife’s final resting place too, so Jenny had helped her father, her brother, and Percy Robillard pile rocks atop the grave. Elspeth said she was too distraught to help. The grave lay close enough to the station that a marker on it wouldn’t attract potential grave robbers. Her father had chiseled a brief inscription on a wooden cross: Mary McNabb RIP.

  They hadn’t lingered after her father pounded the cross into the ground. They’d yoked the oxen to the wagon and headed up the steep trail that led through this pass to Fort Sanders. The oxen managed ten or twelve miles a day on level ground, but this uphill grind was too much to expect that pace.

  A Wells Fargo stagecoach had passed them earlier today heading north and a cavalry patrol out of Fort Sanders had ridden by the day before on its way south to Virginia Dale. Other than those brief encounters they hadn’t seen another soul. Jenny gazed down the slope to where they’d stopped the wagon. She’d prepared the evening meal, as she did every night, before climbing the hill. Below her, she could see the oxen grazing on the sparse grass that grew alongside the trail.