A half-dozen other civilians and an equal number of military officers alighted from the passenger coach and followed Dodge and Durant to the front of the train. Dodge stepped up onto the locomotive’s cowcatcher and raised a hand to silence the conversations of the gathering.
“Thank you all for coming to Sherman Summit for this special occasion,” he said. “Today, the sixteenth of April, 1868, the Union Pacific Railroad crosses the Rocky Mountains at eight-thousand, two-hundred, forty-two feet . . . the highest elevation yet reached by any railroad in the world.”
Dodge raised his hand again to silence a sprinkling of applause.
“Some of you may not know Samuel Reed, but I want to recognize him today.” Dodge gestured to a man who stood quietly at the outer edge of the assemblage. His wavy hair, full beard, and mustache were speckled with gray. He nodded his head toward Dodge.
“Sam’s primary job is to keep the UP’s supplies moving forward from Omaha to wherever end of track happens to be. Without his efficient effort the whole construction process would grind to a halt. But over the past several weeks he’s also been supervising the erection of a seven-hundred, thirteen-foot-long trestle over Dale Creek. It’s the largest bridge the UP will have to build anyplace along our right-of-way. It’s a mighty big bridge to cross a small brook that one could easily step over . . . but without it, we’d be stuck here at the summit.”
The dignitaries turned toward Reed and clapped.
“So, gentlemen.” Dodge stepped down from the cowcatcher. “Today we celebrate two major achievements in the construction of the Union Pacific. Thomas Durant . . . Doc Durant . . . the vice president and general manager of our railroad, will now drive a spike to make these accomplishments official.”
Durant raised a sledgehammer and struck the ceremonial spike a blow. While the crowd applauded and shook Durant’s hand in congratulations, Dodge walked over to Will and his uncle.
“Corcoran.” Dodge shook hands with Will’s uncle. “Rough winter I understand.”
“Yes, sir. We all got sick, but we’re fine now.”
Dodge looked Will up and down. “Where’d you get that fancy buckskin coat?”
“Bullfrog Charlie gave it to me.”
“And you’re limping,” Dodge said. “I was looking out the window when you walked toward the rear of the train earlier.”
“A little. Caught my foot in a beaver trap, but it’s almost healed now.”
“You always seem to be getting into some kind of trouble.” Dodge laughed. “How’s the arm wound?”
Will slapped his bicep. “Good as new, General.”
Dodge turned to Will’s uncle. “I have an assignment for you, Corcoran. I want you to go to California and check on the progress of the Central Pacific. I want to know what problems they face and how fast they’ll be able to proceed across Nevada once they’re clear of the Sierra Nevada. See if you can start negotiations with one of their officials about establishing a suitable place for the two railroads to join.”
Dodge motioned for Sam Reed to join them.
“Sam will accompany you as far as Salt Lake City. He’s going to try to negotiate a contract with Brigham Young for the Mormons to grade for us when we get into Utah. I talked with Young last fall and he promised to consider it. When you press on to California, leave the rest of your team with Sam so he can start surveying north of the Salt Lake. I want the UP to get at least that far, and hopefully well into Nevada, before we join up with the CP. Any questions?”
“Well, sir. Will’s not officially part of the team.”
Dodge glanced at Will, then back at Will’s uncle. “Take him to California, if you like.”
“You know, Grenville,” Reed said, “Doc Durant has directed Seymour to accompany me.”
“Yes, can’t be helped. Maybe between you and Corcoran you can keep him from messing up things too much.”
Dodge placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “What’s this I hear about Bullfrog Charlie Munro dying?”
Will told Dodge what had happened.
Dodge shook his head. “Sorry to hear that. Guess there won’t be any antelope steaks for a while. Sure would’ve tasted good.”
“I’ll get one for you, General,” Will said. “After all, I’ve been the team’s hunter for several months.”
Dodge grinned. “Fine. But be careful out there. A band of Cheyenne attacked the Dale Creek bridging crew last week and we lost some men.”
CHAPTER 15
Will rode Buck, and led a pack horse, north from Sherman Summit, heading in the direction of Cheyenne Pass. He stayed just below the ridgeline on the eastern side of the Laramie Range so that his silhouette would be obscured. Hopefully, the Indians who’d attacked the tracklayers earlier weren’t still around. But he didn’t want to make it easy for them to spot him—or for an antelope to see him approach.
He’d ridden a couple of miles before he spotted his prey. He eased back on the Morgan’s reins. “Whoa.”
Two hundred yards ahead, four pronghorns ranged along a small stream. Three small ones, females, grazed in a loose cluster. Standing guard nearby, a larger antelope appeared to be frozen in place. The male protector held his head high, bigger horns evident against the skyline, the only movement the occasional flicker of his white tail.
Will stepped out of the saddle and dropped Buck’s reins to the ground. The Morgan was trained to stand in place when the reins trailed downward. Will looped the pack horse’s lead rope over Buck’s saddle horn. “You two stay here,” he whispered, “and be quiet.”
He’d loaded Bullfrog’s old Hawken rifle before leaving the railroad tracks. He was far enough away from the antelopes that he could cock the weapon without the clicking noise alerting them. He checked to be sure the percussion cap sat securely in place on the nipple beneath the hammer.
The morning breeze caressed the left side of his face, blowing from the west, over the crest of the ridge, and down the slope. He slipped downhill a ways before turning to approach the stream, trying to keep the slight wind from blowing his scent toward the antelopes. He crouched and moved slowly through knee-high grass.
From time to time he stopped to ensure the pronghorns hadn’t moved. He looked back up the slope to where he’d left the horses, hoping they’d continue to remain quiet. Satisfied he was below the point where the wind could give his presence away, he crept a little closer.
He’d practiced enough with the Hawken to become comfortable with his ability to hit his target. The effective range of the old muzzle loader was less than the Spencer carbine firing its conical bullet, but the Hawken’s .50-caliber ball packed more wallop. He needed to get close enough to the antelope to ensure a clean kill.
When he was less than a hundred yards away, he knelt behind a large bush. Maybe he could get the buck to come to him by using an old Indian trick. An inquisitive animal by nature, the antelope was known to check out curious objects. Will lifted his slouch hat above his head on a twig and waved it slowly back and forth.
The buck’s head swung in his direction.
Will gently moved the twig. The hat swayed above it. The antelope took a dozen steps toward him, then stopped.
He wedged his decoy into a bush in front of him. The limbs supported the twig, allowing the hat to sway slightly in the breeze. The antelope took two more steps his way.
Will eased the Hawken’s stock up to his cheek. The pronghorn stood eighty yards away. A good range. He cocked the rear-set trigger, turning the front one into the hair trigger. He sighted down the barrel, compensated for the crosswind, took a shallow breath, and held it. He squeezed the trigger. The blast drove the rifle back against his shoulder. White smoke at the muzzle momentarily clouded his vision, but the breeze quickly cleared the air.
He rose and walked toward the stream. The three smaller antelopes gazed at him for a moment, then bounded away. In front of him lay the buck—dead in the grass.
Looking up the slope to where he’d left the horses, he puckered his l
ips and whistled Morse code for the letter B. “Tseeeee, Tse, Tse, Tse.” One long and three short notes. Buck knew the call and trotted to him, bringing the pack horse along.
“That’s my antelope you shot.”
Will jerked around at the sound of the unexpected voice.
An Indian rode toward him on a spotted pony, a broad grin creasing the young warrior’s face. He wore a buckskin shirt and trousers and clutched a bow in one hand. A single eagle feather hung downward from a red, trade-cloth band tied around his head. Vermillion and yellow paint stripes accented his pronounced cheekbones.
“Lone Eagle.” Will hadn’t seen the mixed-blood Cheyenne since the previous fall. “It’s good to see you. Sorry I beat you to the antelope.”
“That buckskin coat looks familiar. And the rifle, too.” Lone Eagle slid off his pony from the right side, the way an Indian dismounted.
“Your father gave me the coat. He asked me to give you the Hawken.”
“My father?”
Will told Lone Eagle about his father’s death. He showed him the bear claw necklace he’d made from the grizzly that’d killed Bullfrog.
Lone Eagle caressed one of the claws. Will noticed a glistening of tears in the young man’s eyes.
“And the talon I gave you?” Lone Eagle asked.
“I hung the talon on his burial scaffold. I thought it might bring him luck in finding your mother in the great beyond.”
“Thank you. I will go there now.”
“To Bullfrog’s cabin?”
“Yes. I am no longer with the tribe. Grandfather Tall Bear is dead. This winter was hard on our band. Buffalo hunting was not good and we did not have enough food. Grandfather was too old to survive on starvation rations.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I liked your grandfather. But why do you leave the tribe?”
“Black Wolf is the new chief. My grandfather protected me, but Black Wolf says a half-breed is not a real Cheyenne. He does not want me there.”
“What will you do?”
Lone Eagle shrugged. “Maybe I will stay in the old cabin. I was born there. I can become true to my name . . . a lone eagle . . . a lone man.”
Will held out the Hawken. “Take it, please. It belongs to you. Your father wanted you to have it.” He lifted the flap on his haversack and retrieved a leather pouch containing the spare ammunition for the rifle, handing it to the Indian, too.
Lone Eagle took the rifle and ammunition, then swung onto his pony. “Thank you for helping my father with his journey to his final hunting ground. I owe you another favor.”
“You can return the favor for me now.”
“How?”
“See that Jenny McNabb stays safe.”
Will told his friend about Jenny’s family taking up residence at North Platte Crossing, not far from Bullfrog’s cabin. “I’m going to California with my uncle and won’t be back for some time. You can protect her. Particularly from Paddy O’Hannigan.”
Lone Eagle nodded sharply, kicked his pony’s flanks, and rode up the slope.
CHAPTER 16
Mort Kavanagh swung his chair around from the window where he’d been watching the traffic pass down the dusty street of the newest Hell on Wheels in Laramie. The motley conglomeration of tents and shacks had recently been relocated from Cheyenne. Mort leaned back and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. He tapped the ash off his cigar and stuck it back into the corner of his mouth. “Paddy, I’ve got a surefire plan for slowing down the railroad.”
Paddy sat across the desk from his boss, carving a plug off a twist of tobacco with his Bowie knife. “Sure, and what’ll that be now, Mort?” He returned the knife to his boot top.
“Blow up a railroad tunnel.”
“And just who will ye be getting to do that, now?”
“You.”
“Me?”
Kavanagh nodded.
“By myself?” Paddy jammed the tobacco plug into his cheek.
“By yourself.”
“Ah, now, I can’t lift no keg of black powder alone.”
“You won’t use black powder.”
“Sure, and I won’t? And just how am I gonna pull off this explosion?”
“Nitroglycerin.”
“Nitroglycerin!” Paddy almost choked on his chaw.
“That’s right.”
“Well, and I don’t know a thing about using nitro, don’t ye see.”
“You’ll learn.”
“Sure, and that stuff’s mighty dangerous, Mort.”
“And mighty powerful.” Kavanagh tapped a copy of the Sacramento Union that lay on his desk. “According to an article in this paper, nitro’s eight times more powerful than black powder.”
“Sure, and the UP didn’t use nitro to blast their new tunnel through Rattlesnake Hills. Even they think the stuff’s too dangerous to keep around.”
“We’re not going to get the nitro from the UP.”
Paddy cocked his head to the side and stared across the desk at Kavanagh. What was going on here?
“We’ll get it from the CP.”
“The Central Pacific?”
“That’s right.” Mort shook the paper open and scanned the article. “Says here the CP’s blasting long tunnels in the Sierra Nevada with nitro. They brought in a Scottish chemist, name of James Howden, to mix the stuff on the spot for them.”
“So, ye’re gonna hire this chemist Howden away from the CP?”
“Nope. You’re going to convince him to teach you how to mix the stuff.”
“Ah, now, Mort. I don’t know about that.”
Mort glared at Paddy across the top of the newspaper. “Who’s paying your salary, Paddy O’Hannigan? When Casement fired you for stealing from the railroad, I had to start paying you myself. Or have you forgotten? Sometimes it’s sorry I am that as your godfather I made that foolish promise to your ma to look after you.”
Paddy’s left eye twitched. He ran his hand down the scar on his cheek. It throbbed when his temper rose. He bit down on the plug of tobacco and forced himself to remain silent. Someday—he promised himself for the thousandth time—someday, he was going to get out from under Mort Kavanagh’s thumb. But Paddy still needed money to send to his mother and sister in Brooklyn. And working for his godfather was the only thing he had going for him right now.
“Go to California and find this chemist. Get the ingredients from him. There are only three . . . glycerin, nitric acid, and sulfuric acid. According to this article, they’re safe until they’re mixed. You get him to teach you how to make nitroglycerin. Find out how much it’ll take to blow up a tunnel, and get a little extra.”
“You have a tunnel in mind?”
“Yeah, Rattlesnake Tunnel.”
“Rattlesnake Tunnel!” Paddy narrowed his eyes and stared at Kavanagh. “The Army’s building that new Fort Fred Steele right near that tunnel, Mort. Sure, and there are too many soldiers too close to that tunnel to blow it up.”
“We’ll see. You just get the nitroglycerin and let me worry about the target.”
Paddy spat a stream of tobacco juice at a spittoon. “When is it ye’d be wanting me to go find this CP chemist?”
“Leave tomorrow. I’ll give you money to bribe James Howden. If he won’t part with the stuff for cash, you know how to convince him.”
Paddy felt the smirk crease his lips. Now we’re talking. Sure, and he wouldn’t be wasting money on a chemist when a Bowie knife can do the job quicker. He could almost count the bonanza he was going to be able to send to his mother. There’d be enough for him to pocket a little extra spending money, too.
“Here’s the cash.” Mort tossed a fat envelope onto the desk. “Get moving.”
Paddy rose, stuffed the envelope inside his vest, squared his bowler hat on his head, and walked out of Kavanagh’s office.
He stepped down onto the dirt floor of the dance hall. Elspeth McNabb stood at the bar. She kept her back turned to him when he stepped up behind her.
“Well, d’ye see
, darlin’, ye need to be remembering who it was that was responsible for getting ye this job.” He would like to run his fingers through those long blonde ringlets that brushed the tops of her bare shoulders.
Elspeth snorted, but did not turn around.
“Ye’ll be mine someday, darlin’,” he whispered. He ran a finger across the soft skin of her back that was revealed above the neckline of her low-cut dress.
He laughed when she shuddered.
Paddy didn’t like the look the stage driver gave him when he tossed his valise up to have it placed on top of the coach. Was it a look of recognition? There hadn’t been regular stagecoach service in Cheyenne, so the last place Paddy had seen any Wells Fargo employees was in Julesburg. He didn’t remember seeing this driver, and Paddy prided himself on having a good memory for faces. He made it a point to keep mental track of any potential enemy.
“Hurry along, folks. It’s a nice morning to start a long ride.” The station manager herded the half-dozen passengers out from the station building. “Everybody on board, please.”
The driver had no trouble wedging Paddy’s small bag in among the piles of luggage strapped between the low railings that encircled the roof of the coach. Maybe the driver was just fascinated with the scar on his cheek. But the look wasn’t one of revulsion, like he got from other folks. The driver got busy adjusting the luggage tie-downs and didn’t look at him again.
Paddy shoved his way to the front of the line and took the far window seat with his back to the coach’s front. He wasn’t about to be stuck in the uncomfortable center seat.
The station manager glared at him as he handed up the final passenger, a young lady. Paddy watched the manager’s eyes drop to the Bowie knife protruding from his boot top. He looked back at Paddy, then closed the door. “They’re all aboard, Butch,” the manager said. “On your way.”
“Giddup.” The driver snapped the ribbons and the coach rolled away from the Big Laramie Station.
This wasn’t going to be such a bad ride. That final passenger was a real looker, and she was sitting in the center seat directly opposite him.
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