Will shook his head. He knew how much a whack on the skull hurt, too. “Your cousin say what Paddy wanted here?”
“Chemicals to make nitroglycerin.”
“Nitroglycerin?” What did Paddy O’Hannigan plan to do with nitroglycerin?
A few minutes later Will rejoined his uncle and Mr. Strobridge at the CP’s maintenance building. He told them about Paddy O’Hannigan taking the ingredients for making the explosive.
Strobridge reached into a coat pocket and handed Will a telegram. “This might have helped . . . had it arrived earlier.”
Will unfolded the single sheet, glanced at it, then read it aloud.
PADDY COMING CALIFORNIA STOP SLIPPED SECRETLY ACROSS NORTH PLATTE ON MAY 9 STOP BE CAREFUL STOP JENNY
“May 9,” Will said, “that was over a month ago.”
“That telegram’s been sitting in our Sacramento headquarters since it was sent,” Strobridge said. “It was addressed to William Braddock in care of Central Pacific. The telegraphers didn’t know what to do with it. There’s no William Braddock on the CP’s payroll. I had sent a report to headquarters about you and your uncle’s visit yesterday. When they received it, they evidently made the connection and re-routed the telegram back here.”
“Jenny knew I was coming to California,” Will said, “but I didn’t tell her where. I didn’t know where myself.”
“But how did Jenny know Paddy was coming to California?” his uncle asked.
Will shook his head. “That’s a good question, Uncle Sean.”
CHAPTER 25
Will waited on the platform at the Summit Station alongside James Strobridge while his uncle talked with Charles Crocker and Samuel Montague. His uncle had briefly introduced him to the Central Pacific’s construction manager and chief engineer when they’d stepped down from the train now stopped on the track beside the station. Montague stood a head taller than his uncle and Crocker a head shorter.
Crocker defended his ground like a bulldog—short, thick, pugnacious. He couldn’t seem to speak in a normal voice, and his only facial hair, a sharply pointed goatee, bounced beneath his chin when he bellowed. “No, Corcoran. You go back and tell your General Dodge and Doc Durant that the CP has no intention of agreeing to a meeting point this early. Collis Huntington is prowling the halls of Congress daily drumming up support from every senator and representative who’ll listen that we have the right to press across Nevada and as deep into Utah as we can. We’ll make it to Ogden before the Union Pacific, and you can bet on that.”
“I’ll tell them, Mr. Crocker. But it seems a waste of money and effort.”
“Ha!” Crocker roared. “We’ll see about that. The UP will have more miles of road than the CP, and collect more acres of free government land along your right-of-way, no matter what. And you were building most of your track over level prairie, until you reached the Rockies.”
Montague stood silently, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his mustache and down through his closely trimmed beard. The evening Will and his uncle had sat with Strobridge on the porch of his railcar home outside Truckee, Strobridge had described Montague as one of the smartest men working for the CP. He’d been the one who had solved the engineering problems that many said precluded the construction of a railroad across the Sierra Nevada Mountains. But Strobridge had also said Montague wasn’t comfortable with the politics that were the purview of the “Big Four,” of which Crocker was perhaps the most outspoken.
A conductor leaned from the steps of the leading passenger car. “Mr. Montague,” he said, “we’re ready.”
“Time to board, Corcoran,” Montague said. “This is a red-letter day for the CP. First passenger train to run from Sacramento, across the mountains, and into Nevada. Even though you’re the competition, we’ve arranged for seats for you and your nephew to Reno.” A broad grin creased his face. “Our compliments.”
“Thank you, Monty,” his uncle said. He turned to Will. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And thank you, Stro.” His uncle shook hands with Strobridge, then Montague.
“Sure thing, Sean. Always glad to help a fellow Irishman.” His laugh boomed over the hissing steam escaping from the engine’s driving cylinders.
“Mr. Crocker, I’ll convey your message to my superiors. Thank you for meeting with me.” His uncle extended his hand to the corpulent man.
Crocker shook the offered hand. “Good luck, Corcoran. And may the best company win.” His laugh shook his heavy waistline.
Will’s uncle boarded and Will stepped onto the car’s steps right behind him. He paused and looked up the slope to the explosives shack, then down to the snowy path beside the maintenance facility. Chung Huang trudged along carrying his buckets of tea.
Will jumped off the step and raced across the platform. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Chung Huang!”
The Chinese youth looked up and grinned. He walked toward Will, raising a hand in greeting.
“Your cousin all right?”
Chung Huang nodded, his big straw hat bobbing. “He will be fine, thank you.”
“Maybe we’ll meet again when the rails join.”
“Maybe. I hope by then to be a tracklayer, not just a tea boy.”
“I’ll look for you next year. Someplace in Utah, maybe.”
The train’s whistle sounded two short blasts. Steam hissed from the cylinders as the engineer released the brakes. The locomotive chuffed and lurched forward. The couplers on the string of passenger cars banged one after another as the slack between them was taken up.
Will dashed back to the train, leaped onto the step, turned, and waved goodbye to Chung Huang.
The first through passenger train from Sacramento arrived in Reno shortly after eight on the evening of June 18, 1868. Shouting crowds, an occasional gunshot, and clanging bells from the local churches and the fire station greeted the debarking passengers. Will felt like a celebrity when he stepped off the car. Nevada’s newest town occupied a prominent place along the route of the transcontinental railroad. Carson City, the state’s largest town, was too far off the direct route to entice the railroad to make the detour necessary to reach it. Just as the Union Pacific would bypass the capital of Utah, so would the Central Pacific bypass the capital of Nevada.
After spending the night in a Reno hotel, Will and his uncle boarded a mud wagon for the thirty-five mile, six-hour trip over rugged terrain to reach Carson City. Wells Fargo still used the capital city as its principal stagecoach station in western Nevada. During the ride, Will’s uncle remained silent. Will knew he was brooding about not being successful in his mission to get the Central Pacific to agree to a meeting place. His uncle would be concerned about the reaction of General Dodge when he had to pass along the bad news. And Will was worried about the future of the survey inspection team and his own job.
The Wells Fargo Concord coach for their journey back to Salt Lake City wouldn’t depart until the following morning, so Will and his uncle spent the afternoon strolling the streets of Carson City. Will paused in front of a stationer’s window to study a display of books.
“You suddenly develop an interest in reading?” Will’s uncle asked. “Plan to buy one?”
“Not for me.”
“Wouldn’t be for some black-haired young lady I know, would it?”
Will felt his face flush. He looked sideways to see his uncle’s broad grin.
“Jenny’s family lost their library last year in the wagon fire.” Will looked through the window and pointed to a volume. “I think she might enjoy that one by Charles Dickens.”
“A Christmas Carol? Yes, she probably would.”
“Only one problem,” Will said.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t have enough money. Could you advance me a little on my salary?”
His uncle threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Well, if it were for anybody else, I’d say no. But since it’s for Jenny McNabb, I’ll agree
.”
CHAPTER 26
Will, his uncle, and Homer Garcon waited to board the stagecoach at Bridger’s Pass Station for the final thirty miles of their journey. Will looked forward to the end of the three-and-a-half weeks of riding over the dusty, bumpy roads. They’d spent fourteen days traversing from Carson City to Salt Lake City, and another ten days to get to Bridger’s Pass. The Union Pacific’s rails had been extended across the North Platte River to the new Hell on Wheels town of Benton, a few miles east of Rawlins Springs. North Platte Crossing, the coach’s final destination, now served as Wells Fargo’s connecting point with the railroad. No stagecoaches ran farther east.
“Well, if it isn’t Butch Cartwright.” Will’s uncle tipped his hat to the diminutive driver perched on the seat atop the Wells Fargo coach that pulled up in front of the station.
“How’d do, Mr. Corcoran.” Butch spoke with a scratchy, high-pitched voice. “You look much fitter this time than when I last seen you.”
“Will,” his uncle said, “this is the driver that took me to Big Laramie Station when I came down with the sickness.”
“Hello, Mr. Cartwright.” Will held his hand above the brim of his slouch hat to shade his eyes from the morning sun, when he looked up at the driver.
“Just Butch. Don’t cotton to the mister part.”
“All right . . . Butch.” Will couldn’t remember any other stagecoach drivers they’d encountered on their trip to and from California who didn’t hide behind a scruffy beard. Few men in the West went clean-shaven. His uncle being one—and himself. He ran his fingers across his chin feeling for the elusive whiskers. No need to shave regularly, yet.
“This ugly mug beside me is Slim Dempsey,” Butch said. “He’s my shotgun messenger.”
Will and his uncle both acknowledged the introduction with a wave. Slim touched the brim of his hat with his shotgun.
“Time to board, folks,” Butch said.
The driver heaved their luggage onto the roof of the coach while Will, his uncle, and Homer took their seats.
“Giddup!” Butch called. The whip snapped and the six-horse rig lurched forward.
Less than two hours later, the coach stopped briefly at Pine Grove swing station. Scanty evergreen and aspen trees, the only vegetation other than scrub brush along the nine-mile run from Bridger’s Pass, lined the creek bed beside the one-room log building and gave the station its name. Snow melt coursing down from the Continental Divide nourished the trees during the spring, but now in mid-July the creek bed was dry. The passengers didn’t disembark during the five minutes it took the station’s stock tenders to change the teams.
Butch drove the six horses at a trot on eastward toward Sage Creek Station, ten miles distant. The pungent odor of sage wafted into the open windows. Will wrinkled his nose. A little sage goes a long way, and there was more than a little out there. The gray-green bush dotted the landscape on both sides of the Overland Trail, as far as he could see. He was reminded of the sage poultice Bullfrog Charlie had applied to his leg earlier in the year.
Will sat by the window on the rear seat. Most travelers chose the comfort of the front seat, but Will preferred the view forward. He liked to see where he was going. When he wasn’t admiring the scenery, he read a few pages in the Dickens’ novel he’d purchased for Jenny.
The coach topped a ridge and headed down a gentle slope. The solitary bulk of Elk Mountain came into view on the horizon. Will knew the North Platte River flowed just this side of that prominent peak. They were close to their destination.
“Everybody look alive!” Butch screamed down to the passengers from the driver’s box. “Indians attacking Sage Creek Station!”
Will stuffed the book into the haversack he wore over his shoulder, drew his Colt from its holster, checked the seating of the percussion caps, and brought it to half-cock. Other passengers pulled revolvers from carpetbags or holsters. A middle-aged woman in the middle of the front seat grabbed the arm of the man beside her. “Oh, Elmer, we’re going to die.”
“Hush, Agnes,” her companion said. “No, we’re not. There are too many of us here with guns.” The woman leaned against him, whimpering.
Will stuck his head out the window. A column of smoke spiraled upward from the shake roof of the log station. Riders on ponies circled the burning building. The station’s two stock tenders lay dead in front of it. Gunfire punctuated the war cries. “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!”
“We’re gonna run straight through, folks,” Butch yelled. The whip cracked. “Hie! Hie! Giddup.” The whip cracked again and again. “Hie! Hie!”
The Indians broke away from the station and swung in along both sides of the stagecoach. Bullets smacked into the wooden sides, spattering wood chips and dust into the coach. From the driver’s box, the sharp crack of Slim’s carbine returned the fire of the attackers. Will fired his pistol at an Indian, but missed. The bouncing coach made accurate shooting difficult.
“Let’s concentrate our fire on that lead pony!” Will shouted to the two men who leaned out the center and front windows next to him. “The pony’s a bigger target.”
“Right,” the man beside him said.
Three revolvers roared together. The pony stumbled and the brave flew over its neck.
“Yeah!” The other man shouted from the front window.
But they’d only stopped one of a dozen pursuers. A shot zipped through the window and plowed into the wood above the middle-aged woman’s head. She screamed.
“Hush, Agnes! Your screaming won’t help!”
Gunfire reverberated inside the coach. The acrid black powder smoke hung in the confined space. Will’s lungs burned—his eyes watered. Bullets and arrows kept slamming into the rocking, bouncing stage.
“Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!” The attackers didn’t back off.
“Slim!” Butch cried from above. “No, Slim!”
The body of the shotgun messenger tumbled from the top of the coach, past the window where Will sat, and thudded onto the trail. Now the driver was unprotected. If Butch were shot, who’d drive?
Will jammed his revolver into its holster. He squeezed through the window and reached up to grab the luggage railing along the top of the coach.
“What are you doing?” Will’s uncle yelled.
“I’ve got to help Butch!” A bullet splintered the wood in the window edge next to him. He felt a sharp blow against his side from what had to be another bullet, but since he was still alive he pulled himself up onto the roof and crawled forward.
“Humph.” Butch slumped just as Will took the shotgun messenger’s seat.
“You hit?” Will asked.
“Yeah.” Butch sat up and took a deep breath. “In the arm. Stings like the devil.”
The shotgun messenger’s Spencer carbine lay in the footwell of the driver’s box. Will picked it up and levered a shell into the chamber. He turned and fired. He levered the trigger guard again. No shell came up into the breech.
“Behind the seat.” Butch gasped. “Extra tubes.”
Will pushed a pair of saddlebags aside. Beneath them lay half-a-dozen loaded ammunition tubes. He extracted the butt cover from the carbine, tipped a tube against the opening in the butt, and slid the replacement rounds into place. He crawled over the seat back, eased along the top of the coach, and lay prone, facing the rear.
The lead Indian rider looked up. Black paint obscured his face from his eyes down. Black Wolf’s Cheyenne band! Will steadied the carbine across a valise. He sighted at Black Wolf’s pony. He waited for the coach to bounce into the air, and when it dropped back hard, bottoming onto its thoroughbraces, he pulled the trigger. The pony dropped. Black Wolf pitched off.
Will levered another shell into the chamber and took aim at the next rider. Again he waited for the coach to bottom. The carbine roared and that pony fell.
The Indians gave up their pursuit.
Will climbed back into the driver’s box. Butch breathed hard. “That was some shooting,” the driver said. “Di
dn’t think we were gonna make it.”
Will studied the grimace on Butch’s face. “You’re hurt pretty bad.”
“Agh!” Butch slumped against him.
Will grabbed the bundle of reins that slipped through the driver’s gloved hands. Now what? He’d only driven a two-horse team. What did he do with all these reins?
Butch stirred beside him. “Can you drive it?”
“Don’t know.”
“You have to try.” Butch blew out a sharp breath. “Change seats. Brake’s on this side.”
Will stepped up behind Butch and lifted the bundle of reins while the driver slid beneath them to the left. Will settled into the driver’s right-hand seat and braced his foot against the brake handle.
“Now,” Butch said. “Ribbons for the near horses in your left hand.”
“Ribbons?”
“Reins. Off horses in the right hand. Lace the ribbons for the lead team between the fore and middle fingers.”
Will adjusted the reins.
“Good. Swing team between middle and ring fingers.” Butch paused to suck in a breath through clenched teeth. “Wheel team between the ring and little fingers.”
Will struggled to get the bundle of reins into place in his bare hands.
“Your hands are too big for my gloves,” Butch said. “Sorry.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Slow ’em down, Will.” Butch looked back. “The savages aren’t chasing us anymore.”
Will slowed the teams to a trot and drove the rest of the fourteen miles from Sage Creek Station to the North Platte River in under two hours. The horses kept up a steady pace without much urging—still his hands were bloody and raw from the biting ribbons. At the river’s edge, he guided the stage onto the ferry and once across, he drove it up the opposite bank.
“Whoa!” Will hauled back on the reins and pushed his foot down on the brake lever. The coach rocked to a stop in front of North Platte Crossing Station. The teams blew hard—white, foamy sweat covered their coats. Butch lay passed out on the seat.
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