Bear Claws

by Robert Lee Murphy

  He pulled the blanket out of the niche and cradled it in his arms. Embroidery in trade beads and porcupine quills decorated the length of the red cloth. The bundle contained something that rattled. He shook the blanket and it unrolled. The contents clattered to the floor.

  “Bones!” Leg bones, arm bones, and ribs littered the cave’s floor at his feet.

  “Agh!” The eye sockets of a skull stared up at him from the midst of the jumble.

  “Ho, sure, and I’m getting out of here!” He scurried back to the sunlight with the blanket.

  An hour later, Paddy approached a small, wooden railroad trestle spanning one of the many dry gulches. He dismounted and removed his bomb-making tools from the horse. He’d decided he’d better conduct a test to be sure he got the nitroglycerin mixture correct.

  He smoothed out a spot in the sandy bed of the intermittent stream and lined up the three bottles of chemicals, side by side. He opened one of the small vials and nestled it firmly in the sand, piling grains halfway up its sides to stabilize it.

  He blew out his breath, then took another one—a deeper one. “Sure, and I hope to get this right. By all the saints, don’t let me make a mistake.”

  He must mix the chemicals in the proper order. He knew the two acids came first. His bottles weren’t labeled, so he’d go on smell. He remembered the first one he wanted to pour into the vial, the nitric acid, smelled like horse pee. He peeled off the paraffin sealing wax and eased the cork out of one of the bottles.

  The rotten egg smell assaulted his nostrils. “Whew!” Sulfuric acid. He slipped the cork back into the neck of the bottle.

  He worked carefully. It took five minutes before all three ingredients were poured into the small container. He corked the vial, eased it out of its nest of sand, and gently rocked it back and forth. An oily, yellow film coated the inside of the glass container.

  “Ah! Got it.”

  He walked the dozen steps to get beneath the bridge, holding the tiny bottle in front of him with both hands. The bottom timbers of the trestle spanned the dry creek bed five feet above his head. He inched up the sloping bank until he reached the place where the timbers were anchored into the ground. He set the vial on the top edge of the lowest beam and slid back down the slope. He breathed a sigh of relief. That should do it.

  He repacked the chemicals into his saddlebags and led his horse farther away from the bridge. He needed to find a safe place to wait for the next passing train’s vibrations to dislodge the vial and set off his test explosion.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Lone Eagle’s cabin’s just ahead,” Will said, “in that stand of cottonwoods.”

  Will, astride Buck, rode on one side of Jenny, who was mounted on his uncle’s horse. Homer rode on her other side, leading Ruby.

  The cabin nestled in a thick grove of trees that extended away from the water’s edge, along the east bank of the North Platte, and butted up against a steep embankment rising above the narrow plain a hundred yards from the river.

  “Bullfrog certainly selected a beautiful stretch of the river to build his cabin,” Jenny said.

  Will recalled what he’d done the last time he’d been here. “And to serve as a burial place.” He couldn’t yet see the scaffold he’d built in the cottonwoods, but he knew it was there.

  Lone Eagle stepped from behind a tree, blocking the path of the three riders. “It’s a good thing you weren’t trying to sneak up on me. I heard you ten minutes ago.” He laughed.

  “Guess we were a little careless,” Will said.

  “More than a little, Will. Hello, Jenny. And this must be Homer.”

  “Homer Garcon,” Will said, “meet Lone Eagle Munro.”

  “How do, Mr. Munro.” Homer touched the brim of his hat. “Heard lots about you.”

  “Lone Eagle will do.” He motioned toward his cabin. “Don’t have much, but you’re welcome to share what there is. Come in. Have a cup of coffee, at least.”

  The riders nudged their horses forward and followed Lone Eagle, who walked ahead of them.

  “What have you been doing since I last saw you, Lone Eagle?” Will asked.

  “A little hunting . . . some fishing. Mainly staying away from the railroad. It’s getting so crowded around here all the game’s been scared away. Too many men up there.” He nodded up the river to the north. “They erected a big bridge over the river for the tracks. And blasted a tunnel through the Rattlesnake Hills. The Army’s built a new fort beside the bridge, too. It is not the same here, now. Not like when I was a boy.”

  As the riders dismounted in front of the cabin, Lone Eagle pointed to the skin of a grizzly bear pegged to the wall next to the door. “That is the one Will shot—the one that killed my father.”

  Lone Eagle glanced into the woods behind the cabin. Will followed his gaze and spotted the scaffold where he’d buried the old mountain man.

  “I see you’re wearing the claws,” Lone Eagle said.

  “In memory of Bullfrog.” Will tapped the necklace with his fingers. “I don’t wear them often, but since we were coming here today, I decided to show them.”

  “Come in.” Lone Eagle held the door open.

  After they’d settled themselves on the single cot and the two three-legged stools that comprised the cabin’s furniture, Lone Eagle poked the fire to life. He soon had coffee boiling in an old iron pot. He passed around an assortment of mugs and poured the thick liquid into each. He scooped a handful of sugar from a sack, dumping it into his mug, then passed the sack to the others.

  While Lone Eagle served the coffee, Will told him about his run-in with Black Wolf on the stagecoach run from Sage Creek Station.

  Lone Eagle shook his head. “I don’t know why he would lead his warriors this far west. Black Wolf must have been paid a good price to do so. Might be that Irish thug, Paddy O’Hannigan. He passed through here a few weeks ago headed west. He’s always up to no good. And he has a bone to pick with you, Will.”

  “I have the same thought,” Jenny said.

  Will nodded and stretched his feet out in front of him. He hadn’t told Jenny about the nitroglycerin incident at Summit Tunnel.

  “Whoom!” An explosion rocked the cabin.

  A piercing whistle screeched.

  “That’s a locomotive whistle,” Will said. “That’s up where the tracks run.”

  “They were setting off those explosions when they built the tunnel,” Lone Eagle said, “but they finished that work long ago. And those explosions weren’t that loud.”

  The whistling continued unabated.

  “That’s not an engineer sounding a normal whistle. Something’s wrong up there,” Will said. “I’m going to take a look.”

  Jenny and Homer followed Will out to their horses and mounted. Lone Eagle ran down the slope and jumped onto his pony. The four riders urged their mounts into a gallop.

  CHAPTER 31

  Fifteen minutes later, the four riders approached the bridge across the North Platte. Beyond the bridge, to the north of the tracks and west of the river, Will could see the sprawl of Fort Fred Steele’s complex. The dozens of new buildings were not surrounded by a protective stockade. Like the fort outside Cheyenne, the size of the garrison would ensure that Indians thought twice about an attack.

  A handful of soldiers on a ferry pulled the craft toward the east bank of the river, their horses swimming in the water alongside. They too must be on their way to investigate the explosion and constant whistling. For a moment, Will wondered why they didn’t just ride over the bridge.

  A closer inspection provided the answer—the tracks crossed the span on open girders. A man could walk across, stepping from one railroad tie to another, but not a horse.

  A quarter mile to the east of the bridge, Will saw the freight train stopped on the tracks. He wheeled Buck toward the train and raced parallel to the rails. The others followed.

  Clouds of steam spiraled skyward from the locomotive, whose boiler tilted downward at a steep angle. Three
men stood beside the cab of the engine. Will recognized one of them—Hobart Johnson, the conductor.

  Will and his companions drew up even with the locomotive and reined in. Will stepped down from his saddle. “Mr. Johnson, what happened?”

  “Hello, Will.” Johnson pointed to the front of the locomotive. The leading wheels, beneath the cowcatcher, hung suspended in midair. The frame supporting the boiler rested on the trestle’s abutment. “Bridge blew up. Whatever the explosive was, the vibrations transmitted from the train through the rails evidently set it off before we reached the bridge. Engineer Patton slammed on the brakes and kept us from plunging into the gulch. Boiler’s cracked, though. Can’t stop the steam escaping through the whistle.”

  “Vlademar, climb up there and knock that whistle off.” Engineer Patton motioned for his fireman to step forward. “Careful. That steam will roast your hide.”

  The engineer handed the fireman a wrench and helped him clamber up the side of the locomotive.

  The soldiers had gotten across the river and rode up to the engine. “What’s going on here?” a sergeant shouted over the whistle’s scream.

  “Trestle blew up, Sergeant,” Johnson said. “Damaged an engine, as you can see, and the telegraph line is down, too. The poles were mounted on the side of the bridge. They’re gone now.”

  The sergeant turned back to the half-dozen men who sat behind him. “Arrest that Indian, Corporal.” He pointed to Lone Eagle, who had ridden his pony down into the gully crossed by the bridge and was busy poking among the debris of timbers with his bow.

  “Why?” Will asked.

  “He’s an Indian, isn’t he? He must have had something to do with this.”

  “No, he didn’t. He’s with me.”

  “That’s right, Sergeant,” Johnson said, “he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Then who did?”

  Conductor Johnson shrugged. “Don’t know, but I did see a white man, wearing a bowler hat, riding away right after the explosion. What I do know is we’ve got to get this locomotive off the tracks, and more importantly, we have to get a crew out here to rebuild this bridge . . . fast. General Grant will be coming through here later today and there’s no way to notify his train to stop until we reconnect the telegraph. We don’t have much time.”

  The steady hiss of steam suddenly replaced the screeching. The fireman had succeeded in smashing the offending whistle off the boiler.

  “Well, nothing we can do to help here,” the sergeant said. “I’m taking my detachment back to the fort.” He swung his horse around and motioned the column of soldiers to follow him.

  “Will,” Lone Eagle called from the gully. “Come see this.”

  Will eased Buck down the slope and joined Lone Eagle, who pointed with his bow to the ground several yards from the wreckage of the bridge. “One man’s tracks only. Little mound of sand surrounded something there. And there are larger marks on the ground next to it.”

  Will dismounted and studied the mound. In the bottom of the fine sand he could make out the impression left by the bottom of a small jar. He ran his fingers over the marks remaining from three larger containers. “He mixed nitroglycerin here.”

  “That’s an explosive, isn’t it?”

  “A very powerful, and dangerous one. I’m pretty sure I know who did this. Let’s see if we can find any signs.”

  “We?” Lone Eagle grinned at him.

  Will returned the grin. “You, then.”

  Lone Eagle slid off his pony and followed boot marks and hoof prints back into the brush, farther from the bridge. He waved for Will to accompany him.

  “He waited here. Horse pranced around a long time before leaving.” Lone Eagle followed some hoof prints across the dry creek bed and fingered several freshly broken branches where the horse had crashed through. “Guilty party rode east from here, along the railroad tracks.”

  “Strange. I would have thought he would ride back to the west. Return to Benton . . . where I’m sure he works.”

  “Who?”

  “Paddy O’Hannigan.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “What’s east of here, Lone Eagle?” Will asked. “Why would O’Hannigan ride that way?”

  “Rattlesnake Hills Tunnel. In those hills on the horizon there.” He pointed to a low ridge that ran north and south across the tracks a couple of miles away.

  “The tunnel . . . of course. That’s his real target. This little trestle was just a test of the nitro.”

  Will mounted and tapped Buck’s flanks, riding up the bank on the east side of the gully. Lone Eagle followed. Will reined in when he reached the tracks and called back across the narrow expanse where the trestle had fallen. “Mr. Johnson!”

  “Yes?” The conductor raised his hand to signal Will had his attention.

  “I think I know who blew up the trestle and what his next target is.”

  “You do? What is it?”

  “Rattlesnake Hills Tunnel.”

  “I’ll get that Army detachment back here to give pursuit.”

  “There’s not time. Lone Eagle and I will go after him.” Will glanced at his friend to see if he might refuse—he didn’t.

  “If you hurry, Mr. Johnson,” Will said, “you can catch up to that sergeant and ride across the river on the Army’s ferry. Take Jenny and Homer with you.”

  “I’se coming with you,” Homer said.

  “No. You get Jenny safely to Benton. Find Uncle Sean and General Dodge and tell them what’s happening.”

  “All right. Mr. Johnson, you can ride my mule, Ruby. It’ll be faster than walking.”

  “Will,” Jenny said, “you and Lone Eagle be careful. I know who you’re going after and he’s dangerous. He won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  “I know.” Will turned Buck back to the east and kicked his flanks. “Come on, let’s ride.”

  By keeping their mounts in the cleared ditch that paralleled the railroad, Will and Lone Eagle had an unobstructed route and reached the Rattlesnake Hills in less than half an hour.

  Will pulled up at the base of the hills where the tunnel cut through them. Heavy timbering reinforced the tunnel’s opening and extended ten feet from the face to form a shed that would keep falling rock from tumbling down onto the tracks.

  Lone Eagle slid from his pony and pointed to the ground with his bow. “Same horse prints here as in the gully. The horse pranced around here for a while . . . but then the tracks lead off to the south.”

  “He’s gone already, then.” Will dismounted and dropped Buck’s reins, allowing them to trail on the ground. Buck knew he was to stay in place.

  Lone Eagle stepped toward the entrance to the tunnel and stopped. “No!” He stooped and touched a red blanket rolled up beside the tracks. He looked off to the south, where Elk Mountain dominated the horizon.

  “What?” Will asked.

  Lone Eagle stood and shook out the blanket. He caressed the trade beads and porcupine quills decorating the length of red cloth. “This is my mother’s shroud.”

  “How did Paddy get it?”

  “He’s been in the cave on Elk Mountain.” Lone Eagle lifted the blanket to his nose. “Smells like rotten eggs.”

  “He used it to carry the chemicals for making the nitroglycerin. We have to be careful. Don’t kick over any bottles we find.”

  Lone Eagle rolled the blanket and mounted his pony.

  “Where are you going?” Will asked.

  “I must return the blanket to my mother’s bones.” He pointed with his bow to Elk Mountain.

  “Can you wait?” Will stepped to the pony and grasped its bridle. “I may need your help.”

  Lone Eagle looked at Will for a moment, then nodded. He dismounted and tied the rolled blanket to the rear of his Indian saddle.

  “What we’re looking for are small bottles. They’d be the same diameter as the indentation in that mound of sand you discovered in the gully. Doesn’t take much nitro to blow something sky-high.”

  �
�That’s not the only thing we have to look out for,” Lone Eagle said.

  “What else?”

  “They don’t call these the Rattlesnake Hills for nothing. This dark tunnel is a likely hiding place.”

  Will stepped into the tunnel’s entrance. “Check the cross timbers. Paddy’s probably placed the bottles on them, expecting the vibrations from the train to shake them off.”

  “Is that one?” Lone Eagle pointed above his head.

  “Yes. I’ll climb up and get it and hand it to you. Take it outside someplace away from the horses. Do not drop it, whatever you do.”

  Lone Eagle leaned his bow against the side of the tunnel shed.

  Will stepped up on a crossbeam, holding on to a girder with one hand, while he reached up to grasp the glass bottle with the other. It fit easily into his palm. He tightened his grip on the girder and eased the small bomb off the timber.

  Will slowly handed the bottle down to Lone Eagle, who cradled it between both hands. The Indian carried the bottle gingerly outside. Will eased himself down from the crossbeam and watched his friend head down the embankment from the tracks into the ditch. Lone Eagle walked fifty paces away and placed the bottle on a boulder, then returned.

  “I don’t see any more on this side of the tunnel, do you?” Will asked.

  Lone Eagle shook his head.

  They both crossed the tracks and scanned the opposite wall of wood.

  “There.” Lone Eagle pointed. A second bottle sat on a shelf at the same height as the first one.

  Will once again stepped up onto a crossbeam and reached up to find a handhold.

  Zzzzz.

  A rattlesnake lay coiled on the timber where he’d placed his hand. The snake’s diamond-shaped head hung poised right in front of his face.

  “Hold still,” Lone Eagle said. “I need my bow. I left it on the other side of the tracks.”

  Will held his breath. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He stared into the eyes of the big rattler. Its tongue flicked out and back.