“Thank you, Jenny.” He took the proffered cup and sat on the bench on the opposite side of the table from Will. “Now, young man, let’s hear this explanation about why you are sitting here alone with my daughter wearing no clothes.”
Will stammered out the story about chasing after Paddy and winding up being clubbed by the Irish tracklayers. He left out the part about the cadaver’s eyes, but he did describe the wagon overturning while riding with the corpse.
McNabb sipped his coffee, grasping the tin mug with both hands to warm them while he drank. When Will finished his tale, McNabb nodded slowly. “Show me the lump on your head and maybe I’ll believe you.”
Will turned his face away from Jenny’s father. She stepped closer and gently brushed Will’s unruly hair up and away from his shoulders. She touched the spot on the back of his skull causing Will to wince.
“All right,” McNabb said. “When will his clothes be dry, Jenny?”
Jenny reached above the stove and felt the clothes. “They’re dry enough now, Papa.”
“What are you going to do, Will?” McNabb asked.
“I’d like to go find Paddy O’Hannigan and throttle him once and for all, but I have to go check on Uncle Sean. Maybe I should have gone there first, sir?”
“That probably would have been a good idea,” McNabb said, “but since it appears my daughter’s virtue is still intact, get dressed and get out of here.”
Five minutes later, Will stepped into the large wall tent that the Union Pacific’s doctor used as the railroad’s hospital. Along one sidewall a row of cots served as the ward. Will’s uncle occupied the last bed in the row. Homer sat on a stool on the far side of the cot and raised his head when Will approached.
“Uncle Sean?” Will removed his slouch hat and crushed it against his chest.
Will’s uncle opened his eyes, turning his head slightly, a lopsided grin appearing on his lips.
“Uncle Sean, how are you?”
“Been better.” His uncle sighed deeply.
Will looked at Homer. “What’s the doctor say?”
“Doc say he gonna make it. But he ain’t gonna be working for a while.”
“Did you stop Paddy?” his uncle asked.
“No, sir.”
Will told his uncle and Homer about his pursuit of their mutual enemy and his run-in with the Irishmen at the wake. He grimaced when he reached up with his left hand and tested the bump on the back of his head.
“We’ll all three have to stay alert.” Will’s uncle shifted on the cot, generating a groan. “That foolish Irish boy is determined to carry out his revenge.”
“Can I do anything to help you, Uncle Sean?” Will asked.
“Yes, you have to take Sam Reed’s plans to General Jack. Doctor says I can’t travel right now without reopening this wound. Wants me to stay in bed and rest.”
“All right,” Will said. “Where are the papers?”
“Homer has them. He’ll go with you.”
“I can go by myself, Uncle Sean. I thought I’d already proved I’m no longer a boy.”
“You have. But, one of the men overheard Mort Kavanagh talking about getting his hands on those plans so he could buy up adjacent land. I don’t want that, and I know General Dodge doesn’t want that. Kavanagh might send Paddy out to ambush anybody he thought might be carrying the plans. Two sets of eyes will be better than one to keep a lookout. Besides, Homer would be bored sitting here all day.”
“What if Paddy tries to attack you here?” Will asked. “What if you need help?”
“Doc will take care of me. He’s not going to let any outsider in here.”
“All right, Uncle Sean.”
“Homer,” Will’s uncle said, “take enough money out of my saddlebags to pay the livery stable to keep our horses and Ruby while you’re gone. And take enough for food for yourselves. I know you two haven’t been paid for a long time. Fortunately, I have a little extra.”
Homer dragged a pair of saddlebags from beneath the cot and counted out several paper bills, showing his boss how much he’d withdrawn from the roll of money he’d extracted from one of the pockets.
Will’s uncle nodded. “Give me my notebook and a pencil, Homer.”
Homer dug into another pocket and located the items.
Will’s uncle scribbled on a blank sheet of paper, ripped it out of the notebook, and handed the sheet to Will. “Take this to the stationmaster. He’ll give you passes to ride the train.”
Homer returned the notebook to the saddlebags and placed them back under the cot.
“Better take thatYellow Boy with you, Will. You may need the firepower.” His uncle used the nickname that folks out west had affixed to the Winchester that the German count had given to Will the year before. “Now, off with you both. And don’t get into trouble.”
CHAPTER 8
“Will Braddock, welcome aboard.” Hobart Johnson, the conductor, punched a hole in the pass that Will held out.
“Hello, Mr. Johnson. You remember Homer Garcon?” Will took back his pass and returned it to his haversack, which lay under the seat in front of him.
“Of course, I do.” Johnson reached across Will and took the pass Homer extended. “I rode your mule into Benton from the train wreck site on the North Platte last year.”
“Yes, sir. You surely did.” Homer beamed from where he sat by the window on the wooden bench seat of the passenger car.
Will saw Homer’s pleasure at the conductor’s recollection of their first meeting.
“Where you gents bound for?” Johnson asked. “Your passes indicate free rides up and down the line.”
“Uncle Sean is sending us back to Fort Fred Steele to meet up with General Jack Casement. He’s returning from his vacation back east, and we’re taking him the plans for the new yard in Ogden so he can get a head start on ordering the materials.”
“Ah, General Jack’s on his way back. That’s good. He can whip these unruly gandy dancers back into shape. Mark my word, there’s going to be trouble if they aren’t paid soon.”
“That’s what Uncle Sean is worried about, too.”
“By the way, why isn’t your uncle with you?”
Will told Johnson about the shooting.
“That bloody O’Hannigan sure causes a lot of trouble.”
Johnson shook his head. “I believe it was decided he most likely set the nitroglycerin charge that caused that wreck I mentioned.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what we believe.”
“Well, you two can spread out if you like.” Johnson waved a hand across the aisle. “We have lots of room on this run back to Wyoming. Only you two and a dozen others boarded here at end of track. This recent storm must have held up most eastbound passengers in Salt Lake City. I was hoping we’d have a full car.”
“Jenny McNabb said the stagecoach was delayed because of the snowdrifts in the Wasatch passes.”
“That’s easy to believe,” Johnson said. “The snow this winter has played havoc all the way along the line. Been really tough in Wyoming’s Red Desert.”
“Any problems in Utah?” Will asked.
“Not too bad. The snowplows have been able to keep the drifts off the tracks. Only thing slowing us down is the ‘Zig-Zag’ around Tunnel Two. The Mormon crew has their hands full trying to blast through that hard rock. And we have to tiptoe through the ‘Zig-Zag,’ since ‘Colonel’ Seymour insisted that track be laid on ice.”
“Ice?” Will asked.
“Yes, the ‘insulting engineer’ was in such a hurry to push tracks down through Echo Canyon that he wouldn’t wait for the ground to thaw.”
Conductor Johnson tipped a hand to the brim of his cap and took a step away, then turned back.
“By the way, how is Miss McNabb? She was with us on that ride into Benton last year, too.”
“She’s fine. Still cooking for Wells Fargo.”
“Well, you give her my best next time you see her.”
“Sure thing.”
> Two short blasts from the lead engine’s whistle, followed by another from the helper engine, signaled the train was ready to pull out of Echo City. The grade eastward was too steep for a single locomotive to haul a train up Echo Canyon. A single passenger car had been attached to the rear of a string of a dozen empty flatcars on their way back to Wyoming where they would be reloaded with ties, rails, and joiners for the continued construction of the Union Pacific.
Will jolted on his seat as the locomotives’ actions yanked the passenger car into motion.
Homer rubbed the heel of his hand across the pane of glass next to him to clear the frost that had accumulated on the window from their breaths. “There’s a heap of snow out there,” he said.
Will looked through the circular clearing Homer had made. The drifts reached the bottom of the windowsill a few feet from the side of the car. “That snow’s four feet deep, at least,” he said, “and I hear tell it’s even deeper in Wyoming.”
“Must be, if the trains haven’t been able to get through for so long.”
“I expect it’ll melt soon,” Will said. “The weather this morning’s much warmer than yesterday. Hardly a cloud in the sky . . . and that awful, cold wind has stopped blowing.”
The train gathered speed and the steady clacking of the wheels over the rail joiners soon had Will nodding.
Will awoke and stretched his back. “Why are we slowing?” he asked.
The train moved along the tracks at a crawl. The clicks and clacks of the wheels passing over the track joiners occurred less frequently. The sound of excess steam blowing from the locomotives’ cylinders, and the grinding of wheel rims on iron rails, accentuated the reduced forward motion of the train.
“We’s entering the ‘Zig-Zag.’ ” Homer nodded his head in the direction of the window off his right shoulder.
“Guess I fell asleep.”
“You sure did. Done you some good I ’spect. You needed a little rest after your latest run-in with O’Hannigan.”
Will leaned across Homer to look out the window. The frost had disappeared from the pane and no longer obscured the view. With the concave curve of the track, Will could see the locomotives, their tenders, and the string of flatcars, easing around the first side of the wye. Then the track straightened, bringing all the cars into line and making it impossible for Will to see the complete train.
The forward momentum abruptly ceased. The engines had reached the end of the straight leg of the wye. Two quick blasts of their whistles signaled a crewman to throw the switch. The locomotives chuffed blasts of steam and the train lurched backward, being pushed in reverse out of the straight leg and onto the second curved side of the wye.
By looking across the car, and out the windows on the opposite side, Will watched the train ease back along the curve and onto the mainline. Two more sets of whistle blasts, another jolting stop, and the train cleared the switch. More chugging and whistle blowing, and the engines dragged the train into forward motion.
“Look at the water flowing out of the side of the embankment, Homer,” Will said.
“Where’s all that coming from? Ain’t raining.”
“The ice beneath the tracks is melting.”
The wooden-sided passenger car groaned and swayed pronouncedly from side to side as the train crept across a two-tiered trestle. When it emerged on the earthen embankment on the opposite side of the overpass, the train slowed even more as the weight of the locomotives and railroad cars sank into the mushy roadbed.
Everyone on board, including Will and Homer, opened the windows in spite of the cold, and leaned out, trying for a better look at what was happening around them. Chattering voices from the male passengers and concerned squeals from the females spoke of the danger sensed by everyone.
With a jolt, the entire train careened sideways. Nails and screws holding the passenger car together screeched as the torquing motion pulled them loose from the wood and steel comprising the coach’s structure.
Will looked at Homer. His companion’s eyes opened wider and his mouth dropped open.
A groan erupted from the disintegrating coach generated by the snapping sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood. Passengers yelled and screamed. The car slid off the tracks and down the embankment.
CHAPTER 9
Will grasped the armrest of his seat and reached across to the empty, facing seat where he’d laid the Yellow Boy. Count Wolfgang von Schroeder had given him the lever-action, Winchester rifle last year for saving the nobleman from an attacking grizzly. Will grabbed his most prized possession by the barrel before it could slide down the seat and fly out the open window of the coach.
The railcar tipped onto its side. Will’s whole weight shifted to rest on Homer, who was pinned against the outside wall of the coach by Will’s body. From behind him, Will heard the screams of ladies mingled with the shouts of men, all accentuated by the crashing of bodies falling out of seats and tumbling to the downside of the sliding passenger coach.
Smoke filled Will’s nose. The potbellied stove had tipped over, and its hot coals spilled out, setting fire to the wooden coach body.
Window glass continued to crack and shatter, sending shards flying through the air. One piece stabbed into the seat cushion beside him. An inch or two to the left, and it would have made an ugly wound in his arm—or worse.
The body of the coach ripped away from the undercarriage when the iron wheels of the trucks dug into the gravel of the embankment and refused to move farther. The lighter, wooden superstructure sheared free of the heavier, metal underpinnings. The body of the coach accelerated down the forty-five degree embankment.
A final, thudding crash brought the passenger car to a jolting halt at the bottom of the slope.
Groans and cries replaced screams and shouts as passengers slammed into the side of the coach and came to rest against broken window frames, now buried in the mud in the ditch. Water from melting ice flowed into the car through open windows, broken siding, and demolished flooring.
The fire, fueled by the varnish used to preserve and decorate the wooden interior, traveled rapidly along the walls and ceiling of the car. The dry material of the seat cushions exploded, row by row, as the fire spread forward through the car.
Homer moaned. Will peered at the older man’s face, whose cheeks were drawn up in a grimace with his lips pulled tightly back over his teeth.
“Homer,” Will shouted. “We have to get out of here. The fire’s coming this way.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I think my collarbone’s broke.”
“Oh, no. I did that when I slammed you against the side.”
“Not your fault.”
“Come on, I’ll help you.”
Will shifted the Yellow Boy to his left hand and rolled off Homer. He stood up, his feet coming to rest on the side of the car, which was now the bottom of the box formed by what remained of the passenger coach. He fished his haversack, containing the Ogden plans, out from under the ruined seat in front of him, and slung the strap over his head and shoulder.
Will helped Homer to his knees, then to his feet. The heat from the approaching fire caressed the back of his neck.
Calls for help came from the back of the overturned car.
“You should help them other folks,” Homer said. “They’s hurt worse than me.”
“I’ll get you outside, then I’ll come back.”
Will guided Homer in taking steps along the side of the car that now lay beneath their feet. The seats, bolted to the floor, ranged along their left side. The overhead package shelves, protruding from the side of the car, formed their right wall. Every other step they dropped through an open, broken window, where their feet sloshed into icy mud.
When they reached the rear of the car, Will faced the closed door that led to the rear platform of the coach. The hinges ran along what was now the top of the door instead of the side. The door, though slightly sprung, remained
closed.
“Brace yourself against the frame, Homer, while I push this door open.”
“That door has to be pushed up to get it open, Will. It’s going to be heavy. I can help with my good arm.”
Will nodded, realizing he probably didn’t possess the strength to lift the door by himself. He stepped forward and heaved against the door with his shoulder, using his back muscles to force the barrier up. Homer moved in behind him, reached over Will’s shoulder with his good left hand, and added his power to the lifting motion. The door gradually rose.
Will climbed through the opening, reached across the floor of the platform, and stepped onto the railing’s iron rail. He could use it as a ladder to step down from the car. It was awkward with only one free hand, but he wasn’t going to drop the rifle.
“I’ll hold the door, Will, while you fetch a timber to prop it up. We’s got to keep it open for them other folks to pass through.”
“You sure you can hold it?”
“I ’spect I can.” Homer stepped into the open doorway and braced his raised arm against his chest in order to transfer some of the weight to his body. “Hurry, Will.”
Will tumbled off the damaged rear platform and landed on his knees in the mud. Freezing water soaked his trousers, jolting him back into action. A corner post of the coach swung in the air. He hated to do it, but he laid the Yellow Boy on the ground so he could grasp the post with both hands. He twisted and wrenched the top of it free from where it was still attached to the body of the car, then he wedged one end of the post against the wooden door, which Homer held above his head, and kicked the bottom into position in the soggy dirt of the embankment.
“I think that’ll hold it, Homer.”
Homer eased out of his position. The door settled with a thud against the top of the post, quivered momentarily, then rested in an open position.
“Let me help you away from the coach,” Will said, “then I’ll go back and help the others.”
“Here, I’ll take him.” An Irish brogue spoke from behind Will.
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