Will sighed and transferred Homer’s weight to an old friend, Grady Shaughnessy.
“Am I glad to see you, Grady.”
“Sure, and it’s been a long time, Will.”
Half an hour later, all the passengers and Conductor Johnson had been helped from the demolished coach. They sat huddled on a pile of ties at the base of the embankment, which still gushed water down its sides. The passenger car lay smoldering in its own pile of ashes before them.
Will wiped the mud from the Yellow Boy with his bandana. “You showed up at the right time again, Grady,” he said.
Grady Shaughnessy, the muscular Irish, track-grading foreman, grinned. He and some of his crew had fended off a Cheyenne raiding party who had ambushed Will and Homer two years before in Nebraska. Will rubbed his left arm, where the arrow had pieced his bicep during that encounter. That injury had almost cost him the chance to work for the Union Pacific.
“ ’Tis my pleasure, as always,” Grady said.
“Homer and I thank you, again,” Will said.
“So, ye have the plans for the Ogden yard?” Grady asked. “That’ll be the last major facility before we hook up with the CP, to my way of thinking.”
“I believe you’re right. Now, I have to find a way to get these plans back to General Jack at Fort Fred Steele.”
A locomotive whistle caused Will and the others to look eastward.
“That be the evening freight coming south,” Grady said. “She’ll be having to head right back to Wahsatch. Won’t be no passing through the ‘Zig-Zag’ until me and the boys can rebuild this embankment.”
“How long will that take?” Will asked.
“Oh, two days, at most. We’ll dig this mushy mess out and replace it with good gravel. Lots of that’s coming out of Tunnel Two from the Mormon’s blasting.”
“All because of that fool ‘Colonel’ Seymour.” Conductor Johnson spoke up. “If he hadn’t insisted on laying track on frozen ground, this would never have happened.”
“Sure, and that be the truth,” Grady said. “Fortunate, it is, that no one’s hurt worse. One of these ladies was burned some when her dress caught fire. Mostly scrapes and bruises, though. Only one serious hurt is Homer, here.”
Will and Grady had rigged a temporary sling for Homer’s arm and strapped it against his body to constrain the motion that caused the most pain.
“Homer, I think you’d better stay in Wahsatch until you’re better,” Conductor Johnson said. “The railroad doctor there can look after you.”
“But, I’se supposed to go with Will.”
“If you don’t avoid using that arm for a time,” Johnson said, “you’ll never heal.”
“He’s right, Homer,” Will said. “I can go on alone. Can’t anything worse than a train wreck happen.”
CHAPTER 10
Paddy approached the rear of the large tent structure that formed the dance-hall portion of the false-fronted Lucky Dollar Saloon. The Utah sky above Echo City stretched cloudless from horizon to horizon. The snowstorm of the past several days had left drifts piled against the backs of the string of temporary buildings that comprised this version of Hell on Wheels. Horse and foot traffic up and down the alleyway had plowed a path that extended from one end of the portable town to the other.
Paddy lifted the canvas-flap back door, shook remnants of snow from the thick material to keep the cold, white powder from tumbling down his collar, and stepped into the vast empty space covered by the circus-style tent. At this early hour, the dance floor was empty. Only two of the dozen tables held occupants engaged in faro. One drunk leaned against the far end of the extensive wooden bar that ran the length of one side of the tent.
“And a fine morning to ye, my good man,” Paddy said. He doffed his bowler hat and executed an exaggerated bow toward Randy Tremble, the bartender, who ignored the greeting and continued to polish the glasses lined up in front of him.
“Is it that his honor has requested my presence?” Paddy asked.
“You might say that,” Randy answered. “All he told me was to send someone to find ‘the wee runt’ and tell him to get his butt in here pronto.”
Paddy snorted and continued across the compacted dirt floor of the saloon to the raised wooden one that was a part of the false front of the building. He stepped up and knocked on the door that led to the office built into one corner.
“Enter!”
Paddy opened the door at the command and took off his bowler hat when he walked into Mort Kavanagh’s office. “Ye sent for me, Mort?”
“That I did.” The heavyset owner of the Lucky Dollar Saloon pulled a long cigar from his mouth and blew a smoke ring across the desk.
Sally Whitworth, who sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk, waved her hand in front of her face and blew out her breath. “Mort, for goodness sakes, find some better cigars. That thing stinks!”
Kavanagh turned the cigar sideways and blew on the tip, causing the coals to glow brightly. “Ah, you’re probably right, darlin’. Next time you visit Abrams General Store you ask that Jewish peddler if he’s received any of my favorite cigars, yet. This was all he had last time.”
“You can be sure I will.”
“In the meantime, Sally, my dear, fetch a bottle of that good rye whiskey from Randy while I converse here with this Irish no-account.”
Sally rose and brushed her flowered skirt smooth with her hands. “How many glasses, Mort?”
“Make it three.”
Paddy felt the slight grin spread across his lips and crease the scar on his left cheek. Mort was going to treat him to the special rye he kept for himself.
Sally approached the open doorway, which Paddy continued to occupy. He stared at the beautiful redhead, but did not move. She turned up her nose and slid sideways past him. Paddy grinned when she shuddered as her sleeve brushed against him.
“Close the door, Paddy, and sit,” Kavanagh said.
Paddy sat in the chair vacated by Sally, relishing the warmth she’d left behind. He laid his hat in the other chair and drew his Bowie knife from his boot top. He extracted a plug of tobacco from a vest pocket, sliced off a chaw, and dragged it into his mouth with his lips from the side of the blade. He grunted and winced when he bit down on the chaw.
“What’s that all about?” Kavanagh asked.
“Toothache.”
Kavanagh shook his head. “You haven’t enough good teeth left to have a toothache. You ought to have the barber pull the rest of them and buy yourself a set of false ones.”
“With what, Mort? Ye ain’t paid me in weeks.”
“Well, I’m about ready to offer you some new employment.
I’ll even advance you a little bit of cash.”
Paddy shifted the chaw to the backside of his mouth to avoid biting it with his aching front tooth. He certainly wouldn’t be spending any of the money Kavanagh might give him on having his teeth pulled. He had to save his money to send to his mother and sister who continually hounded him from Brooklyn to supplement the meager amounts they took in as laundresses. No, the tooth would fall out on its own, soon enough.
The door opened and Sally reentered with a tray on which she balanced a bottle and three glasses. She placed the tray on the end of Kavanagh’s desk and dropped into the chair beside Paddy, squashing his bowler. Paddy had been distracted wetting his lips in anticipation of the drink and had forgotten to remove his hat from the chair.
Sally jumped back up and pulled the flattened hat from beneath her with the tips of her thumb and forefinger.
“Ah, darlin’, now look what ye’ve done.”
Mort laughed. “I’ve heard tell it’s bad luck to put a hat on a bed, Paddy. Guess you proved it’s also not so good to put one on a chair.”
Sally grimaced as she held the hat out to Paddy. “I hope that dirty thing didn’t ruin my dress.”
“Humph!” Paddy slammed a fist into the hat and pushed the crown back into shape. This was the fourth hat he’d had to buy in a l
ittle over two years. Will Braddock had shot three off his head, causing Paddy to part with money he didn’t really want to spend replacing headgear.
Sally sat again and poured two fingers of rye into two of the glasses. Paddy watched her hold the bottle poised over the third glass as she looked at Kavanagh. His boss nodded, and Sally poured two fingers into the remaining glass. She handed one glass to Kavanagh and took one for herself. Paddy had to reach out and pick up the third glass himself.
Kavanagh raised his glass. “Here’s to success with your new mission.” He nodded to Paddy and sipped the amber liquid.
Paddy returned the salute with his own glass, then inhaled the aroma of the rye whiskey. He tucked the tobacco chaw farther into the side of his jaw with his tongue, touched the rim of the glass to his lips, and slurped a gulp of the fiery liquid. “Ow!”
Sally looked sideways at Paddy and frowned.
“He has a toothache,” Kavanagh said.
“How can he have a toothache?” she said. “He hasn’t got anything left except rotten stubs. Not to mention the foulest breath of anyone I know.”
Paddy glared at Sally as he tilted his head to allow the alcohol to slide down the side of his mouth away from the tobacco wad, which he kept pinned to the opposite jaw with his tongue. He wasn’t going to let a toothache stop him from enjoying this good rye. He swallowed the fiery liquid and grinned.
“Mort,” said Paddy, “ ’tis good whiskey, that is.”
“Glad you like it,” Kavanagh said. “Now, let’s proceed with business. Paddy, I have to admit I was impressed when I heard how you convinced those tracklayers to waylay that Braddock fellow so you could get away from him the other night. That gave me the idea for your next assignment.”
“Yeah, Mort?”
“It’s no secret that the two railroads are about to join up. Soon as that happens, the Lucky Dollar Saloon will be out of business. Hell on Wheels will cease to exist. Hundreds of tracklayers will be out of work and head off to other parts. But before they do, I want to get my money back from them. I’ve been extending credit to these workers for a long time. The Union Pacific hasn’t paid their wages in months.”
“Aye, and just what is it ye be wanting me to do about that?” Paddy asked.
“You are good at stirring up trouble, O’Hannigan. I want the workers to stop construction work until they’re paid. I want you to incite them to strike.”
CHAPTER 11
Will could hardly believe his eyes. Each side of the tracks was strewn with piles of trash, but there were no buildings. No shacks. No tents. Bits of scrap iron, shards of broken pottery, and heaps of splintered wood showed briefly through the snow cover that the wind whirled over and around the wreckage.
“Mr. Johnson?” Will called out.
The conductor, who had been checking passengers’ tickets near the front of the coach, walked down the aisle and stopped beside Will.
“What can I do for you, Will?”
“Mr. Johnson, I thought this was where Benton should be.” Will pointed a finger toward the expanse of ruin the train rolled past.
“Was here. When the rails moved on, Benton dried up and disappeared.”
“Why? It was a thriving community last time I was here.”
“No water. They couldn’t find any potable water by drilling wells, and it became too expensive to haul it from the North Platte by rail, so everybody gave up and headed west.”
“Huh.” Will shook his head and watched the last of the rubble disappear behind the train.
Conductor Johnson patted Will on the shoulder, smiled, and returned to the front of the car. When he reached the door he turned to face the interior of the passenger car. “Folks. Next stop is Fort Fred Steele . . . twenty miles. Be there in less than half an hour. There are no meal facilities at the station. If you get off, I suggest you don’t wander far from the train, unless this is your destination. Train will stop for only fifteen minutes . . . time enough to take on water and fuel. We’re behind schedule, because of all the snowdrifts we’ve had to plow through. I know you are all as anxious to reach Cheyenne as we are. The UP will get back under way as fast as we can.”
Will heard numerous comments that seconded the conductor’s desire.
A half-hour later Will gathered up his haversack and Winchester and exited the coach. No other passengers followed. He had left Homer Garcon in the care of the Union Pacific’s doctor in Wahsatch yesterday, almost twenty hours ago. Will entered the small station to shield himself from the gusting wind while he waited to seek directions to Fort Fred Steele’s headquarters building. He had to wait for the train to depart before the sole station attendant came back inside.
After having his destination pointed out, he crossed the tracks to walk the two hundred yards that led past a row of officers’ quarters and several enlisted men’s barracks on this newest Wyoming fort the Army had built the preceding year to provide protection for the railroad. Will was reminded of Fort D. A. Russell outside Cheyenne, because there was no encircling stockade. From the number of barracks, and lack of stables, he assumed a sizable contingent of infantry occupied Fort Fred Steele. As with Fort Russell, there were too many troops for any Indian band to want to attack.
“Will Braddock!”
Will turned his head aside at the sound of a familiar Italian accent. Lieutenant Luigi Moretti approached from one of the officers’ quarters.
“Hi, Luey,” Will responded. He grabbed the brim of his slouch hat when a gust of wind threatened to blow it off.
“What are you doing here?” Moretti asked. The Italian-born first lieutenant twirled his mustache to sharpen its point.
“Uncle Sean sent me to deliver some plans to General Jack Casement. Have you seen him?”
“Yes, he arrived on the westbound train early today. I saw him go into headquarters about an hour ago. I imagine he’s talking with Colonel Stevenson. They knew each other during the war.”
Will nodded. “And what are you doing here, Luey?”
“I’m waiting for General Dodge to return west from Washington City. I’m still assigned to protect him until this railroad construction is finished. My men and I have been biding our time here at Fort Fred Steele during the winter months. By the way, how is Major Corcoran?”
Will told Luey about Paddy shooting his uncle.
“My heavens,” Luey said. “The major went all through the war without being shot and then that crazy Irishman puts a bullet in him.”
Luey had served as a major himself during the war and had known Will’s uncle. Luey still referred to Sean Corcoran as “major,” even though Will’s uncle preferred that people not use the title when addressing him. Some former officers insisted they be addressed by the highest rank they had attained during the war, whereas most were addressed that way out of respect for their former service. Such was the case for Generals Dodge and Casement.
“Come on, Will,” Luey said, “I’ll walk with you. Let’s get out of this cursed wind that never seems to stop blowing here.”
Will and Luey crossed the parade ground and mounted the short porch that fronted the headquarters building. Inside, a sergeant manning an orderly desk asked them to state the purpose of their visit. When the sergeant heard that Will had a package to deliver to General Jack Casement, he asked them to wait and said he would see if Colonel Stevenson would receive them. Although Stevenson had been brevetted a brigadier general during the late war, he preferred to be addressed by his current rank as the commanding officer of the Thirtieth Infantry.
The sergeant returned and said they could go in, but he told Will to leave his rifle beside the orderly desk. Then he escorted them to Colonel Stevenson’s office.
“Good morning, Colonel,” Will said. “I don’t mean to disturb you. My uncle asked me to deliver some papers to General Jack.”
The commanding officer sat behind a large desk, and General Jack sat in a side chair in front of the desk.
Colonel Stevenson stuck his head forward
and wrinkled his brow. “I know you. You’re the lad who was waylaid during the horse race a couple of years ago.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Will Braddock.”
The colonel stood and walked around from behind his desk. He held out his hand, and Will reached to shake it.
“It’s good to see you again, Will,” Stevenson said. “If you had been a soldier then, I would have arrested you for desertion.”
Will grinned, and Colonel Stevenson laughed.
“I don’t think I’ve heard this story,” said General Jack.
Stevenson returned to his desk chair and related the incident that happened at Fort D. A. Russell in 1867. After being clubbed over the head by a band of Indians who ambushed him and stole the Morgan horse Will was riding in a race celebrating the founding of the new city of Cheyenne, some soldiers had brought him to the fort’s hospital. When Stevenson refused to send troops to apprehend the horse thieves, Will had climbed out the window of his hospital room, slipped away on foot from the fort, and stole the horse back from the Cheyenne’s camp.
“Ah,” General Jack said, “so that’s how you wound up with that black Morgan.”
“You have the horse?” asked Stevenson.
“I do now, sir,” Will replied. “General Rawlins rode Buck until he left to return to Washington. He gave me the horse, then.”
“He may wish he had that horse to ride in the inaugural parade in March,” Stevenson said.
“I’m sure as President Grant’s newly appointed Secretary of War,” General Jack said, “John Rawlins will have his pick of any number of horses the Army has in Washington.”
“Rawlins will be good in that job,” Stevenson said.
“I hope his health holds out long enough for him to perform it,” General Jack said. “I understand his tuberculosis is worse. His trip out west didn’t seem to help him.”
“Well,” Stevenson said, “enough about that topic. You came here looking for General Jack, not me.”
Will lifted the flap of his haversack and withdrew the bundle of drawings and specifications and handed them to General Jack. “These are the plans for the new railyard in Ogden, sir. My uncle thinks you will need to order special materials right away in order to not slow down construction.”
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