Will’s uncle looked at him, then at Homer. “All right . . . once.”
Abrams hung a closed sign on his front door and locked it behind everybody. They all headed across the dusty street to the false-fronted Lucky Dollar.
“Ben?” Will’s uncle asked. “Are you planning on staying in Corinne after the railroads join?”
“I think so, Sean.”
“But, this is called a gentile town.”
“Sean, I believe a Jew like me stands a better chance of being accepted in a gentile town than in a Mormon one. I’ve thought about heading on west, but Sacramento and San Francisco already have plenty of merchants. If Corinne succeeds in becoming the railroad’s main economic center in Utah, as some folks are saying, I think I’ll do better here than elsewhere.”
“I wouldn’t count on Corinne supplanting Ogden as the UP’s rail center,” Will’s uncle said.
Abrams pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon and led the three others across the dozen wooden planks and down onto the dirt of the main floor.
Will had been inside the Lucky Dollar only once before, and that was when he’d demanded that Mortimer Kavanagh provide the ransom money for Jenny McNabb. He surveyed the tent-covered area, half expecting to see Paddy O’Hannigan. He’d heard the stories that Kavanagh had fired Paddy, but he wasn’t sure he really believed them. His search did not reveal the Irish thug. Railroad workers occupied most of the tables, as well as the long bar.
Toward the rear of the tent, Sally Whitworth sat on the edge of a bench beside a piano player. She unfolded a sheet of music and spread it across the front of the upright, then spun around on the bench to face the center of the tent. She nodded and smiled when she saw Will and his three companions settling into chairs at a nearby table.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said. “I was about to sing for the boys.”
The piano player pounded an opening chord and the conversation in the saloon subsided. The drinkers and card players turned their attention to the pretty redhead who treated them to a kick of her high-button shoes, revealing the petticoats beneath her skirt. A roar of approval arose from the crowd as the piano player finished a run through the tune’s refrain. The men quieted, and Sally sang.
When the blackbird in the spring,
On the willow tree,
Sat and rocked, I heard him sing,
Singing Aura Lea.
Aura Lea, Aura Lea,
Maid with golden hair;
Sunshine came along with thee,
And swallows in the air.
“I haven’t heard that sung so prettily since the end of the war,” Will’s uncle said.
“I thought you didn’t like Miss Whitworth,” Abrams said.
“Her singing the song well doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not I like her.”
Abrams raised a hand and motioned for one of the serving ladies to approach the table.
“What’ll it be, boys?” she asked.
“Rye whiskey for me,” Abrams said.
“The same,” Will’s uncle said.
Homer rocked back and forth for a moment, obviously pondering his choice. “I reckon I’ll have a beer.”
“And for you?” The server looked at Will.
“Try the sarsaparilla, Will,” Abrams said. “It’s the best in the country. I import it for Mort Kavanagh all the way from Philadelphia.”
Will nodded. “Sarsaparilla, please.”
A few moments later the girl returned with the drinks. When she’d finished serving them, Abrams held out a five dollar bill. A hand reached over Abram’s shoulder and pushed the offered money down.
“Drinks are on the house.”
Will turned at the sound of the familiar voice, as did the other three at the table. Mort Kavanagh stood behind Benjamin Abrams.
Kavanagh pulled a chair over from an adjoining table. “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you.” He held up a finger as a signal to the girl who had served the table.
The young lady hurried to the bar and soon returned with another glass of rye whiskey, which she placed in front of Kavanagh.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, Corcoran,” Kavanagh said.
“What’s that?”
“Tracklayers from both companies are out there on Promontory Summit, grading past each other. Doesn’t sound economical to me. When and where are the two railroads going to meet up, anyway?”
“I’m not the man with that kind of information. Perhaps you should ask Sam Reed.”
“I did. Sam doesn’t know, either. He says Dodge is back in Washington City, negotiating the meeting place with Harrington.”
“That’s what I’ve been told,” Will’s uncle said. “I agree with you it’s a waste for both companies to grade past one another, especially since the Treasury Department already handed over the bonds to the Central Pacific to cover the costs of grading into Ogden.”
“I’d guess it’s Doc Durant’s doing,” Kavanagh said.
“Likely as not. He’s determined to milk every dime out of the construction of the road.”
“Is that why he doesn’t pay the workers their wages?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Well,” Kavanagh said, “I’ll be glad when the workers do get paid. I have a lot of IOUs outstanding.”
“I’m sure the workers are anxious to get their money, too. There’s a lot of unrest among them. Hard to tell what they might do if they aren’t paid soon.”
Kavanagh took a final sip from his drink and pushed back his chair. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Will’s uncle lifted his glass. “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Kavanagh.”
Kavanagh nodded, stood, and walked back toward his office.
Will took the final sip from his bottle of sarsaparilla and smacked his lips. He hadn’t had a sarsaparilla since he’d left Burlington, Iowa, two years ago. “You were right, Mr. Abrams. That’s the best I’ve had.”
“Good. I thought you’d like it.”
Sally finished her song and the tent fell silent. The words to the sad song that’d been popular around the campfires during the war had placed a dampening edge on the usually boisterous crowd.
Will watched her rise from the bench and whisper something in the piano player’s ear. The player nodded and riffled his fingers down the keyboard before striking up a lively polka. The bright tune reinvigorated the customers and the noise level escalated.
Sally walked across the center of the tent, which was kept free of tables and had a small wooden floor to permit dancing. When she reached the table where Will and his companions sat, she stopped behind Homer and looked across at Will’s uncle.
“Sean Corcoran,” she said, “would you care to dance this polka with me?”
“No, I would not.”
“Aw, that’s a shame. As I recall, you’re a very good dancer.”
His uncle did not reply. Will remembered Benjamin Abrams telling him that Sally Whitworth had tried to get her hooks into his uncle before, and he had avoided her.
Sally shifted her gaze to Will. “How about you, Mr. Braddock? Will you dance with me?”
“I don’t dance.”
“Now you’ve used that excuse before. Surely, in all the time you’ve been out west, hasn’t that cute Miss McNabb taught you how to dance?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And I asked you before not to call me ma’am, didn’t I?”
“Yes, ma’am . . . I mean, Sally.”
“Well, you ask Miss McNabb to teach you dancing. She has her eyes set on you, I know. She’s not going to let you get by forever without knowing how to dance. She’ll have her way with you, mark my word.” Sally turned away from the table and sashayed back toward the piano.
Will’s face turned warm. With his head slightly bowed, he looked at each of his companions with raised eyelids. Broad smiles greeted him. Will felt his blush increase.
CHAPTER 33
Will and Homer had been waiting outside the warehouse for Will’s uncle to finish going over some measurements with General Jack that were marked on a large map laid out on a trestle table. The two men had been reviewing the grading the Union Pacific had performed from Corinne westward across the swampy flats bordering the north shore of the Great Salt Lake and up the sharp ridge that climbed onto Promontory Summit.
“In here, Sam,” Will’s uncle called.
Will stepped out of the opening to allow Sam Reed to pass through, then he and Homer followed. Will noticed Reed’s sallow cheeks reflecting the stress he bore as the UP’s construction superintendent. His wavy hair, full beard, and mustache showed more gray each day.
“Sam,” said Will’s uncle, “you don’t look well.”
“I’m tired, Sean. I can’t keep up with all the changes Doc Durant and Silas Seymour keep making.”
“Tell me about it,” General Jack said. “We’ve wound up with the steepest grade and more sharp curves than anyplace else on the entire route.”
“It’s too bad General Dodge isn’t here,” Will’s uncle said. “He has the knack for keeping Durant and Seymour from making stupid decisions.”
“General Dodge is finally on his way here, gentlemen,” Reed said. “I’ve received a telegram from him informing me he’s reached an agreement with Collis Huntington resolving where the lines are to join.”
Will’s uncle nodded. “That sounds good.”
Reed unfolded a yellow sheet and handed it to General Jack. “You read it, Jack.”
Casement took the telegram and read it aloud.
DODGE TO REED. STOP. REACHED AGREEMENT WITH HUNTINGTON YESTERDAY AND CONGRESS APPROVED. STOP. ROADS TO JOIN AT PROMONTORY SUMMIT. STOP. CENTRAL PACIFIC WILL BUY OUR LINE FROM THERE TO OGDEN. STOP. CEASE GRADING BEYOND PROMONTORY. STOP. PLAN TO COME WEST SOON. STOP.
“All right,” Will’s uncle said, “that means the official terminus will become Ogden. Hardly seems fair since we’ve laid track well beyond there, and the CP isn’t any place near Ogden.”
“It’s probably the best Dodge could do,” Reed said. “Huntington had already finagled the bonds out of the Treasury Department for the mileage into Ogden. The grading we’ve been doing across Utah and into Nevada is not going to be paid for.”
“What do we do now?” Will’s uncle asked.
“Stop grading, of course,” said Reed, “and concentrate on laying the rails to Promontory Summit. We want the UP to be the first there with a locomotive. Can’t let the CP beat us on that. Can you do this, General Jack?”
“We’ll give it our best shot.” Casement slapped his ever-present riding crop against his calf-high boot.
Will’s uncle rolled up the large map and handed it to Reed. “Won’t be needing this, since we’ve reached the end of the line. Won’t be any more changes to record.”
“I’ll include your map with the rest of the files I’m preparing to send back to Omaha. But you’re not done, yet.”
Will noticed his uncle raise his eyebrows.
“I want you to go to the CP’s camp,” Reed said. “You know their managers better than anyone because you met them during the trip you made to California last year.”
Will’s uncle nodded.
“Coordinate with them on the actual meeting point. Where, when, how . . . all the details. Promontory Summit is a broad plateau. We need to nail down the place for the ceremonies that will commemorate the completion of the Pacific Railroad.”
“All right, Sam,” Will’s uncle said.
“I’ll be anxious to read your report when you return,” Reed said.
An hour later, Will led Buck and two riding horses up a ramp into a boxcar that had been coupled to the end of one of Casement’s supply trains, which was loaded with precut bents, sills, posts, and other components for the wooden trestle being constructed over a wide gap in the route to Promontory Summit.
Will tethered the three animals to a rope he’d strung across the front of the car. He left them saddled because the train ride would not last long.
Homer dragged on the halter rope of a reluctant Ruby, urging her up the ramp. The mule, bearing a loaded packsaddle, tried to resist joining the three horses in the closed-in space. Homer tugged hard to encourage the stubborn animal to climb up the ramp. He tied Ruby next to Buck, and she settled down once she found herself standing next to the familiar Morgan.
Will and Homer would travel with Will’s uncle by rail to the end of track, then head farther west on horseback to find the Central Pacific’s construction camp. The three of them climbed aboard the boxcar and waited in the open doorway for the train to start.
General Jack stood below them on the roadbed looking up into the car. “Sean, I can’t take you any farther than the big cut. We’re still erecting the trestle across it. But that huge gap is the last major obstacle between here and the summit.”
“We appreciate you getting us that far. Saves time in the saddle.”
“Stay alert, Sean. The CP is filling the wide gap adjacent to our bridge with dirt, and the competition between their boys and ours is nasty sometimes.”
“Who’s going to win the race across the gap?” Will’s uncle asked.
“With the agreement between Dodge and Harrington to stop grading past each other, I suppose we will in the short run. It’s four hundred feet across that gap, and it takes less time to build a timber trestle than it does to fill the gap with dirt one wagon-load at a time. In the long run though, we’ll probably shift the tracks to the fill. It’ll provide a more stable surface, allowing faster speeds than we can achieve over a wooden trestle.”
Twenty miles from Corinne the supply train stopped at the end of track. A gang of workers promptly set to work unloading the bridge components. Will, his uncle, and Homer led the horses out of the boxcar and alongside the rails to a point where they could look across the deep gap. Out ahead of them, builders worked to span that gap with dozens of bents extending eighty-five feet down from the highest point on the bridge at its center.
“That’s almost as big as the Dale Creek Bridge,” Will said.
“And twice as rickety,” Will’s uncle said. “General Jack’s right. The UP shouldn’t use it any longer than it has to. I hate to admit it, but that fill the CP’s putting in over there is much better.”
“I expected to see Chinese workers on the fill, Uncle Sean.” Will could see dozens of Caucasians hauling wagonloads of dirt to the end of the steep fill that rose as high from the base of the gap as the bents on the trestle did.
“Leland Stanford hired Mormons from Brigham Young to do their grading work in Utah, like we did. The Chinese still lay the rails, but they’re a long way from here. We’ll see them tomorrow. Let’s mount. We have forty miles of riding from here to where we’ll find CP’s end of track. Once we pass Promontory Summit we’ll ride on our graded surface, since we won’t be laying tracks on it. That’ll make for faster traveling.”
“We can’t make forty miles before sundown, Uncle Sean,” Will said.
“I know. That’s why I asked Homer to bring some grub along. You do have it, don’t you, Homer?”
“Yas, suh, I’se got plenty enough packed on Ruby. I also brung the tent. I figure it’ll turn mighty cold tonight.”
“Good,” Will’s uncle said. “Let’s go.”
Will’s uncle mounted, pulled the reins over the neck of his horse, and headed down the slope away from the trestle. Will and Homer fell in behind. They would have to ease their way down one side of the gap, cross it, then climb the other side before reaching level ground.
CHAPTER 34
After spending a chilly night near Spring Bay on the far north shore of the Great Salt Lake, Will, his uncle, and Homer continued riding westward. The land stretched away in an unbroken, barren plain on both sides of the UP’s graded route. The CP
’s right-of-way paralleled the UP’s, occasionally crossing it. Will and his companions found the riding easy down the center of the UP’s grade. Since the Union Pacific would not be using it to lay tracks, the fact that their horses’ hooves dug holes in the surface did not matter. Out of courtesy, they avoided riding on the CP’s grade, which their competitor would use to lay its tracks. About twenty miles from where they had started earlier that morning, they spotted clouds of dust ahead of them.
“I think we’re almost there,” Will’s uncle said. “That dust has to be at the CP’s railhead.”
An hour later, the three horsemen approached the CP’s end of track. Spread out on either side of the tracks were clusters of white tents. A crew of gandy dancers wrestled iron rails off horse-drawn wagons that raced forward from flatcars being pushed ahead of two diamond-stacked locomotives. Will knew the shape of the stack indicated the CP still burned wood in their steam engines. The UP had switched to coal. Most of the UP locomotives now bore straight stacks, it no longer being necessary to trap burning wood cinders in a diamond-shaped chimney.
“Chung Huang!” Will reined in and yelled when he spotted the Chinese youth he had met the summer before at the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California.
Will waved when his friend looked in his direction. Chung Huang held a bucket in one hand from which he took two iron spikes at a time and dropped them atop each tie he passed.
“Back to work, ye no-account Celestial!” The snap of a whip accompanied the shouted command.
Chung Huang’s woven, straw hat jarred askew when he jerked his head in response to the cracking whip. He quickly straightened the hat and bent his head to concentrate on his job of dropping spikes, keeping pace with the Irish work crew who laid down the iron rails in a steady procession.
Will glared at Kevin McNamara, the same supervisor who had disciplined Chung Huang last year for dropping his buckets of tea into the snow. It had been Will’s fault that the accident occurred, but the Irishman had lashed his whip across Chung Huang’s shoulders, nonetheless.
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