Golden Spike

by Robert Lee Murphy

  Now, two months after departing Echo City, he reached the railroad town of Piedmont, Wyoming. Similar to Echo City, Piedmont served as a staging area for helper locomotives required to pull trains westbound up the steep grade to Evanston and across Aspen Divide before the tracks dove down into Echo Canyon.

  In Piedmont, the Union Pacific had an extensive array of sidetracks, as well as a roundhouse and turntable for servicing the helper engines. However, what impressed Paddy the most about the town were the hordes of workers who lounged about on the rickety boardwalks or staggered in and out of the four saloons. They were woodcutters and tracklayers who’d been laid off now that the railroad construction neared completion.

  Two men slugged it out in the center of the street in front of Muldoon’s Saloon. Paddy slipped up behind a ring of spectators who egged the fighters on.

  “Sure, and why be they fighting?” Paddy asked the man in front of him.

  “Don’t rightly know. Just blowing off steam, I expect. Men have lots of time on their hands these days. No work. No pay. No future.”

  Paddy left the circle of men and entered Muldoon’s. He stopped after passing through the swinging doors and surveyed the smoke-filled room. Men lined the bar shoulder to shoulder— most of them drinking draught beer instead of the more expensive whiskey.

  All of the half-dozen tables were occupied. In the far corner he spotted a familiar face at a table with an empty chair. He worked his way through the crowd toward that table.

  “And a fine good evening to ye, Brenden MacBride.” Paddy placed his hands on the back of the unoccupied chair. “Might I be joining ye?”

  MacBride studied Paddy from across the table. “Ye look familiar, ye do, but the name escapes me.”

  “O’Hannigan. Paddy O’Hannigan. We met in Wahsatch a few months back.”

  “Aye. Sure, and we did. Sit, iffen ye have money.”

  Paddy joined the group of seven other players and placed a short stack of silver dollars in front of him. He nodded at Collin Fitzgerald and Liam Gallagher, two of MacBride’s henchmen he recalled from an earlier meeting in Wahsatch. MacBride shuffled the cards and dealt. Between hands the card players groused about not having been paid for months.

  After an hour of play, Paddy had only a handful of coins left—none of them silver dollars. MacBride had most of the money in front of him. One by one, the other six players had declared they were broke and quit.

  MacBride tapped the table with the deck of cards. “One more hand, O’Hannigan?”

  Paddy had determined MacBride to be a better player than any of the others at the table, including himself. If MacBride were to draw good cards and raise the stakes too high, Paddy could lose the rest of his money. “Sure, and I think not, MacBride. No hard feelings?”

  MacBride laughed and dropped the deck of cards onto the table. “No hard feelings, O’Hannigan. Maybe another night.”

  “If these men are all going broke,” Paddy said, “and there’s no plan afoot by the railroad to pay them, why do they stay here? Why is it they haven’t all up and left town?”

  “Interesting ye should ask. Thinking back on the first time ye and I met, I recollect ye advocating a strike. Am I right?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, with the work ending, there be nothing to strike about. But, I got to thinking there might be a variation on what ye proposed. Come on down to the depot tomorrow. Something exciting is going to be happening in the morning.”

  The next morning, Paddy spent some of his remaining money on breakfast at one of the cafés. He sopped up the undercooked eggs with a crust of bread. Steam rose from the cup of coffee he held in front of him. At least it was hot, if not as strong as he liked. Looking over the rim of the cup, out the front window of the café, he watched men drift down the street and gather along the UP’s mainline on the far side of the depot.

  Several of the workers set about dismantling a stack of ties and piling them across the main track. In a matter of minutes, the pile stood shoulder high. The tracklayers and woodcutters were planning on stopping a train. Why?

  Paddy swigged the rest of his coffee, placed the cup on the table along with a half dollar to pay for the meal, and pushed back his chair. He adjusted the Navy Colt revolver on his hip and departed the café. This must be the excitement MacBride had alluded to last night. He didn’t want to miss it. He walked across the road and approached the depot building.

  MacBride stood on the depot’s platform observing the men building the barrier of railroad ties. “That be enough,” he bellowed. “That’ll stop any locomotive. Now get yer guns, fellas, and take up position along both sides of the tracks.”

  Paddy climbed the short steps at the end of the platform and slipped down the front of the building, selecting a spot behind MacBride. Collin Fitzgerald and Liam Gallagher stood on either side of the Irish foreman. At least three hundred men, some armed with rifles and others brandishing axe handles, flooded the rail yard stretching in front of the depot. No locomotives moved in or out of the nearby roundhouse. No regular railroad employees could be seen.

  The wail of a long whistle penetrated the rumble of grumbling from the crowd of workers.

  “Here she comes, boys!” MacBride shouted. “No killing! Won’t do us no good if we kill the fatted calf. Ye men make sure nobody leaves the train, lessen I say so.”

  A locomotive pulled two Pullman hotel cars and a baggage car past the depot, gliding to stop where it could position the last car, a Pullman palace coach, directly in front of the station’s platform. The engineer leaned out the cab’s left-hand window, shook a fist, and shouted back at MacBride. “Move them ties off the rails! Don’t you know this is a special train with Doc Durant on board?”

  Fitzgerald and Gallagher raised their pistols and pointed them at the engineer.

  “We know who’s aboard,” MacBride said. “Now if ye rest easy a bit, ye’ll be on yer way again.”

  MacBride motioned with a sideways wave of his hand to a dozen workers who’d remained next to the pile of ties. “Take ’em away, lads.”

  The men made short work of clearing the ties from the track. Paddy kept his back pressed against the wall of the depot and watched a man step between the Pullman palace car and the baggage car ahead of it. The man used a hammer to knock the pin out of the link and pin coupler, then signaled MacBride by lifting the pin.

  “Now, engineer,” MacBride said, “move on. Yer passengers are anxious to reach their destination. All except Doc Durant and Mr. Duff, of course.” He laughed.

  “You can’t—” The engineer stammered his objection but stopped when Fitzgerald and Gallagher cocked their pistols. The engineer grabbed the Johnson bar and shoved it forward. The locomotive belched a cloud of black smoke, the pistons hissed a burst of steam, and the engine inched forward. In less than five minutes the train disappeared up the track toward Evanston.

  Paddy watched a half-dozen armed workers escort two men off the rear platform of the Pullman car. Paddy recognized the slender, stooped man as Doc Durant, the Union Pacific’s vice president and general manager. Durant stopped in front of MacBride on the platform and raised his head. He stared at the Irish foreman with dark, piercing eyes from beneath a low-crowned, brown hat. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his black velvet coat.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Durant demanded. “I’m supposed to be at Promontory Summit on Saturday for the ceremonies celebrating the joining of the railroads.”

  “Sure, and ye might still make it, iffen ye do as yer told,” MacBride replied. “This being only Thursday.” MacBride laughed again.

  “What do you want?” Durant asked.

  “Well now, me and the boys want to be paid, don’t ye know. We reckon two hundred thousand dollars would do it.”

  “What! Two hundred thousand dollars? We don’t have that kind of money with us.”

  “Sure, and I don’t doubt ye one bit. But ye see, we have a telegraph operator standing by so ye can send whatever
message is required to wherever to get the money here fast.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Will sat beside Homer on a seat in General Dodge’s special coach. They’d departed Ogden a half-hour ago, in a steady drizzle of rain, bound for Echo City. Will’s uncle stood next to the Union Pacific’s chief engineer going over a drawing spread out on the coach’s dining table.

  A middle-aged man with white hair and fluffy, white burn-sides extending down his cheeks and well below the jawline sat at the head of the dining table observing the conversation between Dodge and Will’s uncle. Unlike Union General Burnside, for whom the side whiskers were named, the man didn’t have a mustache. His upper lip and chin were clean-shaven. Dodge had introduced him to Will as Sidney Dillon, a director of the Union Pacific Railroad and the head of Crédit Mobilier, the UP’s construction company. Dillon had come west to participate in the ceremony marking the completion of the transcontinental railroad.

  “Sean,” Dodge said to Will’s uncle, “I think we can enlarge the yard along here to accommodate more locomotives. After the Pacific Railroad is completed, I anticipate greatly increased freight and passenger traffic. That means more trains, and more trains means we need additional helper engines to haul them up the grade through Echo Canyon and over the top at Aspen Divide. I know you no longer have the members of your survey inspection team together, but I’m hoping you can do this.”

  “I can use Will and Homer to serve as chainmen on this job. It won’t be complicated.”

  Dodge looked across the table to where Will and Homer sat. “I suppose they’ll expect pay increases for this work.” He chuckled.

  “That would be nice,” Will’s uncle said, “but I believe they’d appreciate receiving their back wages.”

  “You’re right. But enough of that. It will be resolved sooner or later. In the meantime, let’s concentrate on making this improvement.”

  “Expanding Echo City’s railyard is just one of the improvements needed,” Will’s uncle said.

  “How’s that?”

  “We’re coming up on one of the weak points in the line, General. The trestle at Devil’s Gate is so flimsy it can’t stand frequent, heavy traffic. I’m particularly worried about this rain continuing and creating flash flooding out of the mountains. That trestle could be washed away.”

  “You’re right about that, of course. I noticed significant swaying on that trestle when I headed into Ogden the other day. I’ll make a note to address that issue as soon as we complete the joining up with the CP. For now, the bridge builders have their hands full trying to finish the trestle across the big gap so we can move trains up to Promontory Summit.”

  When Dodge’s train reached the Echo City depot several minutes later, Elmo Nicoletti, the stationmaster, waited for the chief engineer on the platform. He held an umbrella above his head with one hand and frantically waved a yellow telegram sheet in the other.

  Dodge alighted from his car, pulled his collar up to fend off some of the rain, and reached for the paper. “What’s all the fuss about, Elmo? If you stand out here to deliver a telegram to me, it’s going to be so soaking wet I won’t be able to read it.”

  “You’re not going to like this one from Piedmont, General Dodge,” Nicoletti said.

  “Let’s move in out of the rain.” Dodge took the telegram from Nicoletti, who held the door open for all of the group to enter the depot.

  Dodge shook the water off his hat, then unfolded the sheet and read the message. Will clearly saw Dodge’s mouth drop open and his eyes widen.

  “I was afraid something like this might happen,” Dodge said. “I’m just glad it happened to Durant and not me.”

  Dodge handed the telegram to Sidney Dillon, who quickly scanned it, then passed it on to Will’s uncle. “What are we going to do, Grenville?” Dillon asked.

  “Send a couple of our own telegrams, Sidney. Come on, Elmo. I’ve need of your services.”

  Nicoletti went behind the ticket counter and handed Dodge a pad of blank telegram forms and a pencil. While the chief engineer scribbled his message, Will’s uncle described to Will and Homer the contents of the Piedmont telegram demanding the ransom payment.

  “Elmo, this first message goes to the commanding officer at Fort Bridger. I want him to bring a company of infantry up to Piedmont right away and put a stop to this nonsense.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nicoletti took Dodge’s message and returned to his desk where he busied himself tapping out the words on his key. After a couple of minutes, he looked back over his shoulder. “Done, General.”

  Dodge finished writing on a second page, tore it off the pad, and handed it to Dillon. “Sidney, we need to send this one to New York for Oliver Ames. The UP’s president has to transfer two hundred thousand dollars out here right away. These workers are demanding more money than I have access to locally. Do you agree?”

  “I agree, Grenville,” Dillon said. “We need to get the money before the unrest spreads.”

  “Good,” Dodge said. “Now, everybody must keep this quiet. If word gets out to the other workers, they may decide to take similar action. You gentlemen must hold knowledge of this to yourselves.” He looked at Will, his uncle, and Homer.

  “Of course, sir,” Will’s uncle said. He glanced at Will and Homer, who each nodded.

  Dodge took the telegram back from Dillon and passed it over the counter to Nicoletti.

  “There’s coffee on the stove there, General,” Nicoletti said. “You folks help yourselves while I send this second message on its way.”

  Will went to the potbellied stove in the corner of the waiting room and filled mugs for Dodge, Dillon, and his uncle. He served them where they sat on waiting room benches, then offered one to Homer, who shook his head.

  “No, thanks,” Homer said. “I likes mine sweet, and he ain’t got no sugar.”

  Will poured a fourth mug for himself, then took a seat on a bench.

  “Second message is gone, sir.” Nicoletti called out from his desk, but he remained beside the telegraph key. “I can’t understand why I haven’t had an acknowledgment from Fort Bridger. There’s been plenty of time for that message to have reached there.”

  Nicoletti’s telegraph key clattered to life. Will stood and looked over the counter to watch the man copy the message onto a form.

  Nicoletti stepped out from behind the counter and handed the message to Dodge. “We have acknowledgment of receipt from Mr. Ames’s office in New York, sir. But I still haven’t heard anything from Fort Bridger.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Paddy stayed in the shadows, leaning against the side of the Piedmont depot, watching as MacBride motioned for his henchmen to take Doc Durant and John Duff into the waiting room. Paddy reached over and held the door open for everybody. He followed the group inside and found a perch atop a pile of cargo boxes stacked against one wall.

  “Brenden MacBride,” the stationmaster said. “You better make good on your promise. I’m going to have to disappear as soon as this is all over. I won’t have a job with the UP any more.”

  “Stop fussing, me good man. I keep me promises. As soon as we lay hands on that two hundred thousand, ye’ll be paid.”

  MacBride dictated a telegraph message that he wanted Durant to send to the Union Pacific’s headquarters in New York directing that two hundred thousand dollars be provided as soon as possible.

  “You’ll never get away with this, you thugs!” Durant paced the floor while the stationmaster, who doubled as the telegrapher, finished tapping out the message about the ransom.

  “Sit yerself down, Doc,” MacBride said. “We may be here a wee bit.”

  “I would prefer to return to my coach.”

  “In good time. For now, ye stay right here . . . ’til we hear word about the money.”

  Durant collapsed on a bench next to Duff and ran his hands back through his graying hair, then caressed the sides of his straggly goatee. His shoulders slumped.

  Whatever the outcome of this escapade,
Paddy had to give MacBride credit for his nerve.

  The telegraph line stammered to life. MacBride left Durant’s side and stepped to the counter. The telegrapher rose from his desk and handed a yellow sheet to the Irish foreman. “You want me to pass this one through?”

  MacBride read the telegram, leaned over the counter, and grabbed the telegrapher by the collar. “Well now, what do ye think? General Dodge wants this message sent on to Fort Bridger so soldiers can interfere with what we’re doing. Use yer head, man! No, I do not want this message passed on. Hand me a pad. I’ll send a message back.”

  MacBride licked the end of the pencil the telegrapher gave him and scratched out a short message on the yellow paper.

  “How does this sound, Doc?” MacBride read the words he’d written. “Sending soldiers will get Durant killed.”

  A sneer crossed MacBride’s lips when Durant looked at him without responding.

  MacBride handed his message to the telegrapher. “Send it to General Dodge in Echo City . . . seeing as how Doc Durant has no objection.”

  After the short message had been tapped out by the telegrapher, the depot’s waiting room turned quiet, except for the ticking of a large wall clock.

  A couple of minutes later, the telegraph rattled again. The telegrapher brought another yellow page to MacBride.

  “Of course this one goes through. Hop to it man.” MacBride handed the sheet back to the telegrapher who returned to his desk and tapped out the message.

  “That one’s also from General Dodge, but it be addressed to Oliver Ames in New York agreeing to the transfer of funds. Now we’re getting somewhere.”