How had he gotten himself roped into helping Jenny with this ridiculous chore of waiting tables on a bunch of Central Pacific dignitaries? He worked for the Union Pacific. What would General Dodge think if he found out Will was catering to Central Pacific folks?
As he drew closer to the Director’s car he stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Will could swear that was Paddy O’Hannigan who stepped off the car’s front platform onto Buck’s back and rode off down the far side of the passenger coach.
Will slapped his side. “Dang!” He didn’t have his revolver. Jenny had locked it inside the kitchen cabinet. He jumped up the platform steps and jerked open the door of the coach.
“Homer!” he called. “What’s going on here?”
Homer wasn’t in the kitchen. Where could he be? The subsistence car, of course.
Will hurried back outside and jumped from the platform to the ground. He raced back to the subsistence car and looked in the open door. He peered into an empty space. “Homer?”
“Oh.” A moan came from below.
Will squatted and looked under the subsistence car. He saw no one. “Homer?”
“Will.” A scratchy voice called his name from farther away.
Will sidled to his left in a crouch continuing to look beneath the train. He located Homer lying on the ties under the tender. Homer held a hand pressed against his left arm trying to staunch the blood flow.
“Oh, no.” Will crawled under the car. “Homer, what happened?”
“Paddy threw his knife at me. I crawled under here to hide.”
“So that was Paddy O’Hannigan?”
Homer nodded. “I surprised him stealing them golden spikes. He rode off on Buck.”
“What’s taking so long?” That was Jenny’s voice calling. “Governor Stanford’s visitors are getting hungry. Where is everybody? Will? Homer?”
“Over here, Jenny!” Will shouted.
Jenny’s feet appeared alongside the track on which the tender sat. “Where are you?”
“Down here.”
Jenny knelt and turned her head sideways to peer beneath the tender. “What are you doing under there?”
“Help me move Homer out of here. Paddy stabbed him.”
“Paddy?”
“Yes. That’s not all. Homer says Paddy stole the golden spikes.”
Will and Jenny eased Homer out from beneath the tender. They leaned his back against one of the tender’s rear wheels with his feet extended before him. Blood soaked the sleeve of Homer’s shirt.
“We need to stop the bleeding, Will,” Jenny said.
“And who’s going to do that?”
“You forget I helped my mother tend wounded soldiers during the war.”
“Oh, yeah.” Will looked from Jenny to Homer, then back at Jenny.
“Shall we do it here, or take him into the passenger car?” he asked.
“We’d better do it here. We don’t want blood all over the Director’s car, and we might cause the wound to bleed more if we move him. Wait here. I’ll run back to the coach and get a towel to bind the wound.”
Jenny disappeared for a couple of minutes, then she was back with a towel and a butcher knife. She knelt beside Homer and Will.
“You’re going to ruin that dress,” Will said.
“I have other dresses.” Jenny folded the towel into a long narrow bandage and used the butcher knife to slit both ends, fashioning ties for fastening the ends together.
“Cut the sleeve off his shirt, Will.” She turned the knife in her hand and passed it to him handle first.
Will cut the material around the sleeve of Homer’s shirt where it attached at his shoulder.
Homer groaned, still pressing on his upper arm.
“Sorry, Homer,” Will said.
“No matter. Jest get it over with. Wish I had passed out like you did when I took that arrow out of your arm that time the Cheyennes ambushed us.”
“When I give the word, Homer, you’ll have to take your hand away so I can pull the sleeve off. Jenny’s going to wrap the towel around the wound as soon as the sleeve’s gone.”
Homer nodded.
“Ready, Jenny?” Will asked.
“Ready.”
“Now!”
Homer lifted his hand away, and Will pulled the cut sleeve down and off Homer’s arm. He held Homer’s arm up at the elbow while Jenny wrapped the towel around the wound. She knotted the bandage using the cut ends.
“Press on it, Homer,” Jenny said, “to stop the bleeding.”
Homer groaned as he applied pressure to the wound.
“Don’t press too tightly,” Jenny said. “It will continue to seep, but I think this bandage will stop most of the bleeding.”
“Thank you, Miss McNabb.” Homer sighed, and a smile crossed his lips.
“Homer, you can call me Jenny. I think we’ve been friends long enough.”
“Yes, ma’am . . . I mean Miss Jenny.”
“Now,” Will said, “I have to go after Paddy to get those spikes back before Governor Stanford realizes they’re missing.”
“I’ll ask Dr. Harkness to come up from the picnic area to check on Homer’s wound,” Jenny said. “My bandaging may be good enough to stop the bleeding, but a doctor needs to stitch that cut. It’s deep.”
“What are you going to tell the doctor about how Homer got stabbed?”
“Let me tell him,” Homer said. “I’ll say I come to the subsistence car for food, and when I surprised a horse thief, he knocked me down, and I fell on my knife.”
“That’s a likely story,” Will said.
“It will have to do,” Jenny said. “I’ll wipe the blade against Homer’s soaked clothes to put some blood on it.”
“You could get in trouble, Jenny,” Will said, “if the governor discovers the spikes are gone. You, Homer, and I were the only ones around when Paddy took them. Governor Stanford might think we helped him.”
“Then you’d better hurry after Paddy and get those spikes back.”
“If I’d had my Colt with me, instead of locked in that cabinet, I’d have shot the Mick on the spot.”
Will looked into Jenny’s blue eyes, which narrowed and turned to gray. When that happened, Will knew not to press his point.
“Bring me my rifle and revolver while I saddle Ruby,” Will said.
Jenny fished the key out of her apron pocket and hurried back to the Director’s car.
Will climbed into the subsistence car, and when he gathered up Ruby’s saddle he noticed the scrap of paper under the maul on top of the laurel tie. He picked up the paper and read it.
$10,000 for spikes. Leave money in saddlebags at Monument. Take train back to Victory.
CHAPTER 49
Will cinched the saddle girth tighter on Ruby, who for once did not bray in protest. It was as if she knew she was needed to do something special. Her long ears splayed up and forward. Homer and Will had unsaddled their animals upon arrival earlier that day, but had left the bridles on to use the reins to tie to the subsistence car.
Buck’s saddle still lay on the car’s floor. Paddy hadn’t taken time to place it on Buck. He was riding bareback. Will had seen Paddy struggling with a saddled horse the night the Irishman tried to steal Count von Schroeder’s money last year in Wyoming. Will had not been impressed with Paddy’s horsemanship.
Will stepped into the stirrup and mounted Ruby. He guided her back to the Director’s car.
Jenny stood on the coach’s front platform. In her hands she held Will’s buckskin jacket, Winchester rifle, Colt revolver in its holster, and haversack.
She handed him the coat, which he quickly put on.
“What do you want next?” she asked.
“The Colt.” He buckled the belt and holster around his waist. Then, he lifted the haversack over his head so it hung against his left side with the carrying strap resting over his right shoulder. Finally, he took the rifle and levered a round into the chamber. Holding the r
ifle in his left hand, he pulled the reins to the side with his right, wheeling the mule back to where Homer sat propped against the tender.
“Which way do you think he’ll ride?” Will asked.
Homer pointed to the west, down the length of the train. “He cut across the tracks behind the train. I ’spect he’ll strike for the top end of the lake, then head south.”
Will pulled on the reins again, turning Ruby around, and jammed his heels into the mule’s flanks. Rider and mule raced down the length of the Director’s car in a dozen strides. Will slowed her to cross the tracks behind the car. On the far side of the tracks, hoofprints showed clearly in the salty soil bordering the lakeshore.
“Now, Ruby, run!” Will kicked her flanks and slapped the reins. “Hyah!”
The land between the Central Pacific’s tracks off to Will’s right and the edge of the Great Salt Lake to his left undulated slightly. In years past, the lake had lapped against a higher shore, and when it retreated it left behind a wide bench of sand and gravel. Salt grass grew in profusion several paces above the lake’s edge, replaced with pickleweed nearer the shoreline. A distinct line of dead grasshoppers stretched along the high water mark. A single set of hoofprints marred the surface extending westward. Will would have no trouble tracking Paddy.
Will leaned forward, placing his cheek against the mule’s neck. “Good girl. You’ll catch them. I know you can.” Will alternated Ruby between a trot and a canter as she strode across the soft surface, her hooves sinking moderately into the crusted material.
Fifteen minutes later, Will rounded the northern point of the lake and turned south. A lone rider appeared on the horizon ahead of him. Paddy did not appear to realize Will pursued him. Buck could run faster than what Will now witnessed. Paddy obviously didn’t know how to coax more speed out of the horse. Perhaps he feared falling off, since he rode bareback.
Will and Ruby gained a few yards on their prey every couple of minutes.
Finally, Paddy swung his head back in the direction from where he’d come. He jerked upright on Buck’s back. He kicked the horse in the flanks and slapped the reins back and forth across the horse’s withers.
“He’s seen us, Ruby. Let’s go!” Will copied Paddy and lashed the reins back and forth across the mule. He jammed his heels into her flanks urging her to a gallop. He didn’t want to kick too hard and aggravate her normally cantankerous nature. “Come on, girl! Run!”
Ruby responded. She lengthened her stride. Now, they gained a few yards every minute.
Paddy urged Buck down the lake’s western shore. Will remained low over Ruby’s neck to reduce wind resistance. Ruby soon had them in a position fifty yards behind Paddy.
Paddy slowed when he approached a depression where a dry streambed entered the lake from the west. This depression near the shoreline provided the advantage Will needed.
“Whoa.” Will hauled back on the reins and brought Ruby to a halt. He leaped from the saddle and knelt, propping his elbow atop his left knee and cradling the barrel of the rifle securely in his left hand. He sighted, inhaled, then exhaled slightly and held his breath. Make this a good shot. Don’t hit Buck. He squeezed the trigger.
“Blam!”
White smoke engulfed the rifle’s muzzle momentarily before the westerly breeze cleared it. Paddy’s bowler hat sailed away in front of him. Buck continued forward, descending the slope toward the dry streambed.
Will levered another round into the chamber and stood. He wet his lips, drew a breath, and whistled sharply. “Tseeeee, Tse, Tse, Tse.”
Buck jammed his forelegs into the ground and stopped, responding to Will’s signal. Paddy lurched sideways, grasping for Buck’s mane, trying to remain astride.
“Tseeeee, Tse, Tse, Tse.” Will whistled again.
Buck reared up. Paddy and the saddlebags slid off the horse. The Irishman crashed to the ground, landing on his butt. Buck whirled and trotted back toward Will.
Will, grasping the Yellow Boy in both hands across the front of his body, strode toward Paddy. When Buck reached him, Will patted the Morgan on the neck and straightened the reins to drop to the ground. “Good boy. Stay here.”
Paddy rose to his feet, jerked his revolver from its holster, and snapped off a shot. A spray of dust erupted in the ground where the bullet struck in front of Will.
Will raised his rifle, aimed, and fired. He hit Paddy in the left thigh, the same leg he’d shot twice last year when they’d fought at Green Valley.
Paddy collapsed onto his knees, covering the wound in his leg with one hand. He fired another shot, which flew wide of Will.
“Drop the pistol, Paddy, or I’ll kill you. You’re not a good shot, but you know I am. I can kill you with this Winchester.”
Both young men, now only thirty yards apart, glared at each other.
“Drop it, Paddy!” Will nestled his rifle snuggly against his shoulder and aimed at Paddy’s chest.
Paddy raised his revolver and cocked it. “Sure, and ye’re a no-good son-of-a-gun, Will Braddock.”
The pistol jumped in Paddy’s hand when he pulled the trigger. White smoke emitted from the barrel, accompanying the sharp crack of the shot being fired. The bullet whizzed past Will’s ear.
Will squeezed the Winchester’s trigger. The force of the exploding powder bounced the barrel slightly in his grip. He continued to sight down the length of the rifle. The breeze cleared the white smoke from the muzzle.
Paddy looked at the hand he now held to his chest. Blood coated his fingers. Then, both arms fell to his side, and he dropped the revolver. His mouth fell open, and he toppled over.
Will approached Paddy, keeping his rifle pointed at the Irishman. When he reached the saddlebags—his own saddlebags—he knelt and picked them up. They were heavy with the weight of the spikes. Will flipped the bags over his left shoulder.
Two steps farther and Will stood looking down at Paddy. Using the toe of his boot, he pushed the Irishman onto his back.
Blood from the chest wound soaked Paddy’s shirt and vest. Frothy slime seeped out of the corner of his mouth and slid down his face, puddling along the old saber scar on his left cheek. Paddy struggled to clear his throat, trying to speak, but he only managed a rasping groan.
“Why did you make me do that, Paddy? You didn’t have to die. Why did you insist on carrying out your foolish vendetta. Your father brought on his own death. You should have accepted it.”
Paddy’s eyes bored a hole in Will as he continued to try to speak. His lips opened and closed like a fish on shore. He spit frothy blood from between his rotten teeth. Finally, he uttered a single word. “Mama.” He breathed no more. His eyes glazed into a blank stare.
Kneeling beside his one-time enemy, Will used his fingers to close Paddy’s eyelids. Will picked up Paddy’s revolver and dropped it into his haversack. He slid the Bowie knife from Paddy’s boot sheath and added it to the sack. Will noticed the corner of a wrinkled piece of paper sticking out of a pocket in Paddy’s vest. He pulled the item from the pocket and unfolded an envelope addressed to: Patrick O’Hannigan, Lucky Dollar Saloon, Utah Territory. There was no return address.
CHAPTER 50
“What’s going on here?”
At the sound of Governor Stanford’s voice, Jenny looked up. She knelt in front of Homer, holding a cup of water to his lips.
“Homer’s had an accident, Governor,” she said. “I was about to come ask Dr. Harkness for help.”
“Dr. Harkness is here with me.” Stanford stepped aside, and Jenny saw the doctor. “We came to inquire about why there’s no food down to the picnic?”
The doctor moved around the governor and looked at Homer and Jenny. “Homer, is it? That’s a lot of blood. What happened?”
“I’se coming out to the subsistence car to get food when a horse thief knocked me down, and I fell on my knife.” Homer held up the butcher knife.
Dr. Harkness glanced back at Stanford, then knelt beside Homer. “You fell on your own knife? Now, I�
�ve seen lots of accidents in my career as a doctor, but I never knew a grown man to fall on his own knife.”
“Yes, suh. That’s what happened. Will and Miss Jenny, they bandaged me with a towel.”
“Where’s Braddock?” Stanford asked.
“He’s chasing the horse thief,” Jenny answered.
“Hmm. Well, I hope he catches him.”
“I do, too,” Jenny said.
Dr. Harkness lifted an edge of the towel and examined Homer’s wound. “Your bandage has done a good job containing the bleeding, Jenny,” he said.
Homer groaned when the doctor probed the area around the wound.
“That’s a pretty deep cut,” the doctor said, “and rather wide. Fortunately, it didn’t cut an artery. I need to put stitches in the wound. Jenny, in the coach you’ll find my medical bag. Bring it and three more towels. Also, bring a basin of water.”
“I’ll be right back,” Jenny said.
She hurried to the passenger car, found the doctor’s bag, and stopped in the kitchen for the towels and the water before returning to the tender. “Here you are, doctor,” she said.
“Homer,” Dr. Harkness said, “I want you to bite on this towel.” He folded one of the towels a couple of times and slipped it between the black man’s teeth. “Good. Now, Jenny, help me unwrap his arm. Leland, you can lend a hand.”
Governor Stanford leaned closer. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stand on the other side of him,” the doctor said, “so the blood won’t fly onto your suit. Support his back with your hand, keeping him away from the wheel so we can unwrap Jenny’s bandage.”
Stanford squatted on Homer’s right side, eased him away from the tender’s wheel, and supported his upper back with a hand.
“All right, Jenny,” Dr. Harkness said. “Untie the ends of the towel and unwrap it slowly. I’ll press this new towel over the wound to contain the bleeding.”
It took only a few seconds to remove the soiled towel from Homer’s arm. Blood flowed again from the cut.
Golden Spike Page 21
