Molly's Hero

by Susan Amarillas

  Ethan had been in charge and when they’d been ambushed, he’d given the order to scatter. It had been his last order before being shot twice. He’d lain there, unable to move, feeling the life flowing out of him. He’d known with certainty that he was going to die.

  But he hadn’t counted on Billy Trumble. When the few survivors had gotten back to camp, they’d reported Ethan dead, along with about three dozen others but Billy, thankfully, had refused to believe it.

  Disregarding orders, risking his own life to go into enemy territory, Billy had spent hours searching. When he’d found Ethan he’d been so close to death he still swore he could hear the angels playing their harps. Billy had literally dragged, then carried Ethan until he’d gotten Ethan to a hospital tent. He’d found out later that Billy had hovered over those doctors like Gabriel, watching, coaxing, threatening them with their own demise if they didn’t pull Ethan through. They had. Ethan owed Billy his life.

  He’d do anything for Billy. Anything. And that included finishing this railroad.

  Plate in hand, Ethan stood, picked up Billy’s plate from the ground and carried them over to the barrel Mulroon was using for a depository until he could wash them.

  Billy caught up to him. “Okay,” Ethan said, walking toward his horse, Billy falling in alongside. “I’ll get the supplies moving again and see where we stand with the banks. You put these men back to work. Yes?” He grinned.

  “Yeah. Yeah. We’ll be ready by the time the rails get here.”

  “Good. Listen, send a message to Bartel in town that I won’t make that Tuesday meeting.”

  “Sure.”

  Ethan picked up Four’s reins and led the horse over to the area they were using as a corral. There, he unsaddled him and turned him loose among the six dozen mules tethered there, waiting their turns to pull the wagons that hauled the ties down from the local mountains.

  Dust filled the air and mixed with the acrid scent of horses and mules. The familiar hiss of steam surged from the locomotive they used for runs to Cheyenne and back.

  Billy and Ethan walked over to the locomotive.

  Sam Cory leaned out from the cab. “Hiya, Ethan, going to Cheyenne?”

  “Yeah, Sam. One passenger today.”

  Sam grinned revealing a missing front tooth. “Climb on up here, then.”

  Ethan answered him with a wave as he turned to talk to Billy.

  “We are going to build this railroad, aren’t we, Ethan?”

  “Damned straight, we are, kid. Believe it.”

  The ride to Cheyenne took the rest of the day. Ethan spent the night at the boardinghouse where he kept most of his belongings, sort of a home away from home.

  Ethan caught the Union Pacific and took it east to Chicago at 9:47 the next morning.

  As he stepped off the train, his first thought was how crowded it all looked. He might have been born and raised in the city, even if Pittsburgh wasn’t near as big as Chicago, but he’d never felt comfortable until he’d gone west. There was something about those wide-open spaces that made him peaceful and calm.

  Ethan hefted his carpetbag and made his way through the milling people. Evidently, people in Chicago didn’t see men in cowboy hats and boots very often, judging by the stares he got. He wasn’t interested in what people thought and, ignoring the looks, he went directly down the wooden stairs and through the cavernous train station. His boots’ steps echoed on the cement floor as he exited outside onto the street where a line of horse-drawn cabs waited. The sky was gray but the streets were dry. There was the distinct smell of rain in the air and Ethan wondered briefly if he was in for a storm.

  “Excelsior Hotel,” he told the uniformed driver as he slammed the cab door shut. His carpetbag settled on the floor next to him.

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied and, with a snap of his whip, the horse stepped out quickly, the clip-clop of hooves like a rhythmic drumming on the cobblestone streets.

  Ethan leaned back against the velvet-covered red upholstery, trying to find a comfortable position for his back and shoulders. Of course, he knew it wasn’t the cab that was the problem, it was him. His muscles were tense. He was anxious. Hell, he was downright worried. He’d wired Anderson’s from Cheyenne and had gotten no answer to his inquiry about his rails. Why?

  He was damned well going to find out. He figured he’d check into the hotel first, get cleaned up and head straight over to see Burt Hockmyer, general manager at Anderson’s Foundry.

  The cab pulled to stop in front of a small two-story hotel on a quiet side street. The structure was brick with white shutters and looked more like someone’s mansion than a hotel. Ethan liked its remoteness.

  “Excelsior, sir,” the driver called out.

  Grabbing up his bag, he let himself out before the driver could get down. A fine mist of rain started to fall.

  “Fifty cents,” the driver said.

  Ethan fished in his pocket and paid the man, with a little something extra for his trouble.

  “Thank you, sir,” the man returned, looking at the silver dollar.

  “I’m going back out and if you’d wait about ten minutes you could take me to Anderson’s Foundry over on Fourth. Do you know it?”

  The man looked down at the money clutched in his hand. “I’ll find it. I’ll wait right here for you, sir.”

  “Fine.”

  Ethan took the six front steps two at a time and paused only long enough to hold the door open for a lady and her little girl who were coming out as he was going in.

  “Ma’am,” he said politely, tipping his hat as he did.

  The little girl grinned at him and giggled. “What kinda hat is that, Mama?” she said bluntly.

  The woman looked a bit embarrassed but Ethan said, “It’s a Stetson, honey. Out where I come from it’s the only hat worth having.”

  The woman smiled her thanks and for just a moment he stared after them, wondering what Molly and Katie would think of a place as large and bustling as Chicago? It was a big change from War Bonnet and surely a big change from those gold camps she’d grown up in.

  What was Molly doing right now? Was she thinking about him as he was thinking about her? Was she missing him at all? Strangely, he hoped so, even though he had no right to hope any such thing.

  The rain came down heavier and seemed to rouse him from his musings. Quickly, he went inside the ornately furnished lobby. The walls were white, the carpet a muted pattern of blues and greens, and the staircase that led to the second floor was highly polished walnut.

  He went to the registration desk.

  The narrow-faced clerk smiled politely. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Wilder. Room Fourteen is ready and waiting for you.” He handed Ethan a brass key on a ring.

  “Thanks,” Ethan said hefting his carpet bag.

  “Up the stairs. Third room on the right. I’ll send the maid up with towels,” the clerk called after him.

  Ethan was already halfway up the curving staircase; the walnut banister glided smoothly beneath his hand. His footsteps were muffled on the thick carpeting. He was anxious to get his business done and get back to Wyoming. Even though he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say or do or…

  All he knew was that he wanted to be there, not here.

  Number Fourteen was a corner room with lace-covered windows on two sides overlooking the street. The walls were pale blue, the carpet darker blue and a little worn near the doorway.

  There was a double bed, a bureau and a wardrobe cabinet, all of walnut. In general, the room was small, but as neat and clean as Ethan remembered from previous trips.

  He tossed his carpetbag on the floor near the foot of the double bed. It landed with a heavy thud. That was his .44. He’d brought it along mostly because he never felt quite complete without it.

  He poured a splash of water in the white porcelain basin and scooped a double handful up to his face, rubbing away the day’s grim and dirt from travel. Blinking against the water, he remembered, too late, that t
here were no towels.

  Necessity being the mother of invention, he shrugged out of his shirt and used it for a towel, then retrieved a clean one from his bag. He made quick work of doing up the buttons and tucking the white cotton into the waistband of his black wool trousers. He added a tie, vest and jacket as an accommodation to being in the city.

  A glance in the mirror confirmed that he needed a shave but there was no time. He wanted to see Hockmyer today and it was late, nearly three.

  Yanking open the door, the maid was standing there hand raised, obviously about to knock.

  “You startled me, sir,” she said, her arms full of clean white towels.

  “Sorry. Put the towels down anywhere.” Ethan moved past her and down the stairs.

  The cab was waiting for him and that mist of a rain was now a heavy downpour. The sky was gunmetal gray but there was no thunder, no lightning.

  “Anderson’s Foundry on Fourth,” he told the driver as he climbed inside the vehicle.

  “I remember,” the man returned and, with a crack of his whip, drove away from the curb.

  Traffic was light, mostly delivery wagons and an occasional buggy. Folks were staying in due to the rain, he supposed. He reached the foundry in about fifteen minutes.

  “Here you go, sir.” The cab rolled to a stop in front of the dilapidated brick building. The storage yard surrounding it was already puddled in water. Smoke from the chimneys was beaten down by the rain. Even from ten yards away, Ethan could hear the sound of hammers clanging against steel and iron, and steam drifted from the copper roof as proof of how hot it was inside the shop. Behind the building, he could see the railroad tracks that were used whenever a large order had to be shipped.

  Keeping his head down, Ethan stepped out of the cab and reached in his pocket for money. Rain beaded on the wool of his jacket and pelted the side of his face.

  Rain poured off the driver’s hat. “You want me to wait, sir?”

  Ethan’s brow drew down in thought. When he left here he was headed for the bank. “Well, yeah, that would be a help, but this might take me a half hour or so.”

  The driver pulled out his watch and checked the time. “How about I come back this way in about thirty minutes? If you’re here then…”

  “Sounds good.” Ethan paid the man in paper money this time, again with a nice tip.

  “Thanks,” the man beamed. “See you in thirty minutes.”

  The rain was coming down harder now. Rain soaked his collar and cuffs and generally irritated his already short temper. Why the hell hadn’t he brought his slicker? He hadn’t been thinking clearly. No, he’d been thinking about a certain woman, not about work. That realization didn’t help his temper one bit.

  Ethan headed for the back, remembering a separate entrance up a flight of stairs. As he came around the corner, he stopped dead still. There, gleaming in the rain, like a mountain of silver, were rails, stacked like firewood near that siding. What the hell?

  Rain pounded on his shoulders and soaked through his jacket, chilling his skin. He didn’t care. Rails. These were his rails, he was sure of it. Slowly, he walked around the stack, his steps splashing water as he moved. Lightly gliding his hand over the smooth metal, his eyes searched for a tag, a mark, something to confirm what he was already certain of.

  Then he saw it, a small, waterlogged piece of heavy brown pasteboard partially submerged in a puddle of water. Lifting the tag, he read, “Wilder—Wyoming Central Railroad.”

  These were his rails, but why hadn’t they been shipped? Why had Hockmyer said they didn’t have any? Anger merged with frustration inside him. Muscles tensed along his shoulders and down his back. “Hockmyer, if you’re playing tricks, you’ve picked the wrong man,” he said aloud, to no one.

  Ethan strode for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he banged into the office. The door slammed dangerously hard against the wall before springing back at him. He caught it absently. His attention was focused on the man seated at the desk not five feet away.

  “What the—” Hockmyer surged to his feet then went white as a wash day bedsheet. “Wilder. What are you doing here?”

  Hockmyer was a short, burly man, with a fringe for hair and a cigar that seemed to be permanently stuck in his mouth.

  Ethan closed on him. “What the hell do you think I’m doing here? I came for my goddamn rails.” Ethan braced his hands on the front edge of the desk and leaned toward Hockmyer.

  “What rails? There are no rails.”

  “Then what do you call that mountain of steel stacked out there?” He pointed toward the wall with one outstretched hand. “Those are my rails and I want them now.”

  Burt Hockmyer dropped down in his chair. “I, ah, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m busy. Come back—”

  Ethan slammed his fist down on the desk, papers lifted and fluttered then settled. Hockmyer came partially out of his seat. “Look, Wilder—”

  “No, you look, you little bastard. I want my rails. I paid for them and dammit I want them!”

  “There are no rails until the thirtieth,” Hockmyer countered.

  “Says who?”

  “Says me, that’s who.” He thumbed his chest.

  “Now get out before I call my men to throw you out.”

  With one hand, Ethan grabbed the front of the little man’s shirt and pulled him in close. “You lying son of a bitch. My rails are stacked outside. I saw them when I came in—”

  Hockmyer pried Ethan’s fingers loose from his shirt and took a faltering step back until his retreat was blocked by the wall. His face was mottled red. “Those aren’t your rails. Those are…” His gaze darted to the desk and he reached for the papers scattered there. “Those are…are…”

  Ethan slammed his fist on the desk again and Hockmyer jumped. “No use, Hockmyer. I saw the tag on them. Now what I want to know—” his voice got deadly soft “—is why you’re lying. Who put you up to this? Did someone offer you more money for them? Who, Hockmyer?”

  “I’m not lying.” Hockmyer was inching toward the door on the far side of the small office. Ethan moved toward him when he realized what he was up to, but it was an instant too late. The man wrenched open the door and shouted, “Gunther! Gunther! Get your ass up here and bring a couple of men with you!”

  Through the window that looked down on the foundry, Ethan saw three burly men start for the stairs, each picking up a piece of iron as he did. Anger rolled in him and he was halfway tempted to stand and have it out with Hockmyer and his goons. But getting his brains bashed in wasn’t going to help things. Ethan knew when to retreat. He also knew there was a difference between retreating and giving up.

  “All right, Hockmyer. You win…for now.” With that, he left the way he’d come in.

  “I’m sorry but I can’t give you an extension on the loan,” Nick Fraser, the bank manager said. He lounged back in his oversize leather chair that was behind a huge carved mahogany desk. The room and the man bespoke the stuffy arrogance of Chicago’s First Central Bank.

  Ethan, on the other hand, was wet and tired and feeling more than a little mean.

  But he needed this loan to be extended and so he schooled his temper as best he could and said, “Why not? What’s a couple of weeks going to matter? By then—”

  The man held up one hand to stop him. His silver cuff links flashed in the light from the lamp on the corner of the desk. “Look, Mr. Wilder,” he said in a voice that sounded high and nasal, “we aren’t interested in making any changes or accommodations at this time.”

  There was something smug and irritating as hell about Fraser. Ethan’s temper was moving up the scale fast.

  If Fraser was aware of just how dangerous a man he was dealing with, he gave no indication of it. Instead, the manager leaned in, and with one finger—as though touching something unpleasant—moved the papers in a file on his desk. One brow arched and he glanced up at Ethan. “Ah, yes, I see that your first payment is due on the fifteenth. Should you fail t
o make it the bank would have no choice but to…foreclose.” His gaze flicked up to Ethan once again. There was a slash of a line on his face that Ethan supposed was a smile of sorts.

  Ethan was thinking what he’d like to do with that smile but this was business. “Why?” he asked, demanded bluntly.

  “Business, Mr. Wilder. Nothing personal, I assure you.” He made a show of straightening the seam on the lapel of his blue suit.

  Ethan had had about enough of this. You’d think he was begging for something he didn’t deserve. Ethan never begged for anything.

  In one motion he stood and picked up his hat from the corner of the desk. About the same time, he and Fraser noticed the water ring that Ethan’s hat had left on the mahogany. While the manager suddenly frowned, Ethan had trouble keeping his smile in check.

  Why, Wilder, you spoiled the nice man’s brand-new desk.

  Yeah, that wasn’t the only thing he’d like to spoil. It was temper that made him give his hat, his very wet hat, a good shake and send water spraying all over the desk and the papers and the smug Mr. Fraser.

  “Hey, you!” Fraser said sharply, momentarily losing his composure.

  “Oh, did I get you?” Ethan said in all innocence. He pointedly didn’t apologize.

  As Ethan stormed from the office, he ran quite literally into someone he’d known a long time ago. Staring into the man’s brown eyes, Ethan had the answer to all his questions.

  “Hanscome,” Ethan said, his voice as cold and hard as a sword’s edge.

  “Wilder.” The man extended his hand but Ethan pretended to take no notice. He’d be damned if he was shaking hands with the man who was trying to put him out of business.

  Ethan stared at the man for a long minute then said, “Since when is the Union Pacific interested in spur lines?”

  “What makes you think we are?”

  “You’re here aren’t you?”

  The man straightened and the look on his face changed from denial to a sort of victory. “Oh, the U.P. is interested in anything to do with railroads. It’s so nice if we can keep it all tidy, so to speak.”