Peter slumped back and Mark knew he was dead. He held the still hand for a long time, his eyes moist. Finally Roger came and said, “How is he, sir?”
“Gone, Roger.” Winslow put Peter’s hand on his chest. “Get a detail. We’ll bury him here where we can roll some big rocks over the spot so the Indians won’t find him.”
He rose to his feet, looked up at the stars doing their great dance in the sky. He clenched his jaw, then turned to go to the men. Morning would come soon, and he knew that he might be as dead as Peter Brown—so might they all. He knew that he could go to death with courage—but not with the faith that Peter Brown had shown. He wished now that he had that kind of faith in God, but he said nothing to the others, for he didn’t know himself what brought a man to that kind of belief.
****
Lola saw Ray Hayden come in the Wagonwheel, and immediately closed her table. She went over to where he stood at the bar waiting for a drink, and said, “Please, may I speak with you?”
Hayden turned, surprise rising in his eyes, but he nodded. “Of course.”
“Come with me.” She led him to one of the small rooms where big poker games took place, and as soon as the flap was closed behind her, she turned to him. “Is it true about the survey party—the one Mark Winslow was with?”
Hayden nodded, “I don’t know what you heard, but the party was attacked by the Sioux. General Dodge is taking a relief force out right away. As a matter of fact, I’m going with them.”
She moistened her lips, then asked, “Is—does anyone know who was killed?”
“Mark’s all right as far as I know. But they’re in bad trouble.” He waited for her to speak, but she was silent, her dark eyes cloudy with some emotion he couldn’t identify. “Are you and Mark—close friends?” he asked delicately.
“We were once—very close.” His meaning dawned more fully on her, and she continued bluntly, “We were never lovers.”
He had the grace to show embarrassment. “Sorry. You never know how it is with a man and a woman.” He studied her, then said, “He’s a good friend of mine. I’ve felt miserable ever since word about the attack came.”
“If you see him . . .” she began, then bit her lip. He saw that she was not going to finish her statement.
“Shall I tell him you’ve asked about him?”
“No, don’t do that.” She shook her head, and he could see that she grieved for Mark. “I hope he’s all right. But don’t tell him I asked.”
“All right.” Hayden was taken with her beauty. “Look,” he said, assuming that like other saloon women she would be easy to know, “I’ve got to have something to eat. I haven’t spoken to a soul since this happened. Have supper with me. I want to talk about Mark.”
She gave him a steady look, then nodded. “I would like to hear about him.” Then she added, not taking her gaze from his eyes, “Just supper. You understand?”
“Why—of course!” he said at once. He led her away, and they had supper at one of the better restaurants. He did most of the talking, and if he had intended to find out something about Lola Montez, he failed. But he was a patient man, and when he left her and went to his office for a few hours sleep, he smiled and told himself, “A lovely woman. For all her rumored toughness, I think I see a little soft spot!” He laughed and went to sleep thinking of her.
The column left at dawn, and Dodge drove them at a killing pace. It was a strong expedition, made up of a large force of cavalry, well-trained and hardened.
The journey was difficult for Hayden, but he didn’t complain. He had a genuine concern for Winslow, but he also wanted to impress General Dodge with his ability to take the field.
It was on the third day that they came upon the survey crew. A scout came back at a dead gallop around two in the afternoon. He pulled his horse up, and said excitedly, “General, they’re up ahead—no more than two miles!”
“Any hostiles?” Dodge demanded.
“The Indians had the party surrounded, sir, but when they saw us, they ran for it.”
“Column forward!” Dodge shouted, and the dust rolled upward as the command moved across the desert at a fast trot. Dodge was in the front, and he called out, “That’s them, Lieutenant!”
He pulled the column up and saw that the survey party was drawn up in a tight body, with scouts in the rear. Dismounting his horse at once, he walked across to meet the tall, sunburned man who stood waiting. “Winslow, you’re all right?”
Mark almost saluted, but nodded instead. “Yes, sir. We lost some men.”
Hayden was there almost immediately, and his eyes were glad as he reached out for Mark’s hand. “Thank God you made it!”
Dodge didn’t miss the fatigue that scored Winslow’s face, nor the gaunt look of the men and horses. “Tell me about it.”
Mark gave a simple report, leaving himself mostly out of it, but Dodge kept probing. He gave the lieutenant a glance once, for both of them realized that if it had not been for Mark Winslow’s leadership, the entire crew would have perished.
Finally Mark said slowly, “We lost Peter Brown, sir.”
Dodge said in a sad voice, “Too bad! Too bad! He was a fine young man.” Then he said, “I’m in debt for your help, Winslow.”
“I was saving my own neck, too, General.”
“Well, I know about that, Mark.” The general’s use of his first name came as a shock to Winslow, but he was so tired he could only smile with cracked lips. Dodge studied him, then seemed to make up his mind. “I want you to work for Reed. You’ll be Assistant Superintendent of Construction.” He took out a cigar, bit off the end and made quite a business of getting it lighted. He was a man who had learned to judge the quality of a man’s spirit, and he saw something in Mark Winslow that he had seen before.
“You’ll work with Reed—and your job will be to fix up any kind of trouble. You want the job, Mark?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” Dodge felt a lightness that always came when he felt he had made a good decision. He knew that the fight to build the Union Pacific was going to be longer and meaner than anyone dreamed—and it would be men like Mark Winslow who would be tough enough to get the thing done.
As the troop turned to start back, Ray rode beside Mark. “It was a close thing, I take it?”
Mark gave him a tight smile. “Very close, Ray. I feel like I used to after a battle—surprised to be one of the survivors.”
Ray said impulsively, “Lola asked about you.” He had not intended to tell Mark about his conversation, but when he made his remark, he saw a change in Mark’s spirit. He added, “She was worried about you. The way a woman is about a man she likes.”
Mark shook his head. “You’re no smarter about women than you were back in the old days, Ray. Lola was just being polite. Of all the men in the world, I’d be the last she’d be interested in.”
“So? That’s never stopped you before,” said Hayden, slyly glancing at his friend.
CHAPTER NINE
Clean Up Julesburg!
Julesburg lay on the Colorado-Nebraska border on the banks of the South Platte, a shallow, yellow and muddy river. Before the rails had heaved into sight, it boasted only a score of rude huts, but by April over three thousand people had crowded its tents and knock-downs, and business went on around the clock.
The town was a sinner’s nirvana, for here by sheer numbers, the roughs, gamblers, and outlaws dominated a small nucleus of respectable citizens. Whole battalions of prostitutes and gamblers descended upon dusty Julesburg to ply their nefarious trades, and by late May, with the Union Pacific using the town as a major base camp, some four thousand people had crowded into the newest hell-on-wheels.
As Mark stepped off the train onto the station platform at dusk, he was taken aback by the bustling throngs. He had just returned from a week in Omaha where he had met with Reed and Dodge after finishing the survey line to the Wasatch Range. Now as he stepped clear of the coach, holding on to his bag, it was like movin
g out of a quiet room into a tornado.
“Not ten shacks here three months ago—now look at it,” Mark said to Jeff Driver and Lowell Taylor, both of whom had been assigned to work for him.
Driver looked across the eight-inch-thick dust that composed the main street of Julesburg with a cynical eye. “Four thousand citizens,” he observed in his customary soft voice. “Steeped in sin and proud of it.” He was no more than five foot ten, but the one hundred seventy pounds he carried was muscular and compact. Dark hair escaped his low-crowned wide-brimmed hat, and the silver dollars that made up the band flickered faintly. He wore dark clothing, and the gun at his right side was tied to his leg with a rawhide thong. He lifted his tanned face, dominated by black eyes and sharp features, to his companion. “That’s your baby, Mark.”
Taylor added, “It’s not going to be a Sunday school picnic.”
Winslow nodded, mentally replaying the last conversation he’d had with Dodge. It had been a brief meeting, and only Sam Reed had been present. Dodge had said, “Mark, I don’t want you to do any more office work this year. From now on your job is to handle any trouble along the right of way. We’ve got some agitators in our construction gangs, and we all know that the Central’s paying them—you’ll have to stop that.” He had paused and a frown creased his cheeks. “The government expects the railroad to keep order in the end-of-track towns, and I propose to do it. We know that the gamblers have already taken over Julesburg, and they plan to take the other towns as the track goes west. Cherry Valance is the ringleader. He’s already served notice that they do not propose to observe the authority of any mayor or town marshal we may appoint.”
Dodge had seemed to be finished, so Mark had asked, “How far do you want me to go, General?”
“How far?” An angry light had flared in Dodge’s eyes. “Hang them from the nearest tree, Mark!”
“No trees in Julesburg, sir,” Reed had commented with a droll smile.
Dodge had responded with a quick answer. “Use a telegraph pole, then. Reed has enough to do as it is, Mark, so it’s up to you to see that Julesburg behaves itself.”
As Mark walked along the dusty street, he thought of that meeting, understanding that Dodge meant exactly what he said. He lifted his eyes across the bustling crowds and saw the string of dance halls, saloons and business houses stretching away to the flat prairie. Whether canvas or log-framed or pine-boarded, all of them boomed with the traffic and trade of the newly opened construction year. Over on the corner the vast shape of Valance’s Wagonwheel saloon, a circus tent fifty feet wide and a hundred feet long, emitted its constant gush of light and sound.
The three men turned into the Crescent Hotel, and Billy Carter, the clerk, shoved the register across the desk. “Been a fellow looking for you, Mr. Winslow,” he commented as Mark signed his name. “He wouldn’t say his name, and I never saw him before.”
Mark shrugged and said, “I guess he’ll find me if he wants to bad enough.” He led the way up the steep stairs and unlocked the door of the second room on the left. Once inside, Driver and Taylor dropped their bags and sat down while Mark poured a basin full of water. Standing in front of a dresser mirror, he lathered his face.
“I’m glad to be out of Omaha,” he said, pulling the razor down over one cheek. “Too much book work.”
Driver gave him a cheerless glance. “May be wishing for a little more of that before we’re through here,” he said. “This town is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Mark started to answer, but a knock broke in. “Come on in,” he called.
The door opened to admit a colorful-looking character. His wiry frame was not over five feet eight inches, and a tremendous droopy walrus moustache seemed to pull his head forward with its weight. He seemed not to notice Driver and Taylor and said in a loud voice, “Hidee, Captain!”
Mark whirled around, his lathered face suddenly filled with pleasure. “Well, deliver me!” he laughed, crossing the room to grab the little tow-headed man’s hand. “Dooley Young! What in the world are you doing in this part of the world?”
“Aw, Captain, yore ma’s been after me to come out and see you don’t git in no trouble,” Young answered. He reached inside his inner coat pocket, retrieved a small bundle of envelopes tied with a string, and handed them to Winslow. “Here’s the mail I brung you.”
Mark took the letters, broke the string, and scanned the names. “Looks like I’ll be answering letters for a week, Dooley.” He put the letters on the washstand and introduced his friend to the others. “This is Dooley Young. He was in my company all the way through to Appomattox. Dooley, meet Jeff Driver and Lowell Taylor.”
Driver’s serious face broke into a broad smile, revealing even, white teeth. “Well, I thought it was my job to watch Mark, Dooley—but I guess I’m not up to it.”
Dooley gave Driver a bland look. “Mebbe you can be my helper.”
Mark quickly finished shaving, a delighted smile on his face. “Come on, we can get something to eat and you can bring me up to date on everyone back home.”
The four men went downstairs, and as they ate Dooley talked constantly. The way he could down immense amounts of food without missing a word amused the three men. Mark forgot to eat, his eyes hungry as Dooley rambled on about his home.
“Wal, that Pet and Thad are out to do what the Good Book says, Captain,” he grinned. “Two young’uns an’ one in the chute. Gonna name this one after you if it’s a boy, Thad says. And lemme tell you that Thad Novak is about the best farmer in the state of Virginia! Never thought the first time I seed that boy he’d be the hairpin who’d jest about save the hull Winslow tribe—but that’s ’bout whut he’s gone and did!”
“Things have been pretty bad at Belle Maison, I guess.”
“Most of the big planters lost everything, Captain,” Dooley said. “And like you know, most of them’s too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash!”
“I haven’t been much help,” Mark said soberly. “Maybe I should have stayed and tried to put the place back on its feet.” He toyed with his fork, his gray eyes unhappy. Then he shrugged and tried to smile. “But you say Thad’s held things together?”
“Shore has!” Dooley nodded. Then his face grew angry. “In spite of them pettifoggin’ carpetbaggers! They’d steal flies from a blind spider.”
“What about my folks? How are they?”
“Why, yore ma’s pert as ever, Captain. Mister Sky, he’s been ailin’ a leetle bit. Me and Doc Lindsey been treatin’ him,” the little man nodded confidentially. “Doc knows all the fancy terms, but he had to come out and admit that my medicine was better’n any he could come up with.”
“What’d you give him?” Mark asked curiously.
“Wal, I give him some wintergreen tea—good for the heart, you know? Then I figured a little wild plum bark ort to take care of that asthma he’s been plagued with. An ’course I give him some of my special slippery elm compound for his stomach.”
Driver grinned at the feisty little man. “Sounds like you got Mark’s dad all fixed up,” he said. “I’ll know who to come to if I get sick.”
Dooley rambled on, describing Tom’s life at home and telling about Dan, Mark’s youngest brother, who had gone to Texas. “Belle and that Yankee husband of hers live in Washington,” he concluded, “but they come home two or three times a year.”
“How long you here for, Dooley?” Mark finally asked.
“Why, like I said, Captain, yore ma says for me to watch out for you.” He shrugged and added seriously, “No way for a man to make much of a livin’ right now in Virginia. Thought maybe you might need a hand with this here railroad you’re building.”
Mark said at once, “You’re on the payroll. It’s going to be a little rough, though.”
“Won’t be quite as easy as you had it in the war,” Driver said with a wink at Winslow.
“What outfit was you with in the war?” Dooley spoke up, and the light of anger brightened his blue eyes.
“Why, 14th. New York.”
“Oh, that outfit,” Dooley said with an air of disdain. “You must not of been there when we give that particular outfit a lickin’ at Pittsburg Landing.”
Driver stared at him. “I was there—right in the middle of the hornet’s nest.”
Mark looked over at Driver. “I never knew that, Jeff. That was a rough spot—maybe the worst in the whole war.”
The three of them remembered the battle all too well. There had been a small pond in that area, and the blood of the Union men who were cut down by the merciless fire of the Confederates had stained it so red it was known afterwards as the Bloody Pond.
“I was there, all right,” Driver said. “And I was there at Lookout Mountain when we ran you jaybird rebels backwards so fast we only got a glimpse of your backsides.”
“War’s over,” Mark said, heading off the argument. “We got enough trouble with the roughs in this town without raking up old wars—and most of the trouble answers to Cherry Valance.”
“Yep, I done heard about him,” Dooley nodded. “He’s a fancy man who uses toilet water,” Dooley said in a deprecating tone, “but he’s meaner’n a yard dog, and he’d steal a chaw of tobacco out of your mouth if you yawned! He’s got him a helper who’s got the hull town buffaloed. Goes by the name of Lou Goldman.”
“Goldman?” Driver lifted his head suddenly. “He’s bad medicine. Comes from Texas. He’s smelled lots of gunpowder.”
Taylor broke his silence. “He’s wanted on a dozen charges, I hear.”
“Aw, I’ll take care of that hairpin,” Dooley snorted. “But ’fore I punch his ticket, I gotta find me some violets to fix it.”
“Violets?” Driver asked. “You gonna put them on his grave?”
The Union Belle Page 13
