The Union Belle

by Gilbert, Morris

  He briefed them on his trip, then asked, “What’s the trouble at Camp Two?”

  Dooley shook his head. “Dunno.” It was unlike the small man to be so sparing in his speech, and Mark examined him more carefully. In all the time he had known Dooley Young, he had always been the most cheerful man Mark had ever seen. During the war, when all was lost and there was nothing left but hurting, it was Dooley who had grinned and kept the rest of the men in Mark’s regiment from giving up.

  Mark looked questioningly at Jeff, who shook his head in a warning gesture. “Somebody’s been put in that camp to cause trouble, Mark. The men won’t work. That’s not like Irishmen.”

  “No, it’s not.” Mark picked up his coffee, sipped it, then said, “We’ll take a ride out there tomorrow.”

  Dooley finally spoke up, “You need me for anything, Mark?”

  “No. Just be ready to leave early.” As soon as Young left, Mark asked, “What’s biting on him, Jeff?”

  Driver said, “Remember that girl that helped nurse Lola—Maureen. Dooley’s fallen for her like a ton of bricks.”

  “Does she like him?”

  “I don’t guess so, Mark. Not enough anyhow. She quit working for Shep and went back to Cherry’s joint. Shep told me she’s picked up with the same gent that beat her up and left her in the street—fancy gambler named Bob Dempsey.” He pulled his hat off and set it on the seat carefully. “She’s a pretty girl—but she’s no judge of character.”

  “You talk to Dooley?”

  “You ever hear of one man having any luck givin’ advice to another one about a woman?”

  “No, I never did. But he’d better get over it. I hear the gamblers have gone too far. Reed wants us to clamp the lid down on the rowdys, and I don’t want Dooley to have his mind on a woman while we’re trying to do it.”

  Jeff gave Winslow a careful look. “You’re a hard nut, Mark. I don’t suppose you’d let personal ties get in the way of your job. But some of us don’t work like that. We can’t turn ourselves on and off like we was a faucet.”

  Mark stared at him, taken aback at Jeff’s words, for he read some sort of personal message in them. “What would you have a man do, Jeff? When we marched off to war, we had to put everything in a box. If we lived, we could go home and open the box. But you know as well as I do that a man can’t do a job well when he’s got his mind on something else.” He tried to explain it more clearly, for there were few men he liked better or trusted more than Driver. “That doesn’t mean a man has to put aside love in order to perform his job. It isn’t right for a man to love his work more than his wife. A man needs to have both, but he should bear in mind that they’re not the same thing, so it’s important to keep them separate.”

  Driver stared at him, then nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right, Mark. I’m no expert on women.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” Mark shrugged. Then he got to his feet and said, “Guess I’ll go get some sleep.”

  Driver said, “You ought to go by and see Lola and Jude. They’ve got their church set up in a tent down Orange street.”

  “They all right?”

  “Sure.” Driver grinned and said, “They keep moving their church right along with the Union Pacific. I told Jude he ought to name it The Union Pacific Church.” He ducked his head, and when he lifted it, there was a slight flush in his cheeks. “I—I’ve been going pretty regular—to their church, that is.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Mark said. “My folks are Christians—and my family tree is loaded with preachers. I know I haven’t been the man they’d want me to be.” He clapped Driver on the shoulder and added, “But you should stay with it, Jeff. Every man needs God.”

  He left Driver and turned to go to his room. The rain had stopped, and on an impulse he turned and made his way down Orange street until he came to the tent with a cross perched on top. He ducked through the flap, calling out, “Anybody home?”

  A thin rectangle of light at the back of the tent appeared, and he saw Lola peer out at him.

  “Mark!” She ran to him, delighted by his unexpected visit, and took his arm, pulling him toward the back. “Come with me to the kitchen. Have you eaten?”

  “Just had supper.” He stepped into a section of the tent that contained a wood stove, a table, and three chairs and one cot.

  “Let me treat you to a piece of the cake I made today—and some fresh coffee.”

  She chattered as she got the coffee and cake, then sat down and leaned on her elbows, watching him as he ate. She had regained some weight, he noticed, and no sign of her illness remained. Her dark eyes caught the yellow flare of the lantern, and her cheeks glowed with health. He ate slowly, and she told him about the church, describing the move from Benton and sharing how many people had been converted in Bryant.

  “They say this town kills a man a day,” she said, “just like the other track towns.” The thought sobered her, but in another moment her smile returned. “Thankfully, at least that many again have come to know the Lord since we’ve been here.”

  “I’ve thought about the two of you a lot,” Mark said, the light returning to his eyes. They sat there talking for an hour, and it occurred to him that he had not spoken so easily in years. His companions during the war and on construction crews had always been men. But sitting and talking intimately over coffee with Lola, Mark felt a twinge of regret. Some men get to enjoy this kind of thing all the time, he thought as he relaxed in his chair.

  “Jeff told me about Maureen,” he said later. “Too bad. I guess you’ve done all you can.”

  “I talked to her until I was hoarse,” Lola said. “But she’s got a blind spot where Dempsey’s concerned. He’s good-looking and has a lot of money—a real ladies’ man. I’ve seen enough of them to spot one.”

  “I’d have expected Maureen to see through him. She’s been around that sort before, I suppose.”

  Lola shrugged, grief in her eyes. Mark recognized the same compassion for others in her that he admired so much in his parents. “Dooley’s taking it pretty bad,” he commented.

  “I know. I’m praying for her, Mark. God’s able to open her eyes.”

  Her easy statement made him feel uncomfortable, for it marked the difference between her way and his. He stirred and asked, “Ray been around?”

  “Oh, yes. I see him once in a while. He’s been going out to the camps quite a bit.” She hesitated before continuing, “I got a letter from Moira last week. She’s coming here with her father on business soon—next week, I think.”

  The subject was a little touchy for both of them, and Mark decided to leave, saying, “Got to go to bed. Dodge has ridden me ragged the past few weeks.” She stood up and he was suddenly aware of how small she was. “You’re not very tall, Lola,” he said, almost as though he were speaking to himself. “My youngest sister is about your size.”

  Lola smiled up at him. “I wish I’d had a brother like you, Mark. Were you two close?”

  “Not as close as we should have been.” He thought back to his life in Virginia before the war. “Patience or Pet, as everybody calls her, is the youngest in our generation of the Winslow clan. I’m the oldest in the family, and I was a pretty brash young man. I’m afraid I didn’t pay too much attention to my baby sister.” There was a sadness in his voice, and he said softly, “Why do we let things go by us, Lola? I love Pet—but I can’t remember ever telling her so.”

  “I’m sure she knows it, Mark,” Lola said. “Don’t think of the past. You can’t change it. Where is your sister now?”

  “Still in Virginia. She’s married to a fine man. Got two kids and another on the way.”

  “Why, then you can demonstrate your love for Pet by being a good uncle to her children. Go see them. Send them little presents. You should even write Pet a letter and tell her what you’ve just told me.”

  Her eyes held him, and he murmured, “Yes, that’s what I need to do.” He paused for a moment, gazing into her dark eyes. “You’re good for
a man, Lola.”

  She stepped close to him, and he could see the concern written on her face. “Mark—don’t let this job make you too hard. You’ve just come out of a war where you had to learn to kill to survive. Now you’re still forced to fight.”

  “It’s my job, Lola.”

  She shook her head slightly, then said, “Mark, a man is more than the job he performs. There’s a soul involved, and there’s only one soul in you. If you lose that, what good does all the rest do?”

  He looked down at her thoughtfully. “You know, you sound a great deal like my mother, Rebekah. She’s a fine Christian—just like you. I wish you could meet her.” Then he said quickly, “But what kind of a man would I be if I quit? General Dodge and Sam Reed trust me. What if we all quit? Somebody has to fight the wars and build the railroads.”

  She stood there, looking up at him with a soft maternal expression in her face. “I know, Mark—but I hate seeing you grow hard.”

  He leaned forward suddenly and gently kissed her. She did not move away, but neither did she respond. He drew back, studied her, then smiled, “I warned you I’d try that someday.”

  “It was a friendly kiss, Mark,” she said, and a smile came to her. “Now, go get some rest.” She watched as he left, and then stood there for a long time thinking about the future, which seemed very uncertain.

  ****

  Daylight was only a feeble line in the east when the three men rode out of Bryant. The air was cold, and Driver shivered, drawing his coat around him. “Winter coming soon.”

  Winslow nodded, but Dooley did not appear to have heard. He was slumped in the saddle of his gray mare, his face hidden behind his hat and his huge moustache.

  They rode for four hours, stopping only to cook up some bacon and coffee, then resumed their journey. It was after two when Driver announced, “There she is.” He pointed to a crest where a camp scored the sky. “I can’t figure out what’s going on. Nobody’s working that I can see.”

  They rode through a street that marked the middle of the camp, and Mark observed quietly, “It smells like trouble. Where’s Joe Riley?”

  “Over there.” Jeff led the way to the end of the street, a line of sullen workers watching them. Mark spurred his horse suddenly, and the animal’s quick jump startled the ill-tempered, suspicious men.

  The three rode past them and came to where Riley, the foreman, waited for them. He spoke as they dismounted. “Come on inside. Got some grub left from dinner.” The three tied up their horses and stepped inside the tent to find Riley facing them, worry on his face. Never unwilling to fist it out with any of the men who worked for him, Joe Riley’s expression betrayed an uncharacteristic fear.

  “What’s going on, Joe?” Mark asked quietly.

  “The men refuse to work. They gamble and gripe all day, then get drunk at night.” Riley hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Had a man killed last night.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Mason, one of my foremen. He was trying to get the men to work, and last night somebody drilled him.” He shrugged helplessly. “Mark, you’d better tell Reed to send in the soldiers. I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “What are you afraid of, Joe?”

  Riley was a tough one, but there was something in the situation he didn’t like. “It’s a set-up, Mark. Somebody’s put some troublemakers in this camp. They’ll make it rough on anybody who tries to settle things down.”

  “We can’t send soldiers to every construction camp,” Mark said sharply. Then he added in a kinder tone, “We’ll see what happens in the morning.”

  “Did you know Lou Goldman was here?” Riley demanded.

  That drew the attention of all three of the men. “No, we weren’t told that,” Mark said, surprised. “We’ll wait until morning to leave all the same.”

  “Do what you please. I’m pulling out. I’ll get you some blankets and a place to sleep.”

  Mark made no move that day, but he could feel the eyes of the railroad men on him. The pressure began to affect him, and he longed to throw himself into some sort of action, but he remained cautious. Later, when they were all lying in their blankets, he told the others, “We’ve got to stop this. Somebody’s spending a lot of money to tie up this camp. If we let it get by, they’ll hit every camp we’ve got.”

  “Goldman’s here—and he didn’t come for no tea party, Mark,” Dooley said. “He’s probably got some of his low-down friends here.”

  “I guess—but we’ve got to take care of whoever tied this camp up,” Mark said. He slept fitfully, and the three of them arose at dawn.

  The red, raw embankment of the right of way ran directly in front of the camp, and the men gathered around it. “Now, let’s find out who’s keeping the crews from working,” Mark said, and walked to where the men waited.

  As they drew close, Dooley moved closer to Mark. “That’s Tap Brand there. He’s no Irishman. He’s a bouncer for Roy Spicer. I seen him kick a man to death back in Benton.”

  Mark noted Brand’s squat figure, his huge shoulders and close little eyes. He also noted Lou Goldman and three other men who were not workers watching carefully. There was no sense in waiting to make a move, so he said, “Tap, get to work or hit the road.”

  Tap stared at him and cursed. He started to raise his hands to attack, but Mark sprang across the space that separated them, cracking him in the mouth with a right hand that drove him backward to the ground. He rolled over, got to his feet and spit out a tooth. The crimson blood ran down his chin, and he squinted and came toward Mark, his hands lifted. He had been a pug somewhere, Mark realized, in addition to a barroom brawler. He came in jabbing with his left, his right fist cocked and ready. Mark took the left on his forearm, waited for the right, moving his head slightly when it came while reaching forward and grabbing Brand’s head. Lowering his head, he pulled forward, smashing Tap in the face with his skull. The sound made a noise like that of a hammer hitting a melon.

  Tap fell to his knees, but he was still dangerous. Grabbing Mark’s feet, he pulled them and fell on him with a bear-like embrace. He was as powerful as a gorilla, and Mark knew he would lose if he didn’t get free. With a burst of strength, he rolled the bruiser off and got to his feet. Brand was up in an instant, and paused to shake the blood from his face. “Bust him up, Tap,” Mark heard Goldman say.

  Mark knew he had to end the fight now or get beaten. He was no match for a boxer, especially one who could use thumb-gouging tactics. He didn’t wait for Tap to move, but went at him head on. Mark’s fist caught him full in the throat before he could move to defend himself, and he fell to the ground gagging and rolling into a fetal position. The sound of his choking agony was sickening, and Mark’s own face paled.

  Finally Tap struggled to his feet, but when he tried to talk, he could only make raw cawing noises—like a crow. He was in terrible pain, but Winslow showed no mercy. “Hit the road, Tap,” he said. Then he turned to the silent crowd. “Nobody can make you work,” he said, “but we can make you leave the camp if you don’t want to lay steel.”

  A voice said, “It’s time to work,” and that triggered the crowd. The belligerence vanished and they moved away quietly, murmuring about the fight.

  Mark turned to face Goldman. “Lou, get out of camp—or make a fight of it.”

  Goldman laid a murderous glance on Mark, but he noted Young and Driver standing to either side of Winslow like a pair of cocked guns. Although the desire to kill burned strong in him, he was not fool enough to take on the three of them. He shook his head, swung up into his saddle and rode away.

  “You’ve made Goldman take water twice, Mark,” Jeff pointed out as they mounted their horses. “He won’t be able to stand that for long. So watch yourself.”

  Mark’s reply betrayed no trace of fear. “It’ll be us or them soon enough, Jeff. Some of us will have our numbers coming up.”

  Dooley looked toward the dust that marked the progress of Goldman and his men and spat. “Like as not we done
plowed up a snake, Captain. You’ve pushed Cherry and his crowd pretty hard. He’s gettin’ froggy—and this play might make him jump.”

  Mark considered the dust cloud, but shook his head. “There’s more to this than the gamblers. All they want is the towns wide open. Whoever put the troublemakers in this camp wanted the Union Pacific crippled. Nobody wants that more than the Central.”

  “In that you’re probably right, Mark,” Driver admitted. “Been too many ‘accidents’ and unexplained breakdowns here—and this isn’t the only camp where the men have gone sour.”

  “Still—Goldman and Tap are Cherry’s men,” Dooley put in.

  Mark nodded. “Sure, but it’s my guess that somebody’s paying Valance for doing a wrecking job. The trouble he’s stirred up has hit at the Union’s most vulnerable spots. This stretch of line is critical; we need it done at once. And what about the timbers that got burned over near Bear River? Why those particular timbers and not some others? We could have replaced any others, but those were made to order—we’ll be at a dead stop until we can replace them.”

  “Whut you gettin’ at, Captain?” Dooley demanded.

  An angry light glowed in Mark’s eyes. “We’ve got a leak. Somebody is tipping off whoever is behind Valance to how to hurt us the worst.”

  His words sobered the other two, and as Mark spurred his horse to a faster gait, he continued, “I’d like to hear what Cherry says to his boss about this scrape. My guess is they’ll cook up something pretty raw to make up for it.”

  ****

  “You’re going to have to do better, Lou.”

  Jason Wallford did not raise his voice, but his small black eyes were cold when he looked across the table. Ray sat directly across from him, flanked by Valance and Bob Dempsey, a dapper man with coal black hair and a trim moustache. Goldman, his clothing covered with fine dust, was standing a few feet away, his hazel eyes still angry. He had come into Valance’s office and informed them of the fiasco that had taken place at Camp Two.