The Union Belle

by Gilbert, Morris

  Lola watched as he thought, and a tremendous sadness washed over her. “I remember, Mark,” she said gently, “the time you were so sick and weak you couldn’t lift your head. Do you ever think of that time?”

  “I’ve never forgotten it.”

  Her lips parted and there was a longing light in her eyes as she said, “I think you’ll never know any peace until you are broken like that again. I don’t mean physically sick. It’s your spirit that’s sick. You’re bitter and unbendable.”

  He stared at her, unable to read the expression on her face. “A man has to be hard in order to live, Lola.”

  She shook her head quickly. “You’re wrong, Mark. The only way to live is to have love—and you can’t love anyone with bitterness and a lust for vengeance filling you to the brim. I saw gentleness in you once, but you’ve lost it.” Dooley’s footsteps echoed in the hallway. “You’ll have to be broken before you’ll ever be a whole man,” she emphasized once more.

  Dooley came in carrying a canvas bag and gave the two a quick look. He was a perceptive young fellow, and sensed at once the tension between Mark and Lola. He admired them both, and hated to see them at odds, so he offered quickly, “I can make it to the room on my own, Captain—in case you ain’t ready to leave yet.”

  Mark shook his head. “I’ve got to go to work. I’ll see you later, Lola.”

  Dooley came to stand before her, giving her a quick grin. “Well, I reckon you patched me up so I can get through two or three more clean shirts, Miss Lola. Let me know if I can ever do anything for you.”

  “I will, Dooley.”

  The two left, and as soon as they were outside, Dooley commented, “That gal shore does beat hens a’pacing, don’t she now?”

  “Sure.” Mark changed the subject abruptly, saying, “You better stick around the office and run errands for Josh Long for a few days, Dooley. Let those ribs heal up.”

  Dooley shrugged. “It’s your say, Captain—but I got one leetle call to make.”

  Mark gave him a swift glance. “If you’re thinking about Bob Dempsey and the other scum who beat you up, you’re too late. They got away in the fracas. Probably helped Cherry and Goldman murder Jeff.”

  Dooley considered that, then let out his breath. “Well, now, I guess I’ll meet up with them someday.”

  “You know Maureen went back to work for Shep at the Union Belle?”

  “Shore.” Dooley bit his lip and finally said, “I sort of figured she’d come by and see me. If it hadn’t been for her, reckon them two would have finished me off. I been wonderin’ why she never come.”

  “Probably too ashamed of herself, Dooley,” Mark said. “I talked to her a couple of times since then, and I got the feeling she wanted to see you, but was afraid of what you might think of her.” He regarded the little rider carefully and advised, “Guess if you went to see her she might feel a little better.”

  “Yeah, I’d better do that. Matter of fact, now might be a good time.” He turned and headed in the direction of the Union Belle, a determined look on his face.

  Lola’s words haunted Mark all the rest of that day: You’ll have to be broken before you’re a whole man. The thought troubled him, and he found himself summoning up arguments against her words. I fought for a losing army, did time in a Mexican jail, and nearly died in a snowstorm—living only to see the railroad kill my good friends. What’s it to be broken if not all that? he wondered. But her comment about peace kept nagging at him and would not let him rest. Some people seem to glide by through life without many troubles. Some fight from the cradle to the grave. Guess I’m just one of the last sort.

  But his uneasiness at Lola’s words grew, and he stayed in the saddle constantly to avoid facing up to it, riding with Casement to survey the roadbeds that stretched now into the foothills of the Wasatch chain, returning at night to patrol the town. On Tuesday there was a flare-up in a crew working on Tunnel Number 2, and he told Reed, “It’s some of Central’s work, Sam. I’m going to bust them so hard they’ll bleed.” He had taken Dooley and Nick Bolton along, and when they got to the tunnel he identified the ringleader and knocked him into the dirt, senseless, and put him afoot for town.

  Nick and Dooley watched as he mounted up and told the workers, “If I have to come back, it’ll be a rope instead of a beating.”

  “That was pretty hard, Mark,” Nick said when he joined them and they started back to Bear River City.

  Winslow gave him a rough look, and he said no more. But when Mark went his own way once they hit town, Nick shook his head doubtfully. “Mark’s headed for trouble, Dooley. He’s got Cherry and the roughs down on him, and I don’t doubt that Central’s got him picked out for a bullet. Now he’s making enemies of our own men.” Bolton was a clear-thinking man, and he added, “You’ve been around Winslow a long time, Dooley. Try to slow him down.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ ever slowed a Winslow down,” Dooley shrugged. “The whole blamed Union army couldn’t get the job done, Nick. The Captain was fightin’ just as hard at the end when the thing was lost as he wuz at Bull Run when it looked good for us. All the Winslows is like that—stubborn as a blue-nosed mule!” He touched his broken nose and added, “But he was always a light-hearted man, Captain Winslow was. Now he’s going around lookin’ for somebody to bite. We better stick close to him, Nick, ’cause he don’t care anymore. Don’t give a dead rat if he lives or dies—and that’s when a feller can get hisself into a passel of trouble!”

  ****

  Winter was in the wind in late September, and the Union leaped the rising contours of the land at a rapid pace. The word was out that the Central, using Chinese coolies, was racing toward Ogden at a rate that might beat the Union; and Casement’s Irishmen fought back by laying steel at five or even six miles a day. Good construction practice was abandoned. In the fever of hurry, ties were laid on bare earth and ballast was left for clean-up crews coming behind. Rail joints no longer necessarily met on ties, but hung between.

  The steel swung up out of Bryant, struck Blacks Fork and surged on to Granger. At Church Buttes they were six thousand three hundred feet above sea level. At Piedmont they reached the huge stacks of ties waiting at Tie Siding and hit the first summit of the Wasatch Range. It was in Piedmont that Sherman Ames’s Credit Mobilier contract was ended, the reverberations of Ames’s financial crash already trembling. But Durant got the money and the grading went on.

  Moira and Ray saw relatively little of each other, for like every other Union Pacific man, Ray was working night and day. The time they did have together was strained, though what caused it neither of them could say. The change in their relationship troubled Moira more than it did Ray, for she had more time to think about it, and she wondered why she felt so little concern over their relationship.

  Something, she knew, had changed for her when she saw Mark and his Irishmen clean the gamblers out of town. The stark violence of it horrified her—yet at the same time she admired Mark for his courage and drive. Unconsciously, she compared Ray to Mark, and it was Mark who came out on top—the natural choice for a girl who relished color and drama.

  Her love of excitement surfaced one Friday night when Mark joined Reed, Casement, Ames and Ray for dinner.The meal took place in one of the small dining rooms in the Union Belle, for Shep had kept to the original idea of a club even though Lola was no longer there. He met them at the door, his broad face beaming. “Glad to see you, folks! Got everything ready for you.” He led them to the room, and Reed asked suddenly, “How do you get along without Lola Montez, Yancy?”

  “Well, not very well, to be truthful,” Shep said ruefully. “But I scrape along—and she’s better off. I’ll send Maureen in for your orders. Drinks are on me.”

  When Maureen came in, Mark had an opportunity to examine her while she was taking orders from the others. She looked calm, which was not unusual, but she had lost some weight. She had refused to let Dooley court her, but Young remained persistent. “Ain’t but a matter of time,”
he’d told her. When she came to take his order, he smiled and treated her as he would any friend.

  The wine was passed around, and the talk predictably turned to the problems of finishing the line. Casement and Reed were at loggerheads over some of the priorities, and the two of them waged a loud discussion over the problems. Tunnels were the issue, and between the two a great gulf was fixed. Reed was for more of them, while Casement argued that it was cheaper and quicker to go over the rising hills.

  “The tunnels will be ready by the time your steel gets there,” Reed said positively. “If we waited until you got there, we’d be held up.”

  “How do you know they’ll be ready?” Casement demanded. “I hear they’re bogged down at Number Two in Echo Canyon. If that tunnel ain’t ready, we’re stopped dead, Reed.”

  Ray lifted his eyes at this and paid closer attention. He had been drinking the wine steadily and could no longer think clearly, but he was eager to discover all he could. “Those tunnels are tricky things,” he observed as the two men continued their discussion. “Just one cave-in and the whole thing’s over. Wouldn’t it be better to go around that rise—or go over it?”

  Reed adamantly shook his head. “No. There’s no way around it without laying fifty miles of track, and the grade’s so steep you’d have to make a dozen Z’s to get over it—no engine could travel a grade like that in winter.”

  Ray suggested tentatively, “Hate to put all our eggs in one basket—which is what this seems like to me.”

  Ames shook his head. “Let the engineers decide that, Ray. You and I need to see to it that they’ve got steel to lay down.”

  Ray lifted his eyes, started to say something, then shrugged and took another glass of wine. The information about the tunnel had opened up a new train of thought, and he said little as the dinner progressed.

  The meal was served, and as he ate, Ames remarked to Winslow, “Dodge sent word you did the right thing—cleaning the trash out of town.”

  “I hear they’re already setting up down the line,” Casement put in. “Maybe this time we ought to hang a few of them before the construction gets there. Be a good example to the rest.”

  Ames smiled and shook his head at the fiery speech. “I suppose that would be extreme, but you can’t let it get as bad as it did here, Mark.”

  The meal finished, Reed, Casement and Ames shoved the dishes back to spread a map on the table. They plunged at once into making plans, and Ray joined them, whispering to his fiancee, “Moira, I need to be in on this. It’ll be boring for you, I’m afraid.”

  “Will it take long?” she asked.

  “If it’s like all the other meetings, it will,” he said with a grimace. “Maybe I should take you back to the hotel—?”

  “Oh, it’s too early! Can’t you sneak away?”

  Ray smiled ruefully. “In a group of four, it’s hard to sneak away without being noticed.” He could have excused himself, but he wanted to hear more about the tunnel at Echo. Glancing at Mark, he asked, “Isn’t there anything in this town that Moira could do?”

  Mark shook his head and smiled. “Not that I can think of.”

  Ray had a thought, and said, “I saw a poster somewhere today—it said there was some sort of a meeting at Jude’s church.”

  “Just a visiting preacher come to town,” Mark shrugged. “I don’t think it’d be in your line, Moira.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Hadn’t planned to.”

  “Oh, come on!” Moira urged. “I’ve heard a lot about Lola’s church.” She turned to Ray and smiled. “Come on, Ray. Beg off your meeting and we’ll all go.”

  Ray shook his head. “Wish I could—but your father asked me to stay. You and Mark should go on without me.”

  Mark protested, “It’s not your kind of church, Moira.”

  “How do you know?” she asked with a pout. “I’m beginning to think you’re ashamed to be seen in my company, Mark. Where’s that Southern chivalry I’ve heard so much about?”

  “Oh, take her, Mark!” Ray exclaimed. “Take my buggy—maybe I can get away early and we can have a late drink after you get out of church.”

  Moira laughed, “You’re the one who needs to go to church, Ray! A late drink after church, indeed! Come on, Mark.”

  “We’ll drop by after the service, Ray,” Mark promised as he allowed himself to be led out by Moira. When they had donned their coats, he put her up in the buggy, climbed in and headed down the street.

  “This is your idea, remember,” Mark reminded her. “I don’t know this preacher, but I’ve heard quite a few Methodist evangelists. Some of them get carried away. Jude’s not in that line, but if the preacher starts in on you, don’t look to me for help.”

  She looked at him, startled, then saw that he was smiling at her. “I suppose I need to be preached at as much as anybody,” she remarked. Then she added, “It’s good to see you smile, Mark. You’ve been going through a difficult time lately.” She hesitated, then added gently, “I’m so sorry about your friend who was killed. His death’s been very hard for you, hasn’t it?”

  He gave her a surprised look, for a genuine compassion filled her voice. “Yes. It’s always hard. I lost lots of friends in the war—but I never got used to it.”

  “And the man who did it got away?” She shook her head and said angrily, “He ought to be shot!”

  Mark said, “Well, that’s what I think.” Then he added without thinking, “Lola thinks I’m too full of thinking like that. Maybe she’s right.”

  Moira was silent, then said carefully, “I suppose she has to say that, being a preacher of some sort. But how can you help wanting to strike out when somebody hurts the one you love?”

  “Some can, I guess—but I’m still a sinner, Moira. Wish I could turn the other cheek—but so far I’ve not been able to.”

  They reached the small church, and as Mark got out and tied up the horse, Moira grew apprehensive. “Mark, I’m suddenly afraid to go in there.”

  He laughed at her, his face looking much younger as he did, reached out and caught her arm. “It’ll be good for you,” he proclaimed. She came out of the buggy protesting, and nearly slipped. He caught her, holding her close to keep her from falling.

  She put her arms around his neck, a light of humor in her eyes as she said, “I think I’ll scream until the preacher comes out, then tell him you forced your attentions on me.”

  Mark was very aware of her closeness, but said lightly, “Come on, woman. You need to go to church!”

  They entered the church and Jude strode up to greet them, his ruddy face beaming. “Why, Mark—and Miss Ames, this is a surprise!”

  He was so happy that Mark felt he had to explain. “Well, Jude, Miss Ames is bored out of her mind, so she asked if I’d bring her to church!”

  “Mark!” Moira exclaimed, mortified. “What will the Reverend think of me?” She looked around and asked, “Where’s Lola, Reverend?”

  “She’ll be a little late,” Jude said. “Had to make a call. Now, you folks want to sit up front?”

  “No, we’ll stay in the rear lines, Jude,” Mark grinned. “If this preacher is anything like Peter Cartwright, I want to be as close to the door as possible.”

  Jude had to grin. “Well—he is a little along those lines. But a good man all the same, and a fine preacher. You sit down and any time you want to shout, just go right ahead.”

  Mark found a seat for Moira, and they sat there watching the crowd file in. It was a mixture of older townspeople and some of the track layers who moved along with construction. “Jude carries his own congregation when Casement moves the town,” Mark said quietly. “That fellow must be the preacher.”

  Moira looked on the platform to see Jude speaking with a short muscular man with a full set of black whiskers. He had piercing black eyes and a firm mouth. “He looks like he could eat nails,” Moira whispered.

  “Got to be tough, those Methodist preachers, out in this part of the world.” Mark told
her that his grandfather had been a missionary to the Sioux for years, and she was fascinated.

  “He preached to the savages?” she asked.

  Mark suddenly smiled at her and said, “Well, I guess so. He married one of them. That was my grandmother—White Dove.”

  A wave of red swept up Moira’s neck, and she stared at him. “You’re joking, of course?”

  “Not a bit. She was my father’s mother. His Indian name was Sky Blue—because of his eyes. He dropped the ‘Blue’ and is now known as Sky Winslow. So I guess the evangelist will have one of the ‘savages’ to preach to tonight.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Mark,” Moira whispered. “I had no idea you were. . . .”

  She had difficulty saying the word, but Mark just grinned. “Don’t worry about it, Moira. I’m proud of my grandmother. And I got cussed out for being a rebel so much that I’m almost proud of being part Indian.”

  Moira was stricken, but had no chance to say more, for Lola entered. She saw them and came to say hello. “So good to see you, Moira, Mark.” She didn’t sit with them, and when her father called on her, she sang a song with such feeling that many in the congregation wept. After she sang, the service started, and Moira sat there taking it all in. It was a typical service of its kind—but Moira had never attended anything other than the Episcopalian Church. She was accustomed to altar boys and priests wearing ecclesiastical garb, to the chanting of slow hymns by a trained choir, and to an “address” rather than a “sermon.” In the next two hours, she was treated to lusty singing, a fiery sermon punctuated by a chorus of “amens,” and an altar call in which many fell on their faces, calling out for God to have mercy.

  Finally Mark touched her arm and whispered, “Let’s go.” She rose to follow him outside. “Is the service over?” she asked as he handed her up.