She lifted her head and he kissed her, and it was not like the first time—it was much better. She gave herself to him utterly and completely, leaving nothing of herself out. He had spent years trying to get at the woman he had always known was buried in Moira—and now that he had found her, he suddenly knew what he had to do.
He stepped back, his voice husky as he said, “My dear—I thought I’d lost you!” Then he straightened his shoulders, a determined look in his eyes, and added, “There’s something I have to do—and then some things I have to tell you about myself. You may not like me much after I say them, but at least I will be honest.”
He turned and left the room on unsteady legs. The scene had moved him as nothing in his life had ever done, and he walked for half an hour, thinking of her and of what he had to do. Hayden was no coward, but as he made his way to his room, grabbed the packet of money and proceeded to the saloon where Wallford passed his time, he wished fervently that he had never met the man.
He found Wallford sitting alone at a table and nodded to him. The two met outside, stepping into an alley. Ray said at once, “Wallford, I don’t know how to say this, so I won’t try to sweeten it.” He reached into his pocket and took out the money, then extended it to the man. “Here’s your cash. I’m backing out.”
Wallford’s eyes glittered menacingly, and he took the money and put it into his coat pocket. “Do you think that makes any difference, Hayden? You’re not the only one who can blow a tunnel! You don’t think I’d put myself in your hands, do you? That tunnel will be out by dark!” Without warning he pulled a pistol from his pocket and put a bullet in Hayden’s chest. Ray had no time to even make a sound. The bullet drove him backward, and he fell to the ground in a motionless heap.
Wallford replaced his gun, no trace of emotion on his face as he observed the still form. “Fool!” he spat, then turned and slipped out of the alley.
****
The warmth from the wood stove brought a coziness into the small space of the caboose, and Mark leaned back in a kitchen chair and let the weariness run out of him. He had been gone for two days, and after riding hard for eight hours through a cold, drizzling rain he was slightly fuzzy-minded as he sat with his parents and Lola. He had dismounted stiffly about noon, and the two women had pulled him into the caboose and filled him up with a hot meal, fussing over him. Now they were all listening to Sky talk of his early years—the times when he had roamed the Yellowstone country with his father Christmas Winslow.
“The Yellowstone River,” he mused in a dry voice. “It’s so clear you think it’s a foot deep—you can see every pebble. Then you step into it and realize it’s a fifteen-foot drop to those stones.” He paused and the stove hissed and sputtered as the fire found a sap-rich branch, then said, “I often wondered what would have happened if I’d stayed in Oregon—or gone to the Mission to be with my father. We’d probably have missed the war way out there.”
“We’ve had a good life, Sky,” Rebekah said, looking at him him fondly. “Not many Southern families got through the war without losing a son.”
He put his hand out, and she took it, holding it between her own. “I’ve been thinking of the wagon train, Rebekah. Do you ever think of those days? But I know you do.”
Rebekah gave a sudden sly wink at Mark and Lola. “I remember how you chased around after that dancehall hussy, Rita Duvall,” she said pertly. “I can remember that very well.”
Sky grinned suddenly and Lola noted again what a fine-looking man he was, imagining what he must have been in his youth.
“Almost caught her, too. And she was a looker!”
“Serve you right if you’d caught the wench,” Rebekah nodded. “She’d have led you a merry chase.”
A thought came to Sky, and he said with surprise, “Rita was a few years older than you, wasn’t she? I always think of her as she was, young and very beautiful. But if she’s alive, she’s in her sixties—grandmother, I’d say.” He paused and let the thought linger, then shook his head. “Life goes by so fast. I was thinking last night of the time when father went to be with the Lord. He was doing the very thing I’m doing now—going over his life. He told me stories his own father had told him—about the times at Valley Forge when he nearly froze with General Washington—and how the surrender came at Saratoga. His father, Nathan Winslow, was with Washington many times, and in all kinds of weather. And he talked about his years in the mountains—and about my mother, White Dove.”
“I wish I could have known him,” Lola said suddenly. Then she smiled and said, “But I’ve met you, and that’s a lot.”
Sky looked at her, and they all saw that there was a translucent glow to his skin. The spirit within was bright, but they could tell that he was running down. He would often stop and hold his breath, grasping his chest, listening to the faltering of his great heart. He did so now, and they all waited—but he recovered and looked around with a smile. “Not this time,” he said almost gaily.
“It’ll be a long time yet, Father,” Mark insisted.
“Son, I taught you better than that,” Sky said with a rebuke in his voice. “Never hide from the truth. And the fact is, my turn to die has come. And except for leaving all of you, I wouldn’t grieve. When my father died, he’d lost my mother, so he was like a man anxious to be off on a long journey with something wonderful at the end of it.” He looked at Rebekah and said, “I’m sorry to be selfish, my dear, but I’m glad I’m going first. You’re stronger than I am. I couldn’t bear the thought of waking up in this world—and not having you at my side.”
Tears came to her eyes, but she brushed them away. “I’ll be along soon,” she whispered.
Lola bit her lower lip to keep back the tears, but her eyes overflowed. Sky saw it and said in a louder voice, “Lola, stop that sniveling! Sing me that song we had yesterday.”
Her throat was so tight she could hardly speak, but he kept teasing her, and finally she began to sing. She had not finished the first verse when the door burst open and they all looked up, startled.
Ray Hayden fell into the room, supported by Dooley Young. “Ray!” Mark cried out, lunging to his feet and helping Dooley put the wounded man into a chair. “Sit down—what happened, Dooley?”
Dooley shook his head. “Dunno, Captain. He staggered into the office, gut shot, but he wouldn’t let us take him to a doctor—’cept he better get one fast.”
“Go get Doc Sanders,” Mark said, and Dooley rushed out of the car. “Take it easy, Ray. Let me see how bad it is.”
He began pulling the bloody coat off, but Hayden held up a hand, gasping, “Mark—we’ve got to go to Echo Canyon—”
“Take it easy, Ray,” Mark urged. “Who did this to you?”
Hayden’s face was pale, but his eyes were clear, “Jason Wallford. He’s an agent from the Central Pacific. He’s been behind all the trouble we’ve had—and I’ve been working for him.”
Mark grew still and stared into the face of Hayden. “Ray . . . ?”
A shudder of pain caused Hayden to shut his eyes, but he pulled himself together. “It’s true. I’ve sold you out—you and every other man working on the Union.”
Lola said, “What you have to say can wait. Let me look at your side.”
“I’m not going to die,” he said as she pulled the bloody shirt away. “Wallford shot to kill—but I guess the devil looks out for his own.” He pulled something from his shirt pocket with a trembling hand and held it out. “Look at this—the bullet hit it and glanced off.”
Mark took it and saw Hayden’s thick gold watch, shattered and bent almost double. “The slug slid off and hit some ribs, but it’s not going to kill me.” Then he winced as Lola pulled the cloth away from the raw flesh. He had a purple bruise where the watch had been driven into his flesh, and a long ragged wound that was seeping blood. “Put some bandages on that and tie it up, Lola,” he gasped. Rebekah ran to a chest and began pulling out some cloths, and as Lola bound him up, he said, “Wallford shot me becau
se I backed out on him. He thinks I’m dead—but we’ve got to get to Tunnel Number Two, Mark—and quick!”
“What for, Ray?”
“Because it’s going to be destroyed. Wallford told me that just before he shot me. You know what that will mean, Mark.”
“We lose it all,” Mark said, starting for the door. Ray got to his feet and began to follow him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mark demanded.
There was shame in Hayden’s face, but a new pride as well. “I’m going to Tunnel Number Two. With or without you, Mark.”
Winslow stared at Ray and saw something in his face that he had not seen since their early days together at West Point. He hesitated, then Lola said, “Take him, Mark,” and she placed her hand on Ray’s arm and smiled at him. “I’m proud of you, Ray—and Moira will be, too.”
Mark understood little of this, but he said, “You can’t ride all shot up like that. We’ll take the work engine. Lola, send Dooley after us when he gets back. Tell him to bring as many men as he can find, and to hurry.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Mark looked at his father and mother, standing silently before them. He said apologetically, “It’s another dirty job—” and his gaze shifted to Lola. “But I have to do what I can.”
Sky said, “You wouldn’t be my son if you didn’t do your duty, Mark. I’ll pray for you.”
Mark turned and left the room, stepping aside to let Hayden go first. His eyes met Lola’s and he started to speak, but found he could not. It was she who said, “You’ll come back to us, Mark. God will keep you from harm.”
He wheeled and left, and the two of them walked to the engine that sat beside the office on a siding. “You’ll need a gun,” Mark said, and ran into the office. It was empty except for Josh and Sherman Ames. They stared at him as he said, “Central’s going to blow up Number Two Tunnel. Got any guns in here?”
Josh dashed to a cabinet, opened it and pulled out an armload of carbines. “We got plenty of ammunition. Can you drive an engine, Mark?”
“Well, I’ve seen it done enough.”
“Used to be my trade,” Josh grinned tightly and picked up one of the rifles and started stuffing his pockets with shells from a box.
“You’re not going!” Mark said at once.
“We’re all going,” Ames said suddenly, picking up a carbine. “If that tunnel goes, it’s the end.”
Mark grabbed two of the rifles and a box of shells. “Then let’s go.”
They climbed into the cab, the two new recruits shocked to see Ray’s condition. “What’s happened to you, Ray?” Ames demanded. Ray gave Mark a defiant look and pulled at Ames’s arm. “Got something to tell you, Mr. Ames. Come to the passenger car.”
The two moved away, and Josh said, “Got a head of steam—enough to start, but pour the coal to ’er, Mark.”
They were rolling out of the yard, picking up speed, when a shrill yell startled them. Mark looked out to see Dooley drive his horse at a dead run. He pulled up beside the engine and threw himself toward the steps of the cab. He would have fallen had not Mark reached out and caught him by the arm. He heaved him in, shouting, “You crazy rebel! You trying to commit suicide?”
Dooley pulled his hat down tighter, having almost lost it in the wild jump, and said, “You remember, Captain, how you went off and left me at camp when you took the boys to fight at Chancellorsville? Well, you made me miss that party—but I ain’t missin’ this one! Who we fightin’?”
Mark could not keep back a grin. “I guess we’ll know when we get there, Dooley. Load up those carbines while I shovel coal.”
The engine picked up speed as the steam built up, and Josh gave Mark a grin. “Ain’t had so much fun since I did this regular! Hope there ain’t nothing in the way, ’cause I don’t think we could stop in time if there was.”
As they hurtled down the track, Mark wondered about Hayden. He had been shocked by what the man had said—yet he was more stunned by the fact Ray was risking his life for the Union he had tried to destroy. Guess a man never knows what he’ll do, he concluded, and pushed the thing out of his mind. He had always had the ability to think only of the action ahead; that was what had made him a good officer. Now his mind was moving swiftly. He made a plan, or rather, it came to him fully made, and he knew at once that it was right. That also had been what made him a good officer. He could sense the right thing to do, and he never worried at it as some men did.
When they were within two miles of the tunnel, Mark said, “Take us right to the entrance of the tunnel, Josh.” Ames and Hayden came to the cab just then, and there was an odd look on Sherman Ames’s face.
Mark watched Ray carefully. Hayden appeared to be totally calm, unlike his usual manner.
“I don’t know what we’ll find when we get there,” Mark said. “We’ll pull up to the mouth of the tunnel and see what it looks like. There’s not supposed to be anyone here, so anybody we see, will probably be the ones we’re after. As soon as we stop, I’ll go into the tunnel. The rest of you shoot anybody that’s shooting at me.”
“I better go with you, Captain,” Dooley spoke up.
“You do what I tell you,” Mark said harshly. “If I go down, you take a crack at it. Got that?”
Dooley nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. Then Josh said, “There she is—and there’s a bunch taking cover!”
Mark grabbed a rifle and sprang to the door. He saw a group of about ten horses tied over to the left, and men scattering, taking cover behind equipment and the construction shack. A shot rang out, a loud ringing sound as it struck the steel side of the engine.
“Let ’em have it!” Mark shouted, and as Josh pulled the engine to a halt, they all scurried around to find a place to shoot from. Ames and Hayden were firing from the door and the open window, while Dooley and Josh scrambled to the top of the coal car. They lay down flat and soon were pouring a terrific fire into the men. Mark saw one of them suddenly rise up, throw his hands into the air and fall flat on his back. Another tried to change his position and a slug knocked his leg out from under him. He started crying, “I’m out of it! I been hit!” But nobody moved to help him and he pulled himself painfully along, trying to reach the shelter of a rock.
Mark yelled, “I’m going in!” He leaped to the ground as several shots struck close to him. But the onslaught from the engine increased, and he took off at a dead run toward the mouth of the tunnel. A bullet sang by his ear, and one struck the holster, turning it around, but he made a lunge and reached the shelter of the tunnel. He fell to his knees, and at once was aware that someone was in front of him. His eyes were half-blinded by the dim light, but he recognized the voice of Lou Goldman instantly.
“Now ain’t this something,” Goldman said, stepping closer. Mark batted his eyes and realized that Goldman had seen him drop his rifle. It lay five feet away from his feet, but it might as well have been five hundred feet. The gun at his hip had been struck by a slug and was pushed into an awkward position, almost behind his back—and he wondered if it would fire at all after being hit by the bullet.
Goldman said, “What’s the matter, Winslow? Can’t you think of anything to say?” He laughed at Mark, who stood up awkwardly, one foot ahead of the other, knowing that the slightest move would set the gunman off. “You been having a good time, Mark, my friend,” Goldman said. “You think I was going to forget how you hoorawed me in public? Not much! You made everybody think you was top dog. Well, you’ve got a gun and here I am. I’m Lou Goldman, Winslow—and I’m going to put you down.”
Mark saw the gun in Goldman’s hand lift, and he threw himself to one side, pulling his gun at the same time. He was too slow, as he knew he would be, and Goldman’s bullet scraped his ribs, knocking him sideways. Mark kept rolling, and he threw one wild shot that came nowhere near Goldman—but made him jump to one side. Mark lunged to his feet, hammering two shots at Goldman. The gunman staggered, blood staining his shirt, but he managed to fire another
shot before slumping to the ground. Mark felt something strike his left leg, knocking it from under him. He sprawled in the dirt, a sharp pang running through his thigh, but he got to his feet, holding on to the wall.
Goldman lay on the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at Winslow with a thin, bitter expression on his lips. He looked at the gun Mark held on him and said without a trace of fear, “You take this hand, I guess, Winslow. You got the devil’s own luck.” He coughed, blood running down his chin.
Mark heard footsteps and turned to see Ray enter on a dead run, bullets striking around him. He pulled up short, stared at Goldman, then looked at Mark. “You hit bad?” he asked.
“Don’t know, Ray,” Mark said. A dizziness overtook him and he swayed, holding on to the wall. His leg was bleeding badly and he wondered if an artery had been hit.
Goldman said suddenly, “We better get out of here.”
Mark stared at him. “What’s the matter, Lou?”
Goldman was not a coward, but as he looked overhead he had a vision of being buried alive. It was not a thing he fancied, and he said, “Fuse is pretty short on that charge. I left no extra.”
Mark took a step and his leg gave way. He sprawled on the ground and cried out, “Got to get that fuse!”
Ray said at once, “You stay here, Mark—” then plunged into the darkness of the tunnel.
Goldman stared into the tunnel, then looked back at Mark. “He’ll never make it, Winslow! There ain’t enough time.” Goldman struggled toward the opening, but gave up, realizing his efforts were hopeless.
He looked back down the tunnel. “You know, I was bad wrong about that fellow—Hayden.” His face wore a puzzled look, and his voice was very weak. “I never read a man so wrong in my whole life. . . .” His voice trailed off and he was still.
Mark nodded at the dead man—and then he heard Ames saying, “Get a tourniquet on that leg, Young. He’s losing blood fast.”
The Union Belle Page 34
