by J. T. Edson
‘I’ve heard tell’s how they raised cattle up north here like we do in Texas,’ Waco remarked, sounding as if he gave little credence to the story. ‘You figure that’s the truthful-true, Dusty?’
‘They raise cattle, like we do,’ the small Texan confirmed. ‘Only not’s good, nor’s many, drawled the blond youngster, full of a Texan’s pride in his home State.
‘Likely got the notion for doing it when they saw how much money us Texans was making from it,’ Mark went on. ‘Fact being, I’ve got an uncle’s came to show ’em how and runs him a fair sized spread up somewheres beyond the Platte.’
‘You Counters show up everywhere,’ the blond youngster sniffed. ‘Mostly unasked and allus unwanted.’
‘Us Counters’re wanted every place we go, ’specially by the ladies’, the blond giant corrected, as soberly as if he had taken the assertion seriously. ‘Only this uncle’s not a Counter. His name’s Front de Boeuf.’
‘That’s a mighty impressive name,’ Dusty said, wondering if it was the information supplied by Mark which had caused the New Englander to let out a sharp breath and look disturbed. ‘But, what I’ve heard tell about them, I didn’t figure the Front de Boeuf side of your kin to be cattlemen.’
‘The ones you’re thinking about aren’t,’ Mark admitted with a wry grin. ‘Only Uncle Winston’s not like Aunt Jessica and Cousin Tru.’
‘Unless I’ve been told wrong, nobody’s like them, or shouldn’t be,’ the small Texan declared, aware that the pair of kinfolk named by the blond giant were notorious as the “black sheep” of the Front de Boeuf family. [26] However, being more concerned with the deteriorating relationship between his companions and Sangster, while he hoped the light-hearted turn of the conversation might relieve the tension, he still decided he might have been given an excuse to separate them for a time and inquired, ‘You want to drop by and say, “Howdy, you-all, Uncle Winston,” to him, amigo.’
‘That’d be right pleasant, likely,’ the blond giant replied, guessing what had been the main motivation behind the offer. ‘Trouble being, I haven’t seen him since I was a lil boy no more’n six foot high and don’t have any notion where he’s located, ’cepting it’s north of the Platte somewheres.’
‘You wouldn’t have run across him, would you, Ray?’ Dusty inquired.
‘No,’ Sangster replied, with more vehemence that the question appeared to warrant. ‘In fact, according to the maps and information I’ve had, there’s nothing but open land beyond where we’ll be crossing the Platte. Nobody has ever taken title to any of it.’
‘Shucks, north of the Platte covers a whole heap of territory and Uncle Winston could be located ’most anywheres in it, and not even close to being right on the banks,’ Mark drawled, but he was prevented from continuing by their topping the rise and being brought into sight of their destination.
‘Whooee!’ Waco ejaculated, as the party drew rein and gazed at what was happening along a stretch of the level ground below. ‘So this’s how they build a railroad?’
‘Looks easy, don’t it?’ drawled the Kid.
‘I assure you it’s anything but that!’ the New Englander stated with something close to asperity, his attitude suggesting he felt the remarks were intended to belittle his own efforts and problems.
‘Lon only said’s it looks easy, Mr. Sangster,’ Mark pointed out, visualizing the amount of organization which went into the seemingly uncomplicated work being carried out. ‘So does handling a trail herd. The fun starts when you try doing it.’
‘This isn’t fun,’ the New Englander snapped.
‘Neither’s handling three thousand or more longhorns on the trail, with the cash to keep you and your spread going riding on you getting ’em safe and well fed from Texas to the railroad, mister,’ Waco countered coldly. ‘They’re some meaner’n your Eastern milk-cows and—!’
‘There’s something in that,’ Dusty put in, bringing the indignant tirade to a halt and wanting to avoid if possible a further worsening of the association between his companions and Sangster. Swinging from the saddle while speaking, the small Texan allowed the split-ended reins to slip from his grasp and ‘ground hitch’ the well trained paint stallion. Then he went on, ‘I reckon both chores need plenty of thought to keep them going.’
‘Waco ’n’ me’ll ’tend to the hosses while you-all see what’s to do, Dusty,’ the Kid suggested, having known why the small Texan had interrupted the youngster and, although in sympathy with him, sharing the belief that he and the New Englander should be kept apart as much as possible.
‘Gracias, amigo,’ Dusty assented.
‘I might’s well come along,’ Mark asserted, considering he too had had all he could stand of Sangster’s company for a while.
Squatting on his heels, with the New Englander doing the same by his side in a less effortless fashion, the small Texan started to study the scene in front of him. As far as he could see, the work force, mostly in their shirt sleeves and all having heavy boots of one kind or another on their feet, were comprised of a cross-section of European nationals. According to what he had been told by the New Englander, the majority were Irish, or of Celtic extraction. The rest had Anglo-Saxon, Germanic, Nordic, Latin, Grecian, East, West, or South Slavic features. [27] He had seen a number of them in Mulrooney and there were some with whom he had become acquainted in the line of duty as town marshal. A couple of young men clad in Eastern style riding clothes and less sturdy footwear were present, but not taking an active participation in the work being carried out. Indicating them, Sangster said the shorter was Herbert Brill and the other Richard Reiser, fellow graduates of his college who he had brought with him to help supervise the construction.
Continuing to watch, Dusty was reminded of an anthill which had been disturbed. However, he soon realized—as was the case with ants apparently milling around aimlessly—there was a definite motive and concerted effort behind the way in which the large number of men working below carried out what at first appeared to be a jumble of intermingled and conflicting tasks. Despite the large number of workers involved, there was some justification for the comments about the apparent simplicity of the construction methods. It appeared to be a matter of keeping to a basic routine.
Beyond the point where the already laid rails ended, following white marker posts stretching in a straight line northwards, some of the men were digging a succession of shallow oblong holes at what were obviously preselected and evenly spaced distances apart. Another group, among whom Dusty identified the older of the Molloy brothers with whom he had been in contention at the Driven Spike Saloon, were placing thick wooden ‘sleepers’ taken from the flat bed of a large horse-drawn wagon without sides, into the depressions. When one was tamped firmly with the earth which had been excavated, a task being carried out under the guidance of Louis ‘Frenchy’ Rastignac, a sharp pointed and an ‘L’-shaped ‘spike’ was placed on each end of it by an elderly man with a wheelbarrow containing a supply of them.
Nearer to where the small Texan was squatting, a section of the line was being laid and he gave the method employed his attention. Collecting a length of steel rail from one of the flat cars on the already laid track, Shamus O’Sullivan and four more gandy dancers of nearly his height carried it on their shoulders and set it down along the right side of the unoccupied sleepers just in front of the last portion to have been laid. Leading a similar team, Fritz ‘Dutchy’ Voigt repeated the process on the left side. Although there were marks painted on the sleepers to indicate the relative positions of the two rails, a check of the ‘gauge’ was made by Brill, using a device like an elongated and flattened lower case ’n’ to ensure they were parallel and the exact required width apart.
When the young man was satisfied with his examination of the gauge, he made sure a small gap was left between the rails—to counteract the friction of wheels, or the heat of the sun, causing the metal to expand—before their ends were coupled together by ‘fish bolts’ passing through holes in the
m and the ‘fish-plates’ which formed the bond. After nuts were tightened on the bolts, by the younger of the Molloy brothers at the right and a surly looking Slav on the left, a man used a slightly curved and metal tipped hand-spike—similar to those employed by sailors for changing the elevation or direction of a cannon on board a ship—to brace the sleeper. Then two more wielded sledge hammers, with the heads narrowing to blunted tips, to bury the spikes placed there ready for them into the wood until the bar of the ‘L’ was hooked tightly over the base plate of the rail. By the time this was done, another two teams had delivered more lengths of rail and the sequence was repeated.
Studying the laying of the track for a few more minutes, Dusty decided the men all knew what they were doing. However, to his way of thinking, there was a lack of cohesion which made the work slower than necessary. This was particularly noticeable where the teams carrying the rails were concerned. Having set down the one they were delivering, they tended to get in the way of the next group while returning to the flat car. He also observed that Reiser did nothing to alleviate the situation.
‘Well,’ Sangster said, straightening up with the air of considering enough time had been spent on the watching the construction. ‘As I told you in Mulrooney, they could be working much faster.’
‘Likely,’ Dusty replied noncommittally, also rising.
‘Then when will you start making them do it?’ the New Englander demanded rather than asked.
‘Me?’ the small Texan said. He was surprised that he had not been told of the two college graduates being in charge of the construction.
‘I’m sorry, Dusty!’ Sangster apologized, having detected a note of asperity in the single word and having no desire to antagonize the man he felt sure would solve his problems. Tm really worried about the slow rate we’re moving and hope you can improve things.’
‘How about your two amigos,’ Dusty queried.
‘They are the surveyors, not gang bosses,’ the New Englander answered. ‘Which’s probably the reason they can’t make the men work faster. As I haven’t anybody who can do that, I’m counting on you to do it.’
Twelve – They’re a Bad Bunch
‘Good evening to you, Cap’n Fog,’ Patrick Finnegan greeted in the booming tone which came so naturally to him that rumor around the railhead claimed he even whispered in a dull roar. However, unlike many people on first making the acquaintance of Dusty and Mark, he achieved the correct selection when confronted by the contrasting pair. ‘Sure and it’s an honour to be welcoming you to my place, seeing’s I never had a chance to meet you in Mulrooney. You’ll be taking a drop of comfort with me, I’m hoping?’
‘I’ll be pleased and honored, sir,’ Dusty Fog replied, accepting and shaking the massive right hand which retirement from being a gandy dancer had not softened to any noticeable degree. Having introduced his companions, he glanced around and went on, ‘You’re busy tonight.’
‘There’s little enough else for the boyos to be doing out here,’ Finnegan reminded, sounding just a trifle defensive. ‘And, with the little pay’s they bring back from Mulrooney, tis few enough will have such bad heads they won’t be able to do a day’s work comes the morning.’
Although Raymond Sangster had shown he did not approve of the decision, Dusty had declined to go to where the work on the spur-line was taking place and assume control immediately. He had grudgingly conceded the point that the small Texan wanted to make the acquaintance of the supervisory and non-manual employees—especially Herbert Brill and Richard Reiser—before doing so, in the hope of learning whether they had particular problems which could have contributed to the slow rate of progress. Nevertheless, Sangster had been uncommunicative on the ride back to the base camp and did nothing to improve the feelings of the other three Texans towards him. Nor did an incident on their arrival help matters. Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid and Waco had once again offered to attend to Dusty’s big paint stallion. It was a task he would normally have carried out personally, but he allowed them to help so that he could avoid the delay before meeting the men he had mentioned at the conclusion of his inspection. Prior to setting off with the small Texan, the unspoken assumption by the New Englander that his mount was also included in their offer had caused further annoyance to the three members of the OD Connected’s floating outfit.
Going by appearances and his judgment of character, Dusty had concluded there was little wrong with the men to whom he was presented prior to the construction crew returning. All, from the operators of the telegraph service who allowed speedy communications to be maintained between the railhead and the outside world, to the. accountant, struck him as being competent and sufficiently interested in their respective duties to be an asset rather than a liability. Renewing the acquaintance made in Mulrooney on the night of the abortive ambush, he was convinced that Doctor Brian Farnsworth would prove a tower of strength in whatever lay ahead. While far from being a soft touch willing to excuse men from working on the flimsiest excuse, the medical practitioner had considerable ability and a breezy ‘bedside manner’ which made him popular and respected by the manual workers.
The accountant, Hubert Dayton, was a small man of fussy manner and a carefully maintained neat appearance. Clearly obsessed with the financial side of the construction, as soon as he was informed of the situation, he made a note of the arrangements Sangster had made to compensate Dusty for the time spent as gang boss. When he inquired how the other three Texans were to be listed for payment on the account ledger, Sangster had hinted they should be employed as assistants to the horse wranglers. Realizing how his amigos—and the blond youngster in particular—would respond to the suggestion, such work being assigned to those members of a ranch or trail drive crew who were unable for some reason to cope with handling the half wild longhorn cattle. Dusty had stated they would not require any financial remuneration from the railroad. Not only were they still on the payroll of the OD Connected ranch, but they had most of their earnings as deputy town marshals left, and Waco had shared out equally the not inconsiderable bounty Freddie Woods, as she still had been at the time, insisted he accepted from the issuing law enforcement agency for having brought to an end the career of the notorious outlaw, Richard ‘Tricky Dick’ Cansole. [28]
On returning that evening, middle-sized, stocky and harassed looking Herbert Brill had shown relief at being informed that he and his companion could return to their duties as surveyors. However, Richard Reiser had been less enamored of the prospect. Tall and lean, his otherwise undistinguished sallow and hollow cheeked face had dull eyes and over-large lips set in something close to a sneer. Unlike the other surveyor, who had contrived to remain comparatively neat, his attire showed signs of grubbiness and a lack of attention beyond that merely caused by the day’s work. He had snarled in a querulous tenor a demand to be told if his efforts were so unsatisfactory it was considered necessary to bring in an outsider to take his place. Nor had his attitude changed when told by Sangster this was not the case and he would be needed to continue the surveying of the route.
After having a meal in the large communal pavilion used as a mess-hall for the work crews, finding the food was cooked well and in adequate quantities, Dusty had elected to spend the evening getting to know and become known to such of the men he would be commanding who had not already made his acquaintance. He had known where the majority of them could be found and went there with his three amigos.
To the right of the work camp, and being by far the largest building—yet just as easy to dismantle and move onwards when necessary—was a canvas structure with a thin weatherboard frontage resembling that of a conventional saloon and announcing, ‘FINNEGAN’S BAR AND GENERAL STORE. You Want it, We’ve Got It, Or Can Get It!’ According to what Sangster had said when asked if the establishment could be a source of trouble leading to delay, its owner was a retired construction worker. Being allowed to conduct his business on account of a long standing friendship with Harland Todhunter, Patrick Finnegan did so w
ith honesty and integrity. Because of the way he ran things, the New Englander had declared, the drinks he had on sale in the bar-room were not responsible for the slow progress which had plagued the advance of the rails.
Remembering the building was constructed to be easily transportable, Dusty thought it was comfortably furnished and the bar had a good stock of various kinds of liquor—not just whiskey and beer—on its shelves. The score or so garishly dressed women mingling with the crowd were not likely to win any prizes for beauty and they lacked particularly good figures, but they were cheerful and far from being raddled old hags. All in all, despite the brief silence which descended when he and his companions came through the batwing doors of the main entrance, the friendly and relaxed atmosphere reminded him of that which prevailed in the saloons at Polveroso City when the crews of the local ranches were in town. Suspecting he was the subject of conversation when talking was resumed, he believed it would in general be favorable to him.
Looking around without making it obvious as he and his three amigos were accompanying the owner towards the bar, Dusty was not surprised to discover everybody present worked in some way for the railroad. Mostly they were construction hands of various kinds and unarmed, but he saw four men in dirty range clothes and wearing low tied guns as well as having knives hanging from their belts. Although beef was on the menu in the mess-hall that evening, they had been pointed out to him earlier by Raymond Sangster as the hunters employed to keep the work force supplied with meat from whatever kind of wild animals they could find.
However, as had been the case in the Driven Spike Saloon at Mulrooney on the day he had gone to confront the gandy dancers, the small Texan noticed that beer and not spirits were being consumed by the majority of the customers, and that the games of chance which were available attracted few players. The meat hunters were drinking whiskey at a corner of the bar and, seated around a table in the center of the room, half a dozen biggish men of Slavic appearance—including the one who had shared the task of tightening the nuts on the fish bolts with Stewart Molloy—had a bottle of some colorless liquor.
