by J. T. Edson
‘I’ve been getting a feeling that we’re not following the route picked out by the original survey. It was selected so as to cross unclaimed range, but we aren’t sticking to it.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Take a look,’ Harland Todhunter Junior offered, gesturing to the map and, on Dusty joining him, he ran his finger across it some distance to the east of the line indicating the route being taken. ‘Dad intended we should lay track this way, but here’s where we’re doing it. Although the man who has a ranch along where we’re heading hasn’t laid claim to the land, dad insisted we went by his boundary and not across it. But, the way we’re going, that’s what we’ll do when we get over the Platte River and I don’t reckon he’ll be any too pleased when he finds out.’
‘I’d go along with you on that,’ Dusty admitted and felt as if he was being touched by a cold hand.
Except for four which had no mark of ownership, the hides at the meat hunters’ camp had all carried the Beefhead brand. Their number suggested they had come from that ranch’s range rather than being strays and they belonged to Mark Counter’s uncle, Winston Front de Boeuf.
‘What I can’t understand is why Ray’s changed the route,’ Junior declared.
‘I reckon I can,’ Dusty said, suspecting the young man was aware of the reason and trying him out. ‘And, comes morning, you and me’re going to find out if we’re right.’
‘We’re right about following this cattle trail being easier going than crossing open range,’ Harland Todhunter Junior commented, as he and Dusty Fog drew rein on a rim and looked down at the Platte River. ‘And, providing it’s as strongly made as Reiser claimed, having a bridge there already will save the time needed to put one across.’
‘Why sure,’ the small Texan replied. ‘That’s why we both reckoned the change of route was made.’
Despite the assumption he had drawn, Dusty had elected to make no mention of the information given to him by ‘Swede Olsen’. He had suspected that the railroad magnate would be disinclined to accept it on learning who had brought it to his attention and had not wished to cause trouble until he had put his theory to the test. Therefore, after replacing the map and making sure there was no trace of their visit to the office, he and Junior had gone to Finnegan’s Bar to join the festivities without Todhunter Senior—who would probably have seen through the disguise—being given an opportunity to discover the latter was present.
That morning, the paint stallion and a mount for Junior having been brought to the construction area in the horse box which Dusty had had Tom Riordan—the Colonel being in use—add to the work train, they had set out to test the theory they shared. The small Texan had not been questioned about his intentions for the day by Todhunter Senior or Raymond Sangster. Nor had the other assistant gang bosses asked any questions when he told them to keep the construction going while he and ‘Swede Olsen’ rode ahead to look at the bridge they would be using to cross the Platte River. It was such a basic precaution that doing so aroused no suspicions. There was, he learned as he and Junior were riding along, another reason for the acceptance of his selection of a companion. Shamus O’Sullivan, Louis ‘Frenchy’ Rastignac and Fritz ‘Dutchy’ Voigt were aware of the true state of affairs and, agreeing with the motive behind it, were willing to keep ‘Olsen’s’ true identity secret.
Having covered the mile or so from the construction area at a leisurely trot, the two young men had soon come into sight of the river. As was often the case when a continuous supply of water was available to stimulate the growth of trees and bushes, unlike on the rolling open country they had been traversing, there was a fairly wide coating of woodland on each bank. However, the trail originally made by great numbers of buffalo was sufficiently wide to remove any need for it to be enlarged before the railroad track could pass through.
‘Give Reiser his due,’ Junior commented on arriving at the southern bank and looking at the very sturdy wooden structure over the swiftly flowing current. ‘He might have been a lousy liber-rad queer, but he was right about this bridge. It’ll take plenty of weight. In fact, with some strengthening, there won’t be any need to replace it for regular use. He did a good job of work finding it.’
‘That he did,’ Dusty admitted, albeit his tone indicated he had reservations on the point.
‘Except?’ Junior hinted, suspecting that once again the big Texan and he were thinking along similar lines.
Although he did not reply immediately, Dusty’s doubts were not over whether the bridge was suitable to take the railroad over the river. Instead, he was reading the information painted in large red letters on a white wooden board which was attached to the right side end post of the sturdy guard rail.
‘THIS BRIDGE WAS CONSTRUCTED BY THE UNITED STATES ARMY’S CORPS OF ENGINEERS IN 1868 FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE AMERICAN PEOPLE’
‘Man’d say they did a right good job of work “for the benefit of the people”,’ Dusty remarked dryly, looking at his companion after a few seconds. ‘Only that sign’s a whole heap more recent than ’68, unless somebody’s been around not too long back to keep the paint freshened.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Junior replied. ‘Does the Army’s Corps of Engineers do much of this sort of things?’
‘Not that I’ve heard tell of,’ the small Texan replied. ‘They do build bridges, but even though having one here would help ranchers north of the Platte to get their trail herds down to the railroad in Kansas easier than swimming over, I wouldn’t’ve expected them to be sent to put one out here. Nebraska Territory doesn’t have the kind of money to fund it and likely it wouldn’t be thought important enough to get votes for the politicians in Washington, D.C., to have the Federal Government hand over the cash. Top of which, what I know about the Army, this being a place where the bridge isn’t likely to get seen and talked about by anybody important enough to get credit and promotion for whoever planned it, the top brass of the Corps of Engineers wouldn’t do it of their own accord.’
‘Somebody must have had it built,’ Junior commented, having been thinking along much the same lines. ‘And dad wasn’t behind it, or the track would have been routed this way instead of where he chose.’
‘Like you say, amigo,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Somebody must’ve had it built. Let’s go over and see happen we can find out who that “somebody” was. Because, should they have paid for it out of their own pockets—which I reckon’s likely—they’re not going to take kind’ to having the railroad just come along and take it over. I likely shouldn’t be saying this to you, but railroads have got kind of a bad name for riding rough-shod over other folks’ property elsewhere.’
‘You don’t have to tell me what kind of reputation the railroads have got elsewhere,’ Junior declared. ‘That’s why dad was so insistent on not going over land anybody else had already claimed and was using, even if they hadn’t taken legal title to it.’ Then anger came to his face and he went on, ‘God damn it. By coming this way because he figured it would be easier, Ray Sangster’s going to do the one thing dad wanted to avoid!’
‘Then we’d best go see happen we can find out who had it built and set things to rights,’ Dusty declared and started his horse moving.
However, as the two young men were riding across the bridge, they discovered they were not alone in the area.
‘Keep coming slow and easy!’ a masculine voice with a Texan’s accent called from among the trees on the northern bank. ‘And, happen you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your hands well away from your guns.’
Sixteen – My Daddy Built That Bridge
‘Get down,’ the voice commanded, still without the speaker revealing himself, as Dusty Fog and Harland Todhunter Junior reached the northern end of the bridge. ‘And, afore you get any smart notions, there’re enough guns covering you from both sides of the trail to stop ’em working.’
Wondering who and what they might be up against, the small Texan swung his right foot forward over the low horn o
f the double girthed saddle so he could drop from the big paint stallion with both hands in view, yet be more ready for immediate action than would have been possible by dismounting in the conventional manner. The voice sounded cautious rather than harsh and deliberately pitched to be menacing, but he was disinclined to take any chances until he had formed a better estimation of the situation. Glancing sideways, he was pleased to see his companion was doing as commanded in a fashion which indicated a lack of hostile intentions.
Satisfied Junior was avoiding any action which might provoke a hostile response, Dusty turned his gaze to the figures emerging from their places of concealment amongst the bushes and trees. All wore range clothing, with styles varying between Texas and the northern cattle country. While they held rifles and had revolvers, the rigs upon which the latter were carried did not have the appearance of being designed with really fast withdrawal as the prime consideration. Except for one of them, they struck him as the kind of hard working and honest cowhands with whom he spent much of his life.
Dressed after the same fashion as the others and holding a Winchester Model of 1866 carbine with an air of being proficient in its use, the exception was a girl in her early twenties.
Tall and shapely, as far as her attire allowed her figure to be seen, she had a tanned beautiful face with strength of will and determination in its lines. What little hair showed from beneath her low crowned and wide brimmed tan Stetson of Texas style was golden blonde.
‘What brings you hereabouts?’ the exception asked, also in the manner of a Texan.
‘We work for the railroad spur-line that’s being built this way,’ Dusty replied.
‘I didn’t take your amigo for a cowhand,’ the girl declared in the tone of one long used to speaking with men on their own level. ‘You wouldn’t be meat-hunting for the railroad now would you?’ Although she paused briefly, she went on in a hostile manner before either the small Texan or Junior could speak, ‘’Cause happen you are and have been doing it over this side of the Platte, you might like to tell us how come you mistook a bunch of our Beefhead steers on their home range for wild critters.’
‘More’n once, happen all the sign reads right,’ supplemented the next to oldest of the cowhands, a deeply bronzed and leathery faced man with an air of command about him and his voice proved it was he who had done the speaking up to that point.
‘You’ll be Winston Front de Boeuf’s daughter, I’d say,’ Dusty drawled, watching the group moving forward slowly and with caution.
‘We all know who I am,’ the girl asserted. ‘So who’re you?
‘Dusty Fog,’ the small Texan replied.
‘Dusty Fogy the girl repeated in a tone of disbelief which was clearly shared by her companions. ‘And this’ll be Cousin Mar—Mark Counter, or is he the Ysabel Kid?’
‘Neither, ma’am,’ the young Easterner denied and removed his derby hat to perform a graceful bow. ‘Harland Todhunter Junior, at your service.’
‘You are Dusty Fog?’ the girl challenged, without so much as glancing at, much less acknowledging Junior’s words and gesture.
‘I have been for a fair spell now,’ the small Texan replied and thought of a way he might prove his bona-fides. ‘And, although I don’t know what your folks called you when you was baptized, I’ll bet you wasn’t named for your Aunt Jessica Front de Boeuf, going by what Mark’s told me about her and your Cousin Trudeau.’
‘That’s an OD Connected brand on the paint, Tony,’ one of the younger cowhands commented while the girl was digesting the substance of the comment. ‘But I’ve allus heard tell Dusty Fog was real big—’
‘I’m big enough,’ the small Texan drawled, having long since stopped being concerned or resentful when such remarks were made. ‘My feet touch the ground when I’m standing up.’
‘That’s allus a way of deciding,’ the original spokesman admitted, studying Dusty with experienced eyes which saw beyond mere physical appearances. A man would need to be very well versed in handling horses to sit that big paint stallion instead of winding up on the ground and, likely, picking its iron shod hooves out of his teeth. What was more, the twin white handled Colt 1860 Army Model revolvers and the rig he was wearing did not look to be the affectation of one trying to look tough. All in all, there was an air about him suggesting there was vastly more to him than met the eye. ‘Where-at’s Mark and the Kid, Cap’n Fog?’
‘Mark’s headed up this way trying to find your spread so’s he can visit for a spell, Miss Front de Boeuf,’ Dusty explained, seeing the other cowhands were willing to accept his identity in view of the tall man’s response. ‘I reckon he’d be going along this trail hoping it’d take him there.’
‘It will,’ confirmed Antonia Front de Boeuf, although she was generally known as ‘Tony’, also lowering her rifle. She too sensed the true potential of the big Texan. Furthermore, although they had not met since they were children, she felt sure Mark Counter would only tell a man he trusted implicitly the unsavory truth about their Aunt Jessica and Cousin Trudeau and, going by all she had heard since the end of the War Between the States, Dusty Fog would come into that exclusive category. ‘We came across the range from where we found a whole bunch of Beefhead cattle’d been shot and butchered, so we must’ve missed him.’
‘It was made slow-elk by the hunters the railroad hired,’ Dusty confessed. ‘But we caught them at it and Harl’ here’s pappy, who’s having it built, will pay you full market price at Mulrooney for all that’s been brought in.’
‘We didn’t know they were slow-elking, Miss Front de Boeuf, but you can rest assured they won't be doing any more of it,’ Junior asserted. ‘And we’ll buy the rest we’ll need to feed the crew at the same price.’
‘Sounds reasonable enough,’ Tony admitted. However, her thoughts on how profitable the arrangement would prove were diverted by another consideration of more immediate importance. ‘We didn’t know the railroad was coming this way. Fact being, we got told it’d go west of here and clear of our range.’
‘Seems the man in charge of building it figured it’d be easier going along this cattle trail,’ Dusty explained. ‘Especially when he heard about the bridge here’s the Army’s Corps of Engineers put across the river—!’
‘ Who put it across?’ Tony demanded indignantly.
‘That’s what the sign on the other side says,’ Junior explained.
‘Sign?’ the girl queried. ‘I’ve been over both ways a helluva heap of times and never seen no god-damned sign.’
‘There’s one on the post at the other end,’ Junior elaborated, noticing for the first time that the same did not apply where they were standing.
‘Then I don’t know who the hell put it there!’ the girl snapped. ‘What’s more, I don’t give a damn what any sign says. My daddy built this bridge!’
‘I thought that sign looked kind of new,’ Dusty drawled, guessing what had happened and wondering whether the board had been placed there at Sangster’s instigation or if it was Richard Reiser’s idea to prevent the true state of affairs from being suspected when the construction of the track reached the river.
Before any more could be said, the oldest of the cowhands provided a distraction. Agony was twisting at his sweat-soaked face and, dropping his Henry rifle, he clutched at his stomach then collapsed.
‘What’s wrong, Ben?’ the girl gasped and an aura of concern came to her attractive expressive features.
‘He’s been saying his stomach hurt all morning,’ one of the younger cowhands answered when the old man did not reply. ‘We wanted him to go back to the spread, but you know what he’s like.’
‘I know? Tony agreed, but there was gentleness in the way she knelt by and looked at the obviously suffering old man. ‘Get over to Templeton and fetch the doctor to the spread, one of you!’
‘There’s a doctor closer than that,’ Junior pointed out, remembering what he had seen on the map he had studied the previous evening and thinking how fortuitous it was that the rail
road’s well liked medical practitioner had elected to spend the day at the construction area. ‘I’d say it would be quicker to have him come here.’
‘I’ll go, fetch him,’ Dusty offered. ‘It’s time this old paint of mine had him a good run. I’ll have to take your horse for him, Harl.’
‘That livery stable plug’ll slow you down,’ Tony put in, before Junior could speak. ‘Take my grulla and the best two of the boys’ horses, Cap’n Fog. Ben’s a worthless ole cuss, but I’d sooner he got well even if he’s only suffering from eating too much.’
‘We’ll do everything we can to make sure he does,’ the small Texan promised, knowing the true sentiments behind words which had tried to sound unemotional and guessing the offer of the grulla would not have been made in less dire circumstances. ‘Count on us for that.’
‘It sounds like he’s suffering from appendicitis,’ Doctor Brian Farnsworth estimated, having listened to what Dusty Fog had to say on returning hurriedly to the construction area. ‘And if it is, I can’t handle it here or even at the base camp.’
‘Where’s the nearest place you could?’ the small Texan wanted to know.
Having used all the skill at riding acquired over a lifetime spent in the saddle, including the years during and since the War Between The States when he had frequently needed to travel fast in order to avoid capture or death at the hands of enemies, the small Texan had made good time back to the construction area. Although certain he could count on the medical practitioner for every possible assistance, he was pleased to see Harland Todhunter Senior had come with Raymond Sangster—presumably by hand-car—from the base camp. Recollecting what he had been told by Marvin Eldridge ‘Doc’ Leroy of the Wedge trail crew, [32] he was aware of how serious appendicitis could be and, despite having every confidence in Farnsworth’s ability, had believed it could not be dealt with at the bridge should that be what ailed the old cowhand. He was prepared to take whatever steps might be necessary to help the doctor, but realized the railroad magnate could give even more assistance should the need arise.
