Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One)

by Robert Lee Murphy

  “Don’t break the stuff before you get out the door, you scrawny Irishman. Transfer the bottles to saddlebags. You can’t ride into Injun country holding a case of whiskey on your lap.”

  “Well, and be sure I know that.” Paddy snorted at Randy, but he wished he had someone to handle one end of the case.

  Paddy hefted the box and struggled through the canvas flap door. Once in the alley he set the case down and bent over, holding onto the sides of the box. He spat out his tobacco chaw and gasped for breath.

  When he could stand upright again, he patted the pockets in his vest. One pocket held coins to buy a ticket on the stage to Fort Sanders, two hundred thirty miles west of here. They’d decided it would be safer to approach the Cheyenne village from the west, from Fort Sanders, rather than ride up Lodge-pole Creek from Julesburg and possibly encounter General Dodge’s party. Paddy was well known to the railroad officials since they’d fired him a year ago.

  The other pocket contained coins for procuring a saddle horse and a packhorse from the Army’s stable at the fort. Mort had told him to find Sergeant Lunsford, a drunk who’d been a regular customer of the Lucky Dollar before his transfer from Fort Sedgwick. Paddy was to bribe the sergeant for the horses and some saddlebags. The Army wouldn’t miss the horses for the short time Paddy needed them.

  He took a deep breath and hoisted the box. He staggered down the alley toward the Wells Fargo station. “Sure, and I ain’t doing your bidding forever, Mort Kavanagh. One of these days I’ll settle me score with Sean Corcoran, then I’m gonna strike out on me own.”

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  General Dodge motioned Will into the depot and pointed at some leftover food on a table. Will fashioned a sandwich from cold ham and cheese. Between bites, he told about seeing Paddy O’Hannigan with the Indians, chasing after Buck, and rescuing Lone Eagle from the quicksand.

  “You say this Lone Eagle’s father is Bullfrog Charlie Munro?” Dodge asked.

  “That’s what he said, sir.”

  “I know Bullfrog Charlie. A genuine relic from the past. He used to show up at our surveying camps wanting to trade an antelope carcass for whiskey.” Dodge laughed. “He knows how much I like a good antelope steak. I guarantee we’ll run into him on this trip. Bullfrog won’t miss a chance to get a bottle of whiskey off me.”

  A short, full-bearded man stepped into the open doorway of the depot. “You wanted to see me, General Dodge?”

  “You ready to travel tomorrow, General Jack?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Meet General Jack Casement, Will. Jack, this young fellow is Will Braddock. He just rescued the most valuable animal we had on the train.”

  General Jack Casement stood half a dozen inches shorter than Will’s five feet nine. In stature he could be described as diminutive, but his bearing belied that. He exuded confidence as he tapped a riding crop against calf-high boots. “Ah. That’s the black Morgan outside, I take it.” Casement tipped his head to Will.

  “Is Colonel Seymour ready to go, Jack?” Dodge snarled Seymour’s title.

  “Yes. He’s been a regular pain in the rear. But he’s ready.”

  “Grenville,” Rawlins said, “I’ve been searching my brain ever since you introduced him, but I can’t recall a Colonel Seymour from the war.”

  “He’s not a real colonel, John. Just calls himself that. Have to tolerate him since he’s Doc Durant’s right-hand man. The vice president and general manager uses him to meddle with our surveys, trying to make the line longer. The more miles of track laid, the more money Durant can collect from the government.”

  Rawlins shook his head.

  Dodge turned back to Casement. “How about Blickensderfer? Is he ready?”

  “Yes, Jacob’s ready. I feel sorry for him, being escorted by Seymour.”

  “Can’t be helped. Durant specified Seymour was to look after him. I just hope Seymour doesn’t antagonize him. We need a favorable recommendation from Blickensderfer on where the Rocky Mountains start. We need the Department of Interior to approve increased government funding for laying track through the mountains . . . no matter how long Durant and Seymour connive to make the line.”

  “Doc Durant and that fool Seymour will be the ruination of the UP if we’re not careful,” Casement said.

  While the men had talked among themselves, Will had eased closer to a side table where General Dodge’s briefcase sat open. Was Judge Sampson’s package in there?

  “Will?”

  Will jerked around, his sandwich partway to his mouth.

  “You still set on finding your uncle?” Dodge ask.

  “Yes, sir.” Will lowered the sandwich.

  “Well . . . how’d you like to ride with us tomorrow?”

  Will’s head jerked up. “I’d like that, sir.”

  “Can’t pay you anything. You can earn your keep looking after our visitors’ horses. I’ll make that your reward for rescuing Buck.”

  “Thank you, General.” Will grinned. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. But I can’t have you associating with the dignitaries looking like a bum. General Jack, can you see he gets some gear from the UP’s stock?”

  “Can do.”

  “Will,” Dodge said, “take Buck, feed and groom him, along with the other horses you’ll find at General Jack’s warehouse. Get them ready for riding in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.

  Will rode with Casement down Julesburg’s only street and out beyond the end of town to the construction train. When they passed the three pusher engines, Casement pointed to them with his riding crop. “Know anything about locomotives, Will?”

  “No, sir.”

  “These are ‘four-four-ohs.’ That’s railroad code for the arrangement of the wheels . . . four leading wheels behind the cowcatcher, four driving wheels beneath the boiler, and no wheels under the cab.”

  They continued along the line of cars coupled in front of the 4-4-0 locomotives. Half of the cars they passed were outfitted as bunk cars.

  “Designed these over-tall bunk cars myself,” Casement said. “Three tiers of bunks on a side. Kind of crowded, but it provides sleeping accommodations for the crew. Each worker keeps a rifle suspended in ceiling racks down the central corridor. We’re prepared to fend off any Indian attacks . . . and we’ve been seeing plenty lately.”

  They rode past a couple of dining hall cars and a kitchen. The tantalizing smell of baking bread wafting from a boxcar bakery stimulated Will’s saliva. A worker threw the remains of a cow’s carcass out of the open door of a boxcar serving as a butcher shop. Blood coated his apron, his boots, and the floorboards beneath him.

  “We trail our own herd of cattle with the train,” Casement said. “Slaughter a couple each day for fresh meat. A well-fed man makes a better worker.”

  Near the end of the train, men banged away in a tool car and a blacksmith car. The last car, a flat car loaded with wooden cross ties and iron rails, was actually the first car in the train as it was pushed down the track backward.

  Beyond the end of the train, dozens of tracklayers worked along the prepared roadbed. The clanking of hammers on spikes responded to the shouted instructions of foremen.

  “First time to witness tracklaying?” Casement asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Will watched workers drag rough-hewn cottonwood ties into position along the grade. A boy, younger than he was, drove a wagon, fitted with railroad wheels, at a gallop down the tracks from the end of the construction train to where the rails ended several yards away. When he stopped, a crew of burly men carrying tongs grabbed the heavy iron rails, one from each side of the wagon, walked rapidly forward on opposite sides of the grade, and dropped the rails into place atop the ties.

  “Those fellows are ‘gandy dancers.’ ” Casement laughed. “They waddle like ducks struggling with those heavy loads.”

  A supervisor
checked the spacing with a wooden gauge to align the rails on the ties.

  “The rails have to be exactly four feet, eight and one half inches apart,” Casement said. “The Romans supposedly established that standard. All wagons have been built to that width ever since, so their wheels fit properly into the old chariot ruts. When England built the first railroad they continued to use that measurement. I don’t know that I believe that story . . . but, it’s the best one I’ve heard for using such an odd dimension.”

  Will watched a supervisor signal he’d verified the width and a crew spiked the rails to the ties. Three quick blows with a sledge hammer drove each spike securely into place. Other men fastened the ends of the newly placed rails to the previously positioned ones with rivets driven through iron connecting plates. The continuous flow of rails from Omaha extended thirty feet farther west.

  A boy already had the job of driving the rail wagon. He’d have to convince his uncle to recommend him for a job as a tracklayer. He could certainly drive spikes—maybe even be a gandy dancer. But first, he had to talk his uncle into not signing those guardianship papers.

  “The gangs work until ‘tools down’ is called at sundown,” Casement said. “They’ll descend on the dining cars for their evening meal first, then they’ll be off to Hell on Wheels to let off steam and blow their wages on liquor and gambling. I don’t cotton to that lifestyle myself, but I tolerate it to keep them happy.”

  Casement led the way to a knock-down warehouse erected next to the tracks. He dismounted and shouted into the depths of the building. “Ellis!”

  A Negro, much taller than Casement, appeared in the doorway. “This is my servant, Jack Ellis. Will Braddock needs outfitting, Jack. See to it, please.”

  Will emerged from the warehouse a short time later outfitted in dark-blue wool trousers, a red-and-black-checkered flannel shirt, and calf-high leather Wellington cavalry boots. Strapped around his waist he wore a black leather belt that carried a cartridge box, a percussion cap pouch, and a flap-protected holster holding his revolver. A pair of saddlebags slung over his shoulder contained additional ammunition and a canteen.

  Casement nodded approval. “Why didn’t you take a new hat?”

  Will took off his father’s old slouch hat, reshaped the crown, and seated the hat squarely on his head. “I like this one.”

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Will rode with General Dodge’s party out of Julesburg early Friday morning, the twenty-eighth of June, on a planned six-day journey to the Laramie Mountains. The column marched northwest up Lodgepole Creek from its juncture with the South Platte River, following the centuries-old creek-side trail and the stakes set out by the surveyors that marked the route for the track graders.

  General Dodge, General Rawlins, and the dignitaries rode at the head of the slow-moving column, with a small cavalry detail close at hand. Two companies of mounted Pawnee Scouts, as well as two companies of regular Army infantry, provided protection for Dodge’s party. The infantry hiked from Jules-burg, marching the thirty miles each day.

  Civilian teamsters drove two dozen wagons hauling tents and provisions. Trailing behind the wagons, a half dozen riders prodded along a cattle herd. The herd would shrink daily as the cooks butchered the animals to feed the travelers and the troops.

  Will trailed behind the wagons in company with the cattle. He led six extra saddle horses; one each for Dodge, Rawlins, Blickensderfer, Seymour, and Casement—plus one for himself. Each noon, he guided the remuda to the head of the column so the dignitaries could exchange their mounts for fresh ones.

  The first day, Will offered to help General Dodge shift his saddle to his fresh horse, eyeing the briefcase strapped against the saddle’s skirt. The general shooed him away. “You help Seymour. He’ll slow us down if we wait for him to transfer that mountain of equipment alone. The rest of us will fend for ourselves.”

  Will reserved the biggest horse in the remuda for “Colonel” Seymour. Not only did the poor animal have to carry the heavyset Seymour, but also more personal gear than any two of the other officials combined. Seymour insisted on lugging a carbine in a case—although Will wondered if he knew how to fire it—and saddlebags stuffed with food and clothing. Two canteens dangled from his saddle horn. Behind the saddle’s cantle he lashed a bedroll and poncho combination rolled up to the size of a cannon barrel.

  After Will helped Seymour load his equipment, he had to give the big man a boost into his saddle. Once mounted, Seymour popped open an umbrella, which he held overhead as he rode. The Pawnee Scouts made fun of him behind his back, pretending to carry umbrellas.

  When the column pitched camp each evening, the dignitaries turned their mounts over to Will. He fed the dozen horses oats from the supply wagons, rubbed them down, then hobbled each so they could graze without wandering far.

  Will didn’t finish his wrangling chores until an hour after the column halted. The dignitaries had usually finished their supper by the time he approached the campfire, but Dodge’s railroad cook kept a plate of beef steak, sourdough bread, and beans for him. He was allowed to share this elite group’s food because he took care of their horses. He was thankful he didn’t have to fix his own meals. The soldiers and scouts had to feed themselves, but they were provided adequate rations from the wagons.

  After eating, Will found a spot removed from the campfire. The officials relaxed and listened to General Rawlins read poetry. Will wasn’t partial to poetry, so he paid little attention.

  The first night, a wiry Army officer, wearing silver bars on his shoulder boards, stepped in front of him. The officer bowed, sweeping his campaign hat across his body.

  “Scuza me.” The officer greeted Will in a singsong Italian accent. “Lieutenant Luigi Moretti, at your service. I command the cavalry detail. General Dodge tells me you are Major Corcoran’s nephew.”

  “Major Corcoran?” Will asked.

  “Yes, Major Sean Corcoran.”

  “I never heard him called major. He’s always been Uncle Sean to me.”

  “But of course.” Moretti laughed and twirled one end of a waxed mustache that jutted the width of his face. “Your uncle and me, we fight the war together. I was a major too then. After the war, I lost that rank. Everybody lost rank who stayed in. I became first lieutenant once more. Same rank they gave me when I came from Italy to join the Army.”

  “You know Uncle Sean?” Perhaps the lieutenant could tell him where to find his uncle.

  “But of course, we were both with General Dodge during the war. Your uncle was a major of an engineer battalion, rebuilding the railroads the Rebs tore up. I was a major of the cavalry assigned to protect his men. Your uncle and me, we know each other a long time.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “Not for a year . . . maybe more.”

  Will rose and extended his hand. “I’m Will Braddock. Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.”

  “Call me Luey. Everybody calls me Luey . . . except my men.”

  “Luey?”

  “Yes. Short for Luigi, not Lieutenant.” He laughed. The tips of his mustache jiggled.

  For the first half of their hundred-forty-mile journey, the column encountered grading teams leveling the roadbed in preparation for the tracklayers who followed. Armed guards sat mounted on the surrounding hilltops to warn the graders of Indians.

  The entourage crossed the southwest corner of Nebraska, and on the fourth day entered into that part of the Dakota Territory that would soon change its name to Wyoming. Here they veered away from Lodgepole Creek and headed due west. The final forty miles took them through rolling country, where only survey stakes marked the way.

  The column had moved for six days, with Dodge and Rawlins always at its head. Will and his remuda, at the column’s rear, ate the interminable dust thrown up by the feet of the men, the hooves of the animals, and the churning wheels of the wagons.

  Will had guided his remounts forward in preparation for the changing of horses at n
oon, when the column halted abruptly on the crest of a low hill. Dodge turned in his saddle and motioned Lieutenant Moretti forward. Dodge saw Will at the same time and signaled for him to approach the head of the column, too. When Will, with his remuda, reached the crest, he saw that the slope stretched down to a grassy plain where two small creeks joined.

  Moretti trotted up beside Dodge. Will guided his string of horses up next to Rawlins. Buck whinnied and tossed his head. “Hi, boy,” Will said.

  “Luey, this is our destination.” Dodge pointed at a spot on a map he held unfolded across his saddle horn, then toward the valley before him. “We’ll make camp down there, where Clear Creek flows into Crow Creek.”

  Rawlins eased Buck closer to Dodge to look at the map.

  “I stumbled across this spot by accident a few years back, John, when I had to evade a pursuing band of Indians. I knew then that if I survived, I’d found the ideal route for building the railroad over the Rockies. That yonder ridge, between the two creeks, rises at a gentle two-percent grade, well within the capabilities of our locomotives. Where these creeks join is the perfect place for a major railroad center. I’ve decided to name this spot Cheyenne, after the tribe that claims this as their hunting ground.” Dodge chuckled. “And may have been some of the ones who were intent on lifting my scalp a few years back.”

  Dodge folded his map and returned it to his pocket. “Luey, move the men and wagons down to that meadow and set up camp. Post a strong guard. This is Indian country. The Sioux are on the warpath to the north. The Cheyenne can hit us from the north, west, or south. Farther south are the Arapaho. We’re surrounded by hostiles.”

  “Right away, sir.” Moretti pulled both ends of his mustache to straighten them and saluted. He wheeled his horse back toward the column, shouting for his sergeant.

  “Will.” Dodge leaned forward in his saddle, looked across Rawlins and Buck, and pointed into the valley. “See that grove of trees on the far side of Clear Creek?”