“Good thing you did. I’se able to cut that arrowhead off and pull the shaft out of your arm without you knowing.” Homer handed Will the arrowhead.
Will turned it over in his fingers. Now he had a piece of flint.
Reaching into the front of his shirt, he pulled up the horsehair thong that hung around his neck. He fitted the arrowhead into a nick along the side of one of the talons. The talon had deflected the arrow from slicing into his chest. In the center of his chest a pinprick of dried blood and an ugly bruise revealed where the arrow had jammed the tip of the talon into his skin. Lone Eagle had been right. The talon had brought him good luck.
“I’m Grady Shaughnessy, foreman of this gang.” The track grader who’d described the increasing incidents with the Indians introduced himself. “We heard the firing. We could tell it was a Spencer, and when the horse came racing into our camp we knew from the saddle and tack it had to be railroad men in trouble. We came as fast as we could.”
“Sure glad you did,” Will said.
“Homer tells me you’re Sean Corcoran’s nephew.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your uncle’s a first-rate surveyor. He plots a grade that’s good to follow.”
Will smiled at the compliment to his uncle. It’d be nice if some day he were considered worthy of such praise.
“We best be getting back to camp,” Shaughnessy said. “It’s about a mile down the trail. That band of savages may round up more braves and come back.”
“I don’t relish waiting around here no more,” Homer said. “We’ve got to get Will to the railroad doctor in Julesburg.”
Homer helped Will stand. Will swayed and leaned against Homer until his dizziness passed. “I’ll be fine. I’m ready to get out of here, too.”
“Get the saddle and tack off that dead horse, boys,” Shaughnessy said. “Don’t want General Jack fussing at me for leaving railroad property behind. You climb up behind me, Will. Homer, you ride behind Caleb there.” He pointed to a skinny young man. “The two of you won’t make too much of a load for Caleb’s horse. What about that mule of yours?”
“Ruby’ll catch up,” Homer said. “She always does.”
CHAPTER 23
* * *
The McNabbs’ wagon sat last in line in their column. Once underway they’d eat all the other wagons’ dust, but only for a day. Every morning the lead wagons rotated to the rear.
They’d rejoined Dryden Faulkner’s wagon train outside Julesburg ten days ago. Finally, the Army had announced it was safe to travel once more. Earlier this morning the wagon master had reformed his charges from their protective circle into a traveling arrangement, four columns abreast. He’d instructed the wagon owners to be ready to head out at first light tomorrow.
The McNabbs finished their typical noon meal of bacon, beans, and biscuits. Jenny’s mother rocked slowly in her wicker chair. She’d eaten little from the plate cradled in her lap.
“Mama,” Jenny said, “you must eat.”
“I have no appetite.”
“Mary,” her father said. “I wish we could stay here a few days more, but Faulkner says it’s time to press on. They’ve already been here too long.”
“It’s all right, Alistair.” Her mother reached a slender hand out to her husband, who sat on a crate beside her, and laid it on his shoulder. “I can travel.”
A tall, young man approached and doffed his hat, revealing fiery red hair. “Afternoon, Colonel,” he said. “Afternoon, Mrs. McNabb. Excuse me for interrupting your meal.”
“Percival Robillard,” her mother said. “It is nice to see you. And how is the South’s finest cavalry lieutenant?”
“Former cavalry lieutenant, ma’am.” Robillard had been assigned to the regiment Jenny’s father commanded during the war. “I am fine today, thank you.”
“That’s good.”
The young man turned to Elspeth. “Afternoon, Miss Elspeth.” A broad smile creased his clean-shaven face. The freckles on his face accentuated his red locks.
“Good afternoon, Percy.” Elspeth busied herself picking up dishes, something she normally refused to do. Jenny knew she was pretending not to appear interested in Percy.
“Miss Elspeth,” Percy continued. “I came to invite you to the dance this evening. That’s why I was so bold as to interrupt your meal. I wanted to ask you . . . before anybody else could.”
“A dance?” Elspeth exclaimed. “Why, where on earth out here is there ever going to be a dance?”
“At the head of the wagon train. Mr. Faulkner agreed we can have a dance to celebrate getting underway again.”
“This doesn’t seem an appropriate time for dancing,” Jenny’s father said. “Everybody needs to rest before we hit the trail.”
“But, Papa,” Elspeth protested. “How can a little dancing hurt anything?”
“Alistair,” Jenny’s mother said. “If the other families are consenting to the dance, why should we object? I don’t think our girls will miss that much rest going to a dance.”
“Our girls aren’t going to the dance,” Jenny said. “Only one McNabb girl has been invited to the dance.”
Elspeth stuck her tongue out at Jenny and shoved her stack of dishes into Jenny’s hands. With her back toward Percy, he couldn’t see Elspeth’s gesture.
“Why, I didn’t mean to exclude you, Miss Jenny,” Percy said. “You come too.”
Jenny stuck her tongue out at Elspeth. “So there.” She mouthed the words silently.
“Say it’s okay, Papa,” Elspeth pleaded.
“All right. I’m overruled by your mother. But not too late, mind you. We have to be ready to travel at an early hour.”
“Oh, thank you, Papa.” Elspeth ran to her father and hugged him.
“Elspeth, we need to get these dishes cleaned up,” Jenny said.
“We? I’ve got to get ready for the dance. You clean them up.”
“I’m going to the dance too. Percy invited me.”
“Ladies,” their father said. “Both of you clean up the dishes or neither of you goes to the dance.”
“Oh, Papa.” Elspeth pouted, but took the stack of dishes from Jenny’s extended hands.
“I have to fetch that wheel from Julesburg,” Jenny’s father said. “The wheelwright promised to have it repaired today.”
“Papa,” Jenny said, “if you’ll wait a few minutes, I’ll go with you. We’ll be finished with these dishes in no time. We need flour and salt, and I want to see what other provisions I can find at Abrams General Store.”
“All right. I have to borrow a horse from Faulkner to tote that wheel back from town. Be ready when I get back.”
CHAPTER 24
* * *
Will rode a horse Grady Shaughnessy had loaned him. Homer had reclaimed his horse at the graders’ camp and Ruby had returned on her own. Will chewed on willow bark, hoping to ward off inflammation. He held his arm close against his side, his fingers tucked into his shirtfront. The arm throbbed with each jolting step of his horse. How much damage had been done to his arm? How was the injury going to affect his chances of landing a job with the railroad?
They topped a small rise and Hell on Wheels came into view in the distance. Even with the delay caused by the Indian attack, only three days had passed since he and Homer had departed Cheyenne. The Casements’ tracklaying crew had made the turn up Lodgepole Creek and were leaving Julesburg behind.
When Will and Homer came abreast of the pusher locomotives at the rear of the work train, Ruby spread her forelegs, braced herself, and jerked Homer backward in his saddle with the halter rope which he’d wrapped around his wrist. She brayed her loudest protest and refused further progress. “Dang it, mule! What’s the matter with you? It’s just a steam engine.”
The railroad horses were used to being around locomotives. But Ruby, a mule from the mountains, didn’t want anything to do with the snorting, belching iron horses.
Will laughed and wished he hadn’t. He groaned and grasped h
is elbow to steady his arm.
An hour later, the railroad doctor had cleaned and rebandaged Will’s wound. He placed the arm in a sling. When Will asked about permanent damage to his muscle, the doctor shrugged and told him it was too soon to know. The doctor said that if Homer hadn’t pulled the arrow out right away, the damage would certainly have been worse.
Will and Homer rode on to the knockdown warehouse, where they found Dan Casement. Dan was even shorter than his brother Jack. Will had earlier overheard some of the workers describe Dan as standing “five feet nothing.” “I’ll bet that arm hurts a mite,” Casement said.
Will nodded. “Yes, sir. But I’ll be all right soon. I hope to get a job working on the railroad.”
“A man with a crippled arm won’t be much good to the railroad. Good luck with your recovery.”
While Jack Ellis assigned Will a replacement carbine and issued him new shirts, Homer selected a replacement transit and its accompanying equipment.
“Thanks for the transit, sir,” Will said. “My uncle will appreciate it.”
“Glad to help,” Casement said. “You two can bed down in one of the bunk cars tonight. Tomorrow morning a troop of Pawnee Scouts is escorting a wagon train of resupply to General Dodge. You can ride along with them.”
“Homer,” Will said, “I need to buy Uncle Sean’s cigars if we’re riding out in the morning. I’m going into town. Be back shortly.”
A few minutes later, Will flipped the reins over a hitching post outside Abrams General Store. It was a typical Hell on Wheels establishment—sturdy enough to remain standing until it was time to dismantle it for movement to a new location.
A tinkling bell above the door announced Will’s entrance. A gray-bearded man greeted him. “Hello, friend. What’ll it be today?” The shopkeeper wiped his hands on his apron.
“I want to buy some cigars.”
“Cigars? You’re a little young to be smoking.”
“I’m fourteen.” Will bristled at the challenge. “But, they’re not for me. They’re for my Uncle Sean. He said he knows you.”
“Your uncle Sean?”
“Yes, sir, Sean Corcoran.”
“You don’t say.” The shopkeeper smiled. “Sure I know your uncle. Fine man. Saved my life once.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did. When Hell on Wheels was in North Platte your uncle stepped in and stopped a couple of Mort Kavanagh’s thugs from putting a slug into me. They were all liquored up and mad that I didn’t have the kind of chewing tobacco they wanted. Fortunately, your uncle came into the store at that time.”
This was the second story this week about his uncle rescuing someone. His uncle certainly had a good reputation with everybody Will had come in contact with. He’d have to stay on his toes to not let his uncle down.
The shopkeeper extended a hand across the counter. “Pleased to meet you. Name’s Benjamin Abrams, proprietor of this establishment.” He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question that asked for a name.
“Will Braddock.”
Abrams pointed to the sling. “Looks like you had a bit of a problem, Will.”
“Indian arrow through the arm. Doc says it should be okay, thanks to Homer.”
“Homer Garcon? He’s still with your uncle. Good. But where is your uncle? Why are you buying cigars instead of him?”
Will explained the reason for his trip to Julesburg.
“I see. It happens I have the same smokes your uncle selected in North Platte. Best I can get.” Abrams pulled a cigar box from beneath the counter and placed it before Will. “Dime apiece.”
Will laid the handful of coins on the counter and opened the box. The doorbell tinkled behind him.
“Miss Sally Whitworth,” Abrams said. “Good afternoon.”
“Afternoon, Mr. Abrams.”
A slender redhead collapsed a parasol that matched her low-cut, emerald-green dress. Black, high-button shoes peeked from beneath her long skirt. A scrap of horse manure clung to the heel of one shoe. Will grinned when he saw it.
The young lady must have thought he was smiling at her, because she nodded to him. “Afternoon, sir,” she said.
“After . . . afternoon, ma’am,” Will stammered. She’d called him “sir.”
“You’ll be stopping by the Lucky Dollar Saloon later to buy a drink and dance with me, I assume.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, revealing prominent dimples.
Will shook his head. “I . . . I don’t dance.”
“Don’t dance?”
“No, ma’am. And even if I did, I couldn’t.” He pointed to the sling.
“Oh, you shouldn’t let a little thing like that stop you. And don’t call me ma’am. My name is Sally.”
“Yes, ma’am . . . I mean, Sally.”
“Miss Whitworth,” Abrams said. “I don’t think Sean Corcoran would approve of his nephew drinking whiskey in the Lucky Dollar Saloon.”
“You’re Sean Corcoran’s nephew?” She cast an appraising eye at Will.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Sally, please.”
“Yes . . . Sally. I’m his nephew.”
“Do tell.” She leaned over the counter and tapped on the glass top. “Mr. Abrams, where is that lovely gold ribbon I saw here yesterday. I’ve decided I simply must have it.”
“Oh, I sold it earlier this afternoon.”
“Sold? To whom, pray tell?”
“Oh you wouldn’t know her. She’s with one of the wagon trains. A pretty, black-haired young woman accompanied by her father, a one-armed former Confederate.”
Will’s mouth dropped opened. He quickly closed it. Jenny! Has to be Jenny and her father.
“That’s too bad, Mr. Abrams. That gold ribbon would have set off my hair perfectly with this new dress Mr. Kavanagh bought me.” She turned around slowly, extending her arms to the side. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Braddock?”
“Ah . . . yes.” Will stammered. A gold ribbon would certainly set off her flame-red hair against the emerald dress.
Sally faced the shopkeeper. “You’ll be ordering more ribbons like that, Mr. Abrams?”
“I’ll try. I don’t always receive exactly what I order. But, I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” Sally said. “Good day to you, Mr. Abrams. And good day to you, Mr. Braddock. Too bad you can’t stop by for a dance.” She flashed him a smile as she opened the door. When she looked down before stepping out into the street, she saw the horse manure. She scraped her shoe against the doorsill, then popped open her parasol and departed.
“That young lady is trouble,” Abrams said. “Best stay away from her. She tried to get her hooks into your uncle in North Platte, but he avoided her. Miss Sally Whitworth is Mortimer Kavanagh’s favorite dance hall girl.”
Will had read about dance hall girls. But those stories described them as soiled ladies. Sally Whitworth didn’t look soiled in the least bit—except for the manure on her shoe. She was one of the fanciest dressed ladies he’d ever seen. She carried herself with dignity. She spoke with grace. And that red hair was spectacular.
“Your uncle wouldn’t approve of you going to the Lucky Dollar Saloon. He told me about having a run-in with Kavanagh’s Irish thugs on the docks in New York City during the war. He avoids contact with Kavanagh. I expect he’d ask the same of you.”
“Homer told me about some of the troubles on the docks, but he didn’t mention Kavanagh’s name.”
“Ask your uncle about him. He’ll fill you in on Kavanagh.”
“I’ll take these for Uncle Sean.” Will pushed twenty cigars across the counter. “Mr. Abrams, I think I know the girl who bought the ribbon. You said she purchased it earlier today?”
“That’s right. Came into the store with her father to buy flour and sugar while they waited for the wheelwright to finish some repairs.”
Will smiled. That’s Jenny, all right.
Abrams counted the coins and wrapped the cigars in brown paper. “You have a nickel too much.”
&
nbsp; “Oh. Uncle Sean said I could buy some candy.” He pointed to a jar of jawbreakers. “How many of those will a nickel buy?”
“They’re a penny apiece.”
“I’ll take five.”
Will left Abrams General Store. He popped a jawbreaker into his mouth and stuffed the package of cigars and a small poke containing the rest of the candy into his saddlebags. He mounted and turned the horse up the street. Sally Whitworth stood in front of the Lucky Dollar Saloon talking to a stocky man dressed in a suit and vest. Was that Mortimer Kavanagh? Will’s curiosity would have to wait—right now he wanted to find Jenny McNabb.
CHAPTER 25
* * *
“Homer, I’m going to ride over to the wagon train to see if the McNabbs are there.” Will mumbled as he stepped from his saddle.
“How’s that?” Homer paused in fastening sacks of provisions onto the mule pack. “I can’t understand you. Your mouth’s full of something.”
Will spit the remnants of the jawbreaker into his hand. “I’d like to go to the wagon train to find Jenny McNabb.”
Homer looked at the marble-sized candy Will cradled in his hand. “Ugh. What’s that?”
“Jawbreaker. Want one?”
“No thanks. Go on. Don’t be too late. We’s leaving at first light, remember.”
“I’ll be ready.” Will climbed back into his saddle. “Oh, keep this.” He lifted the sling over his head and tossed it to Homer.
“Doc says you should wear that when yore riding.”
“Not this time.” He didn’t want to be wearing a sling when he met Jenny.
The sun had set by the time he reached the wagon train. A fiddler sawed fitfully away at “The Blue-Tail Fly.” A mouth organ tootled along in harmony. Shouting, singing, laughing, and clapping from the far end of the rows of wagons told Will a celebration was underway.
When he’d visited the camp several days ago the wagons were circled. Now they were aligned in the four-column formation used to travel across open prairie.
Will tied his horse to a tree stump along the outskirts of the wagon park and walked up through the center of the four columns. The noise of festivities grew louder with each step he took. When he reached the head of the train, he encountered a large crowd. Through gaps in a ring of spectators, Will caught glimpses of dancing couples whirling around a bonfire. Some of the revelers sang the verse to the song.
Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 11
