She watched her father and Duncan carry buckets back to the far side of the wagon after watering the oxen. There was no stream in this mountain pass and the McNabbs shared the water from their barrels with the animals. Elspeth was busy stowing the dishes and cooking utensils into the back of the wagon, which she’d agreed to do as her share of the chores, while she chatted with Percy. Her sister had suppressed her rebellious ways after their mother’s death. The presence of her boyfriend was undoubtedly a factor in improving her attitude.
Percy chopped branches into firewood with a hand ax. Even though it was late July, it would be cold tonight here in the foothills of the Front Range of northern Colorado Territory. The five travelers would wrap themselves in their blankets and sleep close to their campfire.
Jenny touched her chest and felt the eagle talon. She lifted the gold ribbon and its amulet from beneath the front of her dress. She caressed the talon, felt the roughness along its length, and the prick of its tip. Where was Will Braddock tonight?
“Mmphm!” Jenny gasped.
A hand clamped across her mouth, jerking her head back sharply. A strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her slender body back against her attacker. The odor of rancid animal grease assailed her nostrils from the hand that muffled her. She couldn’t see her attacker around the edge of her bonnet, but she knew she was in the grasp of an Indian.
The bushes on either side of her rustled. A dozen other Indians, most of them armed with bows and arrows, slipped silently past.
“Hwm!” She screamed a warning into the hand over her mouth, but the hand tightened and drowned out the sound.
The Indians crept to the bottom of the slope. They broke their silence opposite the wagon. “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!”
Percy raised his ax. “Run, Elspeth! Run!” he shouted.
Elspeth dropped the dish she held and dashed around the wagon. Percy threw the ax at his attackers. They deftly dodged it. He reached for his Enfield rifle that he’d leaned against the wagon. Two Indians unleashed arrows at his back. Percy crumpled.
Jenny blinked furiously. Tears clouded her vision. What was this horror happening below her? An Indian jerked Percy’s head back by his long red hair and sliced a knife around his scalp.
“Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!” The Indian turned in Jenny’s direction and hoisted Percy’s bloody scalp. The scalper’s face was painted black from beneath his eyes to below his chin.
Jenny caught a glimpse of Elspeth’s blonde hair as her sister disappeared into the trees beyond the wagon. She couldn’t see her father or brother.
The Indian removed the hand from her mouth. He shifted her to stand beside him, but kept an arm firmly around her waist.
“Let me go!” Jenny hissed. She wriggled, but couldn’t free herself. The Indian lifted the ribbon that hung in front of her—the eagle talon dangling before her eyes.
“Who gave you this?”
She was so shocked to hear English, she blurted out her answer without thinking. “Will Braddock.”
“Humph.” Her captor grunted. “I did not give the talons to him to give one to you.”
What’d he mean? How’d he know about the talons? She studied her captor. He was taller and lighter skinned than the others. Streaks of vermillion and yellow highlighted his high cheekbones. Stripes of the same color banded rough scars on his pectoral muscles. On a leather thong around his neck hung six eagle talons. He’d spoken English. Of course—he was the mixed-blood Cheyenne Will had saved from the quicksand.
“Lone Eagle, why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Quiet. No talking.”
He hadn’t acknowledged he was Lone Eagle, but she was certain he was.
From where they stood on the hilltop, her captor kept looking to the south, toward Virginia Dale. Was he aware that a cavalry patrol should be coming from that direction? Where was that patrol? The lieutenant had told her family they would pass back this way today on their return to Fort Sanders.
She watched the Indians throw her family’s possessions out the back of the wagon, whooping loudly when they held up something appealing.
The Indian with the blackened lower face held Percy’s En-field rifle aloft with one hand and swung the scalp with the other. Blood dripped from the long red locks. Another Indian discovered her father’s Springfield rifle, which he kept in the foot well of the jockey box. Shouts erupted from all of the attackers when the second rifle was brandished. “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!”
Jenny averted her view from the gruesome sight below her and looked to the south again, wishing for a miracle. She could tell Lone Eagle kept shifting his concentration from his companions at the wagon to the trail leading back toward Virginia Dale.
She gasped. At the same time Lone Eagle emitted a grunt. Emerging above a rise in the road not more than a mile away a red-and-white-striped guidon appeared. Following the tiny flag a dozen soldiers topped the rise two by two and trotted toward them.
Lone Eagle hoisted her up against his side and carried her quickly down the slope. Her bonnet tangled in a bush and ripped off her head. Her loose hair caught in the branches, but he didn’t stop.
When he reached the wagon he dropped her facedown beside Percy’s body. Percy’s open, unseeing eyes stared at her. Congealing blood from the ghastly wound oozed down the side of his face. She rolled away and sat up. Lone Eagle kicked her back down. He flipped her onto her stomach and tied her hands behind her.
She watched Lone Eagle engage in a heated discussion with the blackened-faced lead warrior, who continued to clutch Percy’s scalp. Lone Eagle motioned repeatedly down the trail as his voice grew more insistent.
The leader finally made a sweeping motion up the hill with the rifle and shouted at the other Indians.
Jenny heard hoofbeats and first thought they might be the approaching cavalry, but then she saw two more Indians ride down the slope leading several ponies.
The Indians who had been engaged in the looting jumped down, grabbed firebrands, and tossed them into the wagon bed. The canvas cover blazed. The wooden bed smoldered briefly, then burst into flames. A roaring inferno engulfed the wagon.
The Indians mounted the ponies and herded the oxen up the slope.
Lone Eagle heaved himself onto a pony, reached down and grabbed her by the hair, jerking her up and dumping her in front of him, belly down.
“Ahh!” she screamed. Tears filled her eyes, as much from the horror of what she’d witnessed as the pain of being hoisted by her scalp. Her eyes searched the brush behind the burning wagon, but she saw nothing of her family. Lone Eagle rode up the slope with her. She looked a last time at Percy’s body.
Had she been spared because of the eagle talon? Maybe it had brought her luck. But what about her family?
CHAPTER 35
* * *
Will and Homer had departed Fort Sanders early the previous day with a detachment of Pawnee Scouts led by Sergeant Coyote. The scouts were riding to the new Fort D. A. Russell carrying reports from General Dodge. The small column had ridden as long as there was daylight, but twilight faded rapidly in the mountains and the waning moon kept hiding behind scudding clouds. Sergeant Coyote didn’t want to ride into an ambush in the dark, so they’d camped overnight in the hills halfway to Cheyenne.
They’d arisen early this morning enshrouded by dense low-lying clouds that hugged the hilltops of the Laramie Range. They followed the railroad’s survey stakes down the gentle ridge and when they broke out of the fog they got their first glimpse of the new Hell on Wheels. Sergeant Coyote and the Pawnees parted ways here with Will and Homer and rode cross-country toward the new Army post visible along the north bank of Crow Creek, two miles to the west of the town.
What spread out before him wasn’t the Cheyenne Will remembered when he’d ridden out with his uncle’s team just two weeks ago. The peaceful meadow on which General Dodge had hosted the Fourth of July celebration no longer existed. Hell on Wheels had moved to the junction of Crow Creek and Clear Creek.
Will and Homer continued down the long ridge and two hours later rode up the new town’s dusty main street, already rutted from traffic. Will led Buck, to keep him fresh for the race. Homer led Ruby.
“Homer, when General Rawlins said there was to be a horse race in Cheyenne, I didn’t expect to see this.” Now approaching mid-morning, some all-night drunks were still sleeping it off on the boardwalks. “It looks just like Julesburg.”
“I ’spect that’s the way it’s gonna be all the way west till the railroad gets built. These rascals are gonna stay right close to the workers so’s they can steal their wages.”
Will pointed to Benjamin Abrams General Store. “After I collect the prize money for winning the race we’ll stop in and buy cigars for Uncle Sean . . . and jawbreakers for me.” He laughed at the face Homer made.
The Lucky Dollar Saloon occupied a prominent spot in the center of the new town. Strung between the saloon and a livery stable on the opposite side of the street a banner flapped in the morning breeze. Painted letters in black proclaimed it to be the START–FINISH.
“That’d be the livery stable where the general tole us to go for the startin’ of the race,” Homer said.
“Right. We’ve got a little over an hour before race time, since it’s supposed to start at noon.”
Will and Homer dismounted in a corral that abutted the livery stable. Will fed and watered Buck. He curried Buck’s coat until it shined and combed out his mane, ridding it of tangles. After he’d groomed Buck, Will munched on hardtack and jerky while waiting on the starting time.
Spectators gathered in clusters along both sides of the street. Greetings and challenges flew back and forth across the road. Hucksters peddled food and drink. A burly bartender stepped out of the Lucky Dollar and chased the overnight drunks off the boardwalk. A piano banged away in a nearby dance hall.
“ ’Bout time to head to the startin’ line,” Homer said.
“Yes, it’s time.” Will settled the McClellan saddle on Buck. He’d stripped it of all its accoutrements and given his carbine and revolver to Homer. He didn’t want Buck burdened with unnecessary weight.
Will tightened the cinch and spoke softly to the Morgan. “Buck, we’re going to show these folks how fast you can run today, aren’t we?”
Buck whinnied and shook his mane causing it to glisten in the sunlight. Will laughed and patted the horse’s neck. “That’s right, boy. We’re going to win this race.”
He looked across the saddle and froze. Peering back at him from alongside the Lucky Dollar Saloon was a scrawny man in a bowler hat. A scar ran down his left cheek.
Will turned quickly to Homer. “You see that?”
“See what?”
When Will looked back the face was gone. Maybe he was imagining things. He could’ve sworn he’d seen Paddy O’Hannigan.
Will climbed into the saddle and gathered up the reins. He pulled his slouch hat squarely down onto his head—didn’t want it blowing off during the race. Homer opened the gate and Will guided Buck out into the street and took up a position under the START–FINISH banner.
While he sat there, he assessed the competition. The only horse out of the other five capable of giving Buck a race was a bay that stood slightly taller than the Morgan. This was Kavanagh’s thoroughbred—a fractious stallion. The horse’s rider was a small man, decked out in a yellow silk jockey’s shirt emblazoned with the black letters LD. The Lucky Dollar’s jockey swished a riding whip and sawed the bridle to keep the thoroughbred in line. The horse backed and sidestepped, and bumped into Buck.
Buck whinnied and reared his head. “Can’t you control that animal?” Will hissed through gritted teeth, holding Buck’s reins firmly.
“Ah, now, could it be that this is just too much horse for that little Morgan, sonny?” The jockey’s brogue confirmed that he was one of Kavanagh’s Irish flunkies. “Sure, and that horse of yers don’t stand no chance, boy!”
“We’ll see,” Will said. He leaned forward and patted Buck’s neck to calm him.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” A booming voice drew Will’s attention to the boardwalk in front of the saloon. A stocky man in a fancy suit stood beside Sally Whitworth—the same man he’d seen talking with Sally in Julesburg the day he’d encountered her in Abrams General Store.
“I’m Mayor Mortimer Kavanagh. Welcome to Cheyenne and the big race!” He shouted so the gathered crowd could hear him. “Someday folks will come from all over the world to enjoy frontier festivities in Cheyenne. Today you’re witnessing the first of many to come.”
Shouts and jeers erupted from the spectators. People waved wads of paper bills above their heads indicating their willingness to make a bet.
Kavanagh stepped to the edge of the boardwalk and spoke in a normal voice directly to Will. “I’m glad that General Rawlins accepted my challenge. But I don’t think that Morgan has a chance, young fellow.”
Kavanagh stepped back and raised his voice again. “That bay stallion is my thoroughbred and I’m covering all bets against him.”
Will returned Kavanagh’s glare.
“Attention, riders,” Kavanagh continued. “The course is a five-mile circuit. When I give the signal, you’ll ride east and circle around that low hill yonder to the north.” He pointed to the northeast. “On the far side of that hill, you swing west and proceed until you reach the main gateway at Fort Russell. There you turn south and descend to the bed of Crow Creek, where you turn east and race back into town. Every half mile are two red flags, where I have stationed an observer. Any rider fails to pass between the flags is disqualified. The first one to pass back under the banner here is the winner. Are you ready?”
The crowd roared. Kavanagh raised a revolver. “I’ll fire on the count of three.”
The horses edged close together under the banner. Some riders turned to stare at the upraised revolver. Will and the Irish jockey kept their eyes straight ahead. They would go on the sound of the shot—not be distracted watching the starting gun.
Kavanagh began his count. “One!”
Will spoke softly to Buck. “Five miles. That’s a piece of cake, Buck. That’s where Kavanagh has made his mistake. His thoroughbred may be fast in the beginning, but he won’t have your stamina.”
“Two!”
Will leaned forward in the stirrups and took a deep breath.
BANG!
Will gave Buck a kick with his heels and the horse leaped forward. The Morgan and the thoroughbred were first across the line—the others a pace behind.
The racers galloped down the center of the main street of Cheyenne amid cheers from the crowd. Men tossed hats into the air. Women waved scarves above their heads.
The Irish jockey set a face pace with the thoroughbred. Will held Buck in check, but stayed well ahead of the other riders. Will knew the race would be between Kavanagh’s horse and his. And Will intended to win.
The red flags made following the course easy. After the riders made the turn to the north and headed for the back side of the hill they left behind any vestige of a prepared road. From here on the course was a cross-country ride. Here was where the Morgan would gain on the thoroughbred.
Will leaned over Buck’s neck and urged him to go easy. “Wait, Buck. Wait.” He stayed within striking distance of the thoroughbred, allowing the Irish jockey and the bay stallion to set the pace.
Will looked back. The other horses were falling behind.
When the thoroughbred approached the main gateway into Fort D. A. Russell, Will released his tight hold on the reins. He touched Buck’s flanks with his heels. “Now, Buck. Go!”
The Morgan lengthened his stride and pulled alongside the thoroughbred. Both horses made the turn at the fort neck and neck. Dozens of soldiers were gathered near the gate shouting and waving encouragement to the lead riders.
Will and the Irish jockey raced south toward the bank of Crow Creek. Both horses slowed as they dropped down the steep embankment to the creek bottom. They were now out of
view of the soldiers and the other four racers. Two red flags at the creek’s edge marked where the course turned east for the final leg back into Cheyenne.
Buck had learned early to pass between the two flags, and Will didn’t have to haul on the reins to effect the sharp turn to the left at the creek’s edge. The thoroughbred and Buck raced neck and neck over the soft ground along the creek bed. Here was where Will knew that Buck’s sure-footed gait would pull them in front.
Small trees and scruffy brush lined the creek’s edge. The two horses swung wide in a dogleg to the left to get around a large clump of trees that grew farther up the bank.
Without warning the Irish jockey lashed out at Will’s face with his whip. The leather quirt cut into his forehead.
“Ow!” He raised his hands reflexively to protect his face. In doing so he pulled up on the reins and Buck slowed his pace. The thoroughbred surged ahead. Blood trickled into Will’s eyes from the cut made by the whip.
Will swiped across his eyes with his shirt sleeve to clear his blood-blurred vision. That’s when he saw a half dozen Indians on ponies surge out of the clump of trees and dash against Buck, jostling him sideways. A familiar-looking Indian with a blackened nose and chin raised a tomahawk. Will ducked. The blow glanced down his temple and knocked him from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, the wind forced out of him.
Blood oozed into his eyes. He squinted and reached for his revolver. It wasn’t there—he forgot he’d left it with Homer.
“Kill him!” Will knew that Irish brogue—Paddy O’Hannigan.
“No killing!” Will recognized that voice too—Lone Eagle.
“Sure, and Kavanagh don’t care what happens to the rider,” Paddy said.
Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 16
