Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Read online

  “I’m looking for my uncle, Sean Corcoran. He works for General Grenville Dodge, chief engineer of the Union Pacific Railroad.”

  “Don’t know your uncle, but that was General Dodge you ran into at the front door.”

  “That was General Dodge? He isn’t wearing a uniform.”

  “He’s not in the Army anymore. Folks call him ‘general’ out of respect. Has an office on the floor above the bank.” Rogers pointed up with the banknote. “He stopped in here to inquire about a horse I’m stabling for him. He’ll be heading for the ferry now to go to his home over in Council Bluffs.”

  “Please hurry, sir. I have to talk with General Dodge.”

  Rogers handed the bill to the teller. “Give him the change, Harry.”

  The teller counted out a stack of coins and pushed them across the counter. Will scooped them into the cap pouch, dropped the pouch into his haversack, and dashed out the door.

  Jumping down the steps two at a time, he raced toward the ferry crossing. He dodged around wagon traffic and horseback riders, who shouted at him to get out of the way.

  He wasn’t going to make it. The ferry had already pulled away from the landing. He skidded to a stop at the end of the dock, gasping for breath.

  General Dodge leaned against the vessel’s railing, talking with the ferryman. Will cupped his hands around his mouth. “General Dodge!”

  The general looked in his direction, waved, then returned to his conversation.

  “Dang it!” Will banged a fist against the wooden bollard where the ferry tied up. “Sorry, Mama,” he muttered.

  Walking off the dock, he trudged back up the road that led from the river through the business section of Omaha. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to talk to General Dodge. He choked and coughed on dust churned up by a passing buggy.

  Tipping his father’s old canteen, its canvas cover still faintly stenciled 7th Iowa, to his lips, a drop trickled into his mouth. He shook it. Nothing came out. His stomach growled. He squinted at the sun low on the horizon. Nearly supper time. Not only was he thirsty, he was hungry.

  He had the twenty dollars in coins, but half of them would be needed for his railroad ticket. Posters plastered on walls around town advertised that the one-way ticket to the end of the line cost ten dollars. Not sure what lay ahead, he didn’t want to part with any of his money for food or drink—just yet.

  Someplace west of here he hoped to find his uncle—had to find his uncle. If his uncle signed those guardianship transfer papers, he’d be committed to seven years of servitude as a blacksmith apprentice. The thought of becoming a blacksmith filled him with dread. He dreamed of the excitement of helping to build the first transcontinental railroad. He craved the freedom to determine his own destiny.

  But what would he do if he couldn’t find his uncle in time—before his uncle signed those papers?

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  Passing through the last of the business section, Will came upon a row of dwellings. There should be a well here. At least he could fill his canteen and quench his thirst. He’d gone hungry a lot during his four-week trek across Iowa. Being hungry wasn’t a comfortable feeling—but he could do it.

  In the backyard of a two-story house surrounded by a white picket fence, he spotted a stout woman hanging laundry. A bonnet concealed her face. “Ma’am?” he called.

  She didn’t respond. He leaned over the fence and raised his voice. “Ma’am!”

  The woman looked his way. Strands of white hair poked from beneath the wings of her bonnet. Will hoisted his canteen. “Ma’am, might I trouble you to fill my canteen at your well?”

  The woman peered at him for several moments before answering. “Yah. Come. The well be here in back.” Her lilting accent reminded him of a Swedish woman he’d known in Burlington.

  In the backyard, Will cranked a bucket of water up from the bottom of the well and pushed his canteen into it. When the gurgling down the spout stopped, he tipped it up and gulped the chilly liquid. He filled the canteen again and tapped the cork stopper into the neck.

  Behind the house he spotted a woodpile. An ax leaned against it. “Ma’am, I’ll chop that firewood for a bite to eat.”

  The woman nodded. “Yah, that be good trade.” She gathered up her laundry basket and disappeared into the house.

  He laid the first log across an old stump that served as a chopping block and attacked the log with a vigorous swing. Three swings later the log split in two. Chopping firewood had been one of his chores at home. He could probably do the job in his sleep.

  As he worked to diminish the log pile, he imagined what it’d be like to swing a hammer against an anvil. Why’d Judge Sampson think it was his job to decide Will’s future, anyway? He swung the ax harder, almost splitting that log with one blow.

  He had to find his uncle—had to talk him out of agreeing with the judge. “I don’t want to be a blacksmith apprentice!” One more fierce blow with the ax and the log flew apart.

  “Who be you talking to out there?” the woman asked him from the kitchen window.

  “Nobody, ma’am.” He gritted his teeth and laid another log on the block.

  Will chopped for over an hour until he’d reduced the logs to a size suitable for a cookstove. When he finished, he knocked on the back door. “I’m done, ma’am.”

  The woman stepped out onto the porch. “Yah. And good job it looks, too. Come in.”

  Will followed the woman into the kitchen. She motioned to a chair at a table. “What be your name, son?”

  “Will. Will Braddock.” He sat where she’d pointed.

  “I be Mrs. Svenson . . . Helga Svenson . . . housekeeper for Mr. Rogers.”

  “The banker?”

  “Yah. You know Mr. Rogers?”

  “Not really, ma’am. I just met him at the bank today.”

  She set a plate of stew in front of him. Will inhaled the aroma of beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions. He raised the first bite to his mouth and reminded himself to chew before swallowing. His mother had frequently criticized him for eating too fast.

  “Mm.” My goodness, he hadn’t eaten this well in days.

  Mrs. Svenson sliced an end from a loaf of bread and placed it beside his plate. She pushed a crock of butter to him. Will buttered the bread and sopped up the broth.

  “Delicious, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “You be welcome.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Why be a young boy like you in Omaha?”

  “I’m not so young. I’m . . . fourteen.” He decided not to tell her the same story he’d told the bank teller.

  “Fourteen. Yah, not so young . . . maybe.” She grinned.

  Will told her about his mother’s recent death and that he’d come to Omaha to find General Dodge, who he hoped could help him locate his uncle.

  “How did you get here?” she asked.

  “At first I rode Chester, our old plow horse. But he wore out and died. After that I hitched a ride on a farmer’s wagon . . . whenever I could. Mostly I walked.”

  Mrs. Svenson replaced Will’s stew plate with a smaller one containing a slice of apple pie.

  “Nebraska is yust not safe like Iowa,” she said. “Savages be attacking the railroad all the time. You can defend yourself?”

  “I have a revolver.”

  A few minutes later, Will scraped the fork across the plate and licked it clean. He ran his tongue around his lips savoring the final tastes of the pie. “My mama was a good cook. Just like you.”

  “Thank you, Will. That be nice compliment.”

  Will pushed back from the table and stood.

  “Where be you going tonight?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Find a tree to sleep under, like I’ve been doing.”

  “You sleep in the stable tonight. Yust be careful of that big gelding. General Dodge be coming in the morning to fetch him.”

  “I will, ma’am.” Mr. Rogers had mentioned he was stabling the general’s horse. Now t
he general was coming here in the morning. He couldn’t ask for anything better.

  Will opened the back door, but Mrs. Svenson caught his sleeve. “Wait.”

  She hurried across the kitchen and returned with two red apples. “Horses like apples, yah? One for horse, one for you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Will jumped off the back porch, gathered up his haversack, canteen, and hat from where he’d left them beside the woodpile, and headed toward the stable. While he’d eaten supper, the sun had set. He pulled one of the squeaky stable doors open far enough to slip through, stepped inside, and eased the door closed behind him. He paused to let his vision adjust to the dim light.

  A horse snorted and shuffled nearby. There were no windows in the stable, but twilight filtered through cracks between the wall boards. In a stall, he made out the shape of a horse.

  “Hello, boy.” He spoke in the same soothing voice he’d used to talk to Chester. “Easy, fellow.”

  When Will entered the stall, the horse tried to step back, but was restrained by a halter rope tied to the front rail. “Easy, now.” He stroked the horse’s withers. The hair rippled beneath his hand in shivered response. He held out one of the apples, keeping his fingers and thumb pressed together, so the horse couldn’t nip them. The horse devoured the apple in two chomps.

  “Pretty good, huh?” The horse reached for the second apple, but Will pulled it behind him. “No you don’t. That’s mine.”

  Will ran his fingers through the mane, encountering numerous tangles. “Well, boy. In the morning I’ll groom you up so you’ll look nice to greet General Dodge. What do you say to that?”

  The horse whinnied and tossed his head.

  “You and I seem to get along all right, fellow. Guess you won’t mind if I bunk in the loft tonight.”

  An old buggy sat against the opposite wall. Mr. Rogers must’ve kept a horse for the buggy at one time, but there was no evidence of a second horse now.

  He climbed to the loft, ate his apple, and washed it down with sips from his canteen. He took the revolver out of his haversack and weighed the heavy gun in his hand. How many Rebels had his father killed with it before he’d lost his own life? What was it like to shoot another man?

  Maybe he should load the pistol—but it was dark, he was tired, his belly was full, and the threat of attack was far to the west. He’d load it in the morning. He returned the gun to the haversack and raked some stale straw into a pile with his foot. Yawning, he stretched out on the makeshift bed, pulled his hat over his face, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  Will fidgeted. Surely it wasn’t morning already. He pushed his hat back off his face and sat up. A faint voice coaxing the horse to be quiet came from the floor of the stable. Shadows cast by the light of a lantern flitted across the ceiling.

  Uh-oh, Mr. Rogers had come to check on the horse. Had Mrs. Svenson told the banker she’d given Will permission to sleep in the loft?

  “Ah, now, boy. Easy.” The Irish brogue was distinctive. It wasn’t Mr. Rogers.

  Will inched toward the edge of the loft. Below him, a slender fellow stood in the stall holding a lantern above the brim of his bowler hat.

  “Ah, now, boy. Ye be still.”

  The lantern’s glow bounced off the horse’s black coat. The horse turned his head back to look at the man, revealing a large white star blazed on its forehead between wide-open eyes. The horse pricked his ears forward, snorted, and stamped a hoof. He reared his head up and away from the light, pulling tightly against the halter rope.

  “Easy, boy. Sure, and we won’t be taking long doing this now.” The fellow grasped the halter rope—but the horse pulled back, tightening the line even more. The Irishman set the lantern atop the end post of the stall and again grasped the rope with both hands.

  Oh no! A horse thief! How could Will convince General Dodge to help him find his uncle if he sat here and did nothing to stop someone from stealing the general’s horse?

  Will pulled his revolver out of his haversack and leaned out over the edge of the loft. “Stop!” He hoped his quivering voice didn’t convey his fear. “Leave that horse alone.”

  The Irishman released his grip on the rope and looked up. The lantern light revealed the thief to be a youth. A long scar ran across his left cheek, from the base of his ear to the edge of his mouth. A saber might make a cut like that, Will thought.

  The would-be horse thief grinned, the scar wrinkled. “And who be saying so, now?” His open mouth disclosed stained and broken teeth.

  Will extended the pistol and double cocked the hammer. Two loud clicks echoed through the confines of the stable. “Me . . . and this Colt.” Could the thief tell the revolver wasn’t loaded?

  The grin disappeared from the Irishman’s face. “Hold on there. Ye seem to be having me at a mite of a disadvantage.”

  The Irishman reached for his lantern, but the horse lunged sideways and bumped him against the side of the stall. The jolt knocked the lantern off the post.

  The glass globe shattered. Liquid fire spewed from the lantern’s oil. The straw scattered about the stall’s floor burst into flame.

  The Irishman bolted out of the stable.

  Fire raced across the floor and climbed the far wall. The old buggy erupted in flames. The horse reared and slashed at the stall’s boards with his hooves.

  Will rolled off the loft and landed belly first on the floor. Oomph! He sat up, spitting strands of straw. He slid the pistol under his belt.

  “Easy, fellow. Easy.” Squaring his hat on his head, he got to his feet. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  The horse’s eyes bulged—nostrils flared. The black head reared back from Will’s reaching hand, screaming his whinny. Will needed to calm the horse if he hoped to get him out of the stall.

  The fire jumped from the far wall to the loft. The dry straw where Will had slept ignited. The reds and yellows of the flames reflected in the horse’s eyes.

  Will grabbed a saddle blanket from the stall’s railing and flipped it over the horse’s head. The horse settled once he could no longer see the flames. “That’s it, boy.”

  The fire burned hot against Will’s face. Smoke filled the stable. He choked. His eyes burned. He coughed hard. “Come on fellow. Easy now.”

  He couldn’t untie the halter rope. The horse’s rearing and pulling had cinched it tight. Will leaned into the horse with all his weight, forcing the animal to step forward. He unsnapped the rope from the halter beneath the horse’s jaw, gripped the halter strap with one hand, and steadied the blanket over the horse’s eyes with the other. He backed the horse out of the stall and led him through the stable doors.

  Will gasped for air. He faced into the breeze and blinked his eyes to clear the smoke.

  Fire leaped with a roar through the roof of the building. The timbers sagged, groaning against one another. With a whoosh the entire roof collapsed into the stable.

  Whoom! Whoom!

  Will’s pistol ammunition and percussion caps detonated in rapid succession, accentuating the roar of the fire and the crashing of timbers.

  “No.” Will moaned. His pistol was useless without ammunition, but that was the least of his worries. The haversack had contained his money—the coins he’d obtained at the bank. How was he going to buy a ticket?

  “Oh my God, the stable’s on fire!” Mr. Rogers leaned out of an upper window in the house. “And that boy’s stealing the general’s horse!”

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  Will sniffed the sleeve of his shirt. Whew! Would he ever get rid of that smoke smell? Maybe he should’ve jumped into the Missouri River last night and washed everything he wore. But after running away from banker Rogers’s house, he couldn’t think of anything to do other than lay low. Mr. Rogers might have the sheriff out looking for him right now.

  Omaha’s big railroad yard spread out before him. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen this road to follow. What good would
it do to wind up at the depot? He couldn’t buy a ticket—that’s for sure.

  He kicked a rock out of the middle of the road with his scruffy boot. “Dang it!” He didn’t bother to apologize to his mother’s memory this time. He meant it. What a mess he’d made of things. He’d tried to do a good deed, and look where it’d gotten him. Now how would he get General Dodge to help him find his uncle? Mr. Rogers was sure to tell the general Will had tried to steal his horse.

  Why hadn’t he thought to slip a few coins in his pants pocket yesterday? His father’s old haversack was gone—and his canteen. He didn’t have any ammunition or percussion caps to load the pistol. He looked down at his waist. That may not be a good idea to have the revolver so visible. He pulled the tail of his shirt out of his pants and let if fall down over the outside of his trousers.

  “Out of the way, son!”

  A buckboard rumbled down the road toward Will, forcing him to step into the ditch.

  General Dodge sat ramrod straight on the buckboard’s seat, staring straight ahead, flicking the reins over the horse’s back. An officer wearing a blue Army uniform, with two stars on his shoulder boards, sat beside the railroad’s chief engineer. Both men wore full beards and bushy mustaches—but the similarities ended there. Dodge’s cheeks glowed from a robust suntan. The other man’s pale cheeks sagged beneath sad eyes.

  As the buggy drew abreast, the uniformed man covered his mouth with a handkerchief and coughed. Blood speckled the handkerchief when he lowered it. Will remembered his mother suffering from that same harsh cough.

  Tied to the tailgate of the buckboard, trotted the black horse Will had rescued from the fire. Its strong shoulder and quarter muscles quivered with each stride. The animal held its head high, nostrils flared wide, short ears pricked forward. Large, bright eyes observed its surroundings with evident intelligence. In the bright morning sunlight, Will identified the horse as a Morgan.

  Maybe here was his chance to get General Dodge’s attention. Will opened his mouth to call out, but closed it. Maybe he shouldn’t attract attention to himself. Dodge might have him arrested. How could he prove he hadn’t intended to steal the horse? He crouched down.