Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 4

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  Mid-afternoon General Dodge’s train slowed to a crawl. Will leaned out the door of the stable car to see what was going on. Hundreds—no, thousands—of shaggy buffalo covered the plains on both sides of the rails. The engineer blew the whistle in a long, uninterrupted wail and clanged the bell repeatedly, trying to scare the animals away. The locomotive inched forward, shoving the beasts off the tracks with its cowcatcher.

  The passengers in the coach blasted away at the herd with rifles and pistols. They couldn’t miss, the buffalo were packed so closely together. The carcasses remained where they fell—not a slab of meat, nor a single hide taken. Will had never purposely shot an animal and left it. What a waste.

  It took an hour to clear the herd and regain normal speed. The train proceeded west, pausing late in the afternoon to refuel at the new town of North Platte, Nebraska. Here, where the North and South Platte Rivers joined to form the Platte River, the tracks angled southwest and followed the north bank of the South Platte on the final leg of its journey to Julesburg.

  Will occupied himself wiping off his revolver with the tail of his shirt. His uncle Sean had brought his father’s pistol to his mother when he’d escorted his father’s body back to Burlington following the Battle of Atlanta. Will’s father had taught him how to shoot the family’s single-shot musket, but he’d never fired the pistol. He could hit what he aimed at with the musket. He wasn’t so sure about the revolver. He returned the handgun to his waistband.

  Lightning streaked through billowing clouds visible to the west. The rumbling, creaking, groaning of the train drowned out any thunder. The wind blowing through the doorway turned chilly. Will tugged on the heavy car door, but the door refused to close.

  He reached out, grasped the outside door handle, and placed a foot against the doorjamb. He pushed back with his other foot just as the engine’s wheels screeched on the rails from hard braking.

  He flew out the open door.

  “Aiyee, aiyee, aiyee!” Indian war cries competed with the engine’s screaming whistle.

  He hit the ground with a thump and tumbled down the slope of the roadbed. Each roll jammed the pistol painfully into his stomach. He ended on his back in the bottom of the ditch alongside the tracks.

  The passenger car rolled past above him. He raised himself onto his elbows. At the front end of the train, sparks shot from between the locomotive’s locked driving wheels and the rails. Each railcar jammed into the one in front of it with a succession of bangs. By the time the train stopped, Will lay twenty yards behind it.

  He rolled over, raised to a crouch, and retrieved his hat. His belly ached where the revolver had pounded into it.

  A short distance ahead of him, passengers fired from the coach at a half dozen Indians who raced by on ponies. One Indian pealed away from the others and launched himself into the stable car.

  Will took a step toward the train. A shot whizzed overhead. He ducked. He hadn’t been shot at before.

  Shots zinged between the coach and the Indians. He realized they weren’t aiming at him. No one knew he was in the ditch.

  He crouched low and trotted parallel to the tracks, between the train and the attackers, staying in the ditch. Ahead of him, five horses jumped one after another from the stable car. Then Buck, with the Indian astride, leaped from the car. The warrior leaned over Buck’s neck and rapped the horse’s flank with a long stick.

  What was going on?

  Rifle shots blasted from the passenger car. Indians returned the fire with arrows and bullets. From time to time glass shattered when a shot broke a window pane in the coach.

  Will continued up the length of the train, passing each of the flat cars, until he reached the open doorway of the stable car. Ahead of the locomotive’s cowcatcher he saw a rail jutting off to the side. The Indians had pried up the tracks to force the train to stop. The engineer and fireman fired weapons from the locomotive’s cab. Passengers and the conductor shot from the rear. But the midsection, where he stood, remained quiet.

  The Indians had ridden entirely around the train once and now raced past the front of the locomotive again. They ceased firing at the coach and veered away from the train, herding the stolen horses ahead of them, shouting and whirling blankets above their heads. Black paint obscured the lower portion of the lead warrior’s face. His white pony’s flanks bore black imprints in the shape of paws.

  Will noticed something peculiar about one of the riders. He didn’t wave a blanket. Instead of a feathered headband, he wore a bowler hat. The rider turned and looked in Will’s direction. A scar ran down his left cheek. Paddy O’Hannigan!

  A shot from the passenger car found a mark. An Indian screamed and fell to the ground, dragging his pony down with him. One of the other warriors swung back and aided the wounded man in swinging up onto the rear of his pony.

  The Indians, the Irishman, and the captured horses raced east. The Indian riding Buck suddenly swerved away from the group and rode south, toward the South Platte River. Why was he separating from the larger group? Why was he taking Buck in a different direction?

  Will had to stop that Indian from stealing Buck!

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  The wounded Indian’s pony got back to its feet. Will edged up beside the animal. The pony eyed him with a cocked head. Before it could back away, Will grabbed its horsehair bridle. He tried to mount the pony from the left, but the animal shied away. Then he remembered reading in one of his dime novels that Indians mounted from the right. He ducked beneath the pony’s neck and threw himself onto its back from the opposite side.

  Will kicked his heels into the pony’s flanks and took off in pursuit of Buck. But how could an Indian pony catch a Morgan?

  Will leaned forward, hoping to reduce the wind resistance. He kicked the pony again and again. Still, the gap between the pony and Buck increased.

  Buck raced in easy, long strides down the slope toward the river’s edge, a mile away. Suddenly, Buck slowed. The ground closer to the river was broken by gullies. The Indian picked his path more carefully around thick underbrush, evidently concerned with providing Buck secure footing.

  Will’s pony was well suited for running over broken ground and around obstacles. The Indians would have trained it to pursue buffalo, dodging and shifting to stay abreast of a stampeding herd.

  Ahead of him, Will saw Buck stiffen his forelegs and slide out of sight down the embankment near the river’s edge. The pony reached the embankment and leaped forward, landing on the sandy riverbank on spread legs. He’d almost caught up.

  Will chased the Indian along the river’s edge. The Indian slapped Buck’s flank with the long stick. Flecks of foam flew from Buck’s mouth.

  What was that he’d heard General Dodge say about getting Buck to stop? Whistle. That’s it! Maybe he could get Buck’s attention if he whistled.

  “Tseeeee, Tse, Tse, Tse.” Too weak. Will had never been a good whistler. He wasn’t going to get Buck’s attention if the horse couldn’t hear his whistle.

  He blew harder through his teeth. “Tseeeee, Tse, Tse, Tse.”

  Buck’s ears laid back. Maybe he’d heard that one.

  Each pounding stride of the pony’s hooves jolted Will. He needed to stop the jarring, even if he gave up ground. He pulled the pony to a halt.

  He sat up straight, sucked his lips back against his teeth, and blew. “Tseeeee! Tse! Tse! Tse!”

  The Morgan threw up his head, pricked his ears forward, and jammed his forelegs into the ground. Buck stopped so abruptly the Indian pitched over the horse’s head in a tumbling, twisting somersault. The Indian’s arms flailed outward. The stick flew from his hand. He landed feet down facing back toward Will—and sank to his waist.

  Quicksand!

  Will’s whistle not only resulted in the Indian being pitched off, it saved Buck from taking a fatal step into the grasping, wet sand.

  Will walked the pony forward, reached out and patted B
uck on his flank. “Good boy.” He slipped off the pony and stepped to the edge of the quicksand. Far enough. He didn’t want to become mired himself. He drew his pistol from his waistband.

  The Indian stroked at the quicksand with his arms, trying to pull himself forward.

  Will double cocked the pistol. “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”

  The Indian stopped stroking and stared at Will. “You won’t shoot.”

  “You speak English.”

  “Of course. I went to school . . . just like you.”

  A band of red cloth gathered the Indian’s black hair behind his head. A single feather hung down behind his left ear. Two horizontal streaks of paint outlined his cheekbones, the upper one vermillion, the lower yellow. Identical paint streaks outlined scars on each pectoral muscle. The scars were new—puckered and raw. The Indian’s skin was browner than Will’s suntanned skin, but not red. He was certainly not the “red man” of the dime novels. Encircling his neck he wore a leather thong on which were strung several talons.

  “What makes you think I won’t shoot?” Will asked.

  “Gun’s not loaded. I can see into the empty chambers.”

  Will released the hammer and jammed the revolver back into his waistband. That’s the second time he’d pointed an empty gun at someone.

  “No need to shoot. Just watch me sink.” The Indian raised his arms and sank to his chest.

  “Why’d you steal the horses?”

  “A scrawny Irishman promised whiskey for the black horse.” He nodded toward Buck.

  “Paddy O’Hannigan?”

  “That’s him.”

  Will had never killed a man, and watching this Indian drown in the quicksand would be murder. He didn’t want that hanging over his head. He leaned over the edge of the quicksand and reached toward the Indian. It was too far.

  “Use the coup stick.”

  “The what?”

  “The coup stick. I dropped it.” He pointed behind Will to the long stick.

  Will picked up the coup stick and extended it toward the Indian’s outstretched hand. The limber end drooped, like a buggy whip, and fell short. Will whipped it gently and the end brushed the Indian’s outstretched fingers. Still too far.

  The Indian lifted the necklace of talons over his head. “Try again.”

  Will flipped the coup stick at the same time the Indian flicked the necklace. The necklace wrapped around the end of the coup stick. The talons tangled and hooked together. The Indian tugged and cinched the extension tight.

  Will gouged a hole in the grass with his heels, braced himself, and pulled. If he slipped, he’d be dragged in with the Indian.

  The Indian wriggled his torso to and fro, working against the drag of the quicksand, while Will took short steps back from the edge. Will’s hands grew sweaty, the handle of the coup stick slippery. He tightened his grip and pulled harder. The quicksand relinquished its grasp. The Indian surged from the prison with a sucking noise and staggered to his feet. The coup stick slid through Will’s fingers and he fell backward onto his butt.

  The slender, muscular figure, stood over him. Will’s eyes focused on a mud-covered knife at the Indian’s waist.

  The Indian followed Will’s gaze. “I will not kill someone who just saved my life.”

  Will blew his breath out with a whoosh.

  “Cheyenne are fierce people . . . but not ungrateful.”

  “You’re Cheyenne?”

  “Yes.” He sat down beside Will.

  The two stared at the quicksand. The surface had returned to its deceptive smoothness, leaving no evidence of the danger ready to trap the next victim.

  “I suppose you’ll get to keep the other horses,” Will said. “I’m glad I was able to stop you from stealing Buck, though. I guess that means your people won’t get their whiskey. That’s probably a good thing from the white man’s viewpoint.”

  “White man’s viewpoint!” The Indian snorted. “What about the Indian’s viewpoint? This is our land. The railroad brings white settlers who dig up the prairie with plows, destroying the grassland. They shoot the buffalo, wasting the meat and hides my people need. When the Cheyenne fight back, the white man cries for help from the ‘Great White Father.’ Then the President sends soldiers to kill my people and force us off our land.”

  “Haven’t you heard of Manifest Destiny?” Will asked.

  “Humph! They preached that doctrine at the boarding school in Saint Louis. Politicians proclaiming it’s the white man’s right to expand across the continent does not make it right.”

  “But the Indians signed treaties. The white man has gained the right to the land.”

  “Most Indians do not speak English. They do not understand what they sign.”

  “But when a chief signs a treaty it has to be honored.”

  “One chief does not speak for all Indians. Each tribe has many bands, and each band has more than one chief. If one band does not like a treaty signed by another, they don’t abide by it. Indians do not have a central government like whites.”

  Will studied the Indian beside him. “You learned English in boarding school?”

  “My father taught me first. He’s a mountain man.”

  “A fur trapper?”

  The Indian nodded. “Bullfrog Charlie Munro is a famous trapper. My mother, Star Dancer, was the daughter of Tall Bear, a great Cheyenne chief. She wanted me to learn white man’s ways. She thought the Cheyenne and the white man should live in peace together . . . like she lived with my father.”

  “You said she was the daughter of a great chief?”

  “She caught a sickness from a passing wagon train and died. I ran away from school when I learned about it. I did not want to be forced to become a farmer. I want to be free. I am Cheyenne.”

  Will understood the desire for freedom. He told the Indian about his search for his uncle.

  The Indian rose and stepped into the river. He washed the mud from his body. The paint on his chest streaked. “I am Lone Eagle.”

  Will stood and extended his hand. “Will Braddock.”

  Lone Eagle shook Will’s hand. “Speak any Indian languages, Will?”

  Will shook his head.

  “Learn sign language. Next time you may not find an English-speaking Indian.” Lone Eagle grinned.

  “How old are you, Lone Eagle?” Will asked.

  “Fifteen.”

  “I guessed we were about the same age. I’ll be fifteen on my next birthday.”

  Lone Eagle nodded.

  Will pointed to Lone Eagle’s chest. “Our reverend preached once that an Indian coming of age performs the heathen Sun Dance and mutilates himself. Is that how you got the scars?”

  “Heathen? Not to Cheyenne. I did the Sun Dance last month. My grandfather cut my chest muscles and pushed bone skewers through the cuts. He tied leather thongs to each end of the skewer and hung me on a post. Four days I danced around that post. No food. No water. I pulled back all the time. When the bones tore through my chest muscles, I became a man.”

  Will stared at the scars. The pain of the Sun Dance was hard to imagine.

  “I changed my name then.” Lone Eagle rubbed a hand across his scars. “My mother called me Little Eagle. Now I am Lone Eagle. Now I am truly Cheyenne.”

  Lone Eagle picked up his coup stick and unwrapped the eagle talon necklace from it.

  “What kind of weapon is that?” Will asked.

  “Not a weapon.” Lone Eagle tapped Will on the shoulder with the limber end of the coup stick. “If a member of my tribe witnesses me doing that, it counts as a coup. Indians do not have to kill an enemy . . . just touch him. Humiliate him, to claim victory. But I did not touch you to humiliate you, but to show you how it is done.”

  Lone Eagle untied the talisman’s thong. A knot separated each of eight talons strung along the length of the rawhide. He slid a talon off each end of the thong. “You saved my life from the sinking sand. I owe you.”

  Lone Eagle removed the pony’s
woven horsehair bridle and cut a short length from it. He returned the shortened, but still serviceable, bridle to the pony’s mouth, looped it around the lower jaw, and tucked the ends back through the loop. The Indian bridle was a simpler solution to controlling a horse than a metal curb bit—Will would have to remember how to fashion one.

  Lone Eagle threaded the two talons onto the length of horsehair, knotted it, and dropped the talisman around Will’s neck.

  “May they bring you luck,” Lone Eagle said. “I used one to pick the lock at the school the night I took back my freedom. And now their strength helped pull me free from the quicksand.”

  Will touched the talons. “Thank you.”

  Lone Eagle retied his thong around his neck. “You take the black horse you call Buck. I will take the pony.” The mixed-blood swung onto the pony, slapped its flank with his coup stick, and raced away.

  A flash of lightning illuminated black clouds that obscured the setting sun. Thunder clapped. The storm he’d watched developing from the stable car was upon him. Drops of rain pattered Will’s cheeks and hands. The drops grew larger, pelting him hard.

  From the bank of the South Platte, he couldn’t see the Union Pacific’s tracks. Two short blasts of the engine’s whistle told him that General Dodge’s train was underway again. Will and Buck stood alone in the storm.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  “It’s no use, Papa!” Jennifer McNabb shouted. “The wheel’s jammed.”

  She pointed to a large, flat rock that barely broke the surface of the shallow creek flowing around the heavy covered wagon.

  “Last night’s flash flood raised the water level too high,” her father said. “That rock would’ve been in plain sight yesterday. Let’s try again, Jenny.”

  He raised his bullwhip with his good right arm and snapped it over the heads of the oxen. They surged against their yokes. The wagon lurched forward.

  Crack!

  “It broke, Papa!”