Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 9

Will beamed. Maybe he’d found a way to prove to his uncle and General Dodge that he could be of value to the railroad.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Dodge handed Will’s uncle a package. “Judge Sampson sent this to you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  * * *

  Paddy rode the Army horse at a walk through the Cheyenne camp’s outer circle of tepees. He led another horse bearing the whiskey he’d packed in straw in the pockets of two sets of saddlebags. Having departed Fort Sanders the day before, he’d crossed the Laramie Mountains, to reach this large village along Lodgepole Creek. Sergeant Lunsford had provided the horses in exchange for two bottles of the whiskey. Paddy was pleased with himself for managing to keep the coins Mort had given him for bribing the sergeant. He’d send the money to his mother.

  Now he only had ten bottles of whiskey to give Chief Tall Bear, but that shouldn’t be a problem. The Cheyenne chief wouldn’t know Mort had sent Paddy out with a full case. He was fortunate none of the bottles had broken during that miserable stagecoach trip from Julesburg to Fort Sanders, and even more fortunate none had broken on his ride across Cheyenne Pass.

  A dozen mangy dogs barked and snapped at his horses’ legs, making them skittish. A crowd gathered to watch, but no Indian challenged him. What would he do if they closed in on him? What had his godfather gotten him into this time?

  He recognized some of the young braves who’d been in the raiding party on the railroad—at least he thought he did. Hard to tell, most Indians looked alike.

  Ah, there’s one he definitely recognized. Black Wolf’s distinctive, blackened lower face stood out among the others. He nodded to the warrior, but Black Wolf just stared back.

  Paddy halted before the council tepee in the clearing in the center of the innermost ring. He spat his tobacco chaw onto the ground and raised a hand in a sign of peace. “Sure, and don’t ye know I come seeking Chief Tall Bear.”

  From out of the council tepee stepped the tallest Indian Paddy could remember seeing. This fellow stood well over six feet. Gray hair, bare of ornamentation, hung over his shoulders in two long braids. His crossed arms clutched a faded, red trade blanket about his broad shoulders.

  “Greetings from Mayor Kavanagh. He sends gifts.” Paddy motioned to the packhorse. “Ye be Chief Tall Bear?”

  Chief Tall Bear stared at Paddy along the length of his aquiline nose. Lone Eagle emerged from the tepee and joined his chief.

  “O’Hannigan,” Lone Eagle said. “I will translate for Chief Tall Bear. Why do you come here?”

  “Ah, now, the half-breed Lone Eagle. And good it is to be seeing ye again. Perhaps ye can be explaining why it is the black Morgan turned up at the Julesburg depot after the raid?”

  Lone Eagle ignored Paddy’s question. “Chief Tall Bear asks what business the little, ugly Irishman has with the Cheyenne?”

  Had Chief Tall Bear called him little and ugly, or was it just Lone Eagle saying that to aggravate him? Tall Bear probably couldn’t tell one white man from another. How would he know Paddy was Irish? From his brogue maybe. But it was more likely Lone Eagle generated the insult himself.

  “Well, do ye see, if I might join the chief in yonder tepee, I’ll be explaining.” Paddy shifted in his saddle to dismount.

  “Talk from where you sit. Chief will not invite you into council tepee.”

  “Humph,” Paddy snorted. He settled back onto his saddle.

  “Mayor Kavanagh sends a gift of whiskey to Chief Tall Bear and asks the Cheyenne the favor of attacking the railroad.”

  Lone Eagle interpreted for the chief, then turned back to Paddy. “Chief Tall Bear wants to know why the Cheyenne would want to attack the railroad?”

  “Sure, and the railroad be crossing the buffalo paths. Or haven’t ye noticed? It destroys the Cheyenne’s hunting grounds. Mayor Kavanagh knows the Cheyenne don’t want the iron horse to frighten the buffalo away.”

  “Why does Kavanagh care?” Lone Eagle didn’t address Paddy’s boss as mayor. The Cheyenne probably wouldn’t accept Kavanagh’s appointing himself mayor, anyway.

  “Well, now, the mayor wants to open trade with the great Cheyenne nation. He cannot do that if the railroad destroys the way of life of the Cheyenne. Don’t ye see?”

  Lone Eagle translated. Tall Bear snorted and spoke through Lone Eagle again. “Chief says he does not believe that is Kavanagh’s real reason. But the Cheyenne will attack the railroad if Kavanagh gives us ammunition.”

  “Ammunition? Mayor Kavanagh sent whiskey as his gift. But ye ask for ammunition?” Giving ammunition to the Indians would anger the Army. Kavanagh might not agree to it.

  “Yes,” Lone Eagle said. “Soldiers and Pawnee Scouts protect the railroad. We must shoot many bullets to fight them. Then no bullets will be left for hunting.”

  Paddy sighed. “Sure, and I’ll be asking Mayor Kavanagh to send ammunition.” If Mort was serious about using an Indian attack to slow down construction of the railroad, he’d probably accept their terms.

  Lone Eagle spoke with his chief, who hesitated for a moment before giving his answer. “Tell Kavanagh,” Lone Eagle said, “Cheyenne will attack the railroad soon. Chief Tall Bear accepts the whiskey now. Kavanagh can send ammunition later.”

  Paddy nodded and shifted in his saddle.

  “Do not get off your horse,” Lone Eagle said.

  “But I need to unload the packhorse.” Paddy stopped, one leg raised out of his stirrup.

  “We will keep the packhorse, too.”

  Paddy settled back onto his saddle. “Well now, the horse belongs to the Army at Fort Sanders. Sure, and ye can see it has an Army brand.”

  “We have other horses with that brand.” Lone Eagle beckoned to a boy who took the packhorse’s halter rope.

  Paddy blew out his breath. When he returned to Fort Sanders without the packhorse he’d have to pay that drunken Sergeant Lunsford for a replacement. There went the money he’d planned to send to his mother.

  The Indians drifted away from the circle. Paddy sat his horse staring at Lone Eagle. There was something different about that thong around the half-breed’s neck. He was sure he’d counted eight eagle talons the day of the train raid—not six.

  “Well, now, Lone Eagle,” Paddy said. “Is it ye’re gonna be telling me why the Morgan horse was not hidden where I be asking ye to put him?”

  “Who says he was not there? Who says someone did not find the horse before you?”

  Paddy frowned. “Humph. Sure, and ye’re lying.”

  Lone Eagle’s eyes narrowed. “You leave now, Irishman.”

  Bloody half-breed, Paddy swore under his breath. He turned his horse, rode out of the camp, splashed across Lodgepole Creek, and headed toward Cheyenne Pass and Fort Sanders. He waited until he was well clear of the village before pulling his Bowie knife from his boot. He sliced a bit off his twist and stuck the tobacco in his mouth. Bloody Cheyenne hadn’t extended him the hospitality of a meal, or lodging for the night. He’d have to eat hardtack and jerky and sleep on the ground again. He wished he’d kept a bottle of that whiskey for himself.

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  Will tugged the packsaddle’s cinch rope tight around Ruby’s belly. Ruby hee-hawed her objection and kicked out with her hind legs. Over the mule’s back Will saw General Dodge, General Jack, and his uncle step across Clear Creek and head up the slope to the picket line where he and Homer prepared for their ride to Julesburg. Will turned away from Ruby, gathered up a saddle, and threw it onto the back of his horse. Ruby let loose with a cackling bray.

  The approaching men roared with laughter. When Will turned, the reason for their mirth was obvious. Ruby’s pack load dangled upside down beneath her belly.

  “Got a thing or two to learn about packing mules, eh, Will?” Dodge called out.

  Will felt his face flush. This wasn’t the way to prove to General Dodge he was capable of working for the Union Pacific.

  “There’s a trick to tying a pack load.” Homer spok
e in a low voice that only Will could hear. “I’ll show you how.”

  Homer raised his voice and greeted the approaching men. “Morning gents.”

  “Morning, Homer,” Will’s uncle answered. “Ready to ride?”

  “We’s jest about ready. Soon’s we straighten up the pack on this contrary mule.”

  Homer resettled the packsaddle atop Ruby’s back, then hauled off and slugged the mule in the gut with his fist. She bellowed and exhaled from the force of the blow. Homer jerked the cinch tight. “Got’s to get a mule’s attention first,” he whispered.

  Homer adjusted the load, then wrapped a rope back and forth across the bundle and tied it with a knot. “We secures the whole thing with a diamond hitch and she’s good to go.”

  “Thank you, Homer,” Will said.

  The black man smiled at him. “Sure thing.”

  The three men reached the picket line. “Follow the survey stakes and you can’t get lost,” Dodge said, “but keep a sharp lookout. Once you reach the grading crews on Lodgepole Creek you’ll be safe.”

  “Yes, sir,” Will said.

  “A wagon train of Mormon workers from Salt Lake City arrived last night looking for work on the railroad,” Dodge continued. “They reported being shadowed by a band of Indians. I expect we’ll have trouble before long.”

  “You have weapons?” his uncle asked.

  “Spencer carbines and Colt revolvers,” Will answered. “Luey gave us lots of ammunition.”

  “Good. Let’s hope you don’t have to use any of it.”

  General Jack pointed his riding whip at Will. “Find my brother Dan and tell him to give you the best transit from the warehouse.”

  “Transit?”

  “That’s the technical name for a surveyor’s instrument,” Will’s uncle said.

  “Oh.”

  His uncle dropped some coins into Will’s hand. “Here’s money to buy me some cigars. Go to Abrams General Store. Benjamin Abrams is a tightfisted Jew, but he won’t cheat you. Buy the best he has. I don’t smoke them often, but when I do I like a good one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If there’s any change left, buy yourself some candy.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Sean.”

  Homer and Will mounted. His uncle handed Ruby’s halter rope to him. “You know the way since you’ve just come in from Julesburg. But listen to Homer. He’s been in plenty of tough spots and he’s been riding these hills with me for the past two years. He can spot danger a long ways off.”

  “Yes, Uncle Sean.”

  “We’ll discuss your future when you return.”

  Will had to do this job right. He needed to impress General Dodge, but more importantly he had to show his uncle he could be trusted. If he messed up now—what would happen?

  “Off you go, then,” Dodge said. He slapped Will’s horse on the rump.

  Homer and Will rode away from the picket line. Buck, tied to the line nearby, whinnied and tossed his head. “No, Buck,” Will said. “You can’t come.”

  “And Will,” Dodge called out. “Stop by the depot on your way back and pick up any mail that’s accumulated.”

  Will looked back at Dodge. “Yes, sir.”

  “And remember. Any Indians you encounter are probably not Pawnee.”

  CHAPTER 20

  * * *

  Their horses and the mule didn’t have to exert themselves following the gentle two percent gradient marked by the survey stakes leading up and away from the Cheyenne meadows. Will believed they’d have an easy ride and not being encumbered with wagons, should reach Julesburg in three days—half the time it’d taken Dodge’s party on the outbound journey. It was early July, two weeks past the summer solstice. Plenty of sunshine would allow for twelve-hour days in the saddle.

  They’d ridden in silence for a couple of hours before Homer finally spoke. “How’s come you out here all by yourself looking for your uncle?”

  Will was glad his companion had broken the silence. He hadn’t known how to start a conversation with the older black man.

  Will told Homer about the recent death of his mother, as well as the death of his father during the war. “I know Pa went to war because he believed in preserving the Union, and in freeing the slaves of course . . . but, I think if he hadn’t been killed, Mama would still be alive.”

  “I ’spect your right. The war caused a heap of misery for a lot of folks.”

  Will explained to Homer how he’d made his decision to search for his uncle and try to convince him not to sign the papers making him a blacksmith apprentice. “I don’t want to be a slave to some barn.”

  “Yep,” Homer said. “That’d be a kind of slavery, I ’spect. But at least a body can see the end to an apprenticeship, and then a man’s got a trade.”

  “Maybe so . . . but that’s not the trade I want.”

  Will described his experiences after arriving in Omaha, his encounter with Lone Eagle, and helping the McNabbs.

  “Hold up, Homer.” Will pointed to a rabbit that hopped out from under the cover of a bush. He raised the Spencer carbine, jacked the trigger guard lever down and back up, driving a cartridge into the chamber. He cocked the hammer, aimed, held his breath, and pulled the trigger. The carbine roared. The rabbit flopped dead.

  Homer dismounted and retrieved the carcass, holding the rabbit up by its hind legs. “That’s some shooting. Clean through the head. You that good all the time?”

  Will smiled. “Usually. My Pa taught me how to shoot.”

  “This’ll be supper. Better’n hardtack and jerky.” He tied the rabbit to Ruby’s pack.

  Toward sunset they dropped down off the high ground and intersected Lodgepole Creek. The old trail along the stream had served the Indians for hundreds of years as a thoroughfare between the Rocky Mountains and the great Platte River bottom lands to the east. General Dodge had told the dignitaries during campfire discussions one night that in the Laramie Mountains west of the new town of Cheyenne, near the creek’s source, the hillsides were covered with the tall, slender Lodge-pole pines the Indians prized for supporting their tepees. But here on the plains, trees were sparse, growing mainly along the water courses.

  “I ’spect we’s come far enough today,” Homer said. “I don’t like being on the trail in the dark. General Dodge thought the graders would be this far up the creek by now. Something’s held them back.”

  Will scanned the valley. “Do you think it could be Indians?”

  “Maybe.” Homer dismounted and pointed up the slope. “We’ll camp up away from the creek a bit. Won’t make it so easy for anyone to find us in the dark. Let’s refill our canteens and let the animals drink.”

  “Right.” Will dismounted. He hadn’t thought of the precaution of camping away from the trail.

  They found a sheltered copse of stunted trees a few yards from the creek, and staked out the animals with picket pins and enough rope for them each to graze in a small circle.

  While Homer skinned the rabbit, Will gathered twigs and kindling to make a fire. Will withdrew a tin of lucifer matches from the supply pack.

  “No lucifers,” Homer said. “We’ll save them. No wind tonight. Easy to make a fire with flint and steel.”

  “Right.” Will didn’t have a flint. He’d have to find one.

  Will stacked the kindling into a small pyramid and Homer whittled a twig into fine shavings next to it. Then Homer struck a flint chip sharply against the back of his knife blade and dropped a shower of sparks into the shavings. He sheltered the shavings between his hands and blew. They smoldered briefly before bursting into flame. He shoved the burning bundle beneath the kindling with his knife.

  Homer tossed one twig aside. “Too green. Smokes too much. Give our position away. We’ll keep the fire small. Jest enough to cook this rabbit and boil a little coffee.”

  Homer pounded a handful of beans into grounds with the butt of his pistol and tossed them into a battered coffeepot, which he set in the embers. They ate the rabbit with
their fingers directly from the frying pan, then Homer walked several yards away before tossing the carcass into the brush. “Don’t want them leavings to attract no wild critters into our camp,” he said.

  Homer grasped the coffeepot’s handle with his bandanna and poured the thick mixture into a tin cup. He stirred in two spoons of sugar and leaned back against his saddle. “I likes it sweet. Learned to drink it that way down in Louisiana.” He pronounced it “Luzyana.”

  “Louisiana?”

  “Yep. That’s where I growed up.”

  Will screwed up the courage to pose a question he’d been pondering all day. “How’d you come to be out here with my uncle?”

  “Well now, that’s some story.” Homer blew into his cup to cool the coffee. “Let me recollect. I’se born in Georgia.”

  Will studied Homer’s face. There’d been only a few Negros in Burlington and Will had no experience against which to judge Homer’s age. The salt and pepper in his thin beard and close-cropped hair gave the impression of an older man. Closer scrutiny revealed numerous wrinkles around his eyes.

  “How’d you get from Georgia to Louisiana?”

  “After I’se born, the plantation owner decided as how he didn’t need no woman with a baby. All he wanted was a working man. He kept my pappy and sold my mammy and me to a plantation outside Shreveport. She was a good cook, so she worked as a kitchen slave. I growed up running ’round with the owner’s youngsters. That’s how I learned to read. Not much, mind you, jest enough so’s I can read my Bible.” Homer sipped his coffee.

  Will wanted to learn more. “Why’d you leave Louisiana?”

  “Well now.” Homer turned his cup upside down, dumped out the black dregs, and refilled the cup from the pot. “When I’se old enough, they took me away from the big house and set me to working in the fields. I ’spect I’se twelve, maybe thirteen. About your age.”

  “I’m fourteen.”

  “I see.” Will saw the grin that creased the edges of Homer’s lips. “Yes suh, I’se younger than that. After my mammy took sick and died, I kind of lost track of time. I ’spect it was ten years later when I met Mavis. She said her name meant joy. And she was sure a joy to me . . . while I had her.”