The Union Belle by Gilbert Morris

Author:Gilbert Morris
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781441270375
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2005-05-01T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A New Season

The combination work-passenger train strained as it huffed up the valley of the Lodgepole toward Cheyenne. Mark sat loosely, his long legs across the opposite seat, watching dust-devils form and dance along the desert. This was April, and spring had come late this year of 1868. A gusty wind boiled against the car’s sides and scoured down the aisle, laying its burning edge on him. On the plain a band of antelope rushed up from a coulee, then scudded away into grassy hills that stretched away endlessly.

Conductor Jamie Lord passed by, glancing at Mark. “Be in Cheyenne in ten minutes, Mr. Winslow.”

“All right, Jamie.”

As Mark began to pull his gear together, he thought of the task that lay in front of him. This April marked the beginning of another construction season. The Union Pacific’s steel had stretched 240 miles across Nebraska from North Platte the year before, stopping eight thousand feet high in the snowy jaws of Sherman Summit, just beyond Cheyenne. But now with the arrival of spring, ten thousand men of all kinds—graders, steel layers, bridge builders, gamblers, freighters, gunmen, ex-soldiers, tradesmen, mule skinners, cowhands, doctors, lawyers and politicians—were set to join in a great tidal wave from Cheyenne to see the end of track for another turbulent, wicked year.

They’re ready for it, Mark thought, looking the passengers over. They had a buoyancy that made them impatient with the long ride, and he had it himself. The fifteen-hour ride on the train from Omaha had been intolerable, and now he stretched his muscles, anxious to get on solid ground. He made his way through the car, stopping several times to talk about the work ahead with men who grinned and spoke to him. Many of the men had the ruddy faces and tuneful, lilting talk of Ireland. Nearly all were war veterans, and in their cowhide boots, formless store suits and round-brimmed hats, they made a rough show, but Winslow knew them well. They were the kind of men who could stand the bitter blast of winter and the merciless heat of the desert sun better than any others. He had learned during his apprenticeship the previous year that they could throw their shovels down, pick up their stacked guns and fight off the Cheyenne and Sioux when they made their lightning swift raids on the track.

Mark moved down the aisle, swaying with the motion of the train, and came to a stop beside two men. “Hello, Cherry,” he said, stopping to pay close attention to the men. It was a way he had, changing quickly from a lazy attitude to sharp attention. He ignored Lou Goldman for the moment, concentrating the full power of his gaze on Cherry Valance.

“Hello, Winslow,” Cherry said. “Been in Omaha?”

“For a month.” The train was slowing down now, and all around him men were scraping their boots along the floor as they got to their feet. They laughed and cursed, shoving one another with animal-like good humor, but even as they filed by Winslow he did not take his attention from the two men.

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