Destiny - The Callahans #1 (13 page)

Crouching and moving unsteadily on top of the
snow-slick stack of rails, he made his way forward, lurching from
side to side as the train rocked on. When he reached the front of
the flatcar, Tom paused to gather his strength, and then leaped
across the gap above the swaying couplings, to the back of the crew
car, where he fell through the door, face down on the wooden floor
and unconscious.

Several minutes later, he became aware that
his hands were being rubbed and someone was trying to pour hot
coffee down his throat. He was wrapped in a blanket and two or
three of the men supported him as he sat on a stool next to the
potbellied stove.

“What happened, Tom?” the foreman said. “We
thought everyone was on board.”

Tooney was standing behind Mr. Sutherland,
and Tom glared at him until Tooney looked away. Tom’s face was so
cold he couldn’t speak, so he said nothing, but sat quietly,
content for the moment to soak up some heat from the stove and let
the hot coffee do its work.

The men gradually drifted away to their bunks
and other interests, leaving Tom to warm up and regain his
strength. After a while, the cook brought him some soup, and he
eventually felt strong enough to stand and walk about.

Tooney was lying on one of the top bunks,
looking at a magazine when Tom approached him. The rage that had
filled Tom when he realized he was being deliberately left behind,
suddenly roared up, and he grabbed Tooney by his shirt and dragged
him off the bunk to the floor. Placing his knee on the struggling
man’s chest, Tom struck him a vicious blow in the face and would
have hit him again, except that he was restrained by several of the
crew.

Sutherland came immediately forward. “Here,
Tom!” he shouted. What’s the matter with you?” he said, glancing
back momentarily at Tooney who was sitting on the floor, holding
his face and shaking his head.

“He sent me out there to chop wood, and he
knew I wasn’t back,” Tom charged.

Sutherland looked again at Tooney, who was
now regaining his feet, and then back at Tom.

“Tom, I’m sure it was an oversight, lad, but
we can’t have trouble on the crew. We’re only half through this
trip, and from the looks of this storm, we’ll have trouble just
getting to Kansas City.”

Tooney pulled on Sutherland’s shoulder,
spinning him around, so they stood face to face. “You know the
company rules, Henry. No fighting. Callahan’s temper has done him
in this time. I demand you fire him.”

“You
demand
?” Sutherland
challenged.

“Or I’ll take it to the regional director in
Kansas City.”

Sutherland’s shoulders slumped, and he turned
around to look at Tom. After a moment, he said, “He’s right, lad.
I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. When we get to Kansas City, draw
your pay, and I’ll see what I can do to help you find a job before
we have to leave.” Sutherland turned, looking angrily at Tooney.
“It’s a long trip east, Max. Who ya gonna’ bully on the way back?”
he said, pushing past Tooney.

“Well, Callahan, it seems you Irish riffraff
never learn, do you?” Tooney sneered.

“Aye, it would seem so, Mr. Tooney,” Tom
said, smiling finally and looking around at the crew members who
had watched the scene play out. “But then, . . .” he said,
surprising Tooney with a short, hard jab to his mouth, once again
sending Tooney to the floor of the crew car, “we wouldn’t be
expecting any deeper understanding from a bloody Brit, now would
we?” He stood over the downed Englishman, rubbing his knuckles and
continuing to smile, enjoying the laughter that erupted in the car.
Down at the end of the car, Mr. Sutherland smiled and turned
away.

Food, a couple of cups of hot coffee, and the
passage of three hours eventually calmed Tom down, and as he lay in
his bunk, Kansas City looming over the horizon, he collected his
thoughts. All in all, Tooney’s actions had saved Tom the problem of
explaining to Mr. Sutherland that he intended to leave the crew in
Kansas City, the farthest point west on this trip. The repair crew
intended to travel back by a slightly more southern route,
continuing their repairs into the early spring and reaching Bayonne
by the first of March. Being fired didn’t set well with Tom, but it
had at least eased his concern about being responsible for leaving
the crew short-handed for the return trip.

Kansas City, Missouri, a rail head for many
years for cattle drives coming up from Texas and other ranching
areas south, presented itself to Tom as a genuine piece of the
American West. Boasting trolleys and some other modern
conveniences, such as he’d seen in New York, it still had an air
about it of untamed wildness, perhaps the result of its location in
the middle of a prairie, broken only by the mighty Missouri River,
which flowed sluggishly past on its way east toward the
Mississippi.

After Tom drew his pay, Sutherland introduced
him to the resident Well’s Fargo agent and commended him as a hard
worker. The man told Tom to come back in the morning and he’d see
what might be found in their freight operation. Tom thanked
Sutherland, who left to go back to the train crew, while Tom sought
a place to obtain a bath and some new clothes, including a heavy
winter coat, suitable, the salesman told him, for surviving the
harsh winters found on the plains.

By evening, Tom felt better and had not given
any additional thought to the altercation with Tooney, until he saw
him later that night in the saloon. Ignoring Tooney, Tom remained
at the bar, content to drink by himself. After a while, Tooney left
the saloon in the company of three other men with whom he’d been
drinking at a table near the piano. Tom finished his drink, left
two bits for the barmaid, who had given him advice on where to find
a cheap hotel for the evening, and left the saloon.

As he worked his way along the street, Tom
saw two men emerge from an alleyway between two buildings, and fall
in silently behind him. As he came to the next alley, a third man
stepped out into his path, and Tom immediately recognized the game,
so often used in his own youth, as he and his mates set out to trap
some poor unsuspecting soul.

With an evening’s drinks in him, Tom knew his
head was not as clear as the situation demanded, but he also knew
he would need to act quickly if he was going to survive the attack.
The men closed in on him, forcing him toward the alley the single
man had occupied moments earlier.

“Evening, Paddy,” one said. “The limey tells
us ya got a few bucks back pay on ya. Now ya wouldn’t want to go
around not sharing, would ya?” he sneered.

One of the men shoved Tom’s shoulder, intent
on intimidating him into giving up his money. But Tom, always wont
to take the initiative, smiled at the three and reached for his
wallet. The man in the center grinned, a look of easy victory
crossing his face. When the man glanced momentarily down at Tom’s
wallet, Tom swung at him, but either the drinks had slowed him down
or the fellow had quicker reflexes than Tom figured. Whatever the
case, the punch missed, causing Tom to lose his balance and his
assailants were immediately upon him. They knocked him to the
ground, and all three began to kick him. Tom grunted with pain as
the blows from their boots connected with his ribs and kidneys.

Tom knew that unless he gained some control
of his situation, he stood in danger of not only losing his money
but receiving a severe beating and perhaps being killed. He grabbed
the foot of one of the men, pulling it toward him and jerking him
off balance. As the man fell, Tom quickly got to his feet, and
ducking under a punch from one of the other men, landed a heavy
blow to the side of the head of the larger assailant. As the man
staggered from the blow, Tom bolted forward, driving a shoulder
into the man’s chest and knocking him backward into the wall of one
of the buildings. He pinned the man against the wall, ripped two
blows to his assailant’s midsection, and had the satisfaction of
hearing the man wheeze in pain. One of the other men spun Tom
around, and landed a stinging blow high on the Irishman’s head. Tom
came back with an elbow to the front of the man’s neck, then kneed
him in the groin.

Coming off the wall, the largest assailant
moved toward Tom, who turned sideways, raised his leg, and drove
his boot into the man’s chest. The man flew backward, landing hard
and sprawling across a pile of lumber. He screamed with pain,
momentarily arched his back then lay still, moaning in agony.

Tom’s blood was up, and he turned, fists
raised, to face the two men who remained standing. But the fight
had gone out of them, and they backed away. The man lying on the
ground continued to moan, without trying to rise, and one of his
partners bent over him and then gasped. The fallen man was impaled
on a large metal spike.

Seeing his way free to run, Tom quickly
snatched up his wallet from the ground and darted out of the alley
into the street, as the two men behind him began shouting.

“Catch him! Get him! He’s murdered Ike!
Murder! Murder!” They continued to shout as Tom turned into another
alley, emerged on the far street and ran hard back to the railroad
yard. There, he found an empty box car and scrambled painfully into
it. Crawling to a dark corner, he sat there panting and trembling,
nursing his battered ribs and gritting his teeth against the cold.
He pulled his new winter coat up around his ears and listened for
any sound of a search. Lying there in the dark, afraid and hurting,
Tom reflected bitterly on what had happened to him. He thought of
Father O’Leary, and remembered his story about the young Irish lad
who’d been executed in New York for the same kind of offense.

Sometime after midnight, Tom was aroused from
his fitful sleep by the sound of men shouting and calling to one
another. Shifting his position, Tom braced himself to be
discovered. Just at that moment, however, one of the policemen
called to the other that coffee had arrived and they went off in
another direction. A few minutes later, the railcar lurched, and
the train began moving slowly. After a time, it moved onto a
trestle crossing the great Missouri River and picked up speed.

Tom remained huddled in the corner of the
boxcar, dozing fitfully, enduring the cold, and struggling to find
some relief for the ache in his side. Finally, after a miserable
night, it began to get light. He noted with satisfaction that the
sun was coming up behind the train. West, Tom thought as he watched
the sunlight break over the horizon. I’m still headed west.

By sun reckoning, it was well beyond noon
when the train began to slow, and Tom saw a sign that said Salina,
Kansas, roll past. His stomach confirmed the lateness in the day.
It had been many hours since he had eaten.

About a half-mile past the town sign, the
train slowed even more, then creaked and banged to a stop. Tom got
stiffly to his feet and stood in the doorway of the boxcar. Shading
his eyes from the sun’s glare off snow-covered prairie, he looked
out over a vast, treeless landscape that flattened out to immense
proportions and stretched away into the distance beyond the rail
yard and the town. Ahead, up the track, he could see the train had
begun taking on water. It poured from a wooden tank through a metal
boom into the locomotive tender car, and seeing the heavy stream
reminded Tom of how thirsty he was.

He could hear men shouting in the distance,
but seeing no one nearby, Tom climbed painfully from the boxcar and
began walking gingerly up the tracks toward the water tank. He was
startled and stumbled slightly when a switchman suddenly emerged
from between two cars, but recovering quickly, Tom instinctively
flashed the smile that he had learned to use to put people off
their guard. Even though his coat was somewhat rumpled from a
fitful night and a half day spent sitting and lying on the floor of
the railcar, it was quickly evident to the switchman that Tom was
no bum. His clothes still displayed their sheen and newness.

“Any chance for a drink of water up ahead?”
Tom nodded toward the water tank.

“Sure thing,” the switchman said, looking
around to see where Tom had come from. Aware of his curiosity, Tom
continued to smile and rapidly formulated an explanation.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around.

“Salina, Kansas. How’d you get here?”

Tom laughed, holding his bruised ribs as he
bent over with the pain. “Just out for an evening stroll last
night, and three, shall we say gentlemen, sought to relieve me of
my meager funds. The first thing I knew, I woke up in one of the
railcars,” he said, jerking his thumb back toward the direction
he’d come.

“Well, I’d better call the sheriff and see if
we can’t get you some help.”

“Nah, no need, but I appreciate the offer.
Just a drink will do. And maybe something to eat. Where’s this
train headed anyway?”

“Straight across to Denver,” the man
replied.

“Denver? Is that west of here?”

The switchman snorted. “Straight west,” he
pointed.

“Aye,” Tom smiled broadly, “if I could
possibly purchase something to eat,” he said, pulling a small wad
of bills out of his coat pocket, “and something to drink, I’ll just
hop back into my private railcar and be on my way, no trouble to
anyone.”

“I don’t know,” the switchman said, shaking
his head. “We’re supposed to keep people off the freight cars.”

“I understand,” Tom replied. “Would five
dollars be enough for a small bite to eat?” he said, fingering the
bills and looking up at the switchman.

The man looked at the bills in Tom’s hand. “I
suppose, just this once,” he answered, looking furtively around the
rail yard. “But you’d have to get back in the car quickly.”

“Done,” Tom said. “Why don’t you bring me
something to eat? I’ll get a quick drink of water, and then I’ll
cease being a bother to you, sir.”