The Warriors (36 page)

As soon as the rails were gauged and the spike men began hammering, he dragged off his shirt and flung it away. He unbuttoned his underwear, shucked out of the sleeve and pushed the top half of the garment down over his belt. Behind him he heard Worthing chuckle.

Michael reddened. He’d show Worthing he could handle two men’s work—and do it without a murmur or a mistake. He’d take all the bastard could give—and more. By God he would!

Murphy sidled up, whispered, “I can slip a word to Tommy Ruffin. Have him fetch Casement. You know—so’s his arrival looks accidental.”

Michael rubbed his palms over his sweat-slippery forearms. “Casement’s in Kearney. Left yesterday.”

“Then I’ll get someone else.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, Sean! Not on your sainted mother’s life.”

T
IME BEGAN TO DISTORT
as badly as his vision. He seemed to have been alone on his end of the rails for a century, though the reality of it was undoubtedly more on the order of a half hour.

Intense pain had spread down the center of his back and outward, toward his ribs. His palms had blistered quickly. Despite several protests from Christian that he was feeling fine, Leonidas Worthing refused to put him back on the job.

“You rest a spell longer. Before he died, Old Abe said we’re supposed to treat coloreds like white people. I assume that includes you right along with Williams.” His tone was mocking as he continued, “You’re due the same courtesy, the same—
watch it, boy!”

Michael’s hands had slipped. The front end of the rail thudded down. Only a clumsy stagger to the side kept his right boot from being crushed. He stood next to the rail, wiping his eyes and fighting dizziness.

“Ready to quit, Paddy Boyle?”

Michael drew a long breath and thought of Mrs. A, as he’d called Amanda Kent when she was alive. She wouldn’t have truckled to anyone like Worthing. Or admitted she couldn’t handle the work.

“No.”

Another ten minutes passed. Ten more rails, each heavier than the last. Still Worthing refused to send Christian back to help.

The five-man gang on the opposite side of the roadbed kept working without comment, though Michael occasionally caught a commiserating glance directed his way. It didn’t do a thing to help him regain his failing strength. But it hardened his resolve to suffer Worthing’s punishment until he dropped.

Dimly, Michael saw towheaded Tom Ruffin kicking his horse along the line with a fresh load of supplies. He rubbed his bare, sweating shoulders. Deep in the muscles, fires seemed to be burning.

He gulped more of the hot morning air, readying himself for the next effort.

The cart arrived, lather dripping from the horse’s flanks. By the time the ties were removed, Ruffin hadn’t yet unhitched the animal. He was having trouble with the knotted rope. Worthing waved to his men.

“Keep going! Pull the rails off and the devil with the horse!”

Michael and his three companions moved in. This time the head end of the rail felt as heavy as the whole earth. Before it was three yards out from the rollers, the rough iron popped a huge blister on Michael’s left hand. Draining water slicked his palm.

The rail slipped, banging down on the front edge of the cart. O’Dey and Greenup lost control. The rail slid forward, the end nudging the horse’s rump.

The animal neighed and shied, tangling its hoofs between the ties. All at once the horse was tumbling sideways.

The other gang had lifted its rail clear of the cart. When the horse started to fall, they jumped back, and let the rail drop. The horse went down on top of it.

Michael’s gang struggled to regain a hold on their rail, finally moved it out past the front end of the cart. But somehow, at that moment, O’Dey stumbled. The rail tore out of Michael’s hands. The forward end struck the horse’s thrashing hind legs.

The horse bellowed, pinned. Michael bowed his head, shaking with rage over the blunder.

Worthing stormed toward him.

“Now you’ve done it, you lout!”

The horse screamed again. Men came running from up and down the roadbed. Ruffin knelt by the frantic animal, then jumped away from its flailing front hoofs. “Leg’s broke, I think.”

“You’ve cost us time, Paddy Boyle. Invaluable time.” Worthing sounded pleased.

“Listen here!” Murphy exclaimed. “You were the one hollering for us to go ahead before the boy got the horse untied!”

“Nevertheless, that’ll be two weeks’ pay docked for Boyle. Maybe he’ll even be rousted back to Omaha.”

Michael wanted to plant a fist right in the middle of the Virginian’s face. But he didn’t. He was furious over the way he’d let Worthing maneuver him into responsibility for an accident—though he was convinced the man had planned to keep him working alone until a mishap occurred.

Tense, perspiring faces ringed him. Work had come to a stop. One man was running pell-mell toward the office car to report the incident.

Before Michael could say a word, Christian shouldered past him. With his back to Michael, the Delaware said, “You’re the one who deserves firing.”

Worthing’s crop whipped upward. Christian snatched it from his hand and sent it sailing over the frantic horse and the men beyond.

Worthing’s cheeks reddened. Michael touched the Indian’s arm.

“Christian, you don’t need to take my part in—”

The Indian paid no attention. “No one caused the accident but you, Captain. And that’s what we’ll tell General Jack when he’s back from Kearney.”

Murphy and Greenup agreed loudly. O’Dey remained silent. So did most of the other workers, not wanting to risk losing pay.

From the office car, a party of men approached on the run. Worthing tried to laugh away Christian’s threat.

“You think Casement’ll believe a mission-English Injun over a white man? I seriously doubt it.”

“So do I.” Christian smiled, startling the Virginian. “However, you don’t qualify as a white man or any other kind of man. The most appropriate word for you is animal.”

Worthing’s right hand shot under his sweaty duster, reappearing with a hideout weapon—a four-barrel derringer Michael had never seen before.

“Jesus and Mary!” O’Dey squealed. Men scattered.

Christian reached for the hilt of his Bowie—but a moment too late. Exhausted and dizzy as he was, Michael managed to lunge forward and knock the Delaware aside just as the derringer exploded.

Worthing’s ball hit Christian’s right calf. The Delaware did a kind of jig step to the side, regained his balance, then collapsed on his right knee, clutching his leg, and wincing.

Michael’s restraint collapsed, too. Head down and fists up, he went for Leonidas Worthing.

He felt no need for niceties. He yanked Worthing’s wrist to his mouth and sank his teeth in until he tasted blood.

That disposed of the derringer. He saw it wink and flash, falling, as he rammed his knee in Worthing’s groin.

The Virginian doubled. Michael lifted his other knee. It caught Worthing under the chin, smashing him back onto the fallen horse. The animal’s head jerked up, and it trumpeted its pain again.

Michael barely heard the shouts of encouragement from Murphy and Greenup as he dropped on Worthing’s gut with both knees. He laced his hands together and began to pummel Worthing’s head—chopping, brutal blows he seemed powerless to stop, even though he was incoherently ashamed of his anger.

This is what I did in the war. This is what I came out here to balance with something better.

Yet he kept striking harder.
Harder
—

Worthing’s grabs at his forearms were ineffectual. Blood and mucus dribbled from the Virginian’s nose. Michael’s head hummed as his locked fists rose and fell, turning the Virginian’s face to a smear of red.

Finally hands dragged him back. His legs crumpled and he fell over in a faint.

“That all?” The very brevity of the question indicated how furious Casement was.

The cluttered cubicle in the front car of the work train was heavy with afternoon heat. Michael had wakened about three-quarters of an hour after the brawl. He still felt its effects in the aching sides of his hands, now purpling with bruises.

He’d cleaned himself up, pulled his underwear and shirt back on, swallowed some coffee, and been hustled under guard to Casement’s office, there to be locked in until the construction boss arrived. Shortly before noon the preceding day, Casement had ridden alone to Kearney to straighten out some supply problems.

John Stevens Casement was no more than a year older than Michael: thirty-seven. He stood a scant five feet four inches with boots on. The boots didn’t even touch the plank floor as he perched in his chair in front of a rolltop desk littered with survey maps, work rosters, and sheets of cost figures.

Plainly dressed in a wool shirt and old trousers, Casement had a tough, imposing aura despite his slight build—an aura enhanced by the brilliant red of his full beard and the piercing quality of his pale eyes. He didn’t blink as he gazed up at Michael, who stood in front of him with his feet wide apart. Spells of dizziness and nausea were still making him wobbly.

“Yes,” Michael answered, “that’s how it happened.” After a moment he added, “I do feel compelled to offer an apology. I had enough fighting in the army to last me a lifetime, and when I came out here, I vowed I’d done my last. I’m ashamed of the way I went after Worthing. I had to prevent him from shooting Christian, but I’m sorry about the rest. No, let’s say disappointed. In myself.”

Casement tented his fingers. Thought a while.

“I don’t like it,” he announced in his customary blunt way. “I don’t like it one blasted bit, Boyle—even though I know you’re telling the truth.”

Michael blinked. “You do? How?”

“Did you think I’d fail to ask questions before I came in here? Murphy, Tom Ruffin, that freedman, Williams—even O’Dey—they all told it pretty much the way you did. How Worthing ordered the Indian off the job. Demanded your gang go ahead while the horse was still hitched. Everything.”

His mind sluggish, Michael finally thought to ask, “How is Christian?”

Casement shrugged. “Flesh wound. Worthing’s ball went right through his calf. No bone damage. He’ll mend quickly.”

“Where is he?”

“I asked the liquor peddler’s daughter to clean him up and tend him for a few days. She arranged a pallet in her tent.” Casement’s mouth quirked “Old Dorn may be a sot, but he’s never too addled to ask for money. The daughter’s a decent young woman. She’d have tended the Indian for nothing. But the old man stepped in with his hand out, and I had no time to haggle.”

“Did you talk to Christian?”

“I did. He was coherent enough to support your story.”

Michael said nothing. But he was relieved.

“I was doubtful about hiring Captain Worthing,” Casement continued. “I made my decision on the mistaken assumption the war was over for all concerned. The trouble is, I can hardly afford to discharge even one man short of his committing murder. I’ve moved Worthing back to supervising the unloading of the iron trains. I don’t suppose he’ll be any more cooperative there, but at least you two will be somewhat removed from one another. You marked him up pretty fierce, you know,” Casement finished. It didn’t sound like a reprimand.

“Where’s Worthing now, General?”

“Confined to his bunk. Raving like the very devil, I suppose. From now on you stay out of his way. Clean out of his way, understand? If he comes after you, I’ll deal with him.”

“I can’t let other people be responsible for my quarrels.”

Casement slapped a palm on the desk. A rolled map slid to the floor.

“You’ll do what I say, Boyle, or you won’t work on this line! The horse had to be shot. You and that fool Reb have cost me half a day. Half a mile of track!”

His chair squeaked as he swung around and pointed to a calendar nailed above the desk.

“Time—
time!
That’s what you cost me. No one on this line seems to fully understand that we must operate like an army. We have an assigned objective—one that I fully intend to reach on schedule. But doing it requires discipline. The moment we lose discipline, we’re courting failure. I made promises to Dr. Durant and the directors. I won’t let a lot of damn squabbling disrupt this army, ruin my timetable, and turn me into a liar!”

He subsided, drawing a long breath.

“Any fighting will be done with those Spencers we carry. Do you know what I saw at sunup, riding back from Kearney? Braves on the horizon. Sioux, Cheyenne—I couldn’t tell which. But there were two or three dozen. This railroad’s just another invasion of their territory like the one that drove Red Cloud out of Fort Laramie in a fury. The Plains tribes are afraid of us. They’re afraid of the locomotives, and they’re afraid of the telegraph wires—you can’t blame them for fighting back. Especially after what’s been done to some of them. Idiots like that Colonel Chivington massacring babies at Sand Creek two years ago—we even have to contend with things for which we weren’t responsible! So if there’s any fighting to be done, I want it confined to Indian raids. God knows no one will do that fighting for us. The army’s still spread too thin out here. How long has it been since you saw any troopers gallop by?”

“Not since we passed Fort Kearney,” Michael admitted.

And both men knew the Kearney fort was of little use in defending the railroad. It was an infantry, not a cavalry post. What few men the army had available were miles to the west, protecting the grading and bridging crews.

“Exactly. So I repeat, Boyle—any fighting will be done out of necessity,
not
to settle private feuds. I won’t have a single man compounding our problems.”

Quietly, Michael asked, “Does that mean you want me to quit?”

“No, damn it! Didn’t you hear me say I need every hand? Why do you think I still tolerate Worthing’s presence?”

“May I inquire as to how much pay I’m losing?”

“None—this time. But if you get into it with him once more I’ll have your pay
and
your job.”

“If he starts it—” Michael began.