By now Worthing had assembled all of his gangs. They were gathered along both sides of the last section of track. Worthing shouted and waved his crop. A half mile away, Tom Ruffin kicked the horse with his bare feet. The rope snapped taut. The cart was jerked forward.
Sparks shooting from beneath its iron wheels, the cart came rolling toward the waiting workers, the mounted boy hallooing and thumping the animal with his heels. As the cart neared the end of the track, men sprang forward, seized it, and dragged it to a halt. Two of the men shoved wooden chocks under the wheels while Tom Ruffin leaped down, quickly unfastened the rope and led the snorting horse off the roadbed.
Each of the waiting gangs knew its specific job. The moment the horse was clear, a second large group surrounded the cart. Pairs of men lifted ties, ran them out ahead of the last rails and lowered them to the hard-packed grade. Back where the supplies had been dumped, another cart boy was restraining his fretful horse and awaiting his signal. The rails went down at the rate of two every sixty seconds—no interruptions.
Worthing shouted a command. Other men beside the cart grabbed chairs, positioned them on the ties. Then, on Worthing’s next order, Michael’s five-man gang on the south side of the grade and another gang on the north converged on the cart.
Michael and Christian grabbed a twenty-eight-foot rail and began to haul it forward. The rail slid easily because the cart bed was equipped with greased rollers. As soon as the rail was halfway out, O’Dey and Greenup Williams took hold. Sean Murphy caught the tail end. Simultaneously, a second rail had been unloaded by the gang working from the other side.
At a fast walk, the five-man gangs carried the heavy lengths of iron over the new ties. Michael could already feel the first strain in his shoulders. By day’s end, it would turn to pain.
Murphy shouted, “Down!” His opposite number on the other gang was only a moment behind with a similar command. Both gangs lowered their rails into the chairs waiting on the interspersed hardwood and cottonwood ties.
Men with notched wooden gauges jumped in, jamming the gauges down while Michael and the others in the two rail gangs kicked and shoved. Finally the rails were fitted tightly in the notches.
Meanwhile, the cart had been dragged off the tracks. Tom Ruffin rehitched his horse and started back for more supplies.
Other men positioned the fish-plate joints and began bolting the new sections of iron to the old. Next, the spike gangs moved in with their mauls.
Workers crawled ahead of them, dropping spikes into holes, and scuttling on as the mauls came down. Michael continually marveled at the intricate timing of the operation. A careless spikeman could brain a spike handler if he swung too soon. But in all the time he’d worked at the railhead he’d never seen it happen.
The tie, chair, and rail gangs left the spikers behind and ran forward. In a moment the second lorry car arrived on the newly laid track. A new section of ties went down—and the process of removing the rails from the cart was repeated.
A familiar rhythm established itself while Captain Worthing stalked up and down, shouting, cursing and demanding that the various crews under his command go faster, to make up for time already lost.
ii
The morning advanced, the sun climbed, and Michael began to sweat. The labor was monotonous, mindless. But the five men on his gang had learned to work well together and took pride in their efficiency. Every man was important to the total effort. Behind the perpetual train, and interrupted only by the arrival of supplies, other crews would be finishing yesterday’s track by shoveling and leveling fill between the ties.
South of the Platte an emigrant wagon packed with household goods rolled by in a haze of dust, the driver wigwagging his rifle. A woman and a small girl in sunbonnets waved.
No one broke the rhythm of work, but there were some shouts, inviting the older woman to pause for the night, and earn a pile of extra money. Michael was thankful the family couldn’t hear the cheerfully filthy remarks.
Such raillery was common enough whenever the rust eaters sighted a wagon with a woman in it. But the bawdiness upset Worthing. He considered any deviation from routine a violation of his authority. After the wagon passed from sight, Greenup Williams didn’t help matters by starting to whistle “Marching Through Georgia.”
“Better”—breathing hard, Michael was lowering a rail on Murphy’s signal—“better pick a less partisan tune, Greenup.”
“Oh, shoo,” Greenup said, grinning. “I ain’t no chained slave on the captain’s little old plantation.”
“True,” Christian observed as the gauge men moved in. “But if himself would get it through his dumb skull that his side lost, we’d be a lot better off. But no, he—”
Suddenly Michael saw a long shadow behind the Delaware, then Worthing himself. The captain’s gray duster was wet with sweat. Droplets glistened in the stubble on his cheeks.
“No singing, nigger,” Worthing said. “And no remarks from you, either.”
Flick. The crop stung the side of Christian’s cheek. A spot of blood shone in the sun.
Christian nearly lost his grip on the rail. Michael felt a tearing strain in his shoulders as he absorbed an extra share of the five-hundred-pound weight. He braced the rail on his knee and got it to the ground without mishap.
Bent nearly double and trying to help, Christian said through clenched teeth, “Yes, sir.”
“Your eminence,” Michael added, realizing too late that he’d let his temper slip.
With the rail down, the five men darted back to, help those with the notched gauges. Worthing extended the crop, touched the bloody place on Christian’s cheek, affected a sympathetic smile.
“Tickled you a mite harder than I intended.”
Christian glowered, one hand perilously near the hilt of his Bowie. Worthing glanced at Michael, then back to the Delaware.
“Tell you what. You rest ten minutes. Yonder’s the water bucket. Wash off that cut, and we’ll let Boyle handle the head end of the next few rails.”
Christian started to protest. Worthing fanned himself with his straw hat.
“Go on, Christian,” he said. “Take care of yourself. Paddy Boyle’s strong enough for a bit of double duty.”
“Hold on, Captain!” Murphy exclaimed. “One man can’t haul the front of a rail all by—”
“Be quiet,” Worthing snapped. “Paddy Boyle can. Can’t you?”
Suddenly Worthing’s face twisted. His smile grew fixed and ugly. He jabbed the end of the crop into Michael’s throat.
“Answer me, boy.”
It was all Michael could do to keep from tearing the detestable crop out of the Virginian’s hand and using it on him. But he swallowed, backed up a step.
O’Dey yelped. Michael ducked, nearly brained by the backswing of a spiker’s maul.
Alarmed, Sean Murphy and Greenup Williams pulled him down the slanting side of the roadbed, out of danger. Worthing kept watching as he put his wide-brimmed straw back on his head.
“You can do it—can’t you, boy?” he asked. Every syllable carried insult.
“You’re damn right I can,” Michael growled, and turned his back, awaiting the next lorry car.
He saw Christian by the water bucket, slopping the contents of a dipper over his cheek. The Delaware’s glance was sympathetic. Michael tried to ignore it—as well as the ache in his shoulder blades and the mumbled lamentations of O’Dey, who hated trouble.
“You drop any rails,” Worthing called, “I’ll see you’re docked a week’s wages. You hear me, boy?”
iii
When the cart arrived and the gangs moved in, Michael seized the rail with both hands and yanked. The other three men tried to give him as much help as possible. But the moment the length of iron was lifted free of the rollers, an excruciating pain shot through his shoulders and down his arms.
He staggered on the hard-packed bed, nearly stumbled over a tie. The noises of men shouting, horses neighing, mauls thudding, metal clanging b
ecame a torturous din.
“Down!”
Michael groaned as he bent, dropping more than lowering the rail onto the ties. He staggered back, his chest heaving and sticky with perspiration. He snickered in a humorless way at the thought of the Philadelphia clipping. He seriously doubted old Billy Sherman had ever enjoyed such a glorious drenching of sweat while conducting his glorious march. And the editorial writer probably kept himself comfortable in a saloon bar while composing his rhapsodic sentences about brave hearts and indomitable wills. The only accurate statement in the account was the reference to brawny muscles. A man needed those and, to deal with a Worthing, iron balls besides.
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.”
Chapter V
Rage
i
TIME 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.
ii
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.
iii
“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.