velocipede cars onto the track, heading east, away from Whitey Grey and Doubtful Cañon. Despite rolling clouds, the moon, practically full, would be bright enough, and, besides, a coal oil headlamp was affixed at the front. Just make sure we didn’t pinch off a finger trying to put the flanged wheels on the rails. Ride as fast as we could, get back to Lordsburg, reconsider our options there, in relative safety.
I touched the metal bar, still warm from the day’s sun, and jumped at a thump behind me.
“It’s us, Jack!” Jasmine said in a whisper.
I blinked, stammered, looking for Whitey Grey to come charging, shooting.
“It’s all right,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “He’s snorin’ like a freight train. That fool drunk….” He stopped, his face apologetic.
“What are you doing, Jack?” Jasmine asked.
Before I could reveal my plan, a wolf howled. An owl answered.
“I’m scared, Jack,” Jasmine said.
“Jasmine, that’s just….” Ian Spencer Henry couldn’t finish. Silence returned except for the albino’s drunken snores, and a terrible thought raced through my mind.
Animals…or Apaches?
“He…Mister Grey…he says that Apaches don’t attack at night,” Jasmine said.
As if mocking her, the wolf howled again.
Maybe, I thought. Yet we’d make enough noise to wake the dead trying to move those Sheffield velocipedes back on the tracks, and, even if the Apaches didn’t attack us, they might learn our position. On the other hand, they might have heard Whitey Grey’s drunken singing. Or maybe they didn’t know we were here. Maybe those were wolves and owls and not Indians. Maybe Whitey Grey would wake up, find us, kill us. Maybe we couldn’t move those vehicles to the tracks. If we did, maybe a train would run us down and kill us. Maybe I didn’t want to go home, to face my father. Maybe….
“Too many things might go wrong,” I said, once more plagued by doubts.
“What do you mean?” Jasmine asked. “What are you talking about?”
It hit me that I hadn’t told them my thinking, but now it didn’t matter. Right or wrong, I had made the decision to stay.
“I’ll take first watch,” I announced. Back underneath the tower, I picked up the Winchester and wandered back to the rocks, made myself as comfortable as possible, and watched the haunting moon creeping between clouds across the black sky.
The rifle jerked from my hands, and I let out a sharp cry, trying to stand, but a rough hand shoved me back, and the shriek of an Indian warrior pierced my ears.
My cry turned into a scream, and the next thing I heard was Whitey Grey laughing.
He tossed the rifle to his left hand, stuck out his right, and pulled me to my feet. My face reddened from embarrassment.
Dawn. No, well past dawn. I had fallen asleep during my watch. Some help! Should I have taken that chance, tried to turn the railroad vehicles around, and escaped? Regrets filled my mind.
“You didn’t get cold?” the albino asked.
I shrugged. I had been too tired to notice.
“Well, that’s a good lad, Jack Dunivan. Takin’ watch like that. I must’ve been plumb tuckered out. A fine pard you showed yourself to be. Yes, sir. That’s somethin’ I like in my pardner. Make me proud, it does. You gots the makin’s of a fine man.”
Oddly my embarrassment and loathing faded, replaced by a curious feeling of pride.
Leaning the rifle on the rocks, Whitey Grey reached over and tilted my head up so I stared into his wild eyes, which now looked friendly. “I like you, Jack Dunivan. You’re a man to ride the river with, sure ’nough. Now, here’s somethin’ I was meanin’ to do yesterday.”
His callused fingers gripped my broken nose, and with a grunt and snort, in one sudden motion, he set it before I realized his intentions. Almost simultaneously, my eyes tearing from pain, my nose bleeding again, I let out a yell and a vile oath I had heard Whitey Grey use a couple of times.
“There.” My pard stepped back,
I touched the metal bar, still warm from the day’s sun, and jumped at a thump behind me.
“It’s us, Jack!” Jasmine said in a whisper.
I blinked, stammered, looking for Whitey Grey to come charging, shooting.
“It’s all right,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “He’s snorin’ like a freight train. That fool drunk….” He stopped, his face apologetic.
“What are you doing, Jack?” Jasmine asked.
Before I could reveal my plan, a wolf howled. An owl answered.
“I’m scared, Jack,” Jasmine said.
“Jasmine, that’s just….” Ian Spencer Henry couldn’t finish. Silence returned except for the albino’s drunken snores, and a terrible thought raced through my mind.
Animals…or Apaches?
“He…Mister Grey…he says that Apaches don’t attack at night,” Jasmine said.
As if mocking her, the wolf howled again.
Maybe, I thought. Yet we’d make enough noise to wake the dead trying to move those Sheffield velocipedes back on the tracks, and, even if the Apaches didn’t attack us, they might learn our position. On the other hand, they might have heard Whitey Grey’s drunken singing. Or maybe they didn’t know we were here. Maybe those were wolves and owls and not Indians. Maybe Whitey Grey would wake up, find us, kill us. Maybe we couldn’t move those vehicles to the tracks. If we did, maybe a train would run us down and kill us. Maybe I didn’t want to go home, to face my father. Maybe….
“Too many things might go wrong,” I said, once more plagued by doubts.
“What do you mean?” Jasmine asked. “What are you talking about?”
It hit me that I hadn’t told them my thinking, but now it didn’t matter. Right or wrong, I had made the decision to stay.
“I’ll take first watch,” I announced. Back underneath the tower, I picked up the Winchester and wandered back to the rocks, made myself as comfortable as possible, and watched the haunting moon creeping between clouds across the black sky.
The rifle jerked from my hands, and I let out a sharp cry, trying to stand, but a rough hand shoved me back, and the shriek of an Indian warrior pierced my ears.
My cry turned into a scream, and the next thing I heard was Whitey Grey laughing.
He tossed the rifle to his left hand, stuck out his right, and pulled me to my feet. My face reddened from embarrassment.
Dawn. No, well past dawn. I had fallen asleep during my watch. Some help! Should I have taken that chance, tried to turn the railroad vehicles around, and escaped? Regrets filled my mind.
“You didn’t get cold?” the albino asked.
I shrugged. I had been too tired to notice.
“Well, that’s a good lad, Jack Dunivan. Takin’ watch like that. I must’ve been plumb tuckered out. A fine pard you showed yourself to be. Yes, sir. That’s somethin’ I like in my pardner. Make me proud, it does. You gots the makin’s of a fine man.”
Oddly my embarrassment and loathing faded, replaced by a curious feeling of pride.
Leaning the rifle on the rocks, Whitey Grey reached over and tilted my head up so I stared into his wild eyes, which now looked friendly. “I like you, Jack Dunivan. You’re a man to ride the river with, sure ’nough. Now, here’s somethin’ I was meanin’ to do yesterday.”
His callused fingers gripped my broken nose, and with a grunt and snort, in one sudden motion, he set it before I realized his intentions. Almost simultaneously, my eyes tearing from pain, my nose bleeding again, I let out a yell and a vile oath I had heard Whitey Grey use a couple of times.
“There.” My pard stepped back,
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