Dead Man's Road

by Randy Denmon

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

A nation is staggering to its feet after the long, devastating Civil War. The West is full of dreamers, wanderers, fighters, and builders. One man has a plan to build a railroad - that plunges him into a brutal battle for survival. In a land of beauty and death.

In the high Rocky Mountains, Civil War veteran Marshall Brewster has a vision of wealth and fame. Under the tutelage of a hardened railroad tycoon, Brewster will build a railroad connecting Colorado's booming silver mines to a country starved for wealth - and maybe win himself the hand of a beautiful woman in the process. But as in war, Brewster's plan is soon shattered by the enemy: an angry, proud and desperate tribe of Cheyene warriors, a competing railroad baron, and the ruthless, murderous hired guns at his beck and call.

On a landscape of towering mountains, driving snow, and clear rushing streams, the blood of fighters and innocents is being shed. And for a man who thought he already had his fill of war, another is just beginning - with no retreat, no surrender, and even bloodier than the battle he left behind.

Release date: October 1, 2015

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Marshall Brewster looked out across the wide creek and magnificent new bridge under construction. In the gorge below, the deep, slithering, slicing canyon hid the river behind its rock walls and shadows. Fifty men worked at the end-of-track, where the new railroad pushed on into the unknown via their blood and sweat. Across the chasm, the masons finished the foundations for the bridge’s abutment. Reaching out over the three-hundred-foot span, almost like a bird taking flight, the huge wood trestle, girders, and support piers crept to the other bank through the sound of hammers banging away.

The day had warmed under the noon sun. Behind him, men labored, touching up the shiny, new track with additional spikes and filling a large hole on the bridge’s approach, the final obstacle to connect the track to the span. The rail descended a fifty-foot ridge to reach the bridge, and a series of small hills and draws had been flattened and graded on the bridge’s approach to accommodate the rail’s uniform grade.

Marshall inspected the stash of material on-site. Two kegs of black powder, beams and girders, bricks and mortar, and an assortment of fasteners. He correlated the material with the quantities required. To the south, over the horizon, the surveyors plotted the course over one of the most foreboding landmasses in the world—southern Wyoming.

“Whatchuh think, chief?” the bridge foreman, a short, stocky Irishman with weather-beaten skin, a big red beard, and a heavy accent, said.

“Looks good, Patty.”

“I need twenty more crates of bolts and another car of those twenty-foot beams, else we’z be twiddling our thumbs by dark. We’ll also need that last deck-span tomorrow so we can start rigging it.”

Marshall nodded up the hill. “A new shipment of black powder arrived today. It’s staged at the top of the hill. As soon as we finish the bridge, I want it moved forward to that next escarpment so we can start blasting. Looks like the work’s going well.”

“Aye, aye, they’ll be through here in three days, no problem, then just a little cleanup work.”

Marshall cocked his head and yelled to a young engineer under a tent, “John! Do you have that report for me on the two men injured in the blasting accident last week?”

One of the young engineers brought the report to Marshall before promptly returning to his work.

“The two men will be all right,” Patty said, crossing himself. “Just an accident. The boys get careless with the frenzy of the work, the urge to hurry.”

“It’s inevitable.” Marshall tried to keep an emotionless face. “This is dangerous work. The men know that. What’s important is that we convey to the men we’re doing all we can to minimize the hazards.” Marshall paused to make sure he got the point.

“Aye, aye.”

Marshall pointed to the bridge. “Tell all the men on the bridge there’ll be a three-dollar bonus if the bridge is completed in three days. Do whatever we have to. Everything will come to a stop if we don’t finish this bridge by week’s end. Let me know if you need more men, anything.”

“We’ll make it.” Patty laughed.

Marshall walked over to his horse, grabbed the reins, and put a foot in the stirrup. “I’ve got to get back to headquarters. Make sure you get what you need. Mail and pay train also runs today.”

A scream ripped through the crisp, clean air. Four men ran from the bridge site. Back up the railway, a single flatcar rolled down the track to the bridge, picking up speed, its deck loaded with twenty wooden barrels of black powder.

Marshall shoved his horse to the side. “Run!” he yelled.

On the bridge the dozen men grading all dashed away from the track. One stumbled to his knees as he fled.

Up the hill, the railcar, now only two hundred paces from the bridge, gained speed. Marshall ran to a rock outcropping. Two workers sprinted across the bridge deck in his direction.

“Jump off!” Marshall yelled as he dove for cover. Landing face-first, he tasted the dirt as he rolled on his side. The steady squeaking of the car’s wheels filled his ears. A loud skid. A thud. Metal screeched.

On the bridge, the two men, terror on their faces, leaped from the deck.

Marshall balled up, squeezing his eyes shut. The ground shook. The air flickered red. An earsplitting boom erupted. A cool gust of air rushed over him. His ears ringing, he cringed as earth rained from the sky.

His breath heavy, his mind confused and racing, Marshall looked to the bridge site. The mangled remains of the flatcar lay among the flames, wedged into a large hole that was seconds earlier the bridge’s abutment, now only fractured rock and masonry. A hundred-foot section of the bridge, a web of symmetrical timbers, careened over and slowly tumbled out of sight.

His vision blurred, Marshall struggled to his feet. In the smoke and embers, he saw a blood-covered man try to stand before falling back to his knees. He looked back up the hill. What happened?

Snow flurries drifted over Michigan Avenue, dancing and colliding with the large warehouses abutting Lake Michigan. Ambrose Graham tightened the collar on his coat. Beside the city-block-sized storage houses, activity abounded on the loading docks. Railcars moved along a myriad of tracks, and four ships were tethered to the man-made harbor, an array of wood piers protruding into the unfriendly, turbulent, and icy waters. All sorts of goods moved on and off the various forms of transport.

The day was gloomy, cold, damp, and windy.

“Uhh,” Ambrose grumbled, walking another block to the office of the Illinois and Iowa Railroad Company, a modern, three-story brick building. He breathed a sigh as he stepped into the warmth of the building and looked over at the familiar face of the secretary, a lovely Irish girl in her twenties and dressed very professionally.

“Mr. Matson is waiting on you,” the secretary said with a friendly tone and a smile. “You can go on up.”

Upstairs, Ambrose strolled down a long hall trimmed with the finest mahogany. He paused to look at a large map that depicted the routes of commerce in the Midwest. Chicago sat in the middle of the map, the transportation hub of the West. Shipping lanes from the Great Lakes and almost thirty railways converged here. Beef, corn, and all the raw materials of the Midwest moved to the hungry factories of the East through these facilities. And almost all the finished goods from the manufacturing hubs required to tame the West moved through Chicago—farming and construction equipment, dry goods, guns, and powder, almost everything needed for daily life on the frontier. In the last two decades, the tiny lakefront city had grown tenfold. The gateway to the West, founded less than forty years earlier, now had almost three hundred thousand residents.

Ambrose continued down the hall, where he knocked on an open door. Inside, his current employer, Benedict Matson, the president of the Illinois and Iowa, sat at a grand desk. Graying, dignified, and in his midsixties, Benedict wore an expensive black suit. Maps, sitting on easels, filled the room. Most were topographic or rail maps that depicted the company’s dominion or future plans.

“Come in, Colonel,” Benedict said.

Ambrose ambled into the office. He had no idea why he’d been summoned here. He wasn’t a colonel anymore. After the Civil War, he’d surrendered his commission and command of the now disbanded 4th Illinois Calvary. But damn, Benedict only called him colonel when he wanted to pump up his ego or coax him into a difficult task. Ambrose stole a peek outside the large window to the lake and loading docks, a placid view from the cozy confines.

Benedict stood and extended a hand. He walked over to a large table covered with even more maps. He pointed to one and nodded for Ambrose’s attention. “The Pacific Railroad, the greatest engineering achievement of the century. The Union Pacific building from the east, the Central Pacific from the west in a great race. The prize: The West. I’m just upset I’m not in the race.” Benedict paused and put his well-manicured finger on the map. “The Union Pacific will be over the Rockies by the fall. Most people think it’s being built to connect the country, east and west, to California, but it also has a second purpose. That’s to subjugate and settle the West.”

Benedict flashed his pale blue eyes at Ambrose. “Colonel Graham, a half a million people have immigrated to America in the last fifteen years. Those numbers will quadruple by the end of the century, and the number of people living west of the Mississippi has increased forty-fold in the last decade and a half. We have opportunity here. And where will these people live? The West. Not to mention, the resources of the frontier are only now being realized. It will be the greatest treasure chest in the world. Great cities will spring up out of the wilderness along this railway, just like Chicago.”

Ambrose stared at the map. Being in the railroad business, he was obviously familiar with the Pacific Railroad, currently under construction by the Union and Central Pacific Railroad companies with considerable support from the federal government. The epic rail enamored the Republic’s citizens, regardless of social standing, and reports of its progress filled the American papers almost daily. In fact, it had lately dominated the news, especially with the reduction of national press since the end of the Civil War. He’d read that even the Europeans had begun covering the story. He had little contemplated, nor had any knowledge of Benedict’s statements about the future of the West, but they seemed to make sense. Ambrose rarely doubted the logic of his boss and his keen eye for business. The man had attained a fortune analyzing potential markets.

“The Pacific Railroad,” Benedict continued, “will reduce the time to travel between the East and West coasts from six months to a week. It currently takes a month just to mail a letter across the continent. There’s only three options now: Overland by wagon, around Cape Horn, or a ship to Panama, across its isthmus and then another ship to the West Coast. These options provide the traveler with ample hazards—yellow fever, malaria, hurricanes, Indians and banditry, starvation, succumbing to the elements, or even predators. Moving freight is time consuming and expensive. The new rail will bind the country, East and West, like the war has bound North and South.”

Benedict paused, scratched his cheek, and looked up at Ambrose before continuing, “If we’re going to stay profitable, we’re going to have to move west, else our competitors will lock us out, not only of the new markets, but also our existing network. They’ll reroute around us using their lines. That’s why I’ve been in Washington the last month. I’ve secured a land grant for a new spur west of Cheyenne, south into Colorado. I’ve chartered the Colorado Northern Railroad Company. The new Railroad Act will also issue us government bonds, fifteen thousand dollars a mile.” He shuffled a few maps around and moved one in front of him, then slid his finger over the map. “A one-hundred-mile line to Jeremiah, a small mining town in the Front Range. Silver’s been discovered in the area. This may be bigger than the gold rush of the fifties.”

Ambrose studied the map carefully. The line ran directly south from the Transcontinental over the plains, then worked its way up into the mountains, drawn on the map by one-hundred-foot contour lines. The map documented almost nothing around the line other than a few small towns and military forts he’d never heard of, three rivers, and several wagon trails.

Construction would be costly, he thought, but most likely profitable, especially with a land grant. Ambrose was familiar with the grants, a scheme concocted by Congress to help finance rail construction through public lands, especially in the West where the government owned almost all the land. In addition to the revenue of rail traffic, the railroad was given approximately half the property adjacent to the rail line. If the area held silver or other mineral deposits, the grants themselves could be worth millions. The grants could be used in a number of ways to finance the rails. Companies could borrow against them or sell them during construction. The most money was often made by selling the land after construction when the grants would be choice rail-front parcels but only if the grantee had the financial strength to weather the expensive construction. The bonds would also help. They were only low-interest, long-term loans to subsidize the work. Of course, the rail had to be finished to complete the land transfer and bonds.

Rails were some of the most risky and profitable enterprises in America, requiring great capital investment, but also reaping mammoth profits. Sometimes the money was made in the construction and grants, other times through operation. Many times both. Each rail was unique, and a study of history usually gave no hint to where the profits lay, the grandest form of speculation. He felt Benedict’s gaze bearing down on him and turned back to his boss.

Benedict said, “You’ve done well managing several of our rail projects. Quite well, I’d say. And you’ve been rewarded amply for it. That’s why I’ve chosen you for this. But this will be much more difficult than anything you’ve done. Silas Jones and the Southwest Pacific also have a grant to build into this area from the south, but their line won’t be to Denver for at least another year. We’ve got maybe two years. The grant covers three counties, two in Colorado and one in Wyoming.”

Ambrose turned again to the map, then back to Benedict. A few awkward seconds passed.

“I want this line,” Benedict said, his voice turning solemn. “And I want you to build it.”

“I’ve never failed you. Or at anything.”

Benedict stiffened, raising a hand. “I’m aware of your record, Colonel. I don’t care what you’ve done in the past. I made you, and I can break you. Don’t forget that. This is a race. And I mean to win it.”

He had no idea if the construction would be complicated. The site was certainly isolated and distant. The contour lines made the mountains appear big and inhospitable. Were there problems with the Indians similar to those so often publicized by the press? He wasn’t an engineer, but more of a manager, an organizer, a problem solver. He had acquired and mastered these skills on a large scale in the war.

Building a railroad was complicated. There were landowners, local governments, and labor and supply problems to deal with. In addition to managing the exactness of science and engineering, the inexactness of men and their egos had to be tamed. Just in the last few years working for the Illinois and Iowa, he’d undertaken numerous tasks, everything from working out the vast, complex logistical and organizational problems of construction down to arming and leading men to protect the company’s claims.

“Denver,” Benedict said, “is the second biggest city in the West outside California and growing. This line will span more than half the distance to Denver, and be part of the network that eventually connects it with the Pacific Railroad. A sure moneymaker. I’m putting all the resources of the Illinois and Iowa behind this. But the grants and bonds are only for the first rail built, to be delivered in twenty-five-mile segments. I have enough money to pay for the construction of the first twenty-five miles, then we’ll have to borrow against the bonds and grants. As you may assume, time will be of the essence.”

“Who do you have in mind for an engineer?” Ambrose inquired.

“I’ve already hired Marshall Brewster. He’s the best available, especially in the mountains. He and a crew of about fifty men are already working. Our grant requires we get started this month. Their work to date is really only symbolic, but they’ve laid about a mile of track.”

Ambrose rubbed his chin. “I thought he was going back to work for the UP after their winter break?”

“He was, but I got to him first. We have another problem. We’ve already had an accident, two men killed. Brewster thinks it was sabotage.”

“Silas Jones?”

“Don’t know.” Benedict grabbed a bottle of bourbon off his desk and filled a tumbler. He turned it up. “My sources say the UP has already made Brewster another offer. I need you to get out there and convince him we mean business. Convince him to stay.” Benedict handed Ambrose a large envelope. “He’s somewhere along our route, south of Cheyenne. There’s nobody else available, at least not anybody the UP will part with. His terms of compensation are in these papers. You leave this week.”

“And what if he doesn’t agree?”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. His voice grew loud and stern. “That’s your problem. Make him agree. You two are friends. You fought together in the war. You speak the same language. As you’ll see when you go through the details, I’m giving you and him a combined fifteen-percent stake in the new company if you beat the Southwest Pacific . . . take your daughter with you if you have to. He’s got a fancy for her, if I recall.”

Ambrose cringed. His throat got thick as he mumbled, “But she’s supposed to be graduating from finishing school this spring.”

“Your concern for your daughter’s education and well-being is moving, touching, Colonel Graham, but I only give a damn about getting this railroad built. Send me a report the end of the next week when you find Brewster.”

Benedict filled two glasses, handing one to Ambrose. “The weather, the location, and the Indians will make this more difficult than anything you’ve ever done, but don’t be distracted by that. Your real obstacle will be Silas Jones. He’ll use all his considerable resources to stop us. And I want to beat that crooked son of a bitch to northern Colorado. I’m not going to lose to him again. Is that clear? You’ll have to deal with that if you want what you deserve—a stake in the new fortune of the West.” The Dutch immigrant’s eyes focused on the maps.

A self-made man, Benedict had worked his way up from the slums of New York’s Lower East Side to become one of the nation’s leading industrialists. A stern, driven businessman, he’d learned the game and mastered it.

Ambrose swallowed. Men like Benedict and his archenemy, Silas Jones, got what they wanted, no matter the cost. They stepped on everything, pushing, shoving, and ruthlessly tearing their way to the ends they sought. Nothing got in their way. Despite their cruel exploitation and devious maneuvering, society draped praise on these men, the net benefits of their actions greatly outweighing their dirty deeds, at least to the general public.

Ambrose, whether he liked it or not, was now a tool in these men’s battle. He turned up the bourbon, downing it.

A loud knock on the door interrupted Ambrose’s thoughts. “Cheyenne, fifteen minutes!” the steward yelled, walking down the railcar’s hall.

The train scooted over the tracks, the only sound the monotonous clicking and clacking of its iron wheels. The rhythmic noise and gentle rocking put even the most well-rested traveler in a lazy mood, and Ambrose rubbed his eyes. For hours, he had been dozing on and off. Out the window of his private car, the bland, brown country of Wyoming rushed by.

Beside him, his daughter stirred. He prided himself in few things more than her. Slim and healthy, almost five foot, six inches tall, she had long blond hair, blue eyes, and an impeccable fair complexion. To go with her good looks, she was as spunky and intelligent as any woman in Chicago. At twenty-two, she had bloomed into one of the most sought-after young ladies in town, catching the eye and attention of many of the city’s well-to-do young men.

“Bridget,” Ambrose said in a soft voice. “You should get up. We’re almost there.”

Bridget shook her head and yawned. She stretched out her broad petticoat, straightened her blouse, then stood and smiled as she looked out the window with an animated face at the immense nothingness. “I’m almost beside myself. I can’t wait. How long have we been on this train?”

“Almost forty hours. Eighteen to Omaha via rail. Then six hours there waiting to change trains and ferry across the Missouri River. I hope they have that rail bridge completed before we go back.” Ambrose looked at his watch. “And another eighteen hours from Omaha.”

Bridget exhaled a long breath. “More flat, boring land.”

“I thought the Platte River area was scenic, the gentle rolling sand hills and unbroken sea of grass. All the antelope and prairie dog cities were nice. It’s starting to look a lot drier. But don’t tell me you didn’t like the hour stop to let the buffalo herd cross the tracks. That was an alien and magical sight, like being transplanted into one of the sketches of the West so frequently filling the eastern newspapers.”

“Probably gets boring fast. I noticed most of the passengers didn’t even bother to look.”

“I guess the good news is we haven’t seen any Indians.”

“Not much of anything.”

The sights had been minimal all day. The vast plain, almost treeless, stretched as far as the eye could reach, colliding with the distant, big, blue sky. The lack of trees worried Ambrose. Rails, even short ones, required ties, hundreds of thousands of them that could literally consume a forest.

He stood up, looking out the window beside Bridget. “I’ve read about the enormous size of the Great Plains, but one has to see it to truly grasp its dimensions. Its verdant fields of grass span forever, unbroken and unscarred by man. I bet it’s something in spring or summer, a kaleidoscope of wildflowers and innumerable shades of green and yellow grass. We’re ahead of the march of civilization. If nothing else, this ride should give you some appreciation of railroads. The Union Pacific has now subjugated the great desert. We’re moving effortlessly and efficiently through untamed and hostile territory.”

Ambrose pointed ahead to the towering peaks of the Rockies, their apexes covered in white snow. Since they had passed Ogallala five hours hence, the road had moved away from the Platte and began to gain elevation. Ambrose’s ears had popped twice in the last hour. He had heard that water was a rare commodity here, and since the rail had diverged from the Platte, he had not seen a drop. His nose craved the clean, fresh air surely outside.

Little record existed of what lay beyond Cheyenne in the almost impenetrable wall of mountains. The only detailed scientific mapping had been done by the Union Pacific, typically only a few months ahead of construction, and then only of the proposed route. Out there somewhere, the construction crews of the Union Pacific toiled on, but exactly where depended on which paper you read.

Bridget sat, producing a big frown.

Ambrose grabbed her hand. “I like your black dress.”

“I’m in all black today, a symbol of my depression at being here.”

“You’re going to like this. You’ve got an adventurous spirit.”

Bridget poked out her red lower lip. “Oh, I do, but pulling me out of school—and in the middle of winter. There was the society ball next week. You had just bought me that new dress for it. And why am I here again?”

“Mr. Matson thought you might be of some help on a new project of ours. You should feel proud he thinks so highly of you. The trip will be fun. You’ll be the talk of the town when you get back after such an epic journey. Everybody will want to come see you. The paper might even do a story.” Ambrose paused as he watched his daughter take in his words. “I know how you like attention. All those men will be doting over you. Your friends will be jealous.”

Bridget’s blue eyes grew big, her cheeks turning rosy. She bit her lip, then produced a big mischievous smirk. “But what can I do to help your new project?”

“As I told you earlier, we’ll be seeing Mr. Brewster. I know you pretend you’re not fond of him, but I know better.”

“How old is Mr. Brewster?”

“Early. . .