Chapter Six

 

It occurred to Diehard, as he headed over the whip-snap rubble road that zigzagged upwards into the mountains that he had now had more than one set of malcontents to contend with. Not only the two horse thieves in front but also the three Rayde brothers on his tail. It was a breaded sandwich and he was the meat in the middle. A fact that, in truth, gave Diehard little cause for concern at that time, the brothers obviously did not know what he looked like and Carter and Betterman did not yet know he was on their trail. All that concerned him was the return of his property or, failing that, proper recompense for its theft.

As he mused on these thoughts he climbed higher, following a wide wagon-supply trail that had been cut into the mountainside and overlooked a deep valley and chain of peaked ridges stretching off into the distance. The air was cool the higher he climbed and the sharp edges of gray stone rose in a steep wall that towered above the slow moving buckboard. High overhead an eagle keened mournfully as it circled its lonely path, riding the thermals rising into the clear sky.

There was a sudden thump that reverberated through the air. He felt the pressure wave wash over him and pulled up the mules. There was another muffled thud followed by a protracted silence and Diehard realized that he was hearing explosives at play and knew then that he was nearing the railroad workings.

A bend in the trail brought him in sight of a massive rough-edged hole cut into the side of the towering rock face ahead. Smoke and dust was issuing in clouds from the opening and Diehard could see small figures rushing about frantically through the mist. Cries and loud calls along with the stink of cordite came to him and he urged the mules on.

Rows of small men in coolie hats sat crouched alongside the track as he neared, their expressionless faces watching him dully as he passed by. They were covered from head to toe in dust and their disconsolate appearance showed their exhaustion plainly.

At the tunnel opening, a burly man with rolled shirtsleeves and a bowler hat was loudly issuing instructions and Diehard pulled up alongside.

‘What’s happened here?’ he asked.

The fellow looked around in a distracted manner. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Down in the valley,’ Diehard answered. ‘I’m looking for….’

‘We had an early blast,’ the man went on, overriding Diehard’s explanation. ‘These monkeys can’t handle the fuses; they always set them too short. Now look at it, I got about fifteen of them taken down by that rock fall over by the service area we got planned. Thank Christ the main tunnel held.’

Diehard peered into the dissipating smoke and could see teams of Chinese working feverishly clearing piles of fallen rock.

‘Anything I can do?’ he asked.

The man looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, ‘Maybe there is, that wagon of yours could come in useful,’ he said. ‘The dead Chinks we can leave here under the rock fall but you could haul some of the wounded down to the main camp. Not that it matters much, they can die down there just as easy as up here, we got plenty more where they came from. Just that it looks good for the others.’

Diehard found his dismissive attitude callously indifferent but he knew that the teeming hordes of Chinese workers that had immigrated to the country were thought of as no more than cheap labor and given little more credibility than worker ants.

‘Be glad to help,’ he said.

The foreman turned away and bellowed some words in pigeon and a team of skinny fellows stripped to the waist and sweating profusely ran over bearing the wailing wounded. Diehard could see they had terrible wounds, their smashed limbs covered in blood.

‘You go long-side this fellow,’ the foreman said to an elderly Chinese man standing nearby. He wore a battered stovepipe hat with a long queue of braided hair reaching down his back and only a waistcoat over his skinny bare chest. The man was obviously some kind of leader as the other Chinese deferred respectfully to him. ‘You take-ee them fellas down line end,’ ordered the foreman.

‘Can I get through that tunnel?’ Diehard asked doubtfully, looking at the smoke cloud as the hurt Chinese workmen were being loaded into the bed of the wagon.

‘Sure,’ the foreman answered. ‘That’s clear all the way it’s only this end here that’s a problem.’

‘They got a doctor down there?’

The man chuckled, ‘They got a sawbones of sorts, whether he’ll get around to helping these poor beggars is another matter though.’

‘Why? He too busy or something?’

The foreman snorted a dismissive laugh, ‘He’s a lousy soak, if he’s got his head out of a whiskey barrel long enough then maybe he’ll do something about these boys.’

Diehard looked over his shoulder and counted five writhing bodies lying in the back of the buckboard, ‘That all of them?’ he asked in surprise.

‘All that’s living,’ the foreman answered offhandedly. ‘This here is Mister Chin; he’s some kind of work boss amongst the Chinese. He’ll go down with you and show you where to go.’

Without a word the top-hatted Chinaman climbed up and sat alongside Diehard on the driving seat. He was a wrinkled fellow, his face a mass of lines and weathered crinkles so deep that his eyes were lost amongst all the creases. Diehard looked across at him, ‘Howdy.’

The man sat impassively facing front and made no response, with a shrug, Diehard geed up the mules and the buckboard lurched forward towards the tunnel mouth.

‘Obliged to you,’ the foreman called after them, almost as an afterthought.

Diehard guided the mules past the workers at the tunnel mouth and through the heavy pall of dust still hanging there. They entered the cavernous opening and the sound of the mules’ hoof beats echoed with a clatter around the walls. There was a suddenly chill and darkness that surrounded them. Diehard could hear the men in the wagon bed whimpering in pain, the sound hollow and eerie in the sudden blackness.

‘How we going to find our way?’ Diehard asked the Chinaman. ‘It’s black as pitch in here.’

‘Go long straight, please,’ the little man said in a barely audible husky whisper.

‘You sure?’ asked Diehard; nervously aware that just beyond the tunnel walls there was a savage drop to the valley below.

‘I sure.’

One of the men in the back wailed something in a begging tone and Mister Chin barked something back at him abruptly in Chinese.

‘What’s the problem?’ Diehard asked.

‘Man want water. I tell no have.’

‘Under your feet, there’s a canteen. He can have that.’

‘Ah, so kind,’ said Mister Chin, fumbling under his feet. Finding the canteen, he unscrewed the lid and passed it back. Diehard heard the man glugging the water gratefully.

‘You like this kind of work?’ he asked the Chinaman.

‘It work,’ came the simple answer and Diehard almost felt the man’s shrug.

‘Hard, huh? What did you do before you came here then?’

‘I court official, work record papers for my lord in China.’

‘That’s different. Sounds like you’re an educated man, how come you’re slogging with a pick and shovel here?’

‘No find other work do,’ came the solemn answer out of the darkness.

‘That’s too bad,’ Diehard sympathized.

He could see a glimmer of light ahead now, the light shining and reflecting off the roughly hewn walls of the tunnel.

‘That it?’ he asked.

Mister Chin nodded. ‘Very grateful,’ he said.

‘T’ain’t nothing, I was coming here anyway.’

‘You work for railroad man?’

‘No, I’m looking for some people. Maybe you’ve seen them, two fellows with a string of fine horses. They come through here.’

Mister Chin pondered a moment, ‘Not know,’ came the simple answer.

‘Okay, well I’ll ask around when we get to this camp.’

Diehard squinted into the bright sunlight as they broke free of the tunnel and made their way down a long incline, passing queues of men bearing heavy baskets full of debris as they headed towards the track-end below. Stacks of railroad ties stood in heaps and a great smoking black locomotive stood puffing steam on the tracks, the flat beds behind the engine loaded with piles of shining steel rails. Again there was an army of Chinese workers busily unloading the heavy rails. The ring of steel on steel rang out as others hammered and dug with almost chain gang discipline preparing and laying out the track. Beyond them stood a small township of wall-sided canvas tents where a group of men in long coats and tall hats conferred over plans and stood around, occasionally looking through a theodolite mounted on a tripod.

Smoke came in streams from narrow tin chimneys erected through the tent roofs and there was the crack of whips and the steady call of men’s voices as they guided teams of oxen pulling heavy sleds loaded with the wooden ties. The busy camp was a noisy hive of activity and seemed wholly out of place in the majestic calm of the surrounding mountains.

‘You go there,’ Mister Chin pointed towards a tent, slightly larger than the others that stood on the camp’s perimeter. Behind the tent was a temporary pole corral set up with many horses milling around a long box-shaped water trough and Diehard eagerly checked to see if his ponies were amongst the herd. The movement of the horses inside the corral made it difficult to tell at the distance and Diehard was soon distracted by guiding his mules through the crowds of workers as they made their way into the site.

‘How you called?’ asked Mister Chin as they drew up outside the medical tent.

‘Charlie Wexford.’

Mister Chin tried out the name, ‘Charry Wesfor’.’

‘Close enough,’ said Diehard. ‘You can try Diehard, if it’s easier. I go by both.’

‘Okay, I say Diehar’ that make better.’ He swung himself over the side of the wagon with surprising agility for one of his age.

‘Hold on,’ said Diehard, tying off the reins. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

‘You good man, Mister Diehar’,’ Mister Chin muttered gratefully as he unfastened the rear gate on the flat bed.

‘Not so much you’d notice.’

The gate swung down and Diehard caught his first clear view of the terrible wounds some of the men stacked inside had suffered. One man’s leg was fractured at the ankle, the foot hanging on by skin and ligament alone and another had gashes down to the bone on his brow where the skin hung in a bloody flap over his eyes.

‘Holy Mother!’ breathed Diehard. ‘Let’s get these poor fellows into the doctor.’

As they carried the first man inside, Diehard called out, ‘Doc! You there? We got wounded men here.’

Camp beds stood in a row along both sides of the tent. Rumpled sheets lay on a few of the beds, they were dirty and some stained with rings of vomit and brown patches of dried blood. The floor was filthy and covered with used bandages and pots of human waste stood unattended in corners. Diehard wrinkled his nose at the stench.

‘This is the camp hospital?’ he said in disbelief. ‘God! What a stink hole.’

‘Doctor often discomposed,’ Mister Chin explained.

‘Where is the sucker?’ asked Diehard in disgust as they lay the wounded man down on one of the beds.

‘Maybe he be out back,’ supplied Mister Chin.

Diehard strode the length of the bestial hospital tent and pulled back the flap at the rear. The doctor lay on his side in the dust outside. He was a bulky, white haired elderly man dressed in a long and dirty white coat and, fearing the worst, Diehard knelt down beside the body. The rank odor of whiskey came off the man in a wave and Diehard then noticed the empty bottles lying scattered around.

Diehard sighed in dismay; he looked around and spotted a horse wrangler rolling up a lariat over by the corral.

‘Hey, buddy! Give me a hand will you?’

The wrangler, a small bowlegged man with a high-crowned, ten-gallon Stetson hat pulled down over a pair of large protruding ears looked over. He has the biggest nose Diehard has ever seen, it jutted out from under the brim of his Stetson like the prow of a sailing ship.

‘What, the Doc fall foul of some bad weather again?’ The wrangler asked with a gap-toothed grin.

‘More like bad liquor. You care to help me here? We got men hurt bad inside.’

‘Won’t do much good,’ said the fellow, strolling over. ‘That one’s about as much use as a toothpick in a tornado right now.’

‘Let’s get him up,’ said Diehard, spotting the water trough next to the corral. ‘I reckon a soaking will bring him around.’

The wrangler chuckled, ‘Damn right. I sure like that idea, see what he done to my teeth. The bastard was so drunk he couldn’t see straight and pulled the wrong ones out, left me with a hole where my front pegs should be.’

Together they heaved at the dead weight of the drunk and dragged him over to the water trough with his toes dragging in the dust.

‘There you go,’ said the wrangler gleefully as they half-dumped the body head first into the water. There were a few moments of silence and a slow pillar of bubbles rose from the sunken man before he rose up with a splash and gasped for air.

‘Like Jonah and the whale,’ observed the smiling wrangler.

‘Wha…. Wha….’ blubbered the blinking doctor.

‘You ass,’ growled Diehard, shoving the white head under again.

The wrangler leaned back casually against the corral poles and watched with interest, ‘Reckon that’s more water than he’s drunk in a coon’s age. Usually the only liquid gets down that throat is a hundred proof and comes in a bottle.’

‘Damn fool,’ said Diehard, pulling the man’s head out of the water by his hair. ‘Come on you, you’ve got hurt people to attend.’

‘Where?’ blubbered the doctor vaguely, sliding down to sit on the ground beside the trough.

‘In that pest hole you call a hospital,’ said Diehard in disgust. ‘Now get up and do your work.’

‘I feel unwell,’ complained the doctor blearily. ‘I’m sick. Need to rest.’

Diehard let go to anger and booted the man hard in the ribs, ‘You don’t get in there right quick I’ll beat your dumb hide ‘til you need a doctor yourself.’

‘Yeah,’ added the wrangler. ‘And I reckon the nearest one of them must be two hundred miles back.’

‘Savages,’ grumbled the drunk, trying to lift himself to his feet. ‘Insufferable ignoramuses.’

Both men helped the soaked doctor up and with a boot in the seat of his pants Diehard shoved him over towards the tent. ‘Get in there and do your job,’ he snarled.

‘No sense of decorum,’ breezed the doctor in a plummy, educated accent. Tossing the words over his shoulder as he wove his way unsteadily on swaying legs. ‘No understanding the gentler needs of a skilled man. I, gentlemen, am an angel of mercy I’ll have you know.’

‘You do it right or I’ll nail you to the wall of that tent, you damned whiskey head,’ Diehard called after him.

‘He only gets away with it as he’s the one man they could find fool enough to come out here and do his merciful work in the middle of nowhere,’ confided the wrangler.

Diehard turned to the man and held out his hand, ‘Charlie Wexford, friends call me Diehard.’

‘Howdy, Diehard. Jonas Fairweather, some call me Nosey, I guess you can tell why.’

‘Obliged for your help, Nosey.’

‘Aw, that’s been a real pleasure. It was worth losing the teeth for.’

‘Say, you ain’t seen a pair of fellows with a fine bay mare, a dapple and a white passing through, have you?’

Nosey raised a rueful eyebrow, ‘You know them two?’ he asked cautiously.

‘They ain’t no friends of mine,’ Diehard added quickly. ‘They done stole that string from me.’

‘That figures, they’re a mean pair alright. Sure, they was here a few days back now.’

‘They rode on?’

‘Not before they….’

‘Say!’ Interrupted a loud voice behind them. ‘You the man with that buckboard?’

Diehard turned to see a pompous looking fellow with bushy sideburns approaching. A tall and pot-bellied man with an extravagantly large stovepipe hat on his head, a fancy silk neckerchief with a diamond stickpin and a tailcoat that reached below his knees and almost to the shining patent leather boots he wore.

Two others, dressed equally as smartly, accompanied him and both carried paper filled folders and rolled maps under their arms. Diehard recognized them as the surveying group he had seen earlier when he came from the tunnel.

‘I am,’ Diehard allowed.

‘Well, I have need of such a wagon right now. How much do you want for it?’

‘T’ain’t for sale, she ain’t mine to sell, I just borrowed her.’

‘No matter, I have dire need of such a vehicle at the moment. Name your price.’

One of the other men stepped forward, bowing slightly at the waist in an obsequious fashion, ‘Mister Beauregard, is the owner of the railroad,’ he muttered by way of introduction.

‘That’s right,’ said the bombastic railroad owner. ‘I don’t have time to dicker and I’ll meet your price if it’s fair enough.’

‘I already said, it ain’t mine to sell.’

‘Come along, fellow, don’t be difficult. I just bought myself a damned excellent piece of fine horseflesh and I need a wagon to transport its foodstuffs and accouterments, I don’t want the animal mixing with the common herd.’

That raised Diehard’s eyebrows, ‘You bought a fine horse?’

‘I was just getting around to telling you,’ said Nosey. ‘Mister Beauregard here purchased that fine white mare.’

‘You mean my fine white mare.’

Beauregard frowned deeply, ‘What? What’re you saying, you blackguard? I paid good money for that thoroughbred, she’s mine I’ll have you know.’

‘Appears those two fellows was horse thieves, Mister Beauregard. They stole a string from Diehard Charlie here,’ explained Nosey.

Beauregard paused and rumbled noisily, ‘Is this so? You have proof of that?’

‘No, I ain’t,’ Diehard confessed. ‘Now I know it sounds awry and I don’t expect you to believe me, sir, but I caught hold and took a fair time bringing those animals to the saddle. Found them wandering in the desert and was taking them into Prentice Bridge for proper right of ownership and sale when they was heisted from me.’

Beauregard looked from one of his attendant companions to the other, ‘So, you don’t have any proof of ownership, is that what you’re saying?’ The two men inclined their heads in agreement with their boss and smiled slyly at each other.

Diehard nodded agreement.

‘I am Mister Ormsby, the company lawyer,’ said one of the two toadies. ‘It would appear that Mister Beauregard has every right to the beast then,’ said the man haughtily. ‘He has paid money in good faith and whatever aspersions you may cast upon the sellers I think it’s fair to say that without any relevant deed of sale or evidence to the contrary the horse belongs to Mister Beauregard.’

‘Well said, Ormsby,’ rumbled Beauregard. ‘There you have it, that’s the law speaking. Now, fellow, I’ll make you a good price for your buckboard. At least you’ll walk away with something, what do you say?’

‘Told you and I can’t keep saying it, that wagon ain’t mine to sell. Maybe you ain’t one to mind taking stolen goods but that’s something that don’t sit right in my book.’

‘Goddamned audacity!’ snapped Beauregard. ‘What are you? A common cow herder by the look of you and you speak to me like that. I’ll have you know, with one snap of my fingers I’ll have enough men here to take that wagon off your hands without spending a dime.’

Diehard lowered his head threateningly, ‘Maybe so, mister. But I will bust your chops real good first you try it.’

Beauregard spat to one side in noisy anger and Ormsby laid a restraining hand on his arm, ‘Perhaps, Mister Beauregard, it may be wiser to avoid confrontation. You will know how these rough Frontier sort can be.’

‘Yeah,’ butted in Diehard. ‘It’s called ‘honest’, that’s how we rough Frontier sort are.’

Turning on his heel angrily, Beauregard strode off quickly followed by his scurrying attendants.

‘Shoot!’ said Nosey when they were out of earshot. ‘I guess maybe he got it right about that horse but he sure does it in a mean old way.’

‘That’s a fact,’ agreed Diehard. ‘Where they keeping that pony?’

‘You ain’t thinking of….’

‘No,’ Diehard shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. Just wanted to see her again, is all.’

The canvas flap of the hospital tent behind pulled back and Mister Chin stepped out.

‘Hey there, Mister Chin,’ said Diehard. ‘That doctor behaving himself? Your boys getting treatment?’

Mister Chin screwed his lip and raised one shoulder in an enigmatic shrug.

‘Damn his hide,’ snarled Diehard, who’s blood was already up after his clash with Beauregard, and with a face drained of color he pulled back the flap and strode into the tent.

The wounded men were lying sprawled on the grubby beds and it looked as if little had been done to ease their suffering. The doctor was sitting straddle-legged on a folding chair at the head of the ward and was in the process of trying to open a full bottle of whiskey. He was still soaked through and ignoring his condition by concentrating on squeezing the cork from the bottle with determined attention.

Diehard drew the Schofield as he came, cocking the hammer and holding the pistol alongside his leg as he strode up behind the doctor. The man looked up at him hazily, ‘I’m…. I’m getting to it,’ he promised. ‘Just need a restorative shot to bring me around.’

In one swoop, Diehard smashed the bottle apart with the long barrel of his six-shooter. Glass and liquor flew in a burst that startled the drunk. Then Diehard rested the tip of the barrel against the doctor’s knee.

‘I mean it, you ass. You don’t see to these people and I aim to blow your kneecap off.’

‘My bottle!’ gasped the doctor, looking down dazedly at the broken glass and pool of whiskey. ‘You broke my bottle.’

‘Damn right and if you don’t help these fellows right now, you’ll be down there with it.’

‘Come on,’ slurred the doctor. ‘They’re only Chinese for heaven’s sake. They hardly feel a thing, little more than animals the whole pack of them.’

Diehard rapped him hard across the side of the skull with the pistol and that widened the doctor’s eyes.

‘You listening to me?’ said Diehard. ‘Paying close attention now? Get up and do your business or, by God, I will hurt you some more.’

Reluctantly the drunk got to his feet and rubbing his head he staggered over to the first bed.

‘Mister Chin,’ said Diehard to the Chinaman who had followed him in with Nosey. ‘See he gets help. Get this place cleaned up, throw out those waste buckets, sweep it out and bring in new bedding. Any more trouble from him you let me know.’

‘So obliged,’ said Mister Chin, bowing deeply. ‘Will do.’

‘Come on, Nosey. Let’s go see my horse.’

 

They had tied off the pure white to a stake over beside the locomotive where Beauregard had his own special carriage set aside. The horse stood proudly, its mane flying in the breeze like driven snow. Shaking its head the animal skittered nervously from side to side. The mare was clearly disturbed by all the activity going on around; the stink of oil, smoke and blasts of hissing steam from the engine did not make things any easier for the creature.

‘Poor critter,’ said Diehard, shaking his head sadly. ‘She ain’t used to all this ruckus.’

‘Beautiful looking animal,’ said Nosey. ‘Sure is a shame. These people don’t know a good thing when they got it.’

‘Well,’ sighed Diehard. ‘Not much I can do about it, Beauregard has rightful claim and I don’t have a leg to stand on before the law with nothing but my word as a say-so.’

‘For what its worth,’ said Nosey. ‘I take your word on it.’

‘Thanks, partner. Leastways, I aim to track down those no-accounts. You see which way they was headed?’

Nosey raised an arm and pointed due northwest.

‘Okay, I guess I’ll be on the road again then as time’s a-wasting.’

‘You want some company?’ asked Nosey. ‘I’ve had it with this place. That Beauregard is one big pain in the ass. Allus telling a body how to do his own job, just can’t keep his nose out no how. I reckon I’m done with it here.’

Diehard looked over at him, ‘You sure about that, it may be I’m heading into some trouble down the way.’

Nosey shrugged, ‘We all gets to meet trouble some day or the other.’

‘Well, I’d be glad of your company if you’re sure, Nosey.’

‘Let’s do it then, I’ll go get some back pay I got coming and collect my gear.’

‘See you over at the buckboard.’

 

Diehard was watering his mules by the corral when Mister Chin sidled up quietly to stand beside him.

‘Hey there, everything okay?’ Diehard asked.

‘Velly good. I come thank you, now doctor do good work. Makee fellows all better.’

‘I’m glad of it.’

‘I come tell you something,’ muttered the Chinaman conspiratorially.

‘That so?’ said Diehard, distracted by checking a loose bridle buckle.

‘I have man here, Chinee man. He know horse, man who work with Wind Horse.’

‘Wind Horse? What’s that?’

‘Special animal in China. One of sacred animals. They say wind is like basic goodness and can be ridden same way. This white horse is such animal, you ride him he bring well being and good fortune.’

‘Sure thing,’ said Diehard doubtfully.

‘No, not what you think. This man he shaman, you understand? He make white horse not too much like boss man.’

Diehard smiled, ‘I reckon that pony will do that all by itself.’

Mister Chin eyed him, the crinkles in his weathered face crunching down so his eyes almost vanished from view.

‘You will see,’ he said. ‘Chinaman grateful.’

‘Well, Mister Chin, I’m obliged for your concern but I lost that pony two times over already. I reckon that’s how it has to be.’

The old man folded one hand in the other and bowed deeply, ‘Farewell, Mister Diehar’, may good fortune follow you and your way be prosperous.’

‘So long, Mister Chin. You hang in there.’