Hank stood on the precipice of the broken tracks overlooking the creek bed, the reins of a Sorrel named Copper in his hand. Having spent a good part of his life in the city, he was a mediocre horseback rider. Still, it was the best way to access remote locations within the Black Hill mountains. Staring down at the smoldering remains of the railroad bridge, two engines, the smaller one stacked on top of the other laying in a heap. A phrase from his estranged father-in-law came to mind. “zhēnshi yītuánzāo,” he muttered to the horse. The mare nodded as if to concur. Hank scratched his beard. If he had to make a judgment based on his current observation, it appeared the train had been traveling too fast for the downward gradient. Meaning, either the brake man had been sleeping on the job, or more likely, the valve to the brake was stuck disallowing for enough steam to power the brakes, a frequent problem on steam run engines. At any rate, it looked like the cow catcher must have clipped the railing at just the right angle, toppling the bridge and two engines into the creek. Hank looked to his horse, “Welp, let’s hear what the hog boss has to say.” He started down the creek embankment leading the horse rather than riding. He was a railroad man, not a cowboy.
It was clear nothing would be getting through to Deadwood for quite a while. Cribbing over the gap wasn’t a viable option and rebuilding the bridge would take months before traffic could resume. Hank mounted his horse to cross the creek then dismounted on the other side making his way up the muddy incline toward the rest of the train.
He was astonished to see the tender of the second engine along with the freight cars coupled behind marginally derailed. One of the engineers stood in the doghouse on the deck of the tender scratching his head. Hank approached and extended a hand, “Hello, Hank McCormick, railway official with the Chicago, Burlington, Quincy. Can you tell me what happened?”
The engineer eyed him warily and scoffed. “That didn’t take long.” It was no secret among the engine crew, the big brass frequently rode the route between Edgemont to Deadwood. They even had hand signals alerting the rest of the crew to their presence. It had been sheer happenstance, Hank arrived in Deadwood just days before to see his daughter when word came in early this morning about the accident. The engineer breathed a sigh of resignation and accepted the outstretched hand. “Karl Whitters, hog boss for engine number 3116. Yeah, I’ll tell you what happened.”
According to the engineer, the bridge was already ablaze prior to the train’s approach. It was an unlikely scenario considering no train had passed that way in over nine hours, alluding to arson, a serious assertion. Hank considered the Wasp number two mine spur not far away. Holding onto the thought, he urged the engineer to continue.
“I had time to slow the speed enough for the engine crew to jump to safety. A good thing too. Creeks up, someone could have drowned just as easily as being crushed by the engine. It was too late to stop the train completely before the bridge.”
The engineer’s quick thinking had indeed minimized casualties. But by the grace of God, the passenger cars and caboose had all remained on the tracks with the passengers who were already on their way back to Englewood. From there, they would be rerouted. As far as Hank could tell, there’d been no conceivable reason the engineer with a seasoned crew would concoct such a story. Thanking the man, Hank walked to the rear of the train, hoping to talk to the conductor. Before he reached the caboose, he heard a man exclaim, “Well looky what I found.”
A lanky, young man dressed in overhauls crouched down on his haunches stared at the object. Pointing, he said, “I ain’t never seen britches like that on a woman before.” Hank walked his horse over for a closer look.
From a distance, it appeared as if a little girl might have dropped her ragdoll in the dirt and he nearly disregarded the whole thing. Upon closer inspection, he realized the object was a woman, half dressed and semi-conscious lying on the ground. “What the—”
“Whatcha got there Beaner, and how the hell would you know what a female’s britches are supposed to look like?” The conductor said as he approached. Taking Hanks hand, he gave it a hardy shake, “Long time no see, Blue Dog.”
The name made Hank smile. He’d been given the nickname after rescuing an Australian cattle pup from certain death at a stockyard in Omaha. Blue Dog, Bluey for short was such an ordinary name given to an extraordinary dog. With a merle coat and icy blue eyes, Blue Dog was the first and only animal Hank had ever owned. More than a pet, Bluey was hardworking, intelligent, loyal, and a faithful companion. Hank took the dog everywhere, and except for a surly bar keep, everyone loved that dog, so long as he was exercised daily.
Standing shoulder to shoulder the two men contemplated the situation. Neither seemed to know what to make of the matter. Beaner, the simpleton he was, had drawn his own conclusion. Looking up and waggling his eyebrows, he whispered, “Ya think she’s a burlesque dancer from one of those carnival side shows, boss?”
“You’re a real pain in the neck, Beaner,” The conductor scoffed, “Now make yourself useful and go fetch a blanket.” Beaner rose slowly to his feet and ambled in the direction of the caboose, kicking at the loose rock as he strolled.
“Moron,” the conductor muttered. To Hank, “Let’s get a closer look.”
Baring only minor cuts, the woman appeared in good condition. Despite being underdressed, there was no evidence of hypothermia, nor did it appear as though she had been violated. Though, abuse would lend a better explanation for her improper dress and the remoteness of her location. Hank took stock in the surroundings.
Near the spur for the Wasp number two mine, up the line sat an engine waiting on the tracks with ore cars already three-quarters full. On the western slope, another spur, this one requiring a winch system pulled the cars up the steep grade servicing the cyanide mill that managed the tailings. The mine shipped out thousands of carloads of sand to be used to fill and ballast. Overall, it was quite an engineering feat. None of it lent a clue as to how she got here.
Walking back to his horse, Hank grabbed the bedroll behind his saddle. Gently he laid it over her body. The closer vantage point revealed a woman of middle age, her skin a vibrant hue despite the cool air. Her hair was dark and tangled, her cheeks rosy, her skin smooth. Her couldn’t see the color of eyes, but they were adorned with long, thick lashes, and her lips red and plump. She appeared well-nourished. Her frame, slight of build, possessed well-defined legs and muscular arms as though she wasn’t afraid of arduous work. In short- he found her to be—very appealing. She moaned softly. Not in pain, more like the sound a child tucked into bed would make. It was impossible to comprehend how, or why, she was here. He only knew he had to get her somewhere safe. The conductor turned to him and said, “She’s not one of mine. I would have remembered a female passenger dressed like that.”
Scooping her up in his arms, Hank hoisted her onto his horse with the conductor’s assistance. Despite her moderate frame, it was a struggle not to jostle her awake. Saddling up behind her, he cradled the woman in front of him, her head resting on his chest. She snuggled in, like his old blue healer did when he was a puppy. Once secured, he gave Copper a gentle nudge and said, “alright girl, let’s go home.”