The Lady and the Robber Baron Read online

  Kim Wong looked from man to man, trying to guess which one would be Kincaid. A tall man with piercing green eyes, very near his own age, stepped forward and offered his hand. He had expected Kincaid to be older.

  Kim Wong took the broad hand and gripped it hard, the way Americans did.

  Chane introduced his comrades and then said, “I see you found plenty of men to come.”

  “No ploblem getting men, Mista Kincaid. No ploblem,” Kim Wong said, dropping automatically into pidgin English. He spoke fluent English and had been educated at an English university in Hong Kong for three years, but he found it advisable to speak pidgin to white men. They looked even more suspiciously upon Chinese who didn’t.

  Recruiting men to come to America had been easy. Famine, border skirmishes with Russia, threats to China’s coastline from Russian gunboats, the British opium trade, fights between supporters of the Manchu Dowager Empress and the rebels—the Red Turbans—all made this a good time to leave China.

  Kim Wong had had his own reasons for leaving. A Red Turban himself, he had barely escaped execution. He’d jumped into a sampan and fled Canton while less fortunate members of his tong were being executed by loyalist soldiers. The streets had run with blood. He had seen fifty or more severed heads hoisted in a fish net and tied up at the city gates for all to see. He was lucky his head had not been among them. And grateful to Kincaid for this opportunity he would have scorned two years ago.

  In China he would be castigated for building a railroad. The masses hated the iron monster. In 1876 the government had finally allowed a railroad to be built in his province. The people had been terrified. They felt certain the railroad would disturb the good joss of the land, anger the land gods, and disturb their honorable ancestors’ graves. They had deliberately walked in front of the trains, believing that in death they would be transformed into powerful hostile spirits to combat the railroad and to protect their living relatives. The deaths had caused such an outcry, the government had had to buy the railroad and dump the locomotives into the river.

  Fortunately for Kim Wong, those same men who had opposed the railroad in China were happy to build one for the “Melicans.” It pleased the Chinese to retaliate against their enemies by disturbing the good joss of the Melicans’ land and disrupting their ancestors’ sleep.

  Kim Wong bowed low.

  “Between your crew and Targle’s crew, we’ve got about twenty-five hundred men,” Chane said. “We need to break ’em into crews and get ’em busy. We need men to grade the roadbed, cut timber, quarry gravel for ballast, operate the sawmill, build the trestles, blast cuts through the passes, level slopes, string telegraph lines between the camps, and lay rails.”

  Kim Wong nodded. “We do all that.”

  Targle snorted and shook his head. “Probably didn’t understand a word you said.”

  “Understand velly good. We do all that and more. Even survey and build blidges.”

  “Reckon they can do just about anything for ten minutes or so, but can they do it from bust of day to good dark?” Targle growled.

  Kim Wong nodded. “Chinaboys work hard. You see.”

  Chane spent a good hour arbitrating between Kim Wong and Beaver Targle. Beaver was fairly easy to manipulate. If Chane wanted him to take on a particular job, he introduced it as the most difficult. Kim Wong was a wily one. Smart and determined, he hid greater intelligence beneath the jolly, mindless façade that completely fooled Targle.

  Finally, the tasks were evenly divided and responsibility assigned. Targle’s crews would operate the quarry, transport the gravel and supplies to the bridge sites and work sites, grade the roadbed, lay the ballast and rails, and cut timber. Kim Wong’s crew would carve the grade south, build the minor bridges over the tributary feeder streams, build boxcars and passenger cars, and operate the sawmill.

  Targle grunted his satisfaction. “I expect they’ll work a week and collapse.”

  Chane secretly bet that within a week they would be running small businesses in their spare time—selling cooked food, washing clothes, and operating gambling tables.

  Kim Wong bowed and walked back to his campfire.

  Targle shook his head in chagrin. “You’re wasting your money paying them Chinaboys for men’s work.”

  It struck Chane as odd that Targle would still be arguing with him about something that would become plain as soon as they started work. The Chinese had played an important role in building the Union Pacific Railroad in ’69, and most of the U.S. railroads since then. They had a history of pulling their weight day in and day out without being pushed.

  “If the Chinese don’t work out, I’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

  Targle acted like a man who knew it was time to stop but couldn’t anyway. “I know how they’re gonna do. They’re gonna raise hell with morale. Not one man in a hundred will put up with them getting equal pay for carrying half a man’s load. Did you see how little they was? Why, I could carry one under each arm.”

  Chane slapped him on the back. “We need a thousand head of horses, a couple hundred steers, and some mules and oxen. I imagine you’ve got that pretty well lined up.”

  “I’ve been buying for weeks, but we need hundreds more horses, oxen, mules, and cattle.” Targle walked to his horse, mounted, and rode away at a canter, still shaking his head.

  Steve expelled a frustrated breath. “Well, I’m glad we got that settled.”

  “I don’t expect that to solve all the problems we’re going to have between those two. If we’re going to beat Laurey, we need to finish the line in less than three months,” Chane said.

  “I don’t see how we can pay for that much rail in that short a time. It would take a miracle.”

  “Only one?” Chane grinned. “That shouldn’t be any problem at all for a smart attorney like you. Look at the bright side. What we use in steel rails, we save in salaries.”

  Steve knew Chane was tense and edgy, boarded up like a town waiting for a tornado. He wondered if Jennie knew how bleak the prospects were for her happiness. But being who he was, if Chane decided to stay married, he would. But she might suffer for it.

  To Steve’s way of thinking, it was to Chane’s advantage to stay with Jennifer. Having watched his own parents, he knew better than to expect a perfect marriage. But at least with Jennifer, Chane would be buffered against the kind of misery he’d suffered before.

  For Jennie, the kiss in the hotel dining room was a revelation. She realized that Chane must be jealous of Tom Tinkersley. If that were true, then there must be a flicker of feeling for her left in him somewhere. She’d just have to bide her time.

  Up in their room, she noticed an envelope on the bureau with her name scrawled in Chane’s handwriting. She picked it up and ten bills fell out, fluttering to the floor. A note inside said, Buy whatever you need. We’ll be rolling down the tracks in a few days. You might not have an opportunity to shop for a while. Chane. Jennifer counted $950.

  Ignoring the looks of interest in her crutches and possibly her camel-wool coat, too elegant for the small town, she hobbled to the town’s few stores. Soon her underarms were sore from the crutches. Since she couldn’t carry anything but herself anyway, she went back to the hotel, made a list, and sent Marianne back to the stores.

  Chane was gone all day. He came back to their hotel room about nine-thirty that evening, pleased and tired and dirty. He made no reference to the kiss. Nor did she.

  “How long will we stay here at the hotel?”

  “A couple more days,” he said, sagging into the only upholstered chair in the room.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I grabbed a bite with the men.”

  He was asleep in the chair before she reached their bed. She didn’t wake him.

  Chane needed to be everywhere at once. He rode to the quarry site, which was farther away than he’d wanted it. Then he rode to the place on the river he and Targle had chosen for the sawmill. One crew would cut timber west of La Junt
a, another would float it a short way down the river, and another would buck logs into the saws that would spew forth ties, bridge pilings, and lumber for trestle construction and railroad cars.

  Axes rang in the forest. Men graded the roadbed. He rode ahead, following stake flags left by the surveyors who had started six weeks before his arrival. When he came to a gully or a small water bed that had to be spanned, he took his measurements, sat down and drew a rough design. Then he rode back, recruited a crew, and led them and wagonloads of supplies to the new trestle site. This way the trestle could be finished by the time the track reached it.

  As the track-laying crews moved forward, another crew strung telegraph wire beside them.

  Chane sent a telegram to Wilcox to find out when the Commodore and Gould had started building south. As a precaution, Chane sent one of Tom Tinkersley’s Apache scouts to Pueblo to follow the Commodore’s crew as they laid rail. They sent coded telegrams back so there wouldn’t be any more security leaks.

  Chane worked longer than anyone else. Since everyone knew he and Jennie were staying at the hotel, he felt obliged to keep up a charade so as not to invite undue speculation. Most nights when he came to bed, Jennie was asleep.

  Tonight was no different. He knew he should sleep in the chair again, but his back ached, fairly crying out for a warm, comfortable bed.

  In the dark he undressed down to his union suit, slipped into bed beside his sleeping wife, and waited for sleep. Unfortunately, either he wasn’t tired enough or he was too tired. The sound of Jennie’s soft breathing, the smell of her, so warm and heady beside him, oozed into his body. He lay there stiff and miserable, his body humming like a telegraph wire.

  He turned his back to her. Jennie turned over and snuggled up with her breasts against his back and her knees nestled into the crook of his knees. The feel of her was so unexpected and so delicious, Chane could barely breathe. He knew he should just get up and walk to the train, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The silky feel of her was so delicious, so warm and sweet and soft. It would be easier to cut his leg off than to move away from her.

  He must have been crazy to bring her along, he thought. His body burned with a terrible, weakening fever, but he knew he couldn’t make love to her. He had promised to take care of her, and he would keep his word if it killed him. But the less he took advantage of her, the better position he’d be in when he got to the point where he could break free of her. Chane had had second thoughts about Tom Tinkersley. Maybe he could use Tom to attract Jennie away from him. Jennie seemed to like Tom. And Tom obviously admired her. Chane had seen him smiling at her any number of times. Tinkersley didn’t need to be marriage material. He just needed to serve as a bridge, from one situation to another. As soon as Jennie transferred her feelings to Tinkersley, she could let go of him.

  His heart sank at the thought of it. But better that than the misery he’d feel the rest of his life if she stayed with him.

  Jennifer woke to another cold, sunny day. Chane was already dressed.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You were asleep.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “No.” He picked up his heavy coat.

  “You look grumpy.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m moving back to the train today. We’re heading down the tracks. You can stay here. It’ll be more comfortable for you.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, puzzled.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you angry with me?”

  “I’m not angry,” he yelled, slamming down the coat.

  Startled, Jennifer decided it might be best to ignore his outburst. “I want to come with you.”

  Chane looked like a man pushed beyond his limits. And she had no idea what had caused it.

  With a visible effort he controlled himself. “Can you be packed in an hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then.” He jammed his arms into his sleeves and stalked out. “I’ll send a man for your luggage,” he said over his shoulder.

  A train waited for them on the siding. Chane lifted her out of the buckboard and carried her to his palace car. The locomotive chuffed loudly, sending black coal smoke high into the cold blue sky. They reached the work site within minutes. The train whistle blew a signal to the brakeman. Jennifer heard him on the roof, tightening down the brakes. Within seconds the train ground to a halt.

  Beyond the laid track, men worked fifty abreast, leveling the roadbed. Ahead of them the Chinese cleared the right-of-way.

  Jennifer marveled at the progress already made. They had laid at least two or three miles of track. The Pullman coach they’d taken from New York inched forward on new steel rails.

  Beside the work site the Arkansas River was wide and slow, bordered on each side by a long slope of sagebrush. Hills lay dark in the distance. The sky was a perfect blue, with scattered white clouds near the horizon.

  “I’m leaving now,” Chane said. “I’ll be working on a trestle about five miles ahead.”

  “I thought you’d stay here in the Pullman coach.”

  “Too much trouble to run back and forth every day.”

  “May I go with you?”

  “No, men working in water don’t wear too many clothes.”

  Jennie laughed. “In this weather?”

  “We’ve got to span a creek,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, but what if I want to ride over and see you sometime?”

  “I don’t advise it, but if you must, then see Tom Tinkersley. He’ll take care of you while I’m gone.”

  Chane walked to the crew shack and found Tinkersley. “I brought my wife to the site today. She may want to take an occasional horseback ride. It’ll be your job to keep her safe.”

  “My job?” Tinkersley’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Her safety will be your personal concern. Unless you can’t handle it.”

  Tinkersley hooked his thumbs in his belt and fingered his silver buckle.

  Chane realized he’d aroused Tinkersley’s suspicions. “You’re in charge of security. If you can’t handle the job, just say so.”

  Tom scowled. “I can handle anything you can throw at me.”

  “Then I don’t see why you’re having such a hard time with this.” Chane turned and stalked away before Tinkersley could respond.

  Meals were a problem. Marianne was taking lessons from one of the male cooks assigned to the railroad crews, but he wasn’t much help to her. She was prepared to measure in cups, spoons, and pinches, and they talked about twenty-pound bags of this and that.

  Marianne settled it by just walking to the cook tent and bringing back enough food for herself and Jennifer.

  One afternoon Steve stopped by to tell Jennifer he was going into town. “Marianne,” Jennifer called out. “Would you like to ride into town with Steve?”

  Marianne poked her head out of the kitchen. “Do we need something, ma’am?”

  “A cookbook.”

  On the way back from town Marianne kept glancing from Steve Hammond’s clean profile to the beauty of the setting sun. They reached the camp, and Steve turned toward the office car, a Pullman coach he shared with Rutherford, the bookkeeper.

  “Sure is a pretty sunset, isn’t it?” she said.

  The sky was scarlet and purple with golden streaks. Steve glanced at the sky, then at her. He wasn’t much interested in sunsets, but Marianne, with her clear Irish complexion and her rosebud lips, was looking prettier to him every day.

  “I sure wish I could take a walk down by that river,” she said, sighing wistfully.

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Mrs. Kincaid told me not to go off by myself.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I could take you.”

  “Would you?”

  They walked along the small creek that emptied into the Arkansas. They co
uldn’t stray too far because of the fear of Indians. Tinkersley said bands of hostile Utes and friendly Arapahoes occasionally passed this way. Steve couldn’t tell the difference between them, so he preferred to avoid all Indians.

  She turned toward him. “You’re nice. You don’t act like what I thought you would,” she said.

  “I don’t?”

  “No.”

  “How did you think I would act?”

  “I don’t know. Usually you look like a bundle of loose nerves.”

  “Maybe you have a settling effect on me.”

  “Sure, and I’m glad of that.”

  Steve considered himself a practical man. His parents had had a good marriage until his father died at sixty of a stroke. His mother had maintained their comfortable brownstone near Madison Square. After the funeral, she’d asked Steve if he’d like to move back in. He was home so seldom, he could see no reason not to. With a well-run home as a base, he had been content to stay single even though men his age were expected to marry. But he had long ago realized that he had no knack with women. The things he generally talked about—bond issues, law cases, and stock transfers—seemed of no interest to them.

  And his job kept him too busy. Chane was a dynamo. If they weren’t building luxury hotels or untangling railroad disasters, they were buying or selling steamship lines or silver mines. Only a month ago Chane had traded his brother Lance an interest in the Texas and Pacific for an interest in a silver mine. Now that trade seemed a better bargain for Chane than Lance.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” Marianne asked.

  “I do all I need to get my business done, which seems considerable.” He liked the sound of her voice, though. She had a raspy, smoky sort of voice that stirred odd reactions in him.

  She laughed. “Sure, and you don’t look at a girl much either, do you?”

  Steve could tell by the tone of her mocking voice that she wasn’t serious, but he flushed and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “I was raised to treat a woman with respect—which, in my mother’s opinion, was not to stare, not to speak ill of her, and not to swear in her presence.”