This is when… Lynch wakes up alive. Med cooks bacon. Lynch gets a horse. There’s a fight.
Lynch woke to cedar smoke, canvas and dust. The sounds of hammers, hooves and steam engines blended with the creak of timber. He stared at an arched, varnished ceiling, ribbed with polished bows. A leather harness groaned beyond the walls. Glass bottles chimed together, like someone nudged a shelf. Lynch sat up, swallowing. Pain exploded through his throat. His hand flew to his neck. It was swollen and tender. A thick ridge circled it like a collar, hot to the touch. “Okay,” he rasped. The word was like stones dragged together. Across from him was a washstand and basin. A gunbelt hung on a chair, Colt Navy holstered in it, clothes folded neatly. Lynch stood at the washbasin. His shoulders were sore. Ribs protested. His right knee was tender and swollen. The face in the mirror looked suddenly older. Purple bruising beneath his jaw glared back at him. But he was alive. He splashed cold water, shockin’ himself awake. Clothes fit perfect. The boots at the bed were his own square-toed cavalry boots, already comfortable. He lifted the Navy. It settled naturally into his hand. He checked the percussion caps, buckling the belt around himself. Warm sunlight spilled in through the door as he stepped out. The high desert air smelled of sage, frying bacon, horse sweat, fresh-cut pine. Lynch stood looking at Hell on Wheels. He heard a woman scream twice, far enough away that it drifted over rooftops and canvas like the cry of a hawk. Two revolver shots cracked quickly. Men kept hammering. A freight wagon rolled past, wheels six inches into the red mud. Somewhere beyond the tents, an ox team leaned into the yokes, leather stretching while a foreman cursed ‘em with inventive enthusiasm. Life kept on moving, as if screams and gunfire were part of breakfast. Lynch slowly scanned the camp. Less than a month ago, now a lifetime in the past, Hell on Wheels was a mobile camp, housing the railroad crews. Before him now stood something entirely new. A growing town. Canyon Diablo. Whole streets had appeared from nowhere. False-front saloons rose from muddy wagon ruts. Mercantile shops stood with blacksmiths, warehouses, boarding houses, rough hotels. Beyond it all: The Canyon split the earth from north to south, a dark wound carved through the grasslands. Westbound rails ran by him. Lynch followed ‘em with his eyes, across the unfinished bridge hangin’ over empty space. Timbers crossed into the gap like broken ribs, and the iron framework reached for the other rim, falling impossibly short. Workers crawled on the skeleton, hammers ringing. At the end of the track a great rail crane balanced over the abyss, as teams of mud-spattered oxen strained against heavy yokes, inching the machine forward one careful pace at a time. A massive boxcar swung slowly across toward the western side of the Canyon suspended from its cables. The railroad wasn’t just stopped, it was trapped.
The hiss of bacon hit him from behind. “You standin’ there all day, Lynch? Come on, son. Coffee’s gettin’ lonely.” Out yonder a locomotive gave a long mournful whistle, fading for miles. “Two years of mules hauling freight down into the ditch because some clerk back east couldn’t read a tape measure. That’s why this place exists.” Medicine Man shook his head slow. “Look at that locomotive sit there. A three-million-dollar anchor. Every piece of furniture, every barrel of flour heading to the Pacific dangles off that crane. Railroad brings freight to the edge, oxen push the crane, teamsters haul it off. And while everybody waits, they spend money on cheap whiskey and cards.” Medicine Man raised his cup. “Now the new iron’s coming. They’re tearing down that mistake. But you can’t tear down a thousand killers.” “…Hell on Wheels.” Lynch croaked. “Canyon Diablo now,” nodded the old man, eyes moving meaningfully to a group of three men coming and raising an eyebrow at Lynch. “Time to earn yer keep, son.” Lynch stood up with a hand on the butt of the Navy .44. The men coming across the grass weren’t railroad. They had the look of men livin’ off the friction of the bottleneck. Mud up to their knees, eyes fixed on the Medicine Wagon. “The one on the left has a Starr revolver tucked into his waist,” The old man murmured, voice low. Lynch stepped out from the shadow of the wagon as his thumb found the hammer of the .44. One man looked plaintive, holding his arms out. He pointed to the Crimson Lady on the side of Traveller. “My woman. Somethin’ bad. Belly hurting, makes her scream. You’re real. I know it. Help her, Medicine Man.” The old man reached into his back pocket and tossed a red bottle to him. “No more’n a third. Each day. Three days. Take her to the Preacher Lady to lay hands on ‘er. That’ll get ‘er.” The man fumbled for money. Med stopped him, “Cain’t take it fer this one.” He looked stern at all three of ‘em. “Not one drop fer you three. You do, my man’s comin’ by,” his thumb toward Lynch. They took one look at Lynch, the rope burn, his stance, hand on the Navy and turned to leave, the supplicant grasping the bottle to his chest with both hands. “The Preacher Lady in the Sears church actually has the touch,” said Medicine Man. “Eat up. We’re going down to the rail. Somebody down there owes me three hundred pounds of oats and a dynamic crate.” Old man gave him a small pouch of Double Eagles. “That’s fer outfittin. Can tell yer a horseman. Get the best. I got credit for years in this town. Just tell ‘em Medicine Man if the gold don’t get it.” He reached in the back door and swapped an Army .44 to Lynch for the Navy model. Heavier build, longer barrel. Medicine Man also gave him a couple of thin bars of silver, telling him, “That’s for ammo. Get a beer at the Demon Room. I’ll be along.” Lynch headed down the muddy slope toward the chaotic main street of Canyon Diablo, then stepped into the maelstrom. He passed the Sears prefab church on the flatcar where it sat on a side spur. The faint sound of the pump organ struggled against the rhythmic, metallic clang-clang of iron workers up in the bridge. A pair of freight wagons rumbled past. The massive wooden wheels threw red mud six feet in the air as teamsters cursed the mules. The sign for the Demon Room hung off a large canvas tent that was reinforced with rough-sawn planks. The smell of cheap mash, stale tobacco and bad luck poured into the cold when he walked past. Lynch headed straight to the surveyor’s shingle hanging down the street. He was likely the ridingest man in town. The Surveyor looked him over when he asked where the good horses were. “Which side.” Lynch straightened up, hand on his belt. “Meagher. Irish Brigade.” Surveyor said, “Daniel, at the table in the corner at the Demon. Real nice Paints.” Lynch tipped his hat and went to the mercantile for jeans, shirts, and pair of proper, pointed-toe riding boots with dogger heels. He laid down a silver bar for .44 ammo in the form of a hundred box. The mercantile smelled of wool, kerosene and new denim. No damn hats in the place. The proprietor reached under the counter and brought out a rail engineer’s striped cap. Lynch raised an eyebrow. The man pointed at his throat. “Gotta have somethin’ here, friend. Hard sun. You been to hell and walked out. Take it free.” Lynch grimaced, put on the hat and threw down two Double Eagles. “Need cigars too.” The owner handed back two silver fives and pointed up the road. “O’Donall Vice, up by the livery.”
The striped engineer’s hat was a perfect disguise in a bottleneck town. It made him look like railroad labor, a man belonging near the cranes and flatcars. Right next to the O’Donall Vice tobacco shop, a half-dozen horses were penned up, coats shining despite the mud. Lynch slowed his stride, cavalry eyes focused on a heavy-boned, deep-chested, black-and-white stallion near the rail. It had a short back, strong hocks, and deep, broad shoulders. The kind of stock that covers forty miles of broken canyon without coming up lame. Lynch stepped into O’Donall Vice before going to find Daniel at the Demon. The inside was thick with the scent of dark perique, sweet leaf, and the sharp, burning-copper smell of tequila. He got himself a bottle of bootleg and asked about cigars. Donal O’Donall knew this man. Just his face. Never knew his name except for Connor. But Donal was knee-deep in the blood and clay at Chancellorsville when the world turned into a slaughterhouse. Connor and he were side by side there. He never said a word to Lynch about it. Connor knew Donal too, but didn’t know from where. He figured it was the war, but never remembered who these men were, when he ran into them. The recognition in the room was solid as an iron bar. Donal reached under the counter, pulled out an extra bundle of prime leaf and put it in the packet. “Come see me in Concho Valley. Only here one day a week. Seen you lookin’ at the Paint. Ask Daniel about the roan Paint up there. Tell him Donal gave it over.” He tipped the brim of his derby, rapping his cane twice on the floor. Lynch shook hands and nodded, going out.
He pushed back the canvas flap at the Demon Room and stepped into the dim, rowdy light of the saloon. Nodded to the girl behind the bar while she looked him up and down. “Need a room, sugar?” She asked. Lynch gave her a butterscotch stick. “Not yet, honey. Send Daniel a whiskey.” She looked to the corner where a couple rail workers were signing papers and pocketing money. A man was sitting there with a strongbox and a beer, long blond hair falling down his back like a waterfall. Big wide hat, handlebar moustache and a long goatee. He nodded at Lynch as a kid of about ten, wearing overalls and an engineer’s hat ran out the back. Lynch nodded back and reached the table the same time as the whiskey. Lynch set his bundles on the chair that was facing Daniel and grabbed another, putting it against the wall where he could see the door. Daniel laughed and dropped the whiskey into his beer. He downed the draft in one long draw. The whiskey glass clacked against his teeth, then he wiped his moustache with his neckerchief. “Man after my own heart, mister.” He leaned back in the split-willow chair, iron lockbox sitting heavy on the table between ‘em, like an anchor. His long blond hair caught the amber light as he watched the way Lynch set his chair. Daniel understood a man like that with no introduction. “You look like you swallowed a box of carpet tacks, friend,” Daniel said in a low, gravelly baritone. He tapped the top of the lockbox with a thick, ringed finger. “Donal sent word by the runner kid. Said you were looking at the black Paint, told me to give you the roan instead.” Lynch didn’t answer right away. He reached into his coat, pulled out the bottle of tequila from O’Donall Vice and set it on the table with a solid thud. He pried the cork out with his teeth. The sharp, medicinal sting of the liquor hit his raw throat in fumes before he even got a swallow. A good slug burned like fire, but it cleared the dust out. “The roan,” Lynch gasped. Daniel snickered and leaned forward. His wide hat shadowed his goatee. “That roan’s a mean, high-shouldered son of a gun from the Arizona Strip, up at the Utah line. Got bones like an ox. Donal knows horse meat. That black Paint’s for showin’ off in Prescott. This here roan is a Paint for stayin’ alive. When the world gets mean, brother.” He put a set of brass keys on the table. “Third stall behind the tobacco shop. Saddle and rig are on the peg. Look him over. If you like the way he stands, we’ll talk.” Lynch left the bottle_ on the table, tipped his hat and went out the way the boy took, keys in hand.
The roan was truly rare, a glory of a stallion. Not some mountain mongrel. A genuine masterpiece. Perfect spirit face, one side stark white, the other a deep, rich red roan. He had an eerie, ancient look, like somethin’ painted on a cave wall, before the Spaniards came. He had the Tobiano coloring pattern. White sides, roan saddle, haunches and legs, and white again across the shoulders. Lynch didn’t look right at that stallion. Just turned around, gave him his back and finished his cigarillo like he never even seen ‘im. Soon as them soft lips stretched out and nipped his earlobe, the contract was signed. A butterscotch stick sealed it. He whispered, “Hello, Jeb. Namin’ you for J.E.B. Stuart. Finest cavalryman in history. Circumnavigated the Army of the Potomac twice, in the dark. That’s your secret name, friend.” He looked around to see if anyone was watching, seen a drunk pissing by the door, then told him out loud, “Charger. You’re Charger now, boy. Big ole Charger.” It made him cough a little to speak that loud. He checked the saddle and rig Daniel mentioned. Heavy oiled leather, with a solid, center-fire cinch. This gear was campaign-ready, clean of rot and built for long miles. He rode Jeb around to the street, up and back twice, out onto the grass for a hard sprint, slowed to a gallop, then trotted him back down to the Demon, tied up out front and slapped his shoulder. “You stay there for a minute, Charger. Be right back.” He went inside to have a drink with Daniel and get his packages. Daniel was still sitting at the lockbox. The bottle of tequila was exactly where Lynch left it. Daniel snickered and reached for the tequila bottle, pushing it toward Lynch’s hand. “Seen you ride him up and around. That Tobi walks like he owns this country. Looks like Donal didn’t lie bout him. None at all.” He leaned forward, handlebar moustache twitching. “So, Irish. Roan and rig will cost you forty in gold, or two bars of silver. Let’s settle the ledger.” “Donal said to tell you he gave it over. But here’s a Double Eagle for not shootin’ when I walked up, and a bottle when I’m done.” “Donal’s a bastard,” Daniel said, but there was no heat in it. He reached out and swept the gold coin into his palm. He dropped it into the strongbox. “If Donal said he gave it over, that roan belongs to the Irish Brigade. I don’t argue with a man who sees through the fog.” They drank.
Outside, the rhythmic thud-thud of the railroad hammers suddenly stopped. The silence on Main Street was broken only by a distant scream from the locomotive comin’ in from the east. When Lynch stepped out, the sight of the Medicine Wagon coming down Hell Street dominated the entire town. Heavy wooden sides were painted a deep, weathered crimson, hand-carved panels creaking as she ground through thick Arizona muck. It didn’t look like anything else in Hell on Wheels, nor Canyon Diablo. Old, self-contained, permanent. The locomotive let out another scream, slowing to the crane siding. Medicine Man didn’t stop the wagon, just slowed the team to a walking pace as the crimson coach creaked by. “Let’s see that crate before the rail clerks see who’s signing.” Lynch swung into the saddle. His new pointed-toe boots found the stirrups easy. The big roan danced once, spirit face turning toward the massive coach like he knew it already. The old man took the Medicine Wagon to the canyon rim. The locomotive hissed, belly grumbling when it stopped by the crane, way out on the bridge. A clerk standing on a flatbed car nearby, with a pencil on his ear checked a manifest, shouting, “Medicine Man! Got three hundred pounds of grain, and a heavy damn crate. Sign here!” Lynch kept Charger steady, gloved hand resting on his leg near the .44, watching the massive iron crate swing off the flatcar. Medicine Man pulled a pair of leather belt handloops at the rear of Medicine Wagon. A loading platform slid out eight feet. A cross-braced frame swiveled down to meet the ground. The crate lowered and landed on the platform. The rear panels and door of the Medicine Wagon folded to one side, leaving an opening with a curtain of ribbons in it. Leaning, the old man flipped a panel over and a row of rollers showed. They set the crate on the platform, Med cranked the rollers upward to lift it and a windlass pulled the box in. “Now we can head back up to the Demon before the rail marshal wants a look at the tax stamp on that Crimson Elixir.” He snapped the lines and the two enormous gray Percherons, Jericho on the left, Nineveh on the right, leaned into the squeaky harness. Their hooves seemed to be marking time, as the heavy crimson coach rolled back to set up the huck show right in front of the Demon Room.
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