Faith of the Heart (18 page)

             
“Now don’t you worry, Mr. Moore, your room will be here when you get back. I’ll see that no one disturbs your belongings.”

             
Cal gave a final
look
back
as he clambered into the hack he’d hired for the drive to the train station.
Impatiently he barked at the driver,
“Let’s go, Ned
.
I’ve a train to catch—I’m
heading
west.”

The driver clucked at the horses and they clip-clopped down the brick street toward the depot. Cal leaned back and stretched his sore leg. He glanced around at the neighborhood that had been his home for the past four years and thought back to old Cassie Bear and her hideout cabin.

             
After that April day when he’d nearly been discovered,
Cal left Cassie, making sure she was well stocked with meat and firewood. He owed her an enormous debt for saving his life and giving him a place to stay. After he had made his way to a new town and started a new life, he vowed he would keep providing for Cassie as she aged.
She was about the only person who’d ever been decent to him.

             
Cal
had
kept that vow and continued to send her regular letters and gifts. Every so often when she went into Gettysburg there would be a parcel waiting there just for her. He sent warm woolen blankets, large parcels of tea and coffee, books and copies of the newspaper where he worked. Once, to Cassie’s immense delight, he sent a shocking pink petticoat. The impracticality of the present delighted her, and instead of wearing it, she hung the undergarment on the wall so she could admire it. It was “too good” to wear around the isolated cabin, but she loved to stare at its beauty and run the silky fabric through her gnarled fingers.

             
Baltimore had become Cal’s home. Soon after he arrived, Cal had taken a job at the
Baltimore Sun
n
ewspaper as a columnist.
His clear, concise style was a welcome change and he soon had a following of readers. Of course, he was writing as Calvin Moore and not Caleb Davidson. As far as anyone knew, Caleb Davidson had perished during the War Between the States,
along with
thousands of other young men.

             
He unconsciously reached for the half
-
heart pendant at his throat and rubbed it.
He thought of Claire constantly and wondered if she missed him as much as he longed for her
.
He always pictured her waiting for him by the front gate of her parent’s home.
O
nce
,
the thought
that she could already be married to someone else had occurred to him.
He became so upset that
he
came down with
an
intense
headache that kept him in bed for two days.
A couple of times
he even thought he had seen her in the crowded streets and had ducked into a doorway until the woman had passed from his sight. He knew he was a coward, and now that the war was over he couldn’t be arrested for desertion, but he still stayed away from Gettysburg, his parents, and Claire. Too much time had passed.
Still, he
didn’t think
Claire
should
rightfully
be with any man but him.
She had promised herself to him forever, no matter what happened and he intended her to keep that promise.
    

             
He
had
made a few feeble attempts to court women in Baltimore, but none of them seemed to suit him. He did admit he wasn’t always the best of company. He walked with a limp, was prone to melancholy, and really was happie
st
alone
with memories of his perfect woman.

             
When his editor offered him an opportunity to go west and do a series of articles about railroads and their impact on the post-war economy, Cal jumped at the chance. After all, he had no ties in Baltimore
and seeing the frontier was exciting
and new
.

             
His assignment was straightforward,
but
complex. He’d travel from the east coast to the west coast by rail, stopping in various towns and cities. He’d interview railroad barons like Cornelius Vanderbilt of the New York Central line and the common man who was laying track on the Kansas Pacific line. He’d stop in Omaha and meet with two men who were trying to design a refrigerated railcar to carry their fresh beef back to the east coast.
The Sun
had received a letter
, outlining the cold car plans,
from a fellow on a small ranch just outside of Omaha
.
Since the Union Pacific went right through the city, he’d be able to have a personal interview with the would-be inventors. The potential for their idea was stupendous and Cal knew his read
ers would be fascinated as well.

             
During the war, the United States had
laid
about 30,000 miles of track, most of it in the northern states. That track allowed troops and supplies to be sent to the battles. This tremendous advantage helped the north finally secure victory over the confederacy
.
Now in peacetime, thousands of miles were being added to rail lines linking farming areas with cities.
D
ifferent railroads began to consolidate to increase efficiency and profits. Industries manufacturing ties and iron ore for rails thrived and jobs were created for people who laid track or built cars and equipment.
Meanwhile,
the first transcontinental railroad was being completed and Cal would be there to see and report on its impact as it united the Atlantic and Pacific oceans by rail. He would yet again be a part of history
.
But this time he
wouldn’t
be in hiding, ashamed and embarrassed. This time he’d be reporting and informing, even if he was using an assumed name.

             
“Mr. Moore, here you are, and right on time.” Ned the hack driver said as he lifted out Cal’s luggage, rousing Cal from his
thoughts.
Appropriately enough, his journey was to begin with the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. The engine of his train was a 4-6-0 built by Samuel Hayes in 1853. It looked strange with its cap perched on top of the boiler but it was mechanically sound. Now it was hissing and steaming, pawing at the rails, anxious to be leaving. Cal understood. He was ready to go, too.  

             
He climbed on board, found an empty seat
,
and stowed his bags underneath
.
He pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket and began to jot down his observations. The train lunched from the station and slowly picked up spee
d.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Maxwell Ranch, August 1869
             
             
             
             
             

             
Linus stood and stretched. He’d been hunkered over the worktable in Tom’s barn for hours. He reached for his mug of coffee and took a swig, but it was cold. He stepped outside of the barn and tossed the dregs onto a rose bush. He glanced at the moon and estimated that it was
late;
nearly
10:00 P.M.
Tom was gone for a couple of days, headed toward Lincoln. Linus didn’t mind his absence
;
he rather enjoyed the quiet and seclusion. Especially now that he was in the middle of a big project. Caring for the small ranch was perfect for Linus
;
he got to be outdoors
but
still had a roof over his head come winter. He planted vegetables, nurtured apple and pear trees, and watched over Tom’s beloved Morgans. Under his care the herd was beginning to prosper, and he even had a few cattle of his own that bore his brand—the Lucky M. Lucky because he’d made it through the war. Lucky because he had Tom and the ranch to care for. Lucky because he was alive and people left him alone. Someday he’d find a
gal
and marry, maybe, but there was no hurry and meanwhile he had everything he wanted, including time to invent things
and time to forget things.
             
             
             
             
Invention was his true passion. Figure out a need and then come up with a way to meet that need. The little ranch had several of his improvements working. The ice house straddling Saddle
C
reek kept eggs, milk, and butter cold and fresh. That same creek piped water down to the garden by means of a viaduct system he’d rigged up.
Well,
so maybe the Romans had invented that one, but he’d modified it to use here in Nebraska by using chicken wire to filter out fish and debris. Anyway
,
he didn’t have to lug water by the bucketfuls in times of drought and the gardens
were
flourish
ing
.

             
Now he was working on his biggest idea to date
,
send
ing
slaughtered beef to market east and keep
ing
it fresh
during transport.
Nowadays beef was sent on the hoof and was killed in packinghouses in Chicago or New York. If a stockyard was set up in Omaha, then western cattlemen could ship livestock to Omaha via the Union Pacific and the fresh meat could go directly to buyers
on the east coast.

             
He’d talked it over at length with Tom and had shown him drawings and rough models of his “cold cars.” Tom had been so impressed that he encouraged Linus to write back east and gauge what kind of interest there might be for his invention.
A big news reporter had been intrigued and was coming to interview Linus about it. Until he arrived, he would just keep working on his ideas.

             
Linus strolled down to the corral to check one last time on
the Morgans, Danny and Dougie
and his own
spotted roan
,
a
l
l
peacefully munching tall grass. He double checked the latch on the gate and, satisfied, turned to walk back to his room in the barn.  He glanced at the dark ranch house. Tom wasn’t due back for a couple of days. Tomorrow he’d take firewood and fresh water into the house; Tom would want everything in place when he returned. Linus
c
limbed
the ladder
to his
loft
bunk, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Lincoln, Nebraska

             
Sheriff Maxwell delivered his prisoner to the jail in Lincoln, pocketing his body receipt as he led his two tired horses to the nearest livery stable. He gave the stable hand payment to care and feed the mounts before heading to a small hotel.
He
checked in, climb
ed
to the second floor and dropp
ed
his saddle bags on the bed with a grateful sigh. The prisoner was a two-bit thief
,
but was wanted in Lincoln and had caused problems the entire
fifty
mile ride. He’d whined, and pleaded with Maxwell to let him go, which only made Maxwell all the more determined to turn him in.

             
A knock on the door brought
some children
lugging pails of hot water. They dumped them in the copper bath tub in the center of the room and disappeared. The water only came up to a few inches in the tub, but Tom sank
in anyway
for a well-deserved soak.

             
When he had washed off all the dirt and grime, Maxwell toweled off and slipped into a set of fresh clothes from his saddle bags. His stomach was growling and he set off for his supper and
a
cold drink. The saloon next door a
dvertised a
decent beefsteak dinner
, so
he headed in that direction.

             
The meal was delicious as promised. Tom polished off a large steak,
and
baked potato and
finished with
a
large slice
of apple pie. Halfway through the meal an old army
cohort
stopped to say hello and the two men laughed and swapped stories and enjoyed cold beers
with
long thin cheroots. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a relaxing evening. His responsibilities in Omaha seemed
far
away
, and he
again wondered if it was time to
retire.
             
             
             
The next morning
a messenger boy rushed up to Tom as he was checking out of the hotel.