Or had he been shot and killed? The Apaches roved throughout the region. Or had there been a second railroad employee and they’d had a falling-out? Too many possibilities rose to haunt him.
“No body.” He looked up the hill and scratched his head. “No way to return the handcar to the tracks, either.”
Trying to lift the corner of the vehicle showed how difficult moving the heavy car uphill was for one man. Ike circled about like a buzzard eyeing his next meal, hunting for some idea. He stumbled over a box and fell to one knee.
Swearing a blue streak, he rubbed his leg and flopped back to get a better look. A toolbox had popped free of the handcar as it careened down the slope. He opened it and knew Lady Luck was at his shoulder again. A coil of rope inside was weighted down by hammers, railroad spikes and a couple heavy pulleys. Whatever the mission of the railroad worker had been, it suited Ike’s needs to a T now.
He lugged the toolbox up to the tracks and began building his simple machine. The spikes held the pulleys to the railroad ties, and by the time he looped the rope through, he was covered in sweat. Cold night wind gave him the shivers. Or maybe anticipation of accomplishing his little project thrilled him. Chances were both rang true.
He left one end of the hemp rope by the tracks and slid back down the incline to the handcar. It took a few tries to secure the rope so tugging on it moved the car up and didn’t cause it to dig into the soft sand.
Ike returned to the tracks, took the free end of the rope and began pulling. The pulleys made the difference. The effort taxed him to the breaking point, but within a half hour he had the handcar dragged up and sitting by the tracks.
“Where’s the pry bar? There. Just what I need to finish.”
Grunting with effort, he levered the heavy handcar up so could get the wheels onto the tracks. This was almost as hard as moving it from the bottom of the hill, but he finally succeeded. From the slow arc of the stars, the effort had cost him more than an hour.
He gathered the tools, rope and box and put it all on the side of the car. Ike spit on his hands, put them on the handle and pushed down. A groan escaped his lips. He felt muscles in his shoulders and back popping from the effort. The second time he used his weight along with his arm strength to push down.
A cry of triumph escaped his lips when the car moved a few inches. The handle made its way back up on its own. He shoved down as hard as he could. Bit by bit, inch by inch, he overcame the car’s inertia and began moving faster along the tracks. Rhythm proved easier to maintain once the handcar began rolling.
Wind gusted past his face, pulled his bandanna back and sent cooling fingers all around his body. Sweat evaporated instantly, invigorating him. Once more he began singing, starting over with his limited repertoire. “Green Grow the Rushes, O” proved as good a song to pump the handle as it was for soldiers to march.
As he fell into the cadence of pumping, his mind wandered. He imagined Lily on the other handle, working with him, rising and falling and singing. Definitely singing. Ike pumped a little faster. A massive lightning bolt cut halfway across the sky, startling him. He almost broke the up-and-down cycling. A new slash of brilliance fractured the sky, revealing the heavy dark underbelly of fierce storm clouds.
He pumped faster. Being caught in the promised downpour would turn him into a drowned rat. The lightning grew in intensity, turning the once-eerie landscape into bright day before fading rapidly. A few heavy, cold raindrops spattered tentatively against his face. He put his head down and kept working.
Thunder began rolling along the tracks, warning him that he traveled into the teeth of the storm. Being in a nice, warm, dry passenger car became his goal. That and having Lily beside him, even in her old-lady makeup.
Ike jerked upright and again almost lost his grip on the handle when movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to danger. He blinked away a raindrop and wiped his eyebrows dry to keep more water from blinding him. His hand flashed to his six-gun when he got a clear view of desert a hundred yards away.
His mouth turned dry as he counted the Indian braves riding parallel to the tracks. Ten. Maybe a dozen. Lightning bolts showed they wore paint on their faces and bodies. Colorful handprints had been pressed into their horses’ flanks. Feathers and lances, bows and arrows in quivers—and rifles. Several carried rifles in their hands as they rode.
He had heard of the Apaches from Arizona who had fled their reservation and come to Texas to bedevil settler and soldier alike. He wasn’t able to recognize the markings, but if he had to bet, these were Warm Springs Apaches out looking for trouble. He was undecided what to do.
Keep pumping? He sped along faster than the band rode, but if they broke into a gallop, how hard would it be for them to overtake him? He was dog-tired now. Even fear lent only a small added boost to his strength. More to the point, they were armed to the teeth. An arrow or bullet sailed through the air faster than anyone could pump.
But they hadn’t seen him. Ike wondered what occupied their attention, but they never glanced toward the railroad tracks. If he stopped pumping, slowed and finally came to a halt, both his movement along the tracks and the clanging noise would go away. But he knew how hard it was to get the handcar rolling if he stopped. An attack would overwhelm him before he could pump his way to full speed again.
The decision was taken from him. The Indians veered away from the tracks, heading out into the desert. What they hunted or who sought them hardly mattered. They were soon out of sight. Gasping in relief, Ike picked up the pace once more. The handcar had slowed but not enough to require huge exertion to start it rolling faster again.
Grunting with effort, he pumped until his heart threatened to explode. But something seemed wrong. The wheels hummed. No metal-on-metal grinding warned of unoiled bearings. Then Ike realized what it was.
Pounding hooves sounded from behind. Frantic, he looked over his shoulder to see an Indian lift a lance. Ike ducked. The lance ripped past him onto the tracks ahead. The handcar crunched and bumped over the spear and kept rolling.
The Indian also kept riding. Ike had wondered if he could outpace a galloping horse. He discovered the answer quickly.
No.
With a savage cry, the Indian leaped from his horse and wrapped his arms around Ike’s shoulders. The momentum carried them both off the handcar and crashing to the ground. After being thrown off a train twice, Ike had learned how to twist and land after leaving a moving platform.
His shoulder drove down into the brave’s chest as they hit the ground. He kept rolling and popped up onto his knees. He went for his six-gun, drew and fired. And missed. His enemy recovered faster than any human should have and launched himself forward, knife slashing viciously.
Ike’s bullet missed. The Apache’s knife attack failed. They crashed over together again. This time the warrior had the upper hand. He pinned Ike’s shoulders to the ground with his knees. Straining, Ike grabbed the man’s brawny wrist and forced the knife away.
It was a losing battle. Ike’s muscles burned from exertion. The Indian straddled him and had his body weight aiding him to press the knife tip down slowly, closer and closer to his victim’s face.
A lightning flash glinted off the knife. The roll of thunder came seconds later and seemed to surprise the brave. Ike rolled left then put all his remaining strength into twisting to the right. He unseated his attacker.
Fumbling around for his fallen pistol was a fool’s errand that would only get him killed. Ike grabbed again, one hand around the Apache’s knife hand and another on his throat. He felt the sinew and muscle as the brave tensed his neck.