A boy born on the Union Pacific railroad’s western bound train, near a little town in the Utah Territory, has been named Ulysses Pacific.
That name will result in at least one black eye by the time the boy reached twelve. Stretching out his legs, Scott scanned the Omaha Daily Bee left on the table as he thanked the older woman serving his late morning breakfast. Being stationary felt good - if only for an hour. Certainly enough time to devour a plate of eggs and bacon before boarding the connecting train to California.
Wife elopes with younger man. Takes her two children and 260 dollars. The bereaved husband, Mr. Rassemussen, wants to sell out his household stuff cheap.
Scott raised an eyebrow as he bit into a buttered biscuit. Evidently, the man’s bereavement required quick cash.
We asked our mayor for some news today and he replied the only newsy thing he knew of was that a North Omaha lady came within one of having twins.
No doubt the same joke which got the man elected. Scott fully opened the Nebraska paper, searching for an article slightly more relevant than Shoaf’s Hall being finely decorated for the ball of Engine Co. 2 which takes place tomorrow evening AND, please note, the room will be warmed comfortably. Scott grinned. Warmed by the same passion that claimed Mrs. Rassemussen?
“Is this seat taken?”
Scott froze at the slightly accented query with a familiar ring. Slowly lowering his newspaper revealed a face which matched the voice.
“Surprise!”
Blinking several times did not change his view of a coat and hat being carelessly draped on the back of an unoccupied chair as the breathless visitor proceeded to join Scott with all the grace of a cow on ice.
Plucking a biscuit from the basket, his unexpected breakfast guest made an observation. “How extraordinary!” Half the roll disappeared with one bite.”You’re speechless!” Although through the mouthful of flaky bread Scott’s ears heard yar splachlass.
“I am.” Meticulously folding the newspaper and then refolding it in hopes of remaining calm wasn’t producing the result Scott had hoped for. “However, I predict a swift recovery from my loss of speech.” Paper folding was abandoned. “Kinsey, I sent you a telegram. It consisted of six words.” For emphasis, he began ticking them off on his fingers. “Coming. Home. Stay. Put. Don’t. Move. Point out what led to your confusion.”
“Well -”
“Nevermind.” Trying another coping strategy - a slow exhale while counting to ten - offered little assistance to his composure. “Kinsey...why are you here? And please understand your well-being depends on a reasonable answer.”
“I’m here to keep you company!”
His little cousin’s joyous statement radiated such enthusiasm, Scott’s mind momentarily considered her reply reasonable.
“The thought came to me while I was sitting in my room one afternoon. What fun it would be to meet Scott at his Omaha connection. Traveling back to Stockton together we would have time - ”
“Wait. You never just sit in your room.”
“True.” The other half of the biscuit met the same fate as the first, creating a muddled explanation. “Murldac saguessted I go reflac.” His cousin reached for a piece of bacon only to receive a slap to the hand. “Ow!”
“Murdoch suggested taking time to reflect?” Crossing his arms, Scott sat back. “You make it sound like kind, thoughtful advice. In truth, he sent you to your room - why?”
An eye roll accompanied the response. “There was a misunderstanding. I pointed out to your father he wasn’t the boss of me and he begged to differ. Details.”
Scott was in awe Murdoch had let Kinsey live to retell the tale. “And then he agreed to let you travel? The man has lost his -” They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This also included his cousin’s current expression. “Tell me you had my father’s permission.” Silence from across the table screamed the reply Scott already knew but needed to hear. “Answer me.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does not exactly mean...exactly?”
“I left a note which thoroughly covered my intentions and itinerary. I placed the envelope quite prominently on my dresser and left quietly. I certainly didn’t want to rob anyone of a good night’s sleep.”
Scott closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to possibly delay his impending headache. He could visualize the vein popping out on his father’s forehead as Kinsey’s discovered note was read - he guessed by Teresa. Chances were Johnny rode Barranca like a bat out of hell hoping to catch the train in Stockton. Sneaking out in the middle of the night gave his cousin the head start she needed to leave his younger brother standing on the empty train station platform cursing a blue streak. Two days of worrying over the status of Kinsey’s safety had passed. Forget Murdoch. Johnny’s temper would be sealing this little darlin’s fate. Scott felt the anticipation of a happy, peaceful return home slipping away.
Rising, he circled behind his recently designated travel companion. “Time to leave.” Placing his hands on her shoulders he assisted in lifting Kinsey to a standing position.
“Where are we going?”
“Telegraph office.”
“But I haven't eaten.”
Scott offered no comment as he handed his cousin her coat and hat.
“I've been waiting since dawn for your train to arrive so we could share breakfast.”
Eyeballing his plate, Scott selected a strip of bacon, bit it in two and presented the other half to Kinsey. “Consider it shared.”
******
“First of all, young fella, I need to know where you want this sent to.”
The telegraph clerk spoke louder than necessary. Assuming the man was hard of hearing, Scott leaned a bit further over the counter as Kinsey hovered by his side.
“Green River, California. To a Mr. Murdoch Lancer.”
“Green River, you say?”
“Yes, sir.” Scott looked at his pocket watch. The hour layover ticked away.
The clerk licked the end of his pencil. “Is that Murdoch with a K?”
Scott angled his head to read the clerk’s writing. “CH. Murdoch ends in a CH.”
“Is that right?” Clearly, the gentleman felt it should end in a K. “Strange.”
Amicably, Scott attempted clarity on the subject. “It's a family name.”
“Is that right?” Suspicion lingered. “Well, young fella, what’s your message?”
Scott cleared his throat and spoke slowly as he watched the clerk painstakingly jot down the letter of each word. “In...possession...of fugitive -”
“Fugitive?! Honestly Scott. You make me sound like a wanted criminal.”
His cousin’s outburst renewed the clerk’s skepticism. “And what’s your name, miss?”
“Her name is Kinsey.” Heading off further questioning, Scott continued. “That would be Kinsey with a K.”
“You don’t say.” The Doubting Thomas pondered. “I got to agree with the little lady. A person hears the word fugitive they think foul play. Of course, it's an appropriate word if there's been some.” Squinting eyes accompanied the clerk’s pause. “Foul play that is.”
“Runaway.” Scott lifted a hopeful eyebrow of acceptance. “Could we say runaway?”
“Bloody hell.” One nay vote was mumbled.
Holding up his finger for silence, Scott’s rigid military posture surfaced. “Quiet. The message stands. No debate. No changes. It's time to leave.”
“Well, you can board old Number 7, young fella.” The gentleman slowly drew a line through fugitive and carefully wrote runaway. “But you won’t be leaving.”
After a lengthy silence, Scott understood the necessity of posing a crucial question in order to continue. “Why?”
“Tracks down outside Fremont. Word came over the wire about thirty minutes ago. Rails buckled. Now, they’ll tell you it’s this weather of thawin’ and freezin’ and the ground heavin’. But the truth is these railroad companies were in too big of a damn hurry to lay those tracks. Poor construction. Of course, they’ll never own up.”
“How long?” Hearing the man’s opinion of the Continental Railroad was not on Scott’s agenda at the moment. “How long of a delay?”
The telegraph clerk smiled for the first time since they entered the office. “Oh, I'd say a day - maybe two. You’re in luck! Engine company number 2 is holding a real nice ball at Shoaf's Hall tomorrow night. You want to add anything else to your message before I tap it out?”
Scott pushed back his hat on his head and nodded. “Train delayed. Tequila needed.”
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