Free The Journey of Josephine Cain by Nancy Moser

not to stare at the Indians, but as this was his first look . . .
    They were darker skinned than all but the Negros, and he let a quick question enter his brain: was that because they were outside all the time? Their hair was coal-black and straight as a horse’s tail, and not one had any facial hair—or hair on their chests. Most were without shirts, and their muscles were impressive. The clothing that covered them from waist to feet was more of a legging than a true pair of pants, and they wore soft shoes without hard soles. He hoped none of them stepped on astray spike, lest their pain cause some commotion.
    He didn’t have time to ponder more, as the general started the rail-laying demonstration. When it was Hudson’s turn to hit the spikes, he did his duty. It only took him two hits to get the spike in, and it occurred to him he was showing off.
    No one would blame him. Showing strength to Indians was a good thing, wasn’t it?
    Yet was it wise to show these Indians how track was put in? Would they use the knowledge against the railroad and tear it up?
    Such questions were not his to ask. He’d trusted the general with his life before; he would do so now.
    A length of rail laid, the general invited the Indians to see a bunk car. Spotting Hudson, General Cain said, “Show them inside.”
    Hudson lost his breath for a moment but followed orders, getting in the car and even helping the Indians step up into it.
    One Indian paused a moment after Hudson helped him in, looking at him eye-to-eye. His eyes were nearly as black as his hair, which hung down his back. He had a scar on his cheek. A ripple of fear sped through Hudson’s gut. “Welcome,” he said, then felt stupid for it. For the Indians weren’t welcome. If he had his way, they’d never have gotten close to the train, much less come inside a car.
    And did they speak English? He certainly didn’t speak their language. “This is where we sleep,” he said to the group as they stood between the bunks.
    One Indian seemed to understand, for he immediately translated. A few of the Indians lay on the mattresses, marveling at the pillows, making comments to each other. A few others held their noses. The stench left behind by hundreds of working men
was
hard to take.
    But then one of them looked upward and pointed to a goodly number of rifles stacked horizontally along the roof. Their joviality left them, and they slid off the bunks. They whispered to each other, and one Indian put his hand out the window, measuring the thickness of the car’s wall. As he looked to another, Hudson could imagine him saying, “I wonder if a bullet could go through the walls.” Or an arrow shot from the other side?
    He quickly led them outside. Was their motive friendship—or were they on a scouting mission?
    “Now the butcher’s and baker’s cars, Maguire,” the general said.
    Again, Hudson wasn’t sure it was wise to show them the store of meat and food supplies. But he did as he was told.
    The Indian interpreter spoke for the group when he said, “Much food. Hard winter.”
    Hudson could only nod. He knew that it
had
been a hard winter on the plains. Were the Indians hungry?
    By now there was a crowd of hundreds of workers watching the Indians step out of the food cars. One of them said, “Let’s see how accurate they can shoot their arrows.”
    Hudson thought that was a horrible idea, but other men hopped to, and soon there was a shovel placed in the ground, and the Indians were steered to a point fifty feet away.
    The general spoke to Spotted Tail through the interpreter. Then Spotted Tail instructed each brave to try to shoot through the shovel’s handle. The first arrow sliced through the air and went through the hole, to the appreciative shouts of the workers.
    Then another.
    And another.
    “They’re good,” Raleigh whispered.
    “Too good,” Hudson said.
    Others nodded.
    As the show continued, the encouraging shouts dimmed as every arrow was successful.