Railhead

By Guy Franks

“In his time, Robert Riordan was called a ‘Lincoln Man’ and a ‘Railroad Man’ but these terms attested more to his politics than to his character. He was a gentleman who clearly saw the line between good and evil…” So writes his biographer Pete Hammond, many years later, as he recollects the man who set out to tame the ‘Hell on Wheels’ town of Goshen, Wyoming.
In 1869, Goshen is a wide-open town at war with itself. Gambling halls and brothels are big business yet the town is bankrupt, and murder and graft are common place. Can the young railroad town become a place where law-abiding folks can raise their families, or will it end up a shot up, gambled-out ghost town like Julesburg, ‘The Wickedest City in the West’? The fate of the town rests with one man—‘Butch’ Riordan—and all his grit and savvy may not be enough to check the forces seeking to destroy it.
Railhead is an authentically detailed story of the post-Civil War West set against the backdrop of the lawless towns created by the building of the Union Pacific Railroad. Meet the special breed of men and women who civilized the wind-swept plains of Wyoming, along with the man Robert Riordan, who should seem very familiar to the readers of America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663204639

Guy Franks

Guy Franks grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and is a graduate of Cal Berkeley. He is married with two children and four grandchildren. A writer most of his life, he is the author of Beggar King and A Midsummer Madness. Each of his books reflects his deep interest in myth-making and the enduring truths contained within them. In Railhead, his love of myths and poetic fables is combined with his passion for the American West.

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Copyright © 2020 Guy Franks.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-0462-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0463-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  07/13/2020

CONTENTS

Preface

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Epilogue

Post Script

Acknowledgements

For my dad…

When he passed away he left me his Pontiac Bonneville and his Louis L’Amour Collection of leather bound books. I got rid of the Pontiac and kept all the books.

Those who say that we’re in a time when there are no heroes just don’t know where to look.

The 40th President of the United States

PREFACE

The golden spike that marked the completion of the transcontinental railroad was driven into the ground at Promontory Summit, Utah, on May 10, 1869. After six years of toil and trouble, the great enterprise that promised to unite the country from coast to coast and provide a passage to the scented treasures of India was completed. Five days later, on May 15, the first train service was offered from New York to San Francisco. Adventurers, businessmen, speculators, families seeking a new start, and journalists looking to chronicle the grand journey clamored on board. I was one of those travelers in the spring of 1869. I was twenty-five years old and an eager newspaperman when I boarded the train west. That was over forty years ago.

I recall that my emigrant class ticket cost $70, which was paid for by my editor. There was also a small meal allowance and the promise of a ticket home, which my editor made dependent on my posting every Friday a travel-story full of wit and verve for the Sunday edition. My persistence and the fact that I was a bachelor helped me win this plum assignment and I had every confidence in my success.

Brimming with this youthful confidence, I took the trolley and train from Portland, Maine down to New York. I remember standing in a bustling train station waiting to board, surrounded by steam and the smell of coal smoke, holding a red ticket. My head was full of adventures of buffaloes, wild Indians, lawless towns, gunfighters, great mountains, and the vast Pacific Ocean. The possibility that I was about to embark on a journey much different than the one intended never entered my mind.

I have tried to write this story before but something always got in the way. There were always pressing commitments, which always seemed to tax my energy, and I was never able to keep the steam up to get her going. But now I have set my mind to putting this story down on paper once and for all and making sure it gets told right. You see, I’m the only one who can tell the story of Robert Riordan; I was there with him in Goshen, Wyoming between 1869 and 1872 and saw it all.

It has always been the predilection of dime novelists to turn criminals into heroes. Lately, I have seen this same foolishness crop up in magazines and history books and it twists my tail and gets my blood up. One might forgive a journalist (on occasion) for painting up a story to get it to sell, but when historians get into the act by calling a cold-blooded killer like Jesse James a hero, or claiming that grifters and gamblers like Wild Bill Hickok or Doc Holliday were the great tamers of the west, then those who lived through those times must say, Enough is enough. It comes time to balance the ledger.

The men who settled the west were risk-takers but not gamblers. They were businessmen, builders, organizers and peace-makers. Most were men of faith and leaders of communities who prized law and order. Robert Riordan was one of these men and much more. In his time he was called a Lincoln man and a Railroad man, but these terms attested more to his politics than his character. He was a gentleman who clearly saw the line between good and evil, who held no illusions about the nature of man but had a high view of human possibility. He was a leader who taught people not only what could be, but also what should be.

I admired Butch Riordan for a number of reasons. The funny thing being, I didn’t fully appreciate his talents at the time but came to that appreciation after years of reflection and experience. One virtue that stands out after all these years was his modesty; he did not seek notoriety or demand credit for good works but was content to share success with those less worthy of it. This is a refreshing virtue, especially in a man with ambition. But it is this very kind of quiet hero who is first to be forgotten and why I’ve come to tell his tale.

This is how I remember it.

Peter Hammond

1910

ONE

It was a coal-burning, ten-wheeler that screeched and jerked out of New York City on a Monday in May of 1869. I checked my baggage, received a leather chit with a number stamped on it, and waited to make sure my one steamer trunk got loaded on the right train before I jumped on board and found a seat. The prime seats were not too close and not too far from the Franklin stove at both ends, and all of those benches were occupied. However, with warm weather coming on I didn’t mind much and took a seat in the middle of the long car. I slid over next to the window and set my satchel on the bench across from me and watched the people.

The platform was still a beehive of activity with baggage carriers scurrying back and forth, mothers chasing down children, and frock-coated businessmen checking their timepieces every five minutes. A few of the women were rags out, dressed in their East Coast finery, with fringed parasols and velvet shawls, but most were dressed in walking skirts with white or pin-striped blouses. There were red-shirted laborers mixed in with European adventurers dressed like Lord Byron, and everywhere there were hats.

Our train had a number of emigrant cars, some reserved for women and children, others for Negroes and Chinese along with first-class coaches with their own porters. Mine was a car for men, with the occasional married couple, that quickly filled up as the platform slowly cleared of passengers. I was joined by a burly Irishman, who had the look of a track-layer with large shoulders and thick, hairy forearms. This guess was confirmed when I asked him if he was headed west.

Yea, gotta a job on the Denvur line.

Get Indian Insurance? I asked.

Injun ‘surance, he repeated, rolling the idea around in his head, then chuckled. Aye, I got Injun ‘surance right ‘ere in me bag. And he quickly unbuckled his wool bag, showed me the Colt Dragoon lying on top, and buckled it back up with a pleasant smile. I smiled back my understanding. He was not one for conversation but was a pleasant enough fellow all the same.

A thinner, active man sat down across from us and looked us eagerly in the face as he announced, Buon giorno. Saluto! Spring, is here, no? I agreed that it was and asked him if he was heading west, to which we got a long and excited response, partly in English and partly in Italian, that, yes, he and his family (who were in another car) were headed to San Francisco where they had relatives. His arms flew about as he spoke a mile a minute and I smiled and nodded as he talked. The Irishman sat quietly with his eyelids half shut, smoking a pipe.

The three day trip from New York to Chicago was old territory for me, having made the trip a half-dozen times before. We weren’t scheduled to hit Council Bluffs on the Missouri until Thursday, then it was across the river and on board the Union Pacific Railroad—the UPR—for the trip into the new West. I spent the first few days getting to know the passengers who were traveling cross-country, recording their stories and noting any quotes that captured the spirit of the Union or exemplified the virgin excitement that comes from being one of the first to take part in a grand adventure.

I was always on the lookout for politicians and other dignitaries whose names would catch the eye of our readers. I was granted brief interviews with two congressmen and a state senator. These interviews were all conducted at eating stops since correspondents were not allowed into the first-class cars unless they had an invite. Each had been interviewed before and would be interviewed again, as I was not the only journalist on the train looking for tidbits to send back to their editor or add to their guidebooks. We were like flies at a barbecue.

In Chicago we took the horse-drawn bus over to another station to catch the northwest line to Omaha. We were warned of pickpockets and I rode the bus with my satchel in my lap and avoided bumping into people as best I could. Once at the station we learned that we had missed our connection and it would be at least four hours before the next one. I spent most of the time cleaning up the notes in my journal and drinking a local-brewed ale with other newspapermen at a saloon down the street from the station. We were back on board before dusk and headed toward the plains.

I caught the eye of the burly Irishman who had boarded the train with me out of New York and he nodded at an empty bench seat where we sat down together as before. His name was Pat Dunn and we had established a pact to share accommodations until we hit Wyoming where he would catch the stage south to the Denver terminus and I would continue on to San Francisco. He knew I was a newspaperman and was fascinated by my scribbling in my journal. Once he learned I was half Irish on my mother’s side, he allowed me into his fraternity and shared some of his story with me. This was all agreeable to me since he made a pleasant sleeping partner who didn’t toss or turn or snore. On trips like this, that was akin to found gold. As the train lurched forward, we sat together in relaxed silence and watched the conductor walk through the car lighting the oil lamps.

After a few hours we made a late dinner stop in Dixon and I followed the boisterous crowd into the dining hall at the back of the depot. At these stops I usually congregated with my newspaper chums, but this time I decided against their gabby company and sat down with Pat at a long table filled with other laborers. Most were Irish, dressed in worn blue coats and army pants dating back to the war. Negro waiters served us a meat stew with over-cooked vegetables that Pat declared wasn’t ‘af bad along with plates of stacked bread and pitchers of fresh milk.

After eating, Pat and the other men at the table took out their pipes and lit up. I didn’t have the habit myself, so as I sat there comfortably full and enjoying the pipe aroma, I scanned the crowd of travelers, still on the look-out for dignitaries. My eyes caught a stately-looking man and a woman sitting with their shoulders touching at an empty table across the large room. The man looked familiar.

I shifted my body to get a better look, noting the broad shoulders and the unmistakable thick thatch of brown hair, and placed him immediately. It was Robert Riordan of Illinois. I had met him in ’64 when he came to my college to debate Lorenzo Sweat on the Railroad Act pending before Congress as well as do a little campaigning for Lincoln. He was a captain in the army then, serving under General Dodge in the District of Mississippi. He had a reputation as a stalwart Republican and formidable orator who traveled the country advancing the cause of the Union. He was certainly newsworthy and I took up my notebook and walked over to him.

The couple were talking in low tones to each other and I hung back until there was a pause. Captain Riordan, I said, stepping up to greet him.

His wife shot an irritated glance at me but he swung round and stood up to greet me with an amused smile. Haven’t been a captain for four years now, he replied in a pleasant manner as he gripped my outstretched hand and gave it a healthy shake.

"Yes, sir. My name is Peter Hammond and I’m on assignment for the Eastern Argus of Portland, Maine, and I wonder if you would grant me an interview. Upon hearing that I was a newspaperman, his wife’s demeanor changed from one of general irritation to one of pointed distrust, as though she had just come face to face with a known confidence man. He did not reply and instead studied my face, so I added quickly, I saw you debate Congressman Sweat at Bowdoin College in ’64. You shelled his woods. You might remember, my roommate and I worked for the college paper and we asked you questions afterward. So this would actually be my second interview."

Yes, he said, nodding. Your roommate’s name was Jonathan, if I recall rightly, and you didn’t have a moustache back then.

You have quite a memory, sir.

And I believe you told me your family was from Illinois.

"Yes, my mother and sisters live in Galena. I went to go live with my uncle in Maine when I was twelve, after my father passed. My father was friends with John Rawlins, while he was practicing law and representing President Grant’s family firm in Galena.

We know the Rawlinses very well, he replied as he glanced down at his wife with a reassuring smile. He turned back to me with a raised eyebrow and a stern look, though I detected a glint of humor in his eyes. "The Eastern Argus you say. That’s a Democrat paper, is it not?"

No, sir. We endorsed Grant… But I must admit we pushed Hamlin for VP as hard as we could.

Well, that’s to be expected, he said, swinging his arm out with a rhetorical flourish. Hannibal’s the hometown mule. Folks would rather ride him to church than take a chance on a stranger’s prize pony. He considered me another moment, looked me up and down, then added: "But I’ve had problems with newspapermen in the past. East coast newspapermen. We seem to have a different view of the truth. There’s what I say and then there’s what they write."

I wasn’t quite sure if he was having some fun with me or leading up to rejecting my request for an interview, so I set out to defend my credentials. I can assure you…

It’s not all newspapers back there, mind you, he continued, but there are a few that think that anyone living west of the Appalachians is a yahoo or jailbird. I’ve had a row with more than one of them.

"The Herald," said his wife, speaking for the first time.

"The New York Herald. There’s a skillet I’ve burned my hand on more than once."

"My editor calls the Herald ‘The Great Whore of Babylon’, and having said it I regretted it almost immediately. I beg your pardon, Ma’am."

Ha! he exclaimed happily. Your editor is a man after my own heart. He glanced back down at his wife and added: What do you make of this young man, dear? It seems we have an East Coast newspaperman and Illinois yahoo all mixed up into one. He winked at her and she smiled up at him. Her earlier look of distrust had dissipated somewhat and he seemed to take this as a cue. This is my wife Helen, he said by way of introduction.

A pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.

She did not stand or extend her hand but nodded politely. Is your family acquainted with the Grants? she asked.

My sister Beth does seamstress work for Mrs. Grant.

I see, she replied in an interested voice. If Mrs. Grant’s gowns are any indication I would have to say that your sister is a quite talented seamstress.

Thank you, Ma’am. I will be sure to pass your compliment on to her. This unexpected graciousness put me at ease and I bowed to her with a smile and returned my attention to her husband. He smiled warmly at me. I was six feet tall and Riordan stood equal to me in height. By my calculation he had to be nearly seventy years old but didn’t look it with those broad shoulders and the thick hair that sported nary any gray. He wore a brown town coat, which was shorter than a frock coat, with a vest and loosened necktie that gave him a very casual and confident air. With tan trousers and a pair of worn but comfortable-looking boots, he had the look of an outdoorsman.

Well, Peter. May I call you Pete? he asked and getting a nod from me added, They are just about to blow the whistle to get back on board so why don’t you join us in the Pullman tomorrow after breakfast. Let’s say ten a.m.

And as if we were actors in a play, the train whistle blew on cue and everyone in the dining hall rose to their feet as the conductors yelled All aboard! Not much time was given to re-board the train. The railroad had little remorse about leaving lollygaggers behind, so I quickly took my leave, promising to see them tomorrow morning, and made haste back to my car.

The conductor had lit the stoves at either end of the car and people were preparing their beds. Pat and I reversed the backs on our bench seats and laid a board in between creating a sleeping couch just big enough for two. Over that went cushions filled with straw that I purchased from the conductor, and soon enough we had a cozy bed. Other folks did the same while some of the single men curled up in bed rolls on the floor.

Only the dim glow of dying oil lamps lit the car. I looked out the window at the swath of stars that crowded the night sky. I opened the louvered window and caught the smell of farmland before the coal smoke overwhelmed it, making me cough. I closed the window and sat down on the edge of the bed, stripped down to my long johns, and waited for Pat to finish his bedtime prayer. The burley Irishman knelt on one knee with his head bent and his hands clasped in front of him like a schoolboy and made his prayer in silence until the end when he crossed himself and whispered, In tha name of tha fathur, son, ‘oly spirit, amen. Pat and I lay down together shoulder to shoulder in a snug fit and wished each other a good night.

Watching Pat say his prayers reminded me that I had neglected mine for quite a spell, and as I lay there listening to Pat’s deep, even breathing, I began to list the things I was thankful for. There was my job, this great assignment, and a chance to see the West before any of my friends back east. There was the good health of my mother and sisters and of my uncle and cousins to be thankful for. There was more, but the rhythmic clicking of wheels on the track and the gentle swaying of the fast-moving car put me to sleep before I could finish my prayer.

TWO

I slept through two brief stops in the night, where the train took on coal and water, and was roused finally by the general bustle of the passengers and the morning light creeping through the windows. Pat was already up and about and I stretched out on the makeshift bed and yawned. I opened the louvered window and looked out. We were passing out of a gardened township and coming into a vast flatland covered by a morning mist that contained rows and rows of what I guessed to be corn sprouts. Probably Iowa, I thought. The door suddenly opened at the west end of the car, allowing the outside noise of the rolling train to rush in, and a grimy-faced brakeman yelled something into the car then closed the door again.

Pat appeared as I was dressing and together we tore down the bed and restored the bench seats to their former arrangement. I waited in line a short while to get at the convenience station that sat next to the stove at the end of the car. There was