There shouldn’t have been anyone at the construction site so late on a Saturday night.
Jackson had studied the work patterns of Watson Railway for more than a year as it marred the countryside and had even signed on to work the last 1000 miles.
Driving railroad spikes and laying iron track what hot and heavy work, but Jackson hardly felt it. Didn’t matter what happened to him, anyway.
Not after the railroad had forced his family from their land and killed his daddy from stress. And his mama after that, from a broken heart.
But Jackson Starr was no monster … no killer. Not like Harold Watson, who would ruin families for a few coins.
So Jackson didn’t hesitate when he spied the moonlit figure poking around the newest section of track after he’d already pushed the dynamite plunger.
Jackson ran toward the man,flailing his arms and shouting, but the fella just stood there, flummoxed by the commotion. Jackson barrelled into the stranger just as the sticks detonated under the nearby construction shack.
The two men rolled down an embankment to safety, but a hunk of wooden beam conked the interloper on his head. Jackson scooped him up and ran across the desert while fire raged behind him.
Now, as Jackson stood bent over his knees trying to catch his wind, the portly older man stirred. Jackson crouched down and grabbed the fella’s hand to let him know someone was there with him.
Gradually, the stranger’s eyes swam into focus, then flashed to the burning, mangled wood and metal.
“How did I get here? Did you carry me out here?”
Jackson nodded.
“Well, young man, looks like I owe you a debt of gratitude. And Harold Watson always pays his debts.”
No comments:
Post a Comment