BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER FIFTEEN

1901

THE MACKAY BRANCH

"There's bones here. Human."

The explosives man, Giggy, turns from his work towards the yell. He hasn't set the charge yet, just prepared the scene. He gets up, walks toward the two surveyors ahead of him, down the tracks fifty yards or so. You don't know what you'll find—they've seen Indian hatchets, blown out pieces of a mastodon, ran on to arrowheads as they passed between the Big Southern and its twin sisters to the north.

He lumbers through the rocks. The men lean on their picks, staring at the ground. Giggy reaches them, looks down. "Been there awhile." There wasn't much, bones with pieces of cloth or leather here and there. Two large skeletons, man or woman sized, a smaller one beside them, a child, remnants of what must have been a doll near one small hand. There's a book between the two large bodies, he reaches down and grabs it, the edges curled up severely, yellowed and breaking as he lifts it. It's a Book of Mormon. "Figures," he says.

Giggy looks around, at the edge of the lavas, scanning for any evidence though he is pretty sure there won't be any. He shrugs, looks to the smaller man. "Phillips, go back to the main crew and tell Richards what we found. Let him deal with it." He looks to the larger, burly one who should be a better worker but isn't. "You keep at it, pretend like they're not there. Nothin' we can do about it. Just don't step on 'em. Boss'll want to move the bones, at least."

They were halfway through the 94 miles from Blackfoot to Mackay, not that far from the northward turn that would be less of a struggle to build. Four months, nearly a mile a day, Harriman wanting to make sure he beat Hill on this stretch of the railroad, the race for the East-West connection on. It was said Hill had a route planned over one valley that would hit Salmon and then Lewiston, connect with the Butte-Salt Lake route with one of its spurs. Which was why Harriman was in a hurry.

When he gets back to his work site and his horse, Giggy stuffs the book in his saddlebag. There's probably writing in the front, name of the owner, presumably the dead, at least if Mormons do what Christians do, passing on the family Bible. Richards won't want to stop work, he's sure, so he sets the blast, prepares the fuse, moves his horse a fair distance away. After it blows, he'll move uptrack not far from the bodies, prepare another blast. Once they're through these rocks, he won't be needed nearly so much, work will progress more quickly, he can get back to the farm. He has work on the Skeen canal, too, if he wants. They have plenty of rock to move.

It's a half-mile to Richards' temporary office, Phillips passing several small crews working in various stages of the bed before he reaches him, near the most newly laid tracks. He's not happy to see Phillips, steps out his office after he hears what they found, yells at the first man he sees. "Reilh!" One man looks like another, hats slightly different and facial hair growing in various configurations of different lengths, colors and thicknesses, but from the mass of individuals one man, skinnier than the others, looks up. Richards motions for him to come. "Take four Italians," he tells him. "Make sure they don't speak English. Pile rocks on the bodies this man found." He indicates Phillips. "Scout around them, see if you can see anything else. Horse skeletons. A wagon. I don't know. Anything different. If you don't, have Phillips take a reading of the position of the bodies, just in case anyone wants to find them, move them, bury them where they should be buried." He turns to Phillips. "Surely you can do that? Take a reading?" Phillips nods. "If you do find anything, bury them anyway, but take note of what you find. If the sheriff wants to look into it he can do so. It's not our responsibility."

Reilh waits for an appropriate time, heads to gather his new crew. Richards turns to Phillips. "If you find anything like that again," he says. "If it's long past justice, don't tell me." He turns, stops, turns back around. "Let me amend that. If it's past revenge, don't tell me. Just bury it."

© Ralph Thurston 2025