The Trainmasters by Jesse Taylor Croft Read Free Book Online

squirmed away and leapt to his feet. And while the big man was pulling himself together, Egan kicked him
     in the head.
    Henneberry swung a paw unsteadily at Egan’s leg but missed his aim by several inches, and Egan kicked him again. And again.
     This time in the gut. Henneberry was roaring, but in pain this time. Still, he wasn’t beaten yet. One of his flailing hands
     finally caught Egan’s pants’ leg, and with a quick twist, Henneberry brought Egan down once more into the dirt. Then his other
     hand snaked out and grabbed Egan’s shirt below his throat. He turned and pounded Egan’s face with his other fist, but Henneberry
     was too hurt and tired and drunk to do Egan serious damage. Then Egan once again slipped away from him and was back on his
     feet, kicking the other man in the head and body. He kicked Henneberry until he stopped moving. Then he backed away and circled
     the big man, making sure he was truly unconscious.
    The crowd sent out a raucous, happy cheer. They yelled again when Egan made a break through the circle the crowd had made
     for the fighters. As he moved among the men, their faces blurred in his unclear vision. He suddenly saw a glass in front of
     his face. It was brimful of rum. A hand was attached to it. The hand belonged to Patrick Geraghty. He was saying something,
     but Egan was having a hard time making out his friend’s words.
    “Drink this, boy. It’ll do you powerful good,” Patrick said.
    Egan waved his friend off once he finally understood. He wanted fresh air now.
    Moments later, outside, Egan stood and breathed in the air, gasping. Then he walked a little way and stopped to look up at
     the sky. The stars were lovely, and they seemed so close. There was a sliver of the moon overhead, shining brightly in the
     clear sky.
    He threw up, heaving again and again until there was nothing left inside of his stomach. After that he walked up the hill
     and found a large flattened boulder, and he collapsed onto it.
    He closed his eyes. When he opened them, young Ferdy O’Dowd was standing over him. Ferdy held a damp rag in his hand, and
     he began washing Egan’s bloody, grimy face.
    “You all right, Egan?” he asked softly, with concern in his voice.
    “Not bad,” Egan said. He tried to sit up, but he failed. “And not good.”
    “Tom Henneberry’s still out cold, I guess. At least he was when I left.”
    “Aye.”
    “When he wakes up, he’s goin’ to come lookin’ for you.”
    “I know.”
    “You stayin’?”
    “Aye. I’ll work Monday. That’s for sure.”
    “You’re mad, Egan O’Rahilly. I’d go. I’d run a thousand miles away. That man will try to kill you. And he has hundreds of
     ways to do it.”
    “He’s been in fights before. He’ll be in fights again. One fight to him is pretty much like any other.”
    “But he
hates
you, Egan. Don’t you see that? It’s not just any kind of brawl. It took evil in his heart to break that fiddle of yours.”
    Egan looked at the boy, agreeing with him but not able to bring himself to say it. Henneberry was going to be more dangerous
     than a bear uprooted from winter’s sleep. But Egan was not going to run. Not from him.
    And then grief over the lost fiddle swelled up in his heart —not just for the fiddle itself but for his father, whose fiddle
     it had been and who had taught him to play, and for his mother and his two younger sisters. All lost.
    He wept softly, while Ferdy O’Dowd stood and helplessly watched.

    Late that same Saturday evening, long after the dedication ceremony had ended and the Carlysles had returned to Sturdivant’s
     Hotel on Chestnut Street, Kitty Lancaster was sitting in the parlor of her father’s home. After her husband had died, Kitty
     had returned to live with her father. She needed a home and he needed her, for her mother had died when Kitty was still a
     girl.
    Kitty held a book in her hands, and now and again she read from it. But her mind was not really on the novel. She was