The Rail Specter

by Vennessa Robertson

  “Do you suppose there are more of them?”

  “There’s always more of them,” Mr. Massey said. “Hey!” He reached under the bench seat and pulled out a rifle and brandished above his head in a most unfriendly manner. “You’re not welcome here you dirty, red devil! Get yourself back to where you belong!”

  The man did not respond. He stared at us, clearly not impressed by the rifle or Mr. Massey.

  I turned. “Where does he belong?”

  Mr. Massey scowled at me and spat. “What?”

  “Where does he belong?” I repeated. “I mean, where would he be if the railroad wasn’t here?”

  Mr. Massey ignored me.

  I knew the answer. If the railroad was not there, if the Americans were not moving so rapidly across the wide country of theirs, the red Indians would be living there. They would not be forced into Christian charity houses to learn to function in the modern age. They would be living with their families, backward and unenlightened or not, where they were loved. I was no longer sure this progress was good.

  But who was I to judge when change was warranted? Plenty of other people were also funding the railroad. It was hardly just us who were trying to benefit from this new era, and the benefits of it were great. It brought people together and moved goods across the nation. Why, it was intended to unite America. So why did it feel like an instrument of evil profiteering?

  I looked back to where the black knight had disappeared after losing his banner. The benefits were great, but harm was being done, as well. The cost was too high; children were being stolen away, lives were being ruined, and all in the name of progress. This was not innocent transformation. This was progress born from the lust for gold, the lust for glory, the lust for God. The red rose was proof of that; red, the color of passion. The red ruby in my pocket throbbed.

  We may not have wished harm, but harm was being done.

  Nate scowled. He watched the man on horseback. Something was passing between them. It was an odd skill men seemed to share, just as men are islands. They could take the measure of another with just a look and understand so much about each other. Nate slowly turned to the rails.

  “Wha—?”

  He squeezed my hand tightly, silencing me.

  When we turned back the Indian was gone.

  “Does anyone else live out this way?” Nate asked.

  “You mean other than the savages?” Mr. Massey laughed. “Just over that hill is a town that is little more than a quarry, a tavern, and a blacksmith. There is the odd farm or two, I think; its Maddenville for the Maddens.”

  “And then there’s Careys.” Another man offered

  “And the Tates,” said Mr. Lane.

  “And of course, the Maddens,” one of the men who worked the hand cart added. “My mother is a Madden.”

  Nate and I exchanged a look. Most of the wooden beams rested on a bed of crushed stone, gray and pink that glittered in places as bits of the rock reflected the sunlight, and the green grasses disappeared into dark pine forests that ran into the hills that rose in the distance.

  The warped section of track was different, the stone did not glitter and reflect the sunlight. It did not look pink and gray, it was old and charred. The wooden track looked like old wood, the color of driftwood heavily streaked with dark worm-rot. I moved a stone with my foot. The land below was scorched; the rocks sat on a fine layer of ash. Nate reached down and touched the ground. He gathered several rocks and some of the ash in his hand. He smelled it and scowled. The dog in him had found something.

  “It’s burnt,” he explained to me.

  “It’s cursed,” I said. “Mr. Massey said it himself. But by whom?”

  Nate made a noncommittal noise and escorted me back to the pushcart.

  Mr. Massey had his rifle across his knees as though he expected the Indian to return at any moment, needing to be convinced to leave us alone. Though I had less experience with Indians on horseback, I felt at this point I would prefer the Indian. He didn’t make me feel as though I was on display.

  “There was a fire,” I announced when we stopped.

  The men exchanged glances. Mr. Massey pushed his hat back and scratched his hair. He tried to spit but nothing came out; his mouth was dry. If I didn’t know better I would have sworn it was from fear. He stared at us for a long moment, then turned and walked to the sailcloth for something. I really hated the sort of man who believed women knew nothing.

  Samuel finally nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly, “there was a fire, but it wasn’t here. Queer thing, it was about half-mile away. Poor family’s house burned down. Why?”

  Nate picked up another handful of ash and brought it to Mr. Massey. “There’s ash beneath the track.”

  Mr. Massey scoffed. “That’s the foundation for the ties.”

  Nate’s eyes narrowed. Whatever the ash was, it was not the foundation for the railroad ties. He was tired of being lied to by the railroad, and so was I. If it were only our own financial security he was concerned about, I doubt he would be so frustrated, but we had much greater concerns. His loyalties in the matter were wide and deep.

  We both knew he was lying but I doubted we could prove it right now. And I wasn’t about to let something drastic happen. “Do you have more track ready to lay?”

  Mr. Massey gave me a sideways look. “We do.”

  “Brilliant.” I dusted off my hands. “Place it, please.”

  One of the workers stared. “Excuse me?”

  Mr. Massey hawked and spat. “I will not.”

  Nate stepped forward, towering over him. “I say you will. My wife and I are here to inspect this little project of westward expansion. I will bear responsibility with Mr. Cassatt for what happens with the steel.”

  Mr. Massey scowled up at him. “I will not have my men lay it.”

  Nate didn’t budge. “You will. Moreover, I saw the money we have invested has bought this steel and more several times over. If you refuse, we shall pull all our funding from Pennsylvania Railroad and Mr. Cassatt will be informed of your unwillingness and inability to do your job.”

  I didn’t say anything. We had no power here but Mr. Massey had no way of knowing that. To sell now would cost us more than our initial investment, but there was no way Mr. Massey would know that either.

  Mr. Massey glared.

  Nate glared back.

  Mr. Massey broke first. “You heard him boys, lay two sections of track. I’m only setting two sections, Mr. Valentine. You may very well own the steel, sir, but there’s only six men and I won’t break them to prove the rail won’t stay.”

  Nate took the victory. “Fair enough.”

  Mr. Massey gave him a smile. “And, since I’m short-handed, you’ll help.”

  I was excused from the labor, being a woman, but they needed all the help they could get.

  The workers took the push-car back to gather the supplies, leaving me alone at the end of the track with just Nate’s revolver for company. If they were going to return with all the required materials, they needed all the available muscle and space they could get.

  Nate had smelled fire in the ash by the ties. His wonderful sense of smell was one of the lingering superhuman skills he retained whether he was a dog, a man, or the canithrope form in between, so I would have to trust him that the ties smelled like ash. Living in London had taught me ash can travel far and wide and can get anywhere, so if there had been a fire half a mile away it was not unreasonable to believe the ash could have traveled that far. But there was no reason for the ash to stop at the wooden ties. That part defied logic.

  I went and re-examined the section of warped tracks. I again noted how the metal looked like it had been eaten away by acid. The warmth of the steel radiated through the leather of my gloves. I dug into the crushed stone by the track where the steel was lifted and damaged, which was nearly four inches deep before giving way to the dark earth and clay below. The one thing I did not find was ash and rust. That began abruptly where the metal
track ended.

  “The metal burned away, but it didn’t.”

  I wheeled about, my hand touching the butt of Nate’s pistol in the pocket of my long coat. It was the same man whom we had seen on horseback. He walked the horse slowly down the hill, letting it pick its way down on a long lead. His other hand was open. His long, straight black hair hung to his shoulder, and several feathers were tucked into the band of his tan hat.

  Surrounding him was the Three of Cups: three maids with uplifted golden goblets dancing in joy and camaraderie, friendship and community. I could tell this man meant me no harm. He may have been one of the fabled red Indians, but he was nothing to fear, not this one.

  Mr. Massey called them dirty red devils. As far as I could tell, there was nothing devilish about this man, nor did he have red skin, just warm, brown skin. I had seen a similar color in some of the Africans in London, if not a touch ruddier. “You’re one of those red Indians.”

  His mouth became a thin, red line. I bit my lip. I realized only then that the rail worker’s dubbing of “red Indian” might be just as insulting as Mr. Massey’s term “red devil.” “I’m sorry. Please pardon my ignorance. I am not from here. What would you like to be called?”

  He cocked his head at me, his tan hat bright against his straight black hair. He must have accepted my apology, because a smile split his face, revealing bright, straight teeth. He touched his chest over his heart then raised his hand. “We are all Native Peoples. I am Nacto. I am Cheyenne.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. “Ah, Vivian Valentine. My husband, Nathaniel Valentine, went with the rail workers. We are English.”

  Nacto nodded. I was immediately glad I had made a point to identify us as English, to set us apart from the American rail workers. At least we were not to be identified with that lot. “Mr. Nacto, what did you mean just then? The metal burned but it didn’t.”

  “Just Nacto,” he said. “The rails will not remain. They burn like the house.”

  I nodded. The house again. Whatever happened to the rails was tied to the house and the fires. Never mind that steel rails should not be able to burn at all. “What house? Can you show me the house?”

  “I can show you the Tate house,” he said. “It is hard walking for a woman.”

  “I am no easily frightened lady, Nacto. I would like to see what happened, but my husband will be returning soon with the other men,” I added rather belatedly, realizing it was rather foolish to go wandering off into the woods with a man I didn’t know.

  “You are safe. I give my word,” Nacto assured me.

  I looked him over, if he was trying to hide something from me, it remained well-hidden. He was simply Three Cups radiating friendship, if possible, even stronger than before. I was certain I had nothing to fear from him.

  I followed him down a hill and then up again, where we finally crossed to a dirt road where the tracks of many horses and wagons had caused it to wash out. Far from an expert in such matters, it seemed to me that it had experienced more traffic lately than it was used to. The grass that would have grown up around the wagon ruts had been trampled by more people than usually traveled the path, or perhaps by those who cared less for the land.

  Nacto took me to a hill overlooking a dark mass and stopped. “We go no further.”

  “What?” His horse nickered and tossed his head. “Why?” I wanted to go further. It was obvious, just like the rail workers said, a fire occurred in the homestead below. It looked to be a barn and a home, but most interesting of all, the fire had not spread.

  “No normal fire burns that way,” Nacto said, staring out at the farm below us. “But you must see, because you are willing to hear, the Cheyenne did not do this.”

  “You’re Cheyenne?” I clarified, more to remind myself.

  He nodded.

  “Did others like you, not Cheyenne I mean, but other…” I struggled for a term that would not be offensive, “Did other Natives do this?” I asked. If he was trying to slow-walk me to a conclusion I would rather he just tell me what he wanted me to know.

  “No.” He turned his horse. “This is not our way.”

  “Wait.” I stumbled over a rock in my haste to catch up with him. I caught the reins of his horse and jerked it to the side. The horse rolled his eyes and snorted. “Whose way is it?”

  “The devil. The devil burned nine here. He is gone now…and we need to be,” Nacto said. “You must return to your husband now, Vivian.”

  I trembled uncontrollably. Mr. Massey said the Indians were the devil. Nacto, whom I would trust more than Mr. Massey, said the devil had done this. Being raised Catholic, I was sure the devil existed, though since I had also experienced undead dragons, demons, and otherworldly creatures, I was no longer certain the world could be defined in such simple terms as good and evil.

  But old habits and old learning die hard, and when one has been taught to fear the devil from church sermons since before they can walk, one learns to fear the devil like nothing else. And fire and sin are the devil’s weapons.

  I looked over my shoulder. The burned house disappeared over the edge of the hill. I took a deep breath to organize my thoughts. I needed to quiet the moths beating themselves senseless against the little windows in my mind. No good could came of that.

  I followed Nacto, walking past the trampled grasses. Now I knew they had been headed to the farm. Devil or no, I could easily imagine they came with murder in mind. It was the careless tramp of feet burdened with ill intent. I had to see the farmhouse again.

  I watched the men finish laying the last of four undamaged rails. The ruined steel had been yanked free of the wooden ties and dragged off to the side. They grunted and sweated in the sun, using long metal rods to lever the rails onto the wooden ties and heavy hammers to align them with the rails that were still in place. Then, they pounded the spikes into the rails to pin them to the ties.

  I brought them water and spikes as they worked, to keep the work going smoothly. “Nacto told me the steel rails burn away like the house.” I offered casually.

  “Who?” Nate straightened and stretched his back.

  “The Cheyenne man who was watching us.”

  Mr. Massey choked and sputtered. “Them dirty devils are the ones that burned the Tate family out.”

  “He said the devil himself did it. He said burning homes is not the Cheyenne way.”

  “Begging your pardon, missus,” Samuel Lane said gently. “But you can’t trust ’em. Lying is in their blood. It’s part of who they are. They give and take back. They go back on their word. Why, the United States Government gave them a whole parcel of land—good land, too—in Montana and safe passage to get there where they can practice their heathen ways in peace and they still refused to go. They just skulk about frightening good people. You can’t trust ’em.”

  “Well, I want to see what happens to these rails myself,” Nate announced. “We will be staying here tonight to see what happens with our own eyes.”

  Mr. Massey’s mouth narrowed for a moment and he swallowed hard but nodded. “Aye, do as you must. But we’re taking the wagon. We’ll leave you the handcart.”

  Chapter Nine

  THERE WAS NO moon, but the stars winked brightly in the night and made the trees turn to dark shadows. I shivered and wrapped my arms in my coat. I was tempted to make a small ring of stones and get Nate to build us a fire but Nacto warned me the steel rails would burn away. For the moment, I was curious to see how that would occur without even a campfire. Having a fire would feel like I was cheating somewhat.

  We sat on the handcart. Its wooden bed kept us off the cold ground.

  “The Cheyenne man—”

  “Nacto?” Nate interrupted.

  “Yes, Nacto,” I confirmed. “He told me the burned home belonged to the Tate family. We should head there in the morning. Mr. Massey knows something about it; he went pale when I mentioned the fire.”

  Nate’s voice was thick with fatigue; it had been a long day setting t
he rails. “Burning is a horrible way to go.”

  “I suppose it would be.”

  He put his arm around me. Between his body heat, my long coat, and the work we had done together, I was feeling stupid and sleepy myself. I set my head on his shoulder. Nacto had risked the wrath of the rail workers to

  show me the site. He must have faith that we were different. He must have faith that we would listen. He had to be desperate, indeed, to trust that we were not like Mr. Massey and his men.

  Nate snored. I settled in beside him. He had the right idea. I would close my eyes, for a moment.

  There was a sound. A groan, a creak, a crack, the low moan metal makes as it’s warping. Geiger was in his machine as the factory burned. The metal was rending, shrieking, warping, melting. Men screamed. The smell of hot metal was like copper and blood strangling me where I stood.

  I jerked awake. Something was moving in the trees around us.

  No. Not something in the forest, the forest itself was moving. The forest itself was shifting. I swiped blindly for Nate, unable to take my eyes off the forest.

  Beside me Nate awoke, grabbing my hand and pinning it to his shoulder.

  We were surrounded by a slow-creeping, gray-green vine, choking vines with wide flat leaves that snaked around the edge of the rail cart. One tendril touched the edges of our feet. I jerked my foot free of the gray-green plant. It resisted only slightly.

  As we slept the vine had crept over the track, all twenty-four meters of it, gently enveloping it until it was cocooned. I ripped a piece of it off and shoved it into the pocket of my long coat. It was rubbery like seaweed, though warm like flesh.

  “Nate, what do you suppose that is?”

  He shrugged, dulled by sleep, and stared at the growth. He tore at the vines with his seax, hacking at several pieces until he exposed the steel below. “Kudzu maybe?”

  My botanical book mentioned kudzu and its frighteningly fast growth, but this was unnatural. “I can’t imagine this is any ordinary growth.”