Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  “For how long?”

  “A few days, like I told ya.”

  The old man wasn’t kidding. Vincent came to that realization sometime during his second shift well after midnight. He and Red tended the dragon with all the attention one bestowed on a sick patient—adjusting the oxygen flow and adding charcoal while keeping the temperature hot enough to make Vincent loiter in the coolness of the evening during breaks.

  Chepi and Samantha visited from time to time with sandwiches and drinks, but for the most part left the two of them alone in the orange glow of Confused Dragon’s breath. Vincent took to the hammock for brief respites, the dragon’s brick lips radiating enough heat to keep the night’s chill at bay.

  “Here’s the thing,” Red Socks explained early the next morning after poking at the pile of glowing charcoal with a long iron rod. “There ain’t nothing fun in calling up tracks, son. Nothing fun at all. It pulls the guts from your soul. Spits most of it out again in order to get back to that kid you once were before your life went to hell.” He kicked at a nearby flower bush, shaking the dew from what few branches were beyond the smelter’s radiance. “You have to want those rails with an innocent heart. Want really bad. That means reliving the reason, each and every time.” Red Socks looked over at the dragon’s bright interior. “It takes demons to raise angels. That’s why a part of your soul’s in this metal we’re making, Brass. You can’t call squat, otherwise.”

  The pain in Red’s voice as he spoke was readily apparent. Vincent wondered what demons the old man had to conjure in order to ply his trade. Something bad enough to make him want to leave everything else behind, no doubt. What did Dad have to bring up? What made a gandy dancer, then? A shit bucket of bad memories? Was that what he was signing up for?

  Vincent shielded his face from the dragon’s maw and tapped at the temperature gauge. If that was the case, he’d already paid a gandy dancer’s dues.

  Morning wore into afternoon with no pause in the routine, save for the women showing up with food and snacks. Samantha’s behavior leaning more toward the pleasant side of herself, proudly offering a peach cobbler she claimed to have cooked up. The girl seemed far removed from the tangle-haired wraith he first met who introduced herself by putting bullets through a couple of yegg without even flinching.

  Red had an odd way of noting the change in Samantha’s disposition after she left. “Definitely not the same girl I remember busting a chair over.”

  Vincent glanced up from his plate. “You what?”

  Red scooped a spoonful of the dessert with obvious relish, though there was little pleasure in his explanation. “She liked to have torn us both to pieces when Chepi couldn’t pull the yegg out of her. Not proud of what I done, no sir. Neither that nor laying tracks to kick Sammy back to Hobohemia.

  “So why did your wife try again night before last?”

  Red shrugged. “Shawnee are an optimistic lot. They see God in everything and everybody. Figured you were a sign, a second chance. You have to admit things went better this time. Those nail marks in your back weren’t made by no yegg. Count your blessings ’cause otherwise you’d have been boned like a fish.”

  Vincent eyed him over his cobbler. “You could’ve warned us.”

  “You argue with the woman if you want. Chepi don’t listen to me when there’s medicine involved. Besides, we were right outside, and I had myself another chair to use if it came to that.”

  “Think any of it helped?”

  “Best ask Sammy that question, son. I’m just some old coot making wind chimes out here.”

  Smelting continued through another hard and monotonous night and day. Vincent managed time for a shower, but even a fresh pair of clothes didn’t make his legs and arms feel any better than leaden weights. At least the scratches on his back were little more than itchy red lines. Conversations shortened, save for Red continuing to badger him about keeping the right air pressure and temperature. The lines in the old gandy dancer’s reddened face seemed to deepen as he tirelessly tended the dragon.

  What the hell’s driving you? No one did this kind of work out of simple courtesy. Not after two days and this much effort. Red mentioned owing Dad, but how deep did that personal debt go?

  The old motor’s incessant racket ended with the next sunset. An unaccustomed quiet crept over the work area once Red shut off the air and blowers. The Confused Dragon’s rumble died down. Under Red’s direction, Vincent used a shovel to knock away the edges of a crusty red cocoon enveloping the ore beneath. Face flush from the heat, he scraped out spongy clumps of raw iron from within the dragon’s bright belly.

  “Now comes the real work,” Red said, wiping his face with a wet rag. “Let’s get this stuff over to the anvil.”

  It took three hours, and every bit of remaining strength Vincent had, to hammer free the metal cores from their hard foamy encasings, his cheeks and arms scored by hot sparks and flying chips.

  “Don’t hurt, don’t help,” Red remarked, applying some of Chepi’s paste to Vincent’s burns after the last shard had been freed. “What I tell ya? You got to contribute, right?”

  Vincent glanced at a bucket full of thick gleaming metal bits—the inglorious remains of three days’ worth of effort. “The rest can wait, right?”

  Red Socks nodded. “I’d say we’re pretty much done for the night. Get some sleep. We start banging this together in the morning.”

  ~ * ~

  Vincent allowed time for another quick shower and changing into his old clothes before collapsing upon a proper bed. Samantha’s entrance into the bedroom disturbed his descent into much needed rest, the girl firmly shutting the door behind her. “See you in the morning,” he mumbled, rolling over.

  The mattress moved as she lay beside him. “How about we try beneath the sheets for once?”

  “Fine.” He pulled aside the comforter.

  She slid in beside him. “You’re almost finished out there, aren’t you?”

  “Figure another day,” he agreed. Vincent paused, drawing in a combination of lilacs and warm skin. He twisted around to find her wearing a hesitant smile and only her jeans. The dim light coming through the bottom of the door wove enticing shadows around her bare shoulders and over what her crossed arms failed to hide.

  He forgot about how tired he was, but not who lay silently beside him. “Sammy?”

  Her eyes remained downcast for a few quick breaths before fixing on him. “I, um, haven’t had much opportunity to take up where we left off on that porch swing.”

  “Your cobbler was a good start,” he whispered, enticing her little surprise to blossom into something greater. His desire rose with the idea of sharing more than just dreams. It was doused by a bucket of cold reality when she flinched the moment he touched her.

  Samantha swallowed and unfolded her arms. “Just a bit jittery. I’m not used to this.”

  “Look, if it’s too much too soon…”

  Samantha pulled his hand to her breast, but her smile remained forced and brittle.

  He felt her heart hammering beneath the soft flesh. He drew her against him and stroked her back until her shivers subsided. “You don’t owe me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I will,” she murmured.

  He loosened his embrace. “What? This is about the rock?”

  “Maybe now you’ll understand what it means to me.”

  He reluctantly left the warmth of Samantha’s body and tucked the quilt around her. “We’re both better than this. You’re not payment, Sammy, and I’m not services rendered.”

  She sat up, her modesty set aside for an icy demeanor. “Let me tell you what I am. While you were working in the shed, I was raiding Chepi’s medicine cabinet for oleander and jimson. The jimson will keep you from noticing the oleander’s killing you. Does this sound to you as if I’m a better person? That I’ve a shred of humanity left inside me?”

  “I take it this is how you plan to have me meet the Westbound.”

  “Yes.
Mixed with the right amount of strong tea to control the poison, it will keep you on the edge without dying. Chepi showed me the right portions.” She straightened. “Now, do you want me or not?”

  What I want right now is some damn sleep. He stretched out beside her, rolling to face away from further temptation. “You’re worth far more than the two-bit whore you seem to think you are. Otherwise, you wouldn’t hate yourself so damn much.”

  “I know who I am, Vincent. I’m Bram Van Erie’s daughter.”

  “Fine. Tell her to go to hell. She’s not the one I love.”

  Her voice broke. “Love? You can’t. Don’t. Please don’t.”

  He turned back toward her, the truth he hadn’t admitted to himself having slipped past his caution. “That’s why I won’t touch you, Sammy. I’ll wait until you start seeing yourself as I do.”

  ~ * ~

  Samantha developed a frosty demeanor that clung to Vincent throughout the next day with every stabbing glare he caught. He risks exposing his feelings and this was what she did? Why, because he didn’t take her? Damn, but he didn’t understand women. Her temperament made him look forward to reacquainting himself with Confused Dragon. Under the old man’s tutelage, he heated and hammered the steel chips gleaned from the ore, combining them into a solid glowing ingot.

  Red Socks brought out a small hydraulic press and taught him how to pound and fold the metal into submission. Kept cherry-red, the surprisingly pliable metal elongated itself into a shoulder-high rod. Even Samantha was set to work this time, quenching the metal when needed in an oil bath and taking turns with a smaller hammer when needed. Earnest sweat soon replaced her glowering expression.

  “Just like the stew,” Red Socks reminded them with a grin. “Everybody gets to contribute.”

  Toward evening, Vincent had his lining rod. Aching from fingers to shoulder, he inspected the finished work with no small amount of pride. Sure, it looked like an oversized chisel at one end and a tapered spike on the other, but nothing glinted brighter in the setting sun as far as he was concerned. It didn’t feel like a big piece of steel. It felt like he’d pulled out a sturdy and reliable piece of his backbone. His satisfied grin even managed to eke a begrudging smile from Samantha in the bargain.

  Red Socks grabbed his cane and gestured toward the lake. “Bring your rod, Brass.”

  Vincent followed him out to a mossy log overlooking glassy twilight waters.

  The old gandy dancer eased himself down on the wood and tapped his cane. “Take a load off. Time to get this done, son.”

  “Get what done?” Vincent inquired, finding a seat.

  “Pass the flag,” Red chuckled. “Stretch your arms out in front of ya.”

  He did as he was told.

  “Good, now hold this.” Red laid Vincent’s bar across his opened hands. “And this, too.” Next came Red’s cane, except now it was another steel shaft whose added weight nearly made Vincent drop both.

  The old man gripped Vincent’s hands and curled both their fingers over the instruments. “Hope you ain’t expecting anything fancy.” He cleared his throat. “My name’s Bill Miner, and by the grace of God and Saint Emmett I say you’re a gandy dancer. Case closed.” Red retrieved his lining rod, leaving Vincent with a much lighter load than he anticipated—an ash walking stick topped by a brass knob.

  Vincent twirled the cane with a raised eyebrow. “How’d I do that? What happened to the bar?”

  “You didn’t do anything. You got a moniker, Brass, so your bar’s got one too. Makes things simple that way.”

  Vincent hefted the cane, feeling none of the bar’s former weight. Considering all he had seen since stepping off the tracks, another example of hobo magic only led him a couple steps south of credulity. “So, uh, when do I learn to call track?”

  Red laughed. “Best we save the hard part for when you need it. Don’t fret, Brass, it’s in your blood. When you’re ready, your bar’s ready. Teaching you won’t take but a couple minutes.” He pointed to his heart. “It’s the doing that kills ya.”

  Vincent smiled and extended his hand. “Much obliged just the same, Mr. Miner. For what it’s worth, my name’s Vincent. Vincent Maloney.”

  “A pleasure,” Red returned, giving Vincent’s hand a vigorous shake. “Only thing left is to get you properly carded. Can’t have Jack’s son facing down Taylorists and rail barons without representation. Follow me up to the house and we’ll do this proper like.”

  Vincent hazarded a guess. “International Workers of the World.”

  “That be the one,” Red agreed. “Gandy dancers tend to be a bit too loose for the railroad brotherhoods to take in, but the wobblies don’t give a damn who you are.”

  “And I have to join?” He had little use for unions or union dues he could ill afford.

  There was little warmth in Red’s grin. “Nope. There’s always being a scab. Choice is yours.”

  Vincent didn’t like the way the word “scab” dragged across Red’s tongue. Joining the I.W.W. sounded like a better deal than the baron and his Taylorists offered.

  Red clapped him on the shoulder. “You wait out on the patio and I’ll gather up the ladies as witnesses.”

  Vincent found it odd his ascension into the ranks of gandy dancers involved far less pomp and circumstance than admission into the hobo-favored union. Red Socks came out of the cabin dressed in a beige three-piece suit whose tweed fabric sported countless patches. Chepi and Samantha remained in jeans and brightly colored shirts, although Samantha sported a new beaded necklace from which dangled a quartz turtle. She presented him his long coat with the solemnity of handing over a national flag.

  Red Socks waited until Vincent pulled the duster around him before thumping his cane on the patio decking. “In absence of any king, cause we damn-sure don’t have a jungle around these parts, it falls to me as a member of the I.W.W. to offer you membership in the brotherhood.” He rested on his cane with an expectant air.

  “Think you’re supposed to say something,” Samantha offered with a snicker.

  “Hush, little hanikwa,” Chepi scolded. “Red Socks hasn’t worn these clothes since the day he first came to me. There is medicine here.”

  Vincent cleared his throat since all three were looking at him now. “Yeah…uh, count me in.”

  “Good enough.” Red Socks reached into the vest pocket of his tattered suit and drew out a red card. “I, Red Socks, do hereby declare Brass a full-fledged member of the I.W.W. with the rights and privileges there-in. Just make damn sure you pay your dues on time. Go on, card’s yours.”

  Taking the offered card from Red seemed a trite undertaking, but if it made him happy, then fine because he owed the man. Vincent reached out and put his fingers around the simple paper card.

  His world changed.

  The house, the lake, they stayed the same, along with the somewhat bemused look on Samantha’s face. The rest…

  Red Socks fairly glowed with an inner nobility that dimmed the patches and frayed bits of his attire. The man stood resplendent in a suit that would get him into the fanciest Chicago restaurants without anyone batting an eye. Vincent inspected his own coat, and swore he glimpsed the glint of armor links beneath the brown leather like some knight of old might wear. The duality of his new sight made him dizzy. Blinking helped return the world to its normal self.

  He glared at the card. “What the hell?”

  “Just opens your eyes to the true hobo spirit,” Red explained. “You get used to it.”

  Vincent risked a look at Samantha. She wasn’t dressed any different, but there was a menace in the shadow of her eyes he did not want to dwell on too long lest he attract its notice. He fingered the card with its simple three-letter logo and his moniker embossed on the backside. He stuffed the card into his coat’s inner pocket, and the odd second sight along with it.

  Red Socks shook his hand again. “Now you’re both a gandy dancer and official hobo to boot. No jungle will turn you away. The yard bulls will leave y
ou alone, too. You can bunk up in any caboose that has room, though you probably won’t have to once the baronies get wind of you. There’s plenty of track that needs laying or maintaining, and damn few of us left to do it.”

  Samantha inspected Vincent’s cane. “Nice, but where’s the steel bar we made?”

  Vincent copied what he had seen Red do and drove the end of the cane into the floorboard. The weight abruptly returned, and with it, a deep sinking feeling as if his very life followed the tapered point through shattered wood and into the ground. Numbed by the sensation, he pulled the lining rod back up as fast as he could.

  Red stared at the hole in the plank, and back at Vincent. “Gotta watch that sort of thing, Brass.”

  “Sorry.” Vincent held the heavy bar safely away from the wood. “Felt like part of me went down there too.”

  Red nodded. “Means you need to move on. There’s a place up the road that’s seen track before. We’ll head there in the morning after fixing you both some vittles to take along. Don’t worry about that busted board. Got plenty more around back.”

  Vincent tossed the bar to Samantha, finding little surprise in seeing her catch the ash cane instead. “Time to drop in on your father.”

  She paused in her study of the cane’s brass head. “You can’t lay track into or out of a Barony without the baron’s permission.”

  Red Socks raised an eye. “Well, she’s right about that one. There’s a jungle on Cleveland’s south side within a stone’s throw of Erie lands. Place is called Kingsbury Run. You can head out from there, instead.”

  “I know their king,” Samantha added, handing back his walking stick. “My father tried to run them out. Cannoli Joe’s been looking for an excuse to pay my father back. Joe might know how to get us in unseen if I put in a good word.”

  Vincent folded his arms. “Weren’t you supposed to be the one sneaking us in?”

  “I’ll get you across the yards and into the house,” she retorted. “It’s a big house. I know where he’ll have Timepiece and Freedom.”

  Vincent eyed her. After last night’s desperation, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Just like that?”