by Janet Dawson
She accompanied the new passengers to their car and watched as they climbed into the vestibule. Then she turned as she heard someone call her name.
“Miss McLeod, nice to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too, Mr. Wilson.” Jill had traveled with Homer Wilson on several runs. He was a thin man with a long nose who wore a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses. His conductor’s badge showed the D&RGW insignia—a snowcapped mountain peak. It read Main Line Through the Rockies, the words surrounding the Rio Grande. Mr. Wilson would be in charge of the train until it reached Grand Junction, Colorado, then he’d hand off his duties to another D&RGW conductor who would be aboard until Salt Lake City.
Now Mr. Wilson excused himself and walked down the platform toward the front of the train. The engines had been switched out and passengers who’d gotten off the train to watch the procedure began returning to their cars.
An older woman wearing a dark gray wool coat and hat stood near the steps leading to the Silver Falls, with a brown leather train case and a carpetbag at her feet. She had silver hair, worn in a short no-nonsense style, swept away from her face.
“I’m the Zephyrette, Miss McLeod,” Jill said. “May I help you?”
“Thank you. I’m Mrs. Warrick, and I’m traveling on this car. I do have these two bags.” She indicated the train case and carpetbag. Frank Nathan jumped down from the vestibule and picked up the bags.
“I’ll go ahead and put these in your berth, ma’am,” the porter said. “Which room?”
“Bedroom D.”
The porter nodded and carried the bags up to the vestibule, disappearing into the train car.
Mrs. Warrick turned to Jill. “I’ll stay on the platform a bit longer. I’m waiting for my nephew. He’s checking my suitcase.”
“Where are you going?” Jill asked.
“Sacramento. I’m looking forward to the journey. I always enjoy traveling on the California Zephyr.”
“Welcome aboard. I hope you enjoy the trip. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”
“I will.” Mrs. Warrick glanced over Jill’s shoulder. “Ah, there he is now.”
A man in a business suit, about thirty-five, hurried toward them, a luggage check in his hand. “You’re all set, Aunt Geneva. Bag’s checked to Sacramento.”
“Thank you, Simon.” The woman tucked the luggage check into the black purse she carried. “I wish you could come to California with me.”
“So do I, but I can’t get away from work just now. Give my regards to the family.”
“I will.” The woman gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. He waved and headed down the platform, in the direction of the station.
Frank Nathan had reappeared in the vestibule. He came down the steps and offered his arm to help Mrs. Warrick up the steps and onto the train. “Now, if you’ll follow me, ma’am, I’ll get you settled into your berth.”
As Mr. Nathan escorted Mrs. Warrick into the car, Jill turned. A man and a woman walked toward her. He was tall and lean, wearing a cowboy hat and boots, with a tan jacket worn over his dark brown trousers. He carried a brown leather suitcase in his right hand. With him was a plump, gray-haired woman who was a full head shorter than he was. She wore a beige wool coat and carried a small red train case in her left hand. Looped around her forearm was a cloth bag that looked as though it had been made of quilt patches. Her right hand was tucked in the crook of his left arm.
“Is this the Silver Falls?” she asked, stopping a few feet from Jill.
“Yes, it is,” Jill said. “I’m the Zephyrette, Miss McLeod. How may I help you?”
The woman smiled. “I’m Trudy Oliver and this is my husband, Henry. We’re traveling on this car. Henry, show Miss McLeod the tickets.”
The man didn’t speak. He set down the suitcase and pushed back his hat. His hair was thinning and he had the leathery tanned skin of one who’d spent much of his life outdoors. He took the tickets from the inner pocket of his jacket. Jill saw that the Olivers would be occupying bedroom E, the berth which had just been vacated by Mr. and Mrs. Mays.
“The porter is assisting another passenger. He’ll be right back to help you board and show you to your berth.” As Jill spoke, Frank Nathan appeared in the vestibule. “Here he is now. Mr. Nathan, the Olivers are traveling in bedroom E.”
“Right this way, sir,” the porter said as he stepped down from the vestibule. “I’ll take that suitcase, and the train case.”
Mr. Oliver handed over the suitcase without a word, while Mrs. Oliver thanked the porter and gave him her train case. Once they had boarded the train, Jill walked forward. As she approached the chair cars, she saw the conductor walking toward her.
“All aboard!” Mr. Wilson’s voice boomed out over the chatter of the people on the platform as he called out the imminent departure of the train. This caused a flurry of activity as the remaining passengers on the platform boarded their cars, assisted by the porters.
“Now boarding, the California Zephyr. Destination San Francisco, with stops in Glenwood Springs, Grand Junction, Helper, Provo, Salt Lake City…”
Jill climbed into the vestibule of the Silver Scout, watching as the car porter reached for the metal step he’d placed below the car’s steps. He set it inside the vestibule and operated the lever that retracted the car’s steps. Then he closed and locked the vestibule door. The train’s whistle blew and the California Zephyr moved slowly out of the Denver station, heading across the South Platte River.
The train picked up speed as it headed out of the city. Jill walked up to the Silver Scout’s Vista-Dome. She always enjoyed this view of the city’s outskirts as the train left Denver. The CZ passed through the small town of Arvada, climbing now, gaining elevation as it moved from the high plains into the foothills of the Rockies.
She stopped to talk with Timothy Shelton and his mother, listening as the little boy told her about watching the engines back at the station. He bubbled over with excitement, bouncing in his seat. “It was fun! Wait till I tell Grandpa. Those engines are so big.”
“This is a lot of train to pull over the mountains,” Jill said. “In addition to the five locomotives, we have eleven other cars. There’s the baggage car…” She numbered the cars on her fingers, giving the little boy the names. Then she pointed out the window. “We just passed a place called Rocky Siding. Now we’re starting up the Big Ten. It’s an S-curve. That means it looks like a big S. The train uses it to gain elevation. You see, we’re turning south now, and then we’ll turn east again. Then the tracks loop south and west.”
“Why is it called Big Ten?” The question came from a man in the seat across the aisle.
“I’ve been told it’s due to a ten-degree radius of curve,” Jill said. “When the railroad originally built these tracks, the curves weren’t supposed to exceed ten degrees. That’s five hundred seventy-three feet, according to the brakeman who told me the story. I think some of the curves have been changed over the years, as they’ve upgraded the railbed.”
“The wind’s really blowing hard,” Mrs. Shelton said, looking out the windows of the Vista-Dome. The train was traveling along the curve. The terrain consisted of rolling, treeless hills, punctuated here and there with tall grass and bushes, now buffeted by the wind.
Jill nodded. “The wind always blows really hard along the foothills of the Front Range, and especially here at the Big Ten.” Jill pointed back down the slope. “Now you can see how Denver is spread out. And you can see the dome-observation car at the back of the train.”
Timothy jumped up from his seat, craning for a better look. “We won’t be able to see it when we get into the mountains.”
Jill nodded. “That’s right. Soon we’ll cross over a bridge at Coal Creek Canyon. Then we go into the first tunnel. There are over thirty of them.” Most of the tunnels had been constructed in 1904, she knew, and several had been upgraded in recent years. Some were short, just under two hundred feet long, while most were longer, five or s
ix hundred feet, with several over a thousand feet long.
As the train went over the bridge and headed uphill, Jill excused herself and went downstairs. She walked back through the train. The CZ entered the first tunnel, and the cars darkened, lightening again as the train exited. As she went through the next chair car, Jill saw several new faces, passengers who had boarded in Denver. She went through the Silver Chalet. The tables in the coffee shop had emptied out, as many of the passengers claimed seats in the Vista-Dome, so they could watch the Rocky Mountain scenery.
Miss Larch was here, sitting alone at a table. In front of her was a cup of coffee and a plate containing a piece of toast. But she ignored the food, staring instead out the window.
The view out the window was to the north. The bare foothills had given way to steep slopes covered with dark green pines. On the ground were vestiges of the last snowstorm, white mounds under the trees, and out in the open, melting in the pale spring sunshine. Here and there were bare rock faces and high cliffs.
The train was nearing a small community called El Dorado Springs. Jill had visited the resort there, which had a swimming pool, dance hall, hotel and cabins. Lately it had been in the news because El Dorado Springs had been where the new president Dwight Eisenhower and his first lady Mamie had honeymooned after their wedding in 1916. The president liked to fish in the Fraser River, which was farther along the train’s route.
“Good morning, Miss Larch,” Jill said.
The young woman looked up, startled out of her reverie. Then she smiled. “It’s Miss McLeod, the Zephyrette. Will you join me?”
“Yes, I will.” Jill pulled out the chair opposite Miss Larch and sat down.
Mr. Peterson, the waiter who worked in the Silver Chalet, entered the coffee shop, carrying a coffeepot. He came over to the table. “Would you like some coffee, Miss McLeod?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Peterson.”
The waiter poured coffee into the cup already on the table. “More coffee, miss?” he asked Miss Larch. She shook her head, a curious expression on her face as the waiter left the coffee shop. With her right hand, she reached for the thin gold chain around her neck, rubbing it with her fingers.
“You called him ‘Mister,’ him and that porter back in my sleeper car,” Miss Larch said. “He’s a… Well, he’s colored. Where I come from, we don’t call a colored man ‘Mister.’”
“He’s my coworker.” Jill stirred cream into her coffee and took a sip. “Here aboard the California Zephyr, we always use ‘Mister and Miss’ when speaking to our coworkers. It’s considered professional, and the polite thing to do.”
“I see,” Miss Larch said, though the expression on her face was quizzical. She was still toying with the gold chain around her neck. When she moved her hand she pulled the end of the chain from her V-necked bodice and Jill saw that the chain held a ring, a gold band with a large diamond.
That looks a lot like an engagement ring, Jill thought, remembering her own ring, the one she’d put away after her fiancé’s death. I wonder if there’s a story about why the ring is hanging from a chain instead of around Miss Larch’s finger.
“It’s a different world, isn’t it?” Miss Larch said. “Outside of Mississippi.”
“Yes, it is,” Jill said. “So you’re from Mississippi.”
Miss Larch nodded. “Jackson. That’s the state capital. Have you ever been to the South?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve spent most of my life in the western part of the United States.”
“Where are you from?” Miss Larch asked.
Jill sipped her coffee, then answered the question. “I was born in Colorado, in Denver, and I grew up here. After the war, my family moved to California. So I’m a Californian now.”
“You have a lot of colored people in California?”
“Negroes? Yes. Many of them worked in the shipyards in Richmond during the war. And they work for the railroad, too. The Pullman porters have worked for the railroads since the nineteenth century.”
“I see,” the other woman said, almost to herself. “Where I live, in Mississippi, the colored people…the Negroes work in the fields, mostly. Or doing housekeeping.”
“It’s different in other places,” Jill said.
“I expect it is. I should get out more. See the big wide world.” Miss Larch shrugged. “I’m going to San Francisco. I expect I’ll go to Chinatown and see Chinese people.”
“We have a Chinatown in Oakland, too,” Jill said. “And of course, the people who live there are Americans, too. They’ve been in the United States a long time. In fact, Chinese laborers helped build the transcontinental railroad.”
“Of course,” Miss Larch said. “I look forward to sampling some Chinese food, something I’ve never tried. Is it good?”
“Oh, yes, I enjoy it very much. There’s nothing like a bowl of hot and sour soup on a cold day.”
“What is hot and sour soup?”
“It’s delicious. It’s chicken broth and it has bamboo shoots, mushrooms, and vinegar. That’s why it has the sour taste. And I really like chow fun. That’s a dish made with wide noodles and beef, with lots of onions and bean sprouts.”
“Miss McLeod?” Ezra Mack, the porter from the Silver Maple, had appeared in the coffee shop. “Got a need for your first-aid kit.”
Jill got to her feet, then glanced at Miss Larch. “Will you excuse me?”
“Certainly. We’ll talk more later. I have lots of questions about San Francisco.”
Jill followed Mr. Mack back through the Silver Chalet. They stopped at her compartment and she stepped inside and hoisted the first aid kit from the overhead rack. “What happened?”
“A youngster skylarking in the seats. Got his hand caught in between and scraped off some skin.”
Jill shut the door and they made their way back through the dining car, where breakfast service was just finishing up. They headed through the sleepers. When they reached the Silver Maple, Jill found the harried-looking woman who’d boarded the train in Denver holding a damp cloth to her son’s left hand while her younger daughter looked on. The older daughter was nowhere to be seen.
“Here’s Miss McLeod with the first-aid kit,” Mr. Mack said.
“Let me see,” Jill said.
“Hold up your hand, Robby,” the mother said, removing the cloth. The boy held out his palm. An area about three inches long and an inch wide had been scraped raw and bloody.
“I’m sure that hurts,” Jill said, taking a seat next to the boy.
Robby shrugged. “Not too bad.”
“That’s not what you said before,” his younger sister said. “You yelled and said a bad word.”
Her mother silenced her with a look.
“Well, this will hurt a bit, too.” Jill opened the first-aid kit and took out her supplies. The boy winced, though he tried to mask it, as she cleaned the area with an antiseptic. Then Jill applied Merthiolate, a topical antibiotic, and covered the area with a bandage. “There, you should be fine now.”
“Thanks,” Robby said.
His mother sighed. “Thank you very much. I really appreciate it. Now, you kids quit horsing around. I don’t want any more bandages before we get to Winnemucca.”
Jill returned the first-aid kit to her quarters in the Silver Chalet, then she retraced her steps through the dining car to the Silver Quail, the six-five sleeper. The windows darkened as the train went through another tunnel. Just as the train emerged, Mrs. Tyree, the woman traveling in bedroom K, came out of her berth, carrying a book. “I’m going up to the Vista-Dome,” Mrs. Tyree said. “I’ll probably just look at the scenery but I always take a book just in case.”
“I’ll bet you watch the scenery, too.”
Mrs. Tyree laughed and walked forward, while Jill turned to head toward the rear of the car. Mr. Backus, the porter, stepped out of bedroom E, carrying towels draped over his arm.
“We have new passengers,” he said. “A Miss Carolla here in bedroom E, but she’s
gone up to the Vista-Dome. There are two women in compartment I. And a man in bedroom C.”
“Thanks.”
Jill knocked on the door of compartment I. It was opened by a stocky, middle-aged woman in a tailored white blouse and black skirt, her strong, square-featured face topped by short gray hair. On the bench seat was a young woman, probably in her late twenties, her brown hair caught back in a ponytail. She wore a navy blue skirt and matching cardigan over a yellow silk blouse with a flowered print. On her lap was a leather case, the top open to reveal a camera and accessories. Next to her, books and magazines were stacked on the seat, to be read during the journey. The periodical on the top was the latest edition of Look magazine, its cover shot showing Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz and their two young children.
“Good morning, I’m Miss McLeod, the Zephyrette.”
“I’m Doctor Ranleigh,” the older woman said. “This is my niece, Rachel Ranleigh.”
“Welcome aboard the California Zephyr,” Jill said. “That looks like a nice camera.”
Miss Ranleigh smiled, ponytail swinging as she nodded. “It is. My trusty Leica. I’m an amateur photographer.”
“Aspiring photojournalist,” her aunt said.
“Are you a professor, Doctor Ranleigh?” Jill asked.
“I’m a physician at Saint Joseph Hospital in Denver,” the doctor said. “It’s a teaching hospital, so from time to time I am a professor.”
“Oh, I’m familiar with Saint Joseph,” Jill said. “My father is a doctor, too. He’s a general practitioner. He was at Saint Luke’s in Denver before the war. Then he joined the Navy. His name is Amos McLeod.”
“McLeod, McLeod…” Dr. Ranleigh looked thoughtful. “I believe I’ve met him, at some conference or another. Not surprising, since both hospitals are just a few blocks apart. Does your father still practice in Denver?”
Jill shook her head. Her mother and the three McLeod children had lived with Jill’s grandmother during the war when Dr. Amos McLeod was away, serving in the Navy. The McLeods had moved to California in 1945, when the doctor was transferred to the Naval Medical Center in Oakland. After the war, he left the Navy and set up his practice in Alameda. “We live in California now. We moved there after the war.”
