by Devon Monk
“I thought I’d step off at Kansas City. Find a job, see what the town has to see, then save up for a ticket east.”
“How far east?”
“As far as I can go. Big cities. Universities, sciences, industry. I want to see this great new world we’re building. I want to see it all.”
“Alone?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess if I must.”
“Sometimes it is better to go it alone,” he said.
She looked over at him. He was staring out the window too, though he watched the countryside as it pulled away from them, seated as he was with his back to the engine, whereas the world all seemed to be rushing toward Rose.
“I was…grateful to run into you, truth be known,” he said without looking over at her. “I know we’ve only briefly met, but I rarely run into anyone who is so…curious.”
“Curious?” she asked.
He looked away from the window. “Oh. Not in an odd sort of way.” He folded his hands over the book in his lap and looked up at the ceiling as if reading words there. “Inquisitive. Yes, far better choice of phrase. You have a wonderfully inquisitive way about you, Rose.” He lowered his face and smiled.
The reflection of bluish light from the window frosted the lenses of his glasses, hiding his eyes in the pale glow. “From the moment you nearly ran over me”—Rose rolled her eyes—“I thought,” he continued, “‘This person is lovely and self-assured.’ And now that I know you’ve traveled with an airship captain, I simply must know everything about you.”
“Mr. Wicks—Thomas,” she corrected when he lifted one long finger. “I am certainly flattered you think me interesting. But really, we’ve only just met. Other than a taste for books, and a remarkable ability with telegraphing, I don’t know a thing about you either.”
He sat quietly for a bit, then leaned forward to look at her from over the top of his wire glasses.
“I’m not a very interesting story, I’m afraid.”
Rose very much doubted that, but kept her smile in place.
“But there are other things we could do to pass the time,” he said. “Would you like to explore the train with me? The freight is in a locked car.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a key on a fob. “I managed to get my hands on a key.”
“How? You didn’t steal it, did you?”
“What?” He gave a fair go at looking surprised. “No. Someone just left it where I could find it and I thought it’d be good for a lark.” He waited to see if she would challenge that.
“I’m not sure that taking that key is legal, Mr. Wicks.”
“I don’t intend to do any harm. Just look about a bit. It’s a long way between here and Kansas City. So, would you like to see the rest of the train?”
“I don’t think it’s my business, seeing other people’s goods. I worked my parents’ store for years. I know what a crate full of straw looks like.”
“Of course,” he said, settling back. “I understand. Still…while everyone else was boarding the train, I was watching the workers load freight. There seemed to be some unusual items placed aboard.”
“How unusual?”
“Very.”
He sat there, not saying a word, and not looking away from her. Rose knew she shouldn’t. Her curiosity had gotten her into trouble all of her life. But she’d never seen a freight car full of packages, since the railroad hadn’t made it to Hallelujah yet.
And she still wondered what was in the crate that Margaret had handed those men who looked nervous they would be caught loading it.
It could be nothing. It could be dangerous. It could be the only time she had a chance to see such a thing, just like this probably had been her only chance to see the inside of a Pullman car.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Really?” he asked, startled.
Rose stood. “I’m a woman seeking adventure, Mr. Wicks. As such, I can’t just turn timid when the first romp presents itself. Let’s see what this train can offer.”
He stood, placed the book on the seat of his chair, and settled his hat back on top of his head, giving the brim an extra tug to make sure it was secure.
They exited through the doors and cars they’d already passed through, and Rose felt the tingle of excitement in her bones. It was probably nothing; there were probably no secret items on the train. Probably nothing more in the hold than magazines, potbelly stoves, and cooking pans.
She supposed there might be something worth snooping over, even if it was all ordinary things. Books would be fun to see, perhaps a clever use of gear or spring for the house or field. There might even be parts of airships or glim-harvesting gear on board. She wouldn’t mind setting her eyes on that.
It wasn’t unreasonable to think there might even be glim on board. It would be locked in a safe so no one could see it, but since the rail ran from coast to coast, glim from the Rocky Mountains or the Cascades might easily be shipped along the main route, which cut a horizontal line through Iowa and then connected with Chicago, New York, and went all the way to California.
There certainly seemed to be people in the Pullman car who looked rich enough to have a dram of glim. Although she suspected a person would keep it near if they actually owned any of the rare substance.
They rushed through the car where she had been sitting with Mr. Hink. She glanced over at the seat he should be slouching in, and was surprised not to see him in their seat, though her luggage was still stowed under the bench.
She didn’t have much time to wonder where he’d gotten off to; Thomas was already out the door. She hurried behind and stepped into the crowded immigrant car, filled near to busting with men, women, and children, coats hung to dry on every available hook or line, the bare wood floor and benches covered by families or strangers crowded together.
The car smelled of cabbage and pork. Someone was breathing the harmonica through a sweet tune she’d never heard before and a baby was fussing. It was messy in a homey sort of way, crowded, and no one looked up as they passed.
Passing through the back door, they entered the first freight car. Rose stepped in close behind Thomas, and he reached back and shut the door behind her.
The car was dark and cold. There were no windows and the only light tongued in through the cracks in the walls.
“There should be…ah, yes, here.” Thomas took a few steps to the side and pulled a lantern off a hook on the wall. He ran his thumb over a flint and steel built into the bottom of the lantern, and the whole thing came to life with a warm yellow glow.
He held it up and Rose couldn’t help but whistle. “This is all mail?”
“Well, those bags”—he pointed to a lumpy pile of canvas—“and these boxes and crates.” He nodded at the stack of crates piled up and secured with rope and buckles all the way up to the ceiling. “And well, all the rest?” He spun a circle with the lantern held out, like an actor on a stage revealing a great wonderland. “Yes.”
“How many freight cars are on this train?” she asked.
“Not many out of Hays City. Just five. This is first-class freight. Two cars of livestock at the end, and two cars of produce and such goods in between.”
“How do you know?”
“I told you, I’ve worked for the railroad, and I’m a very observant man. So, let’s see what sort of shipments we have here.” He walked over to the huge pile of crates and rocked back a bit on his heels so he could stare all the way up, the lantern held high.
“Sewing machines, bolts of cloth, musical instruments, baby buggies…firearms. Hmm. This!” He wandered over to the far corner and Rose followed along, her eyes fully adjusted to the light now.
“Odd shape, don’t you agree?” Thomas said.
“It looks like a coffin.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
“That’s not odd. Not really,” she said.
“I agree, but I noticed there were gold letters on the side.” He bent down. “Yes, her
e. VB. Initials on a coffin?”
“The maker?” Rose suggested.
“Unusual, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. You don’t think there’s, um, a person in it?”
“No, no. They ship corpses on ice. No ice car on this train, though it’s cold enough without it, isn’t it?” He turned from where he was kneeling by the coffin and smiled up at her, his words catching cold curls of smoke in the light of the lantern.
The light bounced off a smaller crate to one side and Rose noticed the green VB painted on the side. “I wonder what’s in that,” she said. “I saw a crate very like it being loaded and unloaded today.”
“Is that so? Let’s open it.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“We shouldn’t even be in this car,” Thomas said airily, “but here we are. Tell me you aren’t curious, hmm? What’s in the crate and what’s in the coffin? Both sharing the same initials.”
Rose shook her head but her curiosity was getting the best of her. “I figured you for a law-abiding man, Mr. Wicks.”
“Oh, I am,” he assured her. “But there is no law against a quick look if we put everything back the same as we found it, now is there?”
“Yes, I believe there is, actually.”
“Well, then, you can hold the lantern, and I will do the dirty work.” He handed the light to her.
Thomas did a quick search, found a pry bar, and set the forked end of it beneath the lid of the first crate. With the skill of a career burglar, he pulled the nails free and carefully lifted the lid off the top of the crate.
“Now, let us see what sorts of things are shipped beneath the VB letters.” He pushed the lid to one side, balancing it across the top of the crate.
“Well?” Rose asked.
“I…don’t know. Lighting? Lanterns? Care you to apply your curious mind to it?”
She stepped up to the edge of the crate and glanced inside.
A chorus of not-quite voices and not-quite strings and not-quite woodwinds burst through her mind. It was as if the device—whatever it was—was eager to speak, to reveal its secrets, to tell how it was made and why it was made and what it could become.
Growing things used to fill her mind like this, used to speak to her like this: the device, the thing made of metal, sang.
Copper—so much copper—gave off the hardiest sound, twisted as it was in coils around a central glass orb the size of a large apple. Four solid plates of cold-pounded copper spread out from the center orb and coils. Holes allowed the copper coils to thread through those plates into long, thin, almost delicate strands that looked like spider legs.
The possibilities of what it could be, what it was intended for, rushed over her like a hard wind, and she gasped trying to catch her breath and wits. Her mind swam with the wonder and the complex concepts of this odd creation.
She knew this was not a creature, not a lantern. It was more. It was built to hold something. Carry something.
And it was built to power something. But the possibilities of what, specifically, it could power flashed hot behind her eyes, then, just as quickly, burned to ashes.
“It’s…amazing,” she exhaled.
“Don’t move!” a voice called out.
Rose blinked hard, trying to pull her racing thoughts away from the device and back to the dark train car.
“Put your hands up and step away from that crate.”
Who was speaking? Thomas? No, not Thomas.
Three rough-looking men were headed their way, guns drawn.
“You.” One of the men jerked his gun toward her. “Put that back in the crate.”
“Put what?” She looked down at her hands. She was holding the device in one hand, the metal casing and glass globe cradled in her palm, spidery wire legs draped through her fingers like threads.
When had she picked that up? Why hadn’t Thomas stopped her from accidentally stealing?
She glanced up at Thomas, who stood just a bit in front of her, one hand up, the other still clutching the pry bar.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Who are you gentlemen?”
“You don’t need our names,” the lead man said. “You only need to know we have an interest in keeping thieves out of our goods.”
“Your goods? These crates have no shipping labels. Unless you give me your name, I can only assume you came back here to burgle the place.” Thomas tipped his head just a bit.
“We aren’t the robbers here.”
“Nor are you the law,” Thomas said with a bit more steel in his tone. “As long as it is on this train, all goods are under the protection of the United States Postal Service and the Kansas Pacific Railway.”
“This gun says otherwise.”
“Yes, well. I see that it does,” he said. “Before we begin shooting each other, let’s let the lady go, shall we? This wasn’t her lark.”
“It is now.” The three men closed the distance and Rose saw Thomas tense.
“Rose,” he said, tightening his grip on the pry bar. “Run.”
9
The devil certainly knew how to lay a fine table. Cedar hadn’t eaten his fill for weeks now, getting by on hardtack, grits, and whatever game they could bring down while on the road.
But here, at Mayor Vosbrough’s manor, breakfast was served hot and heaping on fine white china with gold trim around the edges. Thick planks of seared beef, chunks of fried potatoes, eggs over easy, and thick, fluffy biscuits were enough to make his mouth water before he even picked up his fork. Accompanying the meal were tall glasses of heavy cream milk and coffee so dark and rich, it went down like aged Scotch.
Besides Mayor Vosbrough and Cedar’s traveling companions, two other people sat at the table. Mr. Charles Evans Lowry was a ruddy-faced man with black hair oiled back smooth, his mustache trimmed to meet his sideburns. He dressed finer than the mayor and had been introduced as a prominent real estate developer.
Their other breakfast companion was Miss Lydia Daffin, a round-faced young woman with clever eyes and a quick tongue who wore her hair curled at the temples and drawn up off of her neck. She was, Cedar was given to understand, the heiress of Daffin Coal Company.
“Please excuse the plain spread,” Mayor Vosbrough said as he waved a knife of fresh butter over the top of a split biscuit. “If I’d known you were coming to our little town, Mr. Madder,” he said to Alun, who had refused to sit at the mayor’s right and instead had dropped down in the seat at the foot of the table, “I would have planned a proper meal. Maybe set up a whole parade to welcome you all in.” He buttered the biscuit and took a huge bite.
Miss Daffin laughed lightly. “A parade? Are you and your brothers such a sight to see?” she asked. “Perhaps you have valiant histories, honors in battle to share with the people of Des Moines?”
Alun shook out his napkin, but instead of using it, he brushed his fingertips over the front of his shirt. “I’m afraid we’re plain men, Miss Daffin. Mayor Vosbrough here has a queer sense of humor.”
She considered Alun, then Vosbrough, and finally glanced at Cedar.
He gave her an even stare. A small knot of confusion knit her brow.
“Well, certainly it is delightful to have new people here in town. Important people.” She left that hanging in the silence, fishing for more information.
“Not sure that I’ve heard of you gentlemen,” Mr. Lowry said, picking up the conversation. “But, Miss Dupuis, I believe I was in Virginia when you gave that speech before the statesmen there. Made a convincing case for further educational reform, if I recall correctly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lowry,” she said. “It was a stirring debate.”
“Stirring? Why, you had every man in that building eating out of your hand.” He took a drink of coffee, lifting his cup just a bit in toast before he did so. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that sort of pepper out of my people in Washington.”
“You are too kind,” Miss Dupuis murmured. “I understand you’ve b
een very influential in rail construction lately.”
“Well,” he took a bite of steak and chewed, then wiped his mouth on the linen napkin. “Let’s just say it has been my greatest pleasure to work with Mayor Vosbrough. There isn’t a sharper mind in this great country.”
Vosbrough chuckled. “Flattery always so agrees with my digestion, Mr. Lowry. Please do go on.”
Alun and his brothers ate their way methodically through the meal. On the surface they didn’t seem particularly worried, but Cedar had traveled with them long enough to know their body language.
The brothers were tense. Waiting for an ambush. Waiting for a chance to fight.
He’d never seen them quite like this before, and he’d seen them face down terrible devices, creatures, and men.
The mayor, apparently, was worse than any of those things.
Maybe Cedar’s instincts hadn’t been that far off.
“I’d rather be flattering that sister of yours,” Mr. Lowry said. “I don’t suppose she’ll do us the honor of a visit again soon?”
“Yes,” Alun said. “How is your sister, Killian?”
The mayor’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he sat forward and took a drink of coffee. “Fully recovered, thank you. And so is my brother.”
“I didn’t realize they were ill,” Miss Daffin said.
“They weren’t,” the mayor said. “Some time ago they suffered a bit of a…setback in their business dealings. Water under the bridge. The family business and fortune, as you well know, is thriving and growing. Just like this town.”
“No surprise there,” Bryn Madder muttered. “Bought off half the government. Funded both sides of the war. Can’t see a downside in profits from that.”
Vosbrough took another drink of coffee. “Now, now, Mr. Madder,” he said with a smile. “Accusations do not always equal the truth. Besides, all men have interests. Mine and my family’s happen to fall toward the good of people. Such as the good of this little town. Made sure Des Moines wasn’t left behind by the railroad. Made sure we are all part of the iron hub and spokes between the great Mississippi and Missouri rivers. Which in turn allows us all to do our part to bring this country into the position of greatest wealth and power in the world. Feeding the gears of progress feeds the good for all.”
