Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  I take the rope from the saddle and tie the boy’s ankles together and loop the other end around the saddle horn. Then I grab Storm’s bridle and we drag him toward the boulder where the others are. “He shoulda chose better friends,” I say. Storm throws me the wall-eye and blows long and hard, but I don’t much care for his opinion at the moment. “Anyone finds his body, it’s the same as if he made it back into town. Now point that blasted eye straight ahead. We got us a train to catch.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, with Storm throwing down a hard canter, we catch up to the shuttle train as it plods along. I ride in my shirtsleeves, exposing as much of my sodden clothes to the wind and sun as I can. The shirt is nearly dry, but the trousers stick plenty damp against the saddle. The suit coat I have draped over the Spencer and it flaps beside me like a war flag.

  A lone figure steps out the back door of the last car and wraps his meaty palms around the railing to steady himself. I must be quite a sight because his mouth drops open and he slumps against the pillar, gut-punched. His thick, red beard glows even redder against pallid skin that drains of color as the full meaning of my arrival dawns on him. Looking at him now, the ticket agent could be Kirby’s twin. Half-brother be damned. I urge Storm forward until the train is close enough to touch, close enough so I can see the fear in the ticket man’s gob-smacked eyes and he can see in mine, with no uncertainty, that his brother, and them who rode with him, are dead and their little plan foiled. Then when our eyes have said all of this I tip my hat to him and kick Storm on past the train, on to a life beyond this place.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Archbishop Lamy had hardly time to get cold in his grave before they slapped his name on the little depot and called it a town. The shuttle train sits nearly butted up against the backside of the depot, where the spur track dead-ends at a sharp angle. The only other building, set back a hundred yards from the main line, is a saloon called the Legal Tender, where the passengers from the spur—or them what got here on their own—can tie on one last cheap whiskey before paying double on the big momma herself. Sound of things, the Tender does a hearty business in the minutes leading up to departure. Every time the door bangs open, a gust of lively voices sweeps across the empty space between the buildings and echoes off the broad, open platform skirting the track.

  A serpentine trail of trunks and travel cases winds down the middle of the platform—from the shuttle door all the way to the white-painted warning line guarding the main track. The red-bearded ticket agent stands at the end of it, distracted, no doubt wishing he were bellied up at the Tender bar, instead of ruminating how a simple plan of robbery and murder skittered so far off the rails. A black man in a porter’s uniform wanders too close to Redbeard and gets a scorching earful for no discernable reason other than proximity.

  “I ’spect we ought just stay where we be,” I say, peering out from our shady perch, just east of the platform, beneath a stand of cottonwoods. Storm swats at a fly by way of agreement. Two more negroes unload crated provisions from a hand cart and stack them at the far end of the platform to await the train. A boy of about twelve—decked smartly in short pants, blue uniform jacket and matching cap—bounds between the two men like he owns the place. In one hand he balances a tower of cigar boxes taller than he is and with the other arm drags a small wagon piled high with apples, peanuts and what looks like every type of candy ever confected. Otherwise the platform is mostly empty, save for a few sullen families who couldn’t find two pennies to rub together, most of them with small children and a few gunny sacks overstuffed with kettles, blankets and anything else they own. Tight-mouthed women keep the young ones close while the men folk peer down the track, anxious, or glance back at the saloon, wondering what a few extra dollars might taste like.

  On the saloon porch, the lawyer, Ballentine, stretches his legs, stabbing the air with his whiskey glass as he clarifies some point or another to Owens, who mostly stares thoughtful out at the low mountains and offers the occasional nod between puffs on his cigar.

  “I reckon that lawyer fella falls asleep asking one question and wakes up answering another.” A beer would slide down glorious right about now—I admit—but there will be time for drinking once I see country rolling by through the fogged window of a moving train. Best we keep our distance from Redbeard. Three dead bodies and the muddy destruction of railroad property—no matter how warranted—dictate more caution than comfort. “Besides,” I say, buttoning up the jacket and dusting it best I can, “this here suit of mine looks like it cleaned out the inside of a cannon. Once I get you situated, I reckon I ought to swap into my best bib and tucker ’fore mingling with the parlor crowd.”

  And then a trickle of sound, low and sweet, cries a mournful wail miles in the distance—like a mirage—so faint I wonder if I hear it at all. The people on the platform carry on as if nothing had happened.

  “You hear that?” I ask. Storm’s ears twitch—one forward, one back—daring the sound to return once more. It comes again, sure as the dawn, rising in strength and duration—a long, unbroken clarion that fills my heart with promise. All at once Redbeard straightens, the sound reaching the ears of White Men. He whistles sharply to the boy, who springs to his feet and sprints to the saloon.

  “Train’s coming, folks! Cut the gab and pay your tabs!” The boy’s patter, well-worn as it is, gets an appreciative smile from the lawyer, whose idea of moving quick does plenty to explain why the South lost the war.

  “Come on, amigo,” I go to swing up and Storm lets out a snort, dancing away from me. “What, you throw a shoe? Let me have a look-see.” The stallion lets me step in underneath and pull each leg back from the knee. His left rear shows a nail bent half an inch toward the hoof, but well clear of the tender part that would cause him pain. “Dang it, Berto used too long a nail. I ’spect that hard run didn’t help none either. I know it’s annoying, but it ain’t like it quicked you. So don’t you be carrying on like it did. We’ll get you sorted out soon as we can. Come on.” What really happened, I’m sure, is that Berto was too scared to be crawling back under Storm to fix his mistake and then was too scared again to tell me about it.

  “I’m sure they got a decent farrier somewhere in California. Even though it is the end of the world.” I throw the saddlebags over my own shoulder to lessen the weight and then take his bridle and walk him out toward the platform. The Legal Tender empties out, casting forth a sudden wave of expectant travelers that descends upon the snaking line of luggage, attacking it from all sides, until only a carcass of the heaviest cases remain. In no time the platform crawls with bodies migrating in a steady crush toward the painted stripe at the edge of the track. The whistle blows again, and what was once a whisper now cuts the air like a cannonball, bringing with it the pounding rattle and hissing valves of the Santa Fe herself.

  Storm and I make our way down the near edge of the platform, steering clear of most of the crowd. Despite the excitement, those who drift our way manage to keep enough of their senses to allow the anxious stallion ample berth in all directions. When the Santa Fe unleashes her whistle a third time, from less than a quarter mile out, sound loses all meaning. It becomes a physical, punishing thing. Every bone in my body shudders. My balls want to shrink up and hide.

  We stop short of the line. I turn my head down-track and behold the arrival of a breathing, snarl-tooth dragon. The gleaming cowcatcher curls into a fiendish grin beneath the perfect roundness of her forged and blackened face. A single, white eye glows in the middle, and all about her steam seeps and hisses from every orifice. A thick plume of smoke—fat as a tree trunk—rises from her blowhole, choking the air in her wake before dissipating skyward. Then her iron head passes, revealing a body that stretches for half a mile and counting, as segment after segment emerges from around the last bend of road.

  The tender car sails by in a blur, followed by a stout, windowless coach and then begins a procession of identical coaches—the famous Pullmans—marching in unbroke
n formation before giving way to an assortment of box cars. As the train slows, I make out human forms hanging from the sides and a few more braving roofs. Their faces are uniformly dark, either negro by birth, or blackened by the unending trail of smoke that plagues brakemen.

  I keep my eyes peeled for the stock car, and as the squealing whine of the brakes slows the Santa Fe to a crawl, I catch sight of a slatted car, ventilated, as if for animals. A few errant strands of hay jut from the slats. The smell of cattle leads me toward it, just as a door opens and a young man in boots hops onto the platform. The train has not yet come to a full stop when he turns back to the car and pulls free a wooden plank that slaps against the ground, forming a ramp up to the car. Cows low from inside. Then the train stops completely and a chorus of braking mechanisms sing out in defiant unison. Spontaneous applause breaks out from the crowd. The train, at rest, dwarfs the depot and surrounding bushes. The shuttle looks like a child’s toy next to it.

  “I ’spect you’re the fella I’m looking for,” I say. The young man’s eyes brighten at the sight of us, although I don’t think I’m much the one he notices.

  “Blimey, ain’t he a right corker.” The young man stops cold, and with his head high and shoulders relaxed, brings his hand up slow into Storm’s vision and scratches the crook between throat and jaw. I take comfort in his good horse-sense, and Storm, dipping his head to get the most out of the affection, is long past sold.

  “Usually takes a fistful of carrots to get that close.”

  “He’s in bloody good hands with Charlie, sir.” Charlie’s accent reminds me of a gambler came through the Bend once, name of London Joe, only not as fancy. “Born in the stables, me-self. Breaking thoroughbreds since I was wee, but none as fine as this one. What’s he called, sir?”

  “This here is Storm.”

  “Storm, ’course he is. Be a thrill to see what this one here could do ’round the turf at Dorchester. Those punters wouldn’t know what hit ’em.”

  “Reckon you’ll be needing these.” I hand over the tariff receipt. He frowns and takes a look, his eyes making clear that paper-pushing is the part of his job he favors least. “You got any mares on board?”

  “Nothing but forty head of angus. There’s one bull, but I got him secured down at the far end. That leaves this end all for his lordship.”

  “Let’s have a look-see.”

  Charlie takes hold of the bridle and, with a sure hand, leads Storm up the ramp and into an empty stall lined thick with fresh hay. A sack of oats lay in the corner and Storm sets straight to work on it. I care mostly about the construction of the walls, which are heavy slabs of oak that look sturdy enough for the job of keeping Storm in. As far as keeping a bull out, there ain’t much that can be done to stop a bull from doing what he sets his mind to, but the walls are built high enough to keep all parties from eyeing each other and that should do the trick. The stall itself is a tight fit, but not unreasonable, with room enough for Storm to turn around, or lay down in the hay if so inclined. Charlie reaches for the door and starts to exit the stall when all at once a wave of trepidation knots up in the pit of my stomach. I bound up the ramp and inform Charlie about the bent nail. He tells me not to fret about it and then I list off a couple of treats he ought to keep handy if Storm gets to kicking, and after that I tell him don’t bother trying to put a bag over Storm’s head to quiet him because he don’t like it and it’ll just make things worse.

  Charlie nods to all of it, but there’s a little smile he’s fighting off, and then he says, “Mister Harlan, sir. Might be best if I give you two a minute, but I shouldn’t be taking much longer than that. She’ll be pushing off soon.” And with that Charlie hops down the ramp, gets on with his business. I give Storm a rub on his flank.

  “Now listen here, amigo. Charlie’s got you fixed up like a king, so I don’t want you giving that boy no trouble, hear?” Storm rolls his wall-eye over toward me to say he’s thinking about listening, but otherwise he stays facedown in his oats. “Ain’t either one of us comfortable acting like gentlemen, but that’s what we got to do. Just for three days. Ain’t nothing we can’t do for three days.” I splash my hand into the water bin so he knows it’s there if he wants it. “Hell, I’d squeeze into a ball gown if that’s what it took to get your ornery hide to California.” Then the lump in my stomach tries to move up to my throat and I figure I better go. “First stop, I’ll come back and check on you.”

  Don’t forget to wear your ball gown.

  “Keep up that jokering, first stop’ll be the glue factory.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Charlie asking as I jump down from the car.

  “Nothing.” I press a gold piece into his hand. “Here’s five dollars and there’s five more when we get where we’re going.”

  “Very much obliged, Mister Harlan. Are you all right, sir?”

  “This thing do kick up some dust, don’t it?”

  “That it do, sir. And plenty of hot ash to go with it. Let’s be getting you squared away yourself, then. Mister Burke!” Charlie hails a porter moving down the platform. With the bulk of the passengers already aboard, the platform is nearly empty again, a fact not lost on the consternated face of the man called Burke.

  “Would you be Mister Harlan, sir?” Burke says, finding me through eyes as coffee brown as his skin, with a generous sprinkling of gray in the cropped, dark hair peeking beneath his porter’s cap. I nod in the affirmative as Charlie hands me over. Burke’s face relaxes, but maintains a ripple of irritation. “That would be everyone accounted for, then,” Burke marking something down in a manifest, which he rolls up and stuffs in his uniform. “I don’t much care to lose a passenger ’for we even shove off.”

  “I apologize. Had to secure my horse.”

  “Usually it’s the women need securing. Let me help you with those.” He takes the satchel and one of the saddlebags onto his shoulder and leads me back toward the nearest Pullman. Farther down the platform, a conductor blows long and hard into his whistle.

  “All aboard! Last call, all aboard.” The conductor does a final turn and ducks up into the engine well. Burke climbs up the steps of the Pullman and I follow, now certain that his carrying my bags has little to do with earning a tip and everything to do with ensuring a speedy departure.

  “Y’all don’t mess around.”

  “That we don’t, sir,” Burke looking back at me to drive it home. His gaze catches on the butt of the Spencer poking out over my shoulder, and he is about to say something, but then stops. We pass compartments when men stow the last of the luggage and women settle squirming children into their seats, many of whom press their small faces against the glass and wave to the scattered well-wishers on the platform. Then the brakes release, the whistle peals, and through a sliver of window I see the depot start to move. A moment later I feel the motion of the train and the track undulating underfoot.

  As the Santa Fe builds her speed, I trudge behind Burke, still searching for my train legs. Burke simply puts a slight forward lean into his stride to counteract the train’s momentum. Despite his age—which I put near sixty—the facility with which he negotiates his domain speaks to the surefootedness of a railroad-man. The other employees we pass—conductors, apprentices and porters—display similar aptitude. To a man, they move with the breezy confidence of sailors on the high seas.

  We reach the first of the coaches, and I will admit that the onslaught of noise, heat and general commotion—not to mention the assaultive odors of competing cuisines—assures me the overpriced ticket in my pocket was well worth the splash. Coach after coach blends into the next in a thickening cloud of tobacco smoke, Burke banging open the door at each new car and giving it just enough fling to allow me to pass through before it slams shut behind me. A narrow hallway skirts us around what smells like the galley car and another that smells like the WC. Finally we cross into the Pullmans, the noise and smoke and heat plummeting to a tolerable, even comfortable, level the moment the door opens.

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nbsp; “I would have you all the way down on the end, wouldn’t I?” fatigue barely coloring the astuteness of Burke’s voice.

  “Can’t say I mind the walk.”

  “Yes, sir,” Burke minding considerable more than I do. The individual berths—most of them with drawn privacy curtains covering the portals—line the left side of the corridor. The right side is dedicated to a row of windows, where the landscape rolls by at full gallop. A man approaches from behind us, the urgency of his footfalls conveying a priority of mission to supersede that of any traveler or employee. I step aside, Burke doing the same, and as I turn spot a grim-faced man decked in black ditto coat that sends a ripple of cold recognition down my spine. The Pinkerton man does not slow as he passes. Rather, he scowls, his eyes seeming to appraise my entire person—rifle included—with singular irritation.

  “Thought your company quit running the buffalo train.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Burke offering with some apology. “There’s no hunting or shooting permitted from the Santa Fe.”

  “Good. Fool’s folly anyway,” the black coat heading for the door at the far end of the car. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

  “Yes, sir,” Burke relieved as the Pinkerton bangs out of the Pullman and jams a key into the windowless, steel door of the next car. The heavy door slams shut behind him.