On the Wrong Track

by Steve Hockensmith

  Five

  THE PACIFIC EXPRESS

  Or, We Settle In on the Train—and Spot an Unsettling Sight

  My one and only previous trip by rail had been on a rundown line of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe. The cars were packed with just the sort of high-class passengers you’d expect on a two-dollar run from Peabody, Kansas, to Dodge City: farmers, soldiers, cowpokes, pickpockets, and snake-oil peddlers, all of them squeezed in wall to wall and practically floor to ceiling. Yet I’d never felt more alone in my life.

  Just a few weeks before, a flood had swept away Amlingmeyer farm and family both, and I was on my way to meet the only blood relation I had left west of the Mississippi. I hadn’t seen him in four years, not since he’d taken to drovering, and I feared I wouldn’t recognize him … or he wouldn’t show up to be recognized. The only guarantee he’d come was a promise on a piece of paper, a telegram he couldn’t even have written out himself.

  Gustav came, of course. I spotted him the second I stepped off the train. He’d changed, but only by becoming more of everything he’d seemingly always been: weathered, tetchy, morose.

  But there, that was the important thing. He was there—with me. And he’d stayed there ever since, no matter where there happened to be. So if he decided it was on the Pacific Express, well, that meant I’d be there, too.

  As theres go, this one was a hell of a lot nicer than the last one I’d seen aboard a train. The car I rode in from Peabody had all the lavish amenities of a chicken coop. The paint was chipped, the air reeked of sweat and smoke, and the splintery seats were so hard on your hindquarters they made church pews seem like feather beds.

  The Pacific Express was something else entirely. The Pullman car Old Red and I stepped into could have been a fancy hotel lobby squeezed up concertina-style. Rows of what appeared to be divans ran down each side, their invitingly plump curves draped in red crushed velvet. Above them were handsomely carved panels of dark wood, like a series of doors turned sideways and laid end to end. Behind them (I knew from the travel articles in Harper’s) were the sleeping berths the porters would pull down at night. When the time came, climbing into an upper berth hardly seemed necessary, as the carpeting was so thick and springy you could probably bounce up with but the slightest bend of the knee.

  I would have been happy just to stand there soaking up the splendor of it all (and blotting out my lingering misgivings about being aboard in the first place) had there not been passengers anxious to use the aisle for walking rather than gawking. In fact, the hustle-bustle was growing more hectic by the second, and each “Excuse me” we got as we were bumped and elbowed sounded less sincere than the one preceding it. If we didn’t find our seats soon, it seemed like we’d simply be shoved out the nearest window.

  Fortunately, it was easy to spot help. One and all, our fellow passengers were white folks in dark dress clothes. So the Negro porter in a crisp white jacket stood out like a snowball in a bucket of coal.

  It’s entirely possible the porter—a lanky, middle-aged fellow who told us to call him Samuel—was no more fond of cowboys than the conductor. Yet he chattered away amiably as he snatched our bag from my hands and led us through the train’s narrow aisles and vestibules.

  “You gents are up this way. The back two sleepers are all through passengers—forty-seven Presbyterians from San Rafael, California. We’ll be hearin’ hymns from here to Oakland! They’re comin’ back from … pardon me, ma’am … the Columbian Exposition in Chicago. We been runnin’ people out to the fair and back for months. Now, mind … yes, sir, I’ll fetch you one directly … this line strung up along here. That’s the bell cord. For the brakes. Runs all the way up to the engineer. Don’t tug on it ’less you want the passenger across from you in your lap. We’ve got those … sir, you’ll find a spittoon in the corner, if you please … new air brakes on this run. You’ll be thankful for that when we’re swoopin’ into the Sacramento Valley at sixty-five miles an hour! And here we are: your seat. Just make yourselves comfortable. If you need anything … you look a little peaked, sir, if I may say so … just call for Samuel!”

  Though he was obviously a busy man, Samuel lingered, grinning, even after Gustav and I settled ourselves onto the snug little settee we’d be sharing.

  “Thank you, Samuel,” I said. “You’ve been mighty hospitable.”

  Samuel nodded, his smile beginning to look unnaturally stiff.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Old Red mumbled as he squirmed around, trying to find a comfortable position. He looked sweaty and tense, and having Samuel hovering over him like a vulture obviously wasn’t helping his nerves.

  Someone cleared his throat, and I glanced across the aisle to find a fortyish sport in a checked suit giving me the eye in a friendly, amused sort of way. He had a face as flat and pink as a slice of ham, and atop his head was a pompadour of such impressive proportions I wouldn’t have been surprised had I spotted the great explorer Sigerson attempting to climb it with a team of native guides.

  The man brought up his hand and rubbed his index and middle fingers over his thumb.

  “Oh!” I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out a penny. “There you go.”

  That coin looked awful small in the palm of Samuel’s long hand, so much so that it seemed to take a moment of searching for the porter to even see it was there.

  “Thank you, sir,” he finally said rather glumly. Then he hurried away to help a black-draped widow herd her boys—a pair of cackling, curly-haired twins—up the aisle to their seats.

  I looked over at my etiquette instructor and knew immediately that I’d failed his first exam. He was shaking his head and snickering at my notion of a gratuity.

  “A good porter’s the best friend you’ll ever have on a long train trip,” he said. “You want him to stay your friend, you better dig out a dime from time to time.”

  “You gotta bribe a man to do his job?” Old Red griped, his eyes on the widow. She was in full mourning, veil and all, and the black crepe trimming her long skirts shushed like sorrowful whispers as she moved.

  “It’s not a bribe. It’s appreciation,” our neighbor replied jovially—after a respectful pause to let the widow pass us by. “I’m a drummer by trade, so you’ll see no moss on me. And when you spend as much time cooped up in train cars as I do, you’re grateful for anyone who brings a little comfort into your life. Why, I bet you couldn’t find a traveling salesman on the whole of the Southern Pacific who’d tip a porter anything less than a nickel just for saying hello.”

  The drummer continued in this vein (and on into several others) over the next few minutes. Chester Q. Horner was his name, and he’d just spent the last month at the Columbian Exposition promoting “the wonder food of the future,” a supposedly miraculous “health paste” made from boiled peanuts. This “nut butter” concoction sounded anything but miraculous—or edible—to me, but Horner preached its virtues with such evangelical zeal I soon agreed to try a spoonful of it with my dinner.

  It was one of the few times I was allowed to speak: Horner worked up such a wind, it nearly blew me out of the conversation entirely. I didn’t mind, though. I’ve been known to spread the gab on thick myself, so I could appreciate the man as a master of the art. To Old Red, however, he was merely an annoyance, and it wasn’t long before my brother wasn’t even pretending to listen.

  Instead, he was practicing his own art—Holmesifying—by staring at the passengers taking their seats. He was looking for a limp, a stain on a sleeve, a threadbare valise, anything that might give him a glimpse into a stranger’s circumstances or soul. After a while, though, I felt him stiffen up beside me, and I knew he’d gotten a peek at something he didn’t want to see.

  We were seated facing the back of the train, and up till then the seat directly across from us had been empty. But now someone arrived to claim it, and Gustav was terror-stricken for the same reason I was delighted: That someone was a pretty young lady.

  Of course, an unescorted female of a cert
ain age traveling in close proximity to two unrelated males of a certain class would strike your more prudish, old-fashioned folks as not altogether proper. And I feared (and Old Red probably hoped) that the lady was just such a folk herself, for she hesitated, looking first at her seat, then at us.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said, leaping to my feet. “If it would make you more comfortable, my brother and I would be happy to have the porter move us elsewhere.”

  I was going for broke, hoping that by offering to do the courteous thing I might relieve us of the burden of actually having to do it.

  “Thank you, but your company won’t compromise my comfort in the least,” the young lady replied, grinning in a way that seemed to say she welcomed any opportunity to scandalize the scandalizable.

  As she settled in across from us, Old Red muttered a greeting that lacked even the warmth necessary to be labeled halfhearted—perhaps “eighth-hearted” would be closer to the mark. Then he made his escape by turning his attention to the final flurry of late-arriving passengers outside.

  “I’m afraid my brother won’t be much company, miss—he’s feelin’ poorly,” I said. “Fortunately, I talk enough for two, so things should balance out alright.”

  I was being forward, I know, but the smile had lingered on her face, seemingly inviting conversation. And she was just so darned cute I probably would’ve tried chatting her up even if she’d been frowning or foaming at the mouth. She had wide brown eyes and a fleshy, slightly upturned nose and an impish tilt to her full lips that suggested youthful mischief even though she was undoubtedly older than me. (I pegged her at twenty-five, closer to Gustav’s age than mine.) Her dark hair was pulled up in a bun, revealing … well, if I get to writing about her long, slender neck, this could turn downright lewd, and I’ll just conclude by saying her appearance was powerfully pleasing to the eye.

  So you can imagine my gratification when she greeted my sally with a chuckle.

  “Somehow, I get the feeling you’re not exaggerating, Mr … . ?”

  “Amli-ow-olmes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Holmes,” I said, sliding my toe from beneath Old Red’s bootheel. “Otto Holmes. My brother here’s Gustav. And whose acquaintance do we have the pleasure of makin’?”

  “Diana Caveo.”

  I was about to reply with “Charmed, I’m sure”—a half-assed stab at cosmopolitanism cribbed from some magazine story about the upper crust. Fortunately, a commotion drew our attention to the back of the car before I could make a complete boob of myself.

  A man was making his way up the aisle, and a low rumble of unhappy murmurs grew louder with each step he took. He was a small, mild-looking, bespectacled fellow wearing the impeccably tailored suit of a successful businessman. He wasn’t carrying a gun or an open whiskey bottle, nor did he smell of dung or upchuck or smoldering brimstone.

  Nevertheless, his presence was clearly repugnant to many on the train. The man, you see, had committed an unforgivable social blunder: He’d been born Oriental.

  “The Chinaman’s back,” I heard one affronted gentleman grumble. “And he brought a new friend with him.”

  “Honestly,” the lady with him harrumphed. “Two hundred dollars for these tickets, and the railroad coops us up with one of them.”

  If the Oriental got tongues wagging, the “friend” who followed stilled them. He was a gaunt, sloppy-dressed fellow with a glare that shot like lightning at anyone whose carping grew too loud.

  “Hel-lo,” Gustav whispered when he caught sight of him.

  I said more than that, for I quickly recognized the Chinaman’s companion—despite his having somehow grown a dark, droopy mustache in the span of four hours.

  “Well, I’ll be! It’s good to see you again, Mr. Lockhart!”

  The Chinaman slid into one of the empty seats just down from Miss Caveo, and Burl Lockhart paused next to the seat across from him. He stared at me a moment, either trying to remember me or decide if he should.

  “You got me confused with somebody else,” he finally said. “The name’s Custos.”

  And he turned his back and took his seat.

  “All aboard!” the conductor roared.

  A whistle screamed. The car lurched.

  The Pacific Express was under way.

  Six

  THE COLLYWOBBLES

  Or, Our Journey Begins, and So Do Our Troubles

  I turned to get my brother’s reaction to “Custos,” but he was no longer paying the man any mind. Gustav had his hands pressed against the window, and he was huffing out short, shallow breaths as the platform fell away and we moved into the train yard.

  “You alright?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he rasped without taking his eyes off the switches, sidetracks, and freight cars we were passing. “It’s just …” He swallowed hard, managing to stifle his panting. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, if you ain’t, let’s do something about it—like get off the train.”

  Old Red’s only reply this time was a growl. My gaze darted toward Miss Caveo—and found hers already fixed on us.

  “Like I said, my brother’s not feelin’ well,” I explained, “and the two of us don’t ride trains much.”

  “So I gathered,” she replied, a touch more cool than she’d been a minute before. “If I may ask, what brings you aboard the Pacific Express?”

  I opened my mouth before giving any thought to what said mouth might say, and my jaw just dangled there when I realized I had no ready answer.

  “Uhhh …”

  “Business,” my brother cut in, turning to face Miss Caveo. He couldn’t quite manage to look her in the eye, so he addressed himself instead to the handbag in her lap. “Nothin’ you’d find interestin’, miss.”

  “Don’t be so certain, Mr. Holmes. My interests are quite wide-ranging.”

  Hearing the lady address him directly—and as “Mr. Holmes” no less—magnified my brother’s bashfulness, and his gaze dropped so low it now appeared that he was deep in conversation with her shoes. As Gustav was unable to focus on anything above ankle level, Miss Caveo turned her attention back to me.

  “What sort of business is it that takes you to California?”

  I still had no answer. Fortunately, I didn’t need one—a gangly kid at the far end of the car interrupted with a sudden, booming “Evenin’, folks!”

  He was wearing a blue uniform with buttons polished to a blinding shine, and set atop his head was a cap with the words NEWS AGENT engraved on a brass plate. He came bounding up the aisle as if his skinny legs were made of rubber, and I could hear whatever was in the shallow tray he carried rattling like rocks in a tin can.

  “Your news butcher has arrived!” he announced. “Ice water, ice cream, hard candies, toiletries, every quality magazine known to man and a select few that aren’t! If you need it, he’s got it! Just call for Kip and quick as a whip he’ll have you equipped! No lip, no gyps, so bring on the tips!”

  Kip stopped beside our seats and turned to us with a friendly grin. His smile grew even wider when he got a good look at me and my brother, and I had a notion as to why. The news butch was perhaps fourteen or fifteen, not quite old enough to have abandoned the romantic notion that cowboys are carefree paladins of the range living lives of derring-do and high adventure. In actuality, of course, cowboys are careworn drifters living lives of backbreaking labor and low pay, but just try telling that to a kid once he’s read an issue of Deadwood Dick Library.

  “Samuel tells me one of you gents has a sour stomach,” Kip said. “Anything I can do?”

  I shrugged. “Not unless you got something to cure pigheadedness. Cuz that’s the real problem, if you ask me.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Old Red grumbled.

  “Don’t worry, friend—nothin’ to be ashamed of. Plenty of passengers get the collywobbles.” Kip took a small paper bag out of his box and offered it to Gustav. “These might help. Peppermints. Folks swear by ’em. On the house.”
>
  My brother took the bag and muttered his thanks, though he made no move to dig out one of the candies.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have the new Harper’s, would you?” he asked.

  “What kind of news butch would I be if I didn’t?” Kip shuffled through his wares and quickly produced a magazine. “Twenty cents, please.”

  “Twenty cents?”

  “You should’ve asked before the train left the station,” Kip said. “Back then it was only twelve.”

  “What’ll it be when we’re up in the Sierras?” I asked. “A buck?”

  “Oh, I don’t bother sellin’ magazines past Reno,” the kid told me. “Unless there’s a Rockefeller aboard, nobody can afford ’em.”

  While Kip and I bantered, Old Red dug out a couple dimes and slapped them onto the news butch’s outstretched palm.

  “I’ll drop by later to see how those peppermints are workin’ out,” the kid said with a no-hard-feelings, business-is-business wink. He handed the magazine over and off he went, hollering enticements for rock candy, peanuts, and “edifyin’ literature that just melts the miles away.”

  Doing some literary mile-melting was exactly what Gustav had in mind. He flipped through the magazine eagerly, then stabbed at a page with a pointed finger.

  “There!”

  My brother might be illiterate, but he isn’t blind: He’d found a drawing of Sherlock Holmes alongside a new story by the great detective’s amigo, Dr. Watson.

  Miss Caveo leaned forward just enough to see what Old Red was pointing at.

  “Sherlock Holmes?” She looked back up at my brother with obvious surprise—and not some little amusement. “You’re an admirer?”

  Gustav’s face went as red as his hair.

  “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled.

  Behind the lady, Burl Lockhart groaned out a sound halfway between a horse’s whinny and the bleating of an angry goat. He was well within eavesdropping range, and I heard him murmur something about “that damned English nance.”