On the Wrong Track

by Steve Hockensmith

  “Not unless he was doin’ it in his dreams.”

  Old Red grunted, looking pensive, and said no more.

  “Did you finish whatever you was up to at the station while I was out roundin’ up strays?” I asked.

  He gave me a reluctant shrug. “I got me a few things done.”

  “Anything you’d care to tell me about?”

  “Not now.”

  Gustav nodded at Kip and Miss Caveo up ahead, but I had the feeling they weren’t the only reason he didn’t want to talk. He looked haggard, pale, and his pace seemed to slow with every step. His sickness had been coming in waves all day, and it looked like high tide was rolling in again.

  “Look,” I said, “maybe you oughta head back to our bunk and—”

  “Later. There’s still detectin’ to be done.”

  Old Red sped up and left me behind, though I could tell from his limping gait that he had to spur himself hard to do it. But I didn’t try to slow him down. I figured the sooner he detected a plate of hot food, the better.

  The train’s electric lights had been turned down so low the aisles felt more like tunnels, and when we finally exited the vestibules connecting the third sleeper and the dining car, it was like stepping out of a coal mine into a sunny summer’s day.

  “Can I help you folks?” someone asked, and after a bit of blinking I managed to get him into focus.

  It was Samuel. He was sitting at a table covered end to end with shoes. In one hand he had a black half boot, in the other a brush. Two younger porters, each with shoe in hand themselves, sat at similarly laden tables, while Negroes dressed for kitchen work and table service were slumped on chairs nearby.

  “Kitchen’s closed,” said a man wearing a grease-splattered apron. He sat up straighter as he talked, and all the other Negroes straightened up with him. Some of them had been wearing grins when we walked in, but their smiles melted quick as icicles in an oven. It reminded me of the way ranch hands’ high spirits come crashing down to earth whenever the foreman barges into the bunkhouse.

  “We don’t mean to be no bother, Samuel,” I said, “but we just had a hell of a time in town, and my brother and me ain’t had a bite all day.”

  “No bother, folks,” Samuel said (not entirely convincingly). He put down the shoe he was polishing and headed for the car’s boxy little kitchen. “Pick yourselves out a place. I’ll be right back.”

  We filed to the far end of the dining car and settled in around one of the tables. The porters and kitchen help watched us sullenly, but once we’d taken our seat, they relaxed, and before long they were chuckling and talking in low voices.

  “Here you go,” Samuel said, returning with a tray laden with sliced bread, plates, a butter knife, and a large, opened jar. “I’m sorry we can’t do any cookin’ for you, but hopefully this’ll get you through till morning.”

  “Thank you, Samuel,” Miss Caveo said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I added. “There’s nothin’ better for settlin’ a rum-blin’ stomach than—”

  I leaned forward and peeked into the jar, expecting to see a colorful jam or preserve or marmalade. Instead, I found myself gazing into a pool of viscous brown oil.

  “What in the Sam Hill is that?”

  “That would be ‘the wonder food of the future,’” Old Red said, his voice quiet and quivering.

  He wasn’t just queasy again. He’d ended up seated next to Miss Caveo, as well, and the idea that his arm or leg might accidentally brush against those of a pretty young female had him positively petrified. If he was a tortoise, he would’ve drawn up into his shell.

  “Nut butter,” he wheezed miserably.

  “‘Professor Pertwee’s Health Miracle Nut Butter,’ to be exact,” Samuel told us. “Mr. Horner gave us a case so passengers could sample it, if they wished.”

  “I don’t think I wish,” said Kip, eyeing the stuff skeptically.

  “Seems to me the ‘wonder’ of a ‘food’ like that would be if anybody actually ate it,” I threw in.

  Gustav looked like he was about to throw up.

  “You gotta mix it together some first,” Samuel said. He picked up the knife and plunged it into the yellow-brown goo.

  As he stirred, the aroma of peanuts that went up into the air was so overpowering I nearly swooned—and my brother actually did.

  “For God’s sake, take it away,” he moaned. He clapped a hand on the table to steady himself. His other hand he clapped over his mouth.

  “Yes, sir! Right away, sir! It’s goin’, sir!”

  Samuel snatched up the jar and whisked it back to the kitchen lest something even uglier than nut butter put in an appearance on our table.

  Gustav bent over and sucked in deep breaths while I slapped him on the back, Kip fetched him a glass of water, and Miss Caveo fanned him with a menu.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, I don’t need no nursemaids,” Old Red huffed after a moment, embarrassed by all the attention. “Somebody talk, dammit. You.” He shot me a look that was both imperious and pleading. “Walk me through what happened back in town.”

  So I did. Everyone settled back into their seats, and the story of our escape from Thornton’s Boiler proved to be just the distraction my brother needed to get his wind back and his gorge down. He listened intently as I served up the details, even tolerating the assorted asides and attempted witticisms with which I garnished the yarn. He only interrupted once, when I got to what I described as “Miss Caveo’s fortuitously timed debut as a thespian.”

  “That took some nerve, walkin’ in there and makin’ like you was something you ain’t,” he said to the lady.

  “Well, it wasn’t really my debut,” she told him. “In high school, I played both Lady Macbeth and Juliet. It was the perfect training for tonight, actually. I just hope I didn’t overplay the pathos.”

  “You were magnificent,” I said. “Irene Adler herself couldn’t have done any better.”

  Old Red looked downright renauseated by my fawning.

  “So you know something of the stage, do you?” he asked Miss Caveo. “Playactin’ and makeup and wigs and the like?”

  “Oh, I’ve dabbled,” she replied airily. “But we haven’t heard the end of the story.” She focused on me again, cutting off Gustav’s line of questioning as cleanly as if she’d used shears. “You’ve left me in agonizing suspense, Otto. Did we escape?”

  “You’ll just have to listen and find out,” I said, and I carried on with the tale. Old Red remained deep in dour thought through the end of my account, acknowledging its conclusion with only a muted “Interestin’.”

  “‘Interesting’? I think our adventure deserves better than that. At least an ‘incredible,’ if not an outright ‘amazing,’” Miss Caveo teased. “So what were you doing while we were escaping from the bloodthirsty natives of Carlin, Nevada? It certainly looked like the situation at the station became rather … interesting.”

  The young lady was being playful, as was her way, but it had about as much effect on my brother as tickling a tombstone.

  “Nothin’ to tell,” he mumbled at the tablecloth. “Wiltrout was anxious to leave, and … well … I ain’t as good at persuadin’ as some.”

  He was wrong about that. His immutable gruffness seemed to persuade Miss Caveo it was time to go. She noted the late hour, thanked Samuel (who’d lingered nearby after returning with a jar of plain, old-fashioned honey), and pushed back her seat. As good manners dictate, Kip and I stood as she got up. The best Old Red could manage was a sort of crouching lean that took his butt cheeks all of an inch off his chair. He held the position only a few seconds, plopping back down, tearing off a chunk of bread, and chewing morosely as Miss Caveo walked away.

  “What a peach,” Kip sighed when she was out of earshot.

  “She’s somethin’, alright,” I said, trying to keep my gaze from growing too dreamy (or from lingering too long where it shouldn’t) lest she glance back for a final wave.

  “Yeah, you hit it on the
head there, Brother,” Gustav said. “That lady is somethin’.”

  I wasn’t sure what had kindled his doubts about Miss Caveo, but I could see them gleaming in his eyes plain enough, and I knew exactly what words he was leaving unspoken.

  “That lady is somethin’,” he’d said. I just don’t know what.

  Twenty-one

  FOOD FOR THOUGHT

  Or, Kip and Samuel Give Us Something New to Chew On

  Whatever my brother’s reasons, I knew better than to ask about them there at the table. Gustav plays his cards close to the vest when it’s just him and me. Throw in Kip and Samuel and half a dozen other men in easy eavesdropping range, and he’d stuff those cards down in his boot.

  So I just contented myself (for the moment) with a big bite of honey-slathered bread and a simple “So now what?” Which came out more like a “Sho noo wha’?” actually, but as my brother’s long accustomed to hearing me talk with my mouth full, he had no trouble understanding.

  “Now I’d like to ask the fellers here some questions.”

  He looked first at Samuel, then at Kip.

  “Questions?” Samuel said. He’d been relaxing with his long, lean body propped up against a chair the next table over, but now he stood up straight and brought his feet in close together.

  Kip froze with a hunk of bread just inches from his mouth. “Us?”

  “Yup. You.” Old Red started to take another bite of bread himself, but he changed his mind at the last second, dropping the half-eaten slice back on his plate and pushing it away. “You’ve been up and down this train more than anybody other than Wiltrout. If something queer was goin’ on, you’d be the ones to spot it, most likely.”

  “What do you mean ‘queer’?” Kip asked.

  “Somebody actin’ odd, lollygaggin’ where they shouldn’t—that kinda thing. I’m wonderin’ about the vestibule up by the baggage car, in particular. Y’all didn’t catch sight of anything up thataway, did you? Strange comin’s and goin’s?”

  The porter and the news butch looked at each other. Kip shrugged, then Samuel shrugged, then they both turned toward my brother and shrugged together.

  “Didn’t see nothin’ like that,” Samuel said. “I was too busy.”

  “Sorry,” Kip said. “Same for me.”

  Old Red screwed up his face like a man who’s accidentally swallowed his tobacco juice.

  “Well, how about that key of yours, Kip?” he asked. “It ever turn up?”

  “Nah. I had to borrow one of Wiltrout’s spares. And, boy, did he chew my ass for it.”

  “So you still ain’t got no idea where yours got to?”

  “None at all. I just went to fetch that novelty”—he winked—“that the drummer asked for, and when I got up to the baggage car … well, you saw. My passkey was gone.”

  “And you hadn’t loaned it to nobody? Or left it lyin’ around somewheres?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if someone swiped the kid’s key without him noticin’,” Samuel said. “We get passengers with nimble fingers from time to time. Some of them yeggs could snatch the gold from your fillin’s between bites of bread.”

  I swallowed my latest mouthful and ran my tongue over my teeth. “Still there.”

  “This is a pretty high-class run to have pickpockets,” my brother said.

  “Better class of pockets to pick,” Samuel pointed out. “You pussyfooters are supposed to keep tabs on the thieves and cardsharps, but we never even know if we got a company spotter aboard—cuz you’re keepin’ tabs on us, too.”

  I knew then why our fellow S.P. employees weren’t fond of rail dicks. We weren’t just guards. We were spies.

  I would’ve tread lighter after learning that, but Old Red just brought his heel down harder.

  “So neither of you saw a single thing out of the ordinary today?” he said, sour as vinegar taffy.

  Kip and Samuel shook their heads.

  “Not the way you mean,” Samuel said.

  “Well, how about the times we stopped for Pezullo and the Give-’em-Hell Boys? You can’t tell me that was ordinary.”

  Samuel heaved an exasperated sigh. “Only thing I saw when Joe got throwed off the train was a faceful of sheet. I was in one of the closets diggin’ out an extra pillow for Mrs. Foreman, that widow woman travelin’ with her boys, and when the brakes clutched up, I was buried under a heap of linens. By the time I dug myself out, everybody had their noses pressed to the windows lookin’ for long riders.”

  “So you were in there alone? Nobody saw you?”

  “Of course, I was alone. You couldn’t squeeze two people into that closet with a crowbar. So you’ll just have to take my word on it.”

  A hint of a smirk tugged at one corner of the porter’s mouth.

  “When the Give-’em-Hell Boys hit us, though—that’s a different story,” he said. “I had a bad feelin’ about that stop, what with the hour and where we were and all. It was too much like last time that bunch showed up—and you two know how fond they are of railroaders. So I ducked into the gents’ washroom in Pullman one, thinkin’ I’d lay low till it all blew over. But I wasn’t the only one who got that idea. Wiltrout was in there already, and you should’ve heard the yelp he let out when I came bustin’ in on him.”

  At the front end of the car, the other porters and kitchen workers exchanged sly glances and snickers. They’d obviously already heard Samuel’s story and shared many a belly laugh at their “captain’s” expense. To Kip, though, this was unexpected (and by no means unwelcome) news.

  “Wiltrout was hidin’ in the can the whole time?” The kid squealed out a peal of high-pitched laughter. “Oh, he’s in for it now! By noon tomorrow, there won’t be a man on the line who hasn’t heard about it! They’ll be waitin’ for him at every station with a hot plate of humble pie!”

  I chuckled along with Kip and the rest of them, but Old Red didn’t join in. He just kept staring at Samuel—or more like through him—the wheels turning so furiously in his head I could practically hear them click-clacking like the rails beneath our feet.

  “So, Kip,” I said as the laughter trailed off into awkward silence, “what did you see?”

  “Well, there ain’t much to tell, really. When we stopped for Joe’s body …” His own words sobered the kid fast as a slap, and the smile he’d been wearing disappeared. “—I was in the gents’ in Pullman one,” he went on grimly. “And, before you ask—yeah, I was alone. I was busy with something most folks prefer to do without an audience, if you know what I mean. Later on, when the Give-’em-Hell Boys stopped us, I was readin’ a magazine in my berth.”

  Old Red blinked his way back from oblivion. “Where’s that?”

  “There are two empties in Pullman one, up at the front of the car. Wiltrout gets the bottom one. The top’s mine. I rolled out to see what was up, and”—the kid looked down, his slender face flushing pink—“some bastard in a mask popped out and stuck a gun in my ear. You know the rest. Barson and Welsh showed up, they pulled Lockhart out of his berth, and—”

  Gustav’s index finger went up straight as a flagpole. “Wait. They grabbed Lockhart?”

  “Yeeeesssss,” Kip said, dragging the word out like a schoolboy afraid he’s giving the teacher the wrong answer.

  “He didn’t come out after ’em?”

  “No. He was a little confused.”

  “A little drunk,” I said.

  “How is it Barson and Welsh knew where Lockhart was?” Old Red pushed on, ignoring me. “How is it they even knew he was on the train?”

  “Oh. Huh. Beats the hell out of me.” Kip offered my brother a small smile. “Say, you’re really pretty good at this stuff, ain’t you? You sure I shouldn’t start callin’ you Mr. Holmes again?”

  “Old Red will do,” Gustav replied—though he couldn’t help looking a tad pleased despite himself. “I understand this ain’t the first time the Give-’em-Hell Boys and the Pacific Express crossed paths. Was you fellers on t
he train last time, too?”

  Kip swept his hand out at Samuel and the other porters and kitchen help. “We all were. The engine crew was different—we get a new engineer and fireman every eight hours or so. And it wasn’t Morrison in the Wells Fargo car. But other than that, it was the same crew.”

  “So what happened, exactly?”

  “I didn’t see much,” Kip said with a reluctant shrug. “To be honest … well …”

  “Yeah?” Old Red prodded him.

  “Last time, I was hidin’ in the john,” Kip admitted, shamefaced.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” I told him with a wink. “It’s only funny when it’s Wiltrout.”

  “I’ll tell you what was different last time,” Samuel said. “The robbers actually did some robbin’. Dragged Wiltrout outside with a gun to his head and told the express messenger to open up or else. Made off with either a little or a lot, dependin’ on who you believe.”

  My brother frowned and furrowed his brow. “Funny they didn’t try that again. They had Kip. Why not use him to press Morrison?”

  “Barson said they was makin’ a ‘social call,’” I reminded him. “An-nouncin’ the bounties on Crowe and Powless and the S.P. board.”

  “Yeah,” Kip chimed in. “Seems like they was just sendin’ a message.”

  “But theirs ain’t gettin’ out,” Old Red said. “We got orders not to talk to the papers.”

  “Word’ll get out—and it won’t take long,” Samuel replied with the firm certainty of a sky pilot preaching the gospel. “Tryin’ to keep a secret inside the S.P.’s like tryin’ to keep water in your pockets.”

  Gustav nodded slowly and started digging around in his coat. “Alright. I got just two more questions. First off, either of you ever lay eyes on anything like this?”

  He pulled out the little cup/bowl he’d found in the desert earlier that night. Samuel and Kip eyed it, then eyed each other, seeming to wonder if Augie Welsh hadn’t just kicked my brother’s ass but dropped him on his head, as well.

  “No,” they said in unison.

  Old Red groaned in a resigned sort of way and put the cup away—then pulled out the golden yellow hunk of hair. He tossed it onto the table curls up.