We watched the twin billowing clouds erupting from the jungle of black iron, small puffs pushing past the massive steel wheels as they slowly turned, and the majestic beast rolled into the station.
Designated UP 8444 so as to not be confused with the 844 diesel engine already in service, Wyoming’s Western Star was a legend of a bygone era. But at the moment it was a living, breathing reality, a 907,890-pound behemoth that rolled into my life like a mechanized buffalo, snorting and lumbering destiny in every rotation of its steel wheels.
“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen this beauty, but it never ceases to amaze me.” The admiration in the old man’s voice was evident. “Lord almighty.”
The vagrant turned and offered me his only hand. “Nice to meet you, Deputy Longmire. Marv Leeland, president of the Wyoming Sheriffs’ Association.”
2
“You gonna stand there looking at that damn locomotive for what’s left of the night?”
Breathing a deep sigh, I watched the fog collect at my face and then blow away. “You finally woke up.”
“Hell yes, and I’m freezing my aged ass off. If it wasn’t for your dog here, I’d be a goner.”
It was late, and I turned back to the refurbished engine sitting outside the Union Pacific roundhouse in Cheyenne. “Let him out so he can pee.”
“What about me?”
“You can pee, too.” A few seconds later I heard the door of my truck open and the creature known as Dog, an animal that would probably have been better suited for the Pleistocene period, hiked a leg up on the chain-link fence and saluted the 844 Northern in his own particular fashion.
He came over and sat on my foot, and I gestured toward the massive engine. “Look, something bigger than you.”
Built toward the end of the Second World War, the 844 was one of ten locomotives ordered by the Union Pacific. The quintessential result of dual-service steam engine development, the Northern turned out to be its swan song, designed to burn coal but converted to fuel oil even as research and development concentrated on the diesel-electric engines that dominate the tracks even today. Capable of speeds as high as 120 miles an hour, the passenger puller was a workhorse that had towed such legendary trains as the Los Angeles Limited, Portland Rose, and Wyoming’s The Western Star.
The old sheriff nodded, walked over to the chain-link fence, and began urinating, marking his own territory at the exact same spot as Dog’s. “What time is it?”
“Almost two.” I turned to look at him. “Vic still asleep?”
“Yep.” He turned back to the engine. “There any particular reason why we’re standin’ here in the middle of the rail yard lookin’ at a piece of scrap metal?”
“They refurbished it and put it all back together like new.” I gestured with my chin. “They’re using it to pull excursion trains.”
The old sheriff barked a laugh. “Excursions, huh?”
I ignored the response. “I wonder where we could go to get refurbished?” I stood there looking at the lines of the thing; like a woman with a broken nose—you can love her, but she ain’t lovely. “Do you ever wonder if, like this piece of scrap metal, we were better then than we are now?”
Wavering a little, he zipped up and came back over to stand with Dog and me. “You havin’ some sort of crisis of conscience or something?”
I stood there awhile longer, breathing out clouds. “Maybe.”
“Well, don’t.”
I had to smile at the magnificent simplicity of Lucian Connelly’s worldview. “Why did you hire me all those years ago, Lucian?”
“’Cause that girl you had just married was some kind of cute.” He blew a deep breath from his nostrils and stood there, deliberating a real answer. “Because you needed it.”
I studied him for a moment more and then went back to looking at the big machine with its elephant ears—side panels that channel air closer to the steam engine at lower speeds in order to divert smoke away from the operators. “In case I’ve never said it . . .” I pulled my eyes away from the antique and glanced over at another piece of history. “Thank you.”
He stared at me for a moment and then began hobbling back toward my truck in a serpentine fashion, grumbling and gesturing in the direction of the state capitol. “Have we got someplace to stay in this den of thieves and hucksters?”
“With Cady.”
He called back, “Am I gonna have to climb steps?”
“That, or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you.”
“I’ll climb, thank you very much.”
We got back in the truck, and I navigated my way through the empty streets to my daughter’s place, a carriage house with an alley alongside.
Lucian studied the large Victorian adjacent, a Queen Anne structure complete with a rounded corner tower and witch’s hat turret. “That Joe Meyer’s place?”
“Yep.”
He continued studying it. “Damn, we should’a been attorney generals.”
A voice rose from the backseat. “Jesus, are we there yet?”
Lucian turned. “Good morning, sweet pea.”
“Fuck you.”
I got out. Dog followed at a gallop and shot straight up the outside metal steps leading to the second floor, where a familiar shape stood backlit in the open doorway.
He stooped and caught the beast as Lucian and Vic began the ascent with me bringing up the rear, carrying our three duffel bags. “Lola is asleep, as is your daughter.” We made the first landing, and he reached over the side to heft two of the bags. “I told her I would stay up and wait for you.”
“How are you, Ladies Wear?”
“Tired, old man.” Henry Standing Bear smiled and ushered us in, setting the duffels on a nearby chair and closing the door behind us. “You are late.”
Lucian ambled over to the worn-out sofa that my daughter had hauled from Wyoming to Berkeley, to Seattle, to Philadelphia, and back again to her native state. “Well, big boy here wanted to stop by the Union Pacific roundhouse and have a gander at his ill-spent past.”
Henry glanced at me, dark hair threaded with silver strands covering one side of his face. “There are two single beds in one guest bedroom and a single in the other to the right, but one of us will have to sleep on the sofa.”
Upon hearing that information, the old sheriff redirected toward the left bedroom, veering around the piano that occupied most of the space. “Boy, have my bags brought to my room; there’ll be something in it for you later.”
The Bear waited till Lucian was gone before folding his powerful arms. “He has been drinking?”
“That’s the real reason we’re late.”
Vic, sensing the party was over, took her bag and made for the single-bed guest room to the right. “I’m turning in; anybody want to join me?”
Not waiting for a response, she shut the door behind her as I rubbed my eyes one more time and then, stretching out another yawn, collected my bag and Lucian’s from the chair beside the door. I looked around the room at the newly painted walls. “Sofa or bed?”
“As I recall, Lucian snores?”
I stood there waiting for him to make up his mind. “Like a Husqvarna chain saw.”
“I will take the sofa.”
—
Standing in the train’s narrow passageway with a bag in each hand, I studied the small brass numbers on the eight berths per car—Lucian having neglected to tell me which number was ours.
“Can I help you, sir?”
A small man with a lean face was standing beside me in a very white jacket that contrasted greatly with his black complexion. “Are you the porter?”
“No, sir. The porter is busy. I’m Mr. Meade Lux Gibbs, the head chef. Can I be of assistance?”
“That is a significant name, Mr. Meade Lux Gibbs.” I glanced up and down the wood-panele
d Pullman. “I’m trying to find the berth for Lucian Connelly?”
He retreated and gestured for me to follow. “And what county is he the sheriff of, sir?” Stopping at the end of the car, he stooped down and peered at an electric panel with a brass facing where pieces of paper had been slipped behind glass, each one corresponding with, evidently, a county.
“Absaroka.”
“Hmm . . .”
“Is there a problem?”
He glanced up at me. “Are you travelin’ with Sheriff Connelly, sir?”
“I am.”
“Well, there seems to be some sort of confusion in that he has been given a single berth.”
“That’s not right. I gave him mine.”
We both turned to see the man I’d mistaken for a bum, who had turned out to be the president of the Wyoming Sheriffs’ Association.
The chef immediately brightened. “Mr. Leeland, how are you, sir?”
“I’m traveling alone and traded with Lucian when I found out he had a companion this trip.” The affable individual leaned his armless shoulder against the doorway nearest us and turned the knob with his only hand. “I see you’ve met the real center of this train, Deputy Longmire. Mr. Meade Lux Gibbs here has told me he’s originally from Belzoni, Mississippi, which was also the birthplace of Pinetop Perkins, one of the finest blues pianists of all time.” He smiled. “Am I to understand from Lucian that you are known to tickle the ivories?”
I smiled back. “Pound is more like it, I’m afraid.”
The chef gestured for me to take the nearest cabin. “Then numbers one and two are yours, Mr. Longmire.”
“You don’t sound particularly Southern, Mr. Gibbs.”
“My family moved to Chicago when I was young, sir.”
I looked through the doorway. “But this is two rooms.”
“It’s a suite.” He gestured toward Leeland. “You have this gentleman to thank for that.”
I ducked inside, dropping Lucian’s suitcase and my duffel on the sofa, but then leaned back out in time to catch Leeland, who was still talking to the head chef at the back of the car. “Sheriff?”
He broke off with the man and met me halfway. “You’re going to have to come up with some other designation to get people’s attention on this train.”
I stuck out my left hand, seeing as how he was missing his right. “Longmire, deputy, Absaroka County. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself properly before.”
We shook. “As I said, I’ve heard about you.” He grinned the shy smile. “Lucian says that, besides playing piano, you were involved in the current conflict?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would imagine you didn’t have much opportunity to play over there.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Well, Lucian’s a good man.” He glanced around at the empty car. “Just between you and me, I’d like to see him as the new president of the sheriffs’ association, but there appear to be a lot of individuals around here with other ideas.”
I smiled. “You don’t get to name your own heir?”
“No, no, no. . . . The Wyoming Sheriffs’ Association is a democracy, which usually results in us settling on the worst possible candidate.” He thumbed his lapel with a satisfied smile and you couldn’t help but like the old guy. “Including yours truly.”
“How long have you had the job?”
“Since a couple of years after my, um . . . conflict.” Unconsciously, I let my eyes slip to his missing arm, and he noticed. “Peleliu.”
I started to salute before catching myself and stuck my hand out again. “Lieutenant Walter Longmire, First Division.”
“Corporal Marvin Leeland, First Division.” He saluted in a jaunty fashion and then shook. “If I am to understand it correctly, you were one of the first Marine investigators over there?”
“Yes, sir. I was.”
“Interesting.” He nodded as he studied me. “I’ve got a few things to take care of, but wait for me in the dining car—it’s the last one just before the caboose; the bar is small, so it’s not as popular as the parlor car, where all the professional drinking will be going on. By Elk Mountain, we’ll likely be the only two sober men on this train and maybe that’ll give us a chance to talk alone.”
“About?”
He smiled again. “Well, if I told you, then there wouldn’t be anything to talk about, would there?” I watched as he turned and went in the same direction as the head chef, amazed at his physical ease despite the impairment.
—
Careful to leave Lucian’s bag on the upper berth, I unbuckled my gun belt and placed it on my duffel. The newspaper had wanted us in our semiuniforms for the photograph, but I didn’t see any reason to be walking around the cramped quarters like Bat Masterson.
Someone had passed by my door humming the old gospel tune “This Train,” and now the tune was stuck in my head.
I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the older sheriff’s invitation, and I also couldn’t help but wonder why he wanted to speak with me alone. Maybe it was just the camaraderie of the Corps.
I opened the small door to my left.
“I don’t think you’ll fit in that shower.”
I turned around to see the woman I’d met on the platform, the one with the gravity-defying hairdo who was accompanying Sheriff McKay from Laramie County, standing in the doorway. “I think you’re right.”
“Kim LeClerc.” She adjusted the scarf at her throat and extended a hand and we shook. “I’m a singer, mostly Peggy Lee stuff—you know, ballads and torch songs. I get a lot of work up at the Sandbar in Casper.”
I didn’t say anything.
She cocked her head, and her eyes shifted back to the shower. “We could soap up and see if we could both get in there.”
“Are you in 3?”
She nodded and grinned. “With Georgie.” She studied me, adjusting the belt on her pantsuit. “What’s your name again?”
“Walt Longmire.”
“Glad to meet you. . . . And where are you the sheriff again?”
“I’m not. I’m a deputy up in Absaroka County.”
“Guess that makes you the low man on the totem pole around here, huh?” She entered the compartment unbidden and sat on the sofa with her legs crossed. “So, you kill many babies over there?”
“Over where?”
She flapped a hand. “I don’t know, Swaziland, or wherever we’re fighting.”
“Vietnam.” I sighed and leaned against the folded upper bunk. “Hardly any, they’re small. . . . Hard to hit.”
She shook a cigarette from the pack. “Got a light?”
“No.”
She pulled out a lighter and lit it herself. “Want a smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
She leaned back and exhaled toward the upper bunk. “Not a Mormon, are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Neither are you.” We both turned to see George McKay occupying the open doorway. He reached down, took her by the arm, and none too gently pulled her into the passageway. “C’mon.”
I was preparing to close the door when he reappeared and, staring at the carpeted floor, leaned into the compartment. “Let’s get something straight.”
I folded my arms over my chest so that he wouldn’t be tempted to replicate the Gottlieb Grip Tester from our previous meeting. “Okay.”
He continued to look at the floor but craned his neck, exposing the muscles there for my benefit. “We’re all going to be on this train for the next couple of days and nights—close quarters.”
“Yep.”
“Well, we’d probably all do a lot better if we were careful of each other’s property: I may have only known Miss LeClerc for a short time, but she’s mine.” He raised his eyes and squinted. “You read me, Sergeant Roc
k?”
“Like a comic book.”
He stared at me a moment longer and then tattooed a quick beat on the door with a few knuckles. “Okay.” He smiled a broad grin, revealing a little gold dental work. “Baby killer.” And was gone in her direction.
I sighed and was about to sit down when Lucian appeared in the hallway. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Your buddy, appropriating his property.”
He shrugged, unbuckled his gun belt, and handed it to me. “His what?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, c’mon then, we need to get to the parlor car and meet the populace.”
I stood there examining the utilitarian holster and the vintage Victory Model .38, replete with a lanyard attached to the butt of the revolver. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“Stuff it in one of those cupboards along with yours.”
“They don’t lock.”
He stepped into the hallway, pulling back a curtain to confirm that we hadn’t yet left the bustling platform. “They never have.”
I glanced around. “Well, I’m not leaving my sidearm in here unsecured.”
He shook his head. “There are porters, conductors, and every other damn thing running up and down these corridors, not to mention every sheriff in the state of Wyoming, so I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”
I bit the skin on the inside of my cheek, shook my head, and put our gun belts in the highest cabinet above the shower.
“Criminy, if there’s a problem do you promise to get my gun down for me?”
I paused for a moment, thinking about how weathered the leather of his holster was compared to mine. I wondered how many years he’d carried the thing, and whether I wanted to commit to carrying that long.
I closed the cabinet door. The next thing I was aware of was Lucian’s voice, which seemed to come from a long ways away. “Hey, you all right?”
The Western Star Page 3
