The Black Train Part 21

The strong-armer held his long rifle out like a barricade. "Mr. Gast's orders, sir," he shouted back. "No wh.o.r.e tents tonight, and no whiskey..."

Morris was outraged, his antic.i.p.ations punctured.

"You heard him," Poltrock said.

"Well-d.a.m.n it all! It's Friday! It ain't like we don't deserve it, hard as we worked this week. Why's Mr. Gast cancelin' our fun?"

"'cos he's the boss, so the reason don't matter."

The squaws jabbered back in their own language, clearly irate.

"I said get out!"

Another security man rushed to a.s.sist. "Dahdeeya!" he yelled at the women, and pointed back to the range. "Nahah!"

Finally, the women got it, and began to skulk back the way they came.

"Aw, ain't that a bust in the chops," Morris lamented. "Now I might not never have a turn with that bigt.i.tter..."

I wonder why Gast ordered them off, Poltrock thought. The sound of slow hooves grabbed his attention; Cutton was walking his horse over. "Here she is, sir." He dismounted and pa.s.sed the reins to Poltrock. "Too bad 'bout Mr. Gast callin' off the Friday cookout'n all. Hope he ain't disappointed with our work of late."

"So you heard about it, too," Poltrock said. "I'm a bit curious myself. It's looking to me like this might've been one of our most productive weeks."

"Feels like it in my bones, at least." Cutton smiled forlornly. "Sure you don't want me to help ya count rail, sir?"

"No."

"Okay, then, Mr. Poltrock. I'm off to get my pay, not that I got anything to spend it on with no wh.o.r.es or whiskey tonight." Cutton flagged Morris. "Come on, Morris! Let's get in the pay line less'n we'll be standin' at the end of it!"

The two men departed. Poltrock could see across the track where Fecory and his security bulldog had set up the pay station. A rowdy line formed fast.

Poltrock walked his horse off. Was there something strange in the air tonight? In a sense, there always was; he could never put his finger on it.

Two younger white laborers bantered as they unloaded boxes of spikes from a ten-foot handcar. "So he told me he could see her up there in the window, prancin' 'cos stark nekit."

"Yeah?" the other kid said with a pervert's leer.

"Said it looked like she were talkin' to someone in the room, but he knowed that Mr. Gast was down South on the line-'bout the same time we startin' laying the first track across the border-so he got to thinkin'-"

"If her husband ain't in town, who's she talkin' to?" the second kid calculated.

"Yeah, and nekit ta boot!"

Poltrock hadn't been listening at first, but as the boy yakked on, he halted the horse and canted an ear.

"And he already had a few in him when the s.h.i.+ft broke and went to Cusher's, so's next thing he knowed, he's climbin' the trellis up to the balcony."

"No!"

"Ain't lyin'. Then he get up there'n looks in."

"Well, d.a.m.n, come on! What he see?"

The storyteller lowered his voice behind a sharp grin. "She's buck nekit, all right'n; then she sits down in a big fancy armchair drinkin' some wine and she's sittin' there with her legs spread, and ya knows what?"

"What? What!"

"She was all shaved down there. Not a single hair on her p.u.s.s.y nowheres."

"You're lyin', Jory!"

"'S'the truth, so help me! And whiles she's sittin there talkin' to whoever it were she was talkin' to, she gets to playin' with herself a bit..."

"Aw, s.h.i.+t, man, I can't stand it-"

"Then finally-" He leaned closer. "Finally, she walks over to the bed'n gets to f.u.c.kin' a fella, like, real hard...and that's when he seed that it was one'a the slaves."

"Oh, man...What he do? Did he tell?"

"h.e.l.l, no, ya dimwit! If he done that he'd have to 'splain what he was doin' up on Mrs. Gast's balcony in the first place."

"They'd put him in a pillory fer that, fer a week at least."

"Think he didn't know that? So, s.h.i.+t, he couldn't say nothin'. But he did stay'n watch a whiles, and the-"

"You men!" Poltrock yelled. Both laborers looked up in dread. "You stop that trash talk right now, and stop it for good, you hear me?"

"Yuh-yes, sir, Mr. Poltrock. We was just-"

"Bulls.h.i.+t. You're spreadin' dirty, undignified talk like a coupla crackers, you were." Poltrock jabbed one in the chest with his finger. "You don't talk like that ever again. You don't say nothin' like that, to no one! Never! Things're hard enough out here, and we don't need no slander'n barroom talk. You boys are bein' paid well so don't you be disrepectin' the fine man who's payin' you. Less'n you want me to tell him myself."

One boy looked close to tears, while the other stammered, "Oh, no, no, sir, Mr. Poltrock, please don't do that-"

"I've a mind to."

"Please, please, by G.o.d we won't never say nothin' like that ag-"

"The strong-armers'd put a nine-tails across both your backs, then ya'd be fired and banished with no way to get back to Tennessee. You'd have to go live in the woods with the Injuns'n eat dog meat and grubs, and that's only if they decides not to scalp your dumb white a.s.s and eat you."

"We swear, sir, we swear to G.o.d on high, we'se'll never talk no trash like that again."

"Ya best not. Now stack those f.u.c.kin' boxes'a spikes and git into that pay line."

"Yes, sir, yes, sir, yes, sir-"

Poltrock mounted his horse, glared at them, then headed down the line. Put the fear'a G.o.d in 'em at least. He'd heard much of the same, though; the work site was a rumor mill, and so was the town, whether the entire crew was on respite or not. A number of men had been executed for daring to take a chance with the promiscuous Mrs. Gast. Then Poltrock thought, Mrs. Tinkle...He'd heard those rumors, too, and had even smelled p.i.s.s anytime he'd had occasion to be in the house.

He cleared it from his head, taking the horse slowly north. It was time to get his mind off all the things that had been bothering him for the last four years-all the things he knew were wrong...

pullin' two miles plus per week, Poltrock realized. His eyes followed the track, subconsciously counting each piece of rail. He'd done this every Friday night since 1857 when they'd started. Even the horse knew the task; it maintained a slow gait up the track bed as its master sat in the saddle, counting. Every so often, he jotted down the figures in his book, then blinked. This is some progress. Last week, we did 2.4 miles, and this week...

Poltrock pulled the horse to a stop at the sound of faster hooves. The Indians had been pacified in these parts, yet he'd already unholstered his .36-caliber Colt just in case. The sun was almost gone now, but after a moment he could see who it was: Morris.

"Hold up there, Mr. Poltrock!" Morris waved. Did he have a rider with him? "Just somethin' I wanted to ask..."

Poltrock wasn't interested. "Have you seen Mr. Gast?"

"Why, no, sir-"

"So you haven't heard the reason for him cancelin' the usual Friday night festivities..."

"No, sir, I ain't, but-" Morris seemed giddy about something, and that's when Poltrock noticed that he was indeed sharing his horse's back with another rider.

That squaw...

The young Indian woman held fast around Morris's waist.

"I caught up to them Injun wh.o.r.es 'fore they could get back to their reservation, and plucked me up this 'un here."

"So I see," Poltrock replied.

"Couldn't stand the idea of a Friday night goin' by without a wh.o.r.e." Morris pulled alongside and stopped. "Ten cents a roll is what she charges, same as them other ones who're older'n ugly..."

Poltrock couldn't have been less in the mood, yet his eyes flicked up all the same. The squaw hugged against Morris's back, shapely legs splayed, smooth unscarred skin showing in the wide-st.i.tched seams of her leggings. Her bosom was overflowing in the deerskin yoke.

"She's a looker, ain't she, sir?" Morris acted like a dog bringing its owner a bone. He dismounted quickly, the long knife on his hip flapping, then lifted the girl down. "I mean, sir, you really need to see what she got under here," he said, and then yanked open the yoke.

He turned her like a display piece. The desirousness of her youth seemed to glow beneath the smudged skin. The bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s raved, large as a pair of baby heads but buoyant, big nipples puckered up like dark gooseflesh.

Morris jiggled a breast with his hand. "Ain't that somethin', sir? I mean, have you ever seen a pair like these? Oh, and this is even better-" Morris twirled her around, pushed her pants down to bare her rump.

Morris whistled. "Shee-IT! Would you look at that!"

The girl knew what was going on; she leaned forward to intensify the display. Her rump was large and shapely, but tight, bereft of a single blemish.

"For the life'a me, Mr. Poltrock, I can't tell which is better, her t.i.ts or her a.s.s!"

Poltrock felt confounded. "Mr. Morris, did you bring that woman d.a.m.n near two miles down the track bed just to show me her bosom and a.s.s?"

"Well, I mean, I'se plannin' on havin' some fun with this 'un more than a few times, but since you're my boss, I thought I'd offer you first crack."

Amazing. "I appreciate your professional courtesy," Poltrock responded. "That's quite considerate-" Then his eyes went from the Indian woman's fresh bosom to her face.

Wide, s.h.i.+ning eyes on a dirty face. Wantonness reflected back through a smile that could only be described as counterfeit.

"No, no thank you, Mr. Morris," Poltrock eventually said. "I'm not feelin' up to it tonight. Got to finish counting these rails."

"Aw, you sure, Mr. Poltrock?" Morris ran his hands over the plush rump. "This is prime stuff."

"She is quite a handsome girl, Mr. Morris, but still, I must decline. You go have your fun now."

Morris shrugged, astounded by his superior's rejection. "Whatever you say, sir." He looked aside and spotted a clearing in the high brush. "Right here, I say...I got me couple'a squaws last week in this selfsame place." Morris shoved the girl toward the clearing, tying his horse off to a slim tree. Poltrock just shook his head as they disappeared behind the brush.

That's one randy man, he thought, then gently stirrupped his horse. He continued down the track bed and resumed counting.

The figures still weren't adding up. He'd built railroads all over the country, and he knew full well what a certain number of men could lay in a certain period of time. He knew that the marker for the beginning of the week must be coming up soon...

The horse s.h.i.+mmied; Poltrock looked up at the sudden tremble. A distant, rising roar; then the tracks began to vibrate, and at last, the sound of a steam whistle.

Poltrock knew a train was coming. He guided his horse off the track bed, then steadied it at the tree line. "Easy, easy now." He tried to calm the animal, all the while thinking, The pallet train's still at the end of the line. What's THIS train coming?

The ground shook; it was all Poltrock could do to keep his horse from bucking. In moments, a very fast train tore by. It was back-riding; in other words, the engine was pus.h.i.+ng the cars rather than pulling them. Poltrock had only a few seconds to count one coal hopper, five pa.s.senger cars, and a guide car up front. It was gone moments later in a great wake of dust and concussion, and in another minute he could hear its whistle blowing again as it slowed to stop at the work site.

What the h.e.l.l's goin' on? He couldn't imagine why Gast would bring up another train when their own supply haul was still parked at the site.

He supposed he'd find out in due time. He let his horse calm down a few minutes more, then continued to count the last rails of their week of work.

The sun had just sunk behind the mountain when Poltrock got to the red-flagged stake he'd sunk exactly one week ago. He had to focus on his figures now, so he dismounted and tied his horse off. He lit an oil lantern he'd brought along, then sat down on the very first piece of rail that had been spiked last Friday.

Jesus Lord, he thought, staring at his notebook.

It was just simple math, and by now he'd gone over the week's numbers at least five times. Every single piece of rail was exactly twenty-two feet and six inches long. There could be no irregularities.

He was never aware of the figure looming over him.

"Working by lamplight," the voice intoned. "A sign of diligence, I must say."

Poltrock's heart jolted. He looked up in shock.

It was Mr. Gast looking down at him from his great white steed.

"The rest of the men are preparing for revel, but you, Mr. Poltrock, are here working the numbers past dusk. I do not forget the men who give me their very best work."

"Thank you, Mr. Gast," Poltrock uttered.

"I feel great things, wonderful things tonight." The low moon was rising just behind Gast's head, cutting his features in blade-sharp blackness. The steed stood still as a statue. "Do you have the week's account for me yet, or have I interrupted you?"

Poltrock stood up and dusted himself off. "No, sir, in fact you've arrived at the perfect time. I have indeed finished my account of this week's work, and..."

"And?"

Poltrock sighed. "I don't know how to say this, Mr. Gast, but unless the rail you're buyin' is shorter than it's supposed to be, we done laid 3.1 miles of track this week."

A pause. Gast's high silhouette didn't move. "That's outstanding."

It's either outstanding or just plain impossible, Poltrock thought to himself. "For the past two years, in fact, the crew's been layin' a minimum of a quarter mile extra per week, and some weeks more, like a half mile or sixtenths. Last week we laid a full mile more than quota, and now this week..." Poltrock stared at the numbers in his book. "An extra 1.2 miles. Just in one week."

Gast's voice was like a low throb. "What does this mean, Mr. Poltrock?"