Edward Lee - The Black Train

Poltrock pulled out a panatela that he was entitled to from Mr. Gast’s private stock. They came all the way from Florida. Before he could reach for a match, Cutton had one burning for him.

“Thank you,” he puffed. “And I wanted to ask you somethin’, Mr. Cutton.” He held up his record book. “We seem to be goin’ through rail and fish bolts a right fast. Did somebody increase the order for the last shipment?”

Cutton nodded, then took a chew of tobacco himself. “Yes, sir, they did.”

“Who? The supply master?”

“No, sir. Mr. Gast. He mentioned to me—oh, I’m not exactly sure when—but he said he’d been bringin’ in 10 or 15 percent more the past coupla weeks. Rail, too, a’course. There’s a new iron works in Kentucky he’s buyin’ it from, he told me. Tredegar’s runnin’ ’cos the clock makin’ cannons in case there’s a war.”

Poltrock filtered out the useless details. “Ten to fifteen percent more? No wonder my figures didn’t seem right…”

“The men are workin’ hard, so far as I can see. If you were a slave with freedom at the end of the line, wouldn’t you work extra hard?”

“Yes, I surely would—” Poltrock scratched his ear. Hard work was one thing. But…this? He knew he’d need to work the numbers again. This could be very interesting…

“Would you round up my horse, please, Mr. Cutton? I’m going to go count the rails.”

“Yes, sir. We all know it’s Friday when Mr. Poltrock counts the rails. Sure I can’t be of assistance to ya?”

“No, no, it’s somethin’ I need to do by myself.”

“I’ll fetch your horse…”

Cutton jogged off. Morris cut him a silent grin, then climbed down himself. “What’s that about fish bolts, Mr. Poltrock?”

“Oh, nothing. Probably just some bad accounting.”

A big man with a pistol in his hand followed a small man in a red derby. Mr. Fecory, Poltrock saw. Fecory’s face looked shriveled, and his odd gold nose flashed.

“Well, I say hey there, Mr. Fecory!” Morris greeted loudly.

“Mr. Morris,” the little man replied. He nodded as if he had a kink in his neck, and carried a leather suitcase that everyone knew was full of cash. “Are you happy to see me, or just happy that it’s payday?”

“Why, I’m happy to see you, sir!”

“Um-hmm.” The weaselish man nodded to Poltrock, too.

“I don’t suppose you could just slip Mr. Poltrock and me our pay right now so’s we don’t have to wait in line,” Morris gestured next.

“I am certain, Mr. Morris, that you work as hard as everybody else; therefore, you can wait in line —like everybody else.”

“I knew you’d say that…”

Fecory dipped a finger up and down like a teacher. “This isn’t a chow line, you know. You need to sign your receipt, sir, just like—”

“Everybody else,” Morris finished. “Shit,” he muttered to Poltrock after the paymaster crossed the track toward the camp.

“We’re in no hurry, Mr. Morris,” Poltrock reminded.

“I know, sir. It’s just that we’se rail men—we live for our Fridays, and I can tell you that I am all riled up for some drinkin’ and carryin’-on.”

Poltrock was no different from any man, but since he’d signed on with Gast, he seemed to notice some conflict within himself. He barely drank on Fridays—hadn’t in months—and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d solicited a whore. Even during the three-day respites Gast granted them the first of every month—sometimes Poltrock would retreat to the bunkhouse and recheck his inventory book, leaving the revel to everyone else. Guess I’m just gettin’ old, he told himself too often, or was it something more? Behind his spirit, something glowered, as if to whisper, This is all wrong and you know it. You ain’t the Christian your fine upright parents raised. They’d be ashamed…

Would they? What was it?

Morris’s mood was feisty as always, but his eyes looked dark. Poltrock didn’t know if it was his imagination but sometimes the eyes of the other men shined in a dull brown-yellow cast…

“And you can bet,” Morris continued, “that I am lookin’ forward to the next respite.”

“Ain’t even been two weeks since the last one,” Poltrock reminded him. “Honestly, Mr. Morris, you’re like a kid in a rock candy shop.”

Morris’s grin sharpened. “Yeah, but it ain’t candy that this rail man needs to get his hands on.” Morris was about to say something else, but then his eyes shot wide. “What the hell? ”

“Something wrong?”

“Look at that there—that strong-armer—”

One of Gast’s big security men seemed to be rousting the four squaws, waving them off and yelling, “Not tonight! Get your asses out’a here!”

“What the hell’s he doin’ runnin’ off our whores!” Morris exclaimed. “Hey, you there! Don’t run them Injun girls off! We need ’em for tonight!”

The strong-armer held his long rifle out like a barricade. “Mr. Gast’s orders, sir,” he shouted back. “No whore tents tonight, and no whiskey…”

Morris was outraged, his anticipations punctured.

“You heard him,” Poltrock said.

“Well—damn 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 assist. “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 bigtitter…”

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 passed 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 whores 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!”