“But dammit—”
“Mister, if there was a railroad here, d’you really think I’d lie about it? I mean, that’s the sort of lie a fella could get caught out in real easy. You know? So take my word for it, friend. There ain’t no railroad here just yet. But it’ll be along.” The fellow grinned, turned his head, and spat. “You’re welcome t’ wait for it if you want.”
“Son of a bitch,” Longarm complained.
But of course the man inside the offices of the Silver Creek, Tipson, and Glory Narrow Gauge Rail Road had heard all of that before. Maybe even several times. And it wasn’t going to do anyone any good for Longarm to stand there and argue with him about passage on a railroad that did not yet exist.
“Sorry,” Longarm said. “It’s just—”
“Yeah, I know. Everybody’s been told there’s a line in. But it was only scheduled to be in by now. Wasn't never actually completed, see. The bosses kinda run outta money ’fore they got this far. They keep this office open for
when the rails do come through.” He winked. “And for the investors. If you see what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do,” Longarm said.
“If it helps you any, they did get part of the tracks laid. Tipson all the way t’ Glory. An’ a couple miles this side o’ Glory too.”
“What about Snowshoe?” Longarm asked.
“Pardon me?”
“I thought the road was supposed to connect with Snow- shoe too.”
The fellow laughed. “Lordy, mister, you have heard everything wrong, haven’t you.”
“Have I?”
“I’m afeered so. This line ain’t supposed to go anywheres near Snowshoe. There’s another narrow-gauge supposed to do that. The Bitterroot and Brightwater.”
“The Bitterroot and Brightwater,” Longarm repeated dully, not at all sure that this fellow wasn’t pulling his leg now.
‘That’s right, mister. That line is the one supposed to run through Snowshoe. Our railroad never was intended t’ get up there, not even when it’s all the way done.”
“But I thought—”
“Oh, I know. Easy enough mistake for a body t’ make, our rights o’ way bein’ so close together. Why, I daresay on a map you could get mixed up which road was which. Except o’ course they go different places. But for a piece there, they run right close together, the Bitterroot an’ Brightwater being up high an’ our grade down lower t’ follow the streambeds, see. They figure to save miles by bridging, see, an’ we figure t' save costs by wiggling around some. Does that make sense t’ you, mister?”
“No,” Longarm admitted.
“Well, don’t let that bother you none. Fact is, their line ain’t any closer to completion than ours is. But they got them some track laid same as we do. It’s really Snowshoe you want to get to?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Then I expect I can help you, mister. We got a string o’ wagons we run from Silver Creek t’ our track-end. I can put you on a wagon if you’re of a mind t’ go. Carry you to the tracks, then on t’ Glory. From there you can get a ride over top o' Twin Towers Mountain. That carries you over to the Bitterroot and Brightwater right of way, see, and you can get to Snowshoe easy from there.”
The man was smiling.
Longarm felt like he was fixing to get a headache. And if he didn’t, well, he was entitled to one anyhow.
“I would appreciate a ride on your wagon to Glory, friend.”
“Kinda thought you might, neighbor. Be here a half hour past dawn tomorrow. ’Less you wanta wait another day, that is. Be all right if you want t’ do that, see. Once you have your ticket you can hold onto it to use whenever you please.”
The man was genial. Friendly. Pleasant. Cheerful. Helpful. Nice as nice could be.
Longarm felt an impulse to take the fellow by the throat and throttle him. “Dawn tomorrow will be fine,” he said just as nicely as he knew how.
Longarm had never been bound for Glory before. And the times he’d heard the expression used in the past, well, this wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned it would come to.
He suspected that at least part of his morning doubts came from last night’s disappointments. There hadn’t been a decent rye whiskey available anyplace in Silver Creek— though he’d sure as hell searched the saloons of the town just as diligently and sincerely as ever a man could hope to—and the bed he’d taken at one of the hotels had turned out to be lumpy. Also empty. Longarm had ended up going to bed half drunk and wholly homy, and his discontent from last night was carrying over into this morning’s grumpiness.
He gave the mule-drawn wagon a baleful look. The rig was old and rickety and might give faithful service for the next twenty years. Or it might just as easily fall to pieces five miles down the road. The four mules that were hitched to it were small and scruffy, built more on the lines of house cats than draft stock, and made all the poorer to look at from the fact that their heavy coats from last winter hadn’t yet fully shed off, so that now they were slick-skinned in some spots and hairy in others. The overall impression of the animals was that if there were any steep grades ahead, the passengers likely would have to get out and carry the mules.
As for other passengers waiting for this trip to commence, there seemed to be three, not counting Longarm, two men in business suits plus a lady who was hiding behind
a wide-brimmed hat and heavy veil. And there was the driver, of course. Total of five humans going to Glory.
All of them, the driver included, were standing around like they were waiting for somebody to take charge, even though the stated departure time had come and then gone fifteen minutes ago.
Longarm was about to get peeved about it all. He’d slept poorly during the night, and then hadn’t wanted to crawl out this morning. As it was he’d nearly overslept, and so had had to wolf his breakfast in order to get there on time. His stomach felt sour now because of that, full of undigested grease and coffee that’d tasted mostly of acid. And now they were all gonna stand around and wait?
“Mister,” he said to the wagon driver, “are we gonna leave or aren’t we?”
“We’ll pull out direc’ly,” the driver mumbled around a cud of tobacco.
“Before noon or after?” Longarm persisted.
The driver finally consented to turn his head and give the tall deputy a direct look. “Soon as the last passenger shows up, mister.”
“I thought....” After all, that dang clerk yesterday had pretty much implied a man had to be on time or get left behind until the next day. Well, sauce for one was sauce for all, wasn’t it?
“Dammit, mister. ’Scuse me, ma’am,” the wagon driver added with an apologetic bob of his head in the lady’s direction. “What I’m saying, mister, is that we ain’t gonna pull outta here till that last passenger is aboard. Not regardless. So’s you might just as well calm down an’ leave be.”
Longarm sighed. The driver was right, of course. None of this was the driver’s responsibility no matter what some clerk might’ve said, and there was no point whatsoever in Longarm getting his stomach churning over it. This railroad that did its business with mules and wagons instead of steam engines was entitled to act however it pleased. With
or without Custis Long’s consent. His snippiness now was just a carryover from last night. “Sorry,” he said. “I only thought—”
“Yeah, I know, but this here passenger is different. One of the bosses, see. Owns a big piece of this here railroad line. Or what will be a railroad line by the end o’ summer. So’s you can see, I bet, why I’m gonna set here an’ wait on the man long as it takes, mister. No matter how ruffled your feathers happen t’ get.” The driver grinned and spat.