The Boundless (10 page)

He pelts toward the tracks, toward the red caboose. Alongside now, he struggles to keep up. He sees the metal steps and the handrail of the platform and knows he has just one chance, for the train is gaining speed, and his is failing. Grabbing the handrail, he feels its cold hard pull. He loses his grip, takes it back. With all their strength his fingers clench.

Just before he's dragged off his feet, he gives a leap and lands on the lowest step. His knees nearly buckle. Every one of the four steps is a hardship, and then he is on the metal platform and falling back against the railing, breathless and numb.

THE CABOOSE

Will has hardly taken three wheezing breaths when the red door of the caboose bursts open. All he registers is a pair of worn denim trousers, and then there's a hand clenching his collar and hauling him to his feet. Will looks into the furious face of a young man in overalls.

“Not on my train!” the guard shouts, and with both hands he drags Will toward the platform's edge.

Terrified, Will looks down at the ties flashing past. “No!” he gasps. “Wait!”

“You hopped on. You can hop off!”

“What's this?” asks another fellow, appearing in the doorway. This one is an older Chinese man with silver hair and an unlined face. His left pant leg flaps loosely and ends with a peg.

“Stowaway,” says the younger fellow, and William feels the guard's fists clench. His eyes are slightly too close together. This and his sharp-tipped mustache make his demeanor even angrier. “Giving him the heave-ho.”

“Wait a moment, Mackie,” says the other fellow. “He's just a lad.”

Will can scarcely choke out the words: “Not a stowaway. Passenger.” And then after a few more gasps, “First class.”

Mackie scoffs, and Will glances down at his own clothing. His jacket is shredded, and his trousers are grimy and torn at one knee. He lost one of his shoes. He doesn't look like a first-class passenger. He doesn't look like
any
kind of passenger. Even the people from the colonist cars are better turned-out than he is.

“Where's your ticket, then?” demands Mackie.

Will swallows. He didn't even think to bring it with him—just assumed they'd know him when he reboarded.

“My name's Everett!” he gulps. “William Everett! My father's James Everett!”

“The general manager of the railway?” says the Chinese guard, raising an eyebrow.

“He's just a hobo, Sticks!” Mackie retorts in exasperation.

“Those aren't hobo clothes,” Sticks says, looking Will carefully up and down. “Just ripped and dirty.”

“He's only got one shoe!” exclaims Mackie.

“But it's a fine one,” replies Sticks with a trace of a smile.

“I lost the other in the woods,” Will murmurs.

“Stinks, too,” says Mackie. “He's lived in them clothes a good long time.”

“It's just sasquatch urine,” Will says.

Mackie frowns. “What?”

“To keep the animals away. I bought some at a stall.”

“The boy's an idiot on top of everything,” says Mackie. “Everyone knows that stuff don't work.”

All the frantic energy that fueled Will through the woods and to the train leaves him in an instant. He feels sick and cold. His limbs begin to shake.

“He's gone pale,” says Sticks. “Bring him inside.”

Mackie lets out a bad-tempered breath but turns Will toward the door and gives him a shove.

“You're likely chilled,” Sticks says, ushering Will into the caboose and toward the potbellied stove. “Sit there.”

Will jerkily lowers himself into a chair and watches as the guard scoops in a few lumps of coal. It's hard to tell how old he is. He has kind eyes. A welcome warmth seeps from the stove, and William shivers. He didn't realize how cold he'd gotten in the woods. He puts his feet as close to the cast iron as he dares, leaning forward with his hands.

There are several covered pots on the stove top, one of them simmering slightly. A delicious smell fills the caboose.

Sticks pours a mug of something and offers it to Will. “Hold this without spilling?”

Nodding, Will gratefully takes the mug in both hands. For a moment he just wants to feel its warmth against his fingers. When he lifts it to his mouth, he discovers it isn't tea but some kind of wonderful broth. He drinks greedily.

Sticks takes a neatly folded blanket from a cot and drapes it over Will's shoulders.

“Thank you,” Will says.

After a few minutes, as the soup's warmth spreads through his belly, the shivering stops.

“You're the caboose guard?” Will asks.

“I am. My name is Paul Chan.”

Will shakes his hand. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Chan.” He glances over at the younger fellow, who's slouched in a chair with his arms crossed suspiciously.

“And that's hotheaded Brian Mackie,” says Sticks, “my brakeman.”

“Thank you for not throwing me off the train,” Will says.

Mackie makes a noncommittal grunt.

For the first time Will takes in his surroundings properly. Beside the stove is a wooden table. A shelf underneath contains pots and pans, and paper sacks of rice and onions and potatoes. Above the small sink and water pump are two shelves with some cutlery and knives and tinned goods.

Farther forward against either side of the caboose is a small bed. Shirts and coats and trousers hang from pegs high up on the walls. In a far corner is a tidy desk, and above are a clock, a small mirror, and a bulletin board pinned with schedules and lists. At the very front of the car is a narrow door, which Will guesses must lead to the toilet—for he realizes these guards stay here for the duration of the trip. This is their home. Oil lanterns give the place a welcoming glow. There is a small square window on either side of the car, and even a couple of pictures pinned to the walls.

Most intriguing is what's right above him. When he looks straight up, he can see a little observation room with windows on all sides, and two swivel chairs on platforms reachable by ladders.

“That's the cupola,” Sticks says, noting his gaze. “Where we sit when the train's entering and leaving station, or being shunted, so we can make sure the tracks are clear of obstruction.”

Will thinks that if circumstances were different, he might ask to climb up and sit in one of those chairs.

“We were just settling down to our dinner,” says Sticks. “Are you hungry?”

“Not what you're used to in first class,” says Mackie sourly.

Sticks takes some bowls from the shelf. He lifts the lid of the largest pot and ladles out a stew thick with carrots and potatoes and onions and peas and parsnips and cubes of beef. He passes a bowl to Will with a spoon. Will holds it in his lap, just staring at it. Last night he ate lamb in first class, but right now he's not sure he's ever smelled anything this good. Greedily he begins to eat.

“Guess they're not feeding them too well up front,” says Mackie.

“Quiet, Mackie,” Sticks tells him with calm authority. He tears a big hunk of bread from a dark loaf and passes it to Will. “Mop up with this.”

Will wipes the bread around and around the bowl and devours it all. He appreciates it with an intensity he didn't feel in the first-class dining car. He notices everything: the grainy texture, the yeasty flavor.

“Thank you,” he says gratefully.

A few melodious notes float through the air, and Will looks up inquisitively.

“My wind chimes,” explains Sticks. “Hanging out back. Now, William Everett, suppose you tell us why you're on my caboose.”

With food in his stomach, Will feels restored. He begins to tell his story. He avoids Mackie's hostile eyes and looks at Sticks instead, who regards him patiently and nods every now and then—and even chuckles quietly when he hears about how he bought the sasquatch urine.

When Will comes to the part about seeing the drunken funeral car guard in the woods, he hesitates—and doesn't mention the dropped key. He knows what that key does, and he trusts Sticks, but not Mackie. He can feel the key, still in his pocket. Then he tells Sticks about the guard being stabbed. Will notices that Mackie is leaning forward slightly in his chair.

“This fellow with the knife,” says Sticks softly, “did you get a good look at him?”

Will sees the knife in Brogan's clenched fist pulling back, wet, and he feels a queasy swell in his stomach.

“He was in brakeman's clothes. His name's Brogan.”

“There ain't no Brogan on this train,” Mackie says to Sticks.

“Are you sure he was in brakeman's clothes?” Sticks asks Will.

Will is less sure now. “Well, they were overalls.”

“Anyone can wear those,” says Mackie.

“Describe him,” Sticks says.

“Big but not too tall, fair hair, and his nose had a kink in it, like a break that hadn't healed proper.”

He knows he should have said “properly” but thought it might sound prissy alongside all the blunt talk of the caboose men. He likes that talk, the sound and shape of it.

He adds, “Blue eyes.”

“You noticed the color of his eyes?” Mackie asks.

“I've seen him before.”

Sticks's eyes widen. “When?”

“In the mountains. He tried to steal the last spike.”

Mackie gives a caw of laughter. “And I suppose you drove the last spike too!”

“I did,” said Will, tired of Mackie's sneering.

“Crazy and a liar,” Mackie scoffs. “I seen that photo of the last spike, and you are not holding the hammer.”

“I wasn't in the photo,” Will says, “'cause—”

“Because Donald Smith bent the spike,” Sticks says, nodding. “I've heard this story. They said a boy drove it in. So.” He looks at Will. “That was you.”

Will nods.

“And this Brogan,” Sticks says, “what happened to him up there?”

“He got attacked by a sasquatch. Thrown over the cliff. Everybody thought he was dead.”

“You believe all this, then?” Mackie asks Sticks.

“I do. I've been around people long enough to know a liar. This boy is not lying.”

“We'll find out, I suppose,” says Mackie.

“I doubt this Brogan fellow works on the train, though,” says Sticks. “There's all kinds of rough sorts hanging about the Junction.”

Will looks at the clock. “How will I get back?”

“Well,” says Sticks, “the Boundless is more than nine hundred cars long, and it's a good five miles before you even get to colonist class. It's no easy stroll over the top of freight cars, unless you're partial to jumping in the dark.”

Will knows the Boundless isn't scheduled to stop until tomorrow afternoon.

“If your father's the general manager,” Mackie says, “why don't he just stop the train for you?”

“He won't even know I'm gone,” Will says, realizing. “He's driving the Boundless.”

“Then he'll know there's a freight close behind us, and the Intercolonial not far after,” Sticks says. “Stopping's out of the question. We can't be blocking the whole track. And there's no siding long enough to hold us. Most likely you're stuck with us until tomorrow.”

“Well, ain't that a joy,” Mackie mutters.

“Mackie,” says Sticks, “another unkind word from you, and you can sleep on the roof tonight.”

“Might prefer it, the stink coming off that boy.”

“Wash the dishes. After that I want you to take a note up and tell the fellows to pass it forward.” To Will he says, “We can work a message to the front to the conductor. There's a brakeman every twenty cars.”

“The fellas won't like it,” says Mackie. “Not in the dark.”

“We've got a straight stretch for a good while,” Sticks says.

“Easy for you. You won't be the one up top. And it looks like there might be rain.”

“Right now there's a full moon. Plenty of light. Anyway, this is important. If a guard's been murdered, they need to know about it. Especially if the killer's on board.”

Will's insides clench. “You think he might be?”

“Could be. But there's a Mountie aboard who'll sort things out.”

“It's Sam Steele,” Will says, trying to make himself feel better.

“There you go. No one finer than Samuel Steele.”

Sticks walks over to his desk, picks up a pen, and starts writing a note.

Reluctantly Mackie gets up and pumps some water into the sink, sluicing the dirty bowls and cutlery. Will remembers a sink like that in his old apartment, before they were rich. He sees a dish towel and steps forward to help.

“My father used to be a brakeman,” he says to Mackie.

Mackie grunts. “Then you know it's pretty much the most dangerous job in the world, 'specially in bad weather. Them running boards get all slick. Rain drives into your face. You get a sudden rumble or curve in the track, you slip and get thrown.”