Storm's Thunder by Brandon Boyce Page B

A square hut in the center, closest to the track, shows an “open” sign in the window. From a pole atop the roof, the Stars and Stripes rips stiffly, just above a second flag carrying the brilliant colors of the Santa Fe line. This must be the place. There is nothing quite as still as a train depot an hour after departure. I skirt around the rear of the ticket hut, where a second window, obscured from any view of town, faces the rail line as it winnows out toward the horizon.
    â€œYou stay put.” I ground-tie Storm and, not wanting a repeat of the earlier temptation, take the Spencer with me as I float up the steps of the ticket office. The door creaks open. Stepping inside, I am greeted in the close quarters by the broad backside of a man, stooped over, as he works a pile of collected dirt into a dustpan with a short-handled broom. He rights himself as the door bangs closed and, turning around, startles at the sight of me.
    â€œWe got no cash here.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLock-box went out with the 10:14. All I got what’s in the till, enough to break a twenty note and that’s it.” He is a big man, crammed into a suit two sizes too small, with orangey-red hair cropped short beneath a ticket clerk’s black cap. My second ginger of the day. And my second problem. He thinks I have come to rob him.
    â€œI’m here to book passage.” The man stares at me, dumbfounded, all googly-eyed and razor-burned. “Aboard the Santa Fe . . . Am I in the right place?”
    â€œLordy, fella. I thought this was a stick-up.”
    â€œSorry to disappoint. But if thieving’s a worry, you might consider stocking more iron than that Derringer in your hand.” The clerk shrugs and flashes the tiny one-shotter jutting from his meaty fist. It was a slick draw though. Against a slower eye, he might had a chance.
    â€œYeah, well, I’m not behind the counter.” He says, returning through the locked door into the barred cage that separates clerk from customer and where, I have no doubt, nothing less than a twenty-gauge lays within easy reach. The robber barons of the East have seen fit to instill admirable precaution in their expansion westward. “And I’ll tell you something, buster,” he begins, reddening in the face and addressing me now—noticeably—as buster. “You’ll do yourself a kindness to stand down on the fire power. This here’s a respectable business.”
    â€œNo aggression intended,” my palms open now.
    â€œYou must be from out backcountry,” he says, letting his contempt fly.
    â€œNot so back. But not so settled a man don’t travel armed, indoors or out.”
    â€œWell aboard the Santa Fe, gentlemen are expected to keep all weapons in their war bag. That goes for the Spencer and them pearly Colts.” The clerk blows a long, imposed-upon breath before taking his time opening the ticket book. “Destination?”
    â€œSan Francisco.”
    â€œWe’ll get you as far as Barstow. You change there for the line north.”
    â€œHow long to Barstow?”
    â€œFour days.” The clerk runs his finger down a list of numbers. “Let’s see, third-class to Barstow set you back two-dollars-fifty.”
    â€œThird-class. What’s that get me?”
    â€œA seat on a bench.”
    The clerk scribbles something in his book. “Next train leaves here eight past midnight tonight. Is it just you?”
    â€œMe and the horse.”
    â€œYour horse?”
    â€œThat stallion, there.” I jab a thumb toward the window and Storm, sensing the attention, flutters his gleaming mane against the breeze.
    â€œFine-looking animal,” the man says, pawing through a drawer for a second booklet.
    â€œDon’t he know it.”
    â€œHe’ll need a tariff for the stock car. Two dollars.”
    â€œStock car. Hmm.”
    â€œThat a problem?”
    â€œFor your stock, it is. Best