The Black Train Page 17

  “In Georgia? Shit, Mr. Poltrock. Georgia don’t know from whiskey any more than goddamn Massachusetts knows from cotton.”

  Poltrock smiled, perhaps for the first time in a week. “I guarantee, after a week’a hard work like this, it’ll do just fine.”

  “I hope you’re right. Probably tastes like somethin’ from a piss barrel.” Morris sighed, putting a closer eye on the figures coming forward. “But a coupla whores will surely get the ticket. Here come some now, I’d say.”

  Poltrock could see them even in the dimming light: some Indian women in stitched leggings and sleeveless yokes fashioned from tattered hide. Their eyes looked huge on flinty faces. “Just what kind’a Indians are they anyway?”

  “Nanticoke,” Morris answered. “They was mainly in Maryland until the state militias killed ’em off ’bout fifty years ago. Most of ’em headed north—and froze to death—but some of ’em drifted south. Georgia gave ’em some reservations just like they done up in New York with the Iroquois. Some’a these here squaws look damn good, too. They fuck for ten cents and a swig, then take the money back to their men.” Morris rocked on his tiptoes a moment. “Yes, sir, I’ll have my cock in some’a that tonight.”

  Poltrock had to credit the strange women for their resilience at least. He counted exactly four of them, and he knew they’d be taking on fifty horny white men till late tomorrow night. A lot of the men would go four or five times. Like Morris, he knew. Morris had a thing for whores. A lot of the men did.

  “Look at that ’un there,” Morris said. “That’s the one I’se gettin’ first…”

  Poltrock squinted. It was easy to tell which squaw Morris was highlighting. Three looked older and weatherworn, but a fourth appeared quite a bit younger and more endowed. The girl/woman’s breasts were so large they strained the rawhide strings that held the yoke together.

  “That’s some tits on that Injun, huh, Mr. Poltrock?” Morris made the useless query. “A fella could do all kinds’a things with some tits like that.” Morris waved mockingly at the girl, and said under his breath, “Hey there, ya dirty little bitch. You’s’ll be all full up with my spunk a right shortly.”

  Poltrock felt tired, and maybe coming down with a cold. He didn’t share his colleague’s lusty zeal at all.

  “Here comes Cutton,” Morris noticed.

  “I need to talk to him,” Poltrock said, and stepped down off the guiding car.

  “Afternoon to ya, Mr. Poltrock,” the younger man greeted. “Or—damn—I should say good evenin’! Where the days been goin’ lately?”

  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!”

  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 shift 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, damn, 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 pussy 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, shit, man, I can’t stand it—”

  “Then finally—” He leaned closer. “Finally, she walks over to the bed’n gets to fuckin’ 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?”

  “HELL, 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, shit, 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—”

  “Bullshit. 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 God 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 ass and eat you.”

  “We swear, sir, we swear to God on high, we’se’ll never talk no trash like that again.”

  “Ya best not. Now stack those fuckin’ 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 God 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 piss 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 whores ’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 whore.” 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-stitched 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 sh
e 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 breasts 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 tits or her ass!”

  Poltrock felt confounded. “Mr. Morris, did you bring that woman damn near two miles down the track bed just to show me her bosom and ass?”

  “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, shining 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.