American railroads at the end of the 19th century grew at such a phenomenal rate that the border of civilization often followed the end of track, rather than the track reach into it. Marceline was one of those towns that grew up with the railroad at its center. While the outskirts gained respectable homes and tree-lined boulevards, Main Street and downtown wrapped around the Western & Atlantic Railroad's bustling yard. A railroad yard was built like a balloon, with a large body and a thin neck. The switch crews worked at the neck, pulling and driving lines upon lines of cars down the body.
The saluki raised her hand to shade her face from the noon-sun. She had to take caution as she walked through the railroad yard, her heeled boots crunching in the cinder and ballast stone. Strings of heavy railroad cars stood before and behind her and on every side, six tracks deep. There were oil-cars, hay-cars, potato-cars with stovepipe-ends sticking out in the middle, and stock-cars full of blowing beasts. All around were all manner of boxcar loaded, locked, and chalked. They slid backward and forward with the clashing of couplers and squeals of hand-brakes.
Rita's world was the railroad yard, yet she had never touched a handbrake, nor held a switch-list. She wasn't even an employee of the Western & Atlantic, yet her place in the yard was as vital to the railroad's success as any engineer. Pinned to the inside of her lapel was a badge emblazoned with the logo of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. She kept it hidden so that it wouldn’t attract attention, pinned only should the need arise.
Her job was to keep tabs on the railroad's property, which often than not meant patrolling the yard for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Occasionally she would ride a train to accompany a high value cargo, or stand watch at the depot when mail trains arrived or departed. She wanted to blend into the background among the many crew that crawled among and between and under the thousand wheels. Just another one of the regiments of railroaders that ran along the tops of the cars, screwing down brakes, waving their arms, and shouting directions.
Rita stepped over a track and peered down a line of ventilated fruit- and milk-cars. She stopped to examine the doors of a cold-storage and refrigerator car that was dripping ice water on the tracks. Her tail fluttered side to side as she noted the lock was secure, then moved on. It was a slow day in the yard so far, which was as she preferred.
“Quarter past,” Rita muttered to herself as she checked the Waltham railroad watch that hung from her waistcoat pocket. “Running late, again.”
She knew the train schedule by heart, and the freight train that was currently being built was one that required some special attention from her. She pursed her lips and blew a lock of brown hair out from in front of her face.
The line of cars started to move with a jostle and clatter of iron couplers. This particular train had turned up with broken locks and tampered seals a few days in a row. Nothing had been stolen, so it was likely freeloaders just hopping the train for a ride. Enough to put Rita on her guard.
“Heyah, Rita!” came a cry from above.
Rita stopped, and looked up as a string of freight cars clattered past her. The yard conductor, a gray furred terrier, peered down at her from up on the running-board.
“Hello, Scamp,” the Pinkerton called back, hands on her hips. “You guys almost done?”
“Just this last bunch!” Scamp's voice carried over the car-tops and Rita spotted the young canine's legs and stubby tail dip over the side as he descended the ladder anchored to the flank of the boxcar. As the line of cars slipped over a switch in the track, the mongrel stumbled off just a few paces ahead of the yardbull.
Rita paced alongside the moving train, her own walking speed more than enough to keep up. She could see Scamp's fingers counting off as he calculated the number of cars and how much room he would need for the next move. As the locomotive approached, pushing the line of cars, the mutt held his arm up and signaled with his hand when it was safe to stop.
“See that thirty-car freight sitting in four, no, five tracks off?” Scamp thumbed over his shoulder. “It's all mixed freight, sent here to be sorted out into straight trains. That's why we're cutting out the cars one by one.”
“Of course, it's not my regular business, but I can't say I don't think it's interesting.”
“Unfortunately, it's made us behind time, again.” Scamp's ears dipped. “It's always like this, day and night. Sundays and week-days.”
“You think you can make up the time?” Rita asked.
Scamp's mouth turned up in a sly smile. “It's only a matter of moments. I think a flying switch should gain us that.”
Rita watched with her hands on her hips, her ears suddenly ringing with the clang of the locomotive bell. The switch locomotive was a sturdy thing with only two sets of drive wheels placed so close together it looked like a cat with its back arched. With a sharp rap of the whistle, it slipped forward past the saluki, the brake-pump panting and the coupler lying wide open, ready for the next joint. The whole of its flank was covered with half-burnt coal-dust.
Scamp swung the big lever and with a grunt threw the track switch. It took some effort as here in the yard, switches were stubby and often unaccommodating for either fur or iron. The switch locomotive rocked forward and jerked across the switch. Then it whirled backward with the rear drivers clinking and clanking only to be held hiccuping on the brake until the rear couplers locked into a Red D, or Merchant's Transport car. Scamp climbed aboard the rear steps of the locomotive and with no visible hint of the weight behind, the switcher started up anew with a cough of exhaust. As soon as they had the cut of cars moving, Scamp yanked the coupling pin, releasing them.
“Watch this slick move!” The grinning mutt called out as they rattled past where Rita stood.
A switch was left open in the shadows of a big signal gantry ahead. The switch locomotive turned up it right before Scamp stepped off the front and snapped the switch shut behind the locomotive, diverting the long line of cars to jolt into the arms of a full-sized road-loco. The larger engine acknowledged receipt with a dry howl. Scamp walked back towards the brown furred detective.
“You're pretty good at that trick.” Rita tilted her head to the side. “A flying switch, huh?”
“Talent,” the conductor gave a mock bow, his stubby tail quivering at the seat of his trousers.
“I would think you're the smartest in the yard,” Rita chuckled. “Gives me cold shivers were I to try it.”
Scamp shrugged. “I just know the equipment. That's where the yard goat's short wheel-base comes in. More than likely you'd have the tender scraped off if a road engine tried it.”
“Have you seen Chief around lately?” Rita changed the subject.
“He's been rather flighty today.” Scamp snorted and shook his head so hard that his ears flopped audibly. “There's three or four strings of today's freight to be pulled, and that's after we get this train out. When he waves his hands, things happen.”
“So, no one is in the body of the yard right now?” An eyebrow rose as Rita turned her head in the direction of the lines of standing cars.
“Not a soul,” Scamp shot the Pinkerton a questioning look. “I try to stay out unless I need to be down there. Too dangerous with us shoving cuts back and forth.”
“Thanks,” The saluki gave a curt nod, then turned to walk towards the lines of freight cars.
“Going to tell me what's up?” Scamp slipped an arm behind his head, his mouth cocked.
“Nope,” Rita gave a sly smile over her shoulder as she casually paced between the two tracks.
She was kind to the railroaders, but she never told them exactly what she was up too or looking for. Most of them understood her position outside their circle, and despite the camaraderie that existed among them, they knew that Rita was to be left alone. A railroad agent was a lone wolf. In many ways, she wasn't much different from those she hunted. All that Scamp needed to know was that someone was down between tracks in the body of the yard.
Soon she was walking in the shadows between two lines of cars in the storage tracks. To each side of her stood the flat sides of boxcars, flatcars with truck-wagons full of market-stuff and flatcars piled high with strong-scented hides, pleasant smelling hemlock-planks, and bundles of shingles. As she walked, she inspected the locks and seals of each car. So far, there was nothing amiss. Each door was locked tight, and the tin seal was unbroken. She poked her head into the open doors of a few empties, but saw nothing other then a stray newspaper or leftover piles of straw.
Rita was just walking past some flatcars that creaked with the weight of thirty-ton castings, angle-irons, and rivet-boxes for some new bridge; when she saw over the deck a boxcar with its door ajar and the lock hanging off the latch. She pulled herself up onto the flatcar, and over to the other side. Her boots hit the cinder with a soft 'crunch' and her heavy skirt fluttered like a parachute around her legs. Immediately she noticed that the cars all in a line leading away from her had their locks pried.
Nearby, the sound of a boxcar door rolling open perked her ears.
Reaching into her vest, she drew out the small cap and ball revolver that was snug enough to just fit in her hand, and held it close to her chest. She placed her back towards the line of cars, staying just clear in case it started to move, and eased her way along. Somewhere behind her one of the cuts of cars started moving with a heavy jounce of iron, making her jump slightly. She found herself approaching a big M.K.T Boxcar, with white painted sides. Its door was cracked open, and inside she could pick up hushed voices and the sound of wood sliding on the floorboards.
The yardbull put her back against the side of the car, next to the door. She kept her hand on the revolver, and slowly turned to peek into the car.
Her shoulders slumped as her whole body relaxed. She slipped the revolver back into her vest and she twirled around to face the car, laying both her arms on the car floor.
“Really? Hitting up freight cars in my yard.” She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “C'mon guys, show a little respect.”
Inside the car, three dogs were going over the kegs and casks that were stacked almost to the roof. A few of the wooden barrels were scattered across the floor, their tops plucked off and cast aside. The nearest one, a wiry chihuahua with a ripped ear, instantly lit up upon seeing her. “Hey look! It's senorita Reeeetia!”
“Well now, no need to shout!” A bulldog stepped up, his head seeming to spill out from under a dented derby. He motioned with a thick hand to a Great Dane. “Einstein, get over here and gaze upon a friend.”
Einstein towered over the other two, and he tipped his slouch hat in greeting. “Hello Rita. Ghosh, it's been a while.”
“Yeah, like six months!” Tito's high-pitched voice bristled with a Latin tongue. He scratched under the brim of his slouch hat. “What a time to find us, sister.”
“Now Tito, as good as it is to see you, and I mean that, what on earth are you guys doing picking through boxcars?” Rita chuckled.
“What does it look like we're doing?” The bulldog ran his knuckles over his chest to dust them off. “Pulling a little bit of a gaff and seeing what's there to be had.”
“Always the eloquent speaker, aren't you Francis.” The saluki rapped her fingers on the doorframe. “Let me guess, Marceline’s coolest cad put you up to this?”
Tito shook his head. “Who, the Dodge-man? Nah, he's been just as scarce as you.”
“Hey! I hear you're a Pinkerton now.” Einstein spoke slowly, drawing out each word.
Tito frowned. “Yeah, what's up with that? Don't tell me you're wearing a badge.”
Rita slyly tipped her head to the side, and slipped a hand under her lapel to flip the band of cloth upright. Her badge caught the sun and gleamed like a clean penny.
“Whoa, getta load of the hardware. Never thought I would have seen the day.” Tito whistled before his eyes lit up with realization. “Hey boys, we got ourselves an 'in' now!”
“Think again, Tito. This is my yard now, and I'm going to keep it clean. What you guys do on the streets is your own. But not here in my yard.”
“Yes mother,” The chihuahua crossed his arms and snorted. “You can be a real fusspot sometimes.”
“I'm not your mother, but I will knock some sense into you.” Rita’s ears hiked forward. “For a start, if you guys can't keep your sticky fingers to yourselves, at least learn how to cover your tracks a little better. I've been seeing jimmied locks for days now.”
Francis growled in the chihuahua's direction. “I told yah, you needed to rake the ruddy things, not smash 'em open.”
“Hey! Lay off, Frankie. Who's the expert lock-pick here?”
Francis drew back sharply and curled his lip in disgust, before turning his attention back towards Rita. “So, you're going on the prim and narrow? I understand going straight, but why on earth would you become a bloody crusher?”
“I'm still trying to figure that one out myself. Steady money and honest work I suppose.” Rita shrugged. “I've thought about trying to settle before, but I never stayed with it too long.”
“Oh balderdash,” the bulldog grunted. “Since when were the words 'honest' and 'Pinkerton' ever next to each other in the same sentence?”
“Look...Dodger got into a little trouble up in Chattanooga. I answered the ad so that I could let him slip away.” She raised her chin. “I just decided that I liked not having to worry about eating. Maybe you guys should join up too.”
“Me! A Pinkerton, noooo thank you. I would rather stab myself with a broken bottle,” Tito declared.
Einstein's face dropped. “So, does that mean you're not one of us anymore?”
“Of course not, honey.” Rita's voice was calm and soothing. “I'll always be there to help you, any of you, should yah need it. I'm just also thinking about the future. Maybe I'm just trying to make myself feel good...I got a suspicion I am. but living under railway arches isn't what I want to do all my life.”
“But C'mon Rita. We can make it big now. You look the other way, let us slip a few here and there, you get a kickback and no one knows a thing.” Tito practically hopped in place. “It's perfect! It's what the Dodge would have done.”
“Sorry Tito. Times are changing. The streets are paved with gold and I aim to take my fair share. Just happens that this side of the badge is where the tides have shifted.”
There came a rumble, like rolling thunder, as the slack between the couplers was drawn taught and the string of cars suddenly jerked forward. The three dogs inside the boxcar were forced to brace themselves as the line of cars started to creep into motion. Rita could spy the thick rope of smoke rising over the car-tops as the switch locomotive dug its heels into the rails.
The Saluki stood back from the door. “And you all best be getting out of here. Otherwise as soon as they get this cut of cars moving, I'll have to make a show of catching yah.”
Tito slipped out of the car with a graceful hop, while Francis stumbled down to the cinders, grumbling as he hit the earth with a heavy “Oof.” Einstein simply stepped out of the car, his long legs giving him plenty of purchase to ease down to terra firma. There was another clatter, and the cut of cars started to pick up speed. As soon as the last car cleared, Rita waved the group over the set of tracks, and they started to follow them away from where the crews were working.
The railroad yard's body was bordered mostly by a wooden fence tall enough to prevent wandering eyes from looking over, but loosely maintained where it was out of sight of the offices and the roundhouse. Soon they were at the far north end of the yard, looking down on the two-track way of the main traffic. Rita knew of a spot where the fence had a few gaps between loose boards, and sure enough she found daylight poking through between a cast off newspaper and an old coat laying in the ditch.
“There should be a passenger train rolling through any second. Perfect time to slip away.” She tilted her head with a playful smile as she raised the loose board. “Let me know when yah boys are traveling.”
“You got it, sister.” Tito winked at her as he slipped through the gap in the fence.
“Just, stick to the empties. No more jimmied locks in my yard.” Rita looked over her shoulder as Einstein wiggled his body through the small gap.
There came a loud whistle. A plume of smoke rose around the curve and grew into an overpowering column as the express whooped up the humming track. Rita turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of the superb eight-wheel locomotive, who hauled the pride and glory of the road; the gilt-edged Flying Dutchman. The millionaires' south-bound express was screaming into the yard with a blur of side rods and a wailing whistle. For a second, the saluki made out the furred brown face and the fluttering red ears of the spaniel engineer, leaning her head out the cab window. The rest was a blur of maroon enamel, a bar of light reflected from the glass in the cars, and a flicker of nickel-plated hand-rail on the rear platform.
Francis had just passed through when Rita let the board fall back into place. Giving the board a sold kick with the back of her foot to make sure it was anchored, she spun around to look back into the yard. Smoke from the Flying Dutchman's passage still hung in the air. The train itself would be grinding to a stop at the Marceline depot. She would have to hotfoot it across the yard to reach the platforms in time to keep watch before its departure.
A hand slipped down to retrieve the Waltham railroad watch. A whistle from the freight train that Scamp had been putting together sounded, wailing like a banshee. Rita let out a gentle snort. The freight train was set to leave but she would have to make a show of finding all those broken locks before it left the yard to cover for her friends. This would make the freight train late, as well as keep the Pinkerton off the platforms for the Dutchman. She curled her lip at the thought of the chewing out she would receive for that.
She slipped the watch back into her waistcoat. “Sorry Scamp, maybe tomorrow you'll get that thing out on time.”
*From the Catskill Archive's Glossary of Railroad Lingo* YARDBULL: A railroad guard whose primary role is to protect railroad property, employees, and passengers. Also called flatfoot or gumshoe, but the distinctive railroad terms are cinder dick, 'bo chaser, and yardbull.
*****
Hired to protect the railroad from villainy and crime, Rita finds herself seeking out the source for a number of break in and burglaries in the Western & Atlantic's railyard. Little did she know, the path would lead to a familiar set of faces.
A short SFW story, but one that I enjoyed writing for the characters.
