Uncle Sam (Eleven)

⸻

Scene: Uncle Sam’s Railcar

The Union Pacific night train cut across the prairie like a glowing seam of gold, each carriage rocking in steady rhythm. But the last car — the armored one with riveted steel panels and no windows — breathed.

Inside, the temperature never varied. Brass conduits snaked along the walls like arteries, pulsing faintly with blue-white light. The center of the car was dominated by a reinforced cradle of wrought iron, and in that cradle sat Uncle Sam, the American Machine Intelligence.

He was not elegant like Steward of London, nor shaped for courtrooms or salons. Uncle Sam was built for work — broad, angular, with a chassis of thick plates designed to withstand the jarring of rough tracks, the grit of freight yards, the shocks of sabotage. His crystal mind-panels were set deep beneath a grill of protective steel ribs. Not decorative. Functional.

He inhaled.

A low hum filled the car as his copper lungs drew in air through industrial filters. Sensors flickered to life up and down his frame, attuning themselves to the motion of the train, calculating stress on the rails, plotting the next twelve stations ahead in less than a second.

A telegraph coil mounted to his spine rattled once, then steadied.

Incoming message.

Sam’s eyes — two narrow bands of pale light — brightened.

REFORMATION OFFICE ORDERS:

NEXT ASSIGNMENT—COUNTERFEIT INVESTIGATION.

TARGET REGION: DAKOTA TERRITORIES.

THE TRAIN WILL DIVERT SOUTH AT WINDMILL JUNCTION.

PRIORITY: HIGH.

The message clicked to a halt.

Sam did not need to nod, but the heavy plates of his head lowered slightly, a motion like a man adjusting his hat.

“Orders acknowledged,” he rumbled, voice deep as a locomotive boiler roaring to pressure.

His speech was slower than Steward’s cool precision — measured, steady, carrying the weight of iron bridges and state statutes. Every word sounded carved rather than spoken.

He extended a thick mechanical hand toward the side wall. A large panel lit up with maps of the entire country — rivers, rails, telegraph lines, mines, towns. As the train clattered over a small bridge, the map shifted automatically, anchoring him to exact position.

Uncle Sam traveled by rail for one reason:

the railroads were his veins.

He was wired into every telegraph line that ran along the tracks, listening to every click of Morse, every report sent from sheriffs, marshals, land offices, and customs posts.

From his railcar, he could sweep over half the nation each day.

He did not idle.

He monitored the night.

Grain prices. River levels. A report of a missing cattle brand. A suspicious telegram about bank withdrawals in Cheyenne. A sheriff’s inquiry about forged railroad bonds.

Each message arrived as a tap of the telegraph coil.

Each was cataloged, cross-checked, assessed.

But one thread stood out among them all:

COUNTERFEIT BILLS CIRCULATING

UNUSUAL UNIFORMITY

UNCONFIRMED SOURCE…

Sam’s lights narrowed.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I know the man.”

The train curved sharply toward Windmill Junction. Lamps outside flickered across his armored hull, casting hard-edged shadows.

His voice carried no anger.

Only certainty.

“We will pay him a visit.”

Outside, steam roared.

The railcar vibrated as the engine pulled it harder southward.

Inside, Uncle Sam powered up each subsystem one by one:

• Analytical stack

• Movement actuators

• External relay network

• Contact protocols for local law enforcement

• Pursuit calculations

• Capture strategy flowcharts

The hum rose in pitch, steady and implacable.

He was awake now.

And the counterfeit trail — faint, delicate, but unmistakably present — was already unfolding on the map before him like a vein of corruption through the Republic.

“Set course,” he said into the telegraph coils. “Destination: Dakota Territories.

Let’s get this done.”

The great railcar jolted forward as the train accelerated into the night.

Uncle Sam rolled his shoulders once, brass joints clicking with restrained power.

He did not chase criminals out of anger.

He hunted them because the Union expected the law upheld.

And Uncle Sam always — always — upheld the law.

And somewhere ahead on the rails, a man named Mason Blackwell mistook the night for cover.

Uncle Sam did not believe in the dark.

The Bills That Shouldn’t Exist

Dust rolled off the noon stagecoach as it rattled into Barrow Creek, a mining town with one bank, two saloons, and far more card tables than church pews. The heat shimmered in lazy curtains over the street, and the telegraph wires hummed like taut violin strings under the sun.

On the porch of the Bank of Barrow Creek, U.S. Treasury auditor Mr. Hiram Colby wiped his brow and unfolded a small leather case. Inside were two banknotes — worn, soft, handled by dozens of miners. Perfectly ordinary to any man with ordinary eyes.

But not to Uncle Sam.

Colby stepped into the bank’s side office, where the long brass speaking tube rose from the floor like an organ pipe. The machine wasn’t present in the flesh — its great pneumatic body was mounted miles away in a sealed government carriage. But its voice traveled through the tube, thin but resonant, like a distant wind moving through metal.

Colby cleared his throat.

“Machine, I’ve found two more.”

A rush of air answered. Gears clicked. Somewhere down the line, valves clattered and logic relays slotted into place. One of the requested functions of Uncle Sam was to analyze counterfeit currency — a problem widespread with no real solution.

UNCLE SAM:

Place the first bill against the scanner plate, Mister Colby.

Colby set the worn twenty-dollar note onto the small brass grid. Behind it, the lens flickered as the machine read light through the fibers.

UNCLE SAM:

Serial number five-seven-eight-two-three… retired twelve years ago. A counterfeit. Blackwell’s work. Please continue.

Colby placed the second bill.

UNCLE SAM:

Another match. Same plate origin. Same paper grade from the defunct Maryland mill.

Mister Colby… the pattern repeats. These bills entered circulation after a high-stakes game last night in the Moon Dancer Saloon.

Colby exhaled. “That’s three towns in a row.”

UNCLE SAM:

Three towns along a line of railway depots where Blackwell has been sighted within the last nine days, five hours, and—

A pause.

—twenty-seven minutes.

Colby stiffened. The machine never added such detail unless it was certain.

“Then he’s close?”

UNCLE SAM:

Closer than he thinks.

The telegraph on the wall spat a violent rattle. Colby grabbed the strip of paper as it unfurled.

MOON DANCER SALOON ROBBED AT DAWN STOP

DEALERS CLEANED OUT STOP

BANDIT LEFT ONLY TWENTY-DOLLAR NOTES STOP

MOST TOO NEW TO BE REAL STOP

Colby felt his stomach pitch.

“Machine… is this a new run?”

Gears surged like a storm in the tube.

UNCLE SAM:

Confirmed. The counterfeit plates are active again.

Blackwell is printing more frequently. Recklessly. He believes his luck will hold.

A hiss, like the machine breathing.

He is mistaken.

Colby looked up sharply. “Do you have a lead?”

Another burst of compressed air raced down the conduit, and Uncle Sam’s voice emerged with mechanical certainty:

UNCLE SAM:

Blackwell is heading west, toward the rail junction at Devil’s Gate.

He will attempt to board the night freight. He always runs when his stack grows too large.

Dispatch the deputies. Prepare your rifle.

And hurry, Mister Colby.

For the next counterfeit bill is already drying on his press.

Colby sprinted for the door.

From the speaking tube came one last whisper of brass and breath:

UNCLE SAM:

This time… we take him alive.

⸻

The Sound of a Limp

Uncle Sam did not rest when Colby ran from the office. His body — miles away in its armored government carriage — was already in motion.

Inside that iron container, pistons pumped like the lungs of a giant, driving cool air through miles of narrow brass veins. Banks of harmonic resonators vibrated with the thrum of information. Forty-seven mechanical ears, each shaped like a fluted bell, rotated toward the same signal.

A hand-car telegraphman on the line to Devil’s Gate was sending routine track reports, nothing unusual — but Uncle Sam was not listening to the man.

He was listening under the words.

To the gravel crunch.

To the background scrape.

To the faint, uneven rhythm behind the telegraph clicks — one foot landing firm, the other dragging just a touch, a fraction of a second behind.

A limp.

Blackwell’s limp.

Uncle Sam’s inner relays snapped into alignment with a crack like gunfire.

UNCLE SAM (internal log):

Target locomotion signature confirmed. Frequency shift indicates proximity to rail platform. Probability of boarding attempt: 93%. Begin redirecting assets.

A great flywheel spun. A coded burst fired down every telegraph line in the district.

Devil’s Gate Freight Depot

Mason Blackwell moved like a man with a storm at his back.

He clutched his coat tighter, the leather creaking, and shifted his weight off his crooked left ankle — a bad break from years ago, one that never healed right. He cursed it with each step across the dusty yard toward the line of freight cars being loaded for the evening run.

Workers rolled crates up the ramps. Livestock. Tools. Winter stores.

And at the very end of the line, resting on a dolly beneath a canvas sheet, was a wooden crate stenciled in bold black letters:

PROPERTY — FEDERAL ARCHIVES

DO NOT OPEN

Blackwell’s eyes flicked to it. A flash of panic crossed his face, then relief. His crate. The only crate large enough to hide his press, smuggled onto the freight under a forged shipping tag months ago. He would only need to run the press for a half hour or so this time.

The press and plates he could never leave behind.

A worker called out, “Hey! You with the coat — you helping load or what?”

Blackwell forced a smile. “Just makin’ sure my cargo’s handled proper.”

“You a driver?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

The worker shrugged and went back to his labor.

Blackwell tugged gently at the sheet, checking that the crate’s padlock was still bolted. Inside, the metal ribs of the press shifted softly, like a sleeping beast. One more run. One more town.

Behind him, the station telegrapher burst from his office.

“Sheriff! Wire from Barrow Creek!”

Blackwell turned sharply. His limp betrayed him — half a stumble, half a twist. The nearest railway worker noticed.

“Hey, mister, you okay?”

Blackwell straightened. “Fine.”

The telegrapher’s voice rang across the depot:

“Federal man says the counterfeiter’s here! At Devil’s Gate! The Machine tracked him to this yard!”

A ripple passed through the workers.

Blackwell froze.

Someone whispered, “Machine? They mean Uncle Sam?”

The name felt like cold fingers around his neck.

⸻

Devil’s Gate Freight Depot — The Decision

Blackwell’s eyes flicked to the crate one last time. The full weight of it would slow him, draw attention, and make escape impossible. He could hear Uncle Sam through the vibrations in the depot, anticipate his every move.

No. He wouldn’t risk it. Not the crate. Not tonight.

Instead, he knelt, producing a small set of keys from his coat. With nimble fingers, he worked the padlock — careful, precise, silent. The lock clicked open. The canvas lifted just enough to reveal the press inside, disassembled and oiled, ready for use.

He extracted the plates, carefully stacking them in his satchel. Lifting only the essential parts, he could move fast, vanish before the deputies realized what he’d done.

The crate stayed. The press stayed. Only the plates came with him.

Blackwell tucked the satchel under his coat and melted into the shadows of the depot. Every step measured, every movement deliberate. He glanced at the train’s idle cars — the night freight would be his path west, his shield against the machine and the law.

One more look at the depot. One more breath. Then he was gone, slipping toward the moving train with the ease of a man who had done this too many times to count.

Aboard the Night Freight

The night freight hissed like a cooling brand as it lurched forward. Blackwell ran beside it, grabbed a rung, and swung into the narrow vestibule between cars. Boots hit the planks with a thud lost in the roar of the engine.

Inside, the conductor — an older man with lungs full of coal dust — jerked in surprise.

“Ticket?”

Blackwell straightened, caught his breath, then pulled out a handful of bills. Counterfeit, every one, too new and crisp for suspicion.

“Private compartment,” he said. “Quiet one.”

The conductor nodded, sliding open a panel. “Compartment C. Keep the lamp low. Sheriff’s got men pokin’ around at the next stop.”

“Some counterfeiter on the loose,” the conductor added. “They say he’s crippled. Limp like a dog with a burr in his paw.”

Blackwell smiled faintly beneath his calm. He stepped inside, shut the door, and drew the curtain. He had made the train. He had the plates. He was invisible.

⸻

The Deputies Board

Deputy Hodges climbed first, lantern clenched. Behind him, two more deputies — one an Indian tracker, Jonah Whitefeather, and the town sheriff — moved through the car.

“Spread out. Check crates, passengers, every profile,” the sheriff ordered.

“But we don’t know what he looks like,” Hodges muttered.

“Then look for a man acting suspicious.”

They moved down the corridor, quiet knocks, lantern light, muttered apologies. Inside Compartment C, Blackwell heard every footstep, every creak. He didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe too deeply. A fox in a den while hounds sniffed the wrong tree.

At the far end, the sheriff tapped the telegraph to Uncle Sam.

UNCLE SAM:

He is there. I am listening. The one who does not move… the one whose heartbeat does not change… is your man.

The sheriff stiffened. “Then keep listening. Tell us when we’re close.”

But Uncle Sam had already found him: Compartment C.

⸻

The Jump

The questioning had been brief. The sheriff’s lantern silhouetted him, probing.

“No limp here,” Blackwell said, calm as a man in a parlor. The gambler played his bluff.

They moved on. Thirty breaths later, the engine chuffed harder. The train slowed for the mountain grade.

Perfect.

Blackwell yanked open the window and vaulted through. He hit the rocky slope, rolled until scrub stopped him. Pain shot up his bad ankle. By the next bend, he was gone.

⸻

Discovery

The deputies regrouped at the siding. Compartment C was empty.

“Damn it,” the sheriff hissed.

Hodges leaned out. “Could’ve broken his fool neck.”

“Or he didn’t,” the sheriff growled.

Jonah Whitefeather knelt in the dust, reading the faint prints and scuffs invisible to others.

“He landed here. Hard. Rolled there. Limped that way,” he whispered.

The chase had begun.

⸻

Scene: The Hunter and the Hunted

Night had fallen like a black curtain over the canyon. The wind whispered through the pines, carrying the faint metallic scent of the night freight miles behind. Jonah Whitefeather crouched near the edge of a clearing, eyes sharp and ears tuned to every rustle, every snapped twig.

The faint, uneven impressions in the soil told him where Blackwell had rolled, limped, and vanished into the trees. No machine could feel the subtle tension of a hunted man in the wild, but Jonah’s instincts did. He followed, silent as shadow.

A glimmer of firelight ahead caught his attention. He slowed, moving with the patience of a predator. There, in a small clearing, a campfire burned low. Blackwell sat on a log, hunched over a rabbit impaled on a spit. The smell of roasting meat filled the air. The counterfeiter’s hands shook slightly as he sharpened his knife, unaware he was being watched.

Jonah leaned against a tree, revolver in hand. He didn’t call out. No need. The moonlight traced the outline of the fugitive, and the rhythm of the fire told him everything he needed.

Blackwell paused, sniffing the air. He had the sense of someone being watched but no way to pinpoint where. His ankle throbbed from the jump, and fatigue had begun to settle like a weight. He adjusted the satchel containing the plates.

Jonah stepped into a patch of moonlight. His voice was calm, steady, carrying the authority of inevitability.

“Evenin’, Mason Blackwell.”

The fugitive froze. One hand went to the satchel, the other brushing against the knife. His eyes darted into the darkness.

“Who… who’s there?” he stammered.

Jonah tipped his hat. “Just a man who reads the land better than any machine, Blackwell. That’s why you’ll be stayin’ right here.”

A single motion — the flick of a wrist, the six-shooter rising smoothly to the mark. Blackwell’s knife never left the log. Jonah’s aim was unerring; the revolver barked once. A shot rang out. The bullet lodged in a tree just behind Blackwell, who flinched back in shock.

“I said, stay,” Jonah said, stepping closer. Calm. Certain. Unyielding.

Blackwell raised his hands slowly. The firelight danced across his face, revealing panic and the first real hint of defeat. Jonah’s eyes never wavered. He had tracked him by foot, by intuition, by the knowledge that humans leave trails in ways machines cannot fully predict.

The satchel was taken, the plates secured. The counterfeiter had nowhere left to run.

Jonah knelt, adjusting the fire so it burned brighter. The rabbit continued to roast, a small absurdity in a moment of triumph.

“A man can follow the ground,” Jonah said quietly, almost to himself, “but he must also read the man upon it. That’s the difference.”