Special Delivery

The Beast without a story chomped methodically and looked out upon the world.

Enos Granville III awoke to a pain that felt like a spike had been driven through his head. He assumed he was alive for in his opinion pain was strictly for the living. If he was dead he didn’t want to know about it. Where was he? How had he gotten here? Pain was chasing away all thought. He couldn’t even make the effort to open his eyes. He drifted back into unconsciousness. When he came to again the pain was slightly less and curiosity slightly stronger. He seemed to be laying on his side, a steady rumble and a systematic clacking vibrating his body. He attempted to engage his memory.

Sure. He’d been leaning forward in a tentative attempt to kiss Sweet Molly Malone, for the first time, as she waited to board the Fireball 88. The time had seemed so right, her innocent blue eyes and gently parted lips an invitation for a sweet but hopeful farewell. Her eyes had fluttered closed as his lips touched hers. That was the last thing he remembered. But oh the pain! What the hell had happened? Whatever it was had happened at that moment.

Molly Malone counted her money again. Enos was a very nice young man. She liked him a great deal. He was handsome and gentle and courteous. He was so pleasant and unassuming that she might not have noticed him unless directed to do so. But a man (who somehow knew her secret) approached her and offered her a remarkable sum of money and a promise to keep her secret safe, simply to let a young man court her for a short time. She gave her uneasy assent. After all, she had done far more for far less and turned her life into a predicament. The man had pointed out Enos as he was looking at a poster on Boyds Opera House. Molly had never seen a play or an opera or anything like that but within a week she had that gentleman, standing right there, asking her to the Opera House, not no see an opera, but a debate between the Editor of the Daily Bee and Susan B. Anthony. Afterwords, Enos asked if she thought women should be allowed to vote.

“Of course I do” she said. “I think a woman should be able to do anything a man does.”

“And so”, he said, “should a man be able to do anything a woman does?”

“Oh, definitely not” she said.

"And why not?”

“He’d mess it up, that’s why.”

That made Enos laugh a great deal, but she knew she was right and that made her a little bit sad. But that was weeks ago and now it was time to complete her last task. She had told Enos she would be leaving town to visit relatives in California but would be back in a three weeks. Enos walked with her to the station, carrying the small bag she pretended to have packed for the trip. Just as the train pulled in Enos leaned forward. The kiss had seemed so sweet and so genuine. Too bad they knocked him so hard on the head! When he landed on the platform two “gentlemen” kneeled down, feigned concern, glanced around in the dark and swiftly dragged him behind a luggage cart.

She counted her money one more time and then headed to Miss Dooley’s house to get the baby. “That Enos wore some fine clothes,” she thought to herself.

Molly Malone’s benefactors expected a handsome return on their efforts. A significant sum and been invested in their operation including cash for Molly Malone, for the thugs who conked and moved Granville at the station and for postal employees at both ends, Omaha and San Francisco. Also, another set of “movers” at the San Francisco station. And of course the train fair. First Class for them. Carl Jenson and Jim Edges. Big Time Little Guys who hoped that this project would allow them to retire and become upstanding citizens. Edges gazed around the interior of the Pullman. He had never traveled by train. So this was how the fancy people lived. Now he knew why he had always wanted to be fancy. This was nice. Jesus almighty! There were chandeliers on the ceiling. He was pretty sure the paneling was walnut. Jenson motioned for Edges to get up and directed him through another parlor car and into the dining car. They sat facing each other at a table for two with a white tablecloth. “Nice, eh?” muttered Jenson. “This could be us. I mean, it is us, but it could be our ordinary thing. Big Time Big Guys.”

Edges eyes darted nervously away from a waiter passing by. “Yeah,” he said. “ I could get used to it.” He wiped the perspiration on his hand against the bottom edge of the tablecloth draped across his lap. “I been thinking about our cargo” he whispered.

Jenson raised an eyebrow. “That’s nice.”

Edges whisper got lower but more urgent. “He needs water! He could die of thirst in four days.”

Jenson smiled, and pulled out a pipe, which he took the time to inspect, load with tobacco, and light, then took a puff or two before saying, “Relax. All set.”

“But.."

“Don’t worry. I’ve got some genius who works for the postal service looking after him. He’ll be fine.” Jenson put his hand up and called out, “Waiter, please bring us each a whiskey. He pointed to Edges. “Make his a double.”

Enos opened his eyes. He could see nothing. A dim, diffuse light, nothing more. What was that smell? Damp canvass? Possibly. His knees were pushed up against his chest. The pain in his head kept him from feeling the rest of the aches and pains that must surely be there. He wiggled his head slightly. Yes, it felt like his nose was rubbing against canvass. The feeling of motion, the regular clack. Was he in a train? Yes, that made sense. Except for one small thing. It didn’t make sense at all! Why was he laying in a train car with a splitting headache, and a face full of canvas? Just then the sound changed. The clacking got louder for a moment, then softer. He saw the shadow of a door closing.

He had the sensation that someone was bending over him. Something was being pulled and twisted just above his head. He could hear soft cursing. “What in Andrew Jackson’s parrot!,” he thought he heard. And then an opening occurred and the canvas parted and a pair of hands pushed it down around his neck. He was in a mailbag.

“Ok kid,” a guy with bulging eyes and a massive beard whispered. “You’re gonna do what I say or you’re gonna be gettin’ off this train early.” He stopped a moment and bulged his eyes fiercely. “You get me?” Enos only nodded, because it occurred to him that something was stuffed in his mouth.

“Ok, I’m gonna tell you some stuff, and then maybe I’m gonna take this gag out your mouth.” Enos nodded again. “All right. Here’s the deal. I’m gonna bring you a bit of food and some water for the next four days. I’m gonna bring you a slop pail a couple times a day so you can relieve yourself. You be a good boy and at the end you’ll be all safe and sound, no worse for wear. Otherwise…” He made a motion like he was like he was tossing something very large out a door. He then pulled a gun and put it to Enos’ head. “Now, I’m gonna take this gag out, and if you have any questions you can ask ‘em. I have any problems and it’s gonna get very loud in here for just a second. Would you like that?” Enos shook his head a vigorous NO. The gag was removed. “Questions?”

Enos whispered fiercely, “What is going on?”

“Well in your case you’re being kidnapped?” He scratched his beard but held the gun steady.

“Kidnapped? Why would anyone want to…” But the sentence died in his mouth. He got it. He had never given it much thought, but now it seemed very clear.

“Any other questions smart boy?”

“Are we going to San Francisco?”

“You’ll enjoy the weather. If things work out, you can have a family reunion soon. For now your hands are tied real good. I’m gonna show you what a nice guy I am and leave your head out here in the fresh air.” He picked up what appeared to be an old sock and a piece of rope. “Back in goes the gag. I’m after the slop bucket.” Then Enos was alone again. He suddenly realized he really had to whiz and hoped his new friend would be back real soon.

The Simpson/Edwards gang planned and executed the robbery. Arlo Simpson, his older brother Buddy, and Axle Edwards, lone survivor of the Edwards clan rode into the burg of Yesterday’s News. Though Axle was the only Edwards left he was the undisputed leader of the gang. Six Simpsons, one Edwards, an even 50/50 split of loot between families. Axle was tall and thin. His eyes were a granite gray and his body might well have been made of the manganese steel of the rails. He looked like someone who never backed down. The three approached the small building that was the station. They shuffled through the door, led by the nervous, profusely sweaty, and somewhat stinky Buddy, who stepped up to the ticket window. The station agent, Jim Barker, looked up from a pile of papers he was studying, pushed back his chair and moved to the window. He wore a waistcoat, was clean shaven except for a handsome set of muttonchops. Barker, affable and observant, a solid agent who knew it pays to pay attention. “May I help you fellas?”

Buddy cleared his throat and haltingly constructed a sentence, as though he was out of practice. “Um, uh, so, what time do the train come, um arrive? Arrive at.”

Barker noticed Axle standing back from the others, jaw clenched and a burning look on his face. He’s the boss Barker thought. He turned his attention back to Buddy, who had taken off his Stetson and was rubbing sweat off his brow and wiping it on his pants. “Which train?”

A look of profound confusion came over Buddy’s face. “Ain’t there but one?”

Barker kept his voice neutral. “Well, there’s one that goes east and one that goes west.”

“Ah” said Buddy. “A course there is. Um… west, that’s over by California, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Oh, good,” sighed Buddy, as though he a passed some test. “Yup, that’s the one.”

“That one arrives at noon tomorrow. Would you like tickets?”

Buddy looked quickly back toward Axle and then turned back to Barker. “Not now. We’ll get ‘em tomorrow .”

“OK. The train is in the station for 20 minutes. If it gets here on time it leaves on time” said Barker matter of factly.

Arlo had been standing quietly wondering if the a recent kick to the head Buddy had taken from his horse was affecting this conversation. Now he pushed forward and maneuvered his head around Buddy. He paused and then in a low voice said to Barker, “We know where you live.” Barker glanced briefly at Axle, then looked down and used the fingers of his right hand to brush nothing much off the counter. He turned his gaze to Arlo. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Enos had plenty of time to think. He wondered whether the people doing this had hurt Molly. Mr. Fuzzball, the moniker he had given his captor, was of no use, responding with “ I don’t know nothin’.” It seemed to be his favorite sentence. Mr. Fuzzball didn’t “know nothin’” about the kidnapping, the train schedule, Molly and her safety, apparently didn’t know a thing about his own family, where he came from, whether it was day or night, what that stuff he was feeding Enos was (whatever it was wasn’t good), how long until Enos could relieve himself again, or what the Pacific Ocean looked like, although did mention that it was“mostly water”. What he did state was that his grandfather often shouted “ Andrew Jackson’s parrot” when he was angry, but he didn’t “know nothin’” about what it meant. All in all, however, Mr. Fuzzball was a pleasant fellow, who would occasionally sit and smoke a pipe on a bench next to Enos, and would even chat a bit before reinserting the gag and wandering off to do who knew what. Once Enos asked him what he would do with his share of the money for the kidnapping. Mr. Fuzzball sat picking things out of his beard for quite a while.

“Huh. I don’t know.”

“You could buy a book.”

“Why would I wanna do that?”

“Just a suggestion.”

“I don’t know. I’m a pretty busy feller.”

Arlo, Buddy and Axle arrived at the station just as the train was pulling in. The station was empty and nobody else was boarding the train but it was a water stop. The trio entered the station as the crew was attending to the train. Adopting the same configuration as the day before they stood before the ticket counter. Buddy exuded confidence this time.

“How much for three tickets to Prestonville?” he asked.

Barker consulted a worn chart peering carefully at the rows and columns. “Third class?”

“Yup sir,” replied Buddy.

“That will be $30.”

Buddy stepped back and had a whispered consultation with Axle. Buddy then stepped up and said, “We’re happy to give you $3.” Barker looked into the hard stare of Axle Edwards. He pursed his lips together, blew out a puff of air and said quietly, “That seems reasonable.” He handed Buddy the three tickets and Buddy carefully set three silver dollars on the counter. Barker gave a small nod. “Take care gentlemen. Thanks for riding the Union Pacific.” He knew that would be two weeks out of his wages. Years later, when he would tell the story he would call it the best money he ever spent.

Buddy handed a ticket to each of his associates and they strolled out onto the platform. The rest of the Simpson/Edwards gang bided their time miles away in a shaded stand of trees a ways off from the tracks. They’d be able to see the train in plenty of time to get into position.

Buddy made a move to enter a car. “Not that one fool!” hissed Arlo.

“Why not?”

“Look in there. That’s the Chinamens car.”

Buddy took a close look into a cramped, packed car full of Chinese sitting on benches looking forlorn. “They’s packed in there like animals. What’d they do to deserve that?”

Axle gritted his teeth. “They built the damn railroad. They’ll know better next time. Now follow me and shut up.”

Jenson and Edges were seated again at a table with a fine white tablecloth. The time had passed pleasantly. Things were going well with their cargo and they were living in style.

Enos tried in vain to calculate how long he’d been held captive. The train started to move again.

The Beast without a story felt a vibration. He breathed deeply and evenly. In, out, in, out. He looked around. His spirit suggested motion. He slowly moved to gather his tribe, his clan, his peers, his associates, call them what you will.

Melvin Diggins was not a man to be pushed around, so to speak. Weighing a good 350 pounds with a temperament like an angry bear he was not the sort to be messed with, especially cooped up in an overheated engine on a scorching day following a sleepless night. The crew knew well enough not to mess with this engineer, but the lanky stranger with granite eyes who had pushed his way into the engine didn’t bat an eye.

“Stop the train” said the stranger.

“Fuck your mother,” replied Melvin.

The lanky stranger didn’t react. “Stop the train.”

“Fuck your sister,” shouted Melvin.

The stranger raised his eyes to the ceiling and then back down to Melvin. “Stop the train.”

Melvin turned around and pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go. The eyes of every crew member bulged.

Melvin curled his hands into bunches of fives, slowly turned around, and in a supremely calm voice whispered, “Fuck your dead uncle.”

The lanky stranger calmly lifted his right arm, pulled back the hammer with his thumb, and blew Melvins brains out. Fortunately Melvin had seen it coming and escaped through a side door in his mind before things got messy. Axle turned to the crew as he slid his gun back into its holster. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I hope I can rely upon your cooperation.”

But the crew all stared straight ahead, eyes wide open in horror.

Enos furrowed his brow. The tempo of the clacking had doubled. Maybe tripled.

Edges was holding a cup of hot tea and blowing on it gently. Jenson was adjusting the angle of the cigar in his mouth by moving his jaw back and forth. In his left hand he swirled a snifter of whiskey as he gazed out at what he would describe as an extraordinary amount of nothing. But why in God's name was the train moving so fast?

Union Pacific: investigator’s preliminary report on the wreck of the Fireball 88

Maynard Gibbs sat at his desk in the Cheyanne office and composed an informal narrative that he would review when he worked up the official report to the company. He tried to visualize the sights and remember the conversations he had while on the scene.

I was told that the accident was a derailment caused when the Fireball 88, traveling at full throttle slammed into a herd of buffalo. When I arrived the cause seemed to be exactly that. It’s clear that that’s what happened. The why seems complicated. The first puzzle is why the train was traveling downhill at full throttle when the crash occurred, derailing the entire train and sending all cars (with the exception of the mail car and the caboose) rolling down an embankment and into a powerful stretch of a little river named (forgot name, need to find out from Myers). At the scene bison carnage and the distance various items were ejected from the train suggest high impact. All on board but one are deceased. That’s a total of 238 dead, in addition to 108 buffalo.

Next. The group searching for survivors, found the engineer dead of a gunshot wound to the head. It was mentioned by investigator Beatrice Feist that Bison do not carry firearms but might be better off if they did. Leave that out. The brass aren’t partial to humor.

Maynard stopped for a moment and gazed out the window and across the street at a handsomely carved wooden sign that read ‘W.G Harrington-Gunsmith and Firearms Dealer.' Below it, and less handsome was one that read ‘Help Wanted- No Irish need apply’. He wondered to himself how a woman had ever gotten a job as a Railway Investigator. He looked back to his work.

Five local farmers commissioned to construct eternity boxes for all human victims. Need clarification on disposition of bodies.

It appears that the Union Pacific will collect its own reward on Arlo Simpson, Axle Edwards and Buddy Simpson. They were in a car found with the safe and the tools necessary for its removal. Also dynamite. They are no longer at large. They will be joining the Dirt Nap Club. (scratch that) Safe contained gold ingots valued at approx $300,000 and considerable United States Postal payroll.

The lone survivor. Enos Granville III. Twenty-eight years of age. Hie father,Enos II, is a timber barren. Very wealthy. Enos was found lying on the floor of the mail car tied up and stuffed in a mail bag with his head sticking out. Not seriously injured. (This appears to be a kidnapping thwarted by a herd of buffalo.) Enos claims to have been knocked on the head while at the station platform and remembers nothing until he woke up in the mail car. Says he was saying goodbye to a female at the station, but she was the one who was leaving. Name. Molly Malone. We suspect that his kidnappers were amongst those killed in the crash and have telegrammed Omaha, Enos II and also U.P. bigwigs. E.G. III declined medical treatment and was uninterested in help or transportation from us.

An unlikely coincidence, but the kidnapping and the robbery seem to be two unrelated crimes occurring simultaneously on the Fireball 88 . Another note. Investigators found tracks of 6 horses in a grove called Shady Willy’s by local residents. The tracks led to the site of the crash and scattered. We are quite certain these belong to the rest of the Simpson/Edwards gang. Search posse’s are attempting pursuit. Further note. The survivor did not have a railway ticket so technically he was not a passenger.

Enos sat on a bench. His suit was rumpled. His hair was rumpled. Even his mind seemed rumpled. He shivered. A cold fog was drifting about. He was beginning to think he might not like San Francisco weather. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper. His eyes drifted uncomprehendingly down to the bottom of the page. He saw the signature at the bottom, looked up a moment and then crumpled the unread letter in his hand. Standing up he stretched his aching body. He walked back into the station and up to the ticket window. A clerk with nose like the beak of an owl looked up and sniffed. It occurred to Enos that maybe he didn’t smell so good.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to buy a ticket for Omaha.”

“What class?”

The ghosts of the Beast without a story & company roam the land. They do not function on story. They gaze into the distance seeing something we do not see.