Coulter approached the conductor, once the train was in motion again, and said, “I don’t understand.”

“What?”

“Anything.”

The conductor looked annoyed. He said, “What do you want from me.”

“I want to know why I’m here.”

“You had a need. We only go where someone has a great need. That’s all I can tell you. I let people on, I let them off, and I warn them of the future. That’s my whole job. I’m not here to explain.

The conductor went on, “You could tell me why you are here. What was your need, that was so great?”

“Need? I was stark naked, without a weapon, and I was being chased by about a thousand Blackfeet who wanted my scalp. All of a sudden, there was a station and a steam train with a single coach. Of course I didn’t know that was what it was. I had never seen one before. But you threw open the door and I jumped in about two steps in front of those braves. Don’t you remember?”

“Somewhat.” Then, for the first time, the conductor smiled a little. “I have opened that door for more people than you could count, but you were running faster than anyone I ever saw.”

Coulter looked around the coach. It was smaller now, older, ill-painted and groaning over the uneven rails. The gray man was on board again, drinking with some of the other passengers. HIs hand held a watch that had, moments before, resided in the pocket of his companion’s waistcoat. The gray man smiled and the watch disappeared. His companion never noticed.

“Gray man,” Coulter shouted, “riders get on and riders get off. I never see them again. But you come and go. Why?”

“This train is the best place there is,” the gray man replied. “I do sometimes get off, but I always come back. You could learn from me.”

Coulter turned back to ask, “What happens to the others, when they leave the train.”

The conductor shook his head. “I don’t know. It isn’t my business to know. They are mine as long as they stay, but when they leave, they go out of my protection, and out of my knowledge.”

“And if I leave?”

“You will know how your story ends. I will not.”

“And If I don’t leave?”

“Then your story will never be complete.”

Now the coach was swaying badly on the unballasted rails. The diamond stacked 4-4-0 American up front was boiling black smoke and a lonesome whistle echoed across the prairie. There was a station ahead, just a dismounted boxcar on crossed ties with a water tank and a flag to stop the train. Crouched in the grass were several hundred Blackfeet, mostly naked, and well armed.

“They’re still there,” Coulter said, “and they’re still pissed.”

“It is your choice.”

Coulter drew a deep breath, and then he whooped. All the other passengers jerked in surprise. He said, “Go to the windows, folks. This is going to be a show.”

He grinned at the conductor and shouted, “Open the door, Son, and give me room to run.”

The gray man just shook his head, and dealt the cards again.

finis

The gray man wandered about the coach, talking to the other passengers. He settled in near two heavy men, passed them a bottle, and set out a deck of cards. The man in buckskin, Coulter, watched for a few minutes, then settled himself in to sleep.

The gray man won the first hand.

Later, the gray man got off at a tiny village which lay beneath the smoke of recent pogroms. Eighteen people got on the train. The gray man was the only one to get off.

The conductor said, “Where?” He didn’t need to ask why.

The leader was bearded and old, stick thin, and stooped. He said, “Anywhere.”

The conductor didn’t bother to tell them that they would not like where they were going. They were Jews. They already knew what life held in store for them.

#            #            #

In a green, soft land, by a lovely bay where seabirds swirled, they loaded men and women with pinched and hungry Irish faces.

#            #            #

In a shattered town in Czechoslovakia, they loaded displaced Germans, who were running from mobs that were celebrating the end of the war by killing the relatives of their oppressors.

#            #            #

In Tasmania, they loaded Aborigines who had been hunted like wallabies.

#            #            #

When Coulter awoke next, the gray man was back. He had come aboard during the night. Coulter stood by the window, watching the striped horses and the massive gray, long nosed — whatever they were — and the tall, powerful, naked black men with long bladed spears who were hunting them.

“Damnedest Injuns I ever saw.”

The gray man chuckled.

“Damnedest buffalo, too.”

“Come on, Coulter,” the gray man said, “playing the fool won’t do. You may not know what they are, but you know they aren’t be beasts and men of your own home.”

“It’s been a long time since I saw home,” Coulter said. “Where are we now?”

“We are on the railroad of Cecil Rhodes’ dream. Cairo to Capetown on a single railway. Three and a half feet between the rails, with an SAR Garratt 400 up front; one boiler, two bogies, the best articulated there ever was, even though your country never used it.”

“Is it real?”

“Stupid question.”

Coulter was not offended. He watched the herds in their migration for a while, then said, “Whatever it is, it’s making me homesick for buffalo. It looks wild and free.”

The gray man smiled and said, “It is wild. But nothing’s free.”

#            #            #

They stopped in a village at a tiny station which said Jerusalem on its signboard, in a green and pleasant land. The engine was in Midland Railway livery. The coach was upholstered in horsehair and illuminated by gaslight.

A single woman got on board, dressed in long gingham gown, with lace at the cuffs and an infant in her arms. A rake in top hat, wearing a Reynard smirk, descended to on the platform.

The conductor said, “Where and why?”

She said, “London,” and gestured at the child to answer the second question.

The conductor said, “All right, but you won’t like where you are going.”

She smiled at the conductor and said, “I’ll make do.” And he believed that she might. last post tomorrow

Coulter and the Gray Man

The engine purred into the station, all glittering bright and new in the midst of an urban nightmare. Sixteen driving wheels the color of bronze, in four articulated sets. Smooth and slick and painted like a rainbow with a single coach following. Every driver was powered by a flux engine activated by the thorium pile that ran along behind.

Two persons were holding hands in the shadows, sheltered by fallen beams and girders. The wind that swept the platform was harsh and cold, and smelled of decay.

In the side of the pristine coach, a door appeared, with soft light and inviting upholstery beyond. The two rushed forward, darting glances behind them. The conductor stepped aside as they entered.

He looked at them carefully, but he could not tell which was man and which was woman, or even what either had been when they started out. Not that it mattered; there was affectionate touching as they stood together, and a clear mutual regard.

The conductor asked, “Where and why?”

One of the pair spoke up and said, “Anywhere, anytime, as long as it is earlier. Life is not worth living here.”

The conductor said, “All right, but you won’t like where you are going.”

They were jostled aside by a young man who leaped to the platform and looked around. He was skinny, with buzz cut hair and wearing a black Westercon tee-shirt. The skin that showed was heavily tattooed. His face was a study in apprehension and wonder, but he looked ready for anything. He would need to be.

Just before the door closed, another figure, all in gray, slipped aboard and hurriedly took a seat beside a figure in buckskin. There was a whine from the pile and a hiss as the door slid shut. The train began to move, through the darkness and the smoke.

#         #         #

Morning dawned on the taiga. The rails curved between the pines. The Russian P36, 2-4-2 laid a smoke trail across the sky, and tore needles off the trees to send them spiraling down into the snow as it passed. The sky was dark with storm, and flurries of sleet rattled against the windows.

In the dim light of morning, the train broke out into a miles long clearing that flanked an icy river. Ahead was a village, onion domed, brightly painted. The brakes sent a shiver through the coach that caused the gray man to slump against his companion and awaken. The man in buckskin had been staring out the window. He said, “It looks like the Madison.”

“It isn’t.”

“I know that! I’ve seen a thousand rivers since I last saw the Madison. I would hate to leave them behind, but I would love to ride my own rivers again.” He scowled at his seat mate. “How many times have I seen you, and I still don’t know your name.”

“You don’t need to know,” said the gray man.

“I always need to know. That’s what got me into this.”

The train screamed into a station and stood panting impatiently. Three young men, bundled into anonymity, came aboard, and two more left the coach. The conductor said, “Where and why?”

The youngest newcomer said, “Anywhere, anytime, as long as it isn’t Russia. Life is cold and short here.”

The conductor said, “All right, but you won’t like where you are going.” more tomorrow