for you. You just give them to me, and I’ll issue a new ticket down to Santa Fe.”
“Well, mister, that’s real nice of you,” Willis said.
The stationmaster took the tickets from Willis, and handed the one from Denver to Fort Collins back. “I won’t need this one,” he said. “Your ticket back to Denver is all I need. This one is still good. Or, you can just cash it out if you want to.”
“Yeah,” Willis said. “Cash it out for me.”
“Very well, sir, the Denver and Rio Grande will be happy to accommodate you.”
The stationmaster gave Willis his new ticket, plus two dollars in cash. As the transaction was completed, they heard the whistle of an approaching train.
“Well,” the stationmaster said with a broad smile. “We got that business taken care of just in time. That will be your train.”
Chapter Nine
Matt had read somewhere that St. Louis was a booming metropolis of over 300,000 people, and he could believe it by what he was seeing just outside the window. The city sprawl seemed to go on forever. It wasn’t just the spread of houses and business establishments; it was the traffic on the streets. At every crossing, Matt could see wagons, coaches, surreys, and carriages drawn up in a long line, waiting for the train to pass.
“This your first time in St. Louis, young man?”
Matt, who had been looking through the window, turned to see the conductor standing in the aisle.
“Yes,” Matt said.
“I thought it might be, because of the way you were looking through the window. Beer and shoes. And coffins,” he added.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what St. Louis is known for,” the conductor continued. “Beer, shoes, and coffins. Oh, and the traffic on the Mississippi. If you’ve never seen it, you must go down to the river and see all the boats that are drawn up there. Yes, sir, that is quite a sight to see.”
“Thank you, maybe I will,” Matt said.
“I hope your visit to our fair city is a pleasant one,” the conductor said before moving on through the car.
The train continued on for several more minutes; then the scenery outside the window changed. Instead of streets and buildings, Matt saw a huge network of tracks. There in the marshaling yard, the train stopped, and began backing. As it did so, it backed under a high roof, and now his view was blocked because the tracks were very close and there was another train on either side. Finally, the train stopped altogether, and Matt and the others stood up and began filing toward the end of the car and the exit.
Stepping down from the train, Matt found himself in a shed that rumbled and echoed with arriving and departing engines. The walkways between the tracks were crowded with humanity. Steam drifted across the walkways, then rose, with the smoke from the smokestacks, to gather under the eaves of the great roof. Matt moved with the crowd toward the main hall, then, after claiming his luggage, stepped out onto Market Street. Outside the depot, he saw several cabs and carriages drawn up in front of the station, the drivers openly soliciting passengers.
“Cab, sir?” one of the drivers said to Matt.
“All right,” Matt answered.
“Where to?” he asked.
“I don’t have any specific place in mind. Can you recommend a hotel?”
“Oh, I can indeed, sir,” the driver replied. “I recommend the Travelers’ Rest on Washington Street.” The driver took Matt’s bag and put it into the cab, then pulled a portable step out from the carriage for Matt. Matt climbed up into the seat, then settled back for the ride.
The traffic Matt had sensed from the train was even heavier once he was actually out in it. The city was noisy, with the sound of the electric trolley cars rolling down the tracks without benefit of a horse, the clatter of hundreds of hoofbeats on cobblestone streets, the rumble of heavy freight wagons, and the incessant whistles of the traffic policemen who stood at every intersection, their movements as graceful as the ballet dancers Matt had once seen in Denver. The policemen wore blue uniforms with high-domed hats, and he watched as one held up a hand to stop the north and south traffic, thus allowing the east and west traffic to proceed, then gracefully turned and, with white gloves, signaled the east and west traffic to proceed.
The Travelers’ Rest hotel occupied a large, six-story brick building that sat in the middle of the block. A marquee extending from the front of the hotel announced its name, and the cab driver pulled his rig off Washington Street and into the circle drive that passed under the porte cochere. When the cab stopped in front of the hotel, a uniformed doorman stepped out to the cab to take Matt’s bag.
“Welcome, sir,” he said. He blew his whistle and a bellboy came out to retrieve the bag. “My name is George. If there is anything I can do to make your stay here more comfortable, please let me know.”
“Thanks,” Matt said as he paid the driver, adding a quarter for a tip.
“Thank you, sir,” the driver said.
“Tell me, George, where do I check in?” Matt asked.
“Just inside, sir, the desk is to your right,” George said.
“George, you tell Mr. Dixon I brought him this customer,” the driver said as he snapped the reins against the
