'Well, I'll be,' said American Gothic. 'What you doing here then?'
It was a long story. 'Well,' said Jonathan, already imitating the other man's manner. 'I suppose you could say I'm here to find somebody.'
'Oh. Some kind of detective work.' There was a glint of curiosity, and a glint of hostility.
'Something like detective work,' agreed Jonathan, and smiled. 'It's called history.' He took the keys and walked.
Manhattan, Kansas-September 1875
The brakeman danced along the roofs of the train cars, turning brake-wheels. The cars squealed and hissed and bumped their way to a slowly settling halt. The train chuffed once as if in relief.
There was a dog barking. The noise came from within the train, as regular as the beating of its steam-driven heart. The dog was hoarse.
The door of a car was flung open, pushed by a boot, and it crashed against the side of the train. A woman all in black with a hat at an awkward angle was dragging a large trunk case. A little girl all in white stood next to her. The white dress sparkled in sunlight, as if it had been sprinkled with mirrors. The dog still barked.
'Where's my doggy? We're going to leave my doggy!' said the child.
'Your doggy will be along presently. Now you just help yourself down those steps.' The woman had a thin, intelligent face. Her patience was worn. She took the child's hand and leaned out of the car. The child dangled, twisting in her grasp. A huge sack was thrown out of the next car and onto the platform like a dead body.
'Aaah!' cried the child, grizzling.
'Little girl, please. Use your feet.'
'I can't!' wailed the child.
The woman looked around the platform. 'Johnson!' she called. 'Johnson Langrishe, is that you? Could you come over here please and help this little girl down from the train?'
A plump and very pimply youth-his cheeks were almost solid purple-loped toward the train, hair hanging in his eyes under a Union Pacific cap. The woman passed the child down to him. Johnson took her with a grunt and dropped her just a little too soon onto the platform.
The train whistled. The dog kept barking.
'Dog's been making music since Topeka. It's a wonder he's got any voice left. Trunk next.' The woman pushed the trunk out the door. Johnson was not strong enough to hold it, and it slipped from his grasp to the ground.
'My doggy,' said the little girl.
'Dot rat your doggy,' muttered the woman. 'Johnson. Do you know Emma Gulch? Emma Branscomb as was?'
'No, Ma'am.'
'Is there anybody waiting here to meet a little girl come all the way from St. Louis, Missouri?'
'No, Ma'am.'
'Well that's just dandy,' said the woman with an air of finality.
'There's no one here? There's no one here?' The little girl began to panic.
'No, little girl, I'm afraid not. I'm going to Junction, otherwise I'd stop off with you. Why? Why let a little girl come all this way and not meet her, I just do not know!' The woman turned and shouted at the next car.
'Hank,' she cried. 'Hank, for goodness' sake! Fetch the little girl her dog, can't you?'
'He bit me!' shouted the porter.
The woman finally chuckled. 'Oh, Lord!' She turned and disappeared into the next car.
The train sneezed twice and a white cloud rolled up doughnut-shaped from the funnel. Great metal arms began to stroke the wheels almost lovingly. And the wheels began to turn. A creak and a slam and a rolling noise and the train began to sidle away. It whistled again, and the shriek of the whistle smothered the cry the little girl made for her dog.
Then out of the mailcar door, the woman appeared, holding out a furious gray bundle. It wrenched itself from her grasp and rolled out onto the platform. It somersaulted into the child and then spun and righted itself, yelping in outrage. It roared hatred at the train and the people on it. The dog consigned the train to Hell. Johnson, the boy, backed away from him.
Sunset orange blazed on the side of the car. The woman still hung out of the doorway.
'Emma Gulch is her aunt! Lives east out in Zeandale!' she shouted. 'Try to get word to her. God bless, child!' the woman waved with one hand and held on to her hat with the other. The air above the train shivered with heat. There was a wuffling sound of fire, and a clapping and clanking, and the brakeman did his dance. All of it moved like a show, farther down the track, fading like the light. The light was low and golden.
This was the time of the afternoon the little girl most hated. This was the time she felt most alone.
'What's your name?' Johnson asked her.
