The Black Train

“She was all shaved down there. Not a single hair on her pussy nowheres.”

“You’re lyin’, Jory!”

“’S’the truth, so help me! And whiles she’s sittin there talkin’ to whoever it were she was talkin’ to, she gets to playin’ with herself a bit…”

“Aw, shit, man, I can’t stand it—”

“Then finally—” He leaned closer. “Finally, she walks over to the bed’n gets to fuckin’ a fella, like, real hard… and that’s when he seed that it was one’a the slaves.”

“Oh, man…What he do? Did he tell?”

“HELL, no, ya dimwit! If he done that he’d have to ’splain what he was doin’ up on Mrs. Gast’s balcony in the first place.”

“They’d put him in a pillory fer that, fer a week at least.”

“Think he didn’t know that? So, shit, he couldn’t say nothin’. But he did stay’n watch a whiles, and the—”

“You men!” Poltrock yelled. Both laborers looked up in dread. “You stop that trash talk right now, and stop it for good, you hear me?”

“Yuh-yes, sir, Mr. Poltrock. We was just—”

“Bullshit. You’re spreadin’ dirty, undignified talk like a coupla crackers, you were.” Poltrock jabbed one in the chest with his finger. “You don’t talk like that ever again. You don’t say nothin’ like that, to no one! Never! Things’re hard enough out here, and we don’t need no slander’n barroom talk. You boys are bein’ paid well so don’t you be disrepectin’ the fine man who’s payin’ you. Less’n you want me to tell him myself.”

One boy looked close to tears, while the other stammered, “Oh, no, no, sir, Mr. Poltrock, please don’t do that—”

“I’ve a mind to.”

“Please, please, by God we won’t never say nothin’ like that ag—”

“The strong-armers’d put a nine-tails across both your backs, then ya’d be fired and banished with no way to get back to Tennessee. You’d have to go live in the woods with the Injuns’n eat dog meat and grubs, and that’s only if they decides not to scalp your dumb white ass and eat you.”

“We swear, sir, we swear to God on high, we’se’ll never talk no trash like that again.”

“Ya best not. Now stack those fuckin’ boxes’a spikes and git into that pay line.”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, yes, sir—”

Poltrock mounted his horse, glared at them, then headed down the line. Put the fear’a God in ’em at least. He’d heard much of the same, though; the work site was a rumor mill, and so was the town, whether the entire crew was on respite or not. A number of men had been executed for daring to take a chance with the promiscuous Mrs. Gast. Then Poltrock thought, Mrs. Tinkle…He’d heard those rumors, too, and had even smelled piss anytime he’d had occasion to be in the house.

He cleared it from his head, taking the horse slowly north. It was time to get his mind off all the things that had been bothering him for the last four years—all the things he knew were wrong…

pullin’ two miles plus per week, Poltrock realized. His eyes followed the track, subconsciously counting each piece of rail. He’d done this every Friday night since 1857 when they’d started. Even the horse knew the task; it maintained a slow gait up the track bed as its master sat in the saddle, counting. Every so often, he jotted down the figures in his book, then blinked. This is some progress. Last week, we did 2.4 miles, and this week…

Poltrock pulled the horse to a stop at the sound of faster hooves. The Indians had been pacified in these parts, yet he’d already unholstered his .36-caliber Colt just in case. The sun was almost gone now, but after a moment he could see who it was: Morris.

“Hold up there, Mr. Poltrock!” Morris waved. Did he have a rider with him? “Just somethin’ I wanted to ask…”

Poltrock wasn’t interested. “Have you seen Mr. Gast?”

“Why, no, sir—”

“So you haven’t heard the reason for him cancelin’ the usual Friday night festivities…”

“No, sir, I ain’t, but—” Morris seemed giddy about something, and that’s when Poltrock noticed that he was indeed sharing his horse’s back with another rider.

That squaw…

The young Indian woman held fast around Morris’s waist.

“I caught up to them Injun whores ’fore they could get back to their reservation, and plucked me up this ’un here.”

“So I see,” Poltrock replied.

“Couldn’t stand the idea of a Friday night goin’ by without a whore.” Morris pulled alongside and stopped. “Ten cents a roll is what she charges, same as them other ones who’re older’n ugly…”

Poltrock couldn’t have been less in the mood, yet his eyes flicked up all the same. The squaw hugged against Morris’s back, shapely legs splayed, smooth unscarred skin showing in the wide-stitched seams of her leggings. Her bosom was overflowing in the deerskin yoke.

“She’s a looker, ain’t she, sir?” Morris acted like a dog bringing its owner a bone. He dismounted quickly, the long knife on his hip flapping, then lifted the girl down. “I mean, sir, you really need to see what she got under here,” he said, and then yanked open the yoke.

He turned her like a display piece. The desirousness of her youth seemed to glow beneath the smudged skin. The bare breasts raved, large as a pair of baby heads but buoyant, big nipples puckered up like dark gooseflesh.

Morris jiggled a breast with his hand. “Ain’t that somethin’, sir? I mean, have you ever seen a pair like these? Oh, and this is even better—” Morris twirled her around, pushed her pants down to bare her rump.

Morris whistled. “Shee-IT! Would you look at that!”

The girl knew what was going on; she leaned forward to intensify the display. Her rump was large and shapely, but tight, bereft of a single blemish.

“For the life’a me, Mr. Poltrock, I can’t tell which is better, her tits or her ass!”

Poltrock felt confounded. “Mr. Morris, did you bring that woman damn near two miles down the track bed just to show me her bosom and ass?”

“Well, I mean, I’se plannin’ on havin’ some fun with this ’un more than a few times, but since you’re my boss, I thought I’d offer you first crack.”

Amazing. “I appreciate your professional courtesy,” Poltrock responded. “That’s quite considerate—” Then his eyes went from the Indian woman’s fresh bosom to her face.

Wide, shining eyes on a dirty face. Wantonness reflected back through a smile that could only be described as counterfeit.

“No, no thank you, Mr. Morris,” Poltrock eventually said. “I’m not feelin’ up to it tonight. Got to finish counting these rails.”

“Aw, you sure, Mr. Poltrock?” Morris ran his hands over the plush rump. “This is prime stuff.”

“She is quite a handsome girl, Mr. Morris, but still, I must decline. You go have your fun now.”

Morris shrugged, astounded by his superior’s rejection. “Whatever you say, sir.” He looked aside and spotted a clearing in the high brush. “Right here, I say…I got me couple’a squaws last week in this selfsame place.” Morris shoved the girl toward the clearing, tying his horse off to a slim tree. Poltrock just shook his head as they disappeared behind the brush.

That’s one randy man, he thought, then gently stirrupped his horse. He continued down the track bed and resumed counting.

The figures still weren’t adding up. He’d built railroads all over the country, and he knew full well what a certain number of men could lay in a certain period of time. He knew that the marker for the beginning of the week must be coming up soon…