The Trainmasters Read online

  Francis gave Graham a look.

  “What do you think, Francis?” Graham asked. “I’ve heard enough.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  “Leave ‘em tied?” Graham asked.

  “Yeah. They’ll work loose after a while.” Then he thought a second. “But we’ll take their horses. We can let ‘em go later. They’ll find their way back to wherever they belong.”

  But then Matthew Kean spat out some of the venom he’d been holding back during the time they’d all been together.

  “Carlysle, before you go listen to this.”

  “What do you want, Matthew?”

  “Just remember on this. Remember that you caught me not lookin’ this time. But next time it’s gonna be you.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “And remember on this. Remember that you killed my brother.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “You’re gonna pay for that. Pay hard and pay dear. With somethin’ so vallible you’ll scream with pain every time you think on it for the rest of your miserable life. Do you got me?”

  “I got you.”

  “Let’s gag them,” Francis said.

  “Yeah. Let’s,” Graham agreed.

  So they gagged them both. Then they mounted their horses, and Graham returned to Gallitzin and Francis went on to Philadelphia to report to Carlysle.

  Before they separated, Graham looked hard at Francis. “You have to tell me something,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s something 1 can’t live without knowing.”

  “Fine, fine, what’s it you want to know?”

  “What did you learn from that Cherokee in Texas?”

  “There wasn’t any Cherokee in Texas…”

  “You made that all up?”

  “Yep.” Then he laughed. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “All right.”

  “It sounded to me like that big bastard Matthew Kean is putting together something that might have something to do with Teresa. What do you think?”

  “I think the same thing. That’s why I’m going back to Gallitzin. You can handle my father well enough.”

  “Watch yourself,” Francis said. “Be careful.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “So it’s the Keans and the teamsters,” Edgar Thomson said after Francis concluded his report. He called out to Sam his assistant to bring some liquid—amended to alcoholic— refreshments to wet Stockton’s and John’s, not to mention Thomson’s own, palates. “So it’s George Kean himself who’s been doing the physical damage to us. Goddamn him, I should have predicted that. George has more than enough reason to hate the railroad. It could kill his business.”

  “You know Kean?” Carlysle asked. He only knew the name from his son’s encounter with the Kean family.

  “I know him pretty well. He’s a hard, rough man—not a bad man,” Thomson was quick to add, “but as fiercely possessive of his territory as any clan chief. And his wagons are his fief. He’ll fight for them until there’s no more breath left in him. And then on top of that, he has plenty of reason to hate the Carlysles. Put all of that together, and we have much trouble. And danger… You better watch out, John. Watch out for your boys. Now that they no longer have reason to keep themselves concealed, they could go directly after them.”

  John closed his eyes, thinking. He kept his eyes closed for a long time. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I can’t leave them alone. I have to return to Gallitzin immediately.”

  “There’s a train in the morning,” Thomson said.

  “Right. I’ll go then.”

  “But,” Francis said, “are you just going to wait for the blow to fall?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Collins and the Keans were not acting on their own. They were paid by someone else.”

  “We knew that already.”

  “You what? Already? If you already knew that, then why did you go through this huge charade with Tom Collins?”

  John laughed. “Don’t worry, Francis, we needed you to do what you did. And we didn’t know any more than you did until a few pieces fell in place yesterday.” Then he told Francis about the short sales and the meeting with Cornelius Vanderbilt.

  “Well I’ll be damned to the hottest hell,” he said when John had finished. “This railroad surely does have a few problems. And what do you intend to do about it next?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like I said, are you going to sit around and wait for the next blow to fall?”

  “Give me a plausible alternative,” Thomson said.

  “At the military academy they claimed that sound military doctrine is to attack first.”

  “Attack who?” John asked reasonably. “We don’t know who is Gibbon’s boss. That’s what Vanderbilt has promised to find out.”

  “Have you thought of asking Gibbon?”

  “No. Do you think he would tell?” Thomson asked.

  “I think I’d like to find that out.”

  Thomson looked at John, and John gave a short nod of agreement. Then Thomson returned his gaze to Francis. “Try it,” he said.

  The following morning John Carlysle was on the train to Gallitzin.

  Toward noon of that same morning, Francis Stockton appeared on Kitty Lancaster’s doorstep. And after an agony of indecision, Kitty decided to have him admitted.

  She received him in her father’s study, even though this room was normally her father’s sanctum sanctorum, used only and solely by him. But Kitty felt that the room’s masculine atmosphere would better serve her own needs than the parlor, which was softer and more feminine.

  She wanted a man’s strength now. Francis’s coming, she knew, was providential. There was a step she had to take with him, a boundary that had to be crossed. She hoped the crossing would go easily, but she doubted it. Their relationship had never been easy.

  So, before Bridget led Francis into the room, she placed herself in her father’s leather chair, his massive desk acting as a barrier between her and Francis.

  “G’morning, Kitty,” he said when Bridget announced him.

  “Hello, Francis,” she said. “Would you like to sit down?” She motioned to the chair she intended him to sit in.

  “Happy to,” he said, looking around the room. “You were always a subtle woman,” he said, as he sank into the seat.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Receiving me here, in your father’s study, behind his desk… A sturdy fortification, that desk.”

  She gave him a wry look. “You were always painfully adept at seeing through my subtleties,” she said.

  “It was part of what kept us—”

  “Don’t say it, Francis.” She had no intention of letting him even begin to mention what had kept them together. That was part of the boundary she had to cross.

  “Apart,” he said, finishing his thought with what might have been the trace of a wicked gleam in his eye.

  “So why are you here?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question for hours.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I concluded that we had to talk.”

  “What’s to talk about?” she asked nervously.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not what you’re afraid I’ll talk about.” And then he gave her a wistful, boyish look. “Not that I don’t want to do that.” It became a long, lingering look, and not at all boyish any more. “I’ve often believed it was a mistake for us to stop seeing one another.”

  “Don’t talk about that.”

  “I still believe that, I think.” He stared at her again. “I still love you; you know that don’t you?”

  “Don’t!” she warned again. “Or I’ll ask you to leave.”

  He laughed. “So you’re seeing John Carlysle now?” He changed the subject.

  “Yes.”

  �
�And you like him?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  Suddenly he was serious once more. “I like him, too.”

  It was her turn now to stare at him.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked. “Are you surprised?”

  “No, actually, I’m not,” she said. “He told me he likes you. He even respects you.”

  “You don’t respect me?”

  “Don’t ask me questions like that, Francis.”

  “Why not?”

  “I won’t talk to you about such things. I won’t discuss like or respect or love. It’s forbidden ground.”

  “Doesn’t that—the forbiddenness—make such things all the more attractive, then?”

  “No,” she said. “Not since Boston.”

  He looked at her, started to say something, then stopped.

  “Anyhow,” he said, “what I came to tell you, Kitty, is that I’m glad you and John are together. I hope you’ll be happy with him.”

  Her glance plummeted to the desktop. “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, my love, I truly do.”

  Francis, near the edge of his reserve, had trouble keeping his own voice steady. But, with difficulty, he asked, “Do you think I’m here, Kitty, to try to get you back?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He caught her eye and held it. “Well, my love, I’m not here for you. I’m here for him. I meant what I told you. I’m glad for the two of you.”

  “And you have no regrets? About him?”

  “Of course I have regrets, Kitty. I can’t deny that I still want you.”

  Their eyes were still locked together, and hers were now glistening with tears.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “Do you have anything to say to me?”

  “No,” she said. “Should I?” But then words did come to her. “All right then, yes, I do. Thank you, Francis, for your … blessing.”

  He looked at her.

  “Well, what do you want from me now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then perhaps you should leave.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, please.”

  “Was it Boston that turned you against me?”

  “For God’s sake, Francis, go! I will not talk about Boston.’”

  “Was it?” he persisted.

  “No, Francis,” she said stiffly but spilling out what she had vowed never to say, trying—and succeeding—to make her voice hard and cruel. She wanted to hurt him now, knowing at the same time, obscurely, that the words that hurt him would hurt her even more. “I went to Boston because I knew I could never love you the way I needed to love a man. It wasn’t Boston, Francis, it wasn’t the child; it was you. I chose to go to Boston—in spite of the pain and the shame that came during and after it—because I chose to separate myself from you. And if I had chosen to keep the child, then there would have forever been that child to unite us.”

  “And so you chose not to keep it? To give the child away?” he shouted.

  “Yes! Goddamn you. There wasn’t any other way! If I did not give the child away, it would have always reminded me of you. And I needed more than anything else to forget you. Until I went to Gallitzin, I’d very nearly succeeded!” Then she flung herself out of her chair. “Now leave! This time! Get out!”

  His voice was a whisper when he spoke next, “Don’t think you are the only one who’s suffered because of all this.” At that moment he finally chose to rise and leave.

  As he proceeded to the door, she said, “I sincerely hope that I wasn’t the only sufferer. It pleases me that I wasn’t alone. I’m glad you were in pain, too.”

  At that, he turned to face her. “You are, dear Kitty, hateful sometimes. You enjoy hurting your men, don’t you?”

  “You are not one of my men,” she said fiercely. “And if I’ve hurt you this morning, you only have yourself to blame.”

  “I came here to congratulate you and John Carlysle,” he shot back. “But now I think it’s more fitting to express my condolences—to him.”

  “Did you really come here,” she cried, bursting at last into the sobs that she had been stifling, “to do that? Or was it to reopen all our old wounds? That’s what always happens when we’re together, Francis. Every time. Rip, rip, rip; tear, tear; gnaw, gnaw.”

  He stood staring at her, momentarily transfixed. She had succeeded in breaking through the defenses of his spirit, and now his soul lay naked and defenseless.

  “That was the reason for Boston,” she said. “That and no other.”

  “I’m…” he started to say, then fell silent, all the fight out of him. All the words in him had drained away.

  The fight was all out of her, too. Only the guilt remained. She knew she was at least as responsible as he was for the ugly moment they’d just had.

  “Sit down again, Francis,” she said.

  “What’s that?” he asked, uncomprehending.

  “Please sit down. I don’t want us to part like… we were about to.”

  “I should go.”

  “No, please stay. A little longer.” And she rose from her chair and began to lead him back to where he’d been sitting. He made a show of resistance; but he was not in fact ready to leave yet. There was something between them that was unfinished; and now that the battling mood had left both of them, perhaps they could bring that thing to a conclusion.

  There was also a question on his face, betraying doubt about her reasons for wanting him to remain. He was afraid she wanted to renew their battle. But that wasn’t her mind now at all. She was telling the truth. She didn’t want them to part bitter enemies.

  “You do like John, don’t you?” she asked, once they’d both settled again >n their chairs. “You really do.” This last was a statement, not a question.

  “That’s right.”

  “Good. Thank you, Francis… for trying to tell me that.”

  “We do put our knives in,” he said slowly, totally exhausted, “under each other’s skin, don’t we? You’re right about that.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish …” he stopped.

  “But it’s what we do, and I can’t stop myself when I’m with you.”

  “I know,” he said with a long, grieving shake of his head.

  “So what will you do?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will you stay with the railroad?”

  “Why not?” he shrugged. “Now that John Carlysle stands between me and your father, I might have a future with the Pennsylvania.” He said this last with more than a trace of his old wicked grin.

  “I would have thought…” She left the thought unfinished.

  “That I would leave?” he said, finishing it.

  “Yes,” she said, “something like that.” She caught his eye. “I would help me. Make it easier.”

  “I suppose,” he said, with another shrug. “And easier for John, too, I imagine. I’m sure my presence must make him uncomfortable sometimes.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But he would never say that to you. Not as long as he thinks you’re a competent engineer.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “About leaving?”

  “Yes,” he said seriously. “I will.” And then he laughed. But it was a somber, sardonic laugh. There was no joy or play in it. “But then again, I might not have to make the decision to go or stay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There may not be a Pennsylvania soon.”

  “You know … about… that.”

  “All of it,” he nodded. “The shorting of the stock, the attacks, the sabotage.”

  “Do you think—” she was edgy, agitated, frightened, “that there’s … hope, a chance … for us?”

  “For the railroad, you mean?”

  “For the railroad, yes.”

  He smiled. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have stayed on. Or
at least if I’d lived up to my reputation, I wouldn’t have stayed on. If I’d followed the script I’ve been labeled with, I would have run.”

  “But you didn’t, did you?”

  “I told you, I like John Carlysle. And I think if anyone can save it he can… and your father. Though don’t let him hear that I’ve given him an ounce of credit.”

  “Why do you think they’ll pull it off?” she asked, still full of doubt and fear.

  “Because we’re pretty damned close to knowing who is behind all the attacks. You’ve heard that Vanderbilt has joined us?”

  “Yes, John told me.”

  “He will be a huge help to us, I think. He’s going to lead the investigation into the source of the attacks.” And then he stopped, grinning. “And I’ve become one of the investigators.”

  “You? A what?”

  “An investigator. I’m checking into the doings of Mr. Abraham Gibbon. Gibbon is the man who hired Tom Collins and George Kean.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “That’s what I aim to discover in my investigation.”

  “Really? You’re telling the truth?”

  “Would I lie to you, Kitty?”

  She just stared at him without comment. Then she asked, “What have you found out so far?”

  “Nothing. Abraham Gibbon seems to have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “He left his office yesterday for home, and he never arrived.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “After I leave here, I’ll try his office again.”

  “And then?”

  “His home and the people he knows.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll quit and find someplace where I can drink quietly and for a very long time,” he laughed, “as a reward for my failure… as an investigator. And,” he paused, “with you.”

  “Francis, for God’s sake, don’t… go back to that.”

  “I know. I should leave,” he said, lifting himself wearily out of the chair.

  “I’ll show you out,” she said, agreeing. It was time, at last. The border had been finally and successfully crossed.

  “Don’t bother. I know the way.”

  “I insist,” she said. “I want to.”

  He gave her a look. “Why?”

  “You will forever ask questions, Francis Stockton. Would you stop being so inquisitive, and let me have my last whim?”