Freight and Farewells

The packet’s smoke still hung over the river when the freight yard came alive. Helena’s platform swelled with wagons creaking under loads of flour, rifles, and machine parts. Soldiers turned haulers shouted for space while the train crew slammed couplers and called out time. Steam hissed down the line, turning morning light to a shifting gray veil.

Eli and Caleb threaded through the press with their gear shouldered high. The scent of river silt clung to their coats, out of place amid the reek of coal and grease. Men moved like a single engine, hard and hurried, their voices cutting through the smoke. The war had ended two years past, yet every face bore the same forward lean, as if afraid stillness might call the guns back.

Paxton stood at the far end of the platform, ledger open on a crate marked KANSAS CITY—PRIORITY. His pencil ticked steady lines while porters rolled barrels down the plank and sealed each with pitch. “Keep the marks clear,” he warned a boy stacking crates. “If they can’t read it in a storm, they’ll lose half our pay.” He looked up as Eli approached. “You’re sure about this run?”

Eli nodded. “We’ve been sure since the river.”

Caleb grinned faintly. “The trail pays better than cards.”

Paxton closed the ledger and offered his hand. “Then may the ground stay under you.” He meant it. The man had seen enough travelers vanish between stations to make blessings sound practical.

A station hand passing with a coil of rope paused to spit over the rail. “You fellows rode with that quiet man, Pike, wasn’t it? He caught the northbound night train.”

Eli’s glance was quick and unreadable. “Can’t say I knew his plans.”

The whistle split the air before Paxton could speak again. The engine shuddered, couplings tightened, and the westbound began to crawl. Eli and Caleb climbed aboard the freight car behind the passenger coach. Paxton lifted his hat in farewell as the train picked up speed.

Helena’s riverfront slid away in the smoky dawn—flatboats, warehouses, the slow churn of the current fading beneath the rails. The Missouri shimmered once through the trees, then vanished behind the bend, leaving only the rhythm of wheels and the hard promise of iron.

—•—

The train cut through the pine belt before noon, the scent of resin giving way to dry grass and wind. Windows clattered in their frames, and the steady thump of the wheels set a rhythm that filled the space between words.

Outside, the land opened wide. Fences went up where trenches once ran, and fresh-plowed rows striped ground that had lain fallow through the war. Charred timbers still marked a few homesteads lost to raiders, but most of the fields were turning again, patched, stubborn, alive.

Eli sat near the back of the car, hat low against the glare, watching the country slide past. A soldier’s gait still marked the men on the platform ends, pacing slow with eyes that measured every treeline. Across the aisle, two veterans argued Reconstruction in the low tones of men too tired for another fight.

“Let the states run their own,” one said.

“They tried that once,” the other answered. “Cost a million lives.”

The woman beside them hushed her infant and turned toward the window, her face set in quiet patience.

Caleb leaned forward, boots crossed, eyes on the passing ridges. “Hard to tell what side won,” he said quietly.

Eli followed the line of track where the prairie began to swallow the woods. “Depends who’s still standing.”

The conductor passed, tipping his cap. “Next stop, Batesville. Then the state line. Missouri by sundown if the bridge holds.”

In the corner, four drovers played cards with slow precision, their laughter thin and wary. One of them mentioned Abilene, and the name stirred through the car like rumor. Cattle drives, open range, fortunes waiting for men who could stay in the saddle.

Caleb smiled without mirth. “Sounds like our road.”

“Maybe,” Eli said. “If the road doesn’t turn first.”

The wheels hammered on, steady as a clock. Outside, the prairie stretched wide and waiting. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay Kansas City, and farther north, the work ahead.

The whistle sounded long and low across the open land. Eli thought again of the station hand’s words. Pike had gone north. The thought lingered like the echo of steel on steel.

—•—

By late afternoon the train rolled into Kansas City under a sky the color of hammered tin. Smoke rose in straight lines from the engine sheds and drifted over a forest of new rooftops. Timber yards, mills, and brick kilns sprawled along the flats where river met rail. The sound of hammers filled the air, a rhythm that carried all the way to the depot.

Eli stepped down from the car and felt the ground tremble beneath the passing freight. The air was thick with coal dust and the scent of fresh sawed pine. Everything moved at once: wagons unloading grain, teams dragging rails, men shouting for space along the platform. The city was still half-built, yet already too full.

Pratt waited near the freight office, coat brushed clean and hat tipped low. He had the look of a man who had done his dealing before breakfast. “Glad to see you made it,” he said. “Jed Ashford’s expecting you.”

He led them through the yard to a fenced enclosure where horses stamped and snorted in the dust. A tall man stood by the gate, sleeves rolled, hands resting on the rail. His face was sun-browned, the lines set by long days in wind and weather.

“This is Ashford,” Pratt said. “Trail boss for the northern drive.”

Ashford nodded once. “Glad to have you along. We’ll be pushing north soon, and there’s no shortage of work before we leave.”

Eli returned the nod. “We’re ready.”

Beside Ashford stood a younger man, lean and sharp-eyed, the kind who looked for flaws before friendship. “Cass Rowe,” Ashford added. “He’s my second.”

Cass gave a short nod, his gaze sliding over them like a tally mark. “We’ll see what kind of hands they are when the herd rolls in.”

Ashford let the remark pass. “Come on. You might as well see where you’ll be sleeping.”

They walked the length of the pens, past a row of chuck wagons and stacks of gear covered in canvas. Beyond the yard, a slope of open ground stretched toward the river where the remuda grazed under a faint haze of dust. Men moved among them, checking tack, tightening cinches, readying the line for the days ahead.

“The herd’s coming up from the south,” Ashford said. “Three days out if the weather holds. Until then, we sort gear and settle accounts.”

He turned toward the office again. “You’ll meet the rest of the crew tomorrow. Tonight, stay close. Kansas City’s still finding its manners.”

Caleb looked across the yard where the last sunlight glowed against the rails. “Looks like half the country’s trying to start over.”

Ashford smiled faintly. “The other half’s trying to catch them before they do.”

—•—

The saloon near the yards was half full and already loud. The smell of sawdust, sweat, and beer rode the air like heat from a forge. A fiddle tried to keep a tune in one corner, but the player was more drink than music.

Eli and Caleb stepped through the door and paused long enough for the room to take their measure. The noise dulled for a moment, then rolled on. Men at the bar shifted to make space. Pratt followed with a nod toward the tables near the back. “Ashford’s account will cover your first round,” he said. “Don’t make me explain that to him later.”

Caleb’s eyes found the upright piano against the far wall, its wood scarred and one leg braced with a stacked crate. “Been a while,” he said.

Eli looked over. “Since when do you play?”

“Since before I could shoot,” Caleb said, moving that way. He brushed the dust from the keys and tested a chord. The sound was thin, but honest. He found the middle register and let his hands move. The room eased with it, talk softening, boots tapping.

For a few minutes there was peace. Men leaned back in their chairs, the bartender stopped wiping glasses, and even the card players forgot to bluff. Caleb played a river tune, the kind built on steady rhythm and a promise of home.

Then the door swung open.

Macklin Pierce stepped in with two men behind him. He carried confidence like it was coin and spent it freely. “Didn’t expect to hear church music in a place like this,” he said.

Caleb kept playing. “Then you don’t know the tune.”

Pierce smiled without warmth. “I know when a man’s showing off.”

Eli rose from his chair but said nothing.

Pierce came closer, resting one hand on the edge of the piano. “Play something for me, then. Something with a fight in it.”

Caleb stopped playing and looked up. “The fight’s free. The music costs.”

The men nearby laughed, thin and uncertain. Pierce’s hand dropped to his side, fingers flexing once. “That so?”

“Yeah,” Caleb said. “And you just ran out of credit.”

The first punch came from one of Pierce’s men. Caleb took it across the jaw, reeled back, then caught the second with his forearm and answered with a hard right that cracked against ribs. Chairs went over. Eli moved in, grabbed a bottle from the bar, and swung it once, low and sharp.

Pierce waded forward, fist catching Eli on the shoulder, and the two locked in a clinch that tore through the edge of the crowd. The piano toppled, strings shrieking as it hit the floor. The fight became sound and dust and the dull thud of boots on plank.

It ended as fast as it began. Ashford’s man Cass shoved through the door with two hands from the yard and broke it apart before knives could show. Pierce stood bleeding from the mouth, his eyes bright and cold. “You’ll regret that,” he said.

Caleb wiped blood from his lip. “Maybe. But you’ll remember it.”

Pierce turned and left. The door swung shut behind him and the saloon’s noise returned in pieces, like a song finding its rhythm again.

Eli set the piano upright with a grunt. Half the keys were broken. “You play fine,” he said. “But you don’t finish quiet.”

Caleb smiled, slow and thin. “Never did.”

—•—

Morning came with a cold wind off the stockyard and the sound of wagons moving through mud. Men dragged water from the pump, faces pale under their hats, the night’s bruises showing purple in the light.

Ashford stood near the cook fire, hat pulled low, a tin cup in his hand. His eyes were clear and steady, though no man wanted them to rest too long on his own. Cass Rowe waited beside him with the trail ledger and a stack of folded papers.

Eli and Caleb joined the line with the others. No one spoke. The smell of coffee and smoke filled the space between them. Ashford set his cup down and looked over the crowd.

“I hear half the yard’s been talking about a fight,” he said. “Some of you might think that makes a man’s name travel faster. It doesn’t. It just tells the world who can’t hold his liquor.”

A few men shifted, boots scraping the dirt. Caleb kept his eyes forward.

Ashford let the silence work a moment longer, then nodded once. “We’ve got two days before the herd reaches town. Until then, every man here earns his keep. Contracts are signed this morning. After that, anyone looking for a brawl can ride somewhere else.”

Cass handed out the papers, one by one. Each man signed with a mark or a name, pay listed plain: forty dollars a month and a bonus at Abilene. Ashford called out the rules. No drinking on the trail. No stealing. No deserting the herd. No fighting among the hands. The words were few but had weight enough to settle the yard.

Eli signed his name in a steady hand. Caleb followed, his knuckles raw where skin had split. Cass collected the pages and gave each man a nod that could mean approval or warning.

After the line broke, Ashford walked to where Eli checked a saddle. “You play quiet, you fight clean, and you work hard,” he said. “That’s the order I prefer it in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep it that way.”

Ashford moved on.

Cook Jensen passed a plate of biscuits and looked between them. “Trail’s long,” he said. “Better to have the boss angry now than later.”

Caleb managed a grin. “He wasn’t the one I hit.”

Eli didn’t smile back. He cinched the saddle and said, “No, but he’s the one who decides if we ride.”

By noon, the yard settled into motion again. Wagons were checked, ropes coiled, gear counted and stacked. The bruise of the night before faded into the rhythm of work. No one mentioned Pierce, though every man knew he’d find a way to answer.

—•—

The sun came up white through a haze of dust and coal smoke. Beyond the yard, the prairie rolled flat and gray-green, the color of old coin. Men moved through the pens with quiet focus, tightening cinches, sorting tack, and checking the small things that kept a drive alive.

Ashford believed in tests. Not speeches, not drills, just work. He pointed toward a string of cattle penned by the east gate. “We’ll drive that bunch to the holding field and back,” he said. “If you can handle twenty head clean, the rest will follow.”

Eli and Caleb saddled up with Scout Rios and two younger hands. Cass rode behind to watch. The cattle were restless, pushing against the rails, eyes rolling white. Dust rose as the gate swung open and the small herd pressed into motion.

At first it went smooth. Eli kept the flank steady while Caleb and Rios eased the lead toward the open ground. The cattle found rhythm quick, their hooves drumming a slow, heavy beat.

Halfway across the field, one of the younger hands shouted. His saddle slipped, the cinch strap snapping like a shot. The horse went down, the rider with it. The man rolled clear, cursing, but the animals spooked and broke right, scattering toward the wash.

Eli turned his bay, cut across the slope, and whistled once. Caleb moved wide to block the far edge. Rios spurred through the dust, waving his hat until the herd turned back on itself. Within minutes the cattle settled again, breath steaming in the cool air.

When they drove the herd back into the pen, Cass was waiting, face tight. He held the broken cinch strap in one hand. The leather had been cut halfway through. Not worn. Cut.

Ashford rode up slow, eyes taking it in. “Could have been worse,” he said.

Cass said nothing.

Eli dismounted and brushed dust from his coat. “Someone wanted a mess.”

Ashford studied him for a moment. “You saw it coming?”

“Not till it broke,” Eli said. “But I check mine every morning.”

Ashford nodded once. “Good habit.” He turned to Cass. “You’ll see that we have a watch set. Three men per watch rotating every four hours. That should discourage any outside meddling, if this is what we’re dealing with.”

Cass looked from the strap to Eli, then gave a short nod. “Yes, sir.”

Rios caught Eli’s eye and gave a slow grin. “You ride clean,” he said. “That was a quick reaction.”

The men led their mounts to water and cooled them. The yard fell quiet except for the lowing of the cattle and the rasp of wind through the rail boards.

Caleb spat into the dust. “Pierce?”

Eli looked toward the rail line where a few figures stood at the far edge of town, watching. “Could be.”

“Think he’ll try again?”

Eli tightened the reins and looked back toward Ashford. “If he’s smart, he already did.”

—•—

By the second evening the herd came in from the south, a low, living tide of muscle and noise. Dust lifted over the pens until the sun turned red through it. The bawling of cattle mixed with shouts, hooves, and the dull ring of hammer on iron. It was chaos shaped by purpose.

Ashford moved among the men with calm precision, giving orders that carried without shouting. Cass kept to the remuda, counting mounts and checking shoes. Cook Jensen stirred a pot big enough to drown in. Rios rode perimeter, his hat low, eyes on the horizon.

Eli and Caleb worked side by side, shifting cattle into the north pens, easing them down from panic to motion. The rhythm found them quickly, swing and turn and steady. Work that used the whole body but left the mind clear enough to think.

By nightfall the herd was settled, seven hundred head breathing slow behind the fences. Fires flared across the yard, their light catching tin plates and the tired faces of men who had earned a place in the line.

Caleb sat by the fire, rubbing his jaw where that fist had left its mark. “Feels like a clean start,” he said.

Eli looked toward the dark edge of the prairie. “Starts always feel clean.”

Ashford walked past with a ledger tucked under his arm. “We ride at first light. Two weeks to Abilene if the weather holds.” He stopped to stir the coals with a stick. “Sleep if you can. The trail has a way of making you wish you had.”

When the noise faded and the fire dropped low, Eli stayed awake, watching the sparks drift upward. The sound of the herd became steady, almost peaceful, like a river moving in the dark. He thought of the rail yard, of Pierce’s eyes in the saloon, and of the cut strap that nearly took a man’s life. The distance between one day and the next could be measured by a knife edge.

Caleb had fallen asleep beside the fire, hat tilted forward. Rios snored softly somewhere beyond. The night pressed in cool and wide, the stars clean over the open country.

Eli reached for his Winchester 1866 and worked the lever once, checking the chamber out of habit. He glanced at Caleb’s rifle, the same model, lying within reach and ready for use. Then he leaned back and fixed his eyes on the horizon beyond the dark.

The herd shifted, a thousand hooves moving with the constant sound of shuffling.

The river had carried them north. The trail would carry them farther still, and trouble, like the current, had a way of keeping pace.