Only My Love Read Free Page B

emigrants often found themselves sidetracked with the freight while the express trains and their rich human cargo rolled on by.
    To the emigrants it often seemed more whim than design when they were finally moved from the sidetrack to become part of a larger passenger train. They could hope then that it would be the last time they would be pushed aside. It rarely was.
    Three plush Pullman cars carried the first class passengers. While the second and third class travelers were not allowed beyond the confines of their crowded cars, the men and women in first class had the freedom of the entire train. The dining car offered them better fare than any of the depot restaurants and the Pullman sleeping berths were infinitely more comfortable than the benches and boards other passengers were forced to use.
    No. 349 had the requisite mail car, carrying letters and packages from the East. It also carried silver bullion and the payroll for the entire contingent of miners at St. Albans camp in Colorado. Two guards, hired to protect the shipment, lounged in the mail car and polished weapons they hoped they never had cause to use.
    As important as the mail car was, the real pride of No. 349 was in the four private cars preceding the caboose. Commissioned by the New York Chronicle, the cars were designed by George Pullman with every amenity for the comfort of the Chronicle staffers in mind. The least decorative of the four cars was the one which held the photography equipment and the darkroom. It also carried supplies for the reporters and illustrators, reference books, surveying tools, extra baggage, rifles, and maps.
    Furnished with inlaid walnut paneling, damask curtains, and stained glass skylights, the staffers enjoyed better accommodations than in their New York hotel apartments. The sleeping berths were wide and firm, the seats were thickly cushioned and covered in soft attractive fabrics, and the dining area in the hindmost car was as cozy as a favorite aunt's parlor. Each car had a cast iron stove to provide warmth, hurricane oil lamps for light, and a toilet for life's necessary inconveniences.
    By agreement of the six staffers, the photography car was the site for working, the two sleepers the site for quiet contemplation, and the dining car the site for the best traveling poker game anywhere in the world.
    Drew Beaumont tapped his cards against the table top, thought a moment longer, and finally folded. His high, broad forehead was ridged with the bent of unhappy thoughts. "Where the hell is Mike? I need a loan."
    Bill and Dave Crookshank, brothers who often were mistaken for twins, shook their heads simultaneously, cinnamon-colored hair falling forward across their brows.
    "Not likely," Bill said. "Maybe take you for thirty dollars, but not make a loan of it."
    "Mike's wandering anyway," Dave added, tossing his money in the pot. "Said something about getting some personal stories from those emigrants we took on yesterday." He turned to the Chronicle's illustrator on his left and motioned toward the pot. "In or out, Jim?"
    Jim Peters flicked his cards with his thumbnail. His lower lip was thrust out as he sighed and placed his hand face down on the table. "Out. I suppose Mike will have half a dozen pathetic faces for me to sketch to go with each story."
    The Chronicle's other illustrator and part-time photographer, Paul Dodd, threw his money in the pot and disagreed with his colleague only on the numbers. "A full dozen faces. Half of them probably related to one another. Mike's a sucker for a family story."
    The conversation had come full circle back to Drew Beaumont. "And our esteemed publisher is a sucker for Mike's stories," he groused as the play passed him by. When he didn't get any sympathy from the others he knew he had overstepped himself. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and finally pushed away from the table altogether. After a few minutes he left the dining car.
    Dave and Bill Crookshank exchanged knowing looks