Mr. Alexander sat on his side of the cab like he was carved from sandstone, and it was no fun being stuck there with him for a long time thereafter. The crates were being taken out of the boxcars by the baggage handlers, one or two of whom were Indians, the rest were boys my age wearing ranching clothes. They handled the loads like they were impatient to get paid and go someplace else.

When they were done they left the boxcar doors open, gaping at the platform. Mr. Alexander laid a hand on the throttle and I jumped right back to the gauges, driven there by the elderly eyes that swung in my direction.

I guess he was just keeping me in check, since we didn't go anywhere for another half-hour, judging by the way the sun moved. Shifting masses of shadows milled around on the other side of the yard, and though they just caught the corner of my eye, I was somehow able to pick out which shapes were those of the girl and her friends.

The brakeman cut us loose from the cars and engineer Alexander took us forward, stopping next to a water tower, and gestured for me to go back and take water. From atop the tender deck I had a clearer view of the girl and her friends, talking to some of the younger baggage handlers. I was glad this tower was easy to work; I could feel their eyes on me at odd moments.

Another few hundred yards down the track found us on a turntable in the middle of a round pit, its timbers and iron rods creaking like an old man's joints popping. Looking back out my window I saw the burly brakeman and one of the heavier-built baggage handlers put their backs into pushing on an iron rod attached to the turntable, and at a snail's pace, number nine began turning back the way she came.

"You -- get back there and help them out." The engineer's harsh voice made me hop to it, and I jumped down from the cab fearing a machine-gun volley of oaths about to fired in my direction. The two men already on the turntable lever looked at me strangely as I bounded down the wooden walkway next to the engine and took my place alongside them.

I don't know how much number nine weighed - fifty tons, maybe a hundred - but I felt every one of them working against me. I drove my boots into the sandy, pebbly dirt, leaned forward till I was almost parallel to the ground and pushed by folding and straightening my entire body like a giant blue grasshopper.

All this time I had my head bent over and could only see dirt going by a foot or two from my face, and then the dirt stopped moving. I folded myself into a hairpin shape and shoved, straining every muscle I'd already strained the day before in getting the water spout to come down. Somehow I moved that iron bar another three feet, and I did it on my own, since when I looked up there was no one beside me.

Nope, they were over fifteen feet behind me, slapping each other on the back and cackling with laughter while I tried to stand up and look back. My legs and back were going to be sore for days, I knew it, and there they were, chortling over the whole spectacle. Another shock went through me when Mr. Alexander barked at us "Get back to work! Move!" I spun right around; the other two sauntered up. "So, you need us or will you go it alone?"

Chuckles. We got the engine turned the rest of the way with me working like a demon, trying to see if I could overtake both of them. All I did was skid my feet a lot.

We all straightened up. The brakeman's beefy face turned to me. "Good show back there, kid, almost turned it yourself." He grinned too broadly and punched me on the shoulder twice. "What's your name?"

"Charles - Charles Rusk."

"Good to meet you, Chuck."

I bit my lip to keep from telling him I hated that nickname, it sounded like something you did to trash. I began edging back toward the engine.

"Eh, you don't need to go that quickly, Chuck." Yes I do, I thought, unless I want the engineer to hang me out to dry.

"Yeah, I know you got the old monster for a boss, but he's really a sad old devil" Sad and old, maybe, but definitely devils. I gave a hasty nod, a half-smile, and turned tail back to the cab.

"Good to meet you, Chuck!" Why did he have to use that nickname every time he talked to me? It sounded like he was branding me with a new label, and I didn't like it. Another thought made me clench one hand and look around: suppose the girl's group had seen the whole thing?

And what if they did, I rebelliously answered myself. They couldn't even stand up to Mr. Alexander; if I need to stay in anyone's good graces, it's the engineer's. Fortified by the thought, I spent the next two hours battling to keep the steam gauge steady during a bunch of switching moves, ignoring my painful shin and hand with stoic, manly determination.

By the time we pulled out of Laws the sun was still bright but the shadows longer; it looked to be about five o'clock. There were more people on the street, loafing and stirring around, looking up to watch the train go by, but the girl wasn't anywhere to be seen. It wasn't yet sunset when Laws disappeared, the green ranchland spread out around it like it was stretching its legs for the night.

I don't know how far out of town we were - three, maybe four miles, not far - when I heard an engine whirring up the road behind us. Peering back, I saw the most jim-dandy roadster I'd ever seen gliding along the dirt road at trackside, tossing up a proud wake of sunlit, wheat-colored dust. It was an older model - ten years old, at least - but its white paint shone, and there was even some mirror-bright chrome trimming on it all the way around. I hadn't seen chrome on cars too often, and hadn't seen it at all since I was in the seventh grade.

Hearing number nine pick up speed, I hastily set the fire, then looked back again. The car was catching up with us, and I could see enough to recognize someone in a leather jacket behind the wheel, and some familiar faces in the other seats. They were just a few boxcars behind us now, and I could see another car coming up from behind - also a roadster, but not as well polished. Holding onto a window post, I got ready to wave; I figured that was what they were going to do.

The whistle suddenly howled - we were coming to a grade crossing. Early on the engineer had given me orders to watch out on my side of the cab at crossings, because he couldn't see around the boiler. I watched, all right, and saw nobody but the two roadsters coming up fast. It worried me.

We were suddenly neck-and-neck, the driver leaning casually back in his seat while everyone else seemed to be shouting and egging him on. They weren't slowing down - neither was number nine - something had to give -

"Car coming up fast!" I shouted to the engineer, quick as I could, in the break between whistle signals.

His head didn't move, but his eyes shot a glare at me over the hot steam pipes and roaring boiler. "What's it look like?" he demanded, pulling at the whistle again.

I had to wait till the whistle was done to answer. "White, chrome trim -"

He instantly growled something like an oath and I recoiled, thinking it was directed at me. The old engineer leaned on the whistle cord like he was screaming against the Almighty, the air brakes hissed malevolently and the cars clattered together with noises of surprise and protest.

Over the din, I somehow heard the roadster's engine pick up as though shouting a challenge. I was riveted in my seat, the crossing just fifty feet ahead - forty - thirty - the roadster pulled ahead, the kids inside it waving their fists - I watched the whole thing out the cab front window, looking down the running boards alongside the boiler - twenty - the roadster was ahead of us now - I thought of a hundred tons of locomotive plowing into two tons of steel and gasoline - ten feet -

The crossing vanished beneath the boiler just as the roadster jumped across, tires bumping over the worn and dusty boards between the rails - I pressed myself into the seat for the crash -

No crash. Just the sound of the brakes releasing. I felt the slack go out of the cars, stretched out comfortably again.

The second roadster had ground to a halt at the crossing and the kids inside it sat there honking at us like we were just another truck in their way. I barely heard it over the whistle.

The engineer swore - loudly. I jumped and then went stiff as he went on: "Idiots! Don't have the brains God gave 'em! No idea that they almost got smeared over half a mile of track!" He swore again and jerked the throttle open, trying to make up for time lost.

Brown smoke curled into the sky when I tried to stoke the fire up. As I fiddled with the valves, Mr. Alexander's voice shot at me like a harpoon: "Rusk! Leave those alone!" The next time I went for the valves he yelled again: "I said leave 'em be! It's mucking around with that stuff that makes you lose steam!"

For the next forty-odd miles I swung crazily between doing too much or too little, and either way Mr. Alexander let me know about it - "Dammit, boy, you can't just forget your fire, you've still got a job to do!" Someplace out where the sage grew thick and gnarled the worst came to pass. I couldn't understand what was going on at first until the engineer muttered "Fire's out." When I went for the fuses and matches he shoved me aside and relit the fire himself, growling that "there's no need for a fireman if there's no fire."

We reached Owenyo when it was dusk, not quite night and not quite day. The sky was still blue, but the sun had gone and the land was darkened like a gloomy, cloudy day.

I welcomed the sight of the grubby little depot and the lifeless town surrounding it. It meant I could finally get off this engine, out of the hotseat. I'd made the entire trip without doing anything right, and I slumped penitently over the firing valve, guilty and miserable.

We'd stopped up near the station and Mr. Ross and Mr. Blackstone both came up to the engine. Mr. Alexander got down and met them. "What do you want to do, Ron?"

Mr. Ross had his coat off and his hands in his hip pockets. "Don't know. We should run number nine down to Keeler and put her in the shed, but it'd be a non-revenue run and I've got the company breathing down my neck about those."

"Got no choice." Mr. Blackstone put in. "We can't fire her up after she's been sitting out cold all weekend."

I leaned out the cab window to hear them talk. Lionel came out of the depot, sliding into his coat and cap. He looked up at me, then walked to a few feet outside of the group of old railroad men, standing still and waiting.

"There's another problem," Mr. Ross continued, and he pointed right up at me. "He might go dead on the law before you reach Keeler." Dead on the law?

Mr. Blackstone shook his head. "I don't care to be working this late either, but there's not much of a choice."

I tensed when I realized my stake in all this: the train back to home didn't run to Keeler. I'd have to spend the night there, or walk back along the tracks, or something. Lionel looked up at me, but it was too dark for me to make out his face. He turned dejectedly away from the men, walking back to a bench on the depot platform. He sat there gazing off into the horizon like he expected to be there for a long time.

"Rusk!" I jumped when Mr. Alexander called my name. "Think you can fire this thing on wood?"

I didn't understand. "Sorry, sir?"

"Take a look in the firebox. Can you fire it on wood?"

Kneeling down, I peered through the sight-hole in the firedoor. The fire was real low, and I could see most everything - there wasn't any grate, but there was a front damper I could build the kindling around, with smaller pieces on the sides . . . yes, it could be done . . . I could do it! Rushing back to the window, I shouted back a "yes, sir!"

"There you have it." Mr. Alexander said with finality. "Call him next week and you won't need that junk down at Keeler."

Mr. Blackstone rubbed his hand around the back of his neck. "Well, I'll be hanged. He's probably the last man west of the Sierras who remembers how to do that."

"The power of the mud steamer, gentlemen," Mr. Ross declared. The men exploded into laughter. Up in the cab I shrank away from the window, trying to hide whatever it was that marked me as a 'mud steamer.' It was only Friday, but already Monday loomed dangerously ahead; it would be my last chance after that poor showing today. If I let the fire go out one more time I'd never work on the rails again - I knew it.

"Rusk! Shut her down!" Mr. Alexander shouted. I gladly put the fire out, then went around the whole locomotive from cowcatcher to tender, shutting every valve I could find. Mr. Alexander and Mr. Blackstone were gone by the time I finished, and when I went into the depot to sign out on the register I found Lionel there, holding the pen out to me. "I've filled it out, Charlie," he murmured low enough so Mr. Ross wouldn't hear. "Just sign it and we'll go."

Our train was twenty minutes late departing that night. The coach was empty again, and I sat silently staring at my own reflection in the window, all deep shadows and hollow eyes. My elbow was propped up on the windowsill and I could feel the rocks and jolts, the huge steel wheels clattering over the gaps and joints in the rails.

I sat up when I heard a reedy, wheezing noise, like a noisy brake. But when I turned I saw it was Lionel, holding up something to his mouth. He blew a musical note, long and easy, and when he moved his hands I saw he was holding a shiny, chrome-plated harmonica.

"You play?" I asked, leaning forward.

He angled his head at me, smiling gently and a little wistfully. "Yeah, I picked it up back in Yakima. We had a school band I played clarinet in, and I even had a teacher for a year or two. I took the clarinet down here but there was no band at our school. So I carry this around."

Lionel raised the harmonica again. His back was straight, his feet flat on the floor, but his whole form was stretched out and relaxed, and listening to the next few notes was like hearing a tightrope go slack. He played a tune I didn't know - or maybe he was improvising - clicking along at the same pace as the train but sometimes slowing down, letting his music breathe a little. I could hear something in it, something echoing inside the rhythm and the fine-grained notes, something as gentle and wistful as the smile he'd given me a few minutes before.

His tune was only a few minutes long but it felt like there was a lifetime in that melody, and the closing note sounded like an old man lying down to die with a smile on his face. Lionel lowered the harmonica and turned to see me leaning expectantly forward, and he gave me the affable half-smile a performer gives an appreciative audience.

Five cars ahead of us, the whistle sang, and the Owenyo yard seemed to be half a world away. All my worries had slid quietly off the train and were now left behind, scattered over the desert.