Mr. Ross wore a pair of old, high-laced boots that clumped when he walked, and I heard him pacing around before I went into the Owenyo depot. When we entered he had his hands in his pockets and his eyes were narrower than usual.� �Ah, the Rookie Brigade on dawn patrol.� Reed, what are you doing here at four in the morning.�

Lionel cocked his head in my direction. �Came in on the same train as him, sir.�

�Like Siamese twins, the both of you. All right, Rusk, go sign the register. There�s wood split for you out by number nine. Reed, go amuse yourself for four hours. If you�re smart, you�ll lie down on the passenger bench before I do.�

Lionel didn�t move. He stood by the register and gave a little nod when I was done filling everything out. Mr. Ross grumbled, half to himself, �We�re gonna have to start stabling the engine at Keeler more often, I�ve had enough of being up before dawn just to sign a fireman in. Rusk, if you need anything, be sure you wake me before asking.� He stretched himself out on the bench.

�Kerosene, sir,� I answered.

He turned his head. �Section shed, left-hand side.�

"Newspapers?"

Mr. Ross stared up at the ceiling. �Reed, sign the register and get him whatever he wants.�

It was an hour or so before dawn. The sky was blue but the land still dark. I�d been laying awake most of the night thinking, and I had a plan for how to tackle this.

Lionel left his coat and cap in the depot and rolled up his sleeves to carry the newspapers and a lantern. I got a five-gallon can of kerosene and an axe from the section shed. Together we marched up to the cold iron hulk of number nine.

Wood was stacked alongside the engine, a good-sized pile that would keep a kitchen stove hot for a week. I looked it over and it was dry as dust � that was good, it would burn quick and hot. Nothing small enough to use for kindling, though. Setting down the kerosene, I readied the axe and told Lionel, �Light the lantern and take everything I split up into the cab.� I brought the axe down with all the force I could muster and my first swing split a piece real clean. Number nine would take her train out on schedule if I had to push her from behind.

We had a decent amount of kindling about ten minutes later. Hopping up into the cab, I peered into the firebox while Lionel peered over my shoulder. I could see it was too big to just toss wood in there. Feet-first, I slid through the firedoor into number nine�s sooty gullet.

It was so black in there I couldn�t see anything till Lionel passed me the lantern. Riveted steel sat low over my head, and I stepped carefully to avoid the pool of oil at my feet. Lionel got all the dampers wide open with me telling him what levers to pull, then he started passing me crumpled newsprint and kindling-sticks.

It took some thought, but by the time I crawled out I was sure the stuff in the firebox would catch like tinder. After double-checking the water gauge, I sloshed some kerosene over the wood and paper and lit a fuse. Lionel crouched down, leaning forward. I tossed the fuse in and held my breath.

The firebox was bathed in cherry-red light for a few seconds, then flames crept up, slightly orange but almost white. Lionel hopped down to the ground and began handing larger pieces of wood up from the pile. I started tossing them in as soon as it looked like they�d catch. Smoke billowed from the stack and the fire was roaring good and strong in no time.

Springing back into the cab, Lionel peered into the firebox and asked eagerly �Now what?�

I answered, �We wait. We wait a real long time.�

Forget that. Lionel couldn�t hold still. He read all the gauges, tried all the engineer�s controls and figured out where every pipe in the cab went. Every so often I�d tell him �Careful, that�s greasy,� or �That�s hot.� After stoking the fire, I took up the oilcan � time to oil round. Lionel kept close behind me, holding the lantern. �What�re those for?� he asked, pointing at some fittings on the wheels.

�Grease,� I answered. �Those take grease instead of oil.� I ducked under the boiler to get at the eccentric cups and when I looked up, Lionel was back with the grease-gun and a spare grease-stick.

Between the two of us we got everything oiled around the frame, and I climbed up on the running boards to oil the air compressor. Lionel ducked in and out of the cab, grabbing whatever I needed. After stoking the fire again we each took a seat, with Lionel on the engineer�s side. Gripping two controls, he asked �What�re these?�

�Um . . . throttle, engine brakes.�

�This?�

�Reversing lever.�

�This one?�

�Whistle cord.�

Leaning out the cab window, he gazed forward, the sun�s yellow light gleaming in his eyes. He must be sighting down the track to where the rails curved away in sage and sand. I could imagine sitting where he was with steam up and full train, clanking along towards Laws. I wondered how fast number nine could go. Not as fast as the Daylight. I could see myself high up in the Daylight�s cab, rail and countryside flying past at eighty miles an hour, hailing everyone with an almighty blast of the whistle, hundreds of tons of steel at my fingertips.

Lionel let go of the throttle and shot over behind the fireman�s seat, standing almost at attention. I stared at him, puzzled. Then I smelled cigar smoke.

Grunting, Boomer hoisted himself up into the cab, then let go of the grab irons and muttered something. He looked much the same as he had three days ago, right down to the old denim jacket, but now he had a saddlebag slung over his shoulder. The leather bag was cracked in a dozen places, and he carefully laid it in his lap after sitting down in the engineer�s seat. �I smelled wood smoke and came right over . . . haven�t seen wood burning in an engine in twenty years. I knew they were gonna do something with this old heap, leaving it parked here all weekend.�

Lionel and I stood stock-still. Neither one of us dared say anything, not even when he pulled a cast-iron frying pan, rectangular shaped and narrow, out of the bag. He held up the pan to be sure we saw it and grinned so wide his eyes almost disappeared. �Blacksmith in Sacramento made this for me.� Reaching down, he fitted the pan securely on top of the square, protruding firedoor.

The smoke from the stack was nice and grey � wouldn�t need stoking for a few minutes yet. Boomer leaned back and turned his black, curious eyes on Lionel. �Now, when I first saw you I thought you�d been let out of the Jap prison camp down the valley at Manzanar. But up close � I can see that�s not right. What are you? Cheyenne? Navajo? Piute?�

Lionel clasped his hands behind his back. �Laramie, I think.�

�Laramie . . . yeah, I guess so.� Boomer touched the pan, then held his hand over it and went on. �When I was a hostler on the Rio Grande we spent nights in the roundhouse, just keeping steam up. We�d put a pot of coffee on the steam manifold, fry up some eggs and bacon, eat while we wiped the engines down. Sometimes one of us would bring flapjack batter or biscuits and we�d have a real breakfast. Bet they don�t do that much anymore. How do you like your eggs?�

I stood surprised, silent. Lionel said �Fried, please.� I added, �Same.�

The frying pan heated up fast and Boomer had the eggs bubbling in it in no time. We ate off tin plates with tin forks, dented and scarred but clean. �Hope you don�t mind tea,� Boomer said, pouring some into enameled tin cups. �Doc says I shouldn�t take coffee anymore. Sure was easier to give up than cigars.�

When he took the pan off the firedoor, I began throwing more wood in. Boomer instantly put the pan aside and crouched down next to me. �What, you�re waiting till the fire�s down to coals to stoke it? You�ll be ages raising steam like that. C�mon, get some more wood up here . . . toss it in when the fire�s good and hot, and don�t be a piker about it! Keep tossing it in . . . that�s good, get it roaring . . .�

The needle on the steam gauge quivered just above the zero mark. All the water was boiling, now I just had to keep boiling it till I had pressure. Boomer threw the saddlebag over his shoulder. �I better haul myself outta here,� the old man murmured. �Walt would sure be sore if he knew I was up here messing with your heads. He used to fire engines on the mainline, don�t ask me why he settled down here. That last fireboy he had . . . Carl must�ve put the fire out a half-dozen times, and each time Walt pinned his ears back for it. Good luck, boys.�

Lionel and I helped him down, and Boomer slowly trudged out of the yard, wisps of white cigar smoke drifting away in the sun.

We needed thirty pounds of pressure to start the oil burner. The needle on the gauge had lifted sometime after dawn, and we had five pounds a half-hour later. At times I couldn�t stoke fast enough to keep number nine satisfied, and Lionel was working a mile a minute tossing wood into the cab. An hour later I tried starting the burner, but no luck. Water trickled out and nothing else. I hopped onto the tender to make sure there was fuel.

Lionel climbed up and we both peered into the hatch and saw our own black-tinted reflections just a foot or two down. There was plenty of oil, why wasn�t it getting to the firebox? Lionel took a pebble and dropped it in. Our reflections quivered and the pebble stayed right on the surface. �Bunker C,� Lionel declared.

�Bunker C?�

�Cheapest grade of fuel oil they can get. I�ll bet it�s not really a liquid till you heat it.�

Well, no wonder, what with number nine sitting out three nights. I clambered into the cab and cranked up the tank heater. Steam hissed out from beneath the front of the tender, thick and wet. We let it heat up for a while, then I eased on the firing valve. There was a woof from the firebox and brown oil smoke rolled from the stack.

Lionel checked his watch. �Seven thirty-eight. Mr. Ross probably has something for me to do now.� Climbing down from the cab, he picked up the axe and the kerosene and trudged over the tracks. I leaned out the window and called �Hey! Where�s the train going today?�

He called back over his shoulder, �Keeler! Eight cars of borax!�

Mr. Alexander climbed into the cab around ten o�clock, same as the week before. He gave a glance at the steam and brake pressure gauges, then sat down and leaned out the window as though watching for a signal. One must�ve come, since he gave two short blasts on the whistle and started the engine forward. The next hour was spent knocking cars together around the yard, each jolt sending a shock that made my right hand tingle. I hoped there weren�t too many splinters left in there.

We left Owenyo at an incredible speed, so fast we were overtaking cars on the road and when I looked back I saw why: our whole train was just one car, the 401. I wondered what number nine could do if we cut the caboose loose.

At that rate, it didn�t take us long to reach Keeler; it probably wasn�t even noon before we rolled into the station. �This�ll be quick work,� Mr. Alexander remarked, setting the brakes. �Cars should already be loaded. Got time for a real lunch today.�

He climbed down from the cab onto the station platform, the turned to ask �Bring anything today?�

That time I had my own lunch stowed under the fireman�s seat. I nodded.

Mr. Alexander pointed to the cabinet under the engineer�s seat. �If you want more.�

I watched him walk up the platform and stop to shake hands and laugh with the conductor, the brakeman and the stationmaster, just like at Laws last week. Then they left.

There was nothing for me to do but grab a bite and tend to number nine�s fire. Moving over to the engineer�s seat, I peered out over the throttle and down the line. About a quarter-mile away, tin-clad buildings rose up on one side of the track. Or maybe it was more than a quarter-mile � hard to tell, it seemed like there was some kind of fog or dust in the air. Maybe it was the brown smoke from the buildings� smokestack.

�Charles? Hey, Charles Rusk, isn�t it?�

I jumped away from the engineer�s seat, then leaned out the window, trying to see who was talking.

�Hi! Remember me? I saw you in Laws last week.�

I looked down and saw the roadster leader, the handsome boy that Mr. Alexander had tongue-lashed. He wore a work-shirt stained with oil, and his face had some kind of fine, wheat-colored dust all over it. �My name�s Tom Harrow.� He reached a hand up to the cab. I clutched the wooden armrest for a second, my hands chilled and sweaty inside the gloves. Then I reached down to shake hands.

His hand closed around mine and I shivered with the pain � there must still be some steel splinters left in that palm. Tom went on: �I just wanted to know if I could borrow a spanner for a few minutes. I�m changing out the air filter on that thing.� He pointed over his shoulder to that gleaming white roadster parked on the other side of tracks, its hood standing open. I drew my hand back up and listened to the fire squalling in the boiler.

�If you don�t want to lend it, that�s fine, but Carl usually did when he was firing.�

I looked over at the roadster, its innards black and shiny in the sun, then I knelt by the toolbox and flipped it open. My voice cracked a bit when I asked �What size?�

�Six-incher ought to do it.� I handed him a six-inch-long monkey wrench and he looked it over. �Looks like they got you new tools since Carl left. Ever seen one of these old Ford roadsters before?�

I peered over at the car, bright and streamlined like a drop of mercury amid Keeler�s rust and dust. �Never have.�

�Well, come over and take a look.�

I stepped back from the gangway. �Thanks, but I�m not supposed to leave the engine.�

�Oh, that�s no problem. Pin the throttle and come down on the fire, that�s what Carl always did.�

I stayed in the cab. Tom leaned against the tender and twirled the polished new wrench in one hand. �Looks like engineer Alexander�s got to you. I might as well admit it, I�m a mill rat.� He tossed the wrench to himself, fumbling a bit when he caught it. �You�re green, Charles Rusk, real green, you know that.�

Feet scuffed in the sand and I drew back into the cab. Tom and I both turned to see it, a whole of pack of boys his age coming towards us � the same pack I�d run into back in Laws. The young desert rat shouted �Who�s your new friend?�

�Oh, he�s just lending me a wrench,� Tom called back, tossing the tool at me. I jumped to catch it and it landed in my right palm. I winced. �Great catch!� one of them shouted. Another one chimed in: �Better wash it, it�s been touched by a millboy!�

�Don�t think he�ll be picky.� Tom replied, walking over with a kind of stoop-shouldered, stiff-legged poise. He turned back and his eyes flickered over me; for a minute I thought he was going to say �mud steamer.� I tossed the wrench back in the toolbox, letting it clatter against the bottom. They went on, with one of them saying �Thought you were changing the air filter today.�

Tom�s voice: �Not if you fellas got off early. I can drive north and get Kelly. Want to come?�

�Oh, I�ve got big plans, big plans.� They laughed at that. I stayed crouched below the cab windows, making like I was checking the fire until I heard the roadster pull away, growling and grinding its way through the sand.

Getting out of Keeler was quick work, all right. Shunt the 401 to the back of the train, couple onto the front, a quick brake test and we were off less than a half-hour after lunch ended. Eight wooden gondolas rattled behind us. We were just out of sight of town when the wind came up. I leaned out the window and welcomed it, pushed my cap back and felt that cool air along my face. Mr. Alexander grimly reached beneath his seat and took out a pair of what looked like aviator�s goggles. Taking off his cap, he fitted them over his head and turned his bug-eyed, glassy face to me. �Might help if you shut your windows, kid. Other than that, I don�t know what to tell you.�

The wind picked up even more and the desert turned hazy. I heard the window frames scratch and scuff in their guides as I pulled them shut. Then came the rushing noise, like a miniature hailstorm, that I could just pick out over the racket of a working engine. It was the sound of the sand striking the glass.

The wind swirled sand in the back of the cab and down the roof hatch. Mr. Alexander didn�t seem to notice � the goggles protected his eyes � but I kept blinking sand out of mine till I could only see by squinting them almost shut. Each time I moved, sand trickled out from the folds in my clothing. There wasn�t much to the Owens Valley out here but sand; even the sage looked sparser.

After a few miles, I heard the engines relax, the air brakes sighed and the train halted. Mr. Alexander tossed me a stack of rags. �Sand�s gonna grind the crosshead guides down to nothing. Get out there and wipe them off, then put some new oil on them but don�t use too much. Go on!�

I hopped down onto the desert floor. Miles of sand dunes rippled out in every direction, the dusty haze hanging between them like morning fog. I could taste that sand in the air, grinding between my teeth. I got the job done and bounded back into the cab as engineer Alexander reached for the throttle.

The air had cleared by the time we pulled into Owenyo but I still had to wipe down the piston guides. The smart white lettering on the tender was dulled by dust and sand lay in small drifts all along number nine�s running boards, over the tender and even on the cab roof. Mr. Alexander made me climb everywhere and sweep the stuff off with a broom. From atop the cab I could look south for miles along the line to where the tracks curved into the haze, foggy and sun-faded as if the desert were an overexposed photograph.

�Charlie! Hey, Charlie!�

I looked up. It was Lionel, walking over from the depot. He called out �Mr. Ross wants to see you as soon as you�re done out here.�

�I�ll be there,� I called back, shaking the sand from one of my sleeves.

Mr. Ross was leaning against the depot counter when I came in, one of his high-ankle boots propped up on the baseboard. Five or six old men were sitting on the benches. I looked anywhere but into their eyes. One of them declared, �Looks like he had his first encounter with Keeler fog.�

Without looking up from some papers, Mr. Ross deadpanned �No, I just have to give these rookies a shot of baby powder every so often.� The old men laughed. I looked down and realized my overalls, once a dark navy blue, were now covered in dust � turned the color of the desert. I looked back at Mr. Ross, mostly so I wouldn�t be staring down at my boots, shamefaced. I could hear Lionel�s typewriter tapping away in the background.

�Let me level with you,� Mr. Ross began, turning to me. �Before the war, the railroad brass were thinking about shutting the branch line down. Then they decided all the minerals cranked out by the mills down at Keeler were needed for the war effort and told us to ship it. Since then I�ve had a terrible time keeping this branch manned. It�s hard enough to find a good man and harder still to find one who knows something about trains and each time I do, he goes and enlists himself or gets sent onto the mainline.

Sent to the mainline? Hope sprang before my eyes and I stood up a little straighter.

Mr. Ross shoved some papers into a little stack on the counter before going on. �The engines and shops are kept at Keeler. What would you say to living down there so I could keep you on number nine regularly?�

I could feel the whole crowd of old men staring at me, waiting to see what I said. Lionel�s typewriter had stopped tapping. The depot clock ticked off several long seconds before I answered, �I�d have to ask my parents about it.�

The old men snorted and chuckled. �His parents!�

Mr. Ross pursed his lips, then replied �Ignore the skeletons in the corner. Do whatever you have to. We�ll leave the engine parked here and you can come back on Wednesday and do your wood-burning voodoo to raise steam again. Have your answer ready by then.� He pointed to the register. �Go home.�

Lionel got up and brought a freshly typewritten paper over to Mr. Ross, then stood there quietly while it was read. I signed myself out, noting that it was just after three o�clock � 15:00 hours, rather � an early end to the day.

Mr. Ross glanced over at me and handed the paper back to Lionel. �Reed, sign yourself out. I won�t need you again till Wednesday.�

Number nine sat silently in the yard, her fire out and her engineer gone. Lionel and I paced the tracks as we waited for the next train for home. I was stubbornly trying to brush the dust off my overalls, but Lionel was in real good spirits, hardly able to keep a smile off his face. He even looked a little jaunty with his coat slung over his shoulder and at one point he stopped and shuffled his feet as if he were doing a tap-dance.

�Mr. Ross was talking to me about the same thing,� Lionel remarked. �He thinks it�d be easier if I lodged nearer to Owenyo. He�s even got a boardinghouse in Keeler in mind.�

I was thinking of what my mother and father would say to my being gone from the farm for days at a time � I was even a bit worried about it � but something about Lionel made me look up at the sky a bit. �We must�ve done well.�

�Must have.�

The sand had worked its way down my shirt and was starting to chafe each time I moved my arms. �You�ll save money on tickets. Won�t have to take the train so often.�

Lionel looked down at his shoes and gave a pebble a kick, sending it skittering over the dirt. Despite his good mood, I thought I heard something darker in his reply, �I won�t have to ride the baggage car near so often, either.�