Chapter Thirty-three

Harry Anderson looked at the people gathered about his station waiting for a train they were uncertain was coming. Another train sat on the tracks with the caboose sitting at the north end of the platform, waiting to take supplies even further north than Cloquet. Ice hung from them all, frost covered their clothes and plumes of breath whipped away by the wind.

In the distance, a whistle sounded. Dozens of people turned to face the unseen train, their hope buoyed by the sound. People in the rude shelters forming the town heard the whistle and felt hope. God was answering their prayers.

The slow gasp of a locomotive came before the train pulled into view of the platform. What the people saw made them step back from the rails. Ice covered the cooling metal of the train and snow smoothed the sharp angles of the ice that had frozen in flow with the wind.

It was a train they instinctively drew away from in fear, a death train.

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Ice reflected on the windows of the engine as the train rolled slowly past Harry without braking, a thin flow of steam flowing across the top of the boiler. With grim determination, the train collided with the caboose of the waiting train. It crushed the wooden cars of its victim until it came to a halt with a tired sigh of broken machinery.

Everyone stood silent on the platform, staring at the spectacle until Harry broke from his reverie and shouted. “Well, don’t just stand there, get to work.” Men ran to the train and began opening freight cars.

Harry slowly approached the locomotive, softly stepping from the station to the rear platform of the engine. Weak light came from the dying fire of the boiler. Turning to his helper, Harry motioned for a lantern. The boy retrieved the light hurriedly, looking up at Harry expectantly.

“Stay here,” Harry ordered, then entered the cab.

The cab was empty, with ice covering everything, even the boiler doors. There were no answers here.

Hurrying to the rear of the train, Harry discovered the caboose was gone.

Returning to the platform, the mayor greeted Harry. “Where are the heroes? I want to shake their hands.”

“What heroes?” Harry replied with a shake of his head.

“What?” the mayor stuttered.

Harry looked at the train in wonderment. “There are no men aboard that train.”

“The storm killed them?” Harry’s helper asked.

Looking down at the boy, Harry smiled grimly. “If the storm did it, I want to know who pulled the whistle we heard before the train arrived.”