Penny

by Whitney Sanderson

  “All right, Penny!” he said with a laugh. “Let a fella catch his breath before he pays his respects to a lady.” He handed the reins of his horse to the station manager, then slipped into the corral and looked me over, while running his hands over my neck and back. Unlike some of the horses, I hadn’t lost condition over the harsh winter, and I was still well muscled under my thick winter coat. “Seems the Express agrees with you,” he said. “You’re as fit as a fiddle.”

  That night a blizzard blew up unexpectedly. Billy came shuffling from Strawberry Station on foot, carrying the mochila in his arms. My heart filled with dread at the sight. No Express rider would abandon his horse unless something terrible had happened.

  Jesse and the station manager rushed out of the cabin when they spotted Billy. I left the three-sided shelter where the horses were huddled and trotted over to the gate. The shock of the wind and the cold nearly stole the breath from my body.

  “Kismet broke a leg slipping on a patch of black ice,” said Billy. His face was bloodless white from the cold, and his teeth chattered as the snow settled on his shoulders. “I had no choice but to end his suffering on the trail.”

  Kismet…I thought of the spirited chestnut, who I had only met a few times. He never settled down to chitchat with the herd, but paced restlessly along the fence line all night. He only ever wanted to run.

  “We’ve got to wait till the blizzard passes,” shouted the station manager, squinting into the blinding snow. “No man or beast could cross Echo Summit in this weather.”

  But Jesse took the mochila from the half-frozen rider’s arms. “The mail must go through,” he said.

  Within minutes, Jesse and I were headed west toward the mountain peak. The trail had all but disappeared in the snow. I followed the path by memory alone. All around us, the fir trees rose as tall and straight as giant arrows sticking up from the ground. They offered little shelter from the swirling snow.

  I picked my way carefully among the ice-glazed rocks. The trail dropped sharply on either side. I knew that one slip could send us tumbling to our death. My breath steamed in the thin mountain air. Then, all of a sudden, I was suffocating! A sheet of ice had formed over my nostrils. I stopped and rubbed my face frantically against my foreleg, but the ice clung to my whiskers.

  Jesse jumped down from the saddle and took off his heavy woolen gloves. He cupped his hand over my muzzle until the heat melted the ice. I gulped a few grateful breaths. But we couldn’t linger. If we stopped for long, we’d freeze to death.

  Higher and higher we climbed, until we reached the hairpin turn at the top of Echo Summit. For a moment I looked out across the glittering slope that stretched before us. Not a living creature was in sight. They had all taken shelter in dens deep under the blanket of snow.

  Jesse paused to clear the ice from my nostrils again. We began our slow descent. I walked with my head low to the ground, trying to avoid the sharpest rocks and the slickest patches of ice. At least the blizzard had stopped, so it was easier to see the ground.

  Suddenly, Jesse reined me to a halt and jumped down from the saddle. He peered closely at the ground, then turned slowly in a circle. I realized he was searching for signs of a trail. But there was nothing around us except an unbroken expanse of trees and snow. We were lost.

  Jesse mounted up again, but he didn’t seem to know which way to steer me. He shivered in the saddle. My legs felt like tree trunks frozen to the ground. I didn’t know if I could take another step. Maybe if I rested for a little while…

  Just ahead, I noticed a tree trunk scarred with black lines. From my time in the foothills, I knew these marks were made by deer scraping the spring fuzz from their antlers. I spotted similar markings on another tree, farther downhill.

  A picture formed in my mind: dawn. Herds of deer shyly emerging from the mountains to drink at the shore of Lake Tahoe, near Friday’s Station. Sometimes they would jump over the fence into the horse corral and nibble at stray kernels of corn and oats we’d dropped on the ground.

  We had lost one path but stumbled on another. I sniffed the frozen air and smelled a very faint musty scent. I stumbled forward until I saw another tree covered with the familiar black lines. Jesse let the reins go slack, trusting my instincts. Step by step, I followed the trail of scarred trees down the side of the mountain. It began to snow again, and I wondered if we were only following a path that led to some frozen valley far from civilization.

  At last, through the swirling flakes, I caught sight of a silvery expanse of lake. Beside it was a log cabin with smoke rising from the chimney, and a small stable shut tight against the storm.

  We had reached Friday’s Station and safety. And we had brought the mail with us.

  The snow soon melted into a layer of mud that flew up from my hooves and turned everything—my coat, my riders’ clothes, the mochila—the same dull brown color. Even after Sam’s vigorous currying, you could hardly tell one horse in the paddock from another.

  In April, galloping along the path to Strawberry Station, I came upon a strange sight. Men were lowering tall wooden poles into deep holes in the ground. Between the poles they strung thin wires. I wondered what they were doing, but there was no time to linger.

  Throughout the summer, other horses reported seeing those poles put up along their stretch of trail. As the leaves turned golden on the trees, less and less mail was sent by Pony Express. Sometimes there were days between riders. By the time the trees were bare, the mail stopped entirely. Weeks passed, and still no letters came through.

  One morning, Sam came out of the Split Rock cabin and began hitching up all the horses. He tied the lead rope of one horse to the tail of the one behind it until we formed a long chain. I was near the end, in front of Bluegrass and behind Shadow, who laid back his ears and threatened to kick if I got too close to his rump.

  Sam led the string of horses through the gate and began to walk us down the road to the west, toward Placerville. Cinnabar whinnied from the head of the line, and I saw one lone figure walking toward us down the road. He wore the same blue shirt and leather chaps as all the riders, but I recognized the rusty hair and long, purposeful strides at once.

  Jesse had returned to his usual route after Boston recovered, and I hadn’t seen him since our snowy ride to Friday’s Station. I wondered what brought him here now, with no horse and no mochila. Change was in the air, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  Jesse strolled unhurriedly over to Sam and held out some green-and-white pieces of paper. “I’d like to buy my horse back,” he said. “Two hundred dollars cash, same as you paid for her.”

  Sam tucked the money into his shirt pocket and unhitched me from the string of horses. “Glad you showed up when you did,” he said. “My orders from Mr. Majors are to auction these horses in town for quick cash. Seems a poor end for animals who have served us so faithfully. But I suppose there’s not much need for them now that the telegraph’s built.” Sam’s voice and eyes were sad.

  “We’ll always need horses,” said Jesse. “At least until they figure out how to make wagons that pull themselves.”

  “What do you aim to do now?” asked Sam.

  “I reckon we’ll join up with the railroad,” said Jesse. “It doesn’t pay like the Express, but it’s steady work.”

  I wasn’t wearing any tack, so Jesse hopped up onto my bare back the way he used to at the mining camp, before he owned a saddle. Together we headed west along the trail I had traveled so many times. But this time, Jesse kept me to a walk. I jigged nervously, wanting to pick up the pace. Of course I knew that I wasn’t carrying a mochila, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the mail was behind schedule.

  * * *

  —

  The railroad camp was in the foothills, not far from where Jesse and Buckeye Jack had panned for gold. Dozens of men were already working, laying down a path of wood and metal. They paused often t
o measure the distance between the rails.

  The path where the track was laid had to be perfectly flat. My job was to haul away loads of rocks and dirt that the men had shoveled from the path. After the ground was raked smooth, I brought in loads of wooden ties and metal rails. It was hot, dusty, and tiring work. At night, I dreamed of the wind in my mane as I galloped along the Pony Express trail. It seemed so far away now, even though we were crossing nearly the same land.

  Jesse was as much of a workhorse as I was. He was set to the task of pounding iron stakes into the rails with a sledgehammer. Sweat poured from his sunburned back, even when frost glittered on the ground. The purpose of all this backbreaking work was a mystery to me. It was clear these men weren’t looking for gold. No one so much as glanced at the shovelfuls of coarse gray stone they cleared away.

  One night, I asked the other weary horses in the corral what we were doing here. No one answered, except for a knobby-kneed gelding named One-Eyed Dan. He let out a low nicker of amusement that turned into a racking cough.

  Do you know something? I asked, nudging my pile of hay in his direction to sweeten him up.

  But One-Eyed Dan wasn’t much for conver-sation. He only shook his bony neck and said, You’ll meet the Iron Horse soon enough.

  Who’s that? I asked. But One-Eyed Dan gobbled up my hay without another word.

  The question faded from my mind as the seasons passed. We worked through blazing summer sun and hock-deep spring mud and chilling autumn rain. In wintertime, the men built temporary sheds over the section of track they were working on to keep off the snow.

  When we reached the steep granite cliffs near the mountain’s summit, I thought there was no way through. But the men loaded up my wagon with kegs of black powder, which they packed into holes they’d chipped in the rock. Everyone moved away, and then—BOOM!—the rock crumbled with a sound that shook my bones. Blast by blast, we tunneled a path through the mountain.

  On the other side, we began laying tracks on the open plains. One spring day, it seemed like everyone was moving with a match lit to their tail. My driver, a muscular Clydesdale of a boy named Frankie, piled my cart higher and drove me harder than ever before. When I stumbled and fell to my knees, I felt the lash of a whip across my back. I squealed in surprise and leaped forward, nearly upsetting the cart.

  “Hey!” cried Jesse, looking up from where he was pounding stakes on the track. “There’s no need to hit that mare. She’ll give you her last ounce of strength if you ask for it nicely. And you’ll get nothing but a kick in the ribs for your trouble if you don’t.”

  “I don’t have time to coddle any horse when there’s four days’ pay on the line,” called Frankie. “I aim to win that bet with those Yankees from Union Pacific. And to do that, we need to lay ten miles of track today.”

  But Frankie didn’t hit me again. Later, I caught a glimpse of movement on the edge of the horizon. As we moved toward it, I felt like I was looking at a reflection in a still pond. Men and horses were laying down tracks as they moved in our direction, just as fast as we were setting down rails to the east.

  The next day, the two camps met. The tracks joined together in a single, unbroken line. There was a celebration that went late into the night. The next morning, everyone gathered around the track. I was surprised to see two strange, hulking objects facing each other on the rails. Each was almost as big as a house, with a tall chimney near the front, but with wheels like a wagon’s.

  A man with brass buttons on his coat and shoes as shiny as glass stepped forward. He reminded me a little of Cal. He took something out of a small box and held it up in the air for everyone to see. It was a railroad spike, but I’d know that bright glint anywhere. It was made of solid gold!

  The man gave a speech to the crowd. It was so long that I grew restless and began to graze. Finally he stopped talking and someone handed him a sledgehammer. He placed the golden spike, then swung the hammer—and missed! A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd. He struck again, and this time drove the spike home.

  It wasn’t until the next day that I really understood. Midmorning, a piercing whistle split the air. It was much louder than the bugle of the Pony Express riders. Everyone in camp set down what they were doing. Jesse left the boots he was mending and rode me over to the track. Frankie followed on One-Eyed Dan, and several other boys followed on their own horses.

  Jesse stopped me a stone’s throw away from the rails, which now stretched across the landscape in an unbroken line. A smudge of smoke appeared on the horizon, followed by a dark shape. As it got bigger, I could see that it was one of the odd black house-wagons that had been sitting motionless on the tracks the day before. Except this one was moving faster than any wagon could—as fast as a galloping horse!

  The ground shook under my hooves as if it would split apart. Panic flooded me. This was not a wagon at all, but a living thing, a predator! I spun and bolted away from the track, ignoring Jesse’s frantic cries. I must have galloped half a mile before my curiosity got the best of me and I drifted to a stop.

  The creature was gone, but the foul smell of its smoke lingered in the air. People were laughing at me as Jesse led me back toward the track, my muscles still bunched up with fright. I saw that several of the other horses had bolted, too, but One-Eyed Dan was just standing there like nothing but a cool breeze had blown past.

  He let out another of his wheezing whinnies as I approached. Now you’ve met the Iron Horse, he said.

  I snorted and moved with prancing steps, trying to avoid stepping closer to the track. That thing is nothing like a horse!

  Well, that’s what some folks call it, said One-Eyed Dan. Its proper name is train or locomotive.

  There is no such animal, I informed him. I’ve lived in these mountains for years and I’ve never seen one until today.

  It came from back East, said One-Eyed Dan. It carries people deep inside its belly.

  You mean it eats them? I asked.

  No, they just sit there, said One-Eyed Dan, reaching down for a bite of grass. They use the train like they use horses, to get to places faster than their two legs can carry them. Soon, I expect that trains will be as common as coyotes and deer.

  I was skittish for the rest of the day, jumping at every whistled song and whiff of smoke from a campfire. The next morning, everyone packed up and headed for the nearest town. To my horror, the Iron Horse was waiting there, belching its smelly black smoke. I danced and pranced and bucked at the end of my rope as Jesse led me toward it across a wooden platform.

  He waved to a man dressed in a matching striped shirt and trousers, with a flat-topped hat. “Excuse me, sir. Mr. Crocker promised free fare to any city for Central Pacific workers,” he said.

  “I can find a seat for you, but I’m afraid it’ll have to be third class,” said the man. “First and second have been full up since Union Station.”

  “How about the freight cars?” Jesse turned me in a tight circle, inching me closer to the train. “This lady did as much work for the railroad as I did, and we’re traveling as an item.”

  The man nodded and motioned for Jesse to follow him toward the tail of the Iron Horse. The beast had grown. It now had dozens of segments, like a wheeled caterpillar. To my amazement, the man opened a door in the side of the train, revealing a box filled with sweet golden straw. It looked almost inviting.

  But when Jesse tried to lead me toward it, I reared up on my hind legs. I wasn’t getting one step closer to that half beast, half machine.

  Jesse took his bandanna from his neck and tied it over my eyes so I couldn’t see a thing. I heard Jesse’s voice and felt a tug on my rope. With wobbling, uncertain strides, I followed him. My hooves thudded over wood, then met a barrier. Jesse coaxed me forward. I took a step up, and something crackled under my hooves. A door slammed behind me.

  Jesse took off the blindfold, and I saw that I was ins
ide the belly of the train. I lowered my head to sniff at the straw. It really wasn’t so different from being in a stable….

  The ground lurched under me. Through a window in the train’s side, I saw the buildings of the town melting together in a blur of motion.

  I spun around in a panic, crashing against the metal walls and knocking Jesse to the ground. I reared up and smacked my head against the ceiling. Jesse sprang to his feet and covered my eyes with the blindfold again. My instinct was to freeze when I couldn’t see anything. My heart still pounded with fear, but Jesse’s voice cut through the darkness and his hand rested soothingly on my shoulder.

  The train bumped and rattled along for what felt like hours. Occasionally it shuddered to a stop for a while before it jolted forward again, throwing me off balance.

  At last the motion stopped for a long time, and I heard the door slide open. Fresh air flooded the stuffy box. Jesse guided me carefully down a metal ramp that clanged under my feet. I heard the chatter of people and smelled their greasy food and flowery perfumes all around me. My hooves thudded across wooden boards again and then stepped onto solid ground.

  Jesse finally removed the blindfold from my eyes to reveal a bustling city street. I whinnied, and a horse pulling a mail cart whinnied back.

  Across the street, I spotted the familiar rearing horse on the sign for the Silverado Saloon. Taller buildings now surrounded it on both sides. Somehow, the Iron Horse had carried me hundreds of miles across the mountains to Sacramento in a single day.

  Jesse used the money he had saved to buy a narrow townhouse for himself and Buckeye Jack. He boarded me at the livery stable, but no longer was I rented out for hire. Jesse bought a sleek black carriage with a matching harness, and we went into business driving passengers from the railroad station to their lodgings in the city.