Blood and iron

XVII

Cinci

Early as he was, several other trucks were already waiting for the Chicago and North Western Railroad Line train to pull into the yard. Three or four others came in while he drank lukewarm coffee from a flask Elizabeth had given him. He sat in the cab of the Duryea and yawned. It wasn't so much that he hadn't got enough sleep the night before: more that he was always busy and always tired.

The train pulled into the yard at 6:35, right on time. Then the drivers scrambled to make deals with the conductor, who did the same job as a steamboat clerk and had the same cold blood in his veins.

For a while, Cinci

But he was still here. He'd got his foot in the door, he'd proved he was reliable… and now he was dickering with a conductor over a load of rolled oats for one of the last few livery stables in town. "Have a heart, Jerry," he said, putting a hand over his own heart. "You wouldn't pay that low if I was white."

Jerry rolled his eyes. "You're a Hebe in blackface, Cinci

"Go ahead," Cinci

"You are a Hebe," the conductor said. "All right, dammit, another four bits."

"Six bits," Cinci

"What a damn liar you are. Tell me you don't sandbag when you play poker." Jerry puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled. "Awright, six bits. The hell with it. Deal?"

"Deal," Cinci

When he got to the livery stable, the proprietor, a big, ruddy, white-haired man named Hiram Schacht, said, "Stow the barrels in that corner there." He pointed.

"Will do, Mistuh Schacht," Cinci

As Cinci

"Well, suh, you don't see me bringin' you these oats in a wagon with a team pullin' it, now do you?" Cinci

"Oh, I know, I know," Schacht said, unoffended; they'd had this conversation before. "But I'm heading toward my threescore and ten, as the Good Book says. Up till a couple years ago, I was sure the stable would last out my lifetime, and I was damn glad of it, too: I'm just flat-out crazy about horses. Motorcars have no soul to 'em, and they smell bad, too. Anyway, though, I ain't so sure now. I'm lasting longer than I reckoned I would, and more people are getting rid of their horses faster than I reckoned they would."

"Can't blame me for that," Cinci

"Do your wallet more good, anyway," Schacht said, and Cinci

Having had the urge to murder the Duryea a good many times since buying it, Cinci

"Oh, no doubt about it," Schacht said. "I don't begrudge folks their autos and their trucks-well, not much I don't, anyways. But back when you were a pup, everybody had horses-near enough everybody, I guess I ought to say-and motorcars were toys for rich men. By the time you get as old as I am, it'll be the other way round, I bet: everybody'11 have himself a motorcar, but only rich folks'll be able to keep horses."

"Could be so," Cinci

"You take care of yourself, Cinci

"Thank you kindly, Mistuh Schacht." Cinci

"I wouldn't mind." Schacht scratched at that walrus mustache again; he didn't bother waxing it up into a stylish Kaiser Bill. As Cinci

"Flying machines," Cinci

He picked up another hauling job when he went back to the railroad yard, and then another one. That one took him through his own neighborhood-right past the school where Achilles went. The kindergarten classes were just letting out as he drove by: sure enough, there was Achilles along with his schoolmates, who included blacks, whites, and the daughter of the Chinese laundryman upstairs. In Kentucky, Cinci

Cinci

"Wow! What a swell truck!" a white boy exclaimed, also loudly. Cinci

"Pals." Cinci