Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"That were for oilin' piston rods and drivers. Kep' the wheels on the rails for nigh onto fifty year, it did. They give it me when I retired. Better'n the gold watch, it were."

"I believe it! You were a master of your craft, I'm told. What does it take to make a good engineer?"

Ozzie had to think before answering. "l'arnin' to start up slow and stop smooth... l'arnin' to keep yer head when it be hell on the rails... Prayin' to God fer a good fireman... And abidin' by Rule G," he finished with a weak chuckle.

"What's the fireman's job on a steam locomotive?"

"He be the one stokes the firebox an' keeps the boiler steamin'. Takes a good crew to make a good run and come in on time. Spent my whole life comin' in on time. Eleventh commandment, it were called. Now, here I be, an' time don't mean nothin'."

Qwilleran asked, "Why was it so important to be on time?"

"Made money for the comp'ny. Made wrecks, too... takin' chances, takin' shortcuts."

"Were you in many wrecks?"

"Yep, an' on'y jumped once. I were a young-un, deadheadin' to meet a crew in Flapjack. Highballin' round a curve, we run into a rock-slide. Engineer yelled 'Jump!' an' I jumped. Fireman jumped, too. Engineer were killed."

"What do you know about the famous wreck at Wildcat, Ozzie?"

"That were afore my time, but I heerd plenty o' tales in the SC&L switchyard. In them days the yard had eighteen tracks and a roundhouse for twenty hogs." His voice faded away and his eyes glazed as his mind drifted into the past.

Qwilleran persisted with his question.

"It weren't called Wildcat in them days. It were South Fork. Trains from up north slowed down to twenty at South Fork afore goin' down a steep grade to a mighty bad curve and a wood trestle bridge. The rails, they be a hun'erd feet over the water. One day a train come roarin' through South Fork, full steam, whistle screechin'. It were a wildcat - a runaway train - headed for the gorge. At the bottom - crash!-bang! Then hissin' steam. Then dead quiet. Then the screamin' started. Fergit how many killed, but it were the worst ever!"

Both men were silent for a moment. Qwilleran could hear the gold watch ticking. Finally he asked, "Did they ever find out what caused the wreck?"

"Musta been the brakes went blooey, but the railroad, they laid it on the engineer - said he were drinkin'. Saved the comp'ny money, it did, to lay it on the engineer. Poor feller! Steam boiler exploded, an' he were scalded to death."

"Horrible!" Qwilleran murmured.

'Yep. It were bad, 'cause he weren't a drinkin' man."

"So that's why they changed the name of the town to Wildcat! You're a very lucky man, Ozzie, to have survived so many dangers! If you had your life to live over again, would you be a hoghead?"

"Yep." After the excitement of telling the story, the old man was running out of steam.

Qwilleran said, "Too bad the Trackside is closed. We could get some food and drink."

"There be another place down the street," said Ozzie, reviving somewhat. "Better'n the Trackside."

As the two men walked down Main Street, slowly, Qwilleran asked if any women lived in the Retirement Center.

"Nope."

"I hear women never go into the Trackside. Do you know why?"

"Nope."

"Railroads are hiring women as engineers now," Qwilleran said.

"Not up here! Not the SC&L!"

The old man was breathing hard when they arrived at the bar and grill called The Jump-Off. A middle-aged woman with a bouncer's build and a rollicking personality greeted them heartily. Four young women in baseball jerseys were talking loudly about their recent win. A few elderly men were scattered about the room. The hearty greeter took their order: rye whiskey straight for Ozzie, ginger ale for Qwilleran.

When Ozzie had downed his drink, Qwilleran asked, "How did you feel about driving old No.9 and hauling the Party Train?"

"Purty good" was the answer.

"It hasn't made any more runs since then."

"Nope."

"Too bad the credit union had to close. Sawdusters must be feeling the pinch. Were you affected?"

"Nope. Had m'money in a bank."

Hmm, Qwilleran mused; why not in his son-in-law's corporation? "Can you stand another rye, Ozzie? And a burger?"

"Doc says one won't do no harm, so I figger two'll do some good."

Qwilleran signaled for refills. "Did someone tell me Floyd Trevelyan is your son-in-law?"

"Yep."

"How do you like the model trains at his house?"

"Never see'd 'em," Ozzie said, staring into space.

There was an awkward silence, which Qwilleran filled with questions about the quality of the burgers, the degree of doneness, the availability of condiments, and the kind of fries. The bar served railroad fries: thick, with skins on. Finally he said, "I met your daughter once. Do you have other children?"

Ozzie's reply was bluntly factual: "One son killed on the rails. One killed in Vietnam. One somewheres out west."

"Sorry to hear that. Do you see your daughter often?"

"Nope. Don't get around much."