“Name?” Gordon asked.

“Winston Cooper. He’s actually Doctor Winston Cooper, but he’s not a medical doctor, so he asked people not to say that. Call him Winston and he’ll be very happy.”

Longer than Gordon would’ve preferred, his new cars were hooked up, the crew was on board, and the machine gun — God help us, he thought — was carefully placed at the rear of the caboose, pointing over the end of the platform toward the rear.  His new cab passenger, complete with badge, was the promised Winston Cooper, a pleasant young man who seemed to listen carefully and stay out of the way. They were ready to go. He waved at the rail master, who gave him two thumbs up, and eased open the throttle.

“Steve,” Gordon said, “we’re going to be taking this really easy.  Someplace up ahead there is missing track, and I don’t want to be the one to discover it was between us and the next signal station. So will be up to 15 miles an hour, not quite two hours to get to signal five, skipping that we stop at each signal and telegraph back that we’re there.”

“Nothing, Bill,” Steve answered, “like not having to work too hard when it’s this hot. Just have to keep up a modest head of steam.”

“Mr. Gordon, sir?” The third party in the cab was Winston Cooper. “I should be looking out this window?” He pointed.

“Yes,” Gordon answered. “But keep your sombrero tight-tied, or it’ll blow away in the breeze. You’ll still welcome the breeze. And you wisely brought all that water with you.  This will be one dry day, and hotter as we head down to Phoenix.”

“Will do, sir.”  Winston nodded politely.

The locomotive gradually picked up speed, such little speed as it was allowed to acquire. The click-click-click of the wheels as they went over the joints in the rails gradually became an unnoticed noise. 

“Mister Cooper?” Steve finally asked. “Did you see the aurora last night?”