A Lumbertown Tale

The depot at Pratt was fairly deserted as the train pulled in.  Julius Halprin, the depot agent, gently set his lantern down and pulled a watch from his vest pocket.  He peered at it closely, bringing it near to the depot window and raising his glasses a little.  Then he shook his head.

“Late again, Mr. Cooper,” he said.  “Third time this week.  Might as well change the schedule.”

John Cooper, a well dressed gentleman leaning against the depot wall in the shadows and almost out of the rainy drizzle, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigar.  His face was briefly lit in a soft orange glow as he touched a match to the end of it. 

“Now, Julius,” he said between puffs, “might be there was a reason.”  He shook the match out and tossed it aside.

“Well, there’s always a reason,” came the reply.  “Weather’s too wet, weather’s too dry, cows on the track or the engineers got indigestion.  I know’em all.  But there’s something about this night, I’d say, the way the winds been mussing about, the rain switching directions so a person don’t know which way to turn to keep dry.  Seems like the night is even darker than usual, course that could just be October and the rain.  Nights just seem to get darker in October, don’t know why.  But I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.

“But she’s here.  Hey! Bert!” yelled the agent suddenly, and off he strode toward the engine mumbling to himself about late trains and October nights.

There was only one passenger getting off at Pratt that Cooper could see:  Mrs. Muggsley, a middle aged woman of great charm and beauty, splendidly dressed as if she was on her way to the theater instead of stepping down into this crude little lumber town.  Cooper’s eyes followed her as she moved gracefully across the depot platform, a low sigh barely escaping his lips as he appreciated the simple elegance she brought to a dark rainy night. 

Mrs. Muggsley was soon met by a huge gruff looking man, a stark contrast to what one would expect for such a woman.  They hugged briefly, her small frame being swallowed up by his bear like arms around her.  It made Cooper wince a little, though he didn’t know why, exactly.  Mr. Muggsley was a sociable man.  Then slipping her delicate hand into his huge paw, they walked off to a wagon waiting behind the depot.  As Cooper wondered about this odd pairing, he could hear them rattling off slowly into the night.  Most of the other passengers had been dropped off at the many other whistle stops along the way or were heading north to the Lake Superior country, to the cites of Ashland or Bayfield on Chequamagon Bay.

Soon, the agent was back, carrying a brown satchel under his arm and still mumbling, then laughing to himself.  “Hah! Says Roosevelt’s train come first down in St. Paul and he had to wait at the switching station.  I bet Roosevelt never even been to St. Paul.

“But she’s here, finally.  Not startin’ up a camp this soon, are ya, Mr. Cooper?  Got some ‘jacks’ on this one?  There’s snow in them skies alright”, he observed, squinting up into the night, “but the grounds as soft as swamp water, I’d say.” 

“No Julius,” he replied,  “just meeting a friend from the cities.”  They both looked around for this mysterious passenger but the platform was empty and most of the cars were dark.  When the train was ready to move on, Cooper was still leaning against the wall quietly.

“Appears he missed this one, Mr. Cooper,” said the agent.  “She’s ready to go.  ‘Course she won’t make up much time on the schedule tonight, but might as well send’er on, I ‘spose.”