reached his hand out to Juniper’s approach. The gesture was unreturned as the sheriff brushed past. His concern for the vehicle was too absorbing.
‘Any cargo we need to declare? Hazardous, livestock, et cetera?’ Harold asked.
‘Clean as they come.’
‘Good news. Your signature.’
Harold thrust out a thick, floppy, suede-covered book and a pen. Franco beamed as he flawlessly scrawled his name.
Juniper was not happy. He wasn’t impressed with the presence of the train in his city, or with its owners or the business it touted. It reeked of suspicion. A gut feeling had turned his stomach the moment he had heard of its arrival and this was always a sign that trouble was afoot.
‘Where have you come from?’ came his first demand for information, flat and imposing.
‘Ashdown.’
The sheriff nodded, impatiently biting the inside of his cheek. In truth no answer would suffice nor subdue any suspicions of wrongdoing.
‘I want to see your stamps.’
Misu immediately handed over the logbook with a trembling grip, showing the time and date the Gambler’s Den arrived at each destination. Alongside each were the verified imprints from each corresponding stationmaster, authenticating claims of the route. Pages were flicked back and forth.
‘It says here you went through Rustec a week back. You never mentioned that,’ Juniper accused.
‘You never asked … We just passed through, gave the small-town folks there a reason to celebrate. Can you clarify what this is about, sheriff?’
The logbook was slapped shut and passed back. Alex paced alongside the carriage and inspected its veneer. ‘Word on the wire was that there was a break-in at some museum in Rustec. Some relic was stolen. Very valuable. Expert work by all accounts.’
‘We heard that too. There’s some sticky-fingered folks out there,’ Franco returned, not liking where this was going.
‘You wouldn’t have heard anything else, would you? Anything specific? An enterprising man like yourself must hear things in your line of work. Numerous things I suppose.’ Juniper finally acknowledged Franco and sized him up. As expected, Juniper was barrel-chested and weathered in appearance. The gaze that brought the truth in many an interrogation failed to intimidate Franco, who passed it off.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied.
The sheriff ran his hand over the steely veneer of the nearest carriage, tracing each bullet hole in sequence. Only now was Franco able to assess the damage of their little run-in. Not to mention calculate the approximate cost.
‘Run into some trouble, did we?’
‘We get just as much as anybody else.’ Franco shrugged. ‘The Den just knows how to defend itself.’
‘No unlicensed weaponry I hope.’
‘Perish the thought, sheriff. Papers for them all.’
‘Talking of papers, I want to see the gambling licence for this vehicle. It’s not exempt from gambling laws just because it’s on wheels.’
Misu was already prepared. They had been pressed by the law many times. None of the houndings ever resulted in an apology, but something close. The Den was legal front and back. Just because they dealt with large sums of gambling money didn’t mean that the paperwork wasn’t in check. Misu offered over the leather-bound wedge of paper, which was snatched and blindly passed to anyone in reach to review. It was looked at, quickly.
‘They were stamped two years back in the capital.’
Sceptical, Juniper reclaimed the documents. He brought the pages closer and eyed the imprints for any indication of forgery.
‘We’re far from there. Most folk would attempt to hoodwink us with fakes.’
‘Luckily we’re not those kind of folk. As down and honest as the day we were made, much to our misfortune.’ Franco chuckled half-heartedly.
Alex stared longer this time, more intently, searching his hardest for any sign of tampering.
‘I assure you, all is in order.’
Harold was eager to check every stamp and the validity of travel himself, though had to take the sheriff’s overriding word.
Acknowledging that, from what he could witness, everything was legitimate, Juniper placed the paperwork roughly back into Misu’s hand. She scowled at his flat, childish response.
‘This is a clean city with good people. Be sure that you don’t get involved in anything unlawful. If there’s one thing we don’t abide by, it’s troublemakers.’
‘Trouble isn’t something we make, friend. You have no need to worry,’ Franco assured him before leading his party down the platform. ‘In our business, such a thing is unprofitable.’
* * *
To find oneself in Windberg was almost bewildering after spending time in the trade outposts. A city – and not just any city – the most expansive and extravagant city squatting on the cusp of the Bad Lands. It was a sprawling, claustrophobic beast. It was a city that could comfortably hold a good few thousand people but accommodated plenty more with the ever-expanding shantytowns. In its rush for growth, districts resembled haphazard constructions. Wealthy ones, boasting fine multi-storey erections, simply punctuated the contrast to reams of terraced dwellings threaded by maze-like streets of the poor.
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