For the next five days, the Gambler’s Den weaved through the arid, rocky landscape. Franco spent most of his time dissecting various maps and charts. The region, whilst sparse, was not devoid of deep canyons, jutting mountains, and other such geographic features. Routes required revising, especially with the current dangers.
He made numerous pencilled scribbles. Most were symbols drawn while attempting to calculate arrival times: something at the forefront of his mind. This thought process was broken as Misu knocked on his carriage door and entered, looking fresh-faced as usual despite the stifling heat. She placed a glass of cold water on the table next to the maps, sipping a drink of her own. Her eyes wandered, then returned to Franco as he heavily picked up the glass, twirling it so the ice cubes struck the sides of the glass.
‘Thank you,’ he exclaimed. Misu took a seat on the leather sofa, patting her flamboyant red lace dress down over her thighs. They watched one another for a moment.
‘How are the girls?’ Franco asked, placing his glass back down but not before wiping the condensation from the table surface.
‘The girls are fine. They’re enjoying the downtime if anything. It’s unusual for a show somewhere new to be without incident. The Rustec gig was somewhat boring.’
‘Boring is good,’ Franco said, stretching out on his own sofa and raising his legs up so he could lie with his head tilted back. ‘Boring means we will be welcomed back. There’s nothing worse than when a bunch of lecherous idiots get drunk and manhandle the girls. We have a reputation to uphold. Can’t be doing that if we’re seen as a haven of sin.’
Misu nodded in agreement and sipped her drink.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at the abundant paperwork beside him. Her eyes drifted to the scrawled notes, the numbers, and the proposed destination. Franco groaned, attempting to stifle the dull throbbing in his forehead. It wasn’t a question best answered. ‘A solution, I suppose.’
‘Looks to be more of a detour. Tell me honestly, is this another treasure hunt?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Not from Wyld, was it?’ Misu scowled.
‘Technically not. She may have mentioned things in passing, but I did the legwork.’
‘And Rustec?’ she said, speaking more firmly, placing her drink down.
Franco considered his words carefully. ‘A few of the locals may have had my attention. You’ll be surprised how talkative people can be after a few drinks. Stories get told, rumours spilt.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I knew it. The last thing we need is trouble. You of all people used to repeat that – until that rat came along. Keep it all legitimate, you preached, and now you’re looking into things like this. Don’t get yourself involved in her lifestyle. It’s not your business.’
‘I’m not. This is a side venture. It’s strictly a one-off.’
‘Rubbish!’ Misu exclaimed. ‘It’s never a one-off with you. There’s always something else to steal your attention. If it’s not this, it’s some other idiotic cause. You should put your efforts in the business rather than some silly chase for whatever the hell that is.’ By now she had risen from her seat, and her voice and tone had risen too.
‘You don’t even know what this is. Do not lecture me.’ He scowled, shielding his eyes from the sun coming through the carriage window behind her. ‘And certainly don’t be doing it on my train.’
This was painfully ignored.
‘I don’t need to know what it is because I know what you’ll end up doing. I know it’ll lead to us running around for a few weeks chasing some trinket on a whim. Her whim, may I add. These things never end well and I refuse to sew up another bullet wound on account of your stupidity.’ Misu pulled her black hair into a ponytail before fastening a clip around it.
‘Watch your tongue when you speak to me,’ Franco said, giving a stark warning that this matter was over. ‘This isn’t your call to make.’
She snatched her glass and proceeded to storm out. Before she did, she pulled open the door to the connecting carriage and looked behind her.
‘Then you can make it on your lonesome. Damn you. Focus on us, Franco. Not some fantasy.’
And with that she left.
Franco watched the door slam, the sound of the hissing engine and wheels on tracks falling quieter. The carriage rocked back and forth in slow momentum. He ran a hand over his face, fingers trailing down his damp neck to his shoulder. The indented scar where he’d been struck by a bullet some months ago was a stark reminder that Misu spoke the truth. He was comfortable with the Gambler’s Den. He led a nomadic life, one blessed with freedom – an alarmingly rare commodity.
Those aboard depended on him to make the right choices. They looked up to him but not because he wanted them to; it was because they needed someone to give orders. Franco was never good at taking orders so he couldn’t relate to their views, but he did understand that everybody needed a leader in some form. However, he hadn’t set out for the Den to become what it was – an extravagant travelling casino. The rundown steam engine was a wreck when he first set eyes on it, rusting away in a derelict yard. Abandoned and gradually being absorbed by the rising sand, Franco was offered the opportunity to take the Den and fix it up.
There was not much else to indulge in, unless criminality was your thing. Home was depressingly void of excitement, forcing laborious graft from any and all. But Franco hated the prospect of working in the mine, or being stuck in the smelter until injury or death allowed respite. No, for him it was a hobby that had expanded beyond his expectations, and soon became something far more important, something others in his position would fail to attain.
It became a way out.
The first time the train staggered into life had given him a feeling like no other. Valves spluttered, choking on the sand, before purifying them with titanic blasts of steam. Each creak and groan within its behemoth-like frame led to another task to resolve: a split in its funnel, the almost melodic pounding from the boiler when fired up. The poor thing was falling apart, but it was nothing that hard graft couldn’t resolve.
Each time the Gambler’s Den ran, the ride got smoother. The breakdowns became fewer and further between. Franco was not an engineer, far from it in fact, but his grandfather was keen to get the lad’s hands dirty and adopting this train was like adopting a child. It would always have to be cared for – he was constantly reminded, by the words emanating from beneath the grease-soaked whiskers of the old man – and he wouldn’t be around for ever.
That was a sobering truth.
Gentle trips from outpost to outpost, nothing taxing at first, felt exhilarating and the braver the ventures became, the more people wanted to join him. So many were desperate to abandon homes with limited opportunities or leave their history behind them in a haze of steam and dust. Franco provided escapism for those who did not want to be found any more. Whilst he secretly resented that, was he so different?
He got to his feet, leant on the frame of a window, and looked out. The scenery was the same as before – barren and desolate. A pack of feral dogs chased the train over the waste ground, one oddly staring at Franco as he contemplated it. The sun beat down. The dust was choking. To others, the world was not worth exploring, as it seemed that in every direction they went it was the same picture – sand and more sand. It consumed everything relentlessly.
Every village, every town, even the very horizon embraced its vastness, enough to scrub ambition from all those in it. How many times had he heard people complaining about their lives, about their circumstances out here? Far too numerous to count. Escape. All