Chapter 1 - George, Donovan and Harris

November 4th 1888: Somewhere west of Flagstaff in the Arizona Territory

Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway's engine number 271, a 4-6-0 Baldwin Consolidated locomotive, slowly chuffed its way through the rapidly darkening desert landscape. Two and a half hours earlier the train had put in at Flagstaff to resupply the tender, refill the boiler and give the passengers an opportunity to stretch their legs or purchase a meal from one of the dozen or so local vendors who had flocked to the station as the train approached. The train had been an hour behind schedule when it stopped and the twenty minutes it took to repair the return arm had only served to increase the delay. By the time the whistle sounded the sun was already low in the western sky.

Behind the coal tender was a single secure car filled to the rafters with baggage and mail. It was locked at both ends and only the conductor seemed to possess the key. Behind that were two coach class cars, twenty rows of padded bench seats filled with people, luggage and the occasional pet. The coach cars were crowded, loud and thick with a heady mixture of people, stale alcohol and tobacco smoke. Behind these two cars was a crew kitchen and a dining car which housed a dozen tables serving reasonably priced, tasty meals. For the First Class passengers these meals were brought back to their own private dining area and served on fine china with silver utensils.

A latched brass accordion gate acted to separate the dining car from the first class sleeper car. In here there were eight, double bunk, private cabins with lockable privacy privacy doors, as well as four very luxurious purple velvet sofas in an observation room and a private washroom. Every night a steward appeared and turned the beds down, organizing both the pillows and privacy curtains and every morning he put everything away and made the beds. Bringing up the rear is the first class lounge / dining car, filled with high back stuffed leather arm chairs, oak and mahogany inlaid tables. A well-stocked bar with brass fixtures is served by a portly copper clockwork mechanical with a silver mustache and monocle.



George B Treble sits quietly in the first class smoking car, it's more than he could afford but with his familial connections he could ill afford to not at least try to keep up appearances. He was busy reading through a copy of the New York World, one of their reporters, a woman of all things, named Nellie Bly had recently begun publishing a riveting series of expose articles entitled "Ten Days in a Mad-House." Bly had apparently had herself committed to the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell Island and then began writing about her experiences upon her release.

Donovan Pearson stood on the observation deck of the last car smoking Cuban cigars with a pair of white jacketed Southern Gentlemen. They puffed their cigars and chatted passionately about their cotton plantations near Atlanta as Donovan quietly watched as the horizon quickly vanished into the gathering darkness. His latest job, though well paying, had been particularly tiresome. Escorting a thin nosed, squint eyed, be-speckled, nervous nelly of a man named Professor William Preston. Donovan didn't know what the professor was carrying that's so important or why he seemed to jump at every random sound that passed. Preston refused to let a battered leather valise out of his sight, going as far as to sleep with it most nights. The soft sounds of Raggle Taggle Gypsy drifted back from the forward cars and Lionel felt very out of place in the first class car. He sighed and took a puff on his cigar noticing a flickering orange light on a low ridge to the North.

Harris Darrington sat across a large dining table from one Lady Verity Fortingall, he was pretending to read an article about the recently launched heliograph HMS Harbinger, but truth be told he was busy trying to decipher the papers spread across the far side of the table while eavesdropping on the conversation Lady Fortingall was having with her maid servant Ruby. Lady Fortingall it seemed, fancied herself something of an inventor and was also bound for the Exposition in San Francisco.

"Don't fret mum," Ruby said offering the sherry to her mistress, "you'll figure it all out, you always do." Ruby always seemed to have a cheerful smile on her face, and she appeared faithful to her mistress as the day was long.

Lady Verity took the glass with a brief ghost of a smile before her facial expression turned back to looking rather worried. "I truly appreciate your belief in me, Ruby...but I fear that I may actually be in *serious* trouble this year." She let out a little sigh as she continued to parse through her myriad of notes and designs. "While I am quite pleased with my torch concept, I need something else." She nibbled fretfully at the top of her fountain pen for a moment, heedless of the possibility of damaging its very costly and relatively fragile ebony cap. "Something *genuinely* amazing, perhaps even revolutionary!"

"You could always do that lightening thing that makes my hair stand on end mum." Ruby replies with a smile moving to stand behind her mistress, "That's always a good opener, people really seem to enjoy that."

Outside on the deck Donovan hears a muffle bang and the music drifting back comes to an abrupt halt. The two Southern gentlemen on the deck with Donovan stop their conversation at the sound and look forward along the length of the train.

Those inside the smoking room hear nothing.

"Mister Pearson," the older of the Southern gents says with concern on his face, "I don’t reckon you ought go check that out alone." He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out an ornate pepperbox pistol. "Mister Samuels and I would be honoured accompany you."

The younger man nods seriously drawing the Colt revolver from the holster on his hip.

The three men who had been smoking on the rear deck of the car return to the lounge, their pistols drawn.

Lady Fortingall looks at Harris and smiles, "You’re not a fellow inventor, Mr. Darrington? Well that would be refreshing."

Ruby looks Harris over suspiciously, "Be cautious mum, he is an American, like that dreadful Mr. Edison."

"Oh pish posh Ruby, Mr. Darrington is simply curious." She smiles at Harris, "besides you know I patent everything before coming to America. One can not be to cautious around that Mr. Edison."

George knows Lady Fortingall, well he knows of her, they’ve never met but he’s certainly read about her. She’s mid 20’s, un-married despite her parents best efforts, and is well on her way to becoming an old maid if she’s not careful. She’s the sole heiress to the Fortingall fortunes in Devonshire. The society pages say she’s something of an odd duck, rumoured to be a scientist (clearly this is true) who spends all of her time with her maid (also clearly true) and has seemingly rejected the advances of a number of well heeled suitors.

It is about this time that Donovan and the two Southern gents come in from the back deck where they’ve been drinking whiskey and smoking cigars, all three have weapons in their hands.

"Mr. Treble," Lady Fortingall says extending a hand, "delighted to make your acquaintance."

Professor Preston looks at Donovan and his eyes go wide, "Dear god," he exclaims his face turning ashen, "what’s going on Mr. Pearson? Is something wrong? Why do you have your pistol drawn?"

Outside you notice that the train is beginning to drop into a gully or perhaps a canyon.

Donovan looks about the room and thinks something is missing but can’t quite figure out what.

George looks towards the forward door on the car, he can hear raised voices on the other side and suddenly he thinks, ‘The Frenchman, Guy Camus and the twins aren’t here.’