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The man stretched his face into what Eddie assumed was intended to be an ingratiating smile but which in fact caused him to resemble a lizard. The resemblance was heightened by the way his small body was hunched into his long green coat.
    ‘I trust everything is goin’ well.’
    Paranoid little shit, thought Eddie.
    ‘Just fine, Mister Hoover, just fine.’ Eddie tried to walk off but the little man still seemed to want something.
    ‘How many more days do you think we should be out, wagonmaster?’
    ‘Well, Mister Hoover, we cross Ruined Hill tomorrow an’ after that I reckon two days of easy ridin’ clear through to Festival.’
    ‘You don’t expect any trouble?’
    ‘Well, the piston on the puller is a bit fouled up but I don’t think it’s …’
    ‘No, no, wagonmaster, I meaned with bandits, tha’ kinda trouble.’
    ‘I don’t think so, Mister Hoover, I think you’ll find that any serious danger finished when Joe Starkweather breaked the tribes in his last campaign.’
    ‘Sometimes I think Starkweather’s greatest success was his publicity campaign.’
    Eddie clenched his broad calloused fist. He ought to take the little punk’s head off. Then he remembered where he was and how punching out passengers was a sure way to end up right back stoking.
    ‘It takes all kinds of opinions, comrade Hoover.’
    At the old commune form of address the little man started, mumbled goodnight and hurried off.
    Eddie made his round of the guards and then headed back to the puller to prepare for sleep.
    In the grey pre-dawn, Eddie hustled about in the caravan, rousting out his men, yelling for the skinners to get their teams in line and shepherding passengers back onto the wagons.
    Hoover the dealer kept out of his way.
    When finally he had the caravan strung out into one single line he climbed onto the footplate of the big puller, the giant steam engine that hauled the two biggest wagons. When Eddie had started hauling caravans it had been common for a train to include three or four pullers. Now the rule seemed to be one on each train, with the other wagons being pulled by mule teams.
    While the caravan formed up Mac and Danny had fired the boiler and raised a head of steam. And when Eddie climbed onto the footplate, shouting to be off, his nailed boots crashing on the steel floor, everything was ready for the big machine to start moving.
    ‘Ready to roll, chief?’
    ‘Sure Mac, an’ let her roll good, make those skinners work to catch up, okay?’
    ‘Okay chief.’
    Mac eased open the main valve and the piston slid forward. The big wheels spun a little and Eddie grabbed a brass handrail as the machine lurched forward.
    They quickly picked up speed until the mule skinners were forced to run their teams to keep pace with the steam engine and its load.
    The rising sun was reflected in the brass trim of the dull black iron boilers and the brass plate beside the smokestack that read:
    Alvin the Founder — Brum
    Eddie pulled his peaked cap down over his eyes, and leaned out of the side of the cab, letting his shoulder-length, greasy hair fly in the breeze. His uncertainties of the night before began to fade with the exhilaration of letting the puller run.
    Leaving the ground where they had camped, the caravan pulled out onto the great highway which, along with the Bridge, formed the most lasting monument of the men who bad built them but perished in the disaster.
    Eddie knew that if he ran the caravan that fast for long, the mules would tire and fall back. But a brisk start in the morning was refreshing and for a while he leaned on the cab rail, his weed pipe clenched in his teeth. As he expected, a gap was opening between the steam wagons and the first mule team and he signalled to Mac to cut the throttle and match speed with the mules.
    The fun of the day was over and it was just a matter of following the highway at the speed of a man running. The three leaned on the rail, letting the breeze offset some of the heat