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At some point the drums ceased. At another, he became aware that the darkness had lifted. His eyes were open, staring at a hazy sky. In his mind he saw a spinning field filled with sheep. His head hurt. The sun had moved an hour’s worth to the west. And when he sat up and looked around, he saw a flock of real sheep-unshorn woollies grazing peacefully, all but one a hundred yards away that was struggling to stand.
Bell rubbed his head, then he felt for broken bones and found none. He rose unsteadily and walked toward the sheep to see if he had injured it so badly that he would have to shoot it to put it out of its misery. But, as if inspired by his success, it managed to stand on all fours and limp painfully toward the flock. “Sorry, pardner,” said Bell. “Didn’t aim to run into you, but I’m glad I did.”
He went looking for his hat.
When he heard a train coming, he climbed up the embankment and planted himself in the middle of the tracks. He stood there, swaying on his feet, until the train stopped with the tip of its engine pilot pressing between his knees. A red-faced engineer stomped to the front of his locomotive and yelled, “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Van Dorn agent,” Bell answered. “On my way to Napa Junction.”
“You think that makes you own the railroad?”
Bell unbuttoned the inner breast pocket of his grass-stained coat and presented the most compelling of the several railroad passes he carried. “In a manner of speaking, I do.” He staggered to the ladder that led to the cab and climbed aboard.
At Napa Junction, the stationmaster reported, “The English clergyman and his Chinese missionary took the train north to St. Helena.”
“When’s your train to St. Helena.?”
“Northbound leaves at three-oh-three.’”
“Wait.” Bell steadied himself on the counter. “What did you say?” Another field of round sheep was spinning in his head. “Clergyman?”
“Reverend J. L. Skelton.”
“Not a writer? A journalist?”
“When’s the last time you saw a newspaperman wearing one of them white collars?”
“And he went north?” Away from Mare Island.
“North.”
“Did he take the Chinese student with him?”
“I told you. He bought two tickets to Mount Helen.”
“Did you see them both board?”
“Saw them board. Saw the train leave the station. And I can report that it didn’t come back.”
“When’s your next train south?”
“Train to Vallejo just left.”
Bell looked around. “What are those tracks?” An electric catenary wire was supported over them. “Interurban?”
“Napa-Vallejo and Benicia Railroad,” the stationmaster answered, adding with a disdainful sniff, “the trolley.”
“When’s the next trolley to Vallejo?”
“No idea. I don’t talk to the competition.”
Bell gave the stationmaster his card and ten dollars. “If that reverend comes through here again, wire me care of the commandant of Mare Island.”
The stationmaster pocketed half a week’s salary, and said, “I suppose I’ve never seen you if the reverend asks?”
Bell gave him another ten dollars. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
He was waiting at the Interurban tracks, head spinning, when a red, four-seat Stanley Steamer with yellow wheels glided by silently. It looked brand-new but for mud spattered on its brass headlamps.
