The iron tires of the heavy quarry flat-bed rumbled across the oak switch-timbers of Track One with a deep, hollow shudder that set fifty men on the upkeep platforms reaching for their hand lanterns. Through the hanging sulfur fog of the central valley, the twin yellow reflectors on the front headstock of the switching shed caught the shaggy coats of Bram Ash’s mules. The beasts leaned into their traces with low, wheezing grunts, their nostrils thick with animal fat, steam pouring in pale sheets from their broad flanks as they hauled the wagon to a standstill beside the communal kitchen hearth.
Doma Reel was off the apron before the iron brake shoe had finished biting into the wheel rim. She carried a scrubbed cedar bucket of scalding antiseptic wash in one hand and a bundle of clean boiled linen pressed beneath her apron bib, her broad leather shoes clapping against the grease-soaked cross-ties.
“Clear the tailgate!” Doma ordered, her voice cutting through the hiss of the backup boiler lines like an iron scraper on stone. “Heth, hold those mules by the bits so they don’t swing into the water pipe. Venn, keep those wagon drivers back. Give the woman air!”
