The Iron Dragon Never Sleeps (3 page)

The man nodded. “That’s all right then. We just like to know who’s keeping an eye on us.”

“Everyone here seems to be working hard,” said Winnie.

The man laughed. “There’s no stopping these Celestials. They’re just grateful, I guess.”

“Grateful?”

“Sure, miss. That China they come from is a mighty poor country. So when they get here, they’re happy to be alive and happy to work.”

“Hennessey!”

The riding boss turned his horse. “You’ll have to excuse me now. The big boss is calling.” He turned his horse. “Coming, Mr. Strobridge!” he shouted, and rode back toward the tracks.

So that was Mr. Strobridge, Winnie thought. Her father had written to her about him. James H. Strobridge was the man in charge of the track construction. He and his wife lived at the railhead, the end of the tracks. Every time the tracks got longer, they moved.

Mr. Strobridge was wandering among the Celestials, cursing and encouraging them by turns. Big and tough, he was twice the size of the Chinese workers.

He looks mean
, Winnie thought. Maybe it was the patch he wore over one eye. Or maybe it was just his black beard.

Handsome snorted.

“Do you smell water?” Winnie wondered.

She turned the horse toward some pines. Beyond them was a gentle slope leading down to a mountain stream.

Winnie dismounted. Handsome bent down to
drink, and Winnie did the same. The water was cool and clear.

It wasn’t as warm in the shade of the pines. Winnie took out her sketchpad. She drew two squirrels playing tag in the pine needles. A rabbit sniffed at her, then hopped away before she could sketch it. A greedy chipmunk stayed longer after Winnie tossed it a biscuit she had saved from breakfast.

The chipmunk scurried away, though, as a Celestial trudged toward the stream. He was carrying two empty pails.

It’s that peppermint boy again
, thought Winnie.

The boy had been looking down, but he noticed her now. “I do not mean to disturb,” he said. “I have come for the water.”

Winnie waved at the stream. “My horse and I left you some,” she said.

The boy frowned. “Left me some?”

Winnie blushed. “Never mind. It was just a joke.”

“Ah.” The boy nodded. “I am not always good at jokes.”

Winnie smiled. “Me neither.”

“We have met before, I think,” said the boy. “But I did not truly introduce myself. I am Lee Cheng.”

“I’m Winnie. Winnie Tucker.”

“I am glad to see you again, Winnie. I have not thanked you for your wise advice.”

“Advice?”

Lee smiled. “Tasting winter in your mouth.”

“Oh, you mean the peppermints. That’s something I used to say when I was little.”

Lee wiped his forehead. “On a day like this it is nice to have winter in your mouth.”

Winnie smiled.

Lee turned suddenly. Someone was yelling in the distance.

Winnie heard the words, too, but they made no sense to her. She didn’t know Chinese.

Lee filled the pails quickly. “I must go,” he said. “I do not want trouble.”

“Like the other day,” said Winnie, nodding. “That storekeeper sure was mad. What had you done anyway?”

“Done?”

“I mean, before I came in. To make him so angry.”

Lee shook his head. “I had done nothing. It is just his way. I am used to it.”

“I don’t understand. Why—”

“I am Chinese. That is enough.” Lee picked up the pails. “I must go now. I take too long for the water.”

He stumbled back up the slope.

Winnie frowned. She had never thought about what being Chinese would be like. She would not have liked being yelled at just for having blond hair.

The chipmunk was chattering at her. It had come back with a friend.

“Now that I do understand,” she said, and threw them another piece of biscuit.

“K
EEP YOUR VOICE DOWN
, W
INNIE,”
said her mother. “We’re in a public place.”

“All right,” said Winnie. The dining room of Swanson’s Rooming House didn’t seem all that public to her. It held only four tables. As far as Winnie could tell, everyone who stayed at Swanson’s worked for the railroad. And they were all too busy slurping their soup or talking among themselves to pay any attention to her.

Still, eating at Swanson’s was very different from eating at home. For one thing, they didn’t get to choose their own meals. For another thing, Papa always tucked his napkin carefully under his chin. At home he mostly used his sleeve—if Mama wasn’t looking.

Tonight they were having roast beef—again. It was the third time this week.

“We have to put some meat on your bones,” Mrs. Swanson had told Winnie.

Winnie was not putting much meat on her bones tonight. Her food was mostly untouched. She was thinking about Lee. Wait till Rose and Julia heard she had met a Celestial.

“Eat up, Winnie,” said her mother. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”

Winnie took a bite of her roll.

“I met a Celestial boy today,” she said. “Well, actually, I met him before. But today I talked with him. His name is Lee. Lee Cheng. He works for the railroad.”

“I didn’t know the railroad hired boys,” said her mother. “What was he like?”

“He seemed quiet. He talked a little funny—the way he put words together. And he definitely looked funny, especially with that braid of hair on his head.”

“Best place for it,” said her father. “Keeps it out of the way when he’s working.”

Winnie hadn’t thought about that. “But why have it at all?” she asked. “Why not just cut it off?”

“Can’t,” said her father, pouring gravy on his mashed potatoes. “From what I hear, the Manchu
emperor back there in China ordered them to keep their hair that way.”

“But they’re in America now,” said Winnie. “China is far, far away.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said her father. “A law is a law.”

Her mother sighed. “He must be a very powerful emperor,” she said.

Winnie knew about emperors only from storybooks. It was hard to imagine them as real people. She couldn’t really blame Lee for doing what an emperor wanted. She wouldn’t want to get in trouble with an emperor either.

“What was this boy doing when you talked to him?” her mother asked.

“Getting water from a stream. He was going to refill a keg, I think. They must drink a lot of water on hot days.”

Eli snorted. “It’s not water they drink, it’s tea. Lukewarm tea.” He shuddered. “It must agree with them, though. They’re never sick.”

“Do you really think the tea makes them healthier?” Marjorie asked.

“Who knows?” said Eli. “Maybe it’s all that cuttlefish they eat. Or the bamboo sprouts or the dried seaweed or all those vegetables. Pass the butter, please.”

Winnie blinked. She hated vegetables. Why would anyone eat so many of them on purpose?

“Where do they get such things?” she asked.

“The Chinese foods are shipped in from San Francisco,” her father explained. “Most of them arrive all dried up, like something dead or worse. After the Chinese cooks add water to the stuff, it perks up some. Not exactly like real food, though.”

He shook his head and stabbed his mashed potatoes.

“What’s the matter, dear?” asked Marjorie.

Eli shrugged. “Oh, it’s just the tunnel. My crew spent the whole day blasting. We were trying to enlarge the heading. And how far did we get? One foot!” He slowly crushed a roll between his fingers. “Solid rock can be so—so stubborn.”

“I’m sure it is, Eli,” said Marjorie. “But don’t take it out on the rolls.”

Winnie hid a giggle in her napkin. One foot wasn’t very much, though. Imagine twenty or thirty men digging only that far in a day.

“The Celestials work hard, don’t they?” asked Winnie.

“Sure do,” said her father. “Why, they even beat a crew of Welsh miners brought over special from Europe. I don’t know where they get their energy.” He sipped his coffee. “Maybe it’s their baths.”

Winnie looked confused. “Baths?” She disliked them almost as much as vegetables.

“Yes, baths.” Her father took a bite of roast beef. “The Celestials are very organized. They’ve divided themselves into small groups. At night the group cook prepares a large boiler of hot water. Then the Celestials fill empty powder kegs with the water and take sponge baths.”

“A bath every night?” Winnie was amazed. It sounded like torture.

“Every night,” her father repeated. “Then they put on fresh clothes to eat supper.”

Her mother eyed Winnie’s dusty frock. “You know, Winnie,” she said, “you could learn a lot from the Chinese.”

Winnie wasn’t so sure. Here at the rooming house there was one bathtub in a room at the end of the hall. Everyone shared it.

She sighed. Her mother was giving her that funny smile, the one she didn’t really understand. Somehow Winnie had the feeling she would take more baths this summer than she ever had in her whole life.

C
ISCO MAY NOT HAVE BEEN PRETTY
, but it was a busy place. A train from Sacramento arrived each day. It was met there by the Overland Mail stagecoach and various freight wagons from Nevada.

Her father had told Winnie that stagecoaches would soon be a thing of the past. “The railroads will chase them into the woods,” he had said. “And they won’t ever come back.”

Winnie wanted to get one down on paper before they disappeared. So one morning she sat down outside the general store and sketched the stagecoach across the street.

Her first picture made the wheels too big. She put it down and started another.

“I wish I could draw like that.”

Winnie looked up. “Oh!” she said. “Where did you come from?”

She was speaking to a girl about her own age who was standing behind her.

“I came on that stagecoach you’re drawing,” the girl answered. “What’s your name?”

“Winnie. Winnie Tucker.”

“Nice to meet you, Winnie. I’m Jane Poole. Do you live here?”

“Just for this summer. I’m from Sacramento.”

Jane sighed. It made her freckles crease. “We’re moving to Portland,” she said.

“Portland, Oregon?”

Jane nodded. “My father works for a lumber company there. He went on ahead two months ago. Now he’s sent for us—my brother, my mother, and me. We came through Omaha from Kansas City.” She closed her eyes. “That was four very bumpy weeks ago.”

“My father says that once the railroad is finished, people will travel from Omaha to San Francisco in just five days.”

“How does your father know that?”

“He works for the railroad company,” said Winnie.

Jane nodded. “See those two men?” She pointed down the street. “I think they work for the railroad, too.”