The whistle screamed like a banshee across the high desert as the iron horse thundered on, carving steel lines from Boise toward Salt Lake City. In the belly of an open boxcar, Stranghway dozed in dust-covered boots, his hat haphazardly shielding his eyes, distant oilfields in unmapped terrain occupying his dreams. Around him shadows shifted with every turn of the train: crates and his canvas bag packed by his side. Outside, the Snake River glinted silver, reflecting the December sun, snow-dusted ghost towns blurred past, whispering their legends to the wind. Hours before last light, the great train pulled into the Union Pacific Depot; the Salt Lake Temple spires catching the afternoon light, and Stranghway’s voyage just beginning.
