Free Sundance by David Fuller Page A

Station was a side attraction in comparison. He was unprepared, despite, or maybe because of, his boyhood in Philadelphia, as he had thought he knew what this would be. Sound. Size. Smell. Everything larger, oversized, swollen, gorged.Modest buildings here dwarfed even the grandest structures of the West. He faltered in the maw of excess. How would he find her here? How was it possible to navigate this place, among so many people? How to start, how to become even functionally adequate in appreciating its nuances so that he could track her journey? In his awe he realized he was searching the face of every woman who walked past, looking for her.
    Many women passed, even in that short breath of desperation. People and vehicles and buildings laid out as far as he could see, block upon block in every direction, until he forced himself to stop and seek perspective. He brought his mind back to the things that he knew. He compelled himself to remember that nothing had changed, even in a city so ominous and imposing. It did not matter that the city overwhelmed, it did not matter that men had looked for her and had threatened her sister. Her trail was still cold by two years. Searching faces on a city street by a train station was idiocy. He had arrived with a plan, trusted it enough to get him here, and with that thought he replaced his anxiety with manufactured calm. The plan began with her old boardinghouse, where he hoped to connect with those who had known her. Small steps would lead to more small steps, all of which would add up, but it wouldn’t happen quickly. The trail was cold. If the man who sent the thugs to frighten Mina had found her, then it was too late anyway and it didn’t matter.
    He gauged the sun and engaged his inner compass. Her last-known location on the return address of her letters was for a boardinghouse that she had described as being on the lower part of the island. He had to go south. He walked to the corner, and the street signs read 31st Street and 7th Avenue. He felt more confident with a purpose and destination and he stepped off the curb directly in the path of a team of horses pulling a dray. He jumped back, the flanks of a horse brushing his shirt, horse wind touching his nose. An automobile came close on behind, steering aggressively to pass the dray. Adrenaline surged, but he sized up the competition and timed his cross. From the middle of the street, he noted the extended wall of tall buildings, a line of them all standing six storiesor more, sidewalks bristling with people, streets clogged with streetcars and vehicles. A block away, a locomotive went by in midair, and after a moment he realized it was on an elevated track.
    He was surrounded by words, everywhere words, by way of announcements, advertisements, store names, promises, and reassurances, permanent plaques and temporary proclamations. The city’s walls were covered with words. How could there be so much to say, so much to sell? The germ of an idea began to take shape in his head, something about all the names, all the hucksterism, all the billboards grabbing for attention. There was so much of it, and it was seemingly impenetrable. The words were large and within their assault he was small.
    He looked again at the horses.
    The street endured the creatures, many of them sick or ill used. He watched as a teamster unhitched a horse from his team after the old boy had gone to his knees. Without the support of the others and the traces, he rolled to his side. The teamster led the other horses away to keep his schedule. This one settled in the gutter, chest rising, dropping. Hooves of an oncoming team rained down near his head, very close. A second team came closer still and hooves stomped meat. The old horse whinnied and brought up his nose, but the strength wasn’t there and he fell back to cobblestones. Another hoof landed, and he jolted but made not a sound. Longbaugh looked away, squinting. He understood then that horses