The Mountain Toll

Chapter 1: The Toll Road

The sign Wang Shen had painted himself, in careful English letters his wife had taught him, swung in the November wind: WANG STATION - SUPPLIES, REST, PASSAGE - FAIR TOLL FOR ALL.

Shen stood on the wooden porch of their small station house, watching the afternoon light fade behind the Sierra peaks. At thirty-four years old, he had already lived several lives—a farmer's son in Guangdong Province, a railroad laborer who had helped lay the Central Pacific tracks across these very mountains, and now this: a toll keeper on the steep road that climbed from the valley floor to Virginia City.

The station wasn't much. A sturdy log building with a stone chimney, a stable that could hold six horses, a small storehouse for provisions, and a covered shelter where travelers could rest their animals and themselves before attempting the final, treacherous ascent. But it was theirs, bought with three years of railroad wages, every cent Shen and his wife Fen had saved.

"The temperature is dropping," Fen said, stepping onto the porch beside him. She was a small woman, barely reaching Shen's shoulder, but there was nothing small about her presence. At thirty-one, she carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had survived things that would have broken lesser souls. "We should bring in more wood before dark."

"I'll do it." Shen pulled his worn coat tighter. "You should rest. You've been working since before dawn."

"As have you." Fen's dark eyes studied the sky. "There will be snow tonight. Perhaps heavy."

Shen nodded. After four winters on this mountain, they had both learned to read its moods. The way the clouds gathered around the peaks, the particular quality of the cold—these were signs as clear as any written language.

"If it's heavy, we'll have travelers stranded by morning," he said. "I should check our stores."

"I already have. We have enough flour for perhaps three weeks, salt pork for two. Coffee is running low." Fen paused. "We need the supply wagon from Carson City."

"It should come tomorrow, if the weather holds."

"And if it doesn't?"

Shen didn't answer. They both knew the precarious nature of their existence here. The toll road brought steady income during the good months—miners heading up to Virginia City, merchants bringing goods, the occasional wealthy traveler in a private coach. But winter was different. Winter was survival.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats made them both turn. A rider was coming up the lower road, moving fast despite the gathering dusk. As he drew closer, Shen could make out the quality of his horse—a fine bay gelding with silver-studded tack—and the cut of his clothing. This was no ordinary traveler.

The man reined in before the station, and Shen felt Fen stiffen beside him. He understood why. The rider's face held the particular expression Shen had learned to recognize in his years in America—the look of a man who saw Chinese people as something less than human.

"This the toll station?" The man didn't dismount.

"Yes, sir." Shen stepped forward, keeping his voice neutral. "Wang Station. We offer supplies, rest for horses, and passage on the road ahead. The toll is two dollars for a single rider, five for a wagon."

"Two dollars." The man laughed, a harsh sound. "For a road the county should have built."

"The county did not build it, sir. I did. With my own hands, and the hands of my wife, and the hands of men I paid fair wages." Shen kept his tone respectful but firm. "The toll is fair. It pays for maintenance, for clearing snow, for keeping the way passable when other roads are closed."

The rider's eyes narrowed. "You're the Chinaman I've heard about. The one who thinks he can charge white men to travel in their own country."

"I charge all men the same, sir. Chinese, white, it makes no difference. The toll is the toll."

For a long moment, the man stared down at Shen. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat and withdrew a leather wallet. He extracted two silver dollars and threw them at Shen's feet.

"Pick them up, Chinaman."

Shen felt heat rise in his chest, but he kept his face still. He had learned, in his years of railroad work, the cost of showing anger. He bent and collected the coins from the frozen dirt.

"Thank you, sir. The road ahead is clear for now, but if you're heading to Virginia City, you should know a storm is coming. You might consider waiting until morning."

"I'll take my chances." The man spurred his horse forward, then paused and looked back. "My name is Gerald McCallister. Remember it. I own the Comstock Queen mine, and half the businesses in Virginia City. This road of yours runs through land that should belong to me. We'll be speaking again."

He rode on without waiting for a response, disappearing into the gathering darkness.

Fen was at Shen's side immediately. "That man is trouble."

"Yes." Shen opened his palm and looked at the two silver coins. "But his money spends the same as anyone else's."

"His money, perhaps. But his intentions?" Fen shook her head. "I know that kind of man. I knew them in San Francisco. They take what they want and destroy what they cannot take."

Shen put his arm around his wife's shoulders. "We have survived worse. We will survive this too."

But as they turned to go inside, Shen couldn't shake the cold feeling that had settled in his stomach. It had nothing to do with the coming storm.