It was a fairly new responsibility for the Army Signal Corps, and there were civilians—those claiming more scientific experience—who disagreed bitterly with the way the information was gathered and relayed. There was also some corruption—when wasn’t there, when it came to the Grand Army of the Republic? Reports of soldiers who would fabricate an entire week’s worth of data in advance and pay someone to relay it for them while they went off to hunt or fish or drink. The telegraph lines were often blown down by the very weather they were supposed to try to indicate, delaying readings until they were of no use.
But the railroads had demanded some kind of system to at least try to keep the trains on schedule during these unpredictable, punishing prairie winters; and what the railroads demanded, the U.S. government was bound and beholden to do. After all, the railroads had made this country, reshaped it along routes radiating north, west, and south, like the rays of the sun. The railroads had given the army something to do after it defeated the rebels; it had given them a new, more exciting enemy in the Native. And now that he was defeated, the army needed more to do. Like trying to predict the weather.
In the winter, the worst indication was one for a “cold wave,” which meant that a front of plunging temperatures following significant snow was to be expected. Today’s indication had not called for a cold wave. No warning flags would have been raised to warn anyone—but even if they had been, Gavin knew, they were of little help except to those living within sight of a train station. Or those who had access to one of the major newspapers, like the Bee.
Homesteaders, naturally, did not.
“The readings last night and this morning didn’t indicate this, this—this disturbance from the west,” Corporal Findlay sputtered. “At least as far as I know. I’m not the one in charge, that’s Woodruff. Well, actually, Greely in Washington.”
“Readings?” An old farmer—Sam Benson—guffawed. “What the hell does that mean? I can predict the weather just by looking at the sky.”
“Did you predict this?” Findlay shot back.
Benson didn’t say another word.
“Trust the red man when it comes to weather,” Ol’ Lieutenant chimed in as he pulled out a book—Silas Marner. The man was famous for reading whenever he wasn’t pouring liquor; the book looked ridiculous in his giant hands the color of spring mud. He wore glasses, perched way down on the end of his nose; the glasses, with his tight, short coils of grey hair, gave him the look of a quiet schoolteacher. A look completely at odds with the rumors that he’d once shot ten Indians while out on patrol, even with his trigger hand bandaged after a horse bit him. Those Buffalo Soldiers sure were tough sons of bitches, Gavin knew. They had to be, back in the day. And now here was Ol’ Lieutenant trying to better himself by reading books that men like Gavin had read long ago, in the quiet halls of eastern schools. You had to admire a man like that.
“Did you see any of them in town today?” Ol’ Lieutenant asked, without glancing up from the page of his book.
There was silence as, one by one, men shook their heads.
“That means they knew.”
“Well, how the hell am I supposed to plan my life around whether or not the Injuns come into town?” somebody asked, to the collected chuckles of men who normally spared no thoughts for the Natives now that they were all safely corralled on their reservations, only venturing out, with passes granted to them by their military guards, to sometimes sell their wares in town.
“It isn’t letting up any,” Forsythe said, pacing back and forth from the windows to the bar.
Findlay got up and started putting on his coat. “I need to get the latest readings in and telegraph them to Saint Paul.” He left without a word; the other men just shook their heads, still not willing to give this newfangled weather prediction any merit.
Of course, every man there recognized that it would be beneficial to know what the weather was going to be like from day to day. But out here on the plains, weather didn’t cooperate like it did in the East, where you could look at the western sky, lick a finger and hold it up to the wind, sniff the air, and plan your day. Here, the weather might blow down straight from the Arctic Circle or roar up from the Gulf of Mexico or march in steadily from the Pacific, and sometimes it did all three at once.