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Texas | Texas Railroads

TRACKS

by Billy B. Smith
Photos by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
railroad tracks
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
I have always loved railroads, both the trains and tracks. I remember when I visited my grandparents during summers when I was just a boy. They lived in a small East Texas town that really doesn't even exist anymore. But the Kansas City Southern Railroad came through there on its east-west line. Going east the train had to climb a long two-mile hill. It started blowing its whistle long before it arrived in town. My grandfather would always be out on his front porch waiting to see the train. I don't think he could see that well at this point in his life, and the tracks were actually about a quarter mile from his house. But he could definitely hear the whistle. This was what was important to him. I'm sure the train was just a blur, but the whistle let him know that a long train was moving through the little hamlet. I always wondered if he had any longings to wander left over from his early days. He would always talk to me a little wistfully as he pointed out certain cars on the train. From that point on I was hooked. One railroad line in particular has been for me an umbilical cord that has connected me to my roots and my life. I have lived close to this line for most of my life. It always reminds me of where I've been and where I could have gone.

I grew up in a city in Louisiana. Our home was so close to the Southern Pacific Railroad (SP) that every time a train passed by, the house would shake just as though we were in an earthquake. Cracks would develop in the ceiling, windows would rattle, and I was convinced that the earth moved. When I was little the line still had steam engines, and fortunately for me there was a passing track right behind the house. Only our backyard and a highway stood between those trains and me. Whenever a train pulled over on the siding to let another one pass, I could examine the engine up close. Sometimes the engineer would talk to me. The line was a busy one, so all day long I was seeing trains, or at least hearing them. At night the mournful whistles woke me up. I didn't mind. I loved the sound.

The SP was the only railroad I was familiar with in my younger days. I got older and my parents trusted me to explore the territory surrounding us. This is when I discovered the line that has meant so much to me. This railroad started out as the Texas & Pacific (T&P). Over the years the original T & P became the Missouri Pacific (MP) and now the Union Pacific (UP). But the name is not so important as my connection to the line.

The T & P had a rail yard within a couple of miles of my home. It was very near the junior high school I attended. In fact, all day long I could hear whistles blow and the sounds of switching as I sat in my classrooms. After school, instead of going home, I headed for the yards. There were several workshops on the edge of the yards. Most of these had long been abandoned, but they were not stripped of their insides. I found all kinds of rusty machinery, tools for various usages, wheels, and even a detached smokestack from a steam engine. Something I didn't want to find - rats - were all over the place. My special treasure was an old passenger car. All the seats were still in place and covered with so much dust that one could have planted a garden within. But I would sit in the car, look at the switch engines outside and imagine myself on a journey. My life's journey has never been far removed from the T & P line. It has kept me attached to a particular area of the world and to the many characters - a gaggle of goofballs, really - I have met along its route. It offered both hope for the places I could go and disappointment over missed opportunities to travel in other directions.

The T&P was laid out in a, to me, rather unusual way. It has probably been altered by now, but when I was a boy the basic east-west tracks approached the city from the south and the main lines curved back off to the southeast just before the rail yard began. A second line for passenger service spurred off before the main line curve, went through the switching yard, and terminated at a very stylish station on the north end of downtown. Freight service on this spur was fairly light, and passenger service was dwindling.

I once had a summer job for an auto parts firm whose location was near the old T & P station. During the lunch hour I would explore the area around the station. To my delight I discovered a second main line that ran north through an alligator-infested swamp not far from downtown. The line once ran up into Arkansas, but most of it had sadly been abandoned by the time I came upon it; some small village in North Louisiana was the new terminus. The T & P obviously used the line for storage of boxcars, tankers, and hoppers. There must have been thousands of them for me to mount and walk end to end on their tops. I was still too young to know that the exploits with the railroad were prescient in a way. I feel now that I've been on a train that has led nowhere. No engine was there to pull it. But then all I knew was that I had a fascination for these great mechanical beasts of burden that was growing exponentially.

My desire for exploration was satisfied by another partially abandoned branch of the T & P. This one forked off the main line south of the city, about five miles before the great southeast curve. It once traveled about seventy miles to a town in West Louisiana, but by the time I was a teenager, the line ran only for a tenth of this distance from its junction with the main line through a heavily wooded area. It was used exclusively for storage. Again, I spent many hours walking the tops of boxcars, pretending an engine was up front and that I was a hobo riding the rails.

Eventually, the T & P station downtown closed and a new station was built in the south part of town, just before the great curve. It was little more than a glorified house trailer fixed up to look like a train station. By this time the T & P had become the Missouri Pacific, whose engines were bright blue and cabooses the traditional red. Passenger service was almost at an end. When I was in college I managed to have one more adventure on a MP passenger train.

I had a college friend who lived about 125 miles from my home. He invited me to his house over the Christmas holidays, but I had no way to get there except by bus or train. His hometown was on the MP route, so naturally I chose the train. I went to the new station to catch it and was amazed to see the sad state of passenger service on the line. There my conveyance sat: a big blue engine and one rather dilapidated coach - one coach! I knew the end of an era was in sight, but I climbed aboard for what turned out to be my last ride on an MP passenger train. The line paralleled both a state highway and the Red River, and part of its route was through some swampy, marshy land. The coach was almost deserted; the countryside appeared this way also. Each served as a symbol for the other. Emptiness is neither a pretty sight nor a pleasant feeling, and the trip made me sad to think that a way of life that I grew up with was disappearing. The hands of Providence removed me from the T & P / MP line after this trip, but I was destined to come back to it someday.
Santa Fe Locomotive
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
II

After my graduation from high school, I chose to attend a college about seventy-five miles to the east. The MP had no lines extending in this direction, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that in my new college town the Illinois Central (IC), an east-west line, crossed the Rock Island (CRI&P), a north-south line, at a beautiful old train station on the edge of downtown. The IC was still running passenger service at this time, so it occupied the old station's waiting room and ticket office. The Rock Island was strictly a freight line, which had an interchange track with the IC. I spent time in which I probably should have been studying to watch the IC stop to exchange cars with the Rock Island. I was fascinated to watch the switch engines do their work.

The IC ran right beside my first dorm room. It was easier to get downtown to the movie theaters by just walking the tracks rather than city streets. The railbed was in a deep gully, though, and the darkness prompted me to walk faster. Once, on my way back to the dorm after a midnight movie, a dog ran out of the ivy that covered the sides of the gully and started toward me. This was bad enough, but when I heard a voice say, "He won't hurt you," I almost lost it. Somebody else was out on a late night trek in my domain. For a few weeks after this I avoided the gully and took an alternate route to the theaters.

Two events connected with the IC bring back both sad and funny memories. Once a young deaf girl was walking the tracks to the downtown area as a train approached her from the rear. The engineer obviously spotted her and started blowing his whistle, but the poor girl couldn't hear it. The engineer applied his brakes, but the train had built up too much momentum to stop in time, and the girl was crushed beneath the wheels. The whole town, including me, mourned for a long time. It seemed such a senseless tragedy. The second event was humorous. There was an underpass right outside the dorm in which I lived at the time. The clearance for vehicles was around fifteen feet. I happened to be looking out the window one day when an old truck carrying a high stack - higher than the specified clearance - of crates containing live chickens tried to go under the trestle. Chicken feathers and dead birds were everywhere. From a distance it appeared to be snowing. Clean up operations took a long time and the dead chickens were distributed to the curious and the rubberneckers on the road.

I had no vehicle of my own at college and had to depend on the kindness of friends to go home on weekends. I didn't go very often; I preferred to stay at school and study. When I did get a ride home, I often couldn't get the same ride, or any other one for that matter, back to school on Sunday afternoons. Fortunately, the IC was still operating passenger trains in the 1960s, and for $2.00 a ticket I could ride those seventy-five miles to school. Once I remember arriving back in the wee hours of the morning because of a detour the train was forced to take. A trestle was out about twenty miles before my destination. The IC used the North Louisiana and Gulf (NL&G) to travel forty-five miles to the southeast where it could switch to the Tremont and Gulf (T&G) to go back forty miles northeast to connect with its main line. Then it had to backtrack thirty miles to the west to get to my college town. It took hours to traverse this inverted triangle, but I loved every minute of it.
Train No. 1625
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
III

I moved even farther east for graduate school, to the Carolinas. My beloved MP was nowhere in this area. But other lines that I could explore were present. The Southern Railroad (SOU) was the main carrier though the college town. It skirted the populated area, so I didn't pay much attention to it. A short line, the Carolina and Northwest (C&NW), ran through the backwoods and foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, crossing a major lake, connecting with the Southern right before that line entered Georgia, and extending another seven miles to the little mountain town of Walhalla, where it came to a drop dead halt. This seven-mile extension was apparently rarely used; I never saw any rolling stock on it. The C&NW scheduled only one train a day, so I always made a special effort to see it. Frequently, I was not very successful, but when it did appear it was usually a short make-up, sometimes sans caboose.

During the Civil War, near Walhalla, the Confederates began construction of a railroad through the Blue Ridge range. One granite giant required a tunnel, and about a mile of it was actually hollowed out. Whether the money ran out, or the war's end made the line unnecessary, I don't know, but construction was stopped and the project abandoned. The partial tunnel was afterwards used for the storage of cheese. By the time I lived in the area tourists had discovered the site and would walk into the tunnel to its end. I did this several times and let my imagination run wild.

Another little town about forty miles northeast of the college was the terminus point for a short line, the Pickens Railroad (PIC). It was only eight miles long and connected with the Southern at Easley, South Carolina. The line was curvy and traveled though some heavily wooded land. What was really attractive about the Pickens was all the railroad equipment stored at the terminus: old passenger cars, several cabooses, some steam engines, and tons of boxcars. Apparently, the whole reason for the line's existence was to serve a paper mill. On a spring Sunday in the late 1960s my office mate, Amos T., and I walked the entire line to Easley and back again. Both of us were exhausted at the end, but we saw some scenery that most people would die for: deep dark woods, flowing streams, wildflowers, and unfamiliar bird sounds. We never encountered a train; they didn't run on Sunday.
Turning Thingee
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
IV

After graduate school I moved back west, returning to Louisiana, where I lived for about three years. My new hometown was 100 miles from the place I had grown up. The MP line did come through the city, and seeing those blue engines reminded me even more that my life swirls around this tangible connection to my past.

But a new railroad caught my attention: the Arkansas and Louisiana Missouri (A&LM). It was affectionately known as the "Gator Line" because of the swampy terrain, full of reptilian creatures, that it traversed for most of its route. An observer would get the impression that the bed was one long trestle since so many of them were required to cross the lowlands. Alligators and snakes would gather to sun themselves around bridge pilings. If a train ever broke down along the way, repair crews hesitated to go into the swamps to get it rolling again. The tracks ran right in front of my apartment, so I frequently saw trains on their way to Arkansas. I eventually had to say goodbye to this picturesque line, though.

The move farther west to El Paso placed me in an environment that required a major attitude adjustment; in short, West Texas was a cultural shock. A person from Louisiana and points east would be accustomed to rain, green grass, trees, and noticeable changes in the weather. West Texas is barren, arid, and fairly meteorological stable. Much of my time was spent attempting to overcome the negative thoughts I had about the area and trying to regulate my life. My interest in railroads waned somewhat.

The MP and Southern Pacific merged about 100 miles east of El Paso and entered the city as a single line. The MP actually used El Paso as a western terminal point while the SP went on to California. Another branch of the SP radiated out from El Paso in a northeasterly direction toward the Texas Panhandle and points in Kansas. This was the line I was most familiar with because it paralleled the highway from El Paso to Alamogordo, New Mexico. I traveled this road many times either to the mountains or to White Sands National Park and was able to observe long SP freight trains in and out of El Paso. The Santa Fe (AT&SF) also entered El Paso from Albuquerque and beyond. Trains tended to run on this line at night, so I didn't get to see many of them. All the railroads shared one station: Union Station in downtown El Paso. Out West I wasn't much of a steel rail explorer. I spent too much time inside away from the heat and blowing wind. The MP heading back toward Louisiana made me want to go home; the connection to my past became more explicit. I often thought about hopping a freight train and leaving, but marital obligations kept me fixed.
train poundage sign
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
V

The obligations finally dissolved and I made my way back east but not to Louisiana. Instead, I settled in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area. By this time the Missouri Pacific had been absorbed into the Union Pacific (UP) system. The engines were mostly a golden-yellow with red lettering. Cabooses had been replaced by automatic signal devices on the last car in line, thus eliminating the need for freight train conductors. My first apartment was located about ten miles north of the UP. Once an acquaintance of mine told me about a great steak house I needed to check out, so one dark night I traveled the ten miles south into unfamiliar territory and found the restaurant. It was almost pitch black outside and I did not pay much attention to my surroundings. I went inside, was seated and given water and utensils. As I waited for my food, I noticed that my knife and fork were rattling, the water in the glass was agitated, and the other patrons were looking up from their prandial activities. Then I heard a rumbling noise and the whole building started shaking. The movie Earthquake had been released no more than a year previous to this time. I had seen it in a theater which had been equipped with the special effects to make the audience think that an earthquake was actually occurring even as the movie was being shown. It was an impressive experience. My first thought in the restaurant was: EARTHQUAKE! The truth was more prosaic. The building was situated right next to the UP's main line from California to New Orleans. A passing train caused the havoc in my heart as I sat at my table. I obviously had not noticed the tracks when I found the steak house. It's funny now, but I was genuinely frightened at the time.

During the second installment of my singlehood, I managed to take two train trips on AMTRAK. For the first one, the train left the Ft. Worth station in the morning on a Friday and traveled down through Texas to Laredo on the banks of the Rio Grande across from Mexico. This was in January, and I did not realize that the weather conditions that far south could be so harsh. I took no warm clothing with me and so was forced, due to financial constraints, to spend most of my time in what would have been referred to during the Great Depression years as a fleabag hotel. The place was a real dump, but at least it was cheap and offered some shelter from the cold wind. AMTRAK ran to Laredo only every other day, so I could not come back until Sunday. Saturday was a very long day. I did, however, enjoy the actual time I spent on the train. The second journey was to Little Rock. The train left Ft. Worth late in the afternoon. It was almost dark by the time we were on the far side of Dallas. The tracks paralleled Interstate 20, and I noticed the train was out running all the cars on the freeway. After that, darkness fell, and the rest of the trip was blanked out, but the return one allowed me to see some nice scenery in southern Arkansas and East Texas.

A new marital situation allowed me to move closer to the UP, this time about four miles south of the main line. I did not see many trains everyday, but I could hear their whistles at night, a sound associated with memories. I recalled all my years of never being too far away from the railroad tracks. My life has been spent in a fairly concentrated area. The T&P/MP/UP has run like a major artery through here. It has appeared in both reality and in my dreams many times. My mind naturally sees this phenomenon as symbolic. It points to my perpetual odyssey over the land seeking something intangible; it is a reminder of possibilities and lost opportunities, progress and regress, death and rebirth, an escape route from the mundane, a chance to move to another place or another job where success is more probable. The reach has always exceeded the grasp. The UP is a silent witness to all my longings, a friend that has shared my disappointments, my small triumphs and occasional tragedies. The steel rail is a metaphorical umbilical cord that attaches me to my beginnings.

When they were both in their eighties, my parents moved to the small East Texas town of Gladewater, also located on the UP California to New Orleans main line and in a heavily wooded area of Texas. The scenery this route passes through is almost indescribably beautiful: large pine trees, shocking violet wisteria, and several rivers and streams. The tracks cut downtown Gladewater in half. When I was a kid, a movie theater stood on each side of the rails. The one on the north side is long gone, but the southern one, the old Cozy Theater, has become a local opry house. The place is popping on Saturday nights, but whenever a freight train comes rolling down the line - and they are quite frequent - the country music blaring into the Texas night is drowned out by the roar of the engines. My parents lived about five miles north of the UP, but little prevented the sound of whistles floating through the night to reach my ears whenever I visited them.
Porter button
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
Santa Fe Lounge
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
VI

For the last six years I have been teaching at a small junior college about 100 miles west of Ft. Worth. I don't drive this distance everyday, but instead rent an efficiency apartment to stay in during the week. The UP main line runs right in front of the campus. I must see twenty-five trains per day on this route. I find myself looking out the windows instead of concentrating on my classes. At night I can hear the trains, about two miles north of my apartment, rumbling through town.

Anticipating all the daily trains provides some relief. From the campus I can see switching activities and observe those golden engines carry large loads up an incline. The college town has an old, stately train station still standing, half of which serves as a place for equipment storage for the railroad work crews. The other half is now a museum containing many artifacts and historical documents from the time the town was a mecca for the oil boom around the turn of the twentieth century. Since I am somewhat a history buff, I have made more than one excursion to this museum. By consulting old newspapers, local histories, and railroad maps, I discovered that a second line once ran through the town. For the first two years of my employment, one of my hobbies, one that has provided me many hours of both distraction and pleasure, was to trace any remains of the abandoned railroad.

The Wichita Falls and Southern (WF&S), incorporated in 1907, ran south from Wichita Falls, Texas, to Jimkurn, where it met the Wichita Falls, Ranger and Ft. Worth (WFR&FW), which extended from Dublin north through Breckenridge and to Jimkurn. In 1927 the WF&S assumed control of the other line and the entire system became the 169-mile long WF&S. The major profit-making commodities that kept the railroad going for forty-seven years were oil and grain products. Passenger service, using standard travel cars, was offered into the 1940s, but over time patrons were confined to riding in modified cabooses. Reports of this experience are not very flattering. Business had declined on the WF&S by the early 1950s, and in 1954 the company was given permission from the ICC to fold the line except for the part between Graham, Texas, and Breckenridge. This section was taken over by the Rock Island and finally abandoned completely in 1969 when the CRI&P itself left the area. Of course, when a railroad dissolves as a business the rails are removed and usually sold for scrap; trestles are often dismantled, but the beds are left intact. Over the years nature does its work, but some traces of a former line always remain. Any persistent railroad aficionado will always find hidden treasures if he puts his mind to it.

And I was determined. First of all, I found that two former stations from the WF&S halcyon days are still standing, one at the terminal point in Dublin, the other in Breckenridge. The former is used as an office building, the latter as an antique shop. I started tracing the line from Wichita Falls south. From Archer City, locale of Larry McMurtry's The Last Picture Show, south to Olney, the trackbed of the WF&S is clearly visible in many places, but there are some gaps where farmers have rendered the ground level for planting crops. The line disappears between Olney and Newcastle although one can see where the trains passed through downtown Newcastle. Next, is a train station that was jointly shared with the Rock Island at Graham, a building in sad repair, one that should be preserved, if for no other reason, than for its architectural marvel. Farther down the road at South Bend a magnificent concrete trestle still stands. The railroad paralleled the Brazos River to Eliasville. Several old bridge spans are in place even today. It is difficult to trace the line from Eliasville to Breckenridge because it leaves the accessible highway and makes its journey through mesquite trees and scrub brushes that dot this part of the world. South of Breckenridge the old line headed toward Ranger, once a sprawling place full of oil derricks and wildcatters but now a dilapidated shell of its former self. Signs of the location where the WF&S crossed the UP main line can still be seen although the trackbed is full of cacti and small plants. When Interstate 20 was built through the area, much of the bed was plowed under, but if one looks closely a little section of the old WF&S, paralleling a small creek, comes into view. From this point south to where it connected with both the Santa Fe and Texas Central (TCRR) in Dublin almost all remnants of the line disappear except for the old station at the end. Additionally, there is one place just south of Ranger where a trainophile, if he looks closely, can notice the old trackbed crossing a farm to market road: this, the terminal station, and nothing more.

The WF&S was a witness to much of the history of west-central Texas. But nature is reclaiming her own, and in another decade few signs of the old line will remain. I spent the better part of four semesters trying to follow the route, driving my vehicle on barely accessible roads into tangled forests, sparsely inhabited farm land, and through hamlets and small towns just for a glimpse of what was once, for a thriving geographical area, a lifeline to the markets. This section of the country is economically strapped now, and the old iron trail is gone, but if it were a sentient creature, it would certainly be amazed to learn that it gave an eager railroad buff hours of pleasure fifty years after its demise.

Serendipitously, not far away from the school campus, another old railroad once plied its way north from Cisco, Texas, to Throckmorton. The Cisco and Northeastern (C&NE) ran from a connection with the T&P at Cisco in a northeasterly direction to Breckenridge, where it had a station and freight house across Gonzalez Creek from the WF&S station. Then it curved in a northwestern path and went through the village of Crystal Falls, the town of Woodson, ending its trek at Throckmorton. The length of the entire line was sixty-five miles, and it operated successfully from 1918 to 1942. The rails were removed in 1943 to be used to satisfy the steel demand during World War II. When I first explored this part of Texas, I quickly found that the embankment for the C&NE is clearly visible from Cisco to about ten miles north. Many of the trestle supports were concrete and these are still in place sixty years after abandonment. In Breckenridge there are signs where the old station once stood, off Walker Street on the eastern edge of downtown. The next evidence for the line's existence are old stone pilings for a bridge span still standing in the middle of the Brazos River just south of Crystal Falls. North of this area is unexplored territory for me, a future project to look forward to.

Another shortline once rolled through this area from 1918 to 1944: the Eastland, Wichita Falls and Gulf Railroad (EWF&G). It branched off the WF&S just southeast of Breckenridge at a junction called Breckwalker, traveled south through Wayland and Eastland, Texas, and cut southwest to connect with the Missouri, Kansas and Texas (MK&T), now the TCRR, at the now-deserted village of Mangum. The original plans called for the tracks to extend from May, Texas, to Newcastle, a distance of ninety-six miles, but only twenty-eight miles were ever completed. The railbed is still visible just north of Wayland and around Ringling Lake in Eastland. In fact, at the latter location the locomotives once stopped to take water from the lake. The line paralleled the Leon River south of Eastland, and an acute observer will notice where it crossed Main Street on the west side of the river highway bridge. The embankment is also visible where the line crossed Highway 6 south of Eastland.

And then there is the ghost town of Thurber, once a thriving mining locale with a population around 10,000, located on a six-mile spur of the T&P that connected with the main line at Mingus, Texas. Thurber was the principal coalmining town in Texas from 1886 to the early 1930s. It supported stores, saloons, schools, churches, a large hotel and an opera house. A brick factory was also established in the area, one that supplied so many bricks that many towns circling Thurber were able to pave city streets with them. Today, remains of the spur rail line are quite visible as one passes through Thurber on Interstate 20. The freeway actually cuts one branch in two, and an observer can see how overpass trestles were constructed using brick supports. Another branch of the spur veers off to the west and parallels the interstate for several miles before abruptly ending at what was probably a slush dump. Some restoration projects are in the works at Thurber; one can only hope the spur line will be on the receiving end.
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
Santa Fe Railroad conductor's hat
Photo by Justin Parson, courtesy of AMS Production Group
VII

I like railroads. I like tracks. I like trains. I like watching trains. I think I've made this profusely clear. Emily Dickinson can speak for me in this regard:
I like to see it lap the Miles -
And lick the Valleys up -

Complaining all the while
In horrid - hooting stanza -

Then - prompter than a Star
Stop - docile and omnipotent
At its own stable door
In particular my beloved T7P/MP/UP has shared itself with me in an almost symbiotic relationship. It is the steel artery of my life. I will probably always live near it. Trains partially fulfill a predilection in me for wanderlust and nostalgia. The cacophony of sounds, the sight of the rails, just the movement of these mammoths take me back to the past, remind me that I have wasted opportunity after opportunity, failed to go through open doors, shut other doors intentionally, and burned a few bridges along the way. In short, I have been a flaneur. For my approaching dotage Melancholy has started adoption procedures to nurture me in my remaining years. Trains remind me that I have not paid much attention to forward progress. I want to apologize for this. I feel remorse for mistakes I've made, wrong turns I've taken, and attitudes that I've inculcated in myself and in others. To whom do I owe this apology? God? My wife? Myself? To whomever: I'm truly sorry. And, I need trains to enforce my regrets, to be constant reminders for me to strive for improvement, to never stand still.

Trains, with their haunting sounds, will continue to move. This is good. From my classroom window I see one approaching now. Think I will dismiss the little cherubs and go take a closer look.
Billy B. Smith
They Shoe Horses Don't They October 1, 2006 Column


Photos by Justin Parson
Courtesy of AMS Production Group, originally taken during the production of the documentary 'Rising from the Rails: The Story of the Pullman Porter', produced by AMS Production Group in Dallas, Texas http://www.risingfromtherails.com/

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