The rattletrap old pre-steam trolley was hailed as a minor miracle. Paint was mottled and faded where it hadn't flaked off completely, metal was rusted and dented, wood was gray and splintery, but the wheels still turned and the brakes still worked. The double-size team hauling it was blowing and sweated—not to mention a bit foolhardy—but they'd managed to climb the pass to another bench, where they met the ponies hiking down the right-of-way. Though much too small and light for all the refugees, the obsolete car could carry the wounded and a few caregivers, albeit cheek by jowl, back to Tall Tale more smoothly than by travois. It brought some food and water, but its only passengers were the pair of pegasus ponies who'd volunteered to fly ahead and make what arrangements they could.