Dead Man's Tunnel

by Sheldon Russell

  * * *

  The path twisted downward, looping in hairpin switchbacks, and the air grew still as he descended. Rails and odd bits of boxcars from past wrecks twisted out of the rocks below.

  At the bottom of the trail he spotted animal tracks leading down the canyon. All manner of creatures sought the protection of the canyon, and he couldn’t be certain they were Mixer’s tracks. A little farther along, he saw the print of a man’s boot, an old track weathered away by the winds. He smoked a cigarette and watched a buzzard circle high in the blue sky above him.

  He’d gone a mile, maybe more, when the walls of the canyon rose up around him, jagged cliffs that cut away the world. High above him, the rock cut back into a natural ledge, and he decided to check it out.

  He climbed by working his toes into the cracks. At times like this he most missed the leverage and efficiency of two arms. Sweat ran into his eyes, and when he stopped to wipe it away, he realized that Mixer watched him from above. Hook climbed his way to where Mixer greeted him.

  “You ole thief,” he said, patting him. “What are you doing up here?”

  Mixer wove between Hook’s legs a couple of times before bounding away. He looked back at Hook and wagged his tail.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Mixer circled and whined, and just as Hook started to follow, he heard the whistle of a steamer in the distance.

  “Come on, boy,” he said. “We better get back. If we miss Frenchy, it’s a long walk home.”

  * * *

  Frenchy rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything when Hook and the fireman lifted Mixer into the engine cab. As they eased across the trestle, Mixer climbed up on the fireman’s seat and stuck his head out the window. His tongue lolled from his mouth and water dripped off its end.

  Frenchy said, “If that dog weren’t so smart, I’d mistake him for my fireman, sure enough.”

  The fireman, who’d been checking the water gauge, shook his head. “If he was smart, he wouldn’t be taking no fireman’s job in the first place.”

  Hook’s feet hurt from the climb, and he was hungry. On top of that, he was feeling even more uncertain about the case.

  He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the cab.

  “Frenchy,” he said. “What do you figure a man would have to have to hike out of this canyon?”

  Frenchy looked over his shoulder at Hook.

  “Hell,” he said, “I don’t know, food and water, I suppose. Cigars. Some way of knowing what direction to go. Maybe a gun for shooting stray dogs or himself if worse came to worst.” He eased the throttle forward. Steam and smoke boiled skyward. “Anything else you need an expert opinion on?”

  Hook looked back over the darkening canyon.

  “I guess the real question is, why would you want to hike out of here?”

  Frenchy took out a fresh cigar, unwrapped it, and ran it under his nose.

  “There’s only one reason a man would hike out of this country afoot,” he said.

  “And what would that be?”

  He lit his cigar and propped his elbow out the window. “If he had no other choice,” he said.

  24

  WHEN HOOK HEARD a commotion, he sat straight up in bed. Mixer commenced barking, his hackles raised. Hook opened the caboose door and found Pepe chasing the last of the hogs from beneath the caboose with a stick.

  “What the hell is going on?” Hook asked.

  “Moving the hogs. Scrap traded some for a tractor and wants them moved today,” he said.

  Hook pushed his hair back from his eyes. “A tractor?”

  Pepe poked a sow in the butt with a stick. She squealed in protest and trotted off behind the others.

  “A garden tractor. He’s going to plant tomatoes,” he said.

  “What does Scrap West know about gardening?”

  Pepe shrugged. “About as much as he knows about hogs, I guess.”

  “Jesus, Pepe, can’t you do something about this?”

  “I work by the hour, Hook. He can knit doilies for all I care.”

  * * *

  Hook found Scrap in the office putting a nail in the heel of his shoe.

  “I see you found that dog,” Scrap said.

  Hook wiped out a cup. “Poor thing was hiding out in Johnson Canyon for fear of being eaten by hogs.

  “Pepe says you traded for a tractor?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “May I ask why?”

  Scrap loaded his pipe. “To feed my hogs,” he said.

  “You don’t have any land for gardening, Scrap.”

  “I figure to raise tomatoes between those stacks of cars in the back. What I don’t feed to the hogs, I will sell in town.”

  “It won’t work, Scrap.”

  He lit his pipe and blew out the match.

  “You’re a dark thinker, Hook. A fellow has to be positive if he’s ever going to get anywhere.”

  “I’m positive it won’t work,” Hook said.

  Scrap got up and dumped sugar into his coffee.

  “If my attitude was as sour as yours, I’d probably be living in a caboose and eating beans.”

  “Did you get the tires put back on that junk pile?”

  “The tires are just fine, though a bit oversized.”

  * * *

  After Scrap had gone, Hook dialed the number he’d seen on the lieutenant’s note. A woman answered.

  “American Locomotive Company,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  “John Ballard, please,” he said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Hook Runyon, railroad security.”

  The woman paused. “Just a moment.”

  Hook watched the dust circle in the sunlight that cast through the window.

  Coming back on the line, she said, “Sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have a John Ballard here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Perhaps you have the wrong name or number.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps.”

  * * *

  The tires on the back of the jeep were nearly twice the size of the front ones, and when Hook got in, he slid forward against the steering wheel. Pushing himself back with his legs, he cranked up the jeep and pulled off down the road. He hit forty miles an hour while still in low gear. The front end of the jeep whipped from side to side, and the back tires hummed against the pavement. Debris and dirt bellowed up from the side of the road.

  When he got to Blue’s Café, he dusted himself off before going in. Blue stood at the sink washing dishes. He’d tied his apron on in the front but had failed to turn it back. He stopped and dried his hands on the rag that hung from his pocket.

  “You get caught in a tornado?” he asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Hook said.

  “So, did you find Linda Sue?”

  “They picked her up in Wichita,” Hook said, leaning on the pass-through. “The corporal left her behind but not before he worked her over a little.”

  “You get my fifty bucks?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” Hook said.

  Blue hung the dishcloth over his shoulder and fished out a cigarette.

  “What’s going to happen to her?”

  Hook rubbed at the kink that had developed in his neck from the jeep ride.

  “Be my guess they’ll squeeze her for information and give her some time in county.”

  Blue checked the grill, flipping a couple of burgers over.

  “Linda Sue was a hell of a waitress,” he said. “She could serve a full house, flirt with every one of the customers in the doing, and make ’em all happy. My business is off twenty percent since she left.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Hook said.

  “On top that, the track crews are all going elsewhere for their meals. I’ll be lucky to keep this place open at this rate.”

  “Linda Sue got caught up in something she didn’t understand,” Hook said. “I’d
hate to see her lose her place. She says it’s nearly paid off. I’ve been thinking maybe someone could keep an eye on it. Make sure it wasn’t broken into, that sort of thing.”

  Blue flattened the burgers, and smoke raced up the exhaust.

  “What the hell,” he said. “I’ve made a mistake or two my own damn self. I suppose I could drive by there once in a while.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said. “I’m sure Linda Sue will be grateful.”

  “What’s going on out there at that tunnel, Hook? They’re running equipment up and down that track twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Upgrade, I’m told,” Hook said. “I guess passenger service is likely to be big with the war over.”

  “I’m just a cook,” Blue said. “But why didn’t they go north with a new line? They wouldn’t have that grade or that tunnel either one to deal with.”

  “The big boys don’t consult me much these days. Anyway, the railroad is kind of like me, it doesn’t do anything the easy way as long as there’s a hard way.”

  The door opened, and several customers came in.

  “I better run,” Hook said. “I’ll check out the crews’ meal schedules for you. Most times the railroad prefers spreading their business around.”

  * * *

  Hook left the jeep parked in front of Blue’s and walked down to Sheriff Mueller’s office. Mueller had his feet up on the desk and had fallen asleep in his chair. A fly preened on the top of his ear.

  “Damn, what?” he said, rubbing his face.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb your nap, Sheriff, but thought you’d like to know that they picked Linda Sue up in Wichita.”

  Sheriff Mueller pushed his hair back with his fingers. “I got a call,” he said.

  “Blue’s going to keep an eye on her place.”

  Mueller dropped his feet to the floor and dug at his crotch.

  “They haven’t caught Thibodeaux yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The son of a bitch,” he said. “They told me he beat her up some.”

  “I’ll let you know if anything comes up,” Hook said. “By the way, anyone been looking for me?”

  “Not so’s you can tell,” he said, adjusting his gun belt. “Ben Hoffer’s been spreading it around that he’s going to even things up. But he’s mostly wind.”

  Hook walked to the door. “You aren’t having me tailed for anything, are you, Sheriff?”

  Mueller set his hat and picked up his keys. “Hell, no,” he said. “You know what a tail costs?”

  “Yeah,” Hook said. “That’s what I figured.”

  When Hook got back to the jeep, the old man from the post office was standing next to it. He had his hands in his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels when he saw Hook.

  “Most folks have the same,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Hook said.

  “Tires,” he said. “Most folks have the same. Those tires on the back are bigger than the tires on the front. She’ll run too fast in low gear, and the front end will wobble.”

  “The thing is, if the big ones are on the front, you can’t see the road,” Hook said.

  The old man walked to the door of Blue’s Café before turning around.

  “If they’re the same on the front as they are on the back, then it don’t matter,” he said. “You can see the road clear as day, front or back, either one.”

  * * *

  Hook got back to the salvage yard by late afternoon. He parked the jeep in front of the office, which he found empty. As he made his way to the caboose, a cool breeze drifted in from the countryside, and the crickets struck up their chorus for the evening.

  Mixer, exhausted from his escapade into the canyon, failed to get up to greet him. Hook took off his sidearm, fixed himself a whiskey and water, and thumbed through his books.

  The Erikson case had consumed him far too long, and he wished for it to end. But with each passing day, it had grown more baffling and more frustrating, and then with all the time he’d spent chasing copper thieves on top of it.

  How long had it been since he’d had time to peruse his books, to read them and contemplate their histories and the lives they may have touched? Such was the fun of collecting, and he’d missed not having the time to do it right.

  When an engine came down line, her drivers thumping, Hook rose and looked out his window. She coupled into an empty car before crawling back by the caboose.

  Downing his drink, he slipped on his sidearm, stuck his flashlight into his rear pocket, and moved out into the stacks of junked cars. By then the engine had moved the car onto the siding down line and had coupled her onto a short haul. A truck had backed in, and men were loading copper pipe off it and into the car. Hook figured it to be the truckload that Scrap had been expecting to arrive.

  He circled, coming in from the back, and he waited until the men had finished and pulled away. He swung up on the ladder of the car and paused to catch his breath. Pulling a ladder one armed was one of the hardest tasks he did. Even now, after all these years, it didn’t come easy.

  He climbed up and dropped down into the car and took a close look at the pipe. When he spotted the grease pencil marks he’d made earlier, he leaned back against the side of the car.

  The bastards were stealing Scrap’s pipe off his cars when they arrived in Williams, being careful not to take so much as to be noticed, loading it in a truck, and reselling it back to him as a new order. They might have gotten away with it, too, if they’d been dealing with anyone but Scrap, who could estimate a load of copper within a few pounds.

  A westbound freighter blew her whistle on the edge of town and within moments thundered by. When she’d passed, the switch engine brought up steam and bumped out the slack on the short haul. Hook rose to get off and then changed his mind. Maybe he’d just ride her out, be there when she arrived at her destination.

  As the steamer chugged through the desert, he thought about the lieutenant. At times he felt left out of things. Her information just didn’t add up to the facts he’d been given, but then his thinking hadn’t been so rational either. Though he’d not admitted it, not even to himself, he’d been attracted to her, and such emotions could complicate life, particularly when it came to solving a case. He hadn’t planned it that way and hadn’t taken into account the distraction she had presented.

  Maybe he’d missed a lot in life, come up a little short on the formalities. But he could smell a lie better than most, and he was pretty certain the lieutenant had been holding back on something. Stick to the facts, Eddie always said. Maybe for once Eddie had been right.

  Night fell over him as the train made its way to Williams. When it leaned into a curve, Hook took a look over the top of the car. Black smoke from the steam engine churned upward into the moonlight. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the copper pipe.

  The steam engine blew its whistle at the Williams crossing, and Hook squashed out his cigarette. Maybe he’d just spent too long on the rails, a man corrupted and cynical from living with the underbelly of society.

  He checked the clip in his P.38. The engine blew its whistle, a note trailing off into the night, and they slowed for the Williams Salvage siding. If things went as they should, they’d couple onto the Williams cars and be on their way to the smelter. If they didn’t, then certain trouble awaited.

  25

  WHEN THE TRAIN stopped, Hook dropped down from the car. The lights from Williams Salvage lit the security fence beyond the right-of-way. He turned his ear into the wind to listen. Junkyard dogs could be less than understanding when it came to intruders, but only the steamer chugged in the distance. On the siding next to him, a line of old cattle cars sat like silent dinosaurs, and the stench of manure filled the night.

  Just then a signal lamp bobbed on up track. Hook slipped under the car and rolled onto his side. He could just see the lamp over the wheel carriage.

  He lay back. They were probably throwing the spur switch to side off the main line. Maybe they we
re coupling in, making up the train to go on to the smelter with a full order. Maybe he’d been wrong about this whole thing. If so, he’d catch the next freighter back to Ash Fork and call it a miss. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’d never calculated his catch rate, and he hoped no one else had either.

  In any case, if a go signal came, he’d have time to escape from under the car. Still, lying under rolling stock with a live engine at tow could make a man uneasy. The human body was no match for the wheels of a loaded copper car.

  Bracing himself on his elbow, he took another look. The switchman’s lamp had moved down track and was nearly upon him.

  “Damn it,” he said.

  He drew to the center of the tracks and held his breath as the switchman approached. He could smell the kerosene fumes from his lamp and could see his feet and the pistol in his hand. Not many switchmen Hook knew carried a sidearm just to throw a switch.

  When the switchman moved the lamp in a frontal circle, indicating a backup signal, Hook’s pulse ticked up. If he rolled out now, he’d be discovered. If he didn’t, he and roadkill would have a lot in common.

  The engine blew her whistle, and a rumble traveled down line. The cars bumped and groaned as the slack fell away. Hook’s mouth went dry. He’d never make it under the wheel carriage if she started to roll back. Placing his feet against the track he spun around so that his head pointed downrange. The car creaked and groaned and crawled backward.

  Sweat ran into Hook’s eyes, and his heart hammered in his chest. With the wheel axle now only feet away, he snared his hook on an overhead bracing. It caught, and the car dragged him along like a fish on a line. Both shoes pulled off, and his heels bumped and plowed along in the gravel.

  When at last the car crept to a stop, Hook waited, his breath locked. If it started forward, he’d be headed in the wrong direction again and in deep trouble. He peered over his shoulder and could just make out the switchman moving his lamp from side to side in a full-stop signal.

  He worked the hook loose from the frame and checked for his sidearm, which had somehow managed to stay holstered. Clicking off the safety, he leveled in for a clear shot, just in case.

  But at that moment, lights broke in the distance, and a truck clambered down the right-of-way. It backed into the car, and two men climbed out. The driver, who wore a baseball cap, approached the switchman. His passenger walked to the back of the truck and lit a cigarette.