The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  And then what, hotshot? The other two thieves are probably waiting up there, Indy said to himself.

  He didn’t know what he would do, but there wasn’t time to think about it.

  He crouched and leapt for the door handle. His fingers grazed it, but he couldn’t get hold of it. He landed off balance on one foot and grasped the railing. The catwalk swayed beneath him, and he heard a series of loud cracks as several bolts suddenly tore free. Roscoe and Half-breed screamed, but it was Indy’s side of the catwalk that dropped. He plunged to the floor of the car, landing with a heavy thud on a raised wooden platform.

  For a moment he didn’t move. He was afraid he had broken something—his legs, maybe his arms, maybe even his neck. But worse than the fear that he had broken a limb was the darkness. He couldn’t see. Panic bubbled in his throat, and a scream slid down his tongue—but then he realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut when he fell. He laughed softly to himself, but as he opened his eyes, his laughter turned weird, desperate, almost a cackle. He was eye to eye with an enormous anaconda.

  The head of the snake was so huge that it looked more like Tyrannosaurus Rex than a snake. Its tongue darted out and flicked against his cheek. An icy chill raced down his spine, his eyes widened in horror. He rolled over, bolted to his feet, and edged backward.

  He was afraid that if he looked away from the anaconda, it would attack him. He wasn’t watching where he was going, and one foot stepped off the edge of the platform. He wobbled a moment, then tumbled backward. He landed softly; he wasn’t hurt. But then he realized where he was—he had fallen into a vat of snakes.

  Hundreds of writhing reptiles were suddenly sliding under and over him. The roiling mass engulfed him like quicksand. Only it was worse than quicksand, much worse. He was smothering. The snakes were sucking away his breath, his life. Once, when he lifted his head from the wiggling nightmare, he glimpsed Half-breed and Roscoe struggling to stay on the dangling catwalk above him.

  Roscoe clung to Half-breed’s leg, but the dark-haired thief wanted no part of the kid. He reached for the trapdoor and shook his leg, attempting to rid himself of Roscoe, who cried out, terrified that he would plummet into the jaws of one of the carnivorous crocodiles snapping below them.

  Then the snakes covered Indy again, and he lost sight of everything. But he didn’t give up. He was fighting for his life. Snakes were piled below him as well as on top of him, and that kept him from regaining his footing. So he did the only thing he could do: he kicked against the wall of the vat.

  After several kicks at the same spot, the side of the vat cracked open. With all the energy he had left in him he kicked again. This time the wall gave way, and the wiggling mass of snakes suddenly slid out the side, taking Indy along for the ride.

  He leapt up, gasping for breath. He jerked snakes off his shoulders, his legs. He would never feel the same about snakes again. Above him he heard the screech of metal and curses, as the two thieves struggled to get through the trapdoor. But his focus now was on a door in the floor that was probably used when the car was cleaned out.

  Indy snapped open the door and was immediately bombarded by the pounding din of the cars speeding over the rails. The tie beams of the tracks blurred below him. He hesitated—his father would kill him if he knew what he was about to attempt. Bad enough that he’d leapt onto a moving train from a horse and had fallen into a vat of snakes, but now he was going to attempt the impossible.

  But he wasn’t about to stay in the car with snakes and gators. And there was no other way out. Besides, he had to get away from these thieves.

  He took a deep breath and lowered his head through the door. A steel bar ran the length of the car. He reached down and touched it with his hand. It was warm but not hot, and it was just high enough above the tracks to accommodate him as long as he kept the bar close to his chest.

  Only ten feet. That was all the distance he had to crawl.

  And ten feet isn’t impossible, is it? I can crawl ten feet. I know I can, Indy told himself.

  Carefully he lowered himself through the door, gripping the steel bar first with his hands, then with his arms and legs. He inched forward; the clatter of the train vibrated through his body, threatening to shake him from it.

  Oh, shit. What did I do this for?

  He told himself to concentrate. He knew that as long as he concentrated and used every ounce of his strength, he could do it.

  I’m going to make it. I’m going to make it. He said it over and over again as he pulled himself forward.

  Finally he reached the end and realized he hadn’t figured out how he was going to get off the bar. The front of the car extended a foot or so beyond the end of it. Maybe if he just stayed where he was, he’d be okay.

  But how long could he hold on before his arms would tire? The vibration was already jolting him to his bones.

  He thought a moment about the cross tucked beneath his belt. If it slipped out and smashed on the tracks, all his efforts would be useless. He let go with one hand, and carefully reached forward to the end of the car. His fingers patted the lower edge of the front wall, feeling for something to grasp. But he didn’t find anything.

  Then he remembered the safety cable that connected the cars below the coupling. Where was it? He extended his arm as far as he could reach. His fingers touched something, then slipped off. He tried again, and this time he grabbed the cable.

  Now what?

  He was stretched between the cable and the bar and he had to go one way or the other. He was momentarily paralyzed by indecision. Which way? Does it matter? He closed his eyes, let go of the bar with his other hand, and reached blindly for the cable. He grasped it and slid his feet along the last inches of the bar. Then his legs were dangling in midair, and he was pulling himself forward, hand over hand. He opened his eyes and saw the coupling above him. He hooked his arm over it, then swung a leg up as if he were mounting a horse. He had done it! He was riding atop the coupling between two cars.

  He pulled himself forward toward the next car. It was virtually a cage on wheels. Inside, behind the bars, was a huge Bengal tiger. He reached up to the nearest bar, stood up on the coupling, balancing himself. Then he climbed to the outside of the cage.

  He edged his way along the narrow outer skirt of the car by holding on to the cage. He stopped once as he felt something crawling along his leg. He wriggled his nose as he reached into his pants and pulled out a snake. He readjusted the cross under his belt and moved ahead.

  The tiger paced back and forth inside the cage, watching him. Indy stared back. As he neared the front of the cage, the tiger paced closer and closer. He crouched down to rest, hoping the massive cat would ignore him. Even though the bars were between him and the tiger, a swipe from the creature’s paw through the space between the bars would be deadly.

  What he didn’t realize, though, was that another sort of danger was literally around the corner. Rough Rider had worked his way along the opposite side of the cage and was inching across the front now. Like the tiger, the thief had fixed his eye on his prey.

  Indy was staring at the tiger, mentally telling it to back off, when a hand clamped on his neck.

  “Gotcha!” Rough Rider shouted.

  At that moment the tiger lunged at the bars. He thrust his paws out, raking his claws across Rough Rider’s shoulder and back, shredding his jacket. The thief yelled out in pain and surprise and grabbed his shoulder. He tottered a moment, then fell from the train.

  Indy glanced back, to see Rough Rider rolling along the railroad bed. He turned toward the front of the car, and a fist sank into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping for breath, certain he was dying. He looked up, to see Roscoe hovering over him.

  “Girl Scout.” The kid sneered and drew back his fist to punch him again.

  But Indy slammed the heel of his boot down onto Roscoe’s foot. He poked him in the eye and bit his hand. The kid yelped in pain, and Indy scooted past him. He fled to a neig
hboring stockcar and climbed up a ladder to its roof.

  Roscoe quickly recovered and cursed Indy as he climbed behind him. Indy had just reached the top when Roscoe grabbed his ankle. He fell to the roof, and the two boys grappled, rolling perilously close to the edge.

  The rattle of the rails pounded in Indy’s ears as he saw Roscoe raise a knife in the air. The tip of the blade glinted as Roscoe thrust. Indy rolled over just in time to avoid the plunging blade. He crawled away, but Roscoe scrambled after him, tackling him as he tried to rise to his feet.

  Whatever was in the boxcar beneath them must have been huge, Indy thought, because every time he or Roscoe moved, something pounded against the side of the boxcar, shaking it. But he didn’t have time to ponder that matter. He was too busy trying to stay alive.

  “Gimme that cross!” Roscoe shouted, flashing the blade in the air over Indy. “Right now!”

  Indy grabbed Roscoe’s wrist, bending it back, trying to get him to drop the knife.

  Suddenly a rhino horn slammed through the roof’s wooden slats, missing Indy’s head by inches. He rolled to one side, and Roscoe’s wrist slipped free. Indy pushed him away, but Roscoe lunged for him, stabbing the knife at his throat. Indy jerked his head, and the blade slammed into the wood, just missing his ear.

  As Roscoe struggled to loosen it, the rhino struck again and this time his horn went right between Indy’s legs. Roscoe pulled out the knife and thrust it at Indy’s midsection. Indy saw it coming down, saw the blade gleaming in the light. His legs shot out and slammed into Roscoe’s chest, throwing him back. Roscoe faltered a moment, arms pinwheeling for balance, and barely avoided falling off the car.

  Indy rolled over onto his stomach and looked back just in time to see Roscoe hurtle the knife at him. It probably would have slammed into his face, but at that instant the rhino horn burst through the roof next to Indy’s head and the blade struck it.

  Indy stumbled to his feet and saw a water tank alongside the tracks directly ahead. Its spout was facing the tracks and protruded above the train. He suddenly knew how he could get away. He ran to the side of the car, calculated the distance, and timed his leap.

  He caught the spout perfectly, but the train’s velocity caused the spout to swing rapidly around the water tank. He hung on, closed his eyes, and finally, as the spout slowed, he let go. He only dropped a couple of feet and realized he had spun completely around. He was back on the train! This time he landed on the roof of another stockcar and immediately collided with Half-breed, who was knocked off his feet.

  Indy reeled backward, dazed by what had happened. But what happened next confused him even more: he fell through an opening in the roof.

  Dust flew up around him as he struck the floor. Rays of sunlight leaked through the cracks in the boards, but it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He smelled a heady animal scent in the air, and his nose twitched. Then he saw the source of the odor. In the opposite end of the car an African lion was slowly rising to its feet. Obviously it was intent on investigating the creature who had dropped into its den.

  The lion roared, and the stockcar walls seemed to shudder. Dust swirled in shafts of sunlight around the lion as it stalked him like prey.

  “Oh, boy.” Indy gulped as he backed away toward the corner of the car.

  He saw a glint of light reflect off something on the floor and suddenly realized what it was. The cross had dislodged from his belt when he fell, and now it lay at the lion’s feet.

  He glanced around and continued stepping back until he felt the rear wall of the car against his spine. He pressed his hands against the wall as the lion continued stalking him, preparing to make a deadly pounce. His right hand struck a nail. Under it he felt something leathery. He snapped his head around, thinking it was another snake. Instead, it was a whip—a lion tamer’s whip.

  He carefully took it down by its handle. The lion recognized the whip and growled softly. Indy swallowed hard and gave the whip a snap. It unraveled awkwardly, its tip flying back and striking him across the face, cutting his chin.

  The lion growled louder.

  Indy quickly gathered up the whip, wet his lips, and tried again. This time it cracked sharply, as it was supposed to, as he’d heard it crack at the circus when the lion tamer circled the king of beasts, whip in hand.

  The lion bellowed, swatted the air, and snarled, then backed off. He knew from experience what the crack of the whip meant.

  Indy grinned, amazed and delighted by his feat. He cracked the whip again, and the lion backed away even more. Indy inched forward until the cross was just in front of him. The lion stood its ground about ten feet away. Slowly, Indy bent over. Never taking his eyes off the lion, he picked up the cross.

  Then he stepped back and realized his hands were shaking and sweat was pouring down his face. He took a deep breath of musty air, exhaled, gathering his wits. Now, how was he going to get out of here?

  He looked up at the opening he had fallen through and saw Fedora looking down at him. Fedora nodded to him, smiled, and extended a hand.

  That was all it took. Indy decided he would rather face Fedora than remain a minute longer caged with the lion. He tossed one end of the whip toward the hole, and Fedora snagged it.

  Fedora slowly reeled him in as Indy walked up the side of the wall. He looked back once, to see the lion crouched and ready to pounce if he fell. He quickly turned back and concentrated on getting out.

  When he reached the edge of the hole, Fedora clasped his arm and pulled him out, depositing him on the roof. Indy dropped to his hands and knees. He was breathing hard; he was exhausted. The lion had finally taken the fight out of him.

  “You’ve got heart, kid. I’ll say that much,” Fedora said. He pointed at the cross. “But that belongs to me.”

  Indy looked up to see that he had more company. Half-breed and Roscoe were also there. He stared at Fedora. “It belongs to Coronado.”

  “Coronado is dead. And so are all his grandchildren.” Fedora reached out, turning up his palm. “Come on, kid. There’s no way out of this.”

  “Yeah, fork it over,” Roscoe barked, then grabbed at the cross. Indy clung to one end of it, refusing to let go. A tug-of-war ensued. In the middle of it, a snake slithered out from Indy’s shirtsleeve and wrapped around Roscoe’s hand.

  “Get it off me,” he screamed. He let go of the cross and shook his arm until the snake was flung away. The lion roared beneath them. Indy took advantage of the momentary diversion and darted between Half-breed’s legs and bounded onto the next car. Half-breed was about to give chase, but Fedora motioned him to wait.

  “Stay put! Don’t let him double back.” He turned and headed after him.

  Indy scurried down the ladder between two cars and entered the caboose. The car was full of costumes and magic equipment. He looked around for a place to hide. He heard Fedora coming down the ladder and slipped out of sight.

  Fedora walked calmly into the caboose and surveyed the car. He strolled over to a large black box and casually pulled off the cover. One by one the four sides of the box flopped away, revealing nothing.

  He smiled confidently when he saw the top of another smaller box move slightly. “Okay, kid. It’s all over. Come on out.”

  He opened the box, and several pigeons flew out, scattering about the caboose. He was getting fed up with this elusive boy. He pawed his way through the costumes and magic gear. He picked up a cane and prodded into the corners, but the cane wobbled and turned into a handkerchief. “Damn it. Where the hell . . .”

  Then he saw a couple of the pigeons fly out the rear door of the caboose, which was swinging in the breeze. Realizing what had happened, he rushed out onto the rear balcony. The train was slowing as it neared its destination, and in the distance he saw Indy disappearing down a street of modest clapboard houses.

  THREE

  The Home Front

  OUT OF BREATH but still carrying the Cross of Coronado, Indy charged into his house. He quickly l
ocked the doors and raced from the kitchen to the living room, peering out windows. The street was clear.

  He hurried through the hallway and ducked into another room to check outside again. He squinted into the sunlight. He could still taste dust in his mouth. Water, he thought. He wanted a big, tall glass of ice water. But first things first. His father. He needed to talk to his father.

  “Dad?”

  There was no answer, but Indy knew his father was in his study. Ever since Indy’s mother had died, it seemed his father lived in his study, forever hunched over old books and parchments. The ancient past was more real to him than the present.

  Just look at the house, Indy thought. The rooms said it all: no feminine touches, nothing soft, no color, just books and old things everywhere. He was the only one who cleaned the house. Sometimes Indy felt as if his father had abandoned life beyond his study. That was the only place his father’s presence was real to him.

  He opened the door to the study. Books spilled off shelves and were piled on the floor. The walls were covered with maps of ancient lands and pictures of wonderful old castles and cathedrals. In one corner was a rusting helmet that a knight had once worn. Everything in the room seemed to possess meaning, even if Indy didn’t know what it was. All of it reflected a passion for medieval European studies.

  Indy cleared his throat. “Dad?”

  Behind a heavy, dark mahogany desk, his father, Professor Henry Jones, was absorbed in his work. Papers and books were strewn around him. Indy stared at the curve of his father’s back, willing him to speak, to nod, to acknowledge him in some way. He knew his father had heard him, but the fact that he didn’t greet Indy, didn’t even turn around, meant he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  He never wanted to be disturbed.

  Still, this was important. He neared the desk, glimpsed the ancient parchment his father was working on, and said, “Dad, I’ve got to talk to you.”