by Jim Tully
CHAPTER XXII
BURNED OUT
CHAPTER XXII
BURNED OUT
THE forms vanished into the darkness, and I rushed after them.
The air was applied amid a grinding of noise. Then engineer and firemen leaned out of the cab, while the head brakeman stood low on the iron ladder of the first car, his light swinging furiously as the train curved on the side track.
The crew ran toward the engine, while we glided like phantoms in the same direction, far out of sight of the crew.
The train men talked excitedly, and a rough voice asked loudly in the dark, “Who the hell threw that switch?”
I crowded near a box car with many others. A door was slid noiselessly open and eighteen of us crawled inside. The door was shut and fastened from within.
A tramp lit a match. It was knocked out of his hand. “No glim now, you fool,” hissed another.
A nervous quiet came. A man stepped on a paper. It rattled loudly. “Shhh,” a voice purred.
We listened to our own hearts beat. Presently steps could be heard outside. The door was tried. It did not give. “I’d like to git hold of the rats who threw that switch,” a voice could be heard saying.
After a seemingly endless time, the train started on. No move was made until the noise of it drowned out all other sounds. Then matches lit cigarettes and pipes, and blurred into the bearded faces of as motley a gang of hoboes as ever rode a freight.
The car was soon filled with smoke as dense as an ocean fog. The odour of unkempt bodies filled the airless place, until a tramp unfastened the door.
A cold wind blew into the car. The door was shut again. There followed much coughing, and the door was again opened.
A tramp peered out. A light streamed back from the engine, as the fireman shovelled coal in the open fire box.
“We’re in a swamp on a trustle,” the hobo said. “She’s miles long, an’ deeper’n hell. I’ve been over it.”
Another light showed the cat-tails waving in the cold wind.
The temperature became colder. The wind blew over the swamp and penetrated our thinly clad bodies. The door was closed again, and the stifling air clogged our lungs.
“Open ’er up some. We’ll build a fire. May’s well burn to death as freeze to death.” I glanced at the speaker and vaguely connected him with the wielder of the fist that had knocked the keeper of the tower sprawling.
He was heavily built. His hands were large, like hams, and they reached nearly to his knees. His face, once good looking, was now stamped with a vicious leer. His mouth was firm, and slanted slightly downward at the left edge. His eyes were shot with blood, and the lids were red. His hair fell in straggly red masses over his ears and neck. His coat was torn and gaped like wounds under his armpits. A lighted cigarette was in the left corner of his mouth. The upper lip did not seem to touch it, and it hung down, the lighted end nearly touching the red stubble of his beard.
His short neck bulged under his ears. They looked strangely white in the tangled mass of red hair around them.
There was decision and mastery about him. Boy lover of raw strength, I watched him.
“Who’s the guy!” I asked a tramp near me.
“Oklahoma Red,” he answered, and then lower, and more drawn out, “He’s a b-a-d g-u-y.”
“A couple of you guys come with me,” said Red.
“We’ll crawl over the rattler an’ hunt some wood.” He sprang up, turned backward, and fastened his big hands on the roof of the rolling car. The open places under his armpits gaped wider as his muscular body swung upward on the roof. Then his feet were heard tramping overhead.
Two other men followed him, and presently boxes and boards were hurled into the car. The three men followed them.
Some of the wood was prepared in a jiffy, and soon a fire was blazing in the car. The men huddled around, and as their bodies thawed, their tongues loosened. A man peered out again, and jerked his head back. “We’ll never git out o’ this damned swamp,” he said.
The men talked in animated fashion while the fire ate its way through the floor and fell on the track below.
Another fire was built in an oily spot at the other end of the car. It burned slowly at first, while we huddled around it. “Watch she don’t git away from us,” advised a tramp.
“We give a damn,” said Oklahoma Red. “We’ll burn up the damn train an’ take the caboose.”
“That’s us,” said a one-legged man, whom the crowd called Peg-leg.
The blaze spread and crept over the floor and up the sides of the car to the roof. “Let ’er burn, Hurray!” yelled a voice.
The fire worked its way to the door. “She’s hot enough now,” said Peg-leg. The whistle shrieked for a town, while all ears listened. Red swung the end door back as the flames became hotter. He crawled out, the rest of us after him. Peg-leg used his crutch with dexterous grace.
The flame lit up the landscape as we jumped from the train. As the car went on, it became darker, and we lay flat on the ground until the caboose passed. We then circled into the open country and watched the train stop in the small town.
Lanterns swung together, and the engine whistle gave a wild shriek as men hurried from both ends of the train to the burning car. It was hurriedly cut from the train and placed on a sidetrack. The shouting of the crew could be heard distinctly. In a short time, there was a loud noise as the roof of the car caved in.
The crowd scattered, some refusing to ride the train again.
Oklahoma Red, Peg-leg, two other tramps, and myself were in the mood to ride toward Little Rock. We hurried ahead of the train, Peg-leg easily keeping pace with us.
“Kin you ketch ’er!” asked one of the tramps of Peg-leg.
“Sure,” he replied. “I kin git ’er goin’ twenty miles an hour.”
A swiftly running man could not catch a train going much faster. We were astonished and doubtful of Peg-leg’s statement.
Feeling that the crew would be on the lookout for tramps after the incident of the burning car, we walked far enough ahead of the train to make them feel that it was impossible for the most daring of hoboes to catch it.
There was no moon visible, and, save for the light which travelled from the engine in a straight line, the night was as black as coal.
The engine climbed a slight elevation and puffed with fury.
It gained speed and rolled down the elevation, while we waited far out in the dark.
As it approached us, Oklahoma Red said, “Git on first, kid, an’ you, Peg. “We’ll make it then.”
I ran swiftly with the train, Oklahoma Red behind me. A gondola came alongside of us. “Git in here. We’ll come.” It was a daring moment. I ran along and grasped the iron ladder. Peg-leg was ahead of me, and the redoubtable Red had somehow reached him.
But Peg-leg needed no assistance. Though all of fifty years old, he clutched the rung of the iron ladder I had climbed, his wooden leg sticking out from the car like the end of an immense broom stick. Some cans rattled in a bundle which was flung across his shoulder.
In a short time, another tramp and Oklahoma Red joined us. “Where’s the other fellow?” I asked.
“Guess he couldn’t make it,” answered Peg-leg.
The gondola in which we rode contained a long steam boiler. The wind whistled through the many holes in it, and made it rumble like a piano when a hand is jerked lightly over it.
“It’s colder’n hell with the door open,” said Oklahoma Red. “There’s a brick yard in Bald Knob. We’ll get off there. What do you say?”
“Sure,” we answered.
We left the train in the early morning, as the train neared Bald Knob.
The banked fires in the brick yard glowed cherry red. Clouds raced westward as the sky cleared in the east. The train travelled on, and all became still. A rooster crowed several times and became silent.
We sat near a furnace and dozed. Men’s voices floated faintly across the yard to us.
; “There’s a jungle down the line a short ways,” said Red. “That’s the ’boes you hear talkin’.”
“Let’s beat it there,” suggested Peg-leg, who sat, his hard face battered by storms, his eyes, still soft, and gazing at the red slabs of clay.
Near him was the bundle which he carried, a shoe projecting out of the dirty canvas.
“What do you carry the other shoe for?” I asked.
“Because it saves me bummin’ shoes all the time,” he answered, laughing. Then, as if in confidence, “I kin allus tell when it’s goin’ to rain, too. The stub end o’ my leg aches. Darn handy, huh?”
“How’d you lose your foot?” asked someone.
“None o’ your business,” snapped Peg-leg in the tone of a man who kept a secret.
“I’ll bet you wore it off runnin’ from some railroad bull,” laughed Red, as he scratched his mane of red hair.
“Naw, I was swimmin’ in Frisco Bay, an’ a boat run over it,” grunted Peg-leg resuming his gaze at the fire.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE JUNGLE
CHAPTER XXIII
THE JUNGLE
WE walked to the jungle where we found many hoboes. It was situated near a running brook. The gathering of derelicts made us welcome, and asked news of the road. Some treated Oklahoma Red with rude courtesy.
“Mulligan ready!” asked Red. “We’re hungrier’n wolves.”
“Sure thing, old yegger,” answered a shrivelled tramp whose body shook as he walked.
A half dozen fires burned, and hoboes worked like army cooks over them. Some brought water from the creek, while others peeled potatoes, and prepared meat for the skillets.
The men were divided in groups, and talked in the argot of the road.
The camp was plentifully supplied. “You sure got some grub here,” said Red to the shrivelled tramp. “Yeah, an’ we sure shook our legs to git it. We darn near bummed the whole country for what we didn’t buy.”
“What you didn’t buy is good,” said Oklahoma Red. “I’ll bet you didn’t buy none of it.”
“Yes we did. Everybody’s flush,” was the answer. “We stole two barrels of corn juice from a nigger too.”
The sun arose and shone for a short time, then disappeared behind dark clouds. They hung low, their black drapery nearly touching the trees that bordered the creek.
Hoboes stood on rocks in the brook, and washed themselves. Towels of every size and colour stretched on a wire from one tree to another.
A large, jagged piece of broken mirror was fastened to a tree with nails. A hobo stood in front of it, shaving himself with a piece of glass. The man’s face bled in several places. When the glass removed a portion of beard and lather from his face, he would toss it deftly from him. When he had finished, he walked to the creek and knelt on a rock and buried his bleeding face in the running water.
Another hobo stood, with lathered beard, waiting. He picked up the glass and used it more deftly than the first rover, and when he had finished, his face was bloodless and smooth. He wiped it with a soiled red handkerchief, and walked over to a table, and began eating.
Many rude little make-believe houses stood near each other at the edge of the jungle. They were built out of railroad ties, and had three sides and a roof. The other side was completely open.
Under a large tree was what remained of a barrel of corn juice. A few men had sampled it in the early morning, but, for the most part, the tramps had been busily engaged in preparing breakfast.
A man with both legs off sat near the barrel of liquor. His crutches stood near a tree, against which he leaned. He held a tin cupful of the white fluid in his hand. He was bitter at the world. The injustice of it rankled him. “Country’s gone to seed,” he said. “Salvation Army gits a license to beg in Little Rock, an’ I can’t. No use bein’ crippled no more. Country’s bound for hell in a handbasket.” He stopped talking and gurgled the white fluid.
It began to rain. The drops fell suddenly and swiftly from the dark clouds and rattled in the tin dishes on the table. They played a rat-a-tat-tat on the bottom of a dishpan, that lay, rusty and battered, in an open space. The remaining leaves on the trees were beaten to the ground with water. A furious wind came up and clattered the tin dishes across the jungle. They rattled against the sides of trees and fell on the ground. The legless man dropped his empty cup and, grabbing his crutches, hurried away to the shelter of a three-sided house. His body swung on top of the crutches.
In a short time the open jungle was clear of tramps, and all were seated in the houses made of ties.
A young negro tramp arrived in the rain, carrying a “please don’t rain” suitcase made out of pasteboard. As he moved across the open space in full view of the hoboes, the case crumpled up like a wet paper sack. The bottom and the sides dropped away, leaving the bedraggled, black vagabond standing, soaked with rain, and holding all that was left of the case in his hands,—the handle, the hinges, and the clasps.
A roar went up from the sheltered tramps, as the negro hurled the remnants of the suitcase from him. “Uncle Mose cheated you, boy. The kike saw you comin’,” yelled a voice.
Soon the rain ran through the cracks in the roofs of ties, and the water poured inside as if from sieves. A pool formed in the centre of the jungle, and as the raindrops fell into it with a splash they resembled tiny masted ships sinking away forever. Every object became drenched with rain. The clothes of the shivering tramps dripped with water. There was no escape. Miserable men they were, the shabby tricksters of life. But they endured, like stoics, with a smile. They took what life, or the elements sent them. They fought and they drank; they begged and they robbed. But this can be written to their everlasting credit above the stars in the farthest sky—they did not whine.
The wind veered suddenly and drove the falling water into the open sides of the wretched shelters.
Peg-leg sat near me, watching the raindrops sink in the pool. There was a cleft in his nose between the eyes, and a drop of rain stood on it as if not daring to roll downward. He rubbed it away with his hand. “Nigger kicked me there one time,” he said, “long before I lost my leg.”
“Did you get him for it!” I asked.
“Damn near killed him. He yelled out loud for God. The black devil.” That was all of the story. He became silent again, and stared at the falling raindrops.
Oklahoma Red sat quietly, his hair dripping wet. “Any licker in that barrel?” he asked of the shrivelled tramp who sat near him.
“There was,” came back the shivering answer. “Lots of the ’boes come in late, an’ didn’t know it was there.”
Red stood up. “Come on, Peg. You too, Kid,” he said.
We started for the barrel, then Red hesitated, and looking up at the slightly lighter sky, “It’s clearin’ up,” he said.
The men offered me the cup first and I drank enough of the liquor to set my body tingling underneath its dripping clothes. Then Red and Peg-leg helped themselves generously, drinking several cups each, like sweating labourers at a well.
More hoboes left the houses and gathered about the barrel. A giant negro came close and swallowed a cupful of liquor. He reached down to fill the cup again. “What you think it is, your birthday?” asked a vagrant standing near.
“I guess I done stole this licka,” answered the negro, “an’ I got some moah stashed ovah yondah,” pointing to a woods.
“How much more?” asked Red.
“Half a bah ’l,” replied the negro. “Anybody’ll go ‘long, ah’ll go an’ git it.”
Two men volunteered, and the three walked through the mud in the direction of the woods.
Presently they returned, carrying the liquor between them.
“That’s better’n a stove to warm us up,” laughed Peg-leg, as several men adjusted the liquor in a secure place near the now nearly empty barrel.
“How’d you come to git the booze?” asked the legless man, who had just joined the crowd.
“I knows wheah a
niggah had a still. De still ain’ still theah no moah,” answered the negro. “We done cleaned it up.”
The clouds faded swiftly away, and the sun threw long shafts of light through the moist air.
Many of the vagrants walked in the direction of the brick yard with the hope of drying their clothes. Others stood, oblivious of wet rags so long as the corn liquor made their beggars’ blood dance warm.
Unable to wait for the cups that passed around, some of the tramps made three-cornered cups out of papers still wet with rain.
The giant negro stealer of the liquor became loquacious under its influence. “Ah’s been t’ree times ‘cross dis country lookin’ for a job, an’ I ain’t done found it yit,” he said. “I kain’t wuk at ma trade all year roun’ nohow.”
“What is your trade?” asked the legless man, who balanced himself on his crutches and held a cup in each hand.
“Ah’s a Christmas tree decoratah,” was the laughing answer of the negro, his teeth showing white and even in a mouth as large as the cave of a fairy.
The liquor was fast disappearing, and the men crowded about the barrels like hogs around a trough.
The giant negro stood, his legs outstretched, his big feet imbedded in the mud, a hollow black statue, never filled.
Oklahoma Red edged toward the barrel and placed his elbow in the negro’s ribs and pushed him away.
“Wha’s ’amatter, nigger. Think ye’re alone!”
The negro’s eyes flashed as he crowded near the barrel again. “Guess ah stole this licka,” he shouted as he pushed Red away.
Battle started. Red, a foot shorter than the negro, shot upward with each fist, and the thud of his hands on the giant’s jaws could be heard across the jungle.
The negro’s head twisted on his neck. He stepped backward, and threw his coat in the face of a tramp before rushing in.
“Lord, he’s got a razor,” yelled Peg-leg.
“Keep still, you bum. Want the bulls out here?” snapped another hobo.