Kicking open the door, he said, “Get in the caboose, Mixer.”
Hook dragged the girl in and closed the door behind him. He lit the lantern. When she opened her eyes, she sat up and drew back her fist again.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said.
She lowered her fist. “Don’t touch me,” she said. “I’ll scream rape.”
“What makes you think I’m interested in raping you?”
“You don’t have any pants on,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, reaching for his britches. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
Hook turned and zipped his britches. “As long as you’re hitching a ride on my caboose, you answer the questions.”
“Jackie,” she said.
“Jackie?”
“That’s right. Short for Jacqueline, if it’s any of your business.”
“Oh, it’s my business. I’m the railroad bull, and you’ve just made one hell of a mistake.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she said. She pushed her hair behind her ears and stuck her chin out at him. “You going to arrest me?”
“Picking pockets is against the law.”
“I don’t pick pockets,” she said.
“No, you just distract the mark long enough for someone else to do it.” He slipped on his shirt. “How old are you?”
“How old are you?” she asked. “A hundred?”
Hook said, “I’ve been watching you pick pockets for some time now. You’re likely to be a hundred by the time you get out of jail.”
“Seventeen,” she said.
“Where you from?”
“Katmandu.”
Mixer peeked out from under the bunk, and Hook shot him a hard look. He crawled back under.
Hook dug his handcuffs out of the drawer and said, “Have it your way, Jackie. I’ll be turning you over to the police in Panhandle. Until then, we’ll need to secure you.”
She stood and straightened her dress. He could see the mark on her chin and the chiseled cut of her profile in the dim light of the lantern. She had a natural beauty that had, no doubt, given her trouble with men.
“Kansas City,” she said.
Hook laid the cuffs on the table. “You hungry?”
“No,” she said, pausing. “For what?”
“Spam and crackers.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“I guess I could eat,” she said.
Hook opened a can of Spam and cut slices with his pocketknife. He slid the plate across the table and watched as she wolfed it down.
“You a runaway, Jackie?” he asked.
She looked up at him and shrugged. “I left home, if that’s what you mean?”
“It’s not what I mean.”
“My mother’s dead. I lived with my father as long as I could.”
“Was he mean to you?”
“No,” she said, pushing her plate away. “Indifferent. When Barney came along…”
“Barney? The man in the hat? The one who took the purse?”
She wiped her mouth and reached into her pocket for a lipstick.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Barney helped you run away?”
She tightened her lip against her teeth and worked the lipstick back and forth until her lips turned a deep red.
“Barney says not to talk to anyone about anything.”
“Barney hasn’t been caught by the law, has he? You have. Where is he now?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“So, Barney left you to fend for yourself when things got rough? He’s gone, and you’re headed to jail. Hardly seems right.”
She wet the end of her finger, dabbed the bits of crackers off the plate, and put them in her mouth. Frenchy’s whistle trailed off in the night as they came to a crossing.
“Barney’s Barney,” she said. “I never thought he’d do otherwise.”
“Does Barney carry a weapon?”
“No,” she said, glancing away.
“Has he used it on anyone, Jackie?”
“It’s just a pistol that he puts in his belt. He says it’s for an emergency, that working the rails is like walking into a jungle. You never know what’s going to come after you.”
“Coffee?” he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “Milk.”
“I don’t have milk. I have coffee. Jesus, are you related to Junior?”
“Junior who?”
“Never mind.”
“Water then, if it’s such a big deal,” she said.
“So where do you figure he went?”
“Barney doesn’t tell me anything. He says the less I know the better off I’ll be.”
“Don’t you have a rendezvous in case you get separated?”
“What’s a rendezvous?”
“A place to meet.”
She shook her head. “No, but Barney don’t give nothing up.”
“Including you?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Does he have other people who work for him?”
“You arrested him back there at the depot.”
“What about diversions?”
“Barney says that common folks make the best diversion. He picks them up along the way. Some don’t even know what they’re doing.”
“Like old ladies, for example?”
“He paid a kid in Wellington a dollar to throw a tantrum on the platform. He sure got his money’s worth.”
Hook walked to the door and looked out. The blackness of the prairie engulfed the caboose as it charged into the night. When he turned, she was watching him.
“Barney’s got his coming,” he said.
She looked at him square on. “I wouldn’t mess with Barney.”
“Why’s that?”
“You can’t scare Barney, ’cause there’s nothing in there to scare. All you have to do is look in his eyes. He’ll be coming for me.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
She looked at herself in the window reflection and adjusted her hair.
“What happened to your arm?” she asked.
Hook lifted his empty sleeve. “Wore it off pointing out trouble to smart-ass kids.”
“That’s silly,” she said.
Hook slipped the prosthesis on. “I hadn’t expected company this time of night.”
“Is that your dog under there?”
“Sometimes,” he said.
“He sure is ugly.”
“Yeah, but he has a personality to match,” he said.
She took a drink of water. “I didn’t mean it when I said you were a hundred.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Do you have something I could wear? Barney makes me put on this pink dress. I think it’s stupid.”
“I have some old stuff.”
“I don’t care. Anything’s better than this.”
Hook took out an old shirt and a pair of pants that had shrunk over the years. He turned his back while she slipped them on.
“Okay,” she said, sitting back down at the table. “You didn’t even look.”
“I thought about it.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
“Hook Runyon,” he said.
“Because you wear a hook?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s in the box outside?” she asked.
“A body.”
“Not either,” she said.
“I’m taking him home.”
“That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
She fell silent for a moment. “Why would you take a body home if you didn’t know him?”
Hook thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Sometimes I don’t know stuff I do, either,” she said.
“Look,” he said. “It’s late. You c
an sleep in the bunk. I’ll take the bench.”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“I’ll figure that out when we get to Panhandle. Now, if you’re through asking questions?”
“How do I know you won’t rape me in my sleep?”
“I’d be disappointed if you slept through it,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, slipping off her shoes and placing them at the foot of the bunk. “But I’ll be watching.”
Hook blew out the lantern, rolled up his old coat for a pillow, and stretched out on the bench. The caboose pitched and rolled beneath him, and Mixer snored under the bunk.
He didn’t know what to do with her. She was just a kid, but a damn tough one. Kids could be unpredictable, and unpredictability could be lethal. He turned on his side. He’d give it some time. Being a hundred years old, he’d learned that time was indeed the best test.
* * *
At some point in the night the caboose lurched to a stop. Hook sat up on his elbow. Jackie slept with her back to him and with her knees pulled up. Mixer had climbed into bed with her and now lay curled at her feet.
Hook checked his watch and looked out the window. He could see the Dumas sign. Frenchy had probably stopped to water the hog. Jerkwaters like Dumas presented ample opportunity for boes to climb aboard in the darkness. What with Barney on the loose, Hook figured it prudent to take a walk to check things out.
He put on his prosthesis and coat and slipped out the door. A light fog had settled over them, and the night sounds were close in the stillness. Frenchy’s engine sighed and huffed, and the heat from the boiler drifted back in the fog. The smell of creosote and oil hung in the night.
Hook walked the length of the 2-10-2, an enormous old steamer weighing in over a half-million pounds. She carried two lead wheels, five sets of drivers, and two trailer wheels. She towed a tinder at her back and had considerable age under her belt. Such behemoths, under full steam, caused the hair to rise on the necks of the most hardened railroaders.
He stopped to relieve himself. The creak of iron and heat rippled down the rails, and the thud of the brake compressor chugged off in the distance. Something cold drew in, something unsettled and foreign in the fog. Over the years he’d learned not to ignore such uneasiness. Paying attention to such things had saved his life more than once. Pausing, he looked back.
He turned and walked to the end of the tinder. Lowering his head, he parceled out the sounds one by one. Whatever he’d heard hadn’t fit in the context about him: the bakehead hollering up to Frenchy, the beat and throb of the engine, the quarreling pigeons on top of the water tower.
Squatting down, he looked under the 2-10-2, and then crawled over the coupler and checked the other side. And then he looked up, the golden rule of survival on the rails. The ladder to the top of the tinder, wet with the fog, rose into the darkness.
As he climbed the ladder, he could hear the bakehead finishing off the water, and the blow of steam as Frenchy brought up the pressure. Frenchy’s bell clanged, and his whistle blew announcing their departure. Hook climbed on up, determined for a quick look before they departed. He’d sleep a hell of a lot better knowing the tinder had been cleared.
Just as he reached the top, the first bump rippled down track, and the old engine creaked forward. He took a quick look, finding the tinder empty. He then hurried back down the ladder. Frenchy’s whistle blew, three short blasts, and another bump traveled down track. Nearly to the bottom, he skipped the last two rungs and slid the remaining distance to the ground.
The blow came from behind just as he touched down, and his brain sloshed. He shook his head to clear it. Frenchy’s whistle screamed from the darkness, and the train moved forward.
He struggled to turn, to throw himself out and away from the rails, but his prosthesis had caught in the ladder rung overhead. He fought to disengaged it, to free himself from the tangle that now threatened to drag him under the wheels.
Suddenly Frenchy brought her up, and the 2-10-2 lurched forward, flipping him onto his back. Sweat ran into his eyes, and his heels bumped over the ties as the train dragged him down track at an increasing rate of speed.
Frenchy lay in on his whistle again as he powered up for the final run into Panhandle. Hook’s head bumped against the ladder rung, and his pant leg tore as it caught on a protruding spike.
Reaching up with his good hand, he worked at the harness that held on the prosthesis. His heart pounded, and his fingers burned as he worked at the harness that now tore into his flesh. The clack of the wheels, steel against steel, pooled like molten lead in his stomach as he struggled to free himself from certain death.
The instant the harness gave way, he pushed off to the side as hard as he could. Rolling away from the wheels, he tumbled down the right-of-way. Jumping up, he watched the caboose paddle on by him. With a burst of adrenaline, he raced after it. Catching hold of the grab iron just in time, he hoisted up onto the steps.
Panting, he lay back on the caboose step as the jerkwater disappeared in the fog behind. Moving out of the wind, he examined the tear in his pant leg and the patch of hide missing from his elbow.
The attempts on his life had gotten too damn frequent and too damn close. Waiting around for someone to kill him just didn’t fit his style.
He opened the door to the caboose and found Jackie still asleep. Mixer lifted his head before curling up again. Hook fixed his coat into a pillow, lay down on the bench, and turned on his side. The moon broke through the fog, and moonlight struck through the cupola window, falling on Jackie’s shoes, which now sat at the head of the bunk.
19
STILL AWAKE, HOOK sat up as the train slowed for arrival into Panhandle. Sleep had eluded him. Every time the train bumped, the knot on the back of his head fired off.
He rose to make coffee, leaning in against the pitch and roll of the caboose. Long ago he’d developed sea legs, and it took a rough ride to set him off course. The girl stirred as Frenchy backed the caboose onto the siding. She sat up, yawning, just as someone knocked on the door.
When Hook opened it, Frenchy stood there with Hook’s prosthesis in his hand.
“Jesus,” he said. “I thought we’d killed you.”
“Not from lack of trying,” Hook said.
Frenchy glanced at the coffin. “Death at the door. That thing’s just scary, Hook.”
“How old are you, Frenchy?”
Frenchy held up the prosthesis. “The switchman found this thing hanging off the tinder ladder. We figured you’d slipped and fell under the wheels.”
“Well, I would have if you’d had your way,” Hook said.
Jackie stepped up behind and peeked around Hook’s shoulder at Frenchy.
“Who’s that?” she asked, sleep still in her voice.
“This is Frenchy,” Hook said. “He’s supposed to be the engineer. Frenchy, this is Jackie, and you can close your mouth now.”
“Will you look at that,” Frenchy said. “How the hell did you pick up a girl while going down the track?”
“By dangling from the tinder ladder,” Hook said.
Frenchy rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m a married man and don’t know much about these things, but isn’t this girl a little young?”
Hook rolled his eyes. “Like you say, you don’t know much about these things.”
Frenchy said, “We’re headed to Borger to pick up an old Baldwin. We’ll be laying over there. I don’t know just how long yet.”
“Well, I guess we won’t be going anywhere until you get back, seeing as how you have the engine.”
Frenchy came up on his toes for another look at Jackie. “Right,” he said. “See you then.”
“You figure on using that yourself?” Hook asked.
“What?”
“My arm.”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, no,” he said, handing it to Hook. “Just don’t leave this thing swinging from my train no more. You about gave the switchman a heart attack.”
* * *<
br />
After letting Mixer out for a run, Hook cooked breakfast, fried Spam, while Jackie made up the bunk. He poured coffee and sat down at the table with her.
“Barney sometimes buys me steak and eggs for breakfast,” she said.
“I didn’t have time for steak and eggs this morning,” he said.
“I’ll bet Frenchy’s wondering what we’re doing right now,” she said, pushing back her hair.
“Engineers don’t have much of an imagination,” he said.
When she’d finished her breakfast, she rolled the sleeves of his old shirt up to her elbows and searched out her lipstick. He watched as she traced the outline of her mouth with practiced skill. A switch engine rumbled by and set the caboose windows to rattling.
“Aren’t you curious about where I went last night?” he asked.
She dropped her lipstick into her purse. “Sure, I guess. Where did you go last night?”
“When we stopped for water at Dumas, I went out to check for boes. Thing is, someone hit me on the head and damn near got me killed.”
“Is that so?” she said.
“And when I came back here, your shoes had been moved from one end of the bunk to the other. How is that?”
“Could I have a cigarette?”
“No.”
“You aren’t the only one who has to use the bathroom, you know,” she said.
“How do you know I went to the bathroom?”
“Didn’t you?” she asked.
“It’s a possibility,” he said.
“It could have been Barney,” she said. “He’ll come looking for me. Barney will never let someone take me away. I’d sure hate to tangle with him on a train. Barney’s like a cat.”
Hook touched the knot on his head. “You’d think Barney could hit hard enough to knock a man out, wouldn’t you?”
She shrugged and searched through her purse for chewing gum. She folded two sticks into her mouth and said, “What’s the books?”
“They’re books,” he said.
“So, I know they’re books.”
“I collect them.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve made a fortune at it.”
“I never heard of that,” she said.
Hook reached for the handcuffs. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve business to attend to.”
“You don’t have to cuff me,” she said. “I won’t go anywhere.”
The Hanging of Samuel Ash Page 13