Big Wheat

by Richard A. Thompson

  “That looks like poison.”

  “It probably is, but I wasn’t going to ask you to drink it, you know. Now get back in the chair. We’ll do a final cut while the dye takes.”

  “Takes?” He went to the chair and sat down.

  “That’s what I call it, anyway.” She combed and snipped, this time doing a lot more looking than cutting. He saw that the hairs falling on his dishtowel-bib were pitch black. “You’ll have to touch this up from time to time, but the basic job will last for months. You’ll also have to start using some pomade, to hold it in its new shape. I’ll teach you how to do all that.”

  She turned her attention to his eyebrows, which she colored using a toothbrush. Then she took an artist’s brush and painted a pencil moustache on his upper lip. “You’ll quit shaving in that spot, right away. When your real moustache starts to grow out, we’ll do that with the toothbrush, too.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening. Is Jim really meaning to hide me? He could get in a lot of trouble, doing that.”

  “He doesn’t worry about trouble all that much. He’s been in and out of it all his life. He’s an old hand at slipping past the law.”

  “I hope he’s better at it than I am.”

  “Trust, Charlie. Remember that word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, let’s have a look at you, and then we’ll do a final rinse.”

  She took off the dishtowel and produced a mirror. He looked at himself from every possible angle. His hair was short enough to reveal a widow’s peak, and slicked back on the sides and top. His eyebrows were thick and brooding, and the moustache really looked very believable, from anything more than a couple of feet away. He looked for a long time, scarcely daring to believe his eyes. Looking back at him from the mirror was the exact, unmistakable image of his dead brother.

  “You like it?”

  “I’ll let you know when I get over the shock.”

  Chapter 16

  New Horizons

  Avery was greasing a bearing journal on the big Peerless steam engine when Stringbean Moe, still wearing his sling, walked back into camp. Avery wiped his hands on a rag, picked a two-foot crowbar out of the toolbox on the tractor platform, and strode out to meet him.

  “I don’t give second warnings, Stringbean.”

  “Now don’t go getting yourself all worked up. I got business here.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You seen this?” he asked, holding out one of Sheriff Hollander’s fliers.

  Avery took it from him, looked at it for a moment, then tore it into pieces and threw it on the ground. “No,” he said, “and neither have you.”

  “I run into some kind of sheriff on the road yesterday. He give it to me.”

  “And you told him what?”

  “Told him I hadn’t seen this guy, was all, but I’d be looking out for him. I told him I used to work at this place, and he said as how he’d be heading this way.”

  “You told him where we are?”

  “He’d a found you anyway, I expect.”

  “But you just couldn’t resist helping him, could you? Did he say when he’d be here?”

  “A day or so. He had to go to some church first, he says. I could be watching for him, seeing as how I know his rig now. I could warn Bacon, or Krueger, or whoever he is. For the right fee, that is. I figure he’s been making some good money, doing all that fancy metal stuff and all. For the right fee, he ain’t never been here ay-tall. Or if you fellas druther, I seen him headed south on a fast coal rattler.”

  “You would do that, would you?”

  “Yes, sir, I surely would.”

  “You would lie to the cops, but only for money, and if you don’t get your money, you would rat out a fellow traveler, is that about it?”

  “Aw, come on. It ain’t such a bad thing as you’re making it out to be. Everybody’s got to live, don’t they?”

  “No, not everybody.” Avery suddenly had fire in his eyes and an intimidating set to his jaw.

  “Jesus man, don’t get all riled. I just—”

  “Stump!” When there was no immediate response, Avery went over to where the Peerless engine was chugging away at a smooth idle and blew the whistle once, a full ten-second blast. Soon the whole population of the Ark began to gather in a loose circle around the engine, where Avery now stood on top of the boiler, on a wooden catwalk he had installed there.

  “This man,” he said, pointing at Stringbean, “is a backstabbing fink. He wants to rat one of us out to the law, unless he gets a bribe.”

  “Hey, it ain’t like that!”

  “If the skipper says it is, then it is,” said someone in the crowd that was now pressing in on him.

  “Stump,” said Avery, “take this turncoat up in the mountains, as far as the truck will go on one tank of gas. Take his damn razor away from him, tie him to a tree and leave him.”

  “Hey, I ain’t going to—” But Stringbean never got to finish his protestation. Emily, with her arms still wet and a kitchen apron clinging to her front, hit him solidly on the back of the head with a cast iron skillet. It made a lovely, resounding “blong.” The man rolled up his eyes briefly, then closed them and collapsed in a heap. Stump picked him up in a fireman’s carry and headed for the truck.

  Still perched on top of the big engine, Avery began to shout orders.

  “All right, pay attention here, please! Fold up the tents, bury the garbage, fill the water tanks, and get everything secured,” he said. “I want us hooked up, packed up, and ready to travel in two hours, tops. You know the routine, people. Time to part the Red Sea.”

  Chapter 17

  Providence

  If Sheriff Hollander found the Unitarian church by providence, he was not aware of it. But then, he didn’t usually think in those terms. He pulled into the graveled front drive and filled his canteen and the radiator of his official Model T pickup from the church pump and then went up to the big front door. Inside, the man who greeted him had dark hair, wide eyes, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken. His black minister’s suit was nicely tailored, but it hung on him like a sack.

  “I’m Pastor Ned,” he said, extending his hand. “Ned Thorn. How can I help you, sir?”

  “Amos Hollander, Pastor.” He shifted his leather satchel to his left hand. The pastor’s handshake was firm but brief, and Hollander noted that his eyes wandered. “I’m the Mercer County Sheriff.”

  “Mercer? I’m not even sure I know where that is. You must have come a long way. Come in, please. I have coffee in the kitchen in the basement. I can reheat it in no time.”

  “I could do with a cup of coffee, all right. Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

  “On weekdays, I’m glad for the company.” He led the sheriff through a door in the side of the nave and down a narrow set of stairs that smelled of floor wax, snuffed candles, and the kind of rat poison that people with no pets or small children put in their pantries. “I live alone these days, you see. What about you? Are you traveling all by yourself?”

  “Afraid so. I had a deputy with me, but I had to send him home.”

  “Oh?”

  “Couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

  “Ah. I’m sure that could be a problem in your line of work.”

  The kitchen turned out to be small, but it had a full-sized wood stove with an enameled coffee pot on top of it. The pastor put four or five corncobs and some wood shavings into the firebox, added a splash of kerosene from a tin squirt can, and lit it with a Diamond safety match. Then he rummaged in a cupboard until he found a ceramic jar full of sugar cookies. He placed it on a small table, produced plates and cups, and gestured to the lawman to sit.

  “So, Sheriff, if you are free to say it, what brings you half way across the state, to my humble church?”

  “Half way? I thought you said you didn’t know where Mercer County was.”

  “Um, I don’t. Wel
l, not exactly. I was just using a figure of speech.”

  “Hmm. I’m looking for a traveling machine shop that’s supposed to be about thirty miles east of here. But I stopped here because I was told you have a sort of public library.”

  “More like a reading room, actually, but yes.”

  “I was hoping I could leave some of these fliers in it. I realize it’s not what you would usually find in a church, but it’s important that as many people as possible see them.” He opened his bag and pulled out a stack of papers.

  “May I see?” The pastor took one of the fliers, and his face momentarily froze. “And, ah, what is it you want with this person, exactly, this—let me see—Krueger?”

  “He’s wanted for questioning in connection with the brutal murder of a young woman. I’d prefer it if you didn’t say that to your parishioners, though. I only told it to you because it’s important that you don’t get any misguided notions about sheltering this man.”

  “No, no, of course not. Terrible things you deal with, Sheriff.”

  “Sometimes, yes. You look a little pale, Pastor.”

  “It will pass, it will pass. I don’t often think about murder, you know. Why did you say you’re looking for this machine shop, exactly? Does that have something to do with the murder?”

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you, as long as you understand it’s in strict confidence.”

  “Yes. Surely.”

  “The guy who runs it is named Avery. He sees a lot of vagrant harvest people, so I’m hoping he might have seen my man Krueger. It’s also possible that Krueger is traveling with him. I narrowly missed him in Minot yesterday. He had a motorcycle that had some kind of advertising painted on the gas tank.”

  “Advertising for this machine shop?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t close enough to tell. But stranger coincidences have happened. Anyway, it’s the only lead I have right now.”

  “The coffee should be hot by now, sheriff. Will you take a little something in it?” He moved the two cups to a sideboard, grabbed the pot handle with a heavy towel for protection, and poured. His back was to Hollander.

  “I drink it black, thank you.”

  “I meant a shot of brandy and a bit of sugar. You look like you could use a little bracer.”

  “Technically, I’m on duty. But then, I’ve been on duty nonstop now for more days than I care to remember.”

  “Do I take that as a yes?”

  “All right. But just one.”

  More cupboard doors opened and closed and finally the steaming cups were carried to the table. Hollander took a small sip to test the temperature, and then drained his cup in three long gulps, relishing the sudden jolt from the alcohol, even though he thought it tasted like a pretty poor brand of booze. The sugar helped a bit.

  “Providence.”

  “I beg your pardon, Pastor?”

  “Absolutely, unmistakably, the hand of Providence, sheriff. The beauty of it is unbelievable.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You won’t need to find this machine shop, after all. The young man you want is in my reading room, upstairs.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Even as we speak.”

  “Judas Priest, man, why didn’t you say so?” He stood up so fast that his chair went skidding across the stone floor behind him. “Show me the way,” he said, drawing his revolver. “But once we get there, you stay clear, understand? This is a very dangerous man.”

  “Just as you say. It’s this way.”

  He led Hollander up the stairs and across the nave to a side door, which was closed. Hollander stumbled on the top step, and when he came to the reading room door and made a shushing gesture with his finger, his movements seemed slow and exaggerated. It occurred to him that he shouldn’t have had the alcohol on an empty stomach.

  As smoothly as he could, he motioned the pastor out of the way, threw open the door, and rushed inside. There he saw a table and two chairs and shelves with books and newspapers but no Charlie Krueger. Sunlight streamed in through a lace-curtained window and illuminated lazily floating dust motes. The air in the room smelled musty.

  “Empty. How long ago did you say he was here?” He holstered his pistol, fumbling with it a little. Then he felt something smooth and cold at his throat. Had the Krueger kid somehow managed to sneak up behind him? He looked down and saw that his shirt was bathed in blood.

  “Wha…?” When he tried to talk, he choked.

  “Actually, I lied.”

  Not Krueger, after all. The pastor. But why? Hollander clasped both hands to his neck, but he couldn’t stop the blood.

  “I was telling the truth, though, when I said that you wouldn’t have to bother going to find the machine shop. I’ll take care of young Mister Krueger far better than you would have. And you’re right; he does have information about the murder of that young woman.”

  “Y—?” He choked again.

  “Me, yes. And he knows, I’m afraid.”

  Hollander managed to turn around and gape at him.

  “But what a wonderful fool you turned out to be. I put rat poison in your coffee, by the way.”

  Hollander’s vision narrowed and everything turned gray. He began to feel very cold.

  “It’s a little slower than I would have liked, though. I decided not to wait for it. I have a pressing appointment thirty miles east of here, you see. Be sure to say hello to Pastor Ned for me. You’ll be meeting him shortly.”

  Hollander just had time to think oh, shit. Then his world went black.

  Chapter 18

  Pulling Up Stakes

  “You’re pretty good at bashing people when they’re not looking,” Charlie said to Emily. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a professional killer.”

  “If you didn’t know better? You don’t. For all you know, I have a bloodier past than Lizzie Borden.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll never believe it. Even if it was true once, it’s not when you’re here.”

  “What, do we have our own private Jesus on the crew, to wash away all my sins?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes the only thing we can be is what the people around us are willing to believe in.”

  “That’s a twist, coming from you. Where did you get that notion?”

  “From Jim, maybe. Or maybe I just invented it; I don’t know.”

  “Well you don’t know what other people believe about me, either,” she said.

  “I know what I believe. That’s enough.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I believe you’re some kind of fine woman.”

  For the first time since he met her, he saw her really smile. It was a smile that took up her whole face. He had never thought of that face as plain, exactly, but at that moment, it was positively radiant.

  She sidled up to his shoulder, holding the skillet behind her back, as if to put all weaponry away. She was about to say something into his ear when they were interrupted by Avery.

  “You two don’t have anything to do besides pat each other on the back? Pretty soon it won’t just be the back, either, by the look of it. We’ve got a caravan to get rolling here, and that’s not going to happen by itself.”

  “Sorry, Boss.”

  “Don’t be sorry, be busy. Emily, I need you in the cook shack, helping get it secured for travel. Charlie, you get the Peerless backed up to take the trailer tongue on the shop, and get the power-takeoff belt stowed. Move like you’ve got a purpose, people.”

  Charlie couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Get the Peerless backed up. He would definitely do that as if he had a purpose, all right. It was the opportunity he’d been dreaming of.

  If life around the camp sometimes seemed random and lackadaisical, now the entire group moved like a well-oiled machine, perhaps even thinking of that dreadful pun. Tent poles were pulled out and canvas dropped, hardly hitting the ground before well-p
racticed hands folded or rolled it up. One man went around pulling tent stakes with a long-handled shovel, a job he had obviously practiced many times. Charlie noted it approvingly as he made his way over to the Peerless engine. He was always interested in seeing new ways to use old tools. His own broken shovel wouldn’t have worked for the job, though.

  He smiled, thinking of that. How long ago had he left his home of twenty-three years, carrying a broken shovel and an inadequate backpack? Not that long, by the calendar. A lifetime, in other ways. And for somebody who was homeless and orphaned by his own hand, he could be feeling pretty good about it, if it weren’t for a few nagging little questions like being wanted for murder.

  The wagons and trailers were still in the line they had come to that place in. They had arrived from the west and would therefore leave going east. The caravan could be turned, of course, but it was not a trivial maneuver, and they would get the train cruising smooth and straight before they tried it. They would also cross the nearby county line before they changed direction.

  Though the wagons and trailers were already in the proper line, they were not hooked up anymore. The wagon tongues had been disconnected and dropped, so nobody would trip over them, and now they had to be reconnected with great attention and care. Each one carried the load of the entire train behind it, and as they got closer to the traction engine, the strain on the connections was monumental.

  Charlie climbed up on the operator’s platform on the Peerless and took a quick inventory. He blew the sight glass to be sure of its reading, noting that there was plenty of water over the boiler breaching. The reserve tank behind him could stand topping off, though, and he buttonholed a passing roustabout and asked him to see to it.

  “You got it, Boss.”

  Boss? Wow. What a day this was turning into. He shoveled a little more coal into the firebox, being careful not to add enough to bank the main fire, then cranked the big worm gear that moved the timing assembly from forward to reverse. Then he threw a big lever to disengage the main clutch. It had been driving the power takeoff pulleys on either side of him, mounted up at his shoulder height because the main propulsion gears were using up the space below the boiler, the mark of an “undermounted” machine. One pulley had been running the power shaft in the shop trailer, and when it coasted to a stop, he leaned over and dropped the heavy belt off the pulley, making sure it fell where it would clear the main wheels. Running over your own belt was a famous rookie mistake among engineers. That done, he took a very, very deep breath, engaged the main drive gear, engaged the clutch, and eased open the throttle valve. If the big engine failed to recognize the master’s hand, it gave no sign of it. It moved in reverse slowly and smoothly, with a grace that belied its huge size and mass.