So Brave, Young, and Handsome (5 page)

We boarded the Great Northern in the desolate hours. Susannah and I didn’t go to bed at all but stacked trousers and shirts into a grip along with razor and books and folding money in a brass clip. At one o’clock we sat silent in the kitchen holding hands on the tabletop. Susannah didn’t want to show me her eyes but I saw them anyway. At last we rose and she rolled sandwiches into waxed paper while I woke Redstart. He kicked off sleep with lawless exuberance only to recall I was going away on a train and he was not. I felt him slump. None of us had heart or words.

Glendon met us at the depot. He’d ridden his durable sorrel to town the previous day and boarded her at the livery and himself at a hotel. For Susannah’s sake he wore a somber face but anyone could tell he was keen to leave—when the train heaved up he bounced on his toes as if he were nine. He gave Susannah’s hand an awkward shake, then grasped Redstart’s.

“Farewell, amigo. Is there anything I can bring you from Mexico?”

“A rattlesnake skin,” was Redstart’s instant reply. Glendon nodded and was gone into the sleepy train with my son gazing after him.

My own goodbye fizzled. I’d written a short and perhaps overly rueful verse on the back of a scalloped photograph. The picture was one Susannah loved, of the two of us laughing by the shore of Lake Superior. I imagined her reading my verse there on the platform, her eyes brimming; I conceived a send-off rich with absolution. As it turned out, though, the light was dreadful—she turned the card this way and that and couldn’t discern the words and gave up at last and poked it
in her handbag. Why was I a slave to sentiment when it failed me so reliably? Meantime Redstart had disappeared somewhere. The train groaned forward; finally there was nothing to do but step aboard and fix Susannah there in her tawny linen coat and pumps. Bareheaded and pale she stood watching my face and didn’t wave or blow a kiss, though Redstart did pop up beside her with a jolly look and pantomime to me that he had laid pennies on the tracks, to be rolled out like dough at our departure.

Rocking south I found Glendon and sat beside him. The coach was half full of nodding passengers. At the rear a small group of young men sang in near whispers. They were practicing harmonies—en route to some gospel tent, I suppose, for their repertoire found the present world intolerable.

“Becket,” Glendon said softly.

“Yes.”

“You’re generous to come along.”

“No. I’m glad to come.”

He shut his eyes and slept. The young men whispered their salvation songs. They worked until dawn on voicings and rhythms, rewarding themselves at last with a stealthy foray into ragtime. They tapped their knees and snickered, a hopeful sound that made me realize I’d told Glendon the truth—despite my unsatisfactory parting from Susannah, I was glad to be on that train. When first light showed pockets of fog I even imagined it was smoke instead, and ourselves charging pell-mell for danger—an unfussy childhood sensation I’d forgotten all about. It seems strange, looking back, that I ever believed I would soon be home again.

In the strong sunlight a wattled conductor moved through the coach, informing us the dining car was open, the barbershop soon to follow.

“Barbershop,” Glendon said. “Becket, ain’t this transport? A barber on a train!”

“It’s plush,” I replied.

“And fast—we are already in Missouri.”

We rose and smacked and patted down our corrugated sleeves.

Few things lift spirits like a boisterous dining coach—this one smelled of bacon, coal oil, citrus, scorched porridge. Racks of limes and pale oranges hung behind the counter. We took a booth just being vacated by a police detective with a handcuffed lout in his custody; the gospel fellows were there, laughing to draw the attention of two blondes eating pancakes; plus a tribe of Mormons engaged in shrewd debate about the great Giants pitcher Christy Mathewson, who refused to pitch on Sundays. Say what you like about their doctrine, these elders knew their baseball.

Before we had a chance to order, a young man asked to join us. “Sorry to intrude, there are no other seats,” he said, sliding in by Glendon. “I’m Samuel Cobb of the
Globe;
look there, I’ve lost a cuff link, not that I’ll need it where I’m going. With whom am I about to enjoy breakfast?”

Glendon supplied our first names and asked Cobb where he was going that cuff links were not compulsory.

“Mexico,” Cobb replied. He was flushed, with schoolboy cheeks and a pleasant cynicism that made you want to pay for his coffee. He
was heading for Chihuahua to interview the famous
insurrecto
Pancho Villa.

“The brass wanted a piece about President Carranza,” he informed us, “but Carranza’s a bureaucrat. Who cares? Villa’s the real story in Mexico. I told them one sharp page about Villa is worth the King James Bible about President Carranza.”

He pronounced it
Mehico
as though he’d been born there, though of course he was only an affable East Coast youngster marked by racehorse ambition.

“I am writing a travelogue en route,” he informed us, setting out paper and a fountain pen. “Maybe you fellows would enrich my narrative. Where are you bound, and on what errand?”

“Oh, your narrative will be rich enough without us,” said Glendon mildly, just as a regal colored waiter arrived at his elbow. I’d been observing the waiter right along; though old and eroded, he never lurched with the train but moved among the tables steady as a ghost. He took orders with his hands clasped behind his back and didn’t write a thing down.

“Ham and eggs,” Glendon told the waiter, an instant before meeting his eye.

“Yes, sir.”

Cobb and I ordered the hash. The waiter nodded to us but didn’t move on. Glendon looked up at him and said, “Hello, Franco.”

“Mr. Dobie,” the waiter answered.

I had a tilting sensation, as on a carnival ride.

“You were a young fellow last time, Franco.”

“Not anymore, Mr. Dobie.”

“Nope—no, look at us now,” Glendon said.

The train swayed and the waiter remained with us in silence.

Glendon said, “Franco, this is my friend Mr. Becket, and here is Mr. Cobb.”

“Pleased to meet the gentlemen.”

Rarely have I been more fully at sea. Cobb half rose from his seat, saying, “Well, a chance reunion, isn’t this a propitious turn,” but he might as well have been outside the train, in Missouri, talking to himself.

Glendon said, “I knew you right away, Franco.”

The waiter said, “You’re aware there is a policeman on the train?”

“Yes, we saw him.” After a moment Glendon added, “Do you know what I am now?”

“Honest, I expect, sir.”

“So much as I am able, yes.”

Another little silence.

“I still got to say something to that policeman, Mr. Dobie,” said Franco.

“Of course,” Glendon replied.

Back in the coach Glendon sat with his bedroll and grip across his knees—he’d paid a porter to retrieve them from the baggage car. He looked at me expectantly and I did not disappoint.

“What are you fleeing from? What have you done?”

Unruffled he replied, “I oughtn’t have asked you to come, Becket.”

“What is this Dobie business?”

In saying the name aloud I remembered what he called his rowboat, the Dobie Swift.

“How much do I need to tell you, Becket?” he inquired sadly. “Is it enough to say boatbuilding was not my first career?”

“What was, then?”

“You would make me say it,” was his pained comment.

“I am owed the truth.”

He drooped a little. “I did say I was unreliable. A poor friend—those were my very words.”

“I was obtuse not to see it. You robbed trains, didn’t you? You robbed this train! That’s how Franco knows you.”

“Not this one, no. Franco was on the Union Pacific in those days.” He looked at me miserably. “Maybe someday I’ll have the leisure to tell you about it, if you still care to know.”

“You have the leisure now.”

“That’s not so. If I stay much longer, I’ll end up having to speak with that policeman, and then the road gets narrow in a hurry.”

“You told Redstart you were a detective. A Pinkerton.”

“No, he conjured that belief all by himself.”

“You allowed him to sustain it.”

The door of the coach whistled open and Samuel Cobb arrived.

“You will forgive me for asking,” said he, out of breath.

“Asking what?”

To Cobb’s credit, his manner was apologetic. He dropped his voice and said, “For your story, sir. Won’t you tell me what this is about?”

“Didn’t you get my story already, from Franco? You’re a quick lad, it’s easy to see,” said Glendon kindly. “I thought you’d have it in your hip pocket by now.”

“I’m afraid Franco is taciturn.”

“Well, disappointment comes to us all.” Glendon stood and took note of the countryside—we had swung alongside the Missouri River.

“This is bitter luck,” said the doleful Cobb. “Here’s a bracing story happening right in front of me, and you fellows won’t tell me what it is.”

I said, “Mr. Cobb, we need a few moments here.”

He gripped my sleeve. “Take me into your confidence. Please! I may even be of service somehow.”

“I’m sorry, Cobb,” said Glendon. “You’re very decent and I wish you well.”

The newspaperman decided against further pleading and adopted a flat tone. “I don’t want to be indelicate, but if you won’t speak to me I’ll approach that detective myself.”

“That’s probably the right course,” Glendon replied. “That’s what I’d do, were it me.”

“Give me a reason not to,” Cobb urged. “Don’t you see I’d rather write your story than watch it end?”

“I appreciate that. You go on, now, and do what your conscience suggests. Good luck, Mr. Cobb.”

When the scribe had left in a state of agitation, Glendon hoisted his baggage and I followed him out onto the smoking platform where the wind batted in our ears.

“And where are you going now?”

“You know where.”

“This is a mistake,” I said. “You needn’t run. Stay and let me find you legal counsel.”

But he only shook his head and looked off toward the Missouri, as if waiting for something particular to appear. The gradient flattened and turned upward, the train slowed and labored. I felt sudden pity toward Glendon; under such strain, his civility to the journalist Cobb remains impressive to me.

“It isn’t as bad as you believe,” I said. “Whatever happened was long ago. You have lived honest a long while—you’ve built a business, and friendships. That is certain to mitigate any charges that might be brought.”

“The charges are bigger than you imagine,” he replied. “Moreover, they are true. There is no forgiveness for me under the law. Goodbye, Becket, you were a steadfast friend, go home to your wife and boy.” And so saying, he threw his bedroll and grip into the long-stem beside the tracks and followed them off with a leap. I saw him disappear and the grasses thrash; then he stood and raised a hand to me before collecting his kit and starting away.

I returned to the dining car and took a table. In moments the waiter Franco stood beside me.

“Mr. Franco, how do you know my friend?”

He said, “How may I serve the gentleman?”

“You may answer my question. What has he done?”

Franco didn’t answer but stood waiting for my order.

“Please, Franco.”

He was carved of stone, and the train swayed round him.

“I beseech you,” I hissed, and the sound fit, for it was my dignity escaping.

Franco said, “May I bring the gentleman a cup of coffee?”

I nodded. He brought the coffee. Presently my mope was disrupted by the weary-looking officer we had seen earlier. “Good morning, sir, my name is Davies. I’m a detective with the Kansas City police. Royal Davies.”

“Good morning, Detective—join me,” I said, gesturing at the seat.

“Thank you. I’ve been up and down this train,” said Royal Davies mildly, catching Franco’s eye and raising a finger, “and your companion is no longer aboard.”

“No?”

“No, he has vanished. I am not surprised. What can you tell me about him?”

I tried my hand at deadpan. “We both embarked from Northfield. I am getting off at Kansas City. He intended to continue on, I thought.”

Royal Davies withdrew a small notebook. “And I intended to relax on this little excursion.”

I was too jumpy to keep quiet and asked where he had traveled.

“To Chicago to see my sister. It wasn’t meant to be a working trip. I’ll write down your name, if you don’t mind.”

“Monte Becket.”

“And his was Glen Dobie?”

“I knew him as Hale,” I said, and was immediately appalled to have given away so freely my friend’s true name.

“Did you know he was a wanted man and felon?”

“No,” I said, aware of my neck hairs.

Royal wrote a moment in his notebook. He drew up his eyebrows and said, “Becket, did I ever arrest you?”

“I would remember it, Mr. Davies.”

“And yet I know your name,” said he.

From his granddaughter, as it turned out: she was fourteen, a reader of wide-eyed tales. She’d gotten
Martin Bligh
for Christmas from a favorite teacher. How about that? But if I hoped this unlikely connection would be of use to me somehow, it was not to be. Royal Davies was a little more cheerful, but that was all.

“She loved that story, you know. Talked about it at dinner until it frankly got in the way. I wonder if you would inscribe her copy. Would you do that?”

“You mean you have it with you?”

“Oh, no—no, Mr. Becket. I mean, maybe you would inscribe it tonight.”

With coldness in my guts I said this would depend on my business in Kansas City. That I was come to research my next book. That I would be busy in municipal records and library stacks.

“How long will this research take, do you suppose?”

“No more than a few days—then I’ll be traveling home.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to extend,” said Royal Davies.

“That is not my intention,” said I.

“More intentions,” he waved. “Relax, Mr. Becket. Be my guest for a day—well, maybe two.”