The Fiery Ring (7 page)

She reached the water tank by the tracks, and within a few minutes she heard the lonely sound of a whistle. She hid herself behind a clump of dead grass, and when the train pulled up, expelling steam as it came to a stop, she watched to see if the brakeman would emerge. He did, and she saw him making his way to the water tank to release the water into the engine. She had watched him do it many times.

She picked up her sack and moved nervously along the line of dull red freight cars. She came to one with the door open and saw that it was empty. She threw her sack on, then sprang up and pulled herself into the car.

She pulled the door shut so that only a little light filtered through the bars. Then she sat down, her back against the side of the car. She closed her eyes and put her head back, pulling the soft cap over her face.

As she sat there aware of every sound, fear quickened her breathing. She had nothing, not even friends, and she knew that her uncle would soon have the law looking for her. The fear grew until it occupied her completely, and she cried out, “Oh, God, help me!”

As soon as she cried out, she remembered what Travis had said in his letter about wanting to serve God.

She tried to pray, but nothing came. She wanted to ask God for help, but she knew she had hardened her heart, that she
was not the same girl she had been a year earlier. Now she sat in the gloomy interior of the empty boxcar with nothing to hold on to, and whispered bitterly to herself, “If God couldn’t keep my mom and dad alive, He can’t help me.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Terror in a Boxcar

For a moment, as he struggled back to consciousness, Chase Hardin could not remember a single thing. All he knew was that his head was pounding and his mouth was dry. He lay still, trying to think, but the pain in his head was terrible—like a spike being driven through from temple to temple. His first conscious thought was,
My head is killing me. Why do I drink and bring on these awful hangovers?

Using all his determination, he lifted his head and gazed around. He did not recognize the room but was mildly surprised when he realized it was not a jail cell. He usually awoke behind bars from his drunken binges, but this room, though small and plain, was obviously a dwelling. Coats were hung on nails on the wall, and a scarred and battered pine chest sat in the corner, looking forlorn. The window to his left let in pale beams of light filled with dancing dust motes, illuminating an ancient carpet with the pattern worn off down to the backing.

He was lying on a feather mattress in an iron bed, and a colorful patchwork quilt lay on top of him. Each quilt square had a chicken on it—some were red and some were blue. “I don’t know this place,” he muttered. “Where am I?”

From the next room he could hear someone moving around, and he wondered who it was. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Sleep was a refuge for him, a haven where he did not have to face the world. Drinking served the same function, but he always wound up like this—with a splitting
headache, clothes covered in vomit, and quite often in a cell waiting to appear before a judge who would pronounce a fine he could not pay.

He lay there quietly hoping for sleep, but it would not come. Instead, memories ran through his mind like a motion picture. He remembered meeting a man called Mack, who had told him there were jobs to be had in Pierre, South Dakota. Mack had been a convincing fellow, and Chase had ridden the rails with him until they reached Pierre.

Sadly, there had been no jobs, and Mack had vanished. Chase had been disappointed too many times to feel anything more than a dull pain at the memory of yet another unfulfilled dream. He remembered spending his last two dollars on a bottle of bootleg whiskey. It had had an oily, vile taste, but he had gagged it down anyway, seeking oblivion—and he had found it.

Suddenly the door opened, and light from the other room fell across Chase’s face. He blinked and turned away as a voice said, “Well, you’re awake, I see.”

Shading his eyes, Chase sat up and then swayed, for the pain jarred his head ferociously.

“That’s some hangover you’ve got.”

Chase gritted his teeth and waited until the waves of pain faded, then opened his eyes. A man stood before him—an older man with white hair and a pair of steady gray eyes. He was wearing overalls, a blue wool shirt, and a red sweater with one button fastened. “Do you think you can get up? I’ve got somethin’ on the stove.”

“I guess I can.” Chase turned the quilt back and saw that he was fully dressed except for his shoes. He wore two pairs of socks, both of them full of holes, and he groped around for his brogans. He wouldn’t put them on right away, though. He knew that leaning over to fasten them would destroy him. He had learned that much about hangovers. He got to his feet, swayed, and almost fell back.

“Hey, let me give you a hand.” Chase felt a strong hand on
his arm steadying him and then urging him toward the door. “Come on, you can sit out here. I’ve got a good fire going.”

Chase managed to move into the next room, which was obviously an all-purpose room for cooking, dining, and living. Soothing heat emanated from a wood stove to his left, on top of which were several pans. A table with two mismatched chairs sat over against the far wall, and his host led him to one of these. “Sit down there, and we’ll get some coffee down you.”

“That sounds good.”

Chase leaned back, and when a cup was set before him, he picked it up with trembling hands. He tasted the boiling-hot black coffee and murmured, “This is good.”

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Any way I can get ’em.”

“That’s the way I fix ’em. Scrambled is the easiest.”

Chase watched as the man broke four eggs and mixed them in a large blue bowl. He poured them into a frying pan with some melted butter and then opened the door of the oven next to the firebox. “Got some biscuits from yesterday. They ain’t fresh, but they ought to be good.”

Chase felt he should say something, but he was still befuddled. “How did I get here?”

“I found you passed out down the street a ways. What’s your name?” the man asked while stirring the eggs in the pan.

“Chase. Chase Hardin.”

“My name’s Thad Gilbert.”

“How’d you get me here?”

“Oh, a friend and I, we carted you in and put you to bed.” After the eggs were cooked, Thad occupied himself with finding some plates, knives, and forks. He set them out on the table, then dumped half of the eggs out of the pan onto Chase’s plate and took the rest for himself. He moved back to the stove and picked up a plate covered with a white cloth. “Got some pretty good bacon here.” He put butter, sugar,
and cream on the table, then sat down. “You want to bless this, or do you want me to?”

Chase stared at the older man. “I guess it’ll have to be you. I’m not on speaking terms with God.”

“Well, that can be fixed.” Thad bowed his head and said in a conversational tone, “Thank you for this good grub, Lord, and thank you for my friend here. Give him a good day. In Jesus’ name.” Without a change of breath, he said, “I got some blackstrap molasses here. Put some butter on one of those biscuits and pour this on top. It’ll go down pretty good.”

Chase Hardin did not know how long it had been since he’d eaten a regular meal, but he was wise enough to know that on an empty stomach after a binge he needed to be careful. He ate half of the eggs and avoided the greasy bacon altogether.

“These are good biscuits,” he said as he buttered one and put just a taste of molasses on. “And the molasses is good too.”

“You’d better eat all you can. Looks like you’re off your beat a little bit.”

“You’re right about that, but after a binge like I was on, I don’t need to eat too much.”

“Reckon that’s right too. I’ve been on a few myself. Where you from?”

Chase had to think for a moment and then shook his head. “I guess from nowhere.”

Thad Gilbert smiled. “A man from nowhere. Sounds like a book or a movie or somethin’. What’s your line of work?”

“I’m a bum.”

Thad had been chewing thoroughly, but he paused and stared at his guest. “You’re too young a man to be in that profession for the rest of your life.”

“Seems it’s what I do best.”

“What about your family?”

“Not much left, and they wouldn’t want me around anyway.”

Chase waited rather anxiously to see if the food would stay
down, and it did. He felt compelled to make some conversation and said, “I guess no matter how run-down the rest of me is, I still got a good stomach. That was mighty good. I thank you, mister.”

“Just Thad’s good enough. Where you headed?”

“South.”

“How’d you wind up in Pierre?” Thad listened as Chase gave him a brief history of his aborted journey and then shook his head. “Too bad. Not much work around here in March. Come April or May there’ll be some. If you want to stay around, you can bunk with me. Might find you somethin’ to do. I know quite a few folks here in town.”

The offer warmed Chase’s spirit. “I’m not used to falling in with kindness,” he murmured, “but I think I’d rather go back down south.”

Thad did not attempt to change Chase’s mind, and finally he said, “I don’t guess you remember tellin’ me about your dad last night.”

Chase stared at him. “I don’t remember much of anything.”

“You woke up when I was getting you in bed. You told me your dad was a preacher.”

Chase was shocked, for he had not spoken of his family to anyone in a long time. “He was.” He stared at Thad’s lean face and asked curiously, “What’d I say?”

“About your dad? Just that he was a good man.”

“He was,” Chase said slowly. He dropped his eyes and swirled the black coffee around inside the white mug. “I guess it’s a good thing he’s passed on. It would have broken his heart to see what’s become of me.”

“What about your mother? Is she alive?”

“Yes, still alive, but I’d be ashamed to see her.”

Thad Gilbert studied his guest, then shrugged. “Never too late to change, Chase.”

“I used to think that, but I’m not sure of it anymore.”

Thad began to speak of his own life then. He’d had a hard one, and as the two men sipped their coffee, Chase listened
carefully. Finally Thad said, “If I hadn’t found the Lord, I woulda been dead, I guess, or in the pen. I don’t know if I’m succeedin’, but I’m tryin’ to be a good Christian now. I try to do what the Lord says.”

“Is that why you took me in, Thad?”

“Sure. I wouldn’ta done it a few years ago, you can bet.”

“Lucky for me.”

The two men sat there, and finally Thad said, “You told me you were goin’ to hop on the next freight out. Do you still plan on doin’ that?”

“Yes.”

Thad got up and went over to a small table beside the wall piled high with books and papers. He sorted through them for a moment and then came back. “Here, I’d like you to have this.”

Chase took it and saw it was a New Testament. He also saw that it was well thumbed, and some of the passages were underlined. “I used to know this book,” Chase said. “I knew it but didn’t do it. Thanks a lot. I’ll keep it always.”

Thad reached into his pocket, pulled out a few bills, and separated two of them. “Here, buy a meal on me down the line.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll drink it up like I did the last two dollars I had?”

“No, I’m hopin’ not.” He studied the young man before him and asked suddenly, “How old are you, Chase?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You got a lotta livin’ to do yet. Wherever you go, you remember there’s an old man in a shack in Pierre, South Dakota, askin’ God to look in on you and take care of you.” He put his hand on Chase’s shoulder and squeezed it. “And I believe He’s going to do it, son.”

Chase Hardin thought all emotion had been squeezed out of him, but a wave came over him at the touch of the man’s hand. He could not remember the last time any man had helped him, much less put a hand on him and given him a
word of encouragement. He kept his eyes down, for they suddenly stung, and he did not speak for a time.

Thad smiled, patted Chase’s shoulder, and said, “You’d better get on down to the train yard. The three-oh-six will be leaving pretty soon.”

“Sure.” Chase rose and found that the food had strengthened him. He turned and found his coat hanging from a nail on the wall. It was old and too large for him, but he put it on, then pulled the floppy fedora down over his head. “Thanks for what you’ve done for me, Thad. I’ll remember you.”

“Jesus is on your trail, boy. He’ll find you.” As Chase moved to the door, Thad said, “Watch out for a bull named Kaufman. He’s rough on hobos. Nearly killed one last month.”

“I’ll be careful.” He turned and took one last look at Thad Gilbert, as if storing up a memory. “You’ve been a help and an encouragement.”

“Remember your dad and go see your mom—and remember Jesus.”

****

Chase had arrived in Pierre on the northbound freight. Now the southbound was waiting on the opposite track. Having learned the routines of railroad brakemen, he knew it was best to wait until just before the train pulled out. He spotted one car with the door slightly ajar, and when he heard the engine give two shrill blasts, he knew it was time. He carried only a small canvas valise with a few items in it, so he was not burdened down. As the train jerked forward, he ran over, shoved the door open, and threw his valise in. His head still hurt as he heaved himself on board, and he pulled the door shut as the train began to pick up speed. Nausea swept over him, and for a while he was afraid he would lose the meal he’d just eaten. He sat very still, and finally the feeling passed. His headache remained with him, however, and he lay down and put his head on his valise.

The car was cold and the wind was whistling between
the slats, but he was on his way south. There was nothing there for him except for warmer weather, but that in itself would be a blessing. As he lay there, he thought about his encounter with Thad Gilbert. He thought of his dad and for some reason remembered a fishing trip he had gone on with him. They’d had such fun that day! He remembered his dad ruffling his hair and saying,
When you grow up, you may be a preacher like me.