The Hanging of Samuel Ash (15 page)

Hook leaned back. “Lord, help me,” he said. “Side me off at Canyon, Frenchy. I'll grab something to eat and catch some shut-eye. Maybe I can figure out what the hell this bakehead is talking about.”

*   *   *

As soon as Frenchy's engine had disappeared down the Canyon spur, Hook fed Mixer and let him out of the caboose for a run. As a rule, Mixer no longer strayed far off when they traveled, having been left behind to fend for himself on more than one occasion.

Hook double-checked the ropes on the casket before stretching out on the bunk for a nap. When he awoke, the sun had nearly set, and he decided to strike out for town in search of a café. Within a short time, he located Roscoe's Diner, which lay within earshot of the Canyon depot.

Smelling of smoke and grease from Frenchy's engine, Hook cleaned up best he could in the restroom before taking up a booth near the back of the diner. He ordered the pork chops he'd spotted bubbling away in a black iron skillet in the kitchen. Such bounty required sides of mashed potatoes, white gravy, corn on the cob, and fresh oven biscuits with sweet butter. After he'd finished, he ordered the apple pie, which smelled of brown sugar and cinnamon. He topped the meal off with a cup of chicory coffee black as roof tar.

Pushing back his plate, he checked for the waitress before wrapping the bone in a napkin to feed to Mixer later on.

Outside, he counted his money. The meal had cost him too much, but if he starved to death tomorrow, it would still be worth it.

From there, he could see the lights of the depot and decided to cut by for a quick look before going back to the caboose.

The depot, though small, was packed with passengers waiting for the arrival of the eastbound train. Hook took up a seat near the door and watched the crowd gather.

When the train whistle blew in the distance, Hook followed the crowd outside, where they lined up to board. Soon, the train arrived, her wheels screeching as she slid in next to the platform. The engine bell clanged, and kids hopped about on the ends of their mothers' arms.

Seeing nothing suspicious, Hook turned up line for the caboose. He'd nearly reached the passenger train's engine when he glanced over his shoulder for a last look back.

That's when he spotted the girl in the pink dress. In that same instant, she saw him, and she moved away into the crowd.

Air shot from the brakes of the passenger train, and the engine whistle blew. Hook moved toward the crowd, picking up his pace as the cars creaked and edged past him. People waved from the deck as the train accelerated, its engine thundering underfoot.

The car windows flicked by like snapshots of another world. Hook stopped to catch his breath, and when he looked up, the girl in pink watched him from the window of her car as it raced off into the darkness.

*   *   *

Hook walked down the tracks toward the caboose. Frenchy, providing he'd had no trouble, should be arriving anytime. The sounds of the desert lifted from out of the darkness, the distant yip of a coyote, the call of a whip-poor-will. He paused and lit a cigarette.

The moon slipped from behind the cloud, and in the distance, he could see the coffin under the moonlight. For a moment, he thought he saw something move, and a chill swept through him. He dropped the cigarette into the cinders and reached for his sidearm. A light flashed from somewhere beyond the caboose, and the whine of a bullet ricocheted off into the night.

Hook threw his arm up just as the second round slammed his prosthesis into his chest. His lungs emptied and pain settled in his jaw. His legs liquefied under him, and he gasped for air.

When he collapsed onto the tracks, his head struck the rail, and a light, bright as noon, flashed behind his eyes. His ears rang, and a fire raced its way through his brain. The light in his head turned to red and then disappeared.

*   *   *

Something wet bathed his face, and he struggled to orient himself. Blackness enveloped him, covered him like a thick, dark syrup. Somewhere a voice rose up, delicate and mournful like a woman sobbing. He could smell creosote and iron and the dust of the desert, and he knew that he should know where he was. He moved his head, and heat pooled in his stomach.

A spot of light no larger than a match head blinked on in the darkness. He tried to concentrate, to make sense of its existence. Again, something wet on his face, bathing away the confusion, and the light grew brighter. The voice lifted and fell and lifted again. He knew the sound. He knew it like his own heartbeat, but what could it be?

And when night turned to day, he stared into the approaching light. Mixer stood over him licking his face. Hook pushed him off and sat up. The light roared toward him, and the whistle of the engine ripped open the night.

“Good God!” he said, grabbing Mixer around the neck. “It's Frenchy.”

He rolled off the tracks with Mixer in tow, spilling down and into the right-of-way. The engine's whistle screamed, and her bell clanged in alarm as she thundered past. Heat and steam shot from her sides and debris blew into his face. Mixer squirmed free from Hook's grip and bounded off down the tracks to greet Frenchy, who had climbed down from the cab and was making his way back.

Frenchy knelt at Hook's side and looked at the lump on his head.

“Hell, Hook,” he said. “You out to derail me?”

*   *   *

Hook rested in the engine cab while Frenchy and the bakehead loaded Mixer into the caboose and connected up the coupler. The knot behind his ear throbbed, and his ribs, bruised from the bullet's impact on his prosthesis, complained with every breath.

Frenchy pulled out onto the high rail and brought her up. He lit his cigar and turned to Hook.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?”

“Someone took a shot at me,” he said.

“A damn poor shot, lucky for you.”

Hook turned to the fireman. “Hand me that screwdriver, will you?”

“I was just funning about killing the engineer,” he said.

Hook laid his prosthesis across his lap and dug at the wrist mechanism with the screwdriver. He popped out the spent bullet that had lodged there and held it in the light of the boiler furnace for them to see.

“A quarter inch to the side, and this bullet would have made a hole through me the size of Johnson Canyon Tunnel,” he said.

“And a second later, this engine would have turned you into a hookburger,” Frenchy said. “It's a good job that dang dog brought you around. I guess you could call him a hero.”

“You could, 'cept he was just looking for that pork chop bone in my pocket,” Hook said.

Frenchy lit his cigar stub and hung his elbow out the window.

“Who do you figure would do such a thing?” he asked.

“Might have been strikers,” Hook said. “They're pretty riled up.”

He settled back against the cab. The moon, having escaped the clouds, hung outside the window like a yellow lantern as the old steam engine labored under the dead weight of the 2-10-2 at her back.

“Frenchy,” he said. “I think I spotted one of those pickpockets back there at the depot.”

“Maybe
they
shot you up, Hook?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But picking pockets is a misdemeanor. Carrying a weapon to do it is a felony. They're thieves, but they aren't stupid.”

“Eddie Preston's stupid,” Frenchy said. “Maybe he did it.”

“The only thing I'm sure about, Frenchy, is that some son of a bitch is out to get me, and I better get him first before it's too late.”

 

17

 

B
Y THE TIME
they pulled into the Amarillo yards, dusk had fallen. The lights of the roundhouse shone dim through the smoke-laden panes. Both steamers and diesels rumbled about like spring thunder, and the smell of smoke and heat filled the evening. Frenchy pulled onto a siding and sat silent for a moment.

“She's running cold, boys,” he said. “I think the oil jets are plugged. Wait here while I talk to the yardmaster. This old girl needs a checkup.”

Hook let Mixer out for a run and stretched his own legs as they waited for Frenchy to return. He rubbed the sore spot on his chest where the prosthesis had slammed into it and considered how things could have been a hell of a lot different.

When Frenchy came back, he hiked his foot on the rail and torched up his cigar.

“They're going to take a look at her,” he said. “That means a layover. I figure at least twenty hours. The yardmaster wants the 2-10-2 and the caboose set off on that spur next to the sand house over there.”

“Why didn't you just put me in the machine shop?” Hook said. “That way I couldn't get any sleep at all.”

“Ain't it too bad the railroad don't provide you with a private car instead of a caboose, seeing as how important you are. Now, me and the bakehead will put up in the sleeping rooms. I reckon you could bunk there if you've a mind to.”

“Thanks, Frenchy, but I have property to protect. Anyway, I'd as soon bunk in the machine shop as listen to an engineer and bakehead snore all night.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “The yardmaster thinks we will be ready to roll by seven tomorrow evening after the line's cleared.”

*   *   *

When they'd sided the caboose and the 2-10-2 steamer, Hook checked his store of food, finding several cans of Spam shoved to the back of the larder. He ate half of one on dry crackers and fed the rest to Mixer, who had been sitting at his feet watching him eat.

He'd no sooner let Mixer out, with a warning about the dangers of loitering under the cars, when the yardmaster showed up.

“Don't be making camp,” he said, pushing back his hat. “I might have to move you around if something comes in.”

“This isn't my idea of a permanent residence,” Hook said. “You happen to know what time the
Super Chief
's due?”

The yardmaster looked at his pocket watch. “Four ten and on time,” he said. “She don't stay long. Them celebrities ain't big on exploring Amarillo. Can't figure why.”

“Thanks,” Hook said.

“What's in the box?” he asked.

“Dead body.”

“Right,” he said. “You know you ain't supposed to haul nothing on that deck, don't you?”

Hook showed him his badge. “Security matter,” he said.

“We got boys shooting windows out of the roundhouse. I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that security matter?”

“I'll check it out,” Hook said. “And that dog there is my tracker. Try not to run him over, will you?”

The yardmaster squinted an eye. “He don't look like much to me.”

“If looks mattered, the railroad would be in a hell of a shape,” Hook said.

The yardmaster grinned. “You sure got that right,” he said.

*   *   *

The next day, after listening to the bump and haul of engines all night, Hook made his way to the depot. The Texas heat quivered up from the brick platform outside. He sat on the bench next to the baggage room to watch the passengers.

He'd awakened in the night thinking about the pickpockets and had concluded that a definite pattern could be identified. First came the distraction, and then the lift, and then the handoff. The culprits involved in the actual heist never had the goods on them except for a brief moment. Everything came down to a set of preplanned maneuvers.

So far, he figured he'd come up short on the distraction and the lift. Given another shot, maybe he could pin down the handoff and redeem himself.

When the
Super Chief
's glimmer broke downline, folks stirred on deck and proceeded to pick up bags and check their tickets.

Hook moved to the end of the baggage wagon for a better view. The
Super Chief
blew her whistle as she came sliding into the platform. The crew stretched the fuel hose across the tracks and buckled into the engine. The conductor dropped down and set up his steps that led into the car.

Hook worked his way around the end of the train and came up to the other side door. He knocked, and the porter, who had been clearing the aisle, peeked out the window. Hook flashed his badge, waited for him to open the door, and then hoisted himself up.

“Pickpockets,” he said, holding a finger over his lips.

The porter nodded and moved off. Hook found a window where he could see the platform. And within moments he spotted her, the girl in pink walking through the crowd. She carried a diaper bag in one hand and a baby's milk bottle in the other.

Determined not to be distracted himself, he concentrated on the people surrounding her. A man wearing a hat stood off to the side. Suddenly the milk bottle crashed onto the platform. Milk and glass sprayed everywhere, and the girl covered her mouth with her hand.

An old lady with a purse over her shoulder reached out to help, and the man behind leaned in. Just as quickly he turned and made his way to the back of the line where another man, who carried a leather suitcase, waited to board. The exchange happened so fast, Hook wasn't sure he'd seen it.

By then the girl in pink had recovered and was on her way to the restroom, while the man in the hat had moved into the crowd. Hook waited at the top of the steps for him to work his way to the conductor. The conductor punched his ticket and then reached down to load the steps into the car.

Hook stepped out, blocking the man's way. The man's nose had been shoved to the side like a boxer's nose, and he smelled of beer and cologne.

“One moment,” Hook said.

The man's face blanched, and the conductor, having overheard, hurried on past. The man turned to descend the steps, and Hook caught him by the arm.

“Who the hell
are
you?” he said, yanking his arm away.

“Railroad security,” Hook said. “You're under arrest.”

The man's eyes narrowed, and when he doubled his fist, Hook caught him across the bridge of his nose with the prosthesis. The blow cracked like gunfire, and the man stumbled back, his eyes filling with water. Hook shoved him in the chest with his foot, spilling him out the door. Dazed, the man squirmed on the platform.