Dead Man's Tunnel (28 page)

It took nearly an hour and all his strength to push the popcar to the siding. Once there, he dropped into the seat and wiped the sweat from his face. The moon rose high overhead, and his shadow stretched out into the right-of-way.

The cars were old with sagging frames and weathered paint. He rolled a door back on one and found it loaded with sacks of sand. He shook his head. No figuring the railroad. He'd just have to walk, though he'd probably starve or freeze stiff as a drawbar before he got back.

At that moment, he wished a slow and deliberate death for Eddie Preston. He wished him standing in the Johnson Canyon Tunnel when the
Super Chief
came through. He wished him handcuffed to Scrap West's crane or, better yet, to Scrap West himself.

After buttoning his coat, he headed down the track. He hadn't gone far when he smelled camp smoke. He paused and searched the darkness. When he spotted the flicker of firelight down line, he crouched and pulled his sidearm. Coming upon a camp at night could be dangerous. But it was on railroad property and his job to check it out.

 

33

U
NABLE TO SEE,
he slipped in closer. A single man hunkered over the fire, his hat clamped down and his collar up. He might be no more than a runaway boy or a father looking for work, but he might be a murderer with a straight razor in his sock. Given the unpredictability of the situation, Hook moved with caution.

The man, large, with sloped shoulders, pulled his makin's and sprinkled tobacco into a paper. He slid his tongue along the paper's edge, rolled it over, twisted the ends, and hung it in the corner of his mouth. He lit the cigarette with a stick from the fire, and red embers raced up into the blackness. A bottle sat on a stump next to him.

When Hook stepped into the light, the man stood.

“Take it easy, mister,” Hook said. “Thought you might share your camp. I'm froze up.”

The man drew on his cigarette, and its end glowed in the darkness.

“You alone?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Missed the eastbound. Can't run like I used to.”

“Redballers,” he said. “Sons of bitches don't slow for nothing.”

He walked around the fire, peering into the darkness behind Hook. He turned and sat down on the stump. His fingers, yellowed with nicotine, were as knurled and weathered as tree limbs.

“You riding the rails?” Hook asked.

“It's against the law,” he said. “Where you headed?”

“I'm traveling east,” Hook said.

“The Salvation Army's dried up in Flagstaff,” he said. “Takes an hour's preaching for a hard bunk and chicken soup.”

“I've logged enough preaching hours for a free pass to heaven,” Hook said. “Can't say it took.”

The man rose and tossed a stick onto the fire. His shadow danced in the firelight. He chewed at a nail as he looked Hook over.

“Traveling men have to take what comes down the track,” he said.

“Not many care about a man one way or the other,” Hook said, searching for his smokes.

“Especially no law,” he said. “Saw a cop beat a man to death with a coupler hose back in Amarillo.

“Have a drink,” he said.

“I don't want to be drinking up your whiskey.”

“Wouldn't ask otherwise,” he said, handing the bottle to Hook.

Hook took a pull. “That's top rung,” he said.

“Cream of Kentucky,” he said. “Have another? A man what drinks alone is prone to tremors and black thoughts. You'd be doing me a favor.”

Hook took another draught and handed the bottle back.

“It's your life I'm saving then,” Hook said.

“Likewise,” he said, tipping up the bottle.

He tossed on another stick of wood, and the fire blazed up. Sparklers scattered into the darkness. Hook moved back from the heat.

“See these hands?” the bo said, holding them in the firelight. “Twenty-five years laying brick. Didn't ask for a goddamn thing 'cept the chance at work. Twenty-five years, one brick after another, and then came the day I looked at that hawk and trowel and I couldn't do it no more. I couldn't set another brick if hell opened up and swallowed me.”

He held the bottle up to check its level. “Have another go,” he said.

Hook took a drink and closed an eye. “A man does what he has to do,” he said. “No shame in that.”

“Left the wife on her momma's porch,” he said. “Caught a coal car headed north and never looked back.”

Hook nodded and rubbed his face, which had fallen numb from being too close to the fire. He started to stand but decided that to leave too soon might offend his host.

“One for the monkey,” the man said.

“And to the demise of black thoughts and tremors,” Hook said.

The man gathered up more firewood and tossed it on the fire. The circle of light danced and pushed back the darkness. He sat down and took out his makin's again. After lighting up, he looked straight at Hook.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked.

Hook rubbed his shoulder. “Shriveling fever,” he said.

“I've heard of that,” he said.

“Some say it's been detected as far north as the Rockies,” Hook said.

“How'd it come about?”

“While I was taking a bath.”

“Maybe the bath's what set it off.”

“When the fever topped a hundred and ten, the arm fell off.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No more than an elephant standing on your balls.”

His mouth twisted. “Is it catchy?”

“No appendage is immune to its devastating effects, if you know what I mean.”

The fire roared and crackled, and the man studied Hook through the flames.

“I believe I'd as soon lose an arm such as yourself,” he said.

“Things could have been worse,” Hook said. “I'd advise against unnecessary bathing, that's sure.”

“Ain't that the goddangest lie ever told?” he said.

“Yes, it is,” Hook said.

A train whistle lifted up in the distance, and the man fell silent. He rose, picked up a stick of firewood, and hiked it onto his shoulder. Firelight gathered up in his eyes and in the blackness of his beard. Hook threw up his elbow to ward off the blow, but the stick of firewood dropped him headfirst into the dirt.

*   *   *

Hook awakened to the churn of the engine gathering up steam. He shook his head and rubbed at the knot that had blossomed on the side of his head. His mouth tasted of ash, and his bones ached. Smoke roped up from the fire. He reached for his wallet to find it intact, and his sidearm as well. What the hell kind of bo left money behind? He checked the clip to make certain it was still loaded because he intended to use it on the son of a bitch if he ever caught up with him.

Down line the steam engine chugged and wheezed as she nursed the cars off the Yampai siding. She pulled back onto the main line. Steam shot from her sides and rose into the glimmer light. Hook headed for the tracks to catch her.

The ground trembled, and black smoke boiled skyward as she gained momentum. Hook scrambled up the embankment, waving the whole time. But the engineer paid no mind, throttling up, his whistle screaming. The engine thundered toward him.

Hook ran down track to keep from being yanked out of his shoes when he snared the ladder. At the last moment, he grabbed on and pulled himself up. The driver wheels churned below him, and the boiler heat scorched his face.

Just as he reached the top of the ladder, a foot came out and began kicking at his head. Hook swung out on the ladder to escape the pummeling. The ground raced beneath him, and the wind sucked at his body.

“Security!” he yelled. “Stop!”

Someone stuck their head out the cab door. “What the hell?”

“Yard dog,” he yelled through the clamor of the engine. “Haul me up, you bastard.”

Once in, he rolled onto his back to catch his breath. Frenchy leaned over him, his cigar clenched between his teeth. The bakehead stood at his back with his hammer at the ready.

Frenchy said, “Hook, is that you?”

“You damn near killed me, Frenchy.”

“We thought you was a robber,” he said.

“Do I look like a robber?”

Frenchy lit his cigar and glanced over at the bakehead.

“Maybe you don't want to know what you look like, Hook. That goose egg on your head ain't all that inviting.”

Hook touched his temple. “I got a little distracted and let a bo slip up on me.”

“Distracted by busthead liquor by the smell of it,” Frenchy said.

Hook smelled his sleeve. “That's expensive cologne and likely unfamiliar to engineers.”

Frenchy checked his pressure gauge. “Only a yard dog could find whiskey in the middle of the desert.”

The bakehead grinned. “Yard dogs can sniff out about anything long as it isn't a thief or a bo.”

Hook warmed himself at the boiler. “You boys couldn't tell a thief from a yard dog with his badge nailed to his forehead.”

“It's like telling twins apart,” Frenchy said, winking at the bakehead.

“Well, a man ought check before he starts kicking people off a moving train,” Hook said.

“Didn't expect no yard dog in the middle of the desert,” Frenchy said.

“My popcar broke down. Anyway, yard dogs show up where least expected and in surprising ways,” he said. “That's why we're the law. Maybe you should keep that in mind.

“What you doing out here, Frenchy, other than kicking people off trains?”

“Called out to move these cars to the Johnson Canyon siding,” he said.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Appears so.”

“Why didn't they wait for a scheduled run?”

“I don't get paid for thinking, Hook.”

“You can be thankful for that,” Hook said.

Twenty minutes later, they'd barely made speed. As they hit the grade, the steamer bore down, beating and thumping like a giant heart.

“Hell,” Hook said. “I could walk faster than this old hog.”

“Just have at it,” Frenchy said, puffing on his cigar. “Them cars are heavy sons of bitches. Anyway, this ole bullgine ain't made for speed.”

“Who would have thought,” Hook said. “What does this ting-a-ling weigh?”

“Half a million, more with a full tinder. These old calliopes can squash a penny flat as a fireman's head.”

*   *   *

An hour later, as they approached Johnson Canyon, Frenchy lay in on the whistle. He pulled through the tunnel and over the trestle. He backed the boxcars onto the siding. Hook uncoupled and set the brakes.

“Frenchy,” he said. “Mixer jumped out on me coming out from Ash Fork. Give me a minute to see if I can call him in.”

Frenchy wallowed his cigar over and shook his head. “Dang it, Hook, my cab stank for days last time that critter climbed aboard.”

“Was probably the fireman you smelled, Frenchy. Bakeheads been known to go all winter without touching water.”

The fireman pushed his hat up and rubbed his face. Frenchy hit his whistle a couple times and waited as Hook called for Mixer.

“I can't be waiting all night,” Frenchy said. “They're shutting down the line until further notice.”

Hook looked over his shoulder. “Shutting the line? What for?”

“Usually the big boys ask me before they make a decision, Hook. I guess this time they just forgot. Said I was to come back soon as the line opened and haul those cars back to Kingman.”

“They wouldn't close this line for a baby carriage stranded on a crossing, Frenchy.”

“No, but they might for something important,” he said, grinning. “Reckon that dog is going to have to get back best he can.”

“His life is on your conscience, Frenchy.”

Frenchy turned his head to the side and lit his cigar stub. He looked at Hook and nodded.

“Some things a man just has to live with,” he said.

“Well, wake me when we get there, if I haven't died of old age yet.”

“That's the one thing you ain't going to die from, Hook. I guarantee it.”

Even though Hook's head throbbed, and the old engine pounded and groaned, he soon fell asleep. When Frenchy announced the wigwag crossing outside of town, Hook yawned and lit a cigarette. The lights of Ash Fork glowed in the distance. The boiler fire flickered in the cab. Hook moved to the door.

Frenchy eased the bullgine to a stop. Air shot from the brakes, and the smell of smoke settled in around them. Hook swung out on the ladder and worked his way down a few rungs. He looked up at Frenchy, who leaned out the cab window.

“Hold on a minute,” Hook said.

He dropped off the ladder, retrieved the link from the Gunter's chain he'd taken from the surveyors' flatcar, and slipped it beneath the driver wheel of the bullgine. He waved Frenchy off. Frenchy rolled his eyes and pulled away.

When he'd gone, Hook searched for the link, finding it half buried in the cinder. The engine had squashed the link away, leaving only the flattened end ring. He took the ring that he'd found beneath Sergeant Erikson's body that day and lay it on the track next to the flattened Gunter's ring. They were identical.

In the distance Frenchy's whistle wailed at the crossing east of town. Hook walked toward the caboose. He paused, lit a cigarette, and looked back toward Johnson Canyon Tunnel. Someone from that survey crew had been there the night Sergeant Erikson died, and he had a fair idea who. What he didn't know was why. And now they were closing the corridor. Short of a catastrophe, that just didn't happen.

 

34

H
OOK PULLED OFF
his shoes and rubbed his feet. Times like this, he envied those soft-handed men with office jobs, though he doubted he would last long behind a desk.

He shuffled through the stack of books sitting next to the table, picking out a 1938 first edition of
The Yearling
by Rawlings. He'd perused it earlier and had a notion that someday it would be of value. But it needed a closer look.