The Hanging of Samuel Ash (12 page)

Hook fixed two Beam and waters and slid one over to Junior. “Did you find out anything on that Samuel Ash deal?”

Junior smelled his drink. “I called the National Archives. They weren't too forthcoming, but I got a little information.”

“You're supposed to drink that, not smell it.”

Junior sipped his drink and wrinkled up his nose. “Samuel Ash enlisted in Oklahoma City,” he said. “He received the Bronze Star with valor and was discharged from the army a few months ago.”

“Samuel Ash is from Oklahoma City?”

Junior took another sip of his drink and shuddered. “That's where he enlisted, but he put his hometown as Carmen, Oklahoma.”

“Parents?”

“Deceased.”

“Carmen?” Hook said. “I've been through there, a jerkwater and mail stop of a few hundred people or so.

“Anything else?”

“He earned a Purple Heart somewhere along the line, in addition to the Bronze Star, and was promoted to sergeant first class just prior to mustering out. That's about it, I guess.”

“Well, it's more than we had. Wonder what brought him to New Mexico in the first place?”

Junior finished his drink and pushed the glass to the side.

“It's my understanding that vets have trouble settling in after war, after living on the edge for so long, and then jobs are hard to come by. They do a lot of wandering about, I hear.”

Hook poured Junior another drink and topped off his own.

“How is it you didn't join up, Junior, or maybe you had too much education to die for your country?”

Junior held up his foot. “Flat feet. What about you, Hook?”

“Flat head,” Hook said. “Finish that drink before the Beam goes bad.”

Junior polished off his drink and slid the empty over to Hook, who poured him a thumbful. Hook lit a cigarette.

Junior turned his glass in the puddle of condensation on the table and said, “Sunbeam reminds me for the world of caviar.”

“I was just thinking that myself,” Hook said.

“At first it tastes a little off, but after a while, you just want more and more.”

Hook drained his glass and looked through the bottom of it. “I can't remember the last time I had caviar.”

Junior propped his elbows onto the table. “It's like these books,” he said. “If everybody had them, you probably wouldn't want them.”

“I wouldn't even have them on this table,” Hook said.

“Because it's the wanting that counts, isn't it? I mean, there are some things a man just has to have because no one else has them.”

Hook refilled their glasses. “I've seen men fight to the death over a bottle of Sunbeam. I guess there's just not enough Sunbeam and caviar in this world to go around.”

Junior rubbed at his face. “Hook, I think I may have had a stroke.”

“A stroke, you say?”

“My face just slid down, and I can't get it up again.”

“Well, I wouldn't worry about it, Junior. Trouble getting it up comes along to most men sooner or later.”

Junior studied the tabletop. “Maybe I'll have another Sunbeam,” he said. “And maybe I'll have a cigarette, too, if you don't mind.”

Hook lit him up, and Junior blew smoke out his nose. He coughed and rubbed at his eyes.

“A smoke does a man good,” he said.

Hook paused. “Junior,” he said. “Have you ever stolen anything?”

Junior straightened his bow tie. “I don't understand the question, Hook.”

“It's a philosophical inquiry, Junior. Do you think there is ever a justifiable reason to steal?”

“Stealing is against the law and morally unacceptable,” he said. “Philosophically speaking.”

“Say a man stole something for posterity, to keep it from being destroyed or neglected, and by doing so, he saves something important that would otherwise be lost to the human race.”

“The law's the law, Hook, no matter the cost to mankind.”

“Are you telling me you never stole anything, Junior?”

Junior puffed on his cigarette, and smoke boiled about his head.

“You think the strikers will shut down the line, Hook?”

“What is it you stole, Junior?”

Junior hung his head. “An angel.”

“A what?”

“A Christmas angel. I stole it from the dime store when I was a kid.”

Hook took another drink. “An angel? That's just terrible, Junior.”

“My mother hung it on the Christmas tree every Christmas for twenty years. I had to look at that angel hanging on the tree my whole life.”

Junior took a swig of his drink. “Did you ever?”

“Ever what?” Hook said.

“Steal anything?”

Hook held the bottle up to the window to check the level of its contents and then poured them each another round.

“Real lawmen don't steal, Junior, and if they did, they sure wouldn't steal no damn Christmas angel.”

When the knock came on the caboose door, Hook opened it to find the machinist helper wiping his hands on a grease rag. The orange rays of sunset shot into the clouds behind him.

“It's fixed, Hook, though it took all damned day.”

“Thanks,” Hook said.

“And about that other thing?”

“What other thing?” Hook said.

The machinist helper nodded and worked his way down the steps. He stopped and looked up at Hook.

“You might want to take it to a real mechanic first chance. Get a new line put on. Them fittings could give way, you know.”

Back inside, Hook said, “Drink up, Junior, and I'll give you a ride back to Hotel Clovis.”

*   *   *

Junior walked around the road-rail and scratched at his head.

“Exactly what is this vehicle, Hook?”

“It's a road-rail. She runs on road or rail, either one. She might even run on water, though I've never tried it. Climb in.”

Hook fired her up, and they headed down the street.

“It really runs on the track?” Junior asked.

“Sure it does. There's a crossing just ahead. I'll give you a demonstration.”

“Aren't we supposed to get clearance, Hook?”

“Just a run to the yards and back,” he said. “No clearance necessary.”

Hook pulled onto the crossing and lowered the pilot wheels. Junior leaned out for a better look as they clipped off down the track. His hair blew in the breeze, and he grinned. Hook released the steering wheel.

“You better not let go, Hook. We're moving pretty fast.”

“It tracks on its own,” Hook said. “Why, a man could take a nap or read a book if he wanted.”

“Maybe you could acquire one for me as well,” he said.

“Road-rails are for officials and trusted employees, Junior. Privileges like that have to be earned.”

“Say, is that a light behind us?”

“That's the sunset, Junior. Don't they have sunsets at Hotel Clovis?”

Junior turned for another look. “It looks more like a train to me, Hook.”

“A train?”

“Maybe we should get off the track now.”

“Why the hell didn't you say something, Junior?”

“But you said it was the sunset.”

“Any fool can see it's not the sunset, and a road-rail can't just hop on and off the track like a rabbit. It's got to have a crossing or a spur switch.”

The train whistle blew behind them, and the roar of the engines pooled hot in Hook's belly.

“Look, there,” Hook said, pumping the brakes, which had improved but little in their stopping ability. “A spur. Get out and throw that switch, Junior, and you might want to step on it.”

Junior bailed out and leaned into the switch. The train's glimmer brightened behind them, and its engines rumbled down the line. Hook shoved the road-rail into gear and drove onto the spur.

“Switch it back!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Now!”

Junior shoved the switch back just as the train thundered by, her brakes screeching as she slowed for the upcoming yards.

Hook dabbed the sweat from his forehead as Junior made his way back to the road-rail. Junior leaned into the window.

“Maybe we should get off the track now, Hook.”

“We're sitting on a spur, Junior, and it doesn't go anywhere except to the roundhouse, and we can't switch back onto the high rail with that train laying by, can we?”

Junior rubbed at his face. “How long will it lay by there, Hook?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“So, what are our plans?” Junior asked.

Hook drummed the steering wheel. “If we could get on that other spur over there, I'm pretty sure it dumps out at the crossing.”

“But how is that possible, Hook? I don't see a switch to that one.”

Hook studied the line of cars and then fired up the road-rail.

“Get in, Junior. I've got that plan you mentioned.”

*   *   *

Hook pulled into the yards and eased up to the turntable. The yard lights lit the tracks into streaks of silver, and the smell of steam and smoke settled in about them like fog. The chug and wheeze of a half-dozen engines grumbled from out of the yards.

“Go over to the control house, Junior, and wheel us around to that other spur. There's nothing to it, a motor and a brake. If she slips, throw a little sand under the friction wheel.”

“But Hook…”

“Jesus, just do it, Junior,” Hook said.

When Junior reached the control house, Hook gave him the high sign. The turntable growled and moved toward the crossing spur. Once aligned with the track, Hook signaled again, and Junior brought her to a stop, after which he dashed to the road-rail and jumped in.

Just as Hook pulled onto the spur, the yardmaster charged out of the yard office, his head down and his arms swinging. Stepping in front of the road-rail, he stuck his arm in the air.

“Stay in here, Junior,” Hook said, opening the door. “Let me do the talking.”

“What the hell is going on?” the yardmaster yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.

Hook turned and then looked back at the yardmaster. “You're the yardmaster around here, aren't you?”

“You goddamn right. What the hell you think you're doing?”

Hook pulled his badge. “Security,” he said. “We got a call that someone had parked this road-rail on the turntable. You know anything about that?”

“Hell no,” he said, tugging at his collar. “First thing I know I see you driving this thing off it.”

“It's your job to know what goes on in these yards, isn't it? You're the yardmaster, aren't you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“The company can't have people driving road-rails onto the merry-go-round for the hell of it, you know.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“Well, it could have been strikers, I suppose. I'll see if I can't get this business headed off. This sort of thing can't happen again, or I'll have to report it.”

“No, sir. It won't happen again, not if I have to post a man out here all night.”

“Now, this spur will get me to the crossing, won't it?”

“Yes, sir, straight to the crossing.”

“Good,” he said. “I'll talk to my associate back there. I believe in giving a man a second chance.”

“Don't worry,” he said. “These bastards won't do it again, you can bet on that.”

*   *   *

Hook pulled the road-rail in front of Hotel Clovis and waited for Junior to climb out.

“Thanks for the ride, Hook. It's one I'm not likely to forget.”

“Don't mention it. And, Junior, tomorrow, I need you to go over to Lubbock and check on a hoptoad.”

“Hoptoad?”

“Derailment. See if the line's been tampered with.”

“Alright, Hook,” he said, steadying himself against the road-rail.

“And you need to keep check on your drinking habits, Junior. The railroad is fussy about that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you get back to Clovis, stop in and pay the Harvey House chef twelve dollars. I'll reimburse you soon as I get back.”

“Where you going?”

“Carlsbad. I've a date with the undertaker.”

“Hook, about my face?”

Hook cranked up the road-rail. “Don't worry about it, Junior. Come morning, you won't even know you have a face.”

 

14

 

A
FTER STOPPING AT
the Artesia depot to pay off the operator, Hook rumbled on to Carlsbad. When he pulled up in front of the undertaker's house, he shut down the road-rail. She continued to bump and grind from the motor heat until Hook put her in gear and popped the clutch.

He found the undertaker in the backyard digging up the ground with a spade.

“Yeah, I'm the undertaker,” he said, leaning the shovel against the house. “Name's Bruce Jenson.”

The undertaker's front teeth crossed over one another like a row of fallen dominoes, and he had the hands of a violin player: delicate, long fingers.

“Hook Runyon,” Hook said. “I'm the railroad bull out of Clovis. You burying folks in the backyard now?”

“I admit to considering it on occasion when the north wind's blowing,” he said. “But I'm digging worms. I like to fish. No,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That's not right. I
love
to fish. I'd rather fish than sleep in a bed full of women. You like to fish?”

“Not that much,” Hook said. “I'm here about that wigwag fellow.”

“Well, he's in the cooler, but the coroner's released him for burial in the pauper's cemetery. The county keeps a little money back for indigents. It's hardly worth my doing, you know, but running that cooler day and night isn't cheap neither.”

Hook pointed to a worm that had crawled under a clod. “The thing is, this boy had a Bronze Star hanging around his neck with his name on it. Strikes me that he should be buried with honors and among his own people.”