Black Mask (Vol. 33, No. 3 — September 1949)

Murder Express by Hiawatha Jones

I had to keep awake remembering the greedy look in Mug’s eyes when he saw the kid’s wallet.

Sleep, like a thousand thick-gloved hands, clutched at me but I kept tearing myself away. I had to stay awake! The dark wet-smelling floor lurched under me. We had pulled the freight car doors nearly shut, but through the panel of opening I saw the black night sky and the moon sliding behind a bank of dark clouds.

The sky would be lightening soon. It would be day. And the kid would be safe. I looked over to where he was lying.

He was on the floor next to me. I had been listening to his low convulsive coughing before he finally fell asleep. He’s a good kid, I thought to myself.

Once away from Mug he’ll be safe. I remembered the hard, greedy look in Mug’s eye as he had seen the kid’s wallet. Stay awake, I told myself.

I couldn’t get up and sit by the freight car door. Mug and his friend were across the car from us. The friend didn’t bother me. He was a harmless little guy. But Mug could make trouble. That wouldn’t do the kid any good; I had to lie where I was. I had to keep awake. If there was going to be trouble I had to be ready for it.

Think about something, I kept telling myself. Think about the kid and the story he told you. Think about the army. The road. The look in the kid’s eye. The picture. Stay awake. You owe it to the kid, as a friend.

As a friend. I hadn’t known the kid for more than six hours! But that’s how it is on the road. You meet a guy. You size him up as a good Joe. And before you know it, you’re both trading life stories, exchanging gripes.

We had both gotten on at a little depot outside of Albany. It was a warm night and we had shoved the doors back and were sitting on the edge of the freight car floor, watching the country whip by. The other two hoboes who had got on with us were sitting in the center of the empty freight matching coins in the moonlight from the open door. One of the ’boes was a thin, ragged little guy whose gray hair needed cutting. The other was a big guy with a flat nose and a scar sliced across his knotty cheek. One or the other of them would mutter a curse every time a coin changed hands.

The kid and I didn’t pay any attention to their game. We were both quiet, looking at the dark scenery rolling past us. He was a good looking guy, a couple of years younger than I. Not more than twenty at the most. He had red hair and a thin face. The shirt he wore was torn at the shoulder. He looked like he was still green at freight-riding.

I sat back against the edge of the open door and listened to the clatter of the speeding wheels. The fields we passed were gray with darkness. I looked over to the kid. His head was lowered to his chest as he muffled a low hacking cough.

“Why don’t you get inside, kid?”

He shook his head at me. “It’s okay. The wind feels good going down.”

I reached over and threw him a small woolen bundle I had at my side. “Put this on,” I said.

The kid undid the sweater and poked his arm into its sleeve. He wasn’t used to holding down a freight. I would have known that even if he hadn’t told me. A lot of times I meet up with kids his age who are bumming around the country just for a thrill. Road kids. A wild lot. But this kid was different.

I watched his thin fingers fumble at the buttons of the sweater. “If you just cashed in on a season’s pay, why are you riding the freights back?” I asked. He had told me earlier in the evening about working in a lumber camp all summer. He had shown me a wallet crammed with bills. The only thing wrong with the job was that it kept him near water all the time. It had given him a cold. He still wasn’t over it.

“The freights are okay.” the kid answered. “Beside it ain’t my money.”

“You worked for it didn’t you?”

He turned his face to look at the two other hoboes in the car. They were still matching coins. Then he looked back to me. “I didn’t work for it for myself.” He reached into the waist of his dungarees. I saw him untie the money belt where he kept his wallet. He opened the crammed leather folder and pulled out a photograph. The kid handed it to me, and he was smiling.

I looked down at the picture. It was a photograph of a girl, a pretty blonde, about seventeen. She wore a thin summer dress and carried her hat in her hand. She was smiling. I looked at the picture for a long moment, then looked back up at the kid.

“Your wife?”

He had laughed. “My sister.”

I glanced down at the picture again. “She’s pretty.”

“There are just the two of us left,” he said. “Ma died a couple of months ago. My old man’s been gone longer than that.”

He took a bill out of his wallet as he spoke, and he handed it to me. I must have looked puzzled. He only nodded his head toward the money, and I had looked down at it.

It was a five dollar bill. Regulation. Nothing unusual. The moonlight through the trees streaked past, and the freight car lurched under us making it hard to read. I kept studying the bill, turning it over, and then I noticed something. On one side, in the clear space above the serial number, there was a word written. A name.

“Peggy.”

“That’s her name. My sister’s name,” said the kid. I looked down at the bill again.

“I did it with every dollar I got,” said the kid. “Most of the guys used to go into town on a drunk every payday. Whenever I thought that I would go with them I took my money out and there was her name on it, where I had written it. That’s what I was working for. I never let myself forget about it.”

I looked at the photograph in my hand. “She’s a lucky girl.”

He sort of snorted and looked out at the country passing by. “She’s a smart kid,” he said turning back to me. “Too smart and too decent to have to take the knocks. She graduates from high school this month. That’s what the money is for. It’ll start her off in college, pay for tuition and buy some clothes too, maybe. Oh, it ain’t much, but it will start her off. That’s the main thing.”

My throat felt sort of thick. I’d like to bash in the teeth of any guy who considers a man a tramp just because he happens to be riding the rails. I looked down at the picture, then handed it and the bill back to the kid. He smiled at me.

The two other ’boes in the car must have finished their game, because they walked over to where we were sitting. The kid was just putting the picture back into his wallet.

“Cleaned!” said the big guy. I had heard the other ’boe call him Mug.

“Like a whistle,” chuckled the little gray haired guy. As he smiled I could see that his front teeth were missing.

Mug had been watching the kid stuff his wallet back into his money belt. The big guy’s eyes gleamed like shattered glass. His thick lower lip hung loose. “You made out better than I did.”

The kid started to laugh but it ended in that hacking cough. He pulled the sweater over his belt.

“This your first time on the rails, kid?” continued Mug.

“Yes,” said the kid.

Mug grinned a fleshy grin. I didn’t like the look I had seen in his eye as he had stared at the kid’s wallet. Mug was a big guy. I’m far from being a pint size myself, but he still looked like a guy who could make plenty of trouble if he wanted to.

Mug looked away from the kid. “You oughta see Pete here matching coins,” he said, turning to the little gray-haired guy. “The damnest little cheat in the world.”

The little character called Pete laughed his toothless grin again. “You boys wanna play?” he asked, turning to the kid and me. We both shook our heads.

I twisted the thick ring on my finger, looking down at it. I knew that even then Mug was only thinking of the kid and his crammed wallet.

“It’s cold,” said Mug.

“Sort of,” agreed the kid. Pete grunted.

“Now down on the rods,” continued Mug, “that’s where you really get a comfortable trip.”

I looked up quickly. Riding the rods was the most dangerous part of hoboing. A ’boe only did it when he was afraid of being spotted by a prowling dick or when all the cars were locked.

“It’s an easy way of slicing off an arm,” I said.

“Hell! It’s the best way of riding,” said Mug angrily. “It’s as safe as riding on top if you don’t get panicky.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” I said, talking half to Mug and half to the kid.

Mug threw me a hard look and then laughed harshly. “You just gotta know how.”

Pete lit a pipe. “It is dangerous,” he said. “I’d never do it.”

There had been no more talk about it. While the kid listened with open-eyed wonder, we traded road stories for a couple of hours, then bedded down.

And here I was now, lying on the freight car floor. Listening, waiting. Fighting sleep. The freight rushed through the lonely night with a comfortable rocking sound. This was my kind of life. Traveling, doing what I liked, being on my own. After I had gotten out of the army I wanted my freedom. The locomotive whistle hooted somewhere far up the track. The freight car doors rattled slowly...

I awoke with a start. It was day! The kid was still on the floor next to me. One car door was open and Mug and Pete were sitting with their legs dangling over the platform. I looked back at the kid. One side of his face was flat against the floor. I raised myself on one elbow and looked more closely at him. He wasn’t breathing!

I got up quickly and bent over him. Everything inside me tightened, then knotted hard.

The kid was dead.

Pete was calling to me. “Something wrong?”

I got to my feet slowly. If I had only stayed awake the night before. Pete and Mug started over toward me. Then I remembered the wallet. I bent down again and unfastened the kid’s money belt. I started to take out the wallet.

Pete looked down at the kid. His thin mouth hung open. His eyes widened. “Is... is he?”

Mug rubbed one large, gnarled hand against his jaw.

The wallet was empty. Only the picture and a few cards were left in it. I closed the wallet and put it in my pocket.

“Musta been his lungs,” said Mug finally. “I heard the kid coughing most of the night.” For a long moment I just stared at Mug. I remembered his look the night before when he saw the kid’s wallet. I just stared at him and there must have been a hatred in my eyes.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “His lungs.” I turned around to the slumped body on the freight car floor. It swayed lightly with every lurch of the train. I bent down beside him.

The inside of the car was bright with sunlight from the open door. I looked at the kid. His collar had been torn open. As I looked even closer I could hear my heart pounding my ears. My mouth went dry. Around the kid’s neck was a harsh ringlet of red marks. Finger marks!

I turned around, getting to my feet. Mug’s large hands were hanging at his side. He bulged them into big bony fists as he saw me staring at them. I walked to the open door, looking out at the rushing green country.

I didn’t actually know whether Mug had murdered the kid. I would swear my life on it, but I didn’t know. Somehow, I had to find out for sure.

Pete stood beside me at the open door. “We’ll be hitting a mail junction in ten minutes,” he said nervously. “I’m getting off. I don’t wanna be around when they find the kid’s body.”

I looked at the little guy. A gray stubble covered his thin jaw. He kept looking between me and the rushing scenery.

“Should be about ten minutes,” he continued. “You comin?”

Mug was rolling some things up into a bundle in one corner of the freight.

“Maybe,” I answered slowly.

“There ain’t gonna be another brain along here for a couple a’ hours,” said Mug looking up. “And it ain’t sayin’ we’ll be able to hop that one. I’m sticking.”

“Mug may be right,” I said quickly. I couldn’t afford to lose track of Mug.

“But what about the yard dicks?” asked Pete.

“They won’t bother us.”

“They won’t bother me,” answered Pete. “That’s for sure. I’m high tailing it just as soon as this rattler stops. You coming or ain’t-ya?” He turned to me.

I looked at Mug before I answered. “I’m staying.”

Mug turned to look at the slumped figure on the ear floor. I followed his eyes. “Okay,” he said finally. He looked over to me. “But Pete’s right. We can’t be caught with this kid. And we can’t dump him. They’d be waiting for us at the next depot if they found the body. The kid’ll have to stay on. We’ll stay too but not in here.”

He finished knotting the bundle with a hard yank. I knew that there was no other freight car open. I waited for what he was going to say. I almost knew what he was going to say. Pete stopped scratching his head and looked at the big guy expectantly.

“We’ll ride the rods,” said Mug finally.

Pete shook his head and gave a low whistle. “I’m gettin’,” he said quickly. “Sure as hell I’m gettin!”

I felt my forehead cold with sweat. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the body of the kid lurching with the movement of the car. “Okay,” I said quietly. “We’ll ride the rods.”

Mug looked over at me and smiled. Sunlight caught the thin glazed scar on his cheek. He just kept smiling and didn’t say anything.

The train pulled into a siding in what might have been ten minutes but seemed like an hour to me. I kept thinking of all the stories I had heard about the rods. About sudden jolts throwing ’boes under the speeding wheels. About guys falling asleep and dropping beneath the rushing train.

Pete crouched by the open door as the train slowed to a stop. “So long,” he said and jumped. His bundle was tied to his belt and it bobbed as he moved. We watched him run crouching. He dashed across the network of tracks into a thicket of bushes. He didn’t turn around once he had left the train.

One long stretch and the train had stopped. Mug and I jumped down on to the crunching gravel. We bent low and ran quickly along the side of the line of freight cars. Up ahead I could see the engineer leaning out of his cab. A breakeman was climbing down off the caboose.

“Under!” said Mug in a loud whisper.

I saw him duck low and scamper beneath a heavy freight. I followed him awkwardly, bruising my knee on a track tie and scooping up a handful of gravel.

In the dark under the freight car I saw the rods. They were about ten inches from the gravel bed. Each rod was about the width of a broom handle and there were two of them running along under each side of the car. Several others crisscrossed almost flat against the bottom of the car.

“Get up! Get up!” yelled Mug in a loud whisper. I looked across to where he was. Mug rested on the two bottom rods, gripping the top rods with his hands. As I lifted my head to look at him I bumped it sharply on the bottom of the freight. My nostrils were filled with the sharp cold smell of the gravel and the hot oily odors of the freight car bottom.

I finally managed to arrange myself directly across from Mug. I balanced my entire length on the two thin rods under me, winding my feet around them and with my arms and hands grabbing every top rod within reach. An octopus couldn’t have done a better job.

I heard a loud sssss’ing noise. I was about four inches from the side of the wheels. They began to turn slowly. I shifted my eyes and looked down at the ties below slipping away. I gripped my rods tightly, desparately. The ties began to blur. The wheels were like buzz saws.

I finally worked up enough courage to lift my head slightly and I turned it carefully to look at Mug. He was balanced easily on his rods. Only one hand gripped the pipes above him. The other held a little dried apple which he was eating contentedly.

“It’s... it’s — not — bad,” I said across to Mug. My voice sounded strangely too loud. The noise of the wheels sliced against my ears.

“It’s like I told your friend,” answered Mug. “It’s the only way to ride.” He hadn’t called the kid ‘my friend’ before.

I looked up quickly at my hands gripping the rods above me. The knuckles were strained white. My thick gold ring seemed too large for its finger.

“To bad about your friend,” continued Mug. “He did die of that lung trouble, didn’t he?”

“Sure,” I said. “I told you he did.” I looked over at Mug.

He was smiling again. His thick lips hung loose and his teeth were like pieces of shell stuck in red clay.

“Good,” he said. “For a while I thought you might have thought something else. Something unhealthy.” He laughed and then dropped the apple core from his hand. We both watched as it was carried a little ways by the wind, then mashed under the train wheels.

Mug reached across with his free hand and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t hold on so tight, buddy,” he said. “You ain’t gonna get hurt.” He looked at me mockingly. I could feel my heart pounding louder than the clatter of the train. Slowly I let go with one hand from the rod above me.

“Good!” Mug laughed.

I held my free hand suspended a minute then laid it across my chest, breathing deeply.

Mug turned his body on the rail, still holding on with one hand, until he was now facing me entirely.

“That’s a nice ring you got there,” he said looking at my hand. “Gold, ain’t it?”

I nodded my head.

A train rushed past us on the opposite track in a rumbling steely racket. The first shock of the noise nearly threw me off my perch. I quickly gripped another rod with my free hand, staring panicky at the rushing road bed beneath me. Mug didn’t move. He was smiling and he kept looking at my hand and the ring.

The train passed and it was lighter again under the freight car. I let go with one hand again.

“Let’s see the ring, buddy,” said Mug. I can’t show him I’m scared, I thought to myself. He knows it, but I can’t admit it. I extended my arm toward him. I’ve got to tag on to him until we get off the train. It would be suicide to start a fight now.

Mug’s hand turned the ring around on my finger.

“You wanta sell it?” he asked.

For a moment I couldn’t answer. “Sure,” I said finally. My heart was beginning to pound again. “If you’ve got the right price.”

He still held on to the ring and my hand with his big hand. One push — one forceful push from him—

“Ten bucks,” I said.

Mug let go of my hand. My arm dropped a little ways and almost hit the rushing track ties. I grabbed the rod above me quickly.

Mug turned around on the rod again, until he was facing the bottom of the freight once more. With one hand he loosened his collar and pulled out a small tobacco pouch that was tied to a string around his neck. Still working with only one hand, he opened the bag and looking with his chin down on his chest, pulled out two bills.

He looked at the bills, closed the bag, and with the bag still on his chest outside his shirt, handed them to me.

“Ten bucks,” he said. “You got a sale.”

I looked at the top bill. Nothing unusual. Regulation. But in the space above the serial number was a word, a name. Peggy. My heart was beating too fast. The girl in the picture, the look in the kid’s eyes. They came flashing back to me with each fast turn of the train wheels.

The other bill was the same. I stuffed the bills into my pocket. I could feel my hand shaking. Mug was looking at me.

“It’s good money,” he said. He laughed.

I put out my hand and he reached to pull the ring off. I felt my mouth getting tight. With my other hand I gripped harder at the rod above me. Mug’s fingers brushed against mine.

Suddenly, quickly, I grabbed for the bag on his chest. I gripped it tight and yanked. It broke loose and I felt it in my fist. My hand was in my pocket now. The bag, in my pocket.

Mug was startled. His eyes blazed at me. The scar on his knotted cheek flamed. I saw him wet his lips, slowly.

“That was bad, buster,” he said slowly. “Very bad.”

My breath came back suddenly. “It was the kid’s money,” I said.

Mug smiled tauntingly. “It was the kid’s money. So what! I murdered him. So what!” He laughed. “You can’t do anything about it.”

I gripped my rod tightly. One hand was free. Mug seemed to be arranging himself slowly, deliberately. He weaved both legs around the rods. One of his hands was free. Suddenly he let go of the rod with the other. He held the top of the car with the flat of his palms.

“Give me that money,” he said slowly.

The road sped below us. A few inches above our heads the heavy freight car lurched and clattered.

Mug’s arms leaped at me suddenly. I felt his steel grip at my neck. I held on tight with one hand. My free hand bashed down again and again at the side of his face. His fingers pressed hard at my throat. I continued beating his face. He shrieked curses above the noise of the train.

I struggled to suck in my breath. Mug’s hand clawed at my shoulder and neck as I twisted on the narrow rod. His whole body leaned across the whipping, speeding rails. I straightened my free hand. Tensed it still, till it trembled. With one sharp cutting blow I struck Mug across the back of the neck.

I didn’t hear him scream. I didn’t let myself, though the shriek filled my ears, splintering my senses with its noise. I closed my eyes, breathing quickly, almost hysterically. Holding on tight to the rod above me.

Every time I opened my eyes I saw his body hurled and knocked against the wooden ties, across the track. And the wheels. The wheels! I closed my eyes but it did no good. The picture was there. His body, the track. The sharp rushing wheels!

A piece of clothing that had been ripped away from him fluttered darkly in the breeze under the speeding freight car. For a while I just stared at it senselessly. Then I remembered the kid. The young red-headed kid, with a picture of his sister and a faraway look in his eyes.

I turned my head to look at the gravel speeding past. Sunlight sparkled cm it. The kid was dead, on the floor of a freight a couple of cars back. But I had the money. I could feel the stuffed bag bulge in my pocket.

And I had a picture with his sister’s address. I remembered her blond hair and her smile. All the way into the next stop, I kept staring at the lurching freight car bottom above me, thinking about what I would say to her, how I would explain.