The Devil_s Workshop

Chapter 38

Cris and Stacy saw the SP unit train from the windows of the white Mercedes as the priority train they were on flashed past.

"There it is," Cris said, as he craned his neck to look back at the freight full of enclosed grainers.

"You think Kincaid is still on it?"

"That's gotta be the train he caught out on," Cris said, turning back to her. "At least according to Steam Train it is."

"What do we do?" she asked, as they rocketed past the parked line of grain cars, the trapped air between the trains shaking the Mercedes violently.

"We gotta get off. He could be changing trains here or he could be just waiting for us to pass. Either way, we have to check the switching yard and the local jungle. Shreveport's a hub-he could be heading anywhere from here."

"How do we get off?" she said, looking at Cris with her eyes wide now, because the train they were on was going over sixty.

"We'll slow for the yard in Shreveport, cut down to ten miles or less. Come on!" He reached over, turned off the engine of the Mercedes, and opened the door. As they got out they could already feel the train begin to slow.

They moved along, retracing their steps, finally getting to the ladder. Cris climbed down and helped Stacy, until finally they stood on the main floor of the car carrier, only four feet above the tracks.

"Shit, you can't be serious," she said, as she looked down at the rocky grade flashing by beneath them.

Cris climbed down the side ladder and was now only a couple feet above the grade. Holding on to the grab-iron, he stepped down to the stirrup at the bottom of the ladder, then slowly let his right foot down, not quite touching the fast-moving gravel. Then he dropped his foot a few inches lower until it touched the ground. Almost immediately, it kicked back and behind him; his heel flew up and hit him in the ass.

"Not yet," he grinned. "Still goin' too fast."

"What the hell are you doing?" Stacy demanded.

"It's a way to find out whether the train's going slow enough," he explained. "When you can put your foot down and it doesn't fly all the way up and hit you in the ass, then it's safe to jump. These are time-tested procedures."

She wrinkled her nose in distrust as he smiled up at her. Again she could glimpse the heroic man in the picture behind his father's bar.

The train was now near Shreveport, and wooden shacks marking the edge of the town began to appear; their pebble-scared backs turned toward the tracks like banished children. Cris pointed to one of the old wood structures as it flashed by them. It had a chevron painted on the side: ^

"See that?" he said pointing to the drawing.

"Yeah," she said, whipping her head to watch the shack recede behind them.

"A chevron on a wall outside, of town means the cops in the switching yard are assholes likely to beat the crap outta you before making an arrest. It's a hobo warning… means we've gotta get off before we hit the yard."

They could see that a couple of hobos had already jumped off the train and were rolling in the dirt as they shot past.

Cris put his foot down again, and this time it flew back, but didn't come all the way up and hit his butt.

"Okay, let's go." He gathered his strength and jumped, running a few awkward steps as he hit the ground, then went down, rolling onto his shoulder. Stacy climbed down after him, and without thinking, jumped. She hit and rolled like tumbleweed in the dust.

The train slowed further as it approached the yard. They could hear the brake valves hiss; tortured metal screamed as the brake shoes engaged.

Cris helped her up. "You just did your first train hop," he smiled as they brushed themselves off. "Welcome to the Knights of the Road. If I was still drinking we'd split a bottle over it. That was some dismount."

"Jesus, that's not as easy as it looks," she said, but she was smiling broadly, invigorated by the experience.

Now that the train was gone, keening insects took over, playing their field music. The other hobos had all magically disappeared like cockroaches under a baseboard. Stacy and Cris began walking along the track, toward the line of wood shacks. Cris pointed to some crude stick drawings on the side of one of the buildings. "See those?" he said.

She nodded.

"Over the years, hobos have put them there to tell other 'bos what's going on up ahead in the switching yard." He pointed to a triangle with two arms on either side: "That means the cops in the switching yard carry guns." Then he pointed to another symbol: "That means a kind lady lives here." Next to the cat were three triangles, each one larger than the last:

"What's that mean?" she asked.

"It means an exaggerated story will work with her. She's gullible. Come on."

They walked along the side of the shack with the cat and found the gate, pushed it open, then crossed a dirt yard strewn with rusting junk. Cris knocked on the back door of the weather-beaten house, which was badly in need of paint. After a minute the door opened, and an old woman with her hair tied in a bandanna appeared at the screen door.

"Well, lookie here," she said, smiling at Cris. Then she shifted her speculating gaze to Stacy. "Don't believe I've seen you two before."

"We just got off that train, and were wondering if you'd be kind enough to tell us more about the yard up ahead."

"Stay outta Shreveport. Them SP bulls is the worst." She smiled at Cris. "You got a name, son?"

"I'm Lucky, she's Stacy," Cris answered.

"Cinder-Ella," the old woman said proudly. "Cinder for the trains, Ella 'cause my given name is Eloise."

"Nice knowin' ya," he smiled, then added, "We need to know where the jungle is around here and what kinda place it is."

"That's Black Bed Jungle, but it ain't too healthy. It's east a' here, down by the river, but lotsa Low Enders hang there. Two old 'bos got murdered at Black Bed last year. The cops didn't do nothing, and the word spread. It's been fillin' up with F. T. R. A. S ever since. There's a new camp been forming 'bout two miles away, called Need More Jungle. It's safer." She smiled at Stacy, who smiled back. " 'Course things ain't like in the old days. Everybody's packin' guns. Some 'bos shot a cinder bull in the switching yard just this mornin'-plugged the bastard right outside the Yardmaster's office," Cinder-Ella said.

"No kidding," Cris said.

"Yep, been on the TV all day. News said the dead man was an SP yard bull, shot with a nine-millimeter."

Cris remembered it was a nine-millimeter that Fannon Kincaid had pointed at him when he'd been in the water at Vanishing Lake. "How far down the tracks is the switching yard?" he asked.

"Not far, 'bout half a mile. But them yard bulls is crazed right now. They'll be billy-jackin' anybody looks like a train rider."

"Would it be okay if my friend stayed here while I run a few errands?" he asked.

"Be fine with me," she smiled. "Can always use the company."

"I'll only be gone a little while," Cris said to Stacy.

Stacy followed him to the garden gate.*4 What're you gonna do?"

"If Kincaid's men shot that bull, I'll bet you anything they were carbon-sheet-spotting. I'm gonna go to Black Bed Jungle, see if they're still around. If I can find them, maybe I can figure out what train they're catching out on. I want you to stay here and listen for that grain train. It should be pulling through anytime. Move out to the side of the tracks and check out the cars as they pass. Look for a sleeper car, and look under all the cars at the suspension rods. Sometimes 'bos ride there, or up on the roof. There'll be around forty of them, probably riding in two or three cars. If they're still on that train, you should be able to spot them."

"If you think they're on that train, why don't we sneak back and check it?"

"I don't, 'cause they wouldn't have been at the Yardmaster's office and killed that cinder bull, but we gotta check in case I'm wrong. Besides, by the time we hike all the way back to that train, my guess is it'll already be moving. Just check it from here when it passes. Be back in a few hours." Then he smiled at her, and in a second he was out the gate. Stacy could hear his footsteps on the gravel as he moved along the side of the house and away.

She turned and faced the old woman, who was busy tucking loose strands of wispy gray hair into her scarf, making herself more presentable for the company. Stacy felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. She was in a whole new world where none of the rules of her old life applied. She could barely understand any of it.