The Hanging of Samuel Ash (10 page)

Hook had known Frenchy for a good many years. Though short on diplomacy, no man on the line knew the makings of a steamer better than Frenchy.

“How about a hitch to Gallup?” Hook said.

“Well, now, I don't recall you ever
asking
to ride before. Mostly you just hop like any other bo.”

“You think this ole calliope will get that far?” Hook asked.

“Climb aboard, and don't worry about her getting there. She'll be making steam long after you're smoldering in your grave.”

Hook worked his way up by slipping his prosthesis under each rung while pulling up with his good hand. For a one-armed man, climbing a ladder and tying shoes could be tough as brain surgery.

When Hook stepped in, he nodded at the fireman and then searched out a place to sit. Frenchy lit his cigar and checked the gauges. Turning to the fireman, he said, “Dust her out. She choked down while waiting on this cinder dick to make up his mind.”

The fireman opened the boiler door and pitched in some sand to blow out the clinkers. Fire from the boiler lit his face and filled the cab with heat.

Frenchy bumped her ahead and then leaned into the throttle. The old engine groaned and stepped up to a walk. With each stroke, she picked up speed, and they were soon clipping down the track.

Relighting his cigar, Frenchy turned to study Hook. “You still collecting those goddang books?” he asked.

“It's a gentleman's pastime,” Hook said. “And as such is outside your realm of appreciation.”

“You got that right,” he said. “Now, I'd understand something useful, like collecting baseball cards or girls' underwear.”

“I rest my case,” Hook said.

“Say, I heard someone run down the Carlsbad police with a road-rail. Some kind of maniac. Course, you being a gentleman and all, I guess you wouldn't know nothing about that.”

“I avoid hearsay and gossip whenever possible,” Hook said.

“Heard he had but one arm and had a snootful when he done it,” Frenchy said, grinning.

Hook rolled his eyes. “Well, you're half right.

“Listen, Frenchy, you coming back through anytime soon?”

“Tomorrow late. You need a free ride home, do you?”

“Might.”

“I'll keep an eye out for you, long as I don't have to listen to no book collecting.”

“I thought you were going to retire, Frenchy.”

“Well, someone's got to lead these teakettles to the cemetery, you know. There are lines of these old bullgines three miles long waiting for the scrap furnace. I figure when I put the last one to rest, then maybe I'll take mine. I don't think I could be a railroader no more, anyway.”

“You featherbedders have it easy, Frenchy. Me, I've got wildcatters tying up the high rail, scabs hanging from wigwags, and a college-educated yard dog cooling his heels in the Gallup jail.”

“So, you're bringing up a new yard dog, are you? Guess jail is as good a place as any to start him out.”

“Experience on line isn't important anymore, Frenchy. These kids think they can talk their way out of trouble.”

Frenchy lit his cigar, puffing it to life. “Well, all of America is sinking to hell if you ask me. We're feeding half of Europe and running up the cost of living in our own country. Truman's locked in price controls and threatening to draft the strikers into the goddang army. It takes five years to get a Pullman on line, and wages been frozen since forty-two.”

“But you got the union, Frenchy. All I have is Eddie Preston.”

“Any fool knows the union is in management's pocket, and there's a hole in it the size of a half-dollar. We employees work our asses off, pay our dues, and for what? Eight hours and ice water, that's what.”

The fireman shoved his hat back. “You bastards don't quit, I'm going to jump,” he said.

“Save us from having to push,” Frenchy said, winking at Hook.

*   *   *

Hook waited in the office of the Gallup jail for Junior Monroe to come out. When he stepped through the door, Hook hardly recognized him. He looked like he'd been hung out to dry on a windy day. The brim of his hat had been torn loose, and a grease smear ran the length of his cheek. Dark rings encircled his eyes, and his ears glowed red as a signal lamp.

The deputy behind him pushed his hat back and said, “Is this here your boy, Runyon?”

“Appears so, though I can't be certain,” he said.

“He don't resemble no real yard dog to me,” the deputy said.

“No, he doesn't, I admit,” Hook said.

“Maybe you better take him home to his mother before he gets himself in real trouble.”

“Good idea,” Hook said. “You called that B&B foreman yet?”

“Couldn't reach him. He's staying in a crew car out on the line somewhere.”

“Well, no need to bother him. I'll see that bus gets back soon as I get the boy here on his way.”

Junior followed behind as Hook walked down the street. At the Around the Bend Café on the edge of town, Hook turned.

“You hungry?”

Junior ran his finger under his nose and sniffed. “Famished. I lost my wallet, and I haven't eaten anything but jail food since.”

“They have pancakes in here big as boiler plates. Don't be ordering meat, though. What with the expenses of chasing you down, I'm nearly broke myself.”

The waitress came to the table with menus. She looked at Junior, whose bow tie sat at three o'clock under his chin, and whose hair hung over one eye like Clark Gable.

She turned to Hook. “Fathers ought not let their sons out drinking half the night in my way of thinking. It ain't right.”

Hook started to protest but changed his mind. “You know how boys are,” he said.

“Oh, do I,” she said. “Okay, what will you have to drink?”

“Coffee for me,” Hook said. “Hot tea for the boy here.”

“Hot tea?”

“With cream.”

She slipped her pencil behind her ear. “Maybe he'd like a crumpet with that, too?”

“Just tea,” Hook said.

After she'd gone, Hook said, “I'd be interested in how you wound up in jail, Junior.”

Junior coughed and rubbed at his eyes. “I jumped on that train like you said. It nearly tore my arm off. No offense, sir. Those cars were so slick, I couldn't go up or down, so I just clung to the ladder in hopes that I could make it to the next stop.”

“Getting on a blacksnake is only half the job, Junior. You have to figure how to stay on once aboard and then get off without killing yourself.”

“The train just kept gaining momentum,” he said. “The faster it went, the worse the wind became until it took the breath right out of me. The dirt nearly blasted the skin from my face. When I thought I couldn't hang on another second, the train slowed and came to a stop.”

“Did you jump?”

“I considered it but then I didn't.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because we were sitting on top of a trestle so high I couldn't see the bottom. And then a swarm of mosquitoes arrived, humming and whirling around my head in a black cloud. I thought they would surely drive me mad. For a moment, I reconsidered jumping, trestle or no trestle.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks. “Two coffees,” she said. “Boss says we don't do tea and crumpets for no one, 'cept the queen, and this ain't her week to be here.”

“We'll manage,” Hook said.

They both watched her top off cups as she worked her way back to the kitchen.

“Go on,” Hook said.

Junior pushed his coffee to the side. “Somehow I made it to Gallup. But by then my fingers had turned blue from hanging on, and my eyes had clogged with dirt. Frankly, my resolve had begun to weaken. I decided then to jump the moment the train slowed for Gallup.”

“Good thinking, Junior.”

“But it never did,” he said, staring into his plate. “It only accelerated.”

“Lay asides can be unpredictable,” Hook said. “One time I rode a coal car clean to Winnipeg, Canada, before she stopped.”

Junior nodded. “And then we went by these stock cars filled with cattle.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The thing is, they urinated just as we passed.”

“Urinated, you say?”

He nodded. “Collectively, as if premeditated.”

“Well, you can never be certain what cows are thinking,” Hook said.

The pancakes arrived, and both fell silent as they slathered on butter.

Hook held up his knife. “You mind if we get to the jail part now, Junior?”

Junior shoved large portions of pancake into his mouth as he gathered up his story.

“So I'm thinking perhaps I made a serious mistake not jumping when I had the opportunity. But then again, perhaps the train would slow enough when we came to the bus. I calculated that the road couldn't be that far off.”

Hook poured syrup over his cakes. “The jail, Junior? I got pressing matters.”

Junior laid down his fork and stared off into space. “We shot past that bus so fast I could barely see it. We must have been going seventy miles an hour.

“In the end, I didn't get off until the train stopped in Fort Defiance. I walked all the way back to the bus and discovered the keys under the seat. Though the bus was in a state of disrepair, I thought it only logical that I attempt to drive it back.”

“The jail, Junior.”

“Apparently the bus belongs to the bridge and building foreman, who had parked it there while attending a job in Amarillo. He'd requested the police to keep an eye on it.

“When I arrived in town, I was promptly arrested for stealing railroad equipment. I explained to the deputy that I was in fact a real railroad detective, that I had been directed to remove the bus by railroad officials.”

“He didn't believe you?” Hook asked.

“He said he was a real cop, too, and would be directing me straight to jail.”

Hook leveled his prosthesis at Junior. “It's the job of yard dogs to put
other
people in jail. They're not supposed to be put in jail themselves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A yard dog has to set an example, be an ideal citizen, so to speak. He can't go around getting picked up by the authorities. His life has to be whistle-clean and his integrity beyond question.”

“I'm sorry, sir. Had I known…”

“Being put in jail cast the company in a bad light. You don't want that.”

“I can do better. I promise.”

Hook pushed his plate aside.

Junior cupped his elbows in his hands. “Are you going to release me, Hook? I'm afraid my father will not understand.”

Hook twisted his mouth to the side. “I'm prepared to give this a second chance, Junior, though I do so with considerable doubt.”

“I won't disappoint you a second time. I promise.”

“Thing is, I found a boy hanging off the potash wigwag. He might have been a murder victim.”

Junior's eyes widened. “Murder?”

“Possible. Turns out he'd been scabbing, and hard feelings had developed among the signal crew. The coroner found a Bronze Star around his neck with the name Samuel Ash engraved on it. So far, it's the only lead I have.”

“A war hero?”

“I want you to go back to Clovis and see if you can find out anything about this Samuel Ash.”

“Where should I begin the investigation?”

“Where the answers are, Junior. In the meantime, I'll see if I can clear the air around here.”

“Yes, sir, but…”

“But what?”

“Do I have to jump on another train? Perhaps you could arrange a permanent pass?”

“There's a mail car comes through this afternoon. I'll see if they'll take you on.” Hook stood. “And check on my dog when you get back. He pines something terrible when I'm away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Junior, let's keep this between us for the time being. Eddie Preston doesn't always understand the ins and outs of criminal investigation.”

 

12

 

A
FTER GETTING JUNIOR
on his way, Hook located the old bus parked behind the police station. The front grill had been replaced with chicken wire, and a board had been bolted over the back window. He found the keys under the seat and cranked her over while pumping the foot feed a half-dozen times to bring up the fuel. Bridge bracings and bolts of every ilk had been stacked on the passenger seats, and the smell of grease permeated the air.

The bus fired up, and a cloud of blue smoke sailed over the police station. Hook worked the gearshift into reverse. The bus jerked back as the clutch caught and slipped like an old washing machine.

He brought her up to forty and checked his watch. There should be plenty of time to get her parked back in the right-of-way before Frenchy came through.

Eddie deserved an ass chewing for ordering a tow on a company vehicle in the first place. But at the moment, given his own standing, Hook figured to let it pass.

Dusk fell as he rattled along the country road toward the crossing where the bus had been parked. Dust boiled in from around the windows, and a trickle of sweat raced down Hook's neck.

He considered having a one on one with that B&B foreman about leaving his equipment on the right-of-way. Such carelessness encouraged others to do the same thing, and security, being overworked and shorthanded, had all it could manage now.

As he approached the crossing, he slowed to check for trains before turning down the right-of-way. A couple hundred yards in, he backed the bus around and shut off the engine. The first stars of the evening clicked on, and a mourning dove cooed somewhere in the distance. Hook checked for Frenchy's light in the rearview mirror.

The death of that boy on the wigwag lay on his mind as heavy as a sad iron, not so much because of the business of dying, death in itself being unremarkable, but because he couldn't shake the manner in which it had been dealt—the injustice of a man hauled up by the neck and left to strangle at the end of a rope. It struck him as reprehensible to discard a war hero in a pauper's grave and without a soul in the world to give a damn.