“He’ll see you for certain,” came a gravelly voice more like an animal’s growl than a human’s warning.
The light snaking past the open sliding door in a pale wedge showed a man as down on his luck as Ike himself. Maybe his luck was a mite worse, because his clothing hung in filthy tatters, revealing bruised and cut skin. The boots were scuffed and nicked, his jeans must have been caught in a stampede attended by every single steer on the King Ranch and two holes in his hat let through the sun’s rays in a peculiar way. Ike blinked. It looked as if the light passed clean through the man’s head, but it was only a trick of perspective. The hat was pushed back a ways on his head far enough for Ike to figure out his companion’s hair was as scarce as coins jingling in his pocket. The only thing that Ike envied, just a little, was the full mustache that billowed out thick and proud like long horns on a bull. He touched his own mustache and realized how far he had to go to cultivate it before matching the stranger’s. His was hardly more than a knobby, finger-thick hairy patch at its widest.
“Who’s that?” Ike levered himself up and perched on the edge of the crate. He and the man between him and the door were about the same height, though Ike fancied himself taller, if only to find yet another reason to feel superior. One thing he didn’t have that the other man did was a six-shooter hanging at his hip. Like the rest of his clothing, the gun belt had seen better days. The holster had once been a fancy tooled cradle for the six-gun, probably done down in Mexico from the look of the elaborate designs, but its stitching was fraying. If the man moved too fast, his gun likely would tumble out of his holster as the leather fell apart.
But he had a six-shooter, and Ike didn’t. A man had to respect that difference. Ike also lacked the steely glint in his eye that defied argument. What he said was Gospel—if the six-shooter didn’t proclaim that, the intimidating stare did.
“The railroad bulls, you idiot. They musta seen you sneak aboard. Otherwise, they’d have stayed back in Houston.” The man looked up suddenly, hand going to his six-shooter in a quick, smooth move, as distinct footsteps crossed from the rear of the freight car roof to the front.
Both Ike and the man stared up, their heads turning slowly to follow the clop-clop-clop. When the steps halted, the two men exchanged looks. Ike knew what thoughts ran through his traveling companion’s head. He thought the same thing. He still had to ask.
“Somebody’s riding up there?” Ike hardly believed that. The way the train was hurtling along, the wind would sweep any fool off as slick as spitting out a watermelon seed.
The man only nodded. He kept his hand on the pistol butt but made no move to draw.
Ike considered his situation. He was a greenhorn when it came to stealing rides on a train. His unwitting fellow nonpaying passenger had the look of a man used to such illegal travel. Never one to ignore someone with more experience, Ike asked, “What do we do if he checks the car and finds us?”
“Circle back on what you said. If he searches this car, we don’t let him find us. There’s no way he’s alone. They travel in packs, like wolves. Only, I’d prefer facing down an actual wolf pack. They’re not as vicious, even when they’re famished.”
“You have considerable dealings with railroad, uh, bulls?”
The man studied him now, then laughed curtly. Ike bristled at the sound. He was being dismissed out of hand. His ire rose when the man pushed him aside and hopped onto a crate so he stared past Ike at the landscape rolling by quickly. Whether he did this to keep himself occupied or to watch for the railroad detective wasn’t a question Ike felt easy asking. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything he felt easy about with this gent. Everything about him screamed, KILLER.
Ike vowed to keep his own counsel. He had no quarrel with the gunman. They just happened to be illicitly occupying the same boxcar and nothing more. If anything, their interests rode the same horse in wanting to avoid the railroad detectives. That was likely all they shared.
“Of all the rail-yard dicks, the ones working for this particular line are the worst. They’d as soon cut your throat as give you the time of day. More so, I reckon,” the man said playing with his bushy mustache as he talked. “They’re hired because they enjoy killing anyone getting in their way—or their boss’.”
“That’s a mighty bold statement,” Ike said skeptically. “You know this for a fact or are you just blowing smoke?”
“You insinuating that I was the one that brought them down on our necks?” The man’s choler grew. He faced Ike, and again his hand went to rest on the butt of his six-shooter.
“No, no, sir, nothing like that. I had to leave town in a hurry, and this iron horse was the first out of the gate, so to speak. I wasn’t even sure where the train headed, and it didn’t matter as long as it was . . . away.”
“Same with me,” the man said, but Ike heard the deception in his words. For whatever reason, this train and maybe even this freight car had been chosen for the journey to San Antonio from a rail yard filled with other trains. Ike had no desire to find out the other man’s reasons. He had troubles of his own.
His head snapped around to look overhead once more. There had been one set of footsteps before. Now it sounded like a stampede.
“How many do you think there are?” Ike asked. He pointed above. His companion didn’t follow the motion. The hard stare fixing Ike to the spot further convinced him the man dodged the railroad detectives, too, but for a different motive than his.
Penrose bragged about the police he’d bought off in Houston. The railroad bulls were nothing more than police officers who were too crooked to be tolerated on the police force. Thinking of that possibility scared Ike more than he had been.
“More ’n we can win against if we tangle with ’em.” The man gave Ike a quick once-over, came to the conclusion he was harmless then turned his back to take another quick look out the open door. “We’re almost at the rail yard.”
“San Antonio? Already?” This surprised Ike. It felt as if he had just hopped onto the train, yet the fear he’d experienced for every mile during the past half hour stretched into forever.
“Don’t think on jumpin’ out, not here. You’d be seen for sure,” the man said.
“You’ve done this before? Stealing a ride in a boxcar?”
“Stealin’?” The man laughed. It sounded ugly. “You sound like them. What’re we stealin’?”
“The price of a ticket,” Ike said, not sure how to respond. “The railroad makes money off passengers. We caught a ride, and they’re not collecting a dime from us.”
“They’ve got money to burn. What’s it worth ridin’ in this here car? They should pay us. We’re not takin’ up space in their fancy passenger cars.” The man grumbled some, muttered under his breath, and then said, “The bulls aren’t goin’ anywhere. They must have figgered out we’re in here.”
Ike surged forward, intent on jumping. He didn’t care what his unwanted associate said. Getting off the train reduced the chance of being caught, especially if the railroad detectives stayed with this boxcar all the way into the San Antonio depot. They’d have to be damned fools to jump down from the top of the freight car to chase after him.
A strong hand grabbed his upper arm. As he struggled to pull free, those fingers turned into iron bands. There wasn’t any way to escape without the man releasing him of his own accord.
“Do as you’re told.” The words carried the snap of an order. The man was used to being obeyed. Ike had never been in the army, but this man’s cutting words sounded for the world like the steel of an officer mustering his troops before a suicidal attack.