“What do you intend to do?” Ike watched as the scenery outside passed by slower and slower.
“I need to find a man in the roundhouse,” he said. “He’s got . . . something I want.” The man’s hand pressed into his coat, as if assuring himself something still rode in an inner pocket. “The rest of what I need,” the man grated out. “That’ll give me all of it.”
Ike wondered at the hesitation in naming what he expected to get from a railroad employee. This gent wasn’t the kind to show reluctance about anything, much less something that seemed unimportant. That made Ike realize the man he shared the car with was on some kind of a mission—and it wasn’t a mission he wanted any part of.
The train shuddered as wheels screeched and locked to bring the powerful locomotive to a halt. Ike got his feet under him and exploded outward. He shoved past the armed tramp and sailed through the air. He hit hard in a pile of cinders. One burned its way into his elbow. Another cut his chin. Rather than take the time to brush off the clinkers pressed into his clothing, he dug his toes into the ground and launched himself again.
Shouts from the top of the freight car added speed to his retreat. Those cries for him to halt were drowned out by gunfire. Bullets kicked up tiny dust devils all around as the railroad detectives opened fire on him.
He slipped and fell again. This saved his life. If he’d remained upright, one slug would have caught him smack-dab in the middle of his back. Ike rolled over and saw three bulls atop the boxcar. One shot at him; the other two inexplicably tried to stop their partner from taking an accurate shot.
Strong hands jerked him to his feet and half dragged him along. The other refugee from the freight car pulled him erect.
“Run like your life depends on it, ’cuz it does!”
Ike didn’t need to be told.
“Thanks,” he said and tried to vault over the couplings between two cars on another train parked on a siding.
Again his unwanted partner grabbed him and shoved him in a different direction.
“More bulls on the other side,” came the curt answer to Ike’s unspoken question.
He had no idea how the man knew, but a quick look under the flatcar showed two men running along. If he had run where he’d intended, he would have been caught.
Killed.
He glanced over his shoulder. The three detectives on the boxcar scampered down rungs at the end of the car, still arguing among themselves. The one who had tried to kill him was in the lead. Ike knew better than to stop, lift his hands in surrender and expect anything but a bullet in the gut.
“In. Get in!”
The man grabbed the seat of his britches and heaved, sending Ike skidding along the floor of an empty freight car coupled to another train. He slammed into the far side and lay dazed and moaning.
“Open it. Look out. Hurry it up!”
Ike shook off the impact and did as he was ordered. As he heaved open the sliding door, his partner closed the door where they’d entered. Gunshots sounded, but no bullets penetrated the heavy wood. Muscles protesting, Ike slid back the door and chanced a quick glance. He ducked back.
Ike yelped as he was pushed out. He hit the ground hard.
“Keep up or I’ll leave you behind,” the man growled. He grabbed the back of Ike’s coat and heaved.
“Why would they kill us? Sneaking a ride’s not that bad, not enough for an army of them to come after us.” Ike saw the sour look on the man’s face. That was more of an answer than anything he said would be. They might not like it that Ike caught a free ride, but the man they wanted to kill for whatever reason was the one hauling him along.
“There’s the roundhouse,” the man said. “He’ll hide us. Me.”
The man’s sudden change from them being a team to saving himself convinced Ike it was time to part ways. He feinted left and started right, heading away from the roundhouse, where engines were spun around on a turntable. Through open doors, Ike saw a small locomotive being swung about, a man driving a team of mules to accomplish the task.
The mule skinner looked up when the man who had been with Ike waved frantically. Ike cringed as gunfire rang out. The man stiffened and reached out for the mule skinner, silently imploring him to help. Then, that haven was stolen from him as the railroad bulls continued firing until their own employee flopped to the ground. The roundhouse worker kicked once when a mule stepped on him, but that was his last twitch. He had been murdered by the cinder dicks.
Seeing this, Ike’s temporary partner flopped around and wiggled like a snake to find refuge behind stacks of steel rails waiting to be shipped out.
“Help me,” the man moaned, reaching out to Ike the way he had tried with the mule skinner. From a spot behind a mountain of coal, Ike saw that the man had been hit at least three times in the back. His shabby coat changed color, from dull brown to bright red, as he bled out. “I need you to . . .” His words faded, but life still burned in the man’s intense eyes.
Ike felt the man impose his will by force of character alone.
Ike hesitated. The bulls would kill him, too, if he tried to rescue a man who had willingly discarded him as an ally seconds before. A deep shudder shook him as he exhaled forcefully, trying to come to a decision. The stench of burning metal and soot made him gasp when he sucked in a new breath. Somehow, this biting acid burning in his lungs dictated what he should do. As the railroad dicks searched the mule skinner they’d just shot down, Ike bent low and made his way cautiously toward his injured acquaintance.
He cursed himself for getting involved. He didn’t owe this fellow train hopper anything. If anything, it was just the reverse. There wouldn’t be gunfire and a man lying dead if he weren’t here.
Ike skidded to a halt, circled a limp body with his arms and heaved. Finding that the man weighed too much to pick up, he began dragging the dead weight along behind the pile of rails until he reached a spot where a twist rolled the body under a car and between the tracks. Ike wasted no time flopping down to hide himself.
“You ought to—”
Ike clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to silence him. He pointed. Not ten feet away, the railroad bulls paced back and forth, arguing where their quarry had run.
“We plugged one of ’em, Kinch,” declared a detective pacing closer to where Ike peered out fearfully.
“The son of a bitch that got away’s who we have to stop. You sure he ran this way?”
“I saw him, Kinch. Really, I did. I’m sure I hit him, so he can’t get too far.”
“It’s on your head if you’re wrong. The boss doesn’t take failure easy.”
“I can’t forget what he did to Thomas. I never seen a man beheaded like that before.” He said in a smaller voice, “I never seen a man beheaded at all.”
The one named Kinch laughed. “The poor fool kept up for almost a hundred yards before the wire sliced off his head.”
“Imagine pacing a train like that for so long.”
“He would have caught up with the caboose if the boss hadn’t signaled the engineer to highball it,” said Kinch. “Good thing Thomas was far enough back that he didn’t splatter blood all over us.”
A loud cry off from across the rail yard caught the two bulls’ attention. They lit out at a dead run, leaving Ike trembling. He chanced a peek to see if the coast was clear.
“Come on, get to your feet. This’ll be our only chance when they find we’re not halfway across the yard.” When he got no reply, he shook the man’s shoulder. His hand came away sticky with blood. He wiped it on the man’s tattered coat. He swallowed hard when he didn’t get the protest he expected.