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 symboclass="underline" "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.
Chapter 39
Cris stood in front of Cinder-Ella's house and tried to guess which way was east. He finally stopped a mail carrier and asked the way to the river.
In the fifties and sixties, Shreveport had been a big center for scrap metal, and as a result it had become a shipping hub in the south. Now, because of the extensive rail and shipping lanes, there were all kinds of local factories making everything from ball bearings to furniture. They were tucked in among lush trees heavy with Spanish moss.
The summer air was moist. Cris walked until his shirt was dripping. The majority of buildings he passed were fifties-style motel structures; an occasional antebellum house looked out from between its stucco neighbors like a beautiful mistake.
It took Cris almost an hour to find Black Bed Jungle. When he saw it through the trees, it lived up to the warning. There were almost no dogs or children, always a bad sign. Also, the dwellings were even more temporary and makeshift than usual. In other camps, hobos would often build a house of scrounged lumber and materials, then leave the dwelling behind for others to use. This jungle had no "permanent" structures; they were unfriendly hovels built by unfriendly men. As transients moved on, the hovels were immediately picked clean as vultures' prey.