by Tonia Brown
He didn’t need to look back to gauge her reaction; he could feel the woman’s eyes upon him as she stopped and turned, in full, to watch him walk away. Every familiar face he passed gave the same response. Dodger never thought of himself as a popular figure in town, seeing as how he mostly kept to himself. But those who knew him, or at the very least knew of him, seemed upset at the sight of him heading out of town with his bags across his back. Yet no one rushed to stop him. No one begged him to stay.
Which was just as well, because it would’ve taken one heck of a pity party to make him change his mind.
As Dodger walked down the wide dirt road that split the town in half, he had the sudden sensation of someone walking alongside him. Boon’s whispering voice entered his mind as the ghost said, Folks appear disturbed that you are taking leave of this place.
“Not really,” Dodger said under his breath. “They’re just being all kinds of polite.”
‘Tis the sign of a good man, such melancholy in the community upon your departure.
Dodger smiled at the widow Martin, who frowned in return as if he had greatly displeased her by leaving without so much as an explanation. This was the same woman who would’ve expected Nero to explain the need for all of the incessant fiddling while they both burned alive in the process, so nothing new there.
Are you as sorry to leave as they are to see you go?
Through the gritted teeth of his grin, Dodger asked. “Will you do me a favor?”
If I am able, certainly.
“Don’t talk to me in public.”
Dodger could just about hear Boon’s ephemeral eyebrows furrow.
Why not? It isn’t as though others can hear me.
“That as it may be, I don’t want to look like a loon by talking to myself.” Dodger whispered this, trying his best to hide his words under nods and farewells.
Ah, I didn’t think of that. I’m very sorry. My enthusiasm for fresh banter blinded me to the obvious. You must forgive me; it has been months since I have been able to hold a decent conversation with someone. I suppose I have a lot to say, but don’t feel as though you must answer.
“And have you think me rude?”
A light chuckle touched Dodger’s mind. Polite and deadly. That’s quite a combination you make of yourself.
“I aim to please.”
You aim for far more than that, I’ll wager. Still, it wasn’t my intention to cause you discomfort.
“Yet you persist.”
Point taken. I shall keep my comments to myself until we are alone again. I apologize. The presence of the spirit remained, but Boon, true to his word, fell silent.
Now Dodger felt like he was being spied upon, but he supposed it was better than listening to a running commentary only he could hear.
The town doctor, Doc Willow—who wasn’t a doctor by schooling but rather by experience, as in the experience of sewing up the nicks and cuts caused by a lifetime of poor barber skills—nodded in Dodger’s direction. Dodger touched his forefingers to his hat in farewell, but it was obvious the elderly man wanted more than a gesture. He waved Dodger over to himself, and Dodger figured it was best to comply.
“Hurt yaself?” the sawbones asked as Dodger approached.
Dodger flexed his injured hand, trying his best not to wince. “Just a sprain. I’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Doc Willow grunted, unconvinced. “Could look at it for ya.”
“Thanks, but no time.”
“Yeah. Heard ya wuz leavin’ us.”
It came as no surprise the town’s medicine man already knew Dodger was set to leave. Gossip traveled through small towns faster than a brush fire could consume a patch of tumbleweed in the height of dry season. That was to say, very fast indeed, and Blackpoint was no exception. The residents crowded the narrow boardwalk that bordered the town’s single street, proving that the news had burned clear across town before Dodger set a foot outside of Decker’s place. It seemed as though every able-bodied soul within rumor’s distance had gathered to watch him leave.
But again, no one stepped up to stop him.
“Why ya in such a rush?” Doc Willow asked. “Ya in trouble?”
“No, sir. Job’s come open,” Dodger said with a shrug. “Can’t pass it up. I’ll miss this place though.”
“Naw ya won’t.” The barber-cum-physician grinned at Dodger. “But I kent says I blames ya. Travel while ya can, son. ‘Cause when ya git too old, it gits too late.” In a movement that seemed part ominous and part spiritual, Doc Willow raised a hand to Dodger’s shoulder, grasping gently as he looked Dodger square in the eye and said, “Good luck. God bless an’ keep ya for His own.”
Dodger, who never considered himself a spiritual man, closed his eyes and took a moment to soak up this undeserved blessing from his elder. He had a suspicion he would need all the blessings he could get in time to come. When he looked up again, the man’s grin had bloomed into a beatific smile, gap-toothed but saintly.
Nodding once more, Dodger said, “Same to you, sir.” With that, he went on his way.
That seemed nice.
“It was nice,” Dodger said. And it was. Just a nice way to remember Blackpoint.
A nice way to depart from somewhere: in peace, for once in his life.
Outside of town proper, Dodger shifted his step into high gear, all but running for the train lest he miss his appointed departure.
I assume we can we speak freely now.
“Sure,” Dodger said. “But I’m afraid I don’t make much of a traveling companion.”
How about a working partner?
“Come again?”
I have given this some thought, and seeing as how I don’t have much else to do, and nowhere else to go, I would consider it an honor to offer you my services. What little there are to offer, of course.
Dodger smiled to himself. His experience outweighed the dead man’s by several decades. There was little Boon could teach or offer that Dodger wasn’t already well capable of. “Thanks, but I think I can handle this one on my own.”
I understand you are far more experienced in the ways of the work than I, but I have a few years of personal knowledge about the Sleipnir and her crew that you could use. That and I can act as a pair of extra eyes. Invisible eyes.
Now there was an idea. Boon as a ‘partner’ didn’t sit well with Dodger, but Boon as a spy was a unique idea. An information source that no one else could see or hear. One who could keep invisible tabs on folks and report their activities back to Dodger, and only Dodger. It was tempting, to say the least. It also brought up an interesting point. Although the spirit was chatty as ever, he failed to make an appearance.
“Why can’t I see you?” Dodger asked.
Sunlight.
“Which means …?”
I am unable to manifest myself in direct sunlight. Which is also why I must touch your mind rather that speak aloud with you, which I know you prefer. I don’t know why this is. I just know it is.
“Makes sense to me. At least it explains a thing or two.”
Does it?
“Sure. You ever hear tell of a ghost story taking place in broad daylight?”
Boon’s laughter echoed in Dodger’s thoughts. No. I must admit I haven’t. I’m sorry if it’s bothersome. I wished there were something I could do about it.
“No bother at all. I don’t mind good conversation now and again. As long as I’m alone, that is.” Dodger walked in silence for a bit, watching his boots stir up the dry dirt, thinking about what Boon had said and the implications that followed. “Now when you say you touch my mind, does that mean you can ... well ... can you ...?”
Read your thoughts?
“Yeah.”
The spirit gave a protracted sigh rather than an answer.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Yes and no.
Dodger gripped the gun belt slung low on his waist. “You best explain yourself before I toss your guns to the dirt right no
w.”
Please, don’t panic. I only mean to say that if I wanted I could pick up the foremost thoughts of your mind. But only those you are directly thinking about, and it takes a maximum effort on my part. The task leaves me almost too drained to act upon the information once I have it.
“So it’s all touch and no look?”
A strange way to put it, but yes.
“Well then. Thanks for being honest about it.”
Again, I couldn’t lie if I wanted to. And, further truth be told, I find it tedious as well as useless to know what others are thinking most of the time. It’s a bit like reading a diary; most of it is just embarrassing prattle and unsubstantiated worries. Besides, most folks’ body language gives their motives away quicker than a scanning of their thoughts ever could.
“That it does, my phantom friend. That it does.”
Dodger slowed his steps as he approached the train, taking a moment to scan the perimeter of his new appointment and the body language spoken at that very moment. In the shade of the back engine platform, Ched lay stretched in repose, much in the manner of a reclining feline, loafing and lazy, and looking quite content to remain that way. But it wasn’t just his relaxed position that irked Dodger. No. The man displayed three classic signs of an easy target.
Unarmed.
Untroubled.
Unwary.
The first showed in Ched’s naked hips. If he did have a pocket advantage—keeping a readied weapon stashed in the billowing folds of his overalls—then with his hands clasped behind his head, it would take much longer for him to reach his weapon than it would for even the slowest of draws to put at least one bullet in that eerie skull. Being unable to outdraw your enemy was just as bad as being unarmed.
The second lay in Ched’s easy manner, in the way he reclined. The man rolled his eyes hither and thither—that was, when he just didn’t shut them outright. Truth be told, he displayed all the symptoms of a man on the verge of falling asleep. Keeping lookout was one thing, but combining it with an afternoon nap, well, that was danger of its own making.
The third factor was the product of Ched’s lazy watch. The driver should have been on sentry, but instead of remaining alert and oriented, he leaned against the platform in a languid sprawl. On occasion, he lolled his head about from side to side, as if bored with his simple work. This positioning would take time to recover from if there was a sudden onset of gunfire. Or worse.
Anyone in the world could sneak up on the train.
Which of course made it all the easier for the man trying to do just that very thing.
****
back to top
****
Chapter Two
Message in a Bottle
In which Dodger gets an invitation.
Boon whispered, Dodger, there, between the engine and second car.
“I see him too,” Dodger said as he picked up his pace again.
Between the cars there rested a man on his belly, creeping along the underpinning of the train. He had to be of a painfully small physique to be able to wedge himself into the tight fittings of the SMART. But that he had done, and he now had the advantage should he wish to spring up and pounce on the unsuspecting driver.
Dodger was forced to remind himself that Ched was just that—a driver and not a hired gun. Yet, if this was the kind of security the line had as of late, no wonder they had so much trouble. Dodger reminded himself to extol the virtues of keeping a synchronized watch at a later date.
“It seems our friend is oblivious to the danger,” Dodger said.
Yes, well, Ched was never very observant. I’m afraid his current condition hasn’t improved this attitude much. If nothing, it’s made him more apathetic.
“Where I come from, we just call that lazy.”
Boon chuckled. So do we.
“When we have time to talk again, I’d like to know more about this so-called condition.”
Ah, I’m afraid that’s a tale for Ched to tell. Though I warn you, he might require a confession in exchange to loose his tongue.
“Then we should all swap stories sometime. You included.”
Me?
“Of course. I have a feeling you have an interesting history to share. And I’m sure you have plenty of questions to ask me.”
So be it. I shall consider it a challenge to top your assured tales of adventure.
Dodger doubted the ghost ever could.
The skeletal man, who finally spotted Dodger, crawled down from his perch on the platform and eased his way toward them. Just as he came within speaking distance, Ched tipped a long thin finger to the brim of his cap and said, “Welcome back, Sharge.”
“Lieutenant,” Dodger snapped.
“Schushe me?”
“If you’re gonna call rank, it’s Lieutenant.” He strode past the driver without bothering to look the man in the face.
From behind him rose the rebuttal of, “What ever you shay. Sharge.”
Dodger sucked in a deep breath to keep from firing off another retort. It could have been worse, he supposed. In his heyday, Dodger had gone by all sorts of appellations—some nicknames, some slanders, and most of which weren’t repeatable in polite company. Heck, most weren’t repeatable in any company. He put both the insult and the driver behind him and mounted the platform onto the engine car.
“Where’sh Lelanea?” Ched asked. “She shaid she wash gonna fetch ya.”
“She came back on her own a little while ago,” Dodger said.
“Oh. I musht’ve misshed her.”
Dodger groaned in frustration. Ye gods. How unconscious could one man be of his own surroundings?
“Doc’sh waiting for ya in the meetin’ car,” Ched said, falling in line behind Dodger.
“I figured as much,” Dodger said as he resumed his climb onto the platform.
“Tish the third one down.”
“I remember.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dodger made note of the little man slipping back under the second car, into the cramped quarters of the underpinning.
“And thish ish the engine.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Dodger dropped his bags on the platform and leaned out over the edge to address the intruder. “Unless you want to lose both of your kneecaps and most of your legs, I suggest you throw out your weapon and come out with your hands up.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Ched asked.
“He heard me.” Dodger pulled one of the oversized guns and set the triple hammer. The action echoed with an impressively loud metallic click in the hollow of the cab connection. “Toss out your weapon and come out with your hands up.”
“Don’t shoot!” the man under the train yelled.
Ched stared at the underpinning, eyes wide with awe. “Damn, Sharge. I’ve sheen shome thingsh in my day, but you’ve got shkillsh to beat the band.”
“Thank the devil someone does,” Dodger grumbled. Louder, he added, “Toss out your gun.”
“I’m not armed,” the man under the train said.
“Toss out your weapon.”
“I sed I weren’t armed!”
“Toss out your weapon. Now!”
A pistol skidded across the dirt, away from the second car, toward the hills opposite the town of Blackpoint.
Dodger nudged the driver as he tipped his head at the gun.
Ched hopped down from the platform to retrieve the weapon.
“Come out with your hands up,” Dodger said. “Slowly.”
“I … I can’t,” the man said.
“Why not?”
“I think … I think I’m stuck.”
“If I had a gold nugget for every time I heard that line-”
“It’s true! I can’t wiggle out. I’m tryin’. Honest.”
It is true, Dodger. He’s caught his pant leg in the workings of the SMART. In order to clear himself, he will have to cut the fabric, but only if we arm him again, which I don’t recommend. The other option is obvious, if not foul, considering t
he nasty specimen he is.
Dodger chuckled before he requested that obvious option. “Take off your pants.”
“What?” the man shouted.
“You shure about that, Sharge?” Ched asked.
Making his way down the platform, while keeping the weapon trained on the underpinning, Dodger said, “Take off your pants and crawl out here.”
“But I’m not wearing anything under,” the man whimpered.
“And I don’t want to shee that,” Ched said.
“You,” Dodger said with another nod to Ched. “Go and get the boss man. Tell him we found an intruder.”
“We?” Ched asked.
“Yes. We. Now go.”
Shaking his head, Ched mounted the engine platform and disappeared into the second cab.
“And you,” Dodger said, returning his attention to said intruder. “You’ve caught your pants in the works. Take them off so you can slide out here.”
“No.”
“Take them off!”
“No! I ain’t standing around in front of a bunch of strangers with my giblets hanging out.”
“You should have thought about that before you decided to sneak up on my train. Next time you plan a sneak attack, I suggest you wear long underwear.”
“Very funny.”
“Now, as I see it, you have three options here. You take off your pants and come out here of your own accord, or I can blow your legs off and drag what’s left of you out here.”
The man considered these options for a moment, then said, “That’s only two. What’s the third?”
Dodger was surprised the man could count higher than one, though three was probably his upper limit. “Your third option is the easiest. I just leave you where you are.”
“Leave me?”
“Yup.”
“Uh-huh. I see. And what’s the catch?”
Dodger shrugged. “No catch. I leave you, and when the train moves out again—which will be very soon, I should add—then you come along for the ride. But I don’t think you will enjoy it very much.” Dodger stepped closer to the gap between the cars, lowering his voice as he leaned into that dark space. “In fact, I daresay the experience will leave you feeling a little … flat. Comprende?”
