by Ralph Dennis
But his mother had never been Randy’s keeper. His mother had birthed him, and there must have been pain in that, and she had worried about him those long nights when Randy had been on the chain gang. All that was true. But she had never seen the true meanness in him, the Devil’s hand on him, the way he fought the Lord’s good in him and twisted it like a dirty joke.
Maybe he could cry in five years or ten years. When he could forgive, if the Lord would show him the way. If the Lord cared about either of the Gipsons anymore.
Blood coated his hands, thick as red mud.
Sick to almost vomiting, he looked around the waiting room. The door marked gentlemen was there. He duck walked in that direction. He twisted the knob and lunged inside. The overhead light was on. The gym bag Randy had carried was in the center of the floor, empty except for a shell box.
Clark washed his hands and then his face. He looked at himself in the mirror above the washbasins. There was blood smeared on his undershirt.
He stared at his eyes. He did not look like a man whose brother had just died.
He dried on a damp roller towel. One step took him toward the waiting room. He stopped then and looked behind him. A breeze was blowing in on him through an open window above one of the toilets.
A string with a metal bead on it hung from the overhead light. He yanked the cord, and the bathroom was dark. He crossed to the window and stepped up on the toilet seat.
An alley was below him. A short drop. He looked in both directions. He didn’t see anyone. He pulled himself up until he sat on the ledge. A jump might make too much noise. He grabbed the ledge and lowered himself until his toes touched the ground.
He heard firing from his left, the direction of the railroad siding. Not that way. He headed toward town. He reached the corner of the station building and stopped. He drew back. A soldier stood in his path, rifle up, watching that entrance to the waiting room.
Clark watched. The soldier didn’t move. He was there for the night, it seemed, and Clark backed away. He whirled and started down the alley toward the tracks. He’d gone only a few feet when he heard the man coming toward him. “Cooper? You hear me, Cooper?”
Clark dropped to his hands and knees. The man was only yards away. Clark pressed against the wall. He lowered his head and saw the narrow opening above the foundation of the depot that led into the crawl space. He pushed upward and his head was inside. His shoulders scraped and he twisted his body to free them. He clawed and scratched, and his legs went in and out of the way only seconds before the soldier passed the opening.
Private Black said, “You see anybody?”
“Not a soul.”
“You keeping a good watch?”
“I got no reason not to,” Private Cooper said.
Black nodded. “You hear me, you come running.”
“I’ll do it.”
Clark crossed his arms under him to keep his head above the dust. He was boxed and he knew it.
Maybe it was what Harry had said. That the whole operation was planned like a picnic for idiot children.
In the distance, muffled by the closed space, the gunfire was heavier. It went on and on, and it was like it was never going to end. Not in this lifetime. Not ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Gunny Townsend didn’t have to check his pump gun. It was packed to the slot. He’d reloaded after he fired those two rounds at the train station. That was a part of soldiering the way he knew it. No mistakes and no excuses. You took care of what was yours, and you let the Devil do his best with the rest of the world.
He held a hand in front of him, palm down, and watched the barest tremble and shake to it. Being shot at could do that to you, but he knew he could settle it down. He’d get it back to normal in no time. But, Lord, it was embarrassing to have that major leaning over him and asking him if he was all right. Him, a man who had fought in the Big One and had killed his share and had even killed some spies in that Mex border war.
It soured him some to have that major acting like he was some raw recruit.
He pressed against the wall when the shotgun by the truck burned more powder. He heard the shot whap against the rear wall of the roundhouse. No way of knowing who that idiot was there by the truck. Or how many of them there really were.
Not that it mattered a bit. Let them come one at a time or all in a bunch.
The cutter he carried could clear a trench five yards wide and five men deep.
Just walk your ass into it.
Even with all the activity around him, the firing and the running and the shouting, Vic remained in the cab of the Bulldog that was backed up to the freight car. His head back, his eyes closed, he was trying to get some rest. He’d quit the loading a time after Betts did, and he’d gone out, expecting to join him in the cab. Betts hadn’t been there. Vic was too weary to wonder where he’d gone. He got into the cab and pulled the sliding door closed. To hell with everybody, unless they were two times as tired as he was.
The truck shook, it shifted under the weight as men worked in the bed of it. He felt each crate of bullion as it was dropped or stacked back there. It didn’t bother him any more than the gunfire did, as long as it remained at a distance. As long as nobody dropped a gold bar on him.
He didn’t sleep. His mind was full of bits and pieces of dreams. It was the way he’d felt when he was twelve and had the flu that winter in Detroit. Dreams that grew out of fire. He was in his office. The Franks Trucking Company. There was one gold bar on his desk, just to hold the paperwork down. And when he went outside, the Mack trucks were lined up, a dozen of them, the hoods raised. He walked the length of the yard, stopping to listen to each engine for a minute. The song, the sound of the perfect tuning.
And at his trucking company nobody made fun of anybody. A man who gave a dollar’s work for a dollar’s pay was just as good as anybody else. That was the first rule at the Franks Trucking Company. And rule number two was …
“Time to move out,” the captain said.
Vic grabbed the steering wheel. This sliding door on the passenger side rasped open. Johnny was there and Harry Churchman stood behind him.
“That way?” Vic pointed past them toward the rear of the roundhouse. “South?”
“Not directly,” the captain said. “North first and we work our way to the border.”
“How do we stand?”
“We lost a couple. We’re left and so’s the major and Gunny.”
“Betts?”
“He walked into one. So did the head Frenchie.”
“That leaves the three that don’t belong to us,” Vic said.
Johnny backed away from the door. “Harry, you get the major.”
Harry shifted the Thompson on his shoulder. “What about those three?”
“Like Vic said, they don’t belong to us. Do what you think best.”
“That’s easy,” Harry said.
Harry walked away. Captain Whitman stepped into the truck. He left the door on his side open. He could look down the road and see Gunny.
“You got any love for the Gipsons, Vic?”
“I wouldn’t walk across the street to piss on either one of them.”
“That’s what I thought. Of course, there’s been shooting at the train station. It might be the Gipsons aren’t with us anymore.”
Tom put a hand on the roof of the cab and leaned in. He was sweating and his breath was ragged. “The loading’s done.”
“Get in,” Johnny said.
“Harry said he was going to deal with those three men. What did he mean …?”
Someone shouted at the back of the truck. It was a plea, almost a scream. It was split down the middle by a long chatter of a Thompson.
“Get in,” Johnny said.
“What the …?”
Johnny grabbed his arm and pulled him into the truck cab. He reached across Tom and dragged the sliding door closed.
Vic started the engine. He eased the truck away from the siding. He swung the w
heel to the left. The railroad crossing was straight ahead.
“Wait for Gunny.”
Vic braked.
“No lights,” Johnny said.
Harry was belly down in the back of the truck. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Let’s go, Gunny. I’ll cover.”
Gunny pushed away from the wall.
“Gunny.”
Gunny started for the truck at a shambling, bearlike trot.
After the three soldiers reached the other truck they spread themselves on the ground around MacTaggart.
“Where’s the captain?”
“Gone by now,” one of the soldiers answered. “He said to tell you he was circling back to close off the road where it crosses the tracks.”
“That puts the cork in the bottle,” MacTaggart said. “You lads fire those rifles you’ve got there?”
“Yes, sir,” one soldier said.
“I want the three of you to crawl to the back of this truck. Once you’re there, I want you ready to move into the road and fire down the road when I tell you. Got that?”
A whisper of yes-sirs, and the soldiers moved away. Minutes passed. There were almost no sounds at all. A long burst of automatic fire broke that silence. It was at a distance, on the other side of the roundhouse. MacTaggart wasn’t sure what the firing meant. It might mean that Captain McGuire had reached the other side and had stumbled into something.
“Get ready to move,” he called.
He heard a truck engine start. From the sound he thought it was moving away, going in the other direction. He hadn’t decided what to do when he heard someone yell down the road. It sounded like “Guns” or something like that.
“Now, lads.” MacTaggart got his feet under him and ran away from the cover of the truck. With any luck he could reach that corner of the building, the one he’d been chipping away at all night. Even as he ran he saw the three soldiers leave the cover of the truck and step into the road. MacTaggart lunged the last few steps and rammed into the brick wall. He looked back and saw that the soldiers were kneeling in the road, firing together, putting round after round down the road as fast as they could work the bolts on their rifles.
Gunny Townsend saw the Bulldog pull away from the freight car. The driver got it straight in the road and braked. Harry was yelling at him from the back of the truck. It was time to move out. Gunny raised the shotgun to port arms and began his run toward the Bulldog. His breath came hard; he thought he was choking, and his heart beat against his chest like it was trying to break its way through.
He heard firing. His head down, he thought it was the cover fire from Harry. Another half-step and he heard his lungs tearing apart. He staggered, and the blood roared upward from his lungs. The dark flow choked him. It filled his mouth and gushed down his chest like vomit.
That close. He’d been that close before the lungs failed him the way he’d known they would.
He tossed the shotgun aside. He tried to right himself. Only fifty yards. He could still make the tailgate. Harry would help him.
A staggering step, another one.
He couldn’t breathe. Now blood was flowing from his nose. He tried to clear his throat. The cough drowned in the back of his mouth.
He lifted a hand toward the truck and fell face down in the road.
There were three wounds in his back. One round had hit the lower corner of his left lung and ruptured it.
Harry thought Gunny was going to make it. That was before he heard the rifle fire behind Gunny. Some rounds lashed against the truck. Harry gutted it up and brought the Thompson to his shoulder. When he looked down the barrel he knew he couldn’t fire. Gunny, wide as he was, blocked any sight of the riflemen in the road.
He wanted to yell, Get down, Gunny. It shaped his mouth. The “get” was on the front edge of his tongue. It was on his bottom lip when he saw Gunny stagger and almost fall. There was still some bull reserve of strength in the old man. He straightened himself, and his head lifted. His mouth made a scream that didn’t have a sound. What came out, Harry saw, was a pulsing rush of dark blood.
Just before he fell, Gunny lifted his right arm and reached for the tailgate. His arm wasn’t that long. It was fifty yards short. The hand changed into a claw and Gunny fell into the road.
Harry touched the trigger on the Thompson. A short burst streaked down the road above Gunny. It was only five or six rounds. Harry lowered the Thompson. The drum was empty.
A tall lean man in a dark raincoat stepped into the road. He had a shock of gray hair and he carried himself at his full height, straight up. He swung a blocky weapon at his right hip. A sawed-off, Harry thought, and he realized this was the man who’d checked them from the Bulldog parked in the field.
The man ran toward the rear of the truck. It was the easy, long-legged lope of a man trying to catch a bus.
Harry slapped the side of the truck with his open hand. “Drive it, Vic.” Hardly breaking his stride, the gray-haired man leaned down to scoop up Gunny’s pump gun. A few more strides, and the tall man dropped to one knee. He placed the sawed-off on the road next to his left knee. He put the pump gun to his shoulder as the Bulldog jumped forward and began to pull away.
Harry doubled over and rolled away from the tailgate. His shoulder struck a stack of the gold crates. He couldn’t move any deeper into the truck. He brought up his hands and elbows and covered his face and neck.
One round. Low, Harry thought, and he was pleased until he realized the man was firing at the tires.
Better the tires than me.
Another round from the pump gun. Harry reached for the side of the truck as the left rear tire blew and the Bulldog wobbled and swerved hard to the right.
The hip, the whole leg, throbbed like a toothache now.
Starting from the hip joint, it had raced down the back of his leg. It throbbed in the calf. “Damn the fucking leg,” Captain McGuire hissed through his teeth as he ran along the track bed. Even as he cursed, he dropped his left hand and grabbed the hip. He pressed as hard as he could.
He knew he’d reached the train station when Private Black, his rifle pointed at the depot front, side walked away from the platform to meet him.
“Careful, sir. There’s still one in there.”
McGuire dug his fingers deeper into the flesh around the hip. He stopped with all his weight on his right leg. “We’ll deal with him later.” He waved the five men in his detail past him, toward the railway crossing.
“I’m going with you, Captain.” Black didn’t wait for agreement from him. “You,” he shouted at Corporal Lester, “you watch that door.”
McGuire limped along in front of him. He’d gone about another ten yards when he stopped and bent almost double. The left hip had locked on him. Private Black ran forward and caught McGuire’s left arm.
“Help me, son.”
Black leaned toward him. McGuire swung an arm over the private’s shoulder and straightened when Black did. The leg dangled between them as they hobbled toward the crossing. Just ahead of them the five soldiers had stopped just short of the crossing and were waiting for him.
Rifle fire searched the road to their right. The chatter of an automatic weapon began and died abruptly. In the silence that followed, before the shotgun boomed twice, Captain McGuire heard the racing truck engine.
“Firing positions.” He removed his arm from Black’s shoulder. He fumbled with the flap that covered the Webley revolver at his hip.
The truck, headlights dark, careened down the road toward them. Some force pushed the truck to the right and the driver fought to steady it in the center of the road. The front tires bumped across the first set of rails, and it was directly in the center of the crossing when Captain McGuire sighted in with the Webley and shouted, “Fire.”
Harry’s hand pounded against the side of the truck. “That’s it,” Johnny said. “Gunny’s aboard.”
Vic gunned the engine. The Bulldog took an easy leap forward.
“You thi
nk you can find the border crossing south?” Johnny faced Tom.
“If we can …”
Two booms from a shotgun. At the second one the truck shivered. It appeared to jump into the air, and it began to pull to the right. Vic said, “That’s a tire,” and he fought the drag and turned the Bulldog into the center of the road. The rail crossing was straight ahead. The steering wheel jittered in Vic’s hands when the front tires rode over the first set of tracks.
The left side of the truck cab exploded. Round after round smashed into it. Vic clawed at the steering wheel as he fell against Johnny. Vic had been hit several times, but the bullet that killed him entered his left ear and angled upward. It blew away the left side of his skull.
Johnny pushed him away with an elbow and reached for the steering wheel as the truck resumed its curl to the right. Johnny was swinging it hard left again when a blow struck him in the side. Another hit him in the armpit, directly under his raised arm. He couldn’t hold the wheel. The truck had finished its crossing of the tracks. It headed for the sidewalk and the building to the right. The front tires climbed the curb. That bump swung the truck to the left again. The driver’s side of the cab scraped a telephone pole. The right side, in front of Tom, plowed a deep groove in the brick wall of the building. Metal screamed and tore away. The Bulldog slammed to a full stop. The impact threw Tom headfirst against the windshield.
“Tom?” Johnny couldn’t speak above a whisper. “Tom, I’m hit. You’ve got to …”
He lifted his head. Turning to his right was the effort it took to move a thousand pounds.
Tom didn’t answer. His head had smashed into the windshield. The blow had flattened the top of his skull and glued it to the glass. Blood trickled from his ears.
The darkness began to blow across Johnny Whitman. It was thick and heavy and it smelled of coal dust. He closed his eyes and thought, if I have to go back down into the mine I will, but …
