The Hanging of Samuel Ash

by Sheldon Russell

  “No, wait. Maybe I did overhear something. I mean, maybe I did hear them talking.”

  “Hear what?”

  “If I tell you, will you let me go?”

  “No,” he said. “But then it’s hard to watch someone every second.”

  “I heard them say that the Amarillo to Wellington run had heavy passenger traffic and light security. That’s all I heard, I swear.”

  Hook relaxed his grip. “I dropped my cigarettes in that stall. You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  When Hook stepped out of the ladies’ room, a woman coming down the hall stopped and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my,” she said.

  Hook shouldered past her. “That toilet’s fixed now,” he said. “But be damn careful what you put in it.”

  13

  HOOK SWUNG DOWN from the steam engine at the Clovis depot. With nothing but the louse box in tow, they’d made good time out of Belen.

  “Thanks for the lift, Frenchy,” he said.

  Frenchy lit his cigar and waved as he pulled off down the high rail.

  Back at his caboose, Hook kicked off his shoes and fixed himself a Beam and water. He favored Runt Wallace shine, but he only had the one bottle of twenty-year-old that Runt had presented him a few years back. Someday, given a celebration, he’d open it up and see what the years had wrought.

  He pulled back the covers of the bunk and collapsed into bed. For now, sleep would do. Tomorrow, he’d pick up his check and see if he couldn’t get the road-rail repaired.

  * * *

  The westbound blew her whistle and sat Hook straight up in his bed. Swinging his legs over the side of the bunk, he rubbed at the stubble on his face.

  He located his prosthesis and looked out the window. He’d slept half the day away.

  “Damn,” he said, slipping on his pants.

  After making certain the chef wasn’t smoking at the back door of the Harvey House, he cut through the alley to the road-rail. Cranking her up, he nursed her out to the yards and pulled around to the back of the machine shop, where he found the machinist helper working on the steam jenny.

  The helper propped his foot up on the jenny and tied his work boot. “I don’t know nothing about fixing brake lines, Hook; besides, I got three bushings to turn, and some son of a bitch ran a switch engine through a buffer stop.”

  Hook opened the door to the road-rail. “I heard you could fix anything, but then I understand you’re a busy man. Far be it from me to bring up that little incident, anyway.”

  The machinist helper dropped his foot down. “What little incident would that be, Hook?”

  “Those welding rods I found in the back of your truck that day. Hell, I knew you wouldn’t carry off railroad property on purpose, even though that’s the way it appeared at the time.”

  The machinist helper walked around the jenny and paused. “I got some fittings might work, if you ain’t in a hurry?”

  “No hurry,” Hook said. “Drop her off at my caboose when you get finished, will you?”

  Hook stopped at the paymaster’s and then walked the line back to the depot, where he found Popeye sitting behind his desk, his glasses pushed to the end of his nose.

  “Well,” Popeye said. “If it isn’t the crime fighter hisself.”

  “Hello, Popeye.”

  “You get that road-rail off the sidewalk yet? If an official comes through here, there will be hell to pay.”

  “Yes, I did,” Hook said. “Though, I’d thought a good friend might have taken care of that himself, seeing as how I put my life on the line for this company every day.”

  “I loan you money and sit your dog, Hook. I figure that’s about as far as I can stretch a friendship. And if I’m not mistaken, it is payday.”

  “And that’s why I’m here, to pay you those two dollars I owe you and with my thanks, I might add.”

  Popeye pushed his chair back and looked at Hook over the tops of his glasses. “It isn’t two dollars. It’s five, and it ought to be seven, given the time I’ve had to wait for my money.”

  “Five was it? Are you sure?”

  “Sure as sure.”

  “Well, damn,” Hook said. “Here I’ve been thinking two. Take these two, and I’ll get the other three to you next payday.”

  Popeye stuck the money in his pocket and shook his head. “Don’t forget it, either, Hook, ’cause I damn sure won’t.”

  Hook opened the desk drawer and took a handful of peanuts. “That Junior Monroe get back?”

  “Yes, he did, smelling like he’d been riding in a cow cage. Why don’t you get that boy a pass?”

  “I been meaning to,” Hook said. “Where is he now?”

  “Hotel Clovis.”

  Hook rolled his eyes and popped some peanuts into his mouth.

  “Hotel Clovis, is it? Drinking tea and eating crumpets, I suppose?”

  “Not everyone lives in a caboose, Hook. Some folks sleep in real beds, take their baths on a regular basis, and pay their bills on time.”

  “Where’s my dog, Popeye, or is he staying at Hotel Clovis, too?”

  “Headed east last I saw, chasing an old highwheeler steam engine. Guess he figured it to be a giant rabbit with wheels.”

  “He’d as soon fight a giant as a midget.”

  Popeye closed the drawer to the peanuts. “They have a derailment over to Lubbock. Half-dozen reefer cars jumped track just north of the signal. Said the rail buckled up like a ribbon, so the line’s tied up for who knows how long.”

  “We’ve had an unusual number of accidents the last few weeks,” Hook said.

  “Acts of God, you might say,” Popeye said.

  “You might, though I have my doubts God had anything to do with it,” Hook said.

  “And another thing: that digger called from Carlsbad. Said he couldn’t delay burying that wigwag body no longer. Said he only had the one cooler, and folks were waiting.”

  Hook dusted the peanut salt off the front of his shirt. “You have any more bad news, Popeye? If not, I’m going home and get some rest before my head explodes.”

  * * *

  When Hook awoke from his nap, he dug his books from under the bunk and laid them in a row across the table. He drew his finger over the covers. There were few enough things in life that could be finished, zipped up from beginning to end with nothing left undone. Perhaps that’s why he liked collecting books so much, the passion, the pursuit, but most of all the completion.

  He slid out the American first Baskerville from the row, a fine copy to be sure. Without it, the collection remained incomplete. He slid it back. That’s where it belonged, not hidden away on some dark shelf in a library; besides, libraries cared only about the latest romance novel, or political rant, or high suspense. They didn’t give a damn about some obscure first edition.

  When a knock came at the door, Hook said, “Who is it?”

  “Junior Monroe? Are you home?”

  “No, I’m still in Gallup,” he said.

  “May I come in?”

  “Door’s open.”

  Junior stepped in with his hat in his hand. He shined like a newborn, and he smelled of soap.

  “Where’s my dog?” Hook asked.

  “At first I couldn’t catch him, and then I was afraid I would,” Junior said.

  “Well, he’s not my dog, strictly speaking, so I can’t be held responsible for any transgressions, real or imagined.

  “I’m about to work up a drink here, Junior. Care for one?”

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I don’t drink. My father doesn’t approve.”

  Hook fixed two Beam and waters and slid one over to Junior. “Did you find out anything on that Samuel Ash deal?”

  Junior smelled his drink. “I called the National Archives. They weren’t too forthcoming, but I got a little information.”

  “You’re supposed to drink that, not smell it.”

  Junior sipped his drink and wrinkled up his nose. “Samuel Ash enlis
ted in Oklahoma City,” he said. “He received the Bronze Star with valor and was discharged from the army a few months ago.”

  “Samuel Ash is from Oklahoma City?”

  Junior took another sip of his drink and shuddered. “That’s where he enlisted, but he put his hometown as Carmen, Oklahoma.”

  “Parents?”

  “Deceased.”

  “Carmen?” Hook said. “I’ve been through there, a jerkwater and mail stop of a few hundred people or so.

  “Anything else?”

  “He earned a Purple Heart somewhere along the line, in addition to the Bronze Star, and was promoted to sergeant first class just prior to mustering out. That’s about it, I guess.”

  “Well, it’s more than we had. Wonder what brought him to New Mexico in the first place?”

  Junior finished his drink and pushed the glass to the side.

  “It’s my understanding that vets have trouble settling in after war, after living on the edge for so long, and then jobs are hard to come by. They do a lot of wandering about, I hear.”

  Hook poured Junior another drink and topped off his own.

  “How is it you didn’t join up, Junior, or maybe you had too much education to die for your country?”

  Junior held up his foot. “Flat feet. What about you, Hook?”

  “Flat head,” Hook said. “Finish that drink before the Beam goes bad.”

  Junior polished off his drink and slid the empty over to Hook, who poured him a thumbful. Hook lit a cigarette.

  Junior turned his glass in the puddle of condensation on the table and said, “Sunbeam reminds me for the world of caviar.”

  “I was just thinking that myself,” Hook said.

  “At first it tastes a little off, but after a while, you just want more and more.”

  Hook drained his glass and looked through the bottom of it. “I can’t remember the last time I had caviar.”

  Junior propped his elbows onto the table. “It’s like these books,” he said. “If everybody had them, you probably wouldn’t want them.”

  “I wouldn’t even have them on this table,” Hook said.

  “Because it’s the wanting that counts, isn’t it? I mean, there are some things a man just has to have because no one else has them.”

  Hook refilled their glasses. “I’ve seen men fight to the death over a bottle of Sunbeam. I guess there’s just not enough Sunbeam and caviar in this world to go around.”

  Junior rubbed at his face. “Hook, I think I may have had a stroke.”

  “A stroke, you say?”

  “My face just slid down, and I can’t get it up again.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, Junior. Trouble getting it up comes along to most men sooner or later.”

  Junior studied the tabletop. “Maybe I’ll have another Sunbeam,” he said. “And maybe I’ll have a cigarette, too, if you don’t mind.”

  Hook lit him up, and Junior blew smoke out his nose. He coughed and rubbed at his eyes.

  “A smoke does a man good,” he said.

  Hook paused. “Junior,” he said. “Have you ever stolen anything?”

  Junior straightened his bow tie. “I don’t understand the question, Hook.”

  “It’s a philosophical inquiry, Junior. Do you think there is ever a justifiable reason to steal?”

  “Stealing is against the law and morally unacceptable,” he said. “Philosophically speaking.”

  “Say a man stole something for posterity, to keep it from being destroyed or neglected, and by doing so, he saves something important that would otherwise be lost to the human race.”

  “The law’s the law, Hook, no matter the cost to mankind.”

  “Are you telling me you never stole anything, Junior?”

  Junior puffed on his cigarette, and smoke boiled about his head.

  “You think the strikers will shut down the line, Hook?”

  “What is it you stole, Junior?”

  Junior hung his head. “An angel.”

  “A what?”

  “A Christmas angel. I stole it from the dime store when I was a kid.”

  Hook took another drink. “An angel? That’s just terrible, Junior.”

  “My mother hung it on the Christmas tree every Christmas for twenty years. I had to look at that angel hanging on the tree my whole life.”

  Junior took a swig of his drink. “Did you ever?”

  “Ever what?” Hook said.

  “Steal anything?”

  Hook held the bottle up to the window to check the level of its contents and then poured them each another round.

  “Real lawmen don’t steal, Junior, and if they did, they sure wouldn’t steal no damn Christmas angel.”

  When the knock came on the caboose door, Hook opened it to find the machinist helper wiping his hands on a grease rag. The orange rays of sunset shot into the clouds behind him.

  “It’s fixed, Hook, though it took all damned day.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said.

  “And about that other thing?”

  “What other thing?” Hook said.

  The machinist helper nodded and worked his way down the steps. He stopped and looked up at Hook.

  “You might want to take it to a real mechanic first chance. Get a new line put on. Them fittings could give way, you know.”

  Back inside, Hook said, “Drink up, Junior, and I’ll give you a ride back to Hotel Clovis.”

  * * *

  Junior walked around the road-rail and scratched at his head.

  “Exactly what is this vehicle, Hook?”

  “It’s a road-rail. She runs on road or rail, either one. She might even run on water, though I’ve never tried it. Climb in.”

  Hook fired her up, and they headed down the street.

  “It really runs on the track?” Junior asked.

  “Sure it does. There’s a crossing just ahead. I’ll give you a demonstration.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to get clearance, Hook?”

  “Just a run to the yards and back,” he said. “No clearance necessary.”

  Hook pulled onto the crossing and lowered the pilot wheels. Junior leaned out for a better look as they clipped off down the track. His hair blew in the breeze, and he grinned. Hook released the steering wheel.

  “You better not let go, Hook. We’re moving pretty fast.”

  “It tracks on its own,” Hook said. “Why, a man could take a nap or read a book if he wanted.”

  “Maybe you could acquire one for me as well,” he said.

  “Road-rails are for officials and trusted employees, Junior. Privileges like that have to be earned.”

  “Say, is that a light behind us?”

  “That’s the sunset, Junior. Don’t they have sunsets at Hotel Clovis?”

  Junior turned for another look. “It looks more like a train to me, Hook.”

  “A train?”

  “Maybe we should get off the track now.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say something, Junior?”

  “But you said it was the sunset.”

  “Any fool can see it’s not the sunset, and a road-rail can’t just hop on and off the track like a rabbit. It’s got to have a crossing or a spur switch.”

  The train whistle blew behind them, and the roar of the engines pooled hot in Hook’s belly.

  “Look, there,” Hook said, pumping the brakes, which had improved but little in their stopping ability. “A spur. Get out and throw that switch, Junior, and you might want to step on it.”

  Junior bailed out and leaned into the switch. The train’s glimmer brightened behind them, and its engines rumbled down the line. Hook shoved the road-rail into gear and drove onto the spur.

  “Switch it back!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Now!”

  Junior shoved the switch back just as the train thundered by, her brakes screeching as she slowed for the upcoming yards.

  Hook dabbed the sweat from his forehead as Junior made his way back to the road-r
ail. Junior leaned into the window.

  “Maybe we should get off the track now, Hook.”

  “We’re sitting on a spur, Junior, and it doesn’t go anywhere except to the roundhouse, and we can’t switch back onto the high rail with that train laying by, can we?”

  Junior rubbed at his face. “How long will it lay by there, Hook?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “So, what are our plans?” Junior asked.

  Hook drummed the steering wheel. “If we could get on that other spur over there, I’m pretty sure it dumps out at the crossing.”

  “But how is that possible, Hook? I don’t see a switch to that one.”

  Hook studied the line of cars and then fired up the road-rail.

  “Get in, Junior. I’ve got that plan you mentioned.”

  * * *

  Hook pulled into the yards and eased up to the turntable. The yard lights lit the tracks into streaks of silver, and the smell of steam and smoke settled in about them like fog. The chug and wheeze of a half-dozen engines grumbled from out of the yards.

  “Go over to the control house, Junior, and wheel us around to that other spur. There’s nothing to it, a motor and a brake. If she slips, throw a little sand under the friction wheel.”

  “But Hook…”

  “Jesus, just do it, Junior,” Hook said.

  When Junior reached the control house, Hook gave him the high sign. The turntable growled and moved toward the crossing spur. Once aligned with the track, Hook signaled again, and Junior brought her to a stop, after which he dashed to the road-rail and jumped in.

  Just as Hook pulled onto the spur, the yardmaster charged out of the yard office, his head down and his arms swinging. Stepping in front of the road-rail, he stuck his arm in the air.

  “Stay in here, Junior,” Hook said, opening the door. “Let me do the talking.”

  “What the hell is going on?” the yardmaster yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Hook turned and then looked back at the yardmaster. “You’re the yardmaster around here, aren’t you?”

  “You goddamn right. What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  Hook pulled his badge. “Security,” he said. “We got a call that someone had parked this road-rail on the turntable. You know anything about that?”