The Hanging of Samuel Ash

by Sheldon Russell

  “It has to be either eastbound or westbound,” he said.

  “I guess you learned that in college?” Hook said.

  “I came in from the east, and I didn’t see any caboose. I guess that leaves westbound.”

  Hook stood in the middle of the tracks and looked westbound.

  “Well, now, that narrows it down,” he said. “It’s got to be between here and San Francisco somewhere, providing you didn’t overlook it in the middle of the night.”

  “Is there a siding?” Junior asked. “Maybe they moved the caboose out of the way for other cars.”

  Hook wet the end of his finger and rubbed Patch’s phone number off his prosthesis.

  “There’s a siding about halfway to Waynoka, but how the hell we going to get there?”

  “We could walk,” Junior said. “If you’re up to it, I mean.”

  Hook looked at Junior. “I walked rail when you were sucking sugar tit, Junior. I think I can manage.”

  * * *

  The sun bore down on their backs as they walked along the track. Hook led, with Junior bringing up drag. Hook waited for him to come up.

  “Did you ever catch Barney?” Junior asked, adjusting his hat.

  Hook walked on. “Course I did.”

  “Really? Did he carry a weapon?”

  “A pistol, but I took it away from him. I never let a weapon interfere with enforcing the law.”

  “That’s quite brave, actually,” he said.

  “Some might say that,” he said. “And did you deliver Jackie to KC?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I felt sorry for her, you know. I don’t think she understood the implications of her actions.”

  “Well, who does? By the by, Popeye said you let those seal busters get away over to Wellington?”

  “They were spry for their age,” he said.

  Hook stopped and looked up at the sun. “The siding is just around that curve. If there’s any shooting, you jump in the bar ditch, and let me take care of things.”

  “When do I get a weapon, Hook?”

  “When you start shaving, Junior. Now stay low.”

  Hook edged around the curve, knelt, and held his hand above his eyes against the sun.

  “Do you see anything?” Junior asked.

  “The goddang railroad track,” Hook said. “But there’s no caboose and no Samuel Ash. You got any more bright ideas?”

  Somewhere behind them, the whistle of a train sounded.

  “Maybe you should call Division?” Junior said.

  “You got a phone in your pocket?”

  “No, but you could call him from Waynoka.”

  Smoke from a steamer crawled up into the blue behind them.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Hook said. “That’s a freighter coming back there. When she slows for the curve, we’re going to hop her, ride her into Waynoka, and find out what the hell is going on.”

  “I’m not skilled at jumping on trains, Hook.”

  Hook took another look down track. “Just follow me, Junior, and pay attention. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Hook squatted in the bushes to wait for the train. Junior waited behind him, his Panama pulled down against his ears.

  “When I say go, start running,” Hook said. “She’s moving pretty fast, so don’t tarry.”

  Just then the train’s glimmer popped up downline. Hook hunkered down and waited. Just as she charged by, her drivers thudding and steam blowing a hundred feet into the air, he said, “Now, Junior. Run.”

  Hook charged down track in high gear, checking back over his shoulder now and again in search of an approaching grab iron to latch on to. Junior, holding his Panama on with one hand, ran full tilt behind him.

  Hook timed his move, reached out, and snared a grab iron, his legs dangling inches from the ground. He glanced back to check on Junior, who had started to fade. The train’s engine, having already made the curve, gathered up speed down the straightaway.

  “Get hold, Junior,” he yelled back. “Now.”

  Junior bore down, his Panama spinning off down the right-of-way, and in a last-second effort, he leapt forward and caught hold of Hook’s leg.

  Hook, hanging on with everything he had, yelled, “Goddang it, Junior, you’re dragging me off!”

  The whistle blew, and the engine throttled up yet more. Steam and smoke raced down the side of the cars, and the ties clicked away in a blur beneath them.

  Hook’s pants slipped low on his hips from Junior’s hold, and his arm went dead with fatigue. When he could hang on no longer, he shoved off hard, his pants now around his ankles, and they tumbled off down the right-of-way in a cloud of dust.

  Hook lay on his back in the bar ditch, blinking up into the blue sky, and listened to the train whistle disappear. Junior sat a hundred feet down track with Hook’s pants in his hands.

  Hook struggled to his feet, walked to Junior, and took his pants. He put them on and headed off down the track.

  “Jeez, Hook,” Junior said from behind. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Just don’t say another goddang word, Junior, not if you want to live.”

  31

  AS HOOK AND Junior walked into the Waynoka yards, Hook suddenly stopped, and Junior, who had his head down, ran up on his heels.

  “I guess you didn’t get me finished off just yet,” Hook said.

  “Sorry, Hook.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a red caboose sitting inside that roundhouse stall,” Hook said.

  “I believe it is,” Junior said.

  “And if I’m not mistaken, it looks a hell of a lot like my caboose.”

  “It does, though all cabooses look pretty much the same when you think about it,” Junior said.

  “You might notice that this particular caboose has a casket tied on the porch, Junior, an uncommon feature, and strong evidence suggesting that it’s my caboose we’re looking at and not someone else’s caboose.”

  “I guess that’s what makes you such a good yard dog,” Junior said.

  “That’s a fact, though modesty keeps me from saying it, Junior. Now, I’m going to go in there and check this out. If they got questions, I’ll answer them. If you got something you want to say, just keep it to yourself. Understood?”

  “Right, Hook. Understood.”

  “Good, then let’s go.”

  The front wheel truck was gone on the caboose, and three machinists sat on the porch with their lunch boxes lined up across Samuel Ash’s coffin.

  “What the hell you doing up there?” Hook asked.

  The three of them looked down at Hook and Junior. The tall one pushed his hat back and said, “Boes ain’t allowed in here, mister. You move on before I call the railroad bull. This is private property.”

  “I am the bull,” Hook said, pulling out his badge.

  “I’ll be damned,” the tall one said. “Where’s your arm?”

  “Up the bum of the last guy who towed my caboose,” Hook said.

  “No need to get sore,” he said.

  “What the hell you doing with my caboose?” Hook asked again.

  “A work train towed it in here with an order to refurbish the journals. That’s what we’re doing, though I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse in my day.”

  “Who ordered it?” Hook asked.

  The tall one dug the order out of his overalls pocket. “Eddie Preston, Southwest Divisional Security Supervisor.”

  “Eddie Preston can’t keep his nose out of nothing. You boys been snooping around in my house, have you?”

  “Just eating lunch,” the tall one said. “Seemed a good place to set a table.”

  “You might ask Samuel Ash about that,” Junior said.

  “Samuel Ash? Who the hell is Samuel Ash?”

  Hook jabbed Junior in the ribs. “Never mind,” Hook said. “How long ’fore she’s ready to roll?”

  “Week,” the tall one said. “Longer if they pull a passenger in ahead of her.”

  Hoo
k turned to leave, when the tall one said, “What’s in this here box?”

  “Say what?”

  “This here box?”

  “Dead body,” he said.

  The tall one looked at the others and then laughed. “You can’t get a straight answer out of none of these sons of bitches.”

  “Well, you got me on that one,” Hook said. “It’s perishables. I’ll be making arrangements before I leave, so you boys just leave it be. Is the yard office open?”

  “It’s open,” the tall one said. “Yardmaster’s probably gone to lunch, though.”

  * * *

  Hook made Junior wait outside the yard office while he called Eddie.

  “Preston,” Eddie said.

  “This is Hook, Eddie.”

  “It’s about time you called in, Runyon. What the hell is going on?”

  “I’ve been looking for my caboose. Maybe you’ve seen it?”

  “You’ve been bitching about those bushings for weeks now. I had a work train tow it in. Now maybe you can get something done.”

  “Well, that’s fine, Eddie. But don’t you think it would have been a good idea to tell me first?”

  “That would require me knowing where the hell you were, Runyon.”

  “I’ve been chasing seal busters like you asked. Then when I get home, my home it isn’t there, and I don’t know where the hell it is.”

  “There ain’t no pleasing some people,” Eddie said. “Where are you now?”

  “Standing here talking to you, trying to figure out why you’d take my caboose and not tell me.”

  “I need you in Pampa, Runyon. B&B has had a bridge down for too damn long. They claim they’re waiting on supplies, but I smell a rat. These union bastards will do anything to slow down the company.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Hook said. “Next time, you might let me know before you tow off my caboose.”

  “Next time, I’ll tow the damn thing to salvage,” Eddie said. “But I’ll damn sure let you know about it first.”

  * * *

  Hook found Junior sitting on the steps picking burrs out of his socks. Hook propped his foot up on the step.

  “Alright, Junior,” he said. “Here’s what I want you to do: Eddie thinks B and B is sitting on their hands and holding things up on a bridge over to Pampa. I want you to go check it out.”

  Junior stood. “You mean by myself?”

  “If you’re going to be a prosecutor, you need to learn to take on responsibility, Junior.”

  Junior looked at Hook. Somewhere along the line, he’d torn his shirt, and his elbow stuck out the hole.

  “You said you’d obtain a pass for me, Hook.”

  “I’ll do some checking on it. In the meantime, hop something westbound out of the yard. Your running ability isn’t worth a damn.”

  “What are you going to be doing, Hook?”

  “It’s bad form for a lawman to reveal his whereabouts and agenda to just everyone who comes down track, Junior. You never know when someone might derail your investigation.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “You sure have a way of figuring things out, Hook.”

  “Experience, Junior. Now, there’s one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “After you’re done in Pampa, run on over to Clovis and pick up the road-rail.”

  “You want me to pick up the road-rail?”

  “That’s right. Bring it back here and call me at that number I gave you.”

  “But can that road-rail make it on the road all the way from Clovis? What if it breaks down?”

  “Sometimes lawmen have to make sacrifices, like we talked about before, Junior. Anyway, it’s the only way to get it back here. And watch those brakes. We don’t want to be tearing up railroad equipment.”

  Hook watched Junior walk off toward the main line, his hands buried in his pockets. Hook turned to go back to the roundhouse just as the yardmaster pulled in. Hook waited for him to get out of the pickup.

  “You the yardmaster?” he asked, showing him his badge.

  “That’s right,” he said, checking his pocket watch. “Is there a problem?”

  “My caboose is getting new shoes over there, and there’s a crate of perishables strapped on the porch. Wondered if you could have someone take it to the icehouse until I can get back?”

  The yardmaster dropped his watch back into his pocket. “What kind of perishables?” he asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Hook said.

  The yardmaster took off his hat and rubbed at his bald head. “Well, it’s against company rules to be handling personal goods. A railroad bull ought know that. The big boys would raise hell if they found out.”

  Hook said, “I’m aware of that, alright. The thing is, and I wouldn’t want this to go any farther, it’s the big boys who have a personal interest in seeing this is delivered, if you understand my meaning.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt nothing. I’ll have the boys store it in the back of the plant.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said. “I’m sure the powers who matter will appreciate it.”

  * * *

  Hook waited downline for something headed eastbound. His feet ached, and his elbow burned from having skidded down the right-of-way with that damn kid hanging on to his leg.

  When an old steamer came chugging out of the yards with another engine at her back, Hook gave her a wave down. She came in slow and easy, her brakes screeching as she pulled to a stop.

  Frenchy leaned out the window. “If it ain’t Hook Runyon,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d gone back to bumming.”

  “How about a hitch, Frenchy?” Hook said.

  “You ain’t got a dead man with you, do you?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Hook said.

  “Well, climb aboard. I’m headed to salvage with this old battleship. She’s been sitting ’til the drivers are all rusted up.”

  Hook climbed up and settled in at the back of the cabin. The bakehead nodded and turned back to his business. Frenchy bled her out and eased up the throttle. The old bullgine took a deep breath and moved off downline. Frenchy checked his pressure and lit his cigar.

  “Where the hell your caboose go, Hook?” he asked. “I’d figured on picking you up on my way back from the smelter.”

  “Bastards towed it off,” Hook said.

  Frenchy grinned. “Maybe the big boys are trying to tell you something, Hook.”

  Hook adjusted his sitting place to pick up the breeze from Frenchy’s window.

  “Eddie put it in the hospital and failed to inform me. I about wore my legs off walking this damn track.”

  “Walking’s got to be a new experience for a yard dog,” he said. “Where you headed now?”

  “Back to Carmen,” Hook said. “Unfinished business.”

  “You haven’t gotten that boy to his people yet?”

  “It’s a possibility I’ve been looking for the wrong guy all along.”

  “Well, now,” he said. “That might come as a surprise to some what don’t know the ins and outs of railroad security, but it damn sure don’t to those of us who do.”

  Within the hour, Hook could see the Avard elevators rising into the blue. Frenchy stuck his head out the window as they pulled into Avard, bringing her down to a crawl.

  “You might want to step on it, Hook. Looks like the Frisco’s making up a short haul for Carmen this very minute, and I figure it’s not in your plans to buy a ticket.”

  Hook swung out on the ladder and dropped off in a trot. He waved at Frenchy, who answered back with a short blast of his whistle.

  * * *

  Hook settled in on the Frisco short haul and watched the wheat fields slide by at a slow clip. Evening settled in over the plains, and the horizon simmered in an orange glow. Tractor lights blinked on in the surrounding fields, and the night smelled of freshly turned earth.

  As darkness fell, Hook pulled up his collar. In the distanc
e, he could see the orphanage, and the wink of lights from its windows. He thought about Celia, her auburn hair and widow’s peak. He thought about Eagleman and Buck Steele and little Bet. Most of all, he thought about Bruce Mason and his secret life as Samuel Ash.

  32

  THE NEXT MORNING, Hook found Skink asleep in the supply room. He fixed coffee and took him in a cup.

  “Skink,” he said, pushing on his shoulder. “This is Patch. I know what you’ve been doing, Skink.”

  Skink groaned and opened an eye. “Oh, damn,” he said. “It’s you, Hook.” He rubbed at his face. “I dreamed Patch was sitting on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. He just kept on grinning and saying out my name.”

  Hook handed him his coffee. “It’s a bad conscience, Skink, from staying up nights doing things you shouldn’t be doing.”

  “What’s it to hurt, Hook?”

  Hook held up his prosthesis. “Just saying, Skink.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Jeez, Hook, what happened to your clothes?”

  Hook looked down at his britches, torn and dirty from his roll down the right-of-way.

  “Yard doggin’ can be a dangerous business. Now I’ve a question for you?”

  “Okay.”

  “You ever hear of a guy by the name of Bruce Mason?”

  “Sure,” he said. “He used to live at the orphanage.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Not very. The older kids didn’t hang out much with us younger ones.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “They say that he got into trouble with the law and ran off.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Skink shrugged. “Robbing someone, I think. I never did know for sure, but Jimmy Weston said he saw it in the paper and everything.”

  “I see. Maybe I can find something there. Thanks, Skink.”

  “Oh, and Bruce Mason had a girlfriend,” Skink said. “I don’t remember her name.”

  “Is she still at the orphanage?”

  “No. They said she ran away, too.”

  * * *

  Hook waited outside the newspaper office until it opened at nine. The lady who let him in had on compression socks. She led him to a small room in the back, which served as the morgue for the paper.

  “We don’t spend much time on organizing, mostly by dates,” she said. “No one hardly ever uses these except for wedding pictures and genealogy stuff.” Hook looked at the stack of yellowing newspapers. “And we close for lunch, but you can come back about one thirty if you want,” she said, shutting the door behind her.