by K. M. Tolan
Her unflinching execution of Rat Hair and his pal kept a lock on Vincent’s lips. She might look like a soft-spoken wallflower with little fashion sense, but this girl treated death like an old drinking buddy. He endured both the brief discomfort of tightened bandages and the far deeper torment of conflicting emotions. A dead father he didn’t even recognize and a live sister to track down. The two facts blended in awful, gray confusion and disbelief. He focused on the pain in his torn arms with the fervor of a drowning man seizing a log.
His body was shaking by the time she helped him to his feet. The young woman gave him a critical once-over before retrieving his brass knuckles and stuffing them back into his coat pocket. He allowed his murderous benefactor to support him while he stumbled along the tracks. On the edge of nightfall, she steered him toward a wooded hollow and propped him against a tree before putting together a campfire with practiced efficiency.
Dragging a backpack from beneath a branch, Samantha produced two empty tomato cans, their sides blackened from use. “Going to have to clean those wounds,” she explained. “Yegg aren’t much for hygiene.”
All Vincent managed was a nod. He wasn’t going anywhere.
His rescuer returned with the two cans brimming with water and knelt beside him. She cleaned his injuries with a damp rag, rewrapping the worst cuts in fresh bandages sliced from what was left of his coat sleeves.
Samantha rocked back on her heels with a nod after finishing the job. “That ought to do for a start. Fortunately, for you, an acquaintance of mine taught me how to make mulligan stew. I’m no hobo, you can trust me on that, but some of their stuff works pretty good. There’s a trick to this, though. You have anything to eat?”
“Just an apple,” he volunteered. “It’s in my left pocket.”
“You have to give it to me. I can’t take it. Mulligan stew works best when you contribute, understand?”
He didn’t want to argue with her over some hobo superstition, considering how close she kept her rifle. Gritting his teeth, he fumbled the fruit out of his pocket. His arms looked like they’d been through a hay bailer. He watched her slice the apple into thin sections and toss them into the tomato can she’d set aside. She pulled potatoes and dried meat from her pack, even adding in some pulpy looking roots and a few mushrooms he guessed she’d dug up locally. Samantha set the resulting concoction on a flat rock heated by the fire.
She slumped on a small log across from him and propped the rifle beside her legs, her eyes settling into brooding pools. She leaned forward, her face wavering above the flames. “Did your father teach you about tracks? About being a gandy dancer?”
“A what?”
Her hands balled into fists, her words coming out in compressed bursts. “Gandy dancer. Someone who can call up tracks. Please tell me you know a bit about this. He must’ve taught you something.”
Her nonsensical questions followed too closely on the heels of revelations he still grappled with. His voice leapt to its feet even if his legs couldn’t. “Lady, what in the hell are you talking about? My father’s dead, my sister’s alive, and now you want me to tell you crap I’ve never heard of? You have any idea what’s running through my head right now? And that’s not adding those two we left lying back there for the crows. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, start making sense.”
Her face darkened, and for a crazy moment, he wondered if she was going to end up looking like Rat Hair and Blondie’s shadow selves. Instead, Samantha jerked at her tangled hair and sagged lower on her makeshift seat. “Some consolation prize you are.” Her eyes squeezed shut, sending a pair of tears across sallow cheeks.
He wasn’t sure if he should go for the rifle or hug her. He moderated his voice with a measure of sympathy. “A consolation prize for what? Look, if this is about helping my sister, I’m all for it, but I need some answers. So, again, what’s a gandy dancer?”
She abruptly wiped her face and stood. “Stew’s ready.”
He dropped the subject at the return of her glacial tone.
Samantha produced two tin cups from her bag and filled both with a surprisingly substantial meal. Instead of a watery mess of half-cooked apple, potato, and chewy bits of something best left unidentified, he enjoyed savory gravy filled with thick chunks of beef and vegetables. Damn if he could figure out how she managed such a culinary miracle. Warmth radiated from his satisfied belly to quiet the throbbing in his arms.
“Did your father tell you about Hobohemia?” she asked in a frustrated voice. “Anything about the Erie Railroad? Or steam children?”
“I think I heard about Hobohemia once, and the train taking Katy had the Erie logo on it. He said nothing about…steam children?”
Samantha sat across from him and slurped from her cup, her attention never leaving him. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”
He scowled. I know you need me, or at least needed my father. “Lady, here’s what I know. I’m going to get my sister and find the son-of-a-bitch who had my father murdered. With or without you. What I want right now is for you to tell me what Dad did to make someone come after him.”
“He let Taylorism into Hobohemia.”
He was sure his blank stare didn’t enhance his worth. “That some kind of religion?”
“Worse, because it gets results. Your father built a line from Cleveland to Detroit for use by the Erie Railroad. What came back was the philosophy of Taylorism with its assembly lines and profit above all else, including human decency. Needless to say, that didn’t go over too well with anyone outside Erie, so think twice before saying you’re Cracker Jack’s son unless you like being spat on.”
“People better get used to eating their teeth in that case,” he growled back. Had he only acted a bit earlier, his father would be here to defend himself. Bad enough he hadn’t recognized his own father without disowning him further. If that bum really was my father. The thought was a pointless doubt after getting that coin and told to find his sister. Damn, why hadn’t he put two-and-two together, not let some crazy girl do it for him?
One question rose to the top of his growing list. “Who sent those guys to kill him?”
“Bram Van Erie. Erie Railroad’s Baron. The same one holding your sister.”
“What’s my sister to him?”
Her reply came after an uneasy silence. “His adopted daughter.”
Vincent thumped his head back against the tree’s rough bark. Sometimes asking the right questions didn’t pay. “Shit.”
“More than you know.” She finished her stew in a gulp. “I’m taking you to King Willy over at the Blue Island jungle. I’ll let him rub the polish off you. Otherwise, we’ll be up all night. It’s a long walk, so get some rest.”
He did not figure on getting much rest, but sleep found him courtesy of a full stomach and a lot less trouble from his wounds.
~ * ~
Vincent woke to an early morning chill across his cheeks and the feel of a rough blanket about his shoulders. Yellow rays of light poked through restless leaves. His arms itched beneath the coarse cloth. Just itched? He exposed a wrapped forearm, sucked in a breath, and unwound one of the leather strips. All he saw was angry welts beneath flecks of dried blood.
His host was already up and poking the fire into life, moving around with an assurance of someone able to stand on their own two feet. He’d met few girls who could make that claim. She inspected his arms with approving clucks. “That would be the mulligan stew doing its work, I’d warrant. Nice to see I got the recipe right.” She returned to the fire’s embers and stirred a tomato can’s steaming contents.
Smelling fresh coffee, he propped himself up, using a protruding tree root for support. He winced. Okay, his arms were definitely better, but his back felt stiff as a board. “What did you put in that stew?”
“An apple.” Grinning, she lifted a sodden black sock from the can and rung it out over a tin cup. “Let’s see how you like this. Don’t worry, it’s a clean sock. Grounds inside still have a lot of life i
n them.”
He took the offered coffee. His traveling companion looked to be in good spirits, never mind the two corpses they’d left behind. Samantha didn’t fix him up just to shoot him in the back this morning so why not tag along and see if she really knew Katy? He sipped at the brew.
The stuff was awful, but it did the job of waking his aching body. “So what exactly did you need my father for?”
“I need a safe track into the Erie barony to get Katy out, and your father could’ve made one for me. You…” Samantha shook her head. “I know someone who might be able to train you. Red Socks, the ’bo I mentioned earlier who taught me how to make mulligan stew. He’s a retired gandy dancer. Getting to him is going to be a problem without help, so we’re heading to Blue Island. I’ve connections there.”
“That Willy fellah?” he guessed.
“I suggest you call him King Willy, or Your Honor. He runs the Blue Island jungle.” She tossed him a small leather pouch. “You’ll need this when we arrive. Blue Island is a long hike, and we’ve only one can of beans left.”
She wasn’t kidding about the walk. He vaguely remembered the Blue Island yard being southwest of Chicago and one of the largest rail centers in the area. They’d be lucky to get there while there was still sun in the sky. Vincent inspected the pouch she’d given him and shook out several coins fashioned from hard maple. Each piece boasted unique etchings. Some carvings depicted caricatures of people, while others focused on natural scenes.
He glanced back at her. “Wooden nickels?”
“Yeah. They should get you a few days sack and some food when we hit the jungle.”
She sounded serious about the worth of what he held, so he put the nickels back into the coin purse and stuffed the bag into a jeans pocket. He found his feet. “I’ll get the beans warmed up.”
She pointed toward her pack.
He let out a breath, hating the idea of letting anyone sink a hook into him. “I guess I owe you for both the help and getting that thing off me yesterday.”
Samantha spat on one of the rocks encircling the small fire, eliciting a small hiss from the heated stone. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way you can pay me back.”
He didn’t like the matter-of-factness in her reply. Vincent fought an urge to walk away and take his own chances. She met Katy, or at least claimed to. He wished he knew more, but Samantha was stingier with answers than a wino with a bottle. “So how’d you meet Katy?”
She frowned over her coffee cup. “We grew up together, and no, you don’t need to know more than that. My life isn’t a topic for conversation. You got questions, you can ask King Willy.” Her voice sharpened. “Understand?”
He raised a hand. “Fine. No need to get your dander up.”
Her sardonic grin didn’t appear aimed at him this time. “Sorry. Best you talk to Willy. He’s a lot better at being patient than I am.”
A bobcat would be more patient than you. He finished what he could of the strong coffee and tossed the remainder in the bushes. “I’d better hurry with the beans. If the tracks ahead are anything like the previous one I found, they won’t last forever.”
Three
Vincent walked up to a rusting metal plate serving as a railroad switch’s directional flag. He peered at the outline drawn in white chalk—a square with its top missing.
“Means there’s a camp ahead,” Samantha supplied, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. “Welcome to Hobohemia.”
The countryside didn’t look much different, save for a thinning in the trees along the side of the roadbed. The land angled in a slight rise, suggesting lowlands off to his right. If there were buildings, even a distant skyline of Chicago, he couldn’t see it from here. The place still looked like backwoods Illinois.
He gazed down a second pair of rails curving away from the main line’s turnout. The steel looked aged instead of freshly laid like the tracks behind him. Even the rails ahead bore the deep russet hues of long exposure to the elements. He felt the difference too, much like stepping off the street into an old musty library. Bending down, he swept his fingers across the steel, feeling a much deeper vibration than the subtle song given off by the line he’d traveled.
His guide gestured toward a distant clearing whose details evaporated into a smoky haze. “Blue Island yards are ahead. We’ll take this side track down to the jungle.”
Her voice reflected his own weariness, a fatigue threatening to turn his legs into lead stumps. She had to be hungry, because he certainly could use a good meal. He aimed sore feet down the second track where clumps of weeds obscured the ties. “Better not be too far, because I’ll be gnawing on tree bark after a few more miles.”
“I was in a hurry and didn’t pack enough food, okay?”
He smiled at her admission of being less than perfect. Until now, Samantha seemed to take aloof pleasure in treating him like a rank newcomer. He suspected she preferred keeping him in the dark, perhaps as a means to ensure he followed her like a hungry puppy. Hell, he couldn’t even mention Katy without her telling him to shut up. Yeah, ditching this girl would’ve been high on his list had she not blasted that second yegg off him. And no, he couldn’t even mention what had transformed Rat Hair and his friend into nightmares without meeting stony silence. Maybe he’d find someone in the camp capable of providing answers.
The sidetrack cut into a wooded rise before coming to an abrupt end against a stack of blackened railroad ties. Samantha placed a cautioning hand on his shoulder. “Hold up. There will be knights ahead, and they tend to get jumpy around strangers. I’ll go in and arrange a meeting with King Willy.”
He tried to smile. “Knights?”
“Order of the Open Road,” she clarified.
“You’re serious.”
“Any chance you’re carded?” she asked, her eyes hopeful. “A member of the International Workers of the World?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of them.”
“Of course you haven’t,” she threw back, her eyes rolling. “Try and understand. Any hobo you see with a staff is going to be a knight, okay? Don’t give them any lip.”
Vincent gritted his teeth. “A union? How does being with a union work into this?”
“If you were a member, you wouldn’t have to be told anything. You’d see those knights for what they were. Trust me, those aren’t just big sticks in their hands. Stop looking at me like I’m crazy. You’ve been doing that since we met.”
“Lady, I’m not the one who shot two guys like she was swatting flies.”
“Then try your hand at it.” She shoved the rifle into his hands. “Maybe a couple yegg will sniff you out while I’m talking to King Willy. Think you won’t shoot? Those people are filth, worse than animals. Putting a bullet in their heads does everyone a favor, especially the yegg.”
He felt the heft of the weapon’s wooden stock. Such abrupt trust did little to convince him she wasn’t out of her ever-loving mind. “Well hurry up. I’m not waiting out here forever.”
She held up a finger. “One hour. You’re not a hobo. Not carded. Those knights will toss you out on your ear. They’ll do more than that if they catch you with this rifle. Nobody with a gun gets near a jungle because hobos don’t want trouble with the local police. Just stay here, okay? Please?”
He nodded, feeling a little more in control of his immediate future. He waited until she disappeared beyond the ties before considering his current situation, beginning with the rifle in his hands. The weapon was a no-frills bolt-action whose maker’s stamp was a diamond with the word “Erie” imprinted below the chamber. He slid back the bolt and laughed. Cute. He could always use this thing as a club. Not only had she taken the ammunition with her, Samantha knew he was out of food; hence, he wasn’t going anywhere. She might be crazy, but he couldn’t call her stupid.
His nostrils pulled in scents of tall grass and stone ballast along the roadbed. Hobohemia. Dad let the word slip out a few times during his tall tales, but not once did he suggest
this place was real. Hobohemia belonged with the ghost trains and candy mountains. His father’d mentioned nothing about shadow monsters, or a railroad baron bent on killing him. Vincent drew in a reasoning breath. Had he not run into those yegg himself, everything little Miss Manslaughter told him amounted to one big delusion. True, Samantha saved his life, but his gratitude weighed down with the possibility of his standing there letting Dad get beat to death. Jesus. There was only one way to scrape this added burden off his soul. Find Katy.
He scrounged the hobo nickel from his torn-up duster’s pocket. The coin’s laughing face and pixyish features would have taken patient years to carve out by hand. Artwork like this required more than just time. If this carving truly belonged to his father, it meant something close to his heart. Right down to the crazy top hat jauntily perched among the girl’s flying locks. The air of whimsy about the caricature certainly might’ve come from Dad. Damn it. Guts twisting, he returned the coin to its hiding place. Now would be a great time to wake up.
Her idea of an hour stretched across the remains of the day. His stomach growled beneath a setting sun by the time Vincent caught sight of Samantha returning down the tracks. Nor was she alone. A half-dozen burly hobos flanked her. Each tramp carried a stout wooden shaft and wore a brown bowler atop well-kept hair. English gentry rendered in patchwork. They even carried themselves like aristocracy.
Remembering Samantha’s warning, Vincent hid the rifle in nearby bushes where he could recover it later. He stepped out onto the tracks to meet the welcoming committee.
“They’ll want your brass knuckles,” she called out. Samantha favored her escort with an annoyed glance. “I don’t want any misunderstandings with these…gentlemen.”
The lead hobo, a square-jawed Irish type with curly red hair, grounded his big stick. “You’ll get ’em back, lad. King Willy’ll see ya, now.” He stretched out an expectant hand.
