In Dubious Battle (8 page)

“No, ’course not.”

“Well, so long.” He swung out. “You dirty son-of-a-bitch,” he yelled as he hit the ground.

Mac laughed and pulled the door nearly shut. For a few moments the train rolled slowly. And the rail-end tempo increased. Mac threw the door wide again and sat down in the sun. “There was a beauty,” he said.

Jim asked, “Are you really a prize-fighter, Mac?”

“Hell no. He was the easiest kind of a sucker. He figured I was scared of him when I offered him some of my paper. You can’t make a general rule of it, because sometimes it flops, but mostly a guy that tries to scare you is a guy that can be scared.” He turned his heavy, good-natured face to Jim. “I don’t know why it is, but every time I talk to you I either end up soap-boxing or giving a lecture.”

“Well, hell, Mac, I like to listen.”

“I guess that’s it. We’ve got to get off at Weaver and catch an east-bound freight. That’s about a hundred miles down. If we’re lucky, we ought to get to Torgas in the middle of the night.” He pulled out a sack of tobacco and rolled a cigarette, holding the paper in out of the rushing air. “Smoke, Jim?”

“No, thanks.”

“You got no vices, have you. And you’re not a Christer either. Don’t you even go out with girls?”

“No,” said Jim. “Used to be, when I got riled up I’d go to a cat-house. You wouldn’t believe it, Mac, but ever since I started to grow up I been scared of girls. I guess I was scared I’d get caught.”

“Too attractive, huh?”

“No, you see all the guys I used to run around with went through the mill. They used to try to make girls behind billboards and down in the lumber yard. Well, sooner or later some girl’d get knocked higher than a kite, and then—well, hell, Mac, I was scared I’d get caught like my mother and my old man—two room flat and a wood stove. Christ knows I don’t want luxury, but I don’t want to get batted around the way all the kids I knew got it. Lunch pail in the morning with a piece of soggy pie and a thermos bottle of stale coffee.”

Mac said, “You’ve picked a hell of a fine life if you don’t want to get batted around. Wait till we finish this job, you’ll get batted plenty.”

“That’s different,” Jim protested. “I don’t mind getting smacked on the chin. I just don’t want to get nibbled to death. There’s a difference.”

Mac yawned. “It’s not a difference that’s going to keep me awake. Cat-houses aren’t much fun.” He got up and went back to the pile of papers, and he spread them out and lay down and went to sleep.

For a long time Jim sat in the doorway, watching the farms go by. There were big market vegetable gardens with rows of round lettuces and rows of fern-like carrots, and red beet leaves, with glistening water running between the rows. The train went by fields of alfalfa, and by great white dairy barns from which the wind brought the rich, healthy smell of manure and ammonia. And then the freight entered a pass in the hills, and the sun was cut off. Ferns and green live oaks grew on the steep sides of the right-of-way. The roaring rhythm of the train beat on Jim’s senses and made him drowsy. He fought off sleep
so that he might see more of the country, shook his head violently to jar himself awake; but at last he stood up, ran the door nearly closed, and retired to his own pile of papers. His sleep was a shouting, echoing black cave, and it extended into eternity.

Mac shook him several times before he could wake up. “It’s nearly time to get off,” Mac shouted.

Jim sat up. “Good God, have we gone a hundred miles?”

“Pretty near. Noise kind of drugs you, don’t it. I can’t ever stay awake in a box-car. Pull yourself together. We’re going to slow down in a couple of minutes.”

Jim held his dull head between his hands for a moment. “I do feel slugged,” he said.

Mac threw open the door. He called, “Jump the way we’re going, and land running.” He leaped out, and Jim followed him.

Jim looked at the sun, almost straight overhead. In front of him he could see the clustered houses and the shade trees of a little town. The freight pulled on and left them standing.

Mac explained, “The railroad branches here. The line we want cuts over that way toward the Torgas Valley. We won’t go through town at all. Let’s jump across the fields and catch the line over there.”

Jim followed him over a barbed-wire fence and across a stubble field, and into a dirt road. They skirted the edge of the little town, and in half a mile came upon another railroad right-of-way.

Mac sat down on the embankment and called Jim to sit beside him. “Here’s a good place. There’s lots of cars moving. I don’t know how long we’ll have to wait.” He rolled
a brown cigarette. “Jim,” he said. “You ought to take up smoking. It’s a nice social habit. You’ll have to talk to a lot of strangers in your time. I don’t know any quicker way to soften a stranger down than to offer him a smoke, or even to ask him for one. And lots of guys feel insulted if they offer you a cigarette and you don’t take it. You better start.”

“I guess I will,” said Jim. “I used to smoke with the kids. I wonder if it’d make me sick now.”

“Try it. Here, I’ll roll one for you.”

Jim took the cigarette and lighted it. “It tastes pretty good,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten what it tasted like.”

“Well, even if you don’t like it, it’s a good thing to do in our work. It’s the one little social thing guys in our condition have. Listen, there’s a train coming.” He stood up. “It looks like a freight, too.”

The train came slowly down the track. “Well, for Christ’ sake!” Mac cried. “Eighty-seven! It’s our own train. They told me in town that train went on south. It must of just dropped off a few cars and then come right out.”

“Let’s get our old car back,” said Jim. “I liked that car.”

As it came abreast, they hopped aboard the box-car again. Mac settled into his pile of papers. “We might just as well have stayed asleep.”

Jim sat in the doorway again, while the train crept into the round brown hills, and through two short tunnels. He could still taste the tobacco in his mouth, and it tasted good. Suddenly he dug in the pocket of his blue denim coat. “Mac,” he cried.

“Yeah? What?”

“Here’s a couple of chocolate bars I got last night.”

Mac took one of the bars and lazily unwrapped it. “I can see you’re going to be an asset in any man’s revolution,” he said.

In about an hour the drowsiness came upon Jim again. Reluctantly he closed the door of the car and curled up in his papers. Almost instantly he was in the black, roaring cave again, and the sound made dreams of water pouring over him. Vaguely he could see debris and broken bits of wood in the water. And the water bore him down and down into the dark place below dreaming.

He awakened when Mac shook him. “I bet you’d sleep a week if I’d let you. You’ve put in over twelve hours today.”

Jim rubbed his eyes hard. “I feel slugged again.”

“Well, get yourself together. We’re coming into Torgas.”

“Good God, what time is it?”

“Somewhere about midnight, I guess. Here we come; you ready to hop?”

“Sure.”

“O.K. Come on.”

The train pulled slowly on away from them. The station of Torgas was only a little way ahead, with its red light on and glancing along the blade of the semaphore. The brakeman was swinging a lantern back and forth. Over to the right the lonely, cold street lights of the town burned and put a pale glow in the sky. The air was cold now. A sharp, soundless wind blew.

“I’m hungry,” Jim said. “Got any ideas about eating, Mac?”

“Wait till we get to a light. I think I’ve got a good
prospect on my list.” He hurried away into the darkness, and Jim trotted after him. They came immediately into the edge of the town, and on a corner, under one of the lights, Mac stopped and pulled out a sheet of paper. “We got a nice town here, Jim,” he said. “Nearly fifty active sympathizers. Guys you can rely on to give you a lift. Here’s the guy I want. Alfred Anderson, Townsend, between Fourth and Fifth, Al’s Lunch Wagon. What do you think of that?”

“What’s that paper?” Jim asked.

“Why, it’s a list of all the people in town we know to be sympathizers. With this list we can get anything from knitted wristlets to a box of shotgun shells. But Al’s Lunch Wagon—lunch wagons generally stay open all night, Jim. Townsend, that’ll be one of the main streets. Come on, but let me work this.”

They turned soon into the main street, and walked down its length until, near the end, where stores were vacant and lots occurred between buildings, they found Al’s Lunch Wagon, a cozy looking little car with red stained-glass in the windows, and a sliding door. Through the window they could see that two customers sat on the stools, and that a fat young man with heavy, white, bare arms hovered behind the counter.

“Pie and coffee guys,” Mac said. “Let’s wait till they finish.”

While they loitered, a policeman approached, and eyed them. Mac said loudly, “I don’t want to go home till I get a piece of pie.”

Jim reacted quickly. “Come on home,” he said. “I’m too sleepy to eat.”

The policeman passed them. He seemed almost to sniff
at them as he went by. Mac said quietly, “He thinks we’re trying to get up our nerve to stick up the wagon.” The policeman turned and walked back toward them. Mac said, “Well, go home then, if you want. I’m going to get a piece of pie.” He climbed the three steps and slid open the door of the lunch wagon.

The proprietor smiled at them. “’Evening, gents,” he said. “Turning on cold, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” said Mac. He walked to the end of the counter farthest from the other two customers and sat down. A shadow of annoyance crossed Al’s face.

“Now listen, you guys,” he said. “If you got no money you can have a cup of coffee and a couple of sinkers. But don’t eat up a dinner on me and then tell me to call a cop. Jesus, I’m being busted by pan-handlers.”

Mac laughed shortly. “Coffee and sinkers will be just elegant, Alfred,” he said.

The proprietor glanced suspiciously at him and took off his high white cook’s hat, and scratched his head.

The customers drained their cups together. One of them asked, “Do you always feed bums, Al?”

“Well, Jesus, what can you do? If a guy wants a cup of coffee on a cold night, you can’t let him down because he hasn’t got a lousy nickel.”

The customer chuckled. “Well, twenty cups of coffee is a dollar, Al. You’ll fold up if you go about it that way. Coming, Will?” The two got up and paid their checks and walked out.

Al came around the corner and followed them to the door and slid it more tightly closed. Then he walked back down the counter and leaned over toward Mac. “Who are you guys?” he demanded. He had fat, comfortable white
arms, bare to the elbows. He carried a damp cloth with which he wiped and wiped at the counter, with little circular movements. His manner of leaning close when he spoke made every speech seem secret.

Mac winked solemnly, like a conspirator. “We’re sent down from the city on business,” he said.

A red flush of excitement bloomed on Al’s fat cheeks. “Oho-o. That’s just what I thought when you come in. How’d you know to come to me?”

Mac explained. “You been good to our people, and we don’t forget things like that.”

Al beamed importantly, as though he were receiving a gift instead of being bummed for a meal. “Here, wait,” he said. “You guys probably ain’t ate today. I’ll sling on a couple of hamburg steaks.”

“That’ll be swell,” Mac agreed enthusiastically. “We’re just about starved.”

Al went to his ice-box and dug out two handfuls of ground meat. He patted them thin between his hands, painted the gas plate with a little brush and tossed down the steaks. He put chopped onions on top and around the meat. A delicious odor filled the room instantly.

“Lord,” said Mac. “I’d like to crawl right over this counter and nest in that hamburger.”

The meat hissed loudly and the onions began to turn brown. Al leaned over the counter again. “What you guys got on down here?”

“Well, you got a lot of nice apples,” said Mac.

Al pushed himself upright and leaned against the fat buttresses of his arms. His little eyes grew very wise and secret. “Oho,” he said. “O-ho-o, I get you.”

“Better turn over that meat, then,” said Mac.

Al flipped the steaks and pressed them down with his spatula. And he gathered in the vagrant onions and heaped them on top of the meat, and pressed them in. Very deliberate he was in his motions, as inwardly-thoughtful-looking as a ruminating cow. At last he came back and planted himself in front of Mac. “My old man’s got a little orchard and a piece of land,” he said. “You guys wouldn’t hurt him none, would you? I been good to you.”

“Sure you been good,” said Mac. “The little farmers don’t suffer from us. You tell your father we won’t hurt him; and if he gives us a break, we’ll see his fruit gets picked.”

“Thanks,” said Al. “I’ll tell him.” He took up the steaks, spooned mashed potatoes on the plates from the steam table, made a hollow in each potato mountain and filled the white craters with light brown gravy.

Mac and Jim ate voraciously and drank the mugs of coffee Al set for them. And they wiped their plates with bread and ate the bread while Al filled up their coffee cups again. “That was swell, Al,” Jim said. “I was starved.”

Mac added, “It sure was. You’re a good guy, Al.”

“I’d be along with you,” Al explained, “if I didn’t have a business, and if my old man didn’t own land. I guess I’d get this joint wrecked if anybody ever found out.”

“They’ll never find out from us, Al.”

“Sure, I know that.”

“Listen, Al, are there many working stiffs in yet for the harvest?”

“Yeah, big bunch of them. Good many eat here. I set up a pretty nice dinner for a quarter—soup, meat, two
vegetables, bread and butter, pie and two cups of coffee for a quarter. I take a little profit and sell more.”

“Good work,” said Mac. “Listen, Al, did you hear any of the stiffs talking about a leader?”

“Leader?”

“Sure, I mean some guy that kind of tells ’em where to put their feet.”

“I see what you mean,” said Al. “No, I don’t rightly recall nothing about it.”

“Well, where are the guys hanging out?”