On the Wrong Track (16 page)

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Authors: Steve Hockensmith

BOOK: On the Wrong Track
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FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Or, Kip and Samuel Give Us Something New to Chew On
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Whatever my brother’s reasons,
I knew better than to ask about them there at the table. Gustav plays his cards close to the vest when it’s just him and me. Throw in Kip and Samuel and half a dozen other men in easy eavesdropping range, and he’d stuff those cards down in his boot.
So I just contented myself (for the moment) with a big bite of honey-slathered bread and a simple “So now what?” Which came out more like a “Sho noo wha’?” actually, but as my brother’s long accustomed to hearing me talk with my mouth full, he had no trouble understanding.
“Now I’d like to ask the fellers here some questions.”
He looked first at Samuel, then at Kip.
“Questions?” Samuel said. He’d been relaxing with his long, lean body propped up against a chair the next table over, but now he stood up straight and brought his feet in close together.
Kip froze with a hunk of bread just inches from his mouth. “Us?”
“Yup. You.” Old Red started to take another bite of bread himself,
but he changed his mind at the last second, dropping the half-eaten slice back on his plate and pushing it away. “You’ve been up and down this train more than anybody other than Wiltrout. If something queer was goin’ on, you’d be the ones to spot it, most likely.”
“What do you mean ‘queer’?” Kip asked.
“Somebody actin’ odd, lollygaggin’ where they shouldn’t—that kinda thing. I’m wonderin’ about the vestibule up by the baggage car, in particular. Y’all didn’t catch sight of anything up thataway, did you? Strange comin’s and goin’s?”
The porter and the news butch looked at each other. Kip shrugged, then Samuel shrugged, then they both turned toward my brother and shrugged together.
“Didn’t see nothin’ like that,” Samuel said. “I was too busy.”
“Sorry,” Kip said. “Same for me.”
Old Red screwed up his face like a man who’s accidentally swallowed his tobacco juice.
“Well, how about that key of yours, Kip?” he asked. “It ever turn up?”
“Nah. I had to borrow one of Wiltrout’s spares. And, boy, did he chew my ass for it.”
“So you still ain’t got no idea where yours got to?”
“None at all. I just went to fetch that
novelty
”—he winked—“that the drummer asked for, and when I got up to the baggage car … well, you saw. My passkey was gone.”
“And you hadn’t loaned it to nobody? Or left it lyin’ around somewheres?”
“Nope.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if someone swiped the kid’s key without him noticin’,” Samuel said. “We get passengers with nimble fingers from time to time. Some of them yeggs could snatch the gold from your fillin’s between bites of bread.”
I swallowed my latest mouthful and ran my tongue over my teeth. “Still there.”
“This is a pretty high-class run to have pickpockets,” my brother said.
“Better class of pockets to pick,” Samuel pointed out. “You pussyfooters are supposed to keep tabs on the thieves and cardsharps, but we never even know if we got a company spotter aboard—cuz you’re keepin’ tabs on
us,
too.”
I knew then why our fellow S.P. employees weren’t fond of rail dicks. We weren’t just guards. We were
spies
.
I would’ve tread lighter after learning that, but Old Red just brought his heel down harder.
“So neither of you saw a single thing out of the ordinary today?” he said, sour as vinegar taffy.
Kip and Samuel shook their heads.
“Not the way you mean,” Samuel said.
“Well, how about the times we stopped for Pezullo and the Give-’em-Hell Boys? You can’t tell me
that
was ordinary.”
Samuel heaved an exasperated sigh. “Only thing I saw when Joe got throwed off the train was a faceful of sheet. I was in one of the closets diggin’ out an extra pillow for Mrs. Foreman, that widow woman travelin’ with her boys, and when the brakes clutched up, I was buried under a heap of linens. By the time I dug myself out, everybody had their noses pressed to the windows lookin’ for long riders.”
“So you were in there alone? Nobody saw you?”
“Of course, I was alone. You couldn’t squeeze two people into that closet with a crowbar. So you’ll just have to take my word on it.”
A hint of a smirk tugged at one corner of the porter’s mouth.
“When the Give-’em-Hell Boys hit us, though—that’s a different story,” he said. “I had a bad feelin’ about that stop, what with the hour and where we were and all. It was too much like last time that bunch showed up—and you two know how fond they are of railroaders. So I ducked into the gents’ washroom in Pullman one, thinkin’ I’d lay low till it all blew over. But I wasn’t the only one who got that idea. Wiltrout was in there already, and you should’ve heard the yelp he let out when I came bustin’ in on him.”
At the front end of the car, the other porters and kitchen workers exchanged sly glances and snickers. They’d obviously already heard Samuel’s story and shared many a belly laugh at their “captain’s” expense. To Kip, though, this was unexpected (and by no means unwelcome) news.
“Wiltrout was hidin’ in the can the whole time?” The kid squealed out a peal of high-pitched laughter. “Oh, he’s in for it now! By noon tomorrow, there won’t be a man on the line who hasn’t heard about it! They’ll be waitin’ for him at every station with a hot plate of humble pie!”
I chuckled along with Kip and the rest of them, but Old Red didn’t join in. He just kept staring at Samuel—or more like
through
him—the wheels turning so furiously in his head I could practically hear them click-clacking like the rails beneath our feet.
“So, Kip,” I said as the laughter trailed off into awkward silence, “what did
you
see?”
“Well, there ain’t much to tell, really. When we stopped for Joe’s body …” His own words sobered the kid fast as a slap, and the smile he’d been wearing disappeared. “—I was in the gents’ in Pullman one,” he went on grimly. “And, before you ask—yeah, I was alone. I was busy with something most folks prefer to do without an audience, if you know what I mean. Later on, when the Give-’em-Hell Boys stopped us, I was readin’ a magazine in my berth.”
Old Red blinked his way back from oblivion. “Where’s that?”
“There are two empties in Pullman one, up at the front of the car. Wiltrout gets the bottom one. The top’s mine. I rolled out to see what was up, and”—the kid looked down, his slender face flushing pink—“some bastard in a mask popped out and stuck a gun in my ear. You know the rest. Barson and Welsh showed up, they pulled Lockhart out of his berth, and—”
Gustav’s index finger went up straight as a flagpole. “
Wait
. They grabbed Lockhart?”
“Yeeeesssss,” Kip said, dragging the word out like a schoolboy afraid he’s giving the teacher the wrong answer.
“He didn’t come out after ’em?”
“No. He was a little confused.”
“A little
drunk,
” I said.
“How is it Barson and Welsh knew where Lockhart was?” Old Red pushed on, ignoring me. “How is it they even knew he was on the train?”
“Oh. Huh. Beats the hell out of me.” Kip offered my brother a small smile. “Say, you’re really pretty good at this stuff, ain’t you? You sure I shouldn’t start callin’ you Mr. Holmes again?”
“Old Red will do,” Gustav replied—though he couldn’t help looking a tad pleased despite himself. “I understand this ain’t the first time the Give-’em-Hell Boys and the Pacific Express crossed paths. Was you fellers on the train last time, too?”
Kip swept his hand out at Samuel and the other porters and kitchen help. “We all were. The engine crew was different—we get a new engineer and fireman every eight hours or so. And it wasn’t Morrison in the Wells Fargo car. But other than that, it was the same crew.”
“So what happened, exactly?”
“I didn’t see much,” Kip said with a reluctant shrug. “To be honest … well …”
“Yeah?” Old Red prodded him.
“Last time,
I
was hidin’ in the john,” Kip admitted, shamefaced.
“Don’t worry, kid,” I told him with a wink. “It’s only funny when it’s Wiltrout.”
“
I’ll
tell you what was different last time,” Samuel said. “The robbers actually did some robbin’. Dragged Wiltrout outside with a gun to his head and told the express messenger to open up
or else
. Made off with either a little or a lot, dependin’ on who you believe.”
My brother frowned and furrowed his brow. “Funny they didn’t try that again. They had Kip. Why not use him to press Morrison?”
“Barson said they was makin’ a ‘social call,’” I reminded him. “An-nouncin’ the bounties on Crowe and Powless and the S.P. board.”
“Yeah,” Kip chimed in. “Seems like they was just sendin’ a message.”
“But theirs ain’t gettin’ out,” Old Red said. “We got orders not to talk to the papers.”
“Word’ll get out—and it won’t take long,” Samuel replied with the firm certainty of a sky pilot preaching the gospel. “Tryin’ to keep a secret inside the S.P.’s like tryin’ to keep water in your pockets.”
Gustav nodded slowly and started digging around in his coat. “Alright. I got just two more questions. First off, either of you ever lay eyes on anything like this?”
He pulled out the little cup/bowl he’d found in the desert earlier that night. Samuel and Kip eyed it, then eyed each other, seeming to wonder if Augie Welsh hadn’t just kicked my brother’s ass but dropped him on his head, as well.
“No,” they said in unison.
Old Red groaned in a resigned sort of way and put the cup away—then pulled out the golden yellow hunk of hair. He tossed it onto the table curls up.
“How ’bout this?”
Kip’s jaw dropped so far, so fast, it almost ended up on the tabletop next to the toupee. Samuel, on the other hand, recognized it for what it was straight off. He grunted out a little one-note chuckle—“Huh”—and picked the wig up.
“I’ve seen plenty of these. Even had to help a few gentlemen get theirs fastened to their heads.” He dropped the hairpiece back on the table. “This one don’t look familiar, though. Maybe you oughta ask Mr. Horner about it. I bet he’d have a sharper eye for such things.”
“Why would that be?” I asked.
“Oh, I’d never gossip about anything that might embarrass a passenger,” the porter said—and he rubbed his hand over his own gray-tinged hair, as if smoothing down a cowlick.
I nodded, smiling, finally realizing why Horner’s pompadour had gone so cockeyed after he’d climbed up into his bunk. He’d hung up his hair for the night the way most men hang up their hats. He’d have no mirror to go by in his berth, so whenever he wanted to poke his head
out, all he could do was balance his little man-wig over his ears and hope for the best.
“How ’bout you, Kip?” Gustav croaked, his voice finally cracking under the weight of so many questions. “You notice this on anybody today?”
“Heck, no. If I had, I never would’ve stopped laughin’.” The news butch reached out to stroke the toupee warily, like it was some exotic woodland creature Old Red had on a leash. “Jeez … I think I’d rather be bald. Where’d you find this thing, anyway? And why is it important?”
“Oh, it was just lyin’ around. Might not mean a thing.”
My brother swept the hairpiece off the table and stuffed it back in his pocket. Then he leaned back in his chair and sighed, suddenly seeming so weary the weight of his own skin looked like too much for him to bear.
“You done?” I asked him.
He nodded. “With these fellers, anyway.”
“Well, then … seein’ as you look like shit and sound like shit and have been generally actin’ shitty, I’d say it’s time for you to turn in.”
Gustav pursed his lips and glared at me so long I started to think he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open.
“Alright,
Mutter,
” he finally said. “I reckon you’re right.”
He put his palms on the table and slowly pushed himself to his feet. I stood, too, offering the good-nights and thank-yous my brother wasn’t bothering with.
“Wait,” Kip said as we started to leave. “Old Red … what’s goin’ on?”
“Yeah,” Samuel said. “You’re actin’ like whoever killed Joe’s still on the Express.”
“Well, there’s a reason for that.”
The murmuring of the porters and cooks snuffed out, and for a moment all you could hear was the humming-rumbling-tapping of the little vibrations all around us—wood, metal, glass, porcelain, leather, all
in motion, all rattling against each other, a million collisions a second all invisible to the eye.

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