The Insane Train (20 page)

After introducing Oatney to the others, he took her to the supply car, where they found Baldwin fast asleep.

Hook shook his shoulder. “How's the headache?” he asked.

Baldwin rubbed at his face. “Better,” he said.

“Doctor Baldwin, this is Oatney. I found her in Panhandle. She has agreed to help us out.”

“I see,” he said, sitting up. “And have you worked with mental patients before, Oatney?”

“Her experience is in research,” Hook said. “We are very lucky to have found her.”

“Wonderful. And what do you research?” he asked.

“Deviant sexual behavior,” Hook said.

“Interesting. Well, we certainly have our share of that. Have you ever worked with violent patients?” he asked.

“On occasion,” Oatney said.

“I thought I might put her in the boys' car since Roy is helping out Doctor Helms.”

“Yes, yes. I suppose I should take a look at your credentials, Miss…”

“Oatney,” she said.

“I'm afraid we didn't have time for all that, Doctor Baldwin, and our needs were pressing,” Hook said.

“Yes, well, another time. Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you,” Oatney said. “If you ever need a…”

“We really must be on our way, Doctor Baldwin,” Hook said. “I'm sure the boys will be delighted with our choice.”

The boys found Oatney to their liking, as did Santos, who blushed when Oatney dropped her arm around his neck. The boys made goggle eyes and rushed to do her bidding. Oatney, too, flourished in giving them maternal attentions.

Helms only shrugged. “At least now I can go to the bathroom,” she said, turning back to her work.

As they left Pampa behind and moved into Oklahoma, the heat rose with each passing mile. The sun scorched overhead, and the flat plains gave way to red gullies and mesquite. Sagebrush cropped from the plains like puffs of smoke. Paddle cactus sprang from the cracked earth, and prairie dogs guarded their holes, watching the skies for danger.

The whistle stops grew smaller and farther between. Listless with heat, the inmates slept in their seats and made trips to the water for drinks.

Somewhere in the midst of all the isolation, Frenchy slowed to a stop. Hook climbed down from the caboose and made his way forward. Frenchy leaned out over his elbow, his cigar parked in the corner of his mouth.

“It's the spur,” he said. “Can you throw that switch up there?”

“I'm a yard dog, Frenchy, not a switchman. I only got one arm to boot, or hadn't you noticed that, either?”

“Well, there ain't a goddang switchman within a hundred miles,” he said. “I'd do it my own self except you ain't a goddang engineer either, are you?”

“Why don't you see if that bakehead's still alive. Maybe he could climb down and do it.”

“I got to have my fireman building fire, Hook. Just throw the goddang switch.”

Hook worked at the switch. Clogged with dirt and debris, it took all he had to get it thrown. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose.

“Anything else?” he hollered up at Frenchy.

“It's a slow go from here on out,” Frenchy said. “I hope this ole bullgine stays astraddle the track.”

“You need any driving advice, just let me know,” Hook said.

“Oh, sure. I'll be right back to the caboose for that, alright.”

“And give me time to walk my dog, Frenchy.”

“We'll just hold up the goddang train so's you can walk your dog,” Frenchy said. “I'm sure the railroad wouldn't mind.”

“I could put a rope around his neck and walk him out the back of the caboose at the rate this ole bucket moves,” Hook said.

They eased off down the spur at walking speed. The cars waddled along like ducks, heat waves spiraling up from their roofs.

Hook checked on everyone and then went to the cupola to have a smoke. He opened the window, letting the hot air out. Clouds gathered on the distant plain, a bank as blue as an ocean wave, and the smell of moisture rode in. Mesquite stretched into the hills, their leaves of lace, their limbs like skeleton fingers reaching up from their graves.

By late afternoon, the heat had stifled all conversation, and the thump of the wheels wormed into their heads. Hook checked on Santos and Oatney to make certain all was well. He needn't have worried. The boys followed Oatney everywhere, and Santos grinned from the back of the car.

He took another trip to the cupola to have a smoke. The cupola served as sanctuary, provided his need for a moment's privacy. Without it, they would have him cuffed and sedated in the security ward along with the rest.

Ahead, a red ravine cracked open the earth like a wound, splitting the countryside in half. Frenchy slowed, the caboose bumping and hauling as he brought her down.

The train eased over the rim, and the air cooled about them, smelling of damp and leaves. The scorched earth gave way to cedar trees, post oak, and elm. Grapevine, searching for sunlight, climbed skyward on the limbs. The trestle reached across the chasm like a giant Tinkertoy.

As they pulled onto the trestle, Hook looked out the window to see the stream below, a silver line twisting up the canyon. The bullgine thumped and churned, and steam rose skyward as she started the ascent on the other side. Black smoke boiled upward obscuring the treetops. Hook lit a cigarette, hoping the while that Frenchy knew what the hell he was doing.

A third of the way up, the train commenced to tremble like a man hefting an enormous weight. The engine hissed and rolled, and her stroke drew down. When she stopped, she sighed, and Frenchy threw the brakes.

For a moment, she hung in the stillness. The backward slide commenced slowly at first, the screech of the brakes filling the canyon, and then like a giant roller coaster, she gained momentum, racing backward toward the trestle with the full weight of the train at their back.

Hook stood, his heart thumping as they shot onto the trestle at breakneck speed. The trestle trembled beneath them, and bits of debris plummeted into the canyon below. As they rose up the opposite slope, she slowed once again, rolling forward until she came to a stop at the bottom.

Hook dabbed the sweat from his forehead and climbed out. Frenchy walked the trestle toward Hook, rubbing his neck with his bandanna. Andrea and Seth and the others stuck their heads out the doors.

“What the hell was that all about?” Hook asked Frenchy as he approached.

Frenchy searched for a cigar. He cupped his match and lit it before speaking.

“We can't go forward or backward or in between,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we're stuck,” he said. “She don't have the muscle to get out of this ditch. Simple as that.”

Andrea came down onto the step. “What's the matter, Hook?”

“Frenchy says we're stuck, meaning this ole smoke pot can't get us out of this hole.”

“What will we do?” she asked.

“Well, now,” Hook said. “You'll have to ask the engineer here. He's the expert on driving.”

Andrea looked at Frenchy.

“Well,” Frenchy said. “We can't get a pusher out here. So, we either lighten the load, or we figure on living out our days in this here canyon.”

“What do you mean lighten the load?” Hook asked.

“Uncouple a few of these cars,” he said. “I'll run the others in to the crossing loop. Come back for the rest.”

“And which cars had you figured on abandoning?” Hook asked.

Frenchy dropped the ash of his cigar onto the track.

“The last two, Hook. Even a goddang yard dog ought figure that one out.”

“The caboose and the women's car?”

“That would be the last two by my count, wouldn't it?”

Hook walked to the edge of the ravine and back. “You're going to leave me and these women out here in the middle of nowhere? And for how long?”

“Well, now, I can't be certain about that,” Frenchy said. “Given no more breakdowns, it shouldn't take all that long.”

“You do realize we don't have food, and the water won't last in this heat?”

“The longer I stay and listen to you cry, the longer it's going to be before I get back, Hook.”

Hook pitched a rock into the canyon. He never heard it hit bottom.

“You told Baldwin?” he asked.

“I'm telling
you
,” he said. “Baldwin is your job.”

 

Baldwin only nodded before collapsing back in his bunk. Hook closed the door and went out to watch Frenchy uncouple the cars. After setting the hand brakes on the caboose and the women's car, Frenchy climbed into the engine cab and brought up a full head of steam.

He goosed the bullgine, filling the canyon with her roar, and made a hard run across the trestle. Her drivers churned, slipping and catching against the rails as they made for the hill ahead. And when he'd topped the rim, Frenchy hung his arm out the cab, waving until they disappeared from sight.

The silence of the prairie pressed in about them as they listened to the whistle of the engine somewhere in the distance.

Seth unloaded the women and moved them to the far end of the trestle and under a giant elm. Hook carried out water and whatever food he could scrounge from the caboose. Mixer ran the tracks in search of something to kill, finally curling in the shade of the outfit car for a nap.

By dusk, they'd settled in under the tree and built a fire for company. Thunderheads had grown throughout the day's heat and now boiled skyward like giant cotton balls. Seth dragged in logs for sitting on.

“How long you think it will take Frenchy to get back?” he asked Hook.

“Did you ever try to get a straight answer out of Frenchy?” he said.

“Couldn't be any harder than getting one from a yard dog,” Seth said.

Andrea combed the nettles out of Ruth's hair and rebuttoned her blouse, which was one buttonhole off. Anna, concerned about the wilderness at her back, sat as far away from Hook as she dared but close enough to still enjoy the protection of the fire. Lucy sat cross-legged and rocked her doll, humming something obscure the whole time. Esther had spotted an ant den and worked at it with a stick.

Hook lay on his side, watching the thunderheads clip across the sky. Soon the sun dropped behind the canyon wall, and a cool dampness settled in about them. Lightning flickered from deep in the heart of the storm, and thunder rumbled off. Seth poked the fire, and embers lifted upward on the column of heat.

“I'm sure hungry,” he said. “I wonder how long Frenchy's going to be?”

“Stop, Seth,” Hook said. “There's nothing to eat.”

“We could eat that dog,” Seth said.

“Go ahead and try,” Hook said.

“Esther's digging ants,” Ruth said.

“Don't start,” Andrea said.

“I don't want to eat dog,” Lucy said, rocking.

Hook took out his pocketknife to sharpen sticks to heat up the salami he'd found.

“He's going to kill me with his knife,” Anna said.

“No he's not,” Andrea said. “He's fixing sticks.”

“I don't like to eat sticks,” Lucy said.

“God,” Andrea said.

Ruth stood. “I have nice…”

“Ruth,” Andrea said. “You say that again, we'll roast
you
over the fire.”

Hook gave his knife to Andrea to cut up the salami. She passed the pieces around until they were gone. Darkness fell, and heat lightning sputtered here and there in the distance.

“Are there Indians at the fort?” Bertha asked.

“No,” Hook said. “There used to be long ago.”

“Are they all old now?” Esther asked.

“Very old,” Hook said. “There's no need to worry. You have Seth to protect you.”

“They cut Seth's face open,” Esther said.

“Bertha puts her hand in Seth's pocket,” Lucy said.

“No I don't,” Bertha said.

The first splashes of rain slapped the ground around them, and a burst of cold wind swept through the canyon.

“I think it's going to rain,” Hook said. “We better get inside.”

No sooner had he spoken when the sky opened. Wind whipped the fire and sent embers flying into the night. Wet and shivering, they all crowded into the car. At first only a few scattered hailstones pinged the roof, but within moments the stones drove in from the sky as big as fists. The women held one another and covered their heads with their arms. Gusts of wind rocked the outfit car, driving rain through the window cracks and onto the floor.

The car pitched and rolled under the gusts of wind, and lightning lit the canyon in fluorescent light. Seth sat at the end of the car, his jaw clinched. Each time a clap of thunder rolled down the canyon, he jumped, covering his head with his arms.

All night the storm raged, wave after wave rolling across the plains. Not until dawn broke did the wind subside. As they climbed from the car, the sun broke to a clear sky. Birds chirped high in the treetops, and squirrels leaped from limb to limb like acrobats.

Seth built the fire, and they all gathered about to dry out. The sun lit the canyon in orange, and the smell of the campfire cheered them all. When they heard the chug of Frenchy's steamer breaking in the distance, the women giggled and locked their arms.

Hook and Andrea walked down the tracks for a moment together while Seth loaded the women into the car. They sat on a fallen tree and breathed in the rain-cleaned morning.

“We'll soon be there,” Andrea said. “And there's much to be done. Oh,” she said, reaching in her pocket. “I forgot to give you your knife back.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“We've not nearly enough help yet,” she said. “And who knows what condition the facility is in.”

“Baldwin is doing poorly,” Hook said. “He's not handling the pressure well.”

“There's always Doctor Helms, I suppose,” she said. “She's quite efficient.”

He dropped his knife into his pocket. “Oh, wait,” he said. “I took this pill from the medicine cabinet in supply. I thought maybe you could identify it for me?”

Frenchy's engine labored into sight. Black smoke boiled skyward as she steamed in backward toward them.

Andrea turned the pill in her hand. Picking it up, she nibbled at its corner.

Glancing over at him, she shrugged. “It's just a sugar pill, Hook, a placebo.”