Two Trains Running

A third dog—part terrier by the sound—let out a high-pitched rip of a growl. Paws clittered on the floor of the car.

“Tell you what, friend,” said the man. “Ain’t a thing I can do ’bout your dog. Dog’s in charge of where he’s headed. But I don’t mind too much you want to ride along.”

These words bred a cold vacancy in Billy’s gut and his legs went a little weak. Broke-brained as he was, he knew that taking a train ride with a giant in a pitch-dark boxcar was not the solution to any reasonable problem; but he couldn’t figure what else to do. A throbbing, rumbling noise started up. It didn’t have the belly-full-of-grinding-bones fullness of a real diesel engine, but an engine’s what it must have been, because a shuddery vibration shook the car, and the train jerked forward a couple of feet.

“Best hop on if you comin’,” said the man inside the car.

Billy glanced around to see if maybe a bull or somebody else official was nearby. It wasn’t in his nature to be running the yard cops in on anyone, especially a fellow tramp, but these were extreme circumstances. No one was in sight, though. Nothing but a bunch of cold dark and lonesome. The train lurched forward again, and this time it started rolling. All the dogs inside the car—Billy thought he could hear a half-dozen separate voices—got to yipping and woofing, as if excited to be going somewhere. The train began to roll faster.

Billy knew he had only seconds before he would no longer be able to keep up, before he’d lose his dog for sure. Desperation spiked in him, driving down his fear. With a shout he shucked his pack, heaved it into the car, then hauled himself in after it. As he lurched to his feet, ready to fight, the train lurched heavily and he went off balance, his arms windmilling, and rammed headfirst into the end wall of the car, knocking himself senseless.

Billy woke to find Stupid licking his face. The drool strings hanging from the dog’s dewlaps flicked across his cheek and chin. He pushed Stupid away and sat up holding his head, which was gonging something fierce.

“Welcome aboard, friend,” said the man’s voice. Billy swiveled his neck around toward him, a movement that caused him to wince.

Flanked by four mongrels, the man was sitting against the far wall. His stretched-out legs seemed to reach halfway across the car, and his shoulders were Frankenstein-sized under the Army surplus poncho he was wearing. He was in better health than any hobos of Billy’s acquaintance. His shoulder length hair was dark and shiny, his eyes clear, and his horsy face unmarked by gin blossoms or spider veins or any other sign of ill-use. An ugly face, albeit an amiable one. He had a calmness about him that rankled Billy, who could barely recall what calm was like.

“I ain’t your goddamn friend.” Billy rubbed his neck, trying to ease a feeling of compression.

“Guess not,” said the man. “But I’m bettin’ you will be.”

The dogs gazed at Billy with the same casual indifference as that displayed by the man, as if they were his familiars. They were a sorry bunch: a scrawny German shepherd; a runty collie with a weepy right eye; a brindled hound with orange eyes and a crooked hind leg; and a stubby-legged gray mutt with a broad chest that, Billy thought, had probably been responsible for the yappy growl. Not a one looked worth the effort it would take to keep them fed and healthy, and Billy speculated that maybe the man suffered from a condition similar to the one that had troubled his old traveling companion Clueless Joe, who had tried to persuade a railroad bull in Yakima to marry him and his dog.

A couple of other things struck Billy as odd. First off, the train had to be traveling forty miles an hour, enough speed so that the sound of their passage should have been deafening; yet they weren’t yelling, they were speaking in normal tones of voice. And then there was a faint yellow light inside the car, like the faded illumination that comes during a brownout. The light had no apparent source.

Spooked, Billy spotted the ax handle lying on the floor and grabbed it up. The collie came to his feet and barked, but the big man gentled him, and the dog curled up with the other three once again. Stupid, who had lifted his head, sighed and rested his muzzle on Billy’s knee.

“What sorta train is this?” Billy demanded, and the man said:

“Guess you could say we caught us a hot shot. We’ll be goin’ straight through. No stops.”

“Straight through to where?”

“Over yonder,” said the man. “You gon’ love it.”

The train swung into a bend, and in the strong moonlight Billy saw they were moving among a chain of snow peaks that swept off toward the horizon, all with dark skirts of evergreen. The Canadian Rockies, maybe?

“How long was I out for?” Billy asked. “Where the hell are we?”

“’Bout ten, fifteen minutes.” The man shifted and the dogs perked up their ears and cut their eyes toward him. “My name’s Pieczynski, by the way. Folks call me Pie.”