A whistle blows, a long sustained warning followed by the hissing and sputtering of the engine.
Walter’s voice cracks, hoarse with yelling. “Queenie! Where the hell are you? Queenie! Come!”
Up ahead, the last stragglers are leaping onto flat cars.
“Walter, come on!” I shout. “Don’t mess around. You’ve got to get on now.”
He ignores me. He’s up at the flat cars now, peering between wagon wheels. “Queenie, come!” he shouts. He stops and suddenly stands straight up. He looks lost. “Queenie?” he says to no one in particular.
“Aw hell,” I say.
“Is he coming back or what?” asks Camel.
“Doesn’t look like it,” I say.
“Well go git ’im!” he barks.
The train lurches forward, the cars jerking as the engine pulls the slack from their couplings.
I jump to the gravel and run ahead to the flat cars. Walter stands facing the engine.
I touch his shoulder. “Walter, it’s time to go.”
He turns to me, his eyes pleading. “Where is she? Have you seen her?”
“No. Come on, Walter,” I say. “We’ve got to get on the train now.”
“I can’t,” he says. His face is blank. “I can’t leave her. I just can’t.”
The train is chugging forward now, gathering steam.
I glance behind me. The townsmen, armed with rifles, baseball bats, and sticks are surging forward. I look back at the train long enough to get a sense of speed, and count, praying to God that I’m right: one, two, three, four.
I scoop Walter up like a sack of flour and toss him inside. There’s a crash and a yelp as he hits the floor. I sprint beside the train and grasp the iron bar beside the door. I let the train pull me along for three long strides, and then use its velocity to vault up and inside.
My face skids across the bucking floorboards. When I realize I’m safe, I look for Walter, prepared for a fight.
He is huddled in the corner, crying.
WALTER IS INCONSOLABLE. He remains in the corner as I pull the trunks out and retrieve Camel. I manage the old man’s shave—a task that usually involves all three of us—and then drag him out to the area in front of the horses.
“Aw, come on, Walter,” says Camel. I’m holding him by his armpits, dangling his naked posterior over what Walter calls the honey bucket. “You did what you could.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Hey, lower me a bit, would ya? I’m swinging in the breeze here.”
I shift my feet so they’re further apart, trying to lower Camel while keeping my back straight. Usually Walter takes care of this part because he’s the right height.
“Walter, I could use a hand here,” I say as a spasm shoots across my back.
“Shut up,” he says.
Camel looks back again, this time with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“No, it’s not okay,” Walter yells from the corner. “Nothing’s okay! Queenie was all I had. You understand that?” His voice drops to whimper. “She was all I had.”
Camel waves his hand at me to indicate he’s finished. I shuffle over a couple of feet and lay him on his side.
“Now, that can’t be true,” says Camel as I clean him up. “A young fella like you’s gotta have somebody somewhere.”
“You don’t know nothing.”
“You ain’t got a mother somewhere?” says Camel, persisting.
“None I got a use for.”
“Now don’t you talk like that,” says Camel.
“Why the hell not? She sold me to this outfit when I was fourteen.” He glares at us. “And don’t you go looking at me like you feel sorry for me,” he snaps. “She was an old crow, anyway. Who the hell needs her.”
“What do you mean sold you?” says Camel.
“Well, I’m not exactly cut out for farmwork, am I? Just leave me the hell alone, will you?” He shuffles around so his back is to us.
I fasten Camel’s pants, grab him by the armpits, and haul him back into the room. His legs drag behind him, his heels scraping the floor.
“Man, oh man,” he says as I arrange him on the cot. “Ain’t that something?”
“You ready for some food?” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Naw, not yet. But a drop of whiskey would go down well.” He shakes his head sadly. “I ain’t never heard of a woman so coldhearted.”
“I can still hear you, you know,” barks Walter. “And besides, you ain’t got no talking room, old man. When was the last time you saw your son?”
Camel goes pale.
“Eh? Can’t answer that, can you?” continues Walter from outside the room. “Ain’t such a big difference in what you did and what my mother did, is there?”
“Yes there is,” shouts Camel. “There’s a world of difference. And how the hell do you know what I did, anyway?”
“You mentioned your son one night when you were tight,” I say quietly.
Camel stares at me for a moment. Then his face contorts. He raises a limp hand to his forehead and turns away from me. “Aw shit,” he says. “Aw shit. I never knew you knew,” he says. “You shoulda’ told me.”