Read Online Doubtful Canon by Johnny D. Boggs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Johnny D. Boggs
Tags: Fiction
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remained mostly tent saloons and uninviting jacales. Even the depot lacked the look of anything permanent. The dog still barked, but he sounded far away, at least nowhere in the vicinity of the depot.
When we reached the rails, when it finally hit me that Ian Spencer Henry wasn’t coming, I felt betrayed. By Ian Spencer Henry, who had let me down. By the white-skinned stranger who had refused to wait, to give a boy a few extra minutes.
A whistle sounded in the night.
“Like I said,” Whitey Grey spoke evenly, “that train don’t wait. She’ll take water here, but that’s all, so we’ll have to find a car, hope there ain’t no railroad thugs or some surly boss with a nightstick. We’ll ride to Stein’s, get off there. Now, follow me, and keep your fly traps shut up tight.”
The headlamp flickered in the east, and I tripped over the rail, pitching headfirst into the sand, then scrambled to my feet and raced into the rocks with Jasmine and the stranger.
Waiting.
Slowly the light grew larger, the metallic noises of the locomotive louder—heavy creaks, the grinding of gears and metal, hissing steam. Then the blinding light lit up the rocks. For the first time that night, I saw Jasmine’s frightened face and the wild eyes of Whitey Grey as he hugged the earth while searching the train as it passed, and just like that, as the engine moved past us, the darkness returned, although fainter now, while the train slowed, slowed, and stopped.
Cries and shouts, muffled by the release of steam and the noise of the locomotive, sang out in the night. Whitey Grey’s joints popped as he rose.
“Let’s move, chil’ren,” he said, and we followed, more from sound than sight, although by now, with the light from the engine’s cab and caboose, as well as from the depot just down the tracks, it was easier to see, we could at least make out the freights toward the rear of the train.
“Here’s one.” Grunting, Whitey Grey slid the heavy door open, unleashing the scent of manure and straw. “You first, li’l’ girlie.” He scooped up Jasmine and tossed her through the opening.
Without a word, the albino whirled, grabbed me and hurled me inside, then with a grunt, he pulled himself into the livestock car. A horse grunted. Another stamped a nervous hoof on the floor, and, with a sudden lurch, the train pulled forward, slowly, creeping along slowly, past the depot, past the road to Shakespeare, heading into the desert again, moving slowly, methodically.
“Ol’ Whitey Grey knows what he’s doin’, eh, chil’ren?” The strange man laughed, slapped his knees. A match flared. “Let’s take a look-see,” he said, and the flame roared larger. He had lighted a rolled newspaper. Where it came from, I hadn’t a clue, but, after hours of lengthy dark, the light felt reassuring.
Two horses stood hobbled in the rear of the car, with sacks of something stacked two feet high in one corner, the floor covered with old hay. The place had a musky smell. “’Bout an hour or so, we’ll hit Stein’s, be that much closer to my gold,” Whitey Grey said. “Yes, sir, ol’ Whitey Grey knows….”
He sprang to his knees, still holding the burning paper, then he swore, passing the makeshift torch to Jasmine, who was nearer, and, gripping his left hand on the wall, he leaned out. The train lurched, and he let out a girlish shout, almost fell from the train, slowly picking up speed. He swore again.
At last, I heard it.
“Wait for me! Don’t leave me! It’s me, Ian Spencer Henry! Wait! Wait up!”
“Fool kid. He’ll wake up half the town. Hand me that fire.” He snatched the paper, waving it frantically outside. “Best hope nobody sees this but him. Here, boy! You see my li’l’ torch. Run to us. Run! Hurry!”
More speed, and then the paper flamed up, and out, but I could see the outline of Whitey Grey leaning out of the opening, his right hand stretching into the darkness.
The rhythm of the clicking wheels picked
When we reached the rails, when it finally hit me that Ian Spencer Henry wasn’t coming, I felt betrayed. By Ian Spencer Henry, who had let me down. By the white-skinned stranger who had refused to wait, to give a boy a few extra minutes.
A whistle sounded in the night.
“Like I said,” Whitey Grey spoke evenly, “that train don’t wait. She’ll take water here, but that’s all, so we’ll have to find a car, hope there ain’t no railroad thugs or some surly boss with a nightstick. We’ll ride to Stein’s, get off there. Now, follow me, and keep your fly traps shut up tight.”
The headlamp flickered in the east, and I tripped over the rail, pitching headfirst into the sand, then scrambled to my feet and raced into the rocks with Jasmine and the stranger.
Waiting.
Slowly the light grew larger, the metallic noises of the locomotive louder—heavy creaks, the grinding of gears and metal, hissing steam. Then the blinding light lit up the rocks. For the first time that night, I saw Jasmine’s frightened face and the wild eyes of Whitey Grey as he hugged the earth while searching the train as it passed, and just like that, as the engine moved past us, the darkness returned, although fainter now, while the train slowed, slowed, and stopped.
Cries and shouts, muffled by the release of steam and the noise of the locomotive, sang out in the night. Whitey Grey’s joints popped as he rose.
“Let’s move, chil’ren,” he said, and we followed, more from sound than sight, although by now, with the light from the engine’s cab and caboose, as well as from the depot just down the tracks, it was easier to see, we could at least make out the freights toward the rear of the train.
“Here’s one.” Grunting, Whitey Grey slid the heavy door open, unleashing the scent of manure and straw. “You first, li’l’ girlie.” He scooped up Jasmine and tossed her through the opening.
Without a word, the albino whirled, grabbed me and hurled me inside, then with a grunt, he pulled himself into the livestock car. A horse grunted. Another stamped a nervous hoof on the floor, and, with a sudden lurch, the train pulled forward, slowly, creeping along slowly, past the depot, past the road to Shakespeare, heading into the desert again, moving slowly, methodically.
“Ol’ Whitey Grey knows what he’s doin’, eh, chil’ren?” The strange man laughed, slapped his knees. A match flared. “Let’s take a look-see,” he said, and the flame roared larger. He had lighted a rolled newspaper. Where it came from, I hadn’t a clue, but, after hours of lengthy dark, the light felt reassuring.
Two horses stood hobbled in the rear of the car, with sacks of something stacked two feet high in one corner, the floor covered with old hay. The place had a musky smell. “’Bout an hour or so, we’ll hit Stein’s, be that much closer to my gold,” Whitey Grey said. “Yes, sir, ol’ Whitey Grey knows….”
He sprang to his knees, still holding the burning paper, then he swore, passing the makeshift torch to Jasmine, who was nearer, and, gripping his left hand on the wall, he leaned out. The train lurched, and he let out a girlish shout, almost fell from the train, slowly picking up speed. He swore again.
At last, I heard it.
“Wait for me! Don’t leave me! It’s me, Ian Spencer Henry! Wait! Wait up!”
“Fool kid. He’ll wake up half the town. Hand me that fire.” He snatched the paper, waving it frantically outside. “Best hope nobody sees this but him. Here, boy! You see my li’l’ torch. Run to us. Run! Hurry!”
More speed, and then the paper flamed up, and out, but I could see the outline of Whitey Grey leaning out of the opening, his right hand stretching into the darkness.
The rhythm of the clicking wheels picked
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