Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

Murder Express by Hiawatha Jones

I had to keep awake remembering the greedy look in Mug’s eyes when he saw the kid’s wallet.

* * *

Sleep, like a thousand thick-gloved hands, clutched at me but I kept tearing myself away. I had to stay awake! The dark wet-smelling floor lurched under me. We had pulled the freight car doors nearly shut, but through the panel of opening I saw the black night sky and the moon sliding behind a bank of dark clouds.

The sky would be lightening soon. It would be day. And the kid would be safe. I looked over to where he was lying.

He was on the floor next to me. I had been listening to his low convulsive coughing before he finally fell asleep. He’s a good kid, I thought to myself.

Once away from Mug he’ll be safe. I remembered the hard, greedy look in Mug’s eye as he had seen the kid’s wallet. Stay awake, I told myself.

I couldn’t get up and sit by the freight car door. Mug and his friend were across the car from us. The friend didn’t bother me. He was a harmless little guy. But Mug could make trouble. That wouldn’t do the kid any good; I had to lie where I was. I had to keep awake. If there was going to be trouble I had to be ready for it.

Think about something, I kept telling myself. Think about the kid and the story he told you. Think about the army. The road. The look in the kid’s eye. The picture. Stay awake. You owe it to the kid, as a friend.

As a friend. I hadn’t known the kid for more than six hours! But that’s how it is on the road. You meet a guy. You size him up as a good Joe. And before you know it, you’re both trading life stories, exchanging gripes.

We had both gotten on at a little depot outside of Albany. It was a warm night and we had shoved the doors back and were sitting on the edge of the freight car floor, watching the country whip by. The other two hoboes who had got on with us were sitting in the center of the empty freight matching coins in the moonlight from the open door. One of the ’boes was a thin, ragged little guy whose gray hair needed cutting. The other was a big guy with a flat nose and a scar sliced across his knotty cheek. One or the other of them would mutter a curse every time a coin changed hands.

The kid and I didn’t pay any attention to their game. We were both quiet, looking at the dark scenery rolling past us. He was a good looking guy, a couple of years younger than I. Not more than twenty at the most. He had red hair and a thin face. The shirt he wore was torn at the shoulder. He looked like he was still green at freight-riding.

I sat back against the edge of the open door and listened to the clatter of the speeding wheels. The fields we passed were gray with darkness. I looked over to the kid. His head was lowered to his chest as he muffled a low hacking cough.

“Why don’t you get inside, kid?”

He shook his head at me. “It’s okay. The wind feels good going down.”

I reached over and threw him a small woolen bundle I had at my side. “Put this on,” I said.

The kid undid the sweater and poked his arm into its sleeve. He wasn’t used to holding down a freight. I would have known that even if he hadn’t told me. A lot of times I meet up with kids his age who are bumming around the country just for a thrill. Road kids. A wild lot. But this kid was different.

I watched his thin fingers fumble at the buttons of the sweater. “If you just cashed in on a season’s pay, why are you riding the freights back?” I asked. He had told me earlier in the evening about working in a lumber camp all summer. He had shown me a wallet crammed with bills. The only thing wrong with the job was that it kept him near water all the time. It had given him a cold. He still wasn’t over it.

“The freights are okay.” the kid answered. “Beside it ain’t my money.”

“You worked for it didn’t you?”

He turned his face to look at the two other hoboes in the car. They were still matching coins. Then he looked back to me. “I didn’t work for it for myself.” He reached into the waist of his dungarees. I saw him untie the money belt where he kept his wallet. He opened the crammed leather folder and pulled out a photograph. The kid handed it to me, and he was smiling.

I looked down at the picture. It was a photograph of a girl, a pretty blonde, about seventeen. She wore a thin summer dress and carried her hat in her hand. She was smiling. I looked at the picture for a long moment, then looked back up at the kid.

“Your wife?”

He had laughed. “My sister.”

I glanced down at the picture again. “She’s pretty.”

“There are just the two of us left,” he said. “Ma died a couple of months ago. My old man’s been gone longer than that.”

He took a bill out of his wallet as he spoke, and he handed it to me. I must have looked puzzled. He only nodded his head toward the money, and I had looked down at it.