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

The wallet was empty. Only the picture and a few cards were left in it. I closed the wallet and put it in my pocket.

“Musta been his lungs,” said Mug finally. “I heard the kid coughing most of the night.” For a long moment I just stared at Mug. I remembered his look the night before when he saw the kid’s wallet. I just stared at him and there must have been a hatred in my eyes.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “His lungs.” I turned around to the slumped body on the freight car floor. It swayed lightly with every lurch of the train. I bent down beside him.

The inside of the car was bright with sunlight from the open door. I looked at the kid. His collar had been torn open. As I looked even closer I could hear my heart pounding my ears. My mouth went dry. Around the kid’s neck was a harsh ringlet of red marks. Finger marks!

I turned around, getting to my feet. Mug’s large hands were hanging at his side. He bulged them into big bony fists as he saw me staring at them. I walked to the open door, looking out at the rushing green country.

I didn’t actually know whether Mug had murdered the kid. I would swear my life on it, but I didn’t know. Somehow, I had to find out for sure.

Pete stood beside me at the open door. “We’ll be hitting a mail junction in ten minutes,” he said nervously. “I’m getting off. I don’t wanna be around when they find the kid’s body.”

I looked at the little guy. A gray stubble covered his thin jaw. He kept looking between me and the rushing scenery.

“Should be about ten minutes,” he continued. “You comin’?”

Mug was rolling some things up into a bundle in one corner of the freight.

“Maybe,” I answered slowly.

“There ain’t gonna be another brain along here for a couple a’ hours,” said Mug looking up. “And it ain’t sayin’ we’ll be able to hop that one. I’m sticking.”

“Mug may be right,” I said quickly. I couldn’t afford to lose track of Mug.

“But what about the yard dicks?” asked Pete.

“They won’t bother us.”

“They won’t bother me,” answered Pete. “That’s for sure. I’m high tailing it just as soon as this rattler stops. You coming or ain’t-ya?” He turned to me.

I looked at Mug before I answered. “I’m staying.”

Mug turned to look at the slumped figure on the ear floor. I followed his eyes. “Okay,” he said finally. He looked over to me. “But Pete’s right. We can’t be caught with this kid. And we can’t dump him. They’d be waiting for us at the next depot if they found the body. The kid’ll have to stay on. We’ll stay too but not in here.”

He finished knotting the bundle with a hard yank. I knew that there was no other freight car open. I waited for what he was going to say. I almost knew what he was going to say. Pete stopped scratching his head and looked at the big guy expectantly.

“We’ll ride the rods,” said Mug finally.

Pete shook his head and gave a low whistle. “I’m gettin’,” he said quickly. “Sure as hell I’m gettin’!”

I felt my forehead cold with sweat. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the body of the kid lurching with the movement of the car. “Okay,” I said quietly. “We’ll ride the rods.”

Mug looked over at me and smiled. Sunlight caught the thin glazed scar on his cheek. He just kept smiling and didn’t say anything.

The train pulled into a siding in what might have been ten minutes but seemed like an hour to me. I kept thinking of all the stories I had heard about the rods. About sudden jolts throwing ’boes under the speeding wheels. About guys falling asleep and dropping beneath the rushing train.

Pete crouched by the open door as the train slowed to a stop. “So long,” he said and jumped. His bundle was tied to his belt and it bobbed as he moved. We watched him run crouching. He dashed across the network of tracks into a thicket of bushes. He didn’t turn around once he had left the train.

One long stretch and the train had stopped. Mug and I jumped down on to the crunching gravel. We bent low and ran quickly along the side of the line of freight cars. Up ahead I could see the engineer leaning out of his cab. A breakeman was climbing down off the caboose.

“Under!” said Mug in a loud whisper.

I saw him duck low and scamper beneath a heavy freight. I followed him awkwardly, bruising my knee on a track tie and scooping up a handful of gravel.

In the dark under the freight car I saw the rods. They were about ten inches from the gravel bed. Each rod was about the width of a broom handle and there were two of them running along under each side of the car. Several others crisscrossed almost flat against the bottom of the car.

“Get up! Get up!” yelled Mug in a loud whisper. I looked across to where he was. Mug rested on the two bottom rods, gripping the top rods with his hands. As I lifted my head to look at him I bumped it sharply on the bottom of the freight. My nostrils were filled with the sharp cold smell of the gravel and the hot oily odors of the freight car bottom.