Blind Tiger, page 3
Thatcher spun around to the one with the knife. He had less than a second to throw up his hand to protect his face from being slashed. The sharp blade sliced across his palm. Thatcher yelped.
The hobo grinned and charged. With his good hand, Thatcher caught hold of the vertical iron handle on the door and kicked the knifer in the balls. Dropping the knife, he screamed in agony, grabbed himself, dropped to his knees, then fell onto his side. Thatcher picked up the knife. The third in the group was poised to attack. Thatcher, winded, his cut hand hurting like bloody hell, said, “Call it quits why don’t you?”
But the tramp didn’t listen. He came up on his toes, preparing to lunge. Thatcher threw the knife end over end. The point pierced through the man’s right shoe, nailing his foot to the floor of the boxcar.
Thatcher turned and made a blind leap through the opening. As he went airborne, howled obscenities trailed him into the predawn light as the train rumbled on.
He landed on his feet, but his knees buckled at the jarring impact. Unable to break his fall, he tumbled down the incline, cussing the pounding he was taking from boulders and stumps.
On one of his revolutions, he recognized the shape of a large agave, dead ahead and coming up fast. As he slid downhill toward it, he dug in his heels. They kicked up loose rocks and grit that struck him in the face, but he was able to stop within inches of being impaled by one of the plant’s barbed spines.
As the dust settled around him, he took mental stock of himself and determined that none of his limbs hurt bad enough to have been broken. His breathing was hard and fast, but it didn’t hurt to suck in air, so no busted or sprained ribs despite the blow he’d taken on one side. He wasn’t dizzy, didn’t feel like puking.
Accepting that he was basically all right except for his throbbing palm, adrenaline seemed to leak from his pores like sweat. He stayed as he was, lying there on his back, taking in his expansive and unobstructed view of the sky. It was turning paler by the second, causing the panoply of stars to dim, and he thought what a hell of a thing it was that he was still alive and could admire that sky.
Then, as only one who had slept standing up in a trench while rats scuttled across his blood-soaked boots could do, he dropped into a deep sleep.
* * *
He woke up to an early sun, but kept his eyes closed against its brightness, basking in the clean warmth of it on his face. He savored the stillness of the ground beneath him. He’d been unsteadily rocking for two days in that mother-lovin’ boxcar. It had been almost as bad as the merchant marine freighter requisitioned and re-outfitted to ship troops home from Europe. If he never saw the Atlantic again, or a wave stronger than a ripple in a stock pond, it would be fine with him.
After several minutes, he sat up. His vision was still clear, and he wasn’t dizzy, although he had taken a clout to the head during his downhill plunge. A goose egg had formed on his right temple at his hairline.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the blood away from the cut across his palm. It wasn’t all that deep, but it made his hand ache. He wrapped the handkerchief around it.
By the position of the sun, he figured out the directions. The landscape was dominated by rugged limestone outcroppings, some bare, some with live oak trees or cedar breaks seeming to grow straight out of the rock. Scrub brush, like that wicked-looking agave, dotted the shallow topsoil.
He figured he was somewhere in the hill country. Still hundreds of miles from home.
He stood up and dusted himself off as best he could, then climbed the incline back to the tracks. The wind was southerly and warm, but strong. It had blown his hat off when he’d made the jump, but miraculously it was still there, lying in the railbed.
He clamped it onto his head and pulled the brim down low over his eyes, then started walking along the tracks in the direction from which the train had come, until he reunited with his duffel bag.
Shouldering it, he reversed his direction and continued in the northwesterly direction the train had been traveling. He saw no indication that a settlement of any kind was anywhere close. He didn’t even see a road. The only living things he spotted were a small herd of cattle on a distant hill, and three buzzards, circling their breakfast. Or what soon would be their breakfast.
His stomach was gnawing at its own emptiness, but the only food left in his duffel were a few saltine crackers and the last of a hunk of cheddar. Eating them would make him thirsty, so he decided to hold off until he found water.
He hiked along the tracks for an hour before he reached a crossing. A gravel road ran north and south perpendicular to the tracks, extending for seeming miles in both directions without a turnoff. He took the northern route, hoping that he wouldn’t have to hoof it for too long before someone came along who would give him a lift.
The road was easier to walk on than the railbed, but the sky was cloudless, and the sun grew hotter than what you’d expect in mid-May. He shucked off his jacket and draped it over the duffel bag, unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them up.
Sighting a thin trail of smoke rising from behind one of the hills, he was tempted to go in search of the source. A ranch house, or even a campsite, could provide him with a drink of water.
But the smoke was swiftly dispersed by the high wind, so he couldn’t be certain how far away it was, and he was reluctant to go exploring off the beaten path. He was no stranger to living without a roof over his head, but he wasn’t equipped to do so now.
He estimated he’d walked three or four miles before he spotted a structure on the crest of a rise. At first it was only a dark dot, but the closer he got, it began to take shape. He smelled wood smoke, even though he didn’t see any coming from the flue sticking out of the roof at an angle. A Model T was parked in front, along with a truck that looked like a junkyard on wheels.
The place didn’t look hospitable, but somebody was at home, and he was damned thirsty.
He started up the dirt lane. As he got closer to the house, he saw that it wasn’t a house at all, but a line shack, as ill-kempt a one as he’d ever seen. It must belong to a slipshod outfit that instilled no sense of pride in the cowboys who worked for it.
However, it was no cowboy in the yard, but a young woman who was wrestling with a wet bedsheet. She was trying to get it onto a makeshift clothesline strung between the back corner of the shack and the outhouse. The strong wind was hampering her effort, but she was putting up a fight.
He said, “The sheet is winning.”
Four
At the sound of his voice, she spun around, looking at him wide-eyed, her hand slapping against her chest where her breath seemed to have become trapped.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Thatcher took off his hat.
She recovered enough to close her mouth. In the process of hastily gathering up the flapping sheet, a corner of it dragged through the dirt, which made her frown. She dropped the sheet back into a cauldron of water, obviously her wash pot. As she wiped her wet palms on the skirt of her dress, she looked beyond him toward the road.
Coming back to him, she said, “Who are you?”
“My name’s Thatcher Hutton.”
“How’d you get here?”
“Train.”
“There’s no depot within miles of here. Why was the train stopped?”
“It wasn’t. I jumped off.”
Knowing what that implied about him, she raised her hand and shaded her eyes against the sun as she regarded him with even more wariness. “Out in the middle of nowhere?”
“It was the lesser of two evils.”
“What was the other one?”
“The men sharing the boxcar with me bore a grudge.”
The admission didn’t earn him her favor. “So I see.” She looked pointedly at the goose egg on his temple and his bandaged hand. She squared her shoulders and motioned him toward the road. “Well, you lived to tell of it. Get on now.”
“I’ve walked several miles, and your place here is the first sign of civilization I’ve seen. What’s the nearest town?”
“Foley.”
He’d heard of it, but had never been there. But he hadn’t been much of anywhere before the war. “How far is it?”
“Five miles.”
Tapping his hat against his leg, he glanced over his shoulder at the road. “Five, huh?”
“At least.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be going that way any time soon.” He glanced toward the vehicles.
“No. Maybe you should’ve stayed on the train.”
“No, I needed to jump off.”
“How many of them were there?”
“In the boxcar? Three.”
“How did you get crosswise with them?”
“They got sore at me for taking their money.”
“You stole their money?”
He shook his head. “Won at cards.”
“Did you cheat?”
“No.”
She made a scoffing sound, expressing doubt.
“It’s true. I have a knack.”
Still frowning with skepticism, she raised her arm and pointed toward the road. “Go north about three miles. At the crossroads go east. It’s a state highway that leads straight to town and becomes Main Street.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now move along.”
“Could you spare me a drink of water first?”
She glanced toward the shack, seemed to debate it, then tilted her head. “Back here.”
He set his duffel on the ground and piled his coat and hat on top of it. She led him past a chicken coop that looked relatively new. Two hens were inside it, nesting. A rooster, strutting outside the coop, ruffled his feathers and challenged him and the woman with an aggressive beating of his wings. She told him to shoo or he’d find himself in a stewpot.
On the back side of the shack, a rough wood bench leaned lengthwise against the exterior wall. A bucket of water was sitting on it, a dented metal ladle hanging on a nail above it.
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
He lifted the ladle off the nail, dipped it into the bucket, and brought it to his mouth. The water was tepid but it was wet. He wanted to gulp but drank slowly in order to study her.
Her dress was baggy, indicating that either it was a hand-me-down from a woman of more substance or that there used to be more to her than there was now. There was nothing wrong with her shape, though. He’d noticed that each time the wind bonded the ill-fitting dress to her slender frame.
Her hair was honey-colored, lighter around her face, and pulled into a bun worn low on the back of her head. The wind had pulled strands loose, which seemed to aggravate her because she kept impatiently trying to tuck them back in.
In fact, her whole aspect was one of agitation. She was strung up a whole lot tighter than her clothesline.
Before he finished drinking, she lost patience. “I’ve got to get back to my wash.”
He drained the ladle and replaced it on the nail. “Much obliged.”
“You’re welcome.” She turned around and started back the way they’d come. He fell into step behind her. They were nearing the corner of the shack when the rooster came flapping around it with an angry squawk and tried to peck her hand.
She recoiled, bumping into Thatcher. Instinctively, he caught her upper arms. “Did he get you?”
“Not this time.”
“But he has?”
“More than once.”
The bird charged again. She flinched. Thatcher said, “Git!”
The rooster, having established his superiority, strutted away.
She eased herself free of Thatcher’s hands, but turned her head to speak over her shoulder. “He’s a wretched bird. I ought to wring—”
Then she winced and came full around to face him. At first Thatcher thought the rooster had pecked her after all, but it wasn’t her hand she was grimacing over, it was his. When he’d clasped her arms, the handkerchief had come unwound, exposing the cut on his palm.
She reached for his hand and held it supported in hers as she examined the cut, gently pressing the flesh on either side of it. “You should have that looked at. It could get—”
She broke off when she looked up into his face and realized how close they were standing, how still he’d become, and how fixated he was on her face.
She snatched her hand back, then, with a swirl of her skirt, rounded the corner of the building out of sight.
Thatcher blew out a long breath, wadded up the bloodstained handkerchief and stuffed it into his pants pocket, then followed her back to the wash pot where she was jabbing the contents with a stick as though punishing the soaking sheets. She didn’t look at him.
“I’ll help you wring out that sheet and hang it on the line. It’s my fault it got dirty again.”
“No, thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“No, thank you.”
Her words were polite enough, but there was no mistaking her tone. She wanted him gone. He bent down, retrieved his hat, and put it on, then picked up his jacket and folded it over his arm. He lifted his duffel by the strap and was about to haul it onto his shoulder when he saw that he’d earned her notice after all.
She’d stopped what she had been doing and was staring at his jacket where it lay across his arm.
He fingered the torn seam that attached his sleeve, the one grabbed and held onto as he’d made his escape. “It was ripped during the altercation.”
She gave her head a slight shake. “It’s not the tear. I noticed the buttons.”
“Oh. They’re keepsakes from off my army uniform.”
When he’d mustered out, the army had reclaimed his uniform for reasons never explained. Did they expect another war to break out soon? Were they going to pass down his mud- and bloodstained uniform to the next guy they drafted into service?
He never knew. But before he’d relinquished the uniform, he’d ripped off the dull brass buttons bearing insignias. As soon as he’d acquired a suit of civilian clothes, he’d swapped out the buttons.
He ran his fingertip over the one with an embossed pair of crossed rifles and the capital letter B. “The 360th Infantry regiment. All us draftees from Texas and Oklahoma.”
“Yes, I know.” She spoke with a huskiness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “B Company.”
“You know someone who served in it?”
“My husband.”
Her eyes flicked up to his, then away as she resumed swishing the water in the cauldron.
“He make it back?”
“Yes.”
She kept her head down and didn’t elaborate, but he’d had his question answered. He hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll need a place to stay in town. Any suggestions?”
She was about to shake her head, when she hesitated, as though remembering. “In the window of Hancock’s store. There’s a sign advertising a room.”
“Where’s the store?”
“You can’t miss it.”
“Laurel?”
Startled, she looked in the direction of the shack from where the man’s voice had come. “I’m here,” she called.
“The baby’s coughing again.”
Just then a baby’s wail could be heard coming from inside. The woman propped her stick against the lip of the wash pot and started toward the door of the shack. As she rushed past Thatcher she said, “Be on your way now.”
“Thanks for the water.” Before she disappeared inside, he said, “Wait, what was that name again?”
She paused in the open doorway and looked back at him. “Hancock’s.”
“No. Your name.”
“Oh. Laurel. Plummer.”
Five
As Laurel rushed inside, she nearly ran directly into Irv, who was standing just beyond the threshold but far enough back in the shadows that he couldn’t be seen from the yard. He held a double-barreled shotgun crosswise against his chest. He raised his index finger to his lips, signaling for her not to make a sound.
She went over to the crib that Irv had made for Pearl out of scrap lumber he’d salvaged from one of his fix-it jobs. Her daughter’s face was near purple from crying and coughing. Laurel picked her up and held her against her shoulder as she firmly patted her back, trying to loosen the phlegm that had made her croupy for more than a week.
Irv remained stock-still, watching the stranger until he had reached the road and headed in the direction Laurel had told him would lead to Foley. Only then did Irv relax his stance. He returned the shotgun to its usual spot, resting it between two hooks mounted above the door.
Laurel said, “He hopped off a freight car and wasn’t sure of where he was.”
“That’s what he told you, anyway.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Any number of reasons, and none of them good.”
“He startled me, but apologized for it.” For reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt compelled to defend the stranger. “He was mannerly.”
“That’s the worst sort. They sneak up on you and act like your friend.”
“The worst sort of what?”
“Of anything. How many times have I told you to be suspicious of strangers? Out this far? He could’ve been up to all kinds of mischief.”
“He was only asking for directions and a drink of water.”
“He must’ve had the thirst of a damn camel. What took so long?”
“While we were back there, the rooster made a nuisance of himself.”
She thought the less said about that incident, the better. The mean rooster had been the least of it. She’d known what to expect from that damn bird.
Her thoughts lingered now on what had come after. She hadn’t touched a man, or vice versa, since Derby’s death. Not even Irv. Despite the stranger’s leanness, he’d felt as solid as a tree trunk when she’d backed into him. When he’d steadied her with his hands on her arms, she’d had a momentary yearning to lean against him. It hadn’t lasted any longer than the flit of a butterfly’s wings, so it didn’t merit dwelling on now. She forced herself to tune into Irv’s grumbling.
