a voice came from behind him, and Janson immediately froze, almost choking on the food in his mouth as he turned in the direction from which the voice had come, finding the older of the two men from the rail car staring at him. Janson moved into a low crouch, the food and his hunger both immediately forgotten—the man was alone, but Janson knew the other would be nearby. His eyes quickly scanned the woods near the man, his ears straining for any sound of movement through the underbrush.
“Ain’t you gonna be neighborly, boy, an’ offer t’ share some ’a that food with a hongry man—”
A movement came from the woods to Janson’s right, and his eyes quickly darted in that direction, then back again, as the older man quickly moved so there was no way he could keep his eyes on both men at the same time. He remained in a crouch, a nervous knot of fear constricting his stomach—he knew what sort of men these were, and he knew there was no mercy within either one of them.
“Why don’ you let us get a look at what you got in that suitcase, boy?” the older man said, beginning to move forward, his dirty hands moving down along the thighs of his greasy trousers—Janson rose quickly to his feet, his muscles tensing, his back to the tree so the other man would not be able to get to him from behind. The older man froze, eyeing Janson cautiously. “You do what I say, boy, an’ it’ll be a mite easier on you—”
“Like hell I will—”
“We should’a took keer ’a him back there on th’ train—” The voice came from the woods behind him, making Janson turn quickly in that direction—but the older man shifted, moving closer, drawing his attention back. There was a sudden, quick movement at the corner of Janson’s eye, and he started to turn back—but it was too late; the big man was already on him, twisting his arm up behind his back, turning him to shove him chest-forward against the tree. His ribs impacted the hard wood with a pain that drove the breath from his body, and he struggled to breathe again, his cheek against the rough wood of the pine as the older man moved closer to stare at him.
The man looked at him for a moment, then down at the chicken and biscuits now scattered out over the ground. “Jus’ look what you done, boy,” he said, then bent to take up a fried chicken breast, making only a bare attempt to brush away the dirt and bits of dried leaves that adhered to it before biting into the flesh. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, staring at Janson, cold grease shining now on his mouth and chin. “What you got in th’ suitcase, boy?” he asked, then squatted cumbersomely at Janson’s feet, holding the chicken breast between his teeth as he unbuckled the straps of the portmanteau and laid it open on the ground.
Janson struggled against the man holding him, having his arm forced even more painfully up behind his back as he watched the dirty hands go through his things, his clean clothes being shoved aside, the Bible thumbed through in search of anything of value—then there was a grunt of satisfaction as the man found the little money Janson had knotted into a handkerchief among the other things. The man spat out the piece of chicken and pushed himself to his feet, unknotting the handkerchief and counting out the few coins into one greasy palm.
“I tol’ you he had some money, th’ way he was holdin’ ont’ that there case—” the man behind Janson said, but the older man only grunted in response, shoving the money into one deep pocket of the dirty coat he wore. He turned to look at Janson again, and Janson started to struggle anew, only to have his struggle halted by the question the big man behind him asked. “We gonna kill him, Hoyt?”
For a moment, Janson could only stare at the older man, the muscles in his stomach knotting again—men such as these could kill him without a thought, and leave him here in the woods where it might be days, even weeks, before his body was found. But it was something more than that. He stared at the man, feeling a chill move up his spine.
“Meby—meby not—” the man said, and Janson heard the big man behind him start to laugh—but there was no humor in that sound; it was cold, deadly, something less than human.
“You always did like ’em young—” And suddenly Janson understood. He started to struggle against the big man holding him, feeling a sharp pain stab through his right shoulder with the pressure on his arm. He twisted to one side, bringing his left elbow into sharp contact with the man’s ribs, twisting farther to land a hard punch to his jaw. He lashed out with a foot into the groin of the older man, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling backward, clutching his crotch.
Janson stumbled as well and almost fell, his right shoulder hurting as he grabbed up the portmanteau and his shoes, trying to capture as much of his things as possible as he slammed the case shut and began to run, holding it against his side. He could hear the two men behind him, crashing through the underbrush and cursing—but he did not take the time to look back. His sense of direction was gone, but he could hear a train in the distance, and he ran toward that sound, hoping to reach the area of the depot before the men could catch him—but he had misjudged, coming into the clearing at a place he had never seen before, the tracks before him, and a slow-moving train gathering speed from the station blocking his way.
There was no choice. The men were coming closer, breaking into the clearing behind him. He ran toward the train, trying to match its speed, but failing—there was an open rail car doorway ahead—but the train was moving too fast. Too—
“Get him! Goddamn it, don’t let him get away!” He heard the shout from behind him, the anger. He threw his shoes and the portmanteau in through the open doorway of the car, seeing the portmanteau open and his possessions spill out over the dirty flooring, his shoes bounce off the far wall of the car. He pushed as much speed from his legs as he could, demanding even more, feeling sharp rocks and bits of glass cut into his bare feet. He grabbed for the edge of the doorway, almost catching hold—if he lost his hold, or was unable to swing himself on board, he knew he would end up under the wheels of the train.
But he was dead to stay here anyway.
He grabbed for the edge of the doorway again, feeling his hands close over the wood and metal, feeling the power and momentum of the train jerk at his body as he finally caught hold. He swung himself forward, grabbing for the bottom of the doorway with his feet—for a moment, he lost his footing, hanging in mid-air, his hands slipping—then he was inside, landing with a hard jolt on his side on the wooden flooring.
He lay there for a moment, his heart pounding, the sound of the train loud in his ears. He forced himself to breathe, to think, to know that he was safe; then he moved to look out the open doorway of the swaying freight car, seeing the two men left far behind him now as the train gathered speed moving into the pines.
After a moment, he moved to sit with his back against the inside wall of the car, closing his eyes, and leaning his head back—for a while he could think of nothing more than that he was alive.
It was not until later that he realized what little money he had possessed in the world was now gone.
Janson was sore and bruised by the time he woke on the hard floor of the rail car the next morning. It was not even daylight yet, and the car seemed damp and cold and lonely around him as he sat up in the darkness, trying to pull his coat closer about himself, seeking warmth he knew was not there. He had never been so cold or so hungry before in all his life, or so stiff and sore—but he knew he was lucky to even be alive this morning, lucky to have survived the day he had just seen.
He moved back out of the chill air that washed over him from the open doorway of the car, and sat cross-legged against a wall, closing his eyes against the darkness. The constant rocking and swaying motion of the train only increased the nausea that was already inside of him from his gnawing and empty stomach—he was so tired, having slept so little in the hours he had spent on the hard floor during the night. He had no idea where
