CHAPTER VI

REACHING the depot in the edge of the town where there were only three or four cottages, a hotel of the lowest class, and a negro dive masquerading as a restaurant, at which fried spring chicken, hot biscuits, and a cup of coffee were advertised on a crude placard for twenty-five cents, he met few signs of wakefulness. At a switch near a water-tank with a dripping spout a watchman stood with a dingy lantern. Walton moved over to him.

“South-bound freight on time?” he asked.

The man looked at him indifferently. “I heard her blow at the crossing,” he answered. “There! can’t you hear her rumble?”

“Who’s the conductor?”

“Jack Thomas, if he didn’t lay over at Red Hill to spend Sunday with his folks.”

“I want to speak to him. Where will his cab stop?” The man had filled his short pipe, and he took the globe off his lantern to light it. “The engine will water here at the tank,” he said, gruffly. “The cab will stop down near the tool-house on account of the length of the train—a lot of empty fruit-cars going South.”

“All right; thank you.” Walton moved away, and leaned against a stack of cross-ties near the tool-house. He could now quite clearly hear the rumble of the coming train. There was a wide stretch of old cotton and corn fields, now barren and out of use, between him and the train, and across them presently shot the wavering gleam of the engine’s headlight. On it came, growing larger and steadier till it had passed him, and with the harsh creaking of brakes on massive, groaning wheels the locomotive came to a stop. The side door of the caboose was open. A man holding a lantern lightly swung himself to the ground, and peered up at a brake-man on the roof of the car.

“Unwind her, and run to the other end!” he ordered. “You needn’t hang around my cab all night. I haven’t a drop to drink.”

“All right, Cap,” and, jumping from car to car on the foot-boards overhead, the brakeman disappeared in the cloud of steam and smoke which the locomotive was belching forth.

“Hello, Jack!” Walton came forward.

“Hello! Good Lord, Fred, what are you doing down here this time of night? I thought you fellows had a game on every Sunday. I was just wishing I had enough boodle ahead to lay over and walk away with some Stafford coin. I want to get even for the last hold-up you blacklegs gave me.”

“I’m dead broke, Jack, old man,” Walton said, avoiding the eyes of his friend. “I want to get to Atlanta before the morning train, and I wondered—”

“If I’d take you? Of course I will. I’m sorry to hear you are broke, though, for we might pass the time with a game. It’s down-grade,” he laughed, impulsively; “we might turn old No. 12 over to the fireman, and get the engineer and brakeman to come in and try a round.”

“I wouldn’t trust myself with three railroad men,” Walton tried to jest, “even if I hadn’t sworn off.”

“What! again? Oh, that is a joke!” Thomas laughed. “You Stafford chaps say you swear off, then practice night and day, and stick it to the first galoot that comes along. Oh, I am on!” There was a sound of rushing water from the tank ahead. In the dim light in the locomotive they could see the fireman on the tender astride of the swinging pipe.

“I’m glad you will take me along, Jack,” Walton replied. “I want to get to Atlanta, and haven’t a cent on earth. The truth is, I am in bad shape.”

“I’ve heard you sing that song before,” the conductor replied, with an incredulous smile. He raised his lantern till the yellow light fell on Walton’s face, and he stared in astonishment. “Why, really, you do look kind o’ bunged up. What’s the matter, old chap?”

“I’m simply down and out, Jack, that’s the sum and substance of it. I am down and out. When do you start?”

“In a minute. I’ve got to run clean round the train and examine my door-seals. Climb in. I’ll swing on as we leave the yard. Make yourself comfortable. Huh! you are done for, eh? That is a joke!”

Climbing the iron step, Walton found himself in the caboose. It was dimly lighted by a lamp in a curved tin holder on the wall over a crude desk with pigeonholes. Here the conductor kept a pencil tied to a string, and some yellow blanks for reports and telegrams. There was a hard, smooth, backless bench near the door, and a narrow cot with wooden sides and ends. On an inverted box stood a tin pitcher, a wash-basin, and a cake of coarse yellow soap. On a hook hung a soiled towel; a pair of blue overalls, a white shirt, and a tattered raincoat were suspended at the sport of the wind and motion of the car on other hooks along the wall.

There was a harsh, snarling sound as the hinged water-pipe was drawn up on its chains; the clanging of a bell; the shriek of the locomotive’s whistle; a quickening succession of jerks, communicated from bumper to bumper, and the train was off. Walton was glad to be alone with the desolate pain that clutched him now with renewed force. He wanted no human eye to witness his misery. Away off there, beyond the hills, in its shroud of mystic moonlight, lay the town he now loved with a yearning which all but tore his heart from his body. He was looking at the old place for the last time unless, unless—and his blood ran cold at the thought—unless he was brought back by the officers of the law to answer for his crime. Yes, that might be his fate, after all. A city so well policed as Atlanta would prove a poor hiding-place for a penniless fugitive. A telegram from Stafford would put the authorities on the alert, and escape would be impossible. And no sentimental reasons would check prompt action on the part of old Simon Walton. In his rage over the discovery of the unexpected loss of such a large amount of ever-needed cash, he would balk at nothing. Of family pride he had little—certainly not pride strong enough to make him a party to the concealment of crime, even in his own blood.

“If I have to be the daddy of a thief,” Fred imagined his saying, “I’d rather be the daddy of one under lock and key, where he could be controlled like any other sort of maniac.”

Yes, he must make good his escape, the young man reflected; there was no other way. Escape meant a chance, at least, for reformation and atonement, and he must reform—he must atone.

The train was rounding a curve. A sudden and deeper pain shot through him, for on a hill, in a grove not far off, he saw the roof, gables, windows, and walls of a country house he well knew. It was there, at a house-party, that he had been thrown for the first time with Margaret Dearing and had learned to love her. His eyes were blinded by tears he could not restrain as he tried to descry the exact spot among the trees where he and she had sat that glorious morning in early autumn.

“God have mercy!” He leaned against the side of the car and groaned. Even now she knew of his ruin. Her brother had already prepared her for the news, which would spread through the town like wild-fire. She knew, and her proud brow was burning under the shame of having trusted a coward and a knave to the extent of having had her name coupled with his. He stood in the centre of the car, swayed back and forth by its ruthless motion. Those merciless wheels, grinding so close beneath, would end it all. It would be an easy thing to swing himself under the car door till he was over the rail and then let go—let go! He shuddered, and turned cold from head to foot.

There was a thumping overhead as some one leaped from the roof of the car ahead to that of the caboose. There was a scraping of soles and heels on the tin covering, a step on the iron ladder by the door, and the conductor lunged into the car.

“Got on by the very skin of my teeth,” he said, with a merry oath. “We are on the down-grade, and we started quick. But why don’t you take a seat?” He raised his lantern, and the rays fell full on Walton’s pallid face. “Say, old man, are you as hard hit as all that?”

“It couldn’t be harder, Jack,” Walton said. “I am at the end of my rope.”

“Well, I am sorry—I’m real sorry,” the conductor declared. “I’ll tell you what to do. It’s a tough ride to Atlanta, along with our stops and sidings and waits on through trains. There won’t be a soul in the bunk to-night. Throw off your things and crawl in.”

“But that’s your bed,” Walton protested, thoughtful, even in his misery, of his friend’s comfort.

“Not for to-night it isn’t,” Thomas affirmed, as he hung up his lantern and drew a stool to the desk. “I’ve got to be up till daybreak. Crawl in, I tell you!” Walton sat down on the edge of the cot, a trembling hand went to his necktie. In the rays of the yellow light he looked as though he were about to faint.

“Hold on, wait!” Thomas chuckled. “I’ll physic you all right.” He raised the top of his desk and drew out a flask of whiskey. “It is actually the smoothest article that ever slid down a human throat,” he laughed, as he shook the flask and extended it to his guest. “Take a pull at it, and you will have dreams of Paradise.”

“I don’t care for it right now, Jack,” Walton returned. “I may ask for it later. Whiskey always keeps me awake.”

“Well, I’ve got to sit up,” the conductor said, “so here’s looking at you. I’ve got the dandiest thirst that mortal ever owned. You’ve heard about the feller who told the prohibitionist that he didn’t want to get rid of his. Well, I’m that way about mine. If a man went round paying for thirsts, he couldn’t buy mine for all the money in the State. I’ve got it trained till it walks a chalk-line. I go without a drink sometimes for days at a time, just so she will get good and ripe and have a sort of clinging rasp on her. But no joking, old man, I don’t like your looks. I’ve seen you kind of blue before, but I never saw you plumb flabbergasted like this. You say you are broke. I don’t happen to have anything in my pocket right now, but I reckon I could draw a little pay in advance from our agent in Atlanta, and—”

“I don’t want to borrow any money, Jack, thank you just the same,” Walton said. “When I get to Atlanta I’ll look around and see what will turn up.” And, stifling a groan of despair, he sank back on the cot.

“All right, old man,” the conductor responded. “Now, go to sleep. You need rest.” He turned the wick of the lamp down and pushed his lantern into a corner, so that its light would not fall on the face of his guest. Then he slid the bench to the open door, lighted his pipe, and fell into a revery.