Read Winchester 1887 for Free Online

yourself as comfortable as possible. When the train reaches Fort Worth, just jump off. A little before the train reaches the town. Pa says that’s what the railroad bums do to avoid getting clubbed with a nightstick carried by some yard boss or railroad dick.
    â€œAfter that?” James stopped walking and frowned. He looked around, shrugged, and kept going.
    â€œWell, that’s where things might get a little peculiar. Pa works for the recently rechartered Fort Worth–Denver City Railroad, and that line doesn’t go to Fort Smith, Arkansas. Green as I am, I know many railroads go to Fort Worth. Surely one of them will head northeast for Fort Smith.”
    It took him two hours to make his way to the tracks. Once, he heard a rattlesnake’s whirl, making him stop—almost scaring him out of a year’s growth, as Ma might say, but he figured, at seventeen, he was as big as he was going to get. He gave the serpent a wide berth and moved on toward the tracks—and almost missed that train.
    The whistle screamed, startling him, and his heart quickened as he heard an Irish voice call out, “Let’s get this thing rollin’, Quint. We’re behind schedule!”
    James had no idea what time it was. Had he misread the timetable? Had it taken him longer to make it there? He didn’t have the answers, and none mattered at that point anyway.
    He came up out of the wash to find the train pulling away from the water tank. Moving south. Definitely, it was the train he wanted to catch, so he began hoofing it, leaping over the prickly pear and shrubs, moving desperately toward the train. Smoke from the big locomotive burned his eyes, but he reached the grading, feeling the gravel crunch underneath his boots. There was no moon—perhaps that had slowed him, too—and the only light came from the caboose and the Baldwin engine. He was between those two, but the train was picking up speed.
    He saw the boxcar—reminded him briefly of home—and the open door. That was a bit of luck. Never would he have been able to open the door as the train sped away. Coming up to it, he hurled the Winchester through the doorway, followed by his bag. He stumbled, barely caught his feet, and had to find some extra effort to make up the ground he had lost. Not until much later did he think about how things could have turned out. He could have fallen underneath the train. His father had worked on railroads long enough to tell stories of men who had died those grisly deaths.
    Reaching up, he grabbed the iron handle, grunted, and felt himself slipping. “No!” he screamed, thinking he would fall. Be left alone. Wouldn’t even have Uncle Jimmy’s badge—in the sack—or that Model ’86 rifle—somewhere in the boxcar. And he would have to face his father, his mother . . . if he wasn’t killed.
    Something grabbed his arm, almost crushing his forearm, just as he let go. The toes of his boots dragged along for a brief moment, and then he felt himself being pulled upward, heard a massive grunt, and suddenly felt himself landing inside the car on ancient hay and horse apples.
    His heart pounded. He smelled the manure, but did not care. He was alive. He was on the train.
    Someone grunted, and James quickly rolled over, his racing mind suddenly aware of what had just happened. He slid across the hay-carpeted floor until his back pressed against the wood-slated wall. The boxcar rocked as the train picked up speed.
    A match flared, briefly illuminating the bearded face of a dark man. Then a giant hand shook out the match, and all James could see was the glow of the end of the cigarette when the man inhaled.
    â€œYou owe me,” a haggard voice said.
    James was too scared to reply.
    â€œGot victuals in that sack, I hope. Ain’t et in three days.”
    The only sounds that followed were the clicking of the wheels and the pounding of James’s heart.
    â€œAnswer me, boy.