Tarcan of the Hoboes
Damon Knight
Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
October, 1982
In the spring of the year 19—, John Clayton and his pregnant young wife set out on a journey by railroad from Boston to Los Angeles, where Clayton had been offered a post as manager of an orange plantation. Clayton's father, the banker Cyrus T. Clayton, was a millionaire many times over, but it was his wish that his son earn his own way in the world rather than become a playboy or ne'er-do-well; therefore Clayton and his bride were poor, but their hopes were high. On the third day, as Clayton was taking the air in the vestibule, he happened to observe the conductor and a porter standing close together just inside the next car. Words were exchanged which Clayton could not hear; then the conductor, whose face was enpurpled with rage, struck the porter and knocked him down.
Clayton stepped across to the vestibule of the next car and opened the door. The porter, with blood on his lip, was trying to rise, and the conductor had drawn back his foot to kick him.
"Look here," said Clayton quietly, removing his pipe from his mouth, "This won't do, you know." The conductor turned to him with a foul oath. "You're only a d—d passenger," he said. "Keep out of this, if you know what's good for you, Mr. Clayton."
The porter, meanwhile, got to his feet and slunk away, casting a malevolent glance back over his shoulder at the conductor.
"I may be only a passenger, as you say," Clayton said, "But if I observe any such conduct again, I shall report you."
The conductor, who was obviously drunk, stared at him sullenly with his reddened eyes, then turned with another oath and stalked away.
At breakfast the following morning, Clayton saw a little knot of waiters in close conversation at the end of the car. As Clayton and his wife were rising to leave, one of the waiters approached them casually and murmured in Clayton's ear, "Black Bart says, you keep in your compartment today."
"What did that man say, dear?" inquired Alice. "Is something wrong?"
"No, it's nothing," said Clayton lightly, but once they were in their compartment he took her hands and said earnestly, "Dearest, I'm afraid there's going to be trouble on the train. Don't lose heart. We must just wait and trust in God's mercy."
"I'm going to be brave," said Alice, and they sat down together, with hands clutched tightly. After an hour had passed, they heard a loud report from the forward end of the train; then another, then a fusillade, followed by deathly silence.
The Claytons waited, with straining ears and beating hearts. At last the door was flung open, and in the aperture appeared a porter with a revolver in his hand. "Wanted in the rear," he said. He would not reply to their anxious questions, but herded them down the corridor. When they reached the dining car, a terrible sight met their eyes. All the other passengers were there, crowded between the tables, with their hands bound behind them, while two waiters rifled their pockets, throwing wallets, watches and coins into a bag held by a third ruffian.
"What is the meaning of this?" Clayton cried, turning to the porter who had escorted them. "Where is the conductor?"
The man's face split in an evil grin. "The meaning is, we've took the train, see? We've threw the conductor off, and the engineer and the fireman, see? So stand right there and keep your d—d traps shut, or it'll be worse for you."
Clayton put his arm around his trembling wife and they watched as the porters, having finished their thievery, began to herd the bound passengers toward the farther end of the car. At first they did not understand the dreadful thing that was about to take place; then they heard a chorus of shrieks, and, turning to look out the window, saw three passengers tumbling down the embankment as the train hurtled on. The grisly scene was repeated, again and again, until the last passenger was gone: only the Claytons remained.
Toward them now came the man Clayton had seen knocked down by the conductor. Beside him was the man with the bag of stolen valuables.
"Give me your wallet," said the porter, holding out his hand, "you won't need it."
"This is an outrage," said Clayton, but he handed over his watch and wallet.
"Speak polite when Black Bart talks to you," said the man with the bag. "Now the lady—purse and rings." Alice gave him the articles he requested, but when he pointed to the locket she wore on a chain around her neck, she shrank away. "No, please not that," she protested. "It is the dearest thing I own—a present from my husband. It has no value to you, but to me it is worth more than gold or diamonds."
"Give it to him, dear, you must," said Clayton, but Black Bart pushed the bagman aside. "Keep the locket," he said gruffly to Alice, and pulled the emergency cord. After a moment they heard the squeal of brakes, and the car rocked as the train slowed down.
"Bring their luggage," said Black Bart, and a porter scurried away.
"What do you intend doing with us?" Clayton demanded.
"Putting you off the train, but you'll land soft, not like them others. You done me a good turn once, and Black Bart don't forget."
"I don't like it," said another man, shouldering forward. "I say tie their hands and shove them over the side like the rest." There was a murmur of agreement from the other mutineers.
"What's this?" said Bart, turning slowly around. There was a revolver in his hand. "You boys elected me conductor, didn't you? Well, I'm the conductor, and what I say goes."
"Maybe it don't. Suppose we unelect you, Bart, and throw you over too?" Bart's expression did not change, but his fist shot out and cracked against the other man's jaw. The ruffian fell without a sound and sprawled senseless on the floor.
"Anybody else?" demanded Bart, glaring around. The mutineers were silent.
"Now listen," said Bart, bringing his unshaven face close to Clayton's. "When we stop, get off quick, because I can't keep this scum in line forever. You'll have your luggage, and you'll find some tools in one of the suitcases. I'm giving you a chance, and that's the best I can do."
"But my God, man," cried Clayton, glancing at the desolate landscape outside, "this is murder." The porter appeared with their bags just as the train ground to a halt. "Quick now, or I won't answer for it," said Black Bart.
Herded by a gun in the porter's hands, Clayton and his bride stumbled down onto the rough grade of the railway. Their luggage lay in the weeds below, where the porter had thrown it. No sooner were they clear of the train than it began to move again, gathering speed so quickly that in a few moments the caboose was rushing by them; then the train dwindled in the distance. They watched it until it was only a spot on the horizon.
The Claytons looked about them. They were in the middle of a great wilderness, the heartland of the continent. Not far off there was a little stream, around which trees grew thickly; except for these, and a few other wooded spots, and the railway track itself, there was nothing to break the vast immensity.
"Dearest, what are we to do?" asked Alice.
"Never mind, my dear," said Clayton, although his heart was sinking within him. "We have our luggage, after all, and we have each other."
In one of the suitcases, as Black Bart had promised, he found a set of tools, some nails, screws, and hinges, together with a long-barreled revolver and a box of cartridges, an American flag, some fishing lines and hooks, and other useful things. With the tools, Clayton built a rude shelter in a tree, covering it with blankets draped over branches, and there he and Alice spent their first shivering, lonely night in the wilderness.
On the following day a freight train came hurtling out of the west; Clayton took off his shirt and tried to flag it down, but it roared past and was gone in a cloud of cinders. He knew that Alice's time must be near and that it would be dangerous for her to travel afoot. That day he began the construction of a sturdier house in the tree, and in the intervals of his labor he showed Alice how to catch grasshoppers for bait and fish in the stream.