“It’s all woods along here,” Beanie said. “The trees in those woods? They’re full of Civil War shot. I found an old musket along here once, buried in a trench, nearly all rusted away. I used to make camp along in these woods. There are several old Confederate trenches in there.” He looked at Lee. “Guess they fought that war different out in the West where you come from.”
Lee nodded. “Most Westerners were for the Union, but a lot of the Western Indian nations, they sent men to fight for the South.”
“A terrible war, the Civil War—those old single-shot powder rifles and the cold,” Beanie said. “Men froze to death, starved to death, died of infection and every kind of sickness.”
“You were in the military,” Lee said.
“Career army, starting in World War I. But that’s all behind me.” He dumped some water from his canteen onto his plate and put it to heat, to wash their dishes. “I’m heading for Memphis, the riverbank south of the bridge, real nice camp there. You’re welcome to join me.”
Lee smiled. “Not many good camps left anymore. But I guess we’ll keep moving.”
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON when they hit the outskirts of Memphis. They said their good-byes to Beanie, knowing they’d likely never meet again. One of those chance encounters you’d carry with you for the rest of your life, a nostalgic and lasting memory that saddened Lee. Dropping off as the train slowed, they hit the ground running.
Cutting away from the track they were soon in a quiet neighborhood of neatly kept houses. Lighted Christmas trees shone in the windows, and beyond the cozy houses were several blocks of small businesses decorated up with candles, holly, red and green lights. Morgan said, “It’s nearly Christmas, and they’ll be alone . . . except for Becky’s family. But not the three of us together.” He turned to look at Lee, trying to shake off the loneliness. Up ahead stood a small brick church, its brass cross cutting the low skyline, and on the lawn, racks of used clothing and a small hand-painted sign: THRIFT SHOP.
“Tacky,” Morgan said, “old used stuff cluttering up a church yard.” But the door of the church basement was framed with Christmas lights, and when they’d moved down the steps and inside, Lee began to grin. The shop had everything they wanted. From the crowded tables they selected four thick blankets, a coffeepot, a saucepan, two tin plates, tin cups, and some soft cotton rope. Lee found a good canteen and a couple of switchblade knives, which surprised him. He picked up a can of heavy grease to coat their aging waterproof boots, and a couple of burlap feed bags. The two old women who ran the shop sat side by side behind the counter, knitting colored squares for an afghan. Lee remembered his mother making afghan squares, as well as quilt squares to be stuffed with goose and duck down, to keep them warm in the harsh Dakota winters.
He paid for the gear, shoved the small stuff in the two gunnysacks except for the knives, which they pocketed. He laid the folded blankets on top, cut the rope in half, and tied the bags closed. Two blocks down the street at a dark little grocery they bought coffee, bacon, bread, a slab of cheese, and four cans of beans. It was dark by the time they’d crossed Memphis and set up camp in a little woods. They cleared a space of brush, made a small campfire, heated up the beans, and made coffee. Morgan said, “Think I’ll get to a phone tomorrow, some little store maybe, and call Becky. Let her know we’re all right.”
“The hell you will.”
“The hell I won’t. She’s got to be worried.”
“I told you, no phone calls. The bureau boys have questioned her by now. They sure have her place staked out and her telephone tapped. You phone her, not only will the feds trace the call and find us, pick us up, Becky will be charged with aiding our escape.”
“I didn’t think,” Morgan said, picking up a stick and poking at the coals. “I just—I know she’s worried.”
“Better worried than getting us caught.” Lee doused the fire with the last of the coffee and rolled up in his blankets. “We’ve got a long pull ahead, important things to do. Let’s concentrate on that.” He shivered even in the thick blankets. And before they reached warm country again, the weather would get colder. The newspaper Morgan had picked from the trash, in the last town, said the Midwest was having the coldest winter in twenty years. Lee thought about Christmas when he was a kid, snow piled high against the house and barn, great chunks of snow sliding off the steep roofs. A spindly little Christmas tree with homemade paper ornaments. A wild turkey for their Christmas dinner, or one of the pheasants his mother canned, the prairie was overrun with pheasants. That always amused him. Back then, on the prairie, pheasants might be all a starving family had to live on. The exact same delicacy which, not many miles away in some fancy city restaurant, would cost them a small fortune.
From that night on, moving west, they were always cold, slogging through snow in boots that took up water in spite of the aging waterproofing and the grease they applied. They continued to avoid the cities, dropping off the train to circle through farms and open country or through slums. Most of the farms had Christmas lights, as did some of the slum houses. It was in such an area that they faced a surly, mean-tempered drunk and Lee saw in the man’s eyes not drunken bleariness but the dark’s cold presence, eyes hard with promise as the man crouched, his knife flashing. They dodged, circling him. Lee received a slice across his arm before Morgan had the guy down; and now the man’s eyes went dull again, reflecting only the bleary look of a common drunk.
“Why would a bum be interested in us?” Morgan said when they’d turned away. “Do we look like we have money?”
Lee laughed, but he was sickened by what he’d seen in that brief moment. They moved on fast, leaving the drunk sitting against a building, his head in his hands, trying to recover from Morgan’s blows. This time the devil’s invasion had netted only a cut on Lee’s arm. But what about the next time? Good luck they hadn’t had to kill the man, Lee thought as he swabbed the wound with the iodine Becky had put in their pack. Sure, drunks got killed in brawls. But he’d rather not leave a dead body marking their trail. That kind of sloppiness annoyed him.
31
CIRCLING THE SMALL towns with their Christmas lights, avoiding the switching yards and then racing to grab a train as it pulled out, they missed more than one ride. Often on the ramshackle edge of a town they dodged away from a patrolling cop car, or one slowed, pacing them, watching them. “Plenty of hobos around,” Lee said, “they’re just checking us out.” But the law’s scrutiny made him some nervous. In Oklahoma a hard blizzard caught them. The temperature dropped steadily, the chill cut through them like knives. Lee was sick of cold weather, and even Texas was icy. Why did they have to pick the coldest winter of the century? Out of Fort Worth when they missed a westbound, a semi driver picked them up, a slack-faced man with wide-set eyes. He didn’t talk much, he just drove, and that was fine with Lee.
But then, after maybe thirty miles he began to ask questions. Lee answered him in one-syllable lies, then started with questions of his own. Were did he hail from? What was he hauling? That shut the man up. Lee pulled his hat over his face and went to sleep. It was some hours later that Morgan nudged him. The trucker had slowed, they were in a little cow town, two blocks of dusty wooden buildings and a small old café marked with a wooden sign: TRAIN STATION. The train track ran behind it, parallel to the highway. The trucker dropped them at the café, drove another eighth of a mile, and turned west on a dirt road that looked like it led to nowhere; maybe he was headed home.