Dead Rats

Buford dropped the block scrapings on top of the mulligan as he stirred slowly, mindful to scrape the bottom of the crusty, black cast iron cauldron. The pot held enough stew for the two bindle stiffs, both veterans of the jungle.  The seasoned traveler poured in generous portions of salt and pepper to finish the concoction. Underneath the steam lay fresh onions, carrots, and potatoes, donated from a nearby clover kicker’s garden, though he didn’t know it yet. He stirred one last time, to check the scrapings to see if they were tender. 1

“Hey.” Buford’s voice broke the comfortable silence that had filled the small, dark clearing just moments before. “Hey, kid!” He shook the body that lay a few feet away from him. The lanky, crooked body belonged to his traveling companion, a tenderfoot Buford called “Rats”.  “Wake up.  It’s time to eat.” 2

His voice echoed as it bounced around the circle of trees that enclosed their so-called “jungle,” named for the weeds and underbrush that normally surrounded the camp. Each syllable spoken by Buford was as clear as the sprinkled sky that stretched overhead. His voice resounded like a foghorn, his words pronounced to perfection, like a Shakespearean actor reciting lines from Hamlet. 3

Rats shook his head violently to clear the cobwebs that clouded his slow-witted brain. He opened his mouth wide in a yawn, silent until the last few seconds, when he let out a howl to expel the remnants of his dream.   4

“Sorry, Buford. Didn’t mean to doze off before supper.” Rats shuddered an involuntary shiver that shook the length of his body. Rats’ fingertips rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he let out a long sigh. “I keep havin’ the same dream.  Every time I close my eyes I dream it. I can’t get it outta’ my head, Bu. A man, I can’t ever see his face, not even once, is rope-leadin’ this ragin’ bull in a circle around me and there’s a foamin’ mad dog tethered to the same rope. They’s both a-snortin’ and a-pullin’ on the rope, tryin’ to get at me, and I’s trapped in the middle . . .”  Rats stopped and took a deep breath.  He had awoken in a sweat, still fearful of the dream. “It seemed so real! That bull was as close to me as you are right now!” He motioned with his arms stretched, his eyes wild with excitement. “Damn, Bu, I could feel the hot steam of his breath coming from his nostrils as he was a-snortin’, and I could smell the stench of his shit!” He pulled his kerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his sweaty brow.   5

The elder jocker had found simple-minded Jasper Rathbone among the foul-smelling trash heaps that lined the railroad tracks outside the town of Insignificance, Missouri almost two years ago. He had been badly beaten, ditched like a worn out pair of shoes and left for dead by a cinder dick named O’Hara. Buford had picked him up and patched his wounds as best he could, and over the next two years, he formed an easy friendship with the forsaken gink. 6

It was no wonder that Rats had had a bad case of the bull horrors ever since that beating, and the sight of a uniform, or a man swinging a lantern, terrified him.  Rats was kind, something not found often on the road, a loyal friend who held Buford in the highest esteem. Buford had silently vowed to deal with O’Hara if and when he was fortunate enough to come upon him. He was an antique, an old-timer, but never too old to deal with the devil. 7

Buford carried the blackened cooking pot over to an old log that lay close to the perimeter of their campsite. He had an affection for Rats, almost like a parent has for his young child. Rats was naive, simple-minded, and he had been unable to learn the lessons of the road. Buford knew he must say something profound; Rats would expect it, he depended on it.   8

“Ah, Rathbone, have you not heard it said that our dreams are the sacred guardians of our sleep? We trapeze artists have many demons that we must encounter on our journeys, some real, some imagined, such as your bull.  But I am a lighthouse, you see. I can spot a demon at twenty paces. The bull dicks and hikers shine like a beacon for my eyes to see.” 9

Buford’s oration was characteristically eloquent. Rats didn’t really understand much of anything Buford said in cases like this, but he never did mind that much.  It sounded good and that was enough.  Rats was quieted and consoled by his friend. 10

Buford was known to be an honorable man among those who traveled the road. He used to travel alone, but many times he would meet up with other stiffs, like Scoopshovel Stan and Chicken Red Parker. He was once a booze hoister, a heavy drinker, like the others; that was how he had ended up being a jumper in the first place. Now, it was habit, the only life he knew, and he was comfortable with it.     11

He was a good friend to Rats, and if this alone was enough to be godly, then he was that also. On the other hand, Buford did not feel that the shacks or bull dicks like O’Hara deserved any more honor or respect than the criminals, the yeggs and hoop chislers commonly encountered on the road. Men like O’Hara were considered to be devils, warts on the butt of society, with their belching and farting and laughing at the expense of others, and their victims served as a source of pride for them. They bragged to each other about the men they threw, or ditched, from the trains like Indian warriors who counted the scalps of their enemies, and how they watched the poor souls as they floundered in obscure rivers beneath rusted trestle bridges or smashed against the trunks of the trees that lined the tracks. There was nothing godlike in Buford’s contempt for the men who searched for the likes of these two; Buford and Rats were simple men who drifted through life with no ill will wished upon anyone.   12

When Buford and Rats, or any stiff for that matter, met with the misfortune of being caught, they were forced to jump fast, no matter where they were, no matter what the terrain. The hoboes weren’t sure where they would land, but firm earth under their feet at any speed was preferable to the clubs that the bulls and the shacks carried.  Buford carried a knife with a six-inch blade in his boot, but Rats had never seen him use it against a man. Nevertheless, Rats knew that he could if he had to, and he felt a sense of security just knowing the knife was waiting, ready to jump out of the boot if necessary.   13

The two men were silent while they ate their supper of mulligan stew and hard, dried strips of beef jerky. They ate without ceremony out of the pot, dipping out large spoonfuls of vegetables and scrapings, the leftover scraps of meat that had been pitched by a local butcher, in habitual rhythm. Buford was perched on a large log that rested on the perimeter of the clearing where they had built their small fire, while Rats sat cross-legged at Buford’s feet. 14

“Is it really me, or am I this log on which I sit?” Buford mused. “I wish to live outside of this time, outside the despair of our age when men would rather die than be poor. They say that many men are jumping out of windows to avoid a life without prosperity.” Buford shook his head in a sigh of disbelief. 15

“Take me to someplace forgotten, someplace free from corruption. I long to be deposited in a faraway garden of Eden, some ethereal plane where the fire of my soul quickens and lights the way for my salvation.”  Buford’s voice dropped to a near whisper as he stared up at the stars and recited the names of the different constellations like a teacher, for his knowledge was broad and far-reaching.   16

Rats’ attention was trance-like, and he was hypnotized by the rambling of the old drifter as he saw the night’s sky reflected in Buford’s navy blue eyes. Buford smiled to himself as he relaxed and broke wind with a vengeance. He raised one eyebrow and listened for any objections. There were none. Rats had gone back to sleep. This time it was a peaceful sleep. 17

Even before the sun appeared, the two hoboes were packing their balloons. “Time to hit the grit, Rats, old boy,” Buford said as he swung his bundle over his shoulder and tilted his hat slightly forward. He wore a short-rimmed bowler, like many hoboes did in those days, but Rats chose to go hatless.   18

As they made their way along the railroad tracks toward town, Buford pulled the faded red pouch from his hip pocket. As he pulled the string that held the pouch closed with his teeth, the familiar aroma of tobacco filled his nostrils. Sometimes the smell alone was enough to take the edge off. He placed a generous dip of the makins’ between his lower lip and gum as his mouth watered on cue to dampen the wad. A dip tasted good. A good dip fixed everything. When the juices began to flow, he was alert, awake. He offered the pouch to Rats in a gesture of friendship. “Here,” Buford said. “Don’t take it all.” Rats took a small dip for himself. He didn’t really like the taste of tobacco much, but he obliged, as a reciprocal gesture.   19

As the two travelers approached the outskirts of the small town, they passed an old and weathered sign that announced, “Welcome to Harmony, Iowa.” A billboard loomed up ahead that read, “Next time ... try the train. Relax!” “See, Buford? They WANT us to ride the train!” Rats made a joke. Buford chuckled, “You bet. Let’s just walk up to the trainmaster and say, ‘Hello, Mr. Warthog. May we ride your train today? Oh, we’re not paying. We’re just riding. We’re ‘on the drag’, you know.’” 20

Buford stared at the billboard that loomed against the cloudless sky as they got closer, and studied the faded picture; a man in a business suit sitting in a reclined train seat reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette. “Rats, you ever ride a train like that guy?” Buford asked.   21

“Oh, Bu, I ain’t never even seen the insides of a passenger wagon, let alone ride in one. Always wanted to, though. How ‘bout you? D’ya think we should do that sometime?” Rats asked his friend. 22

“I rode in one once, when I was a boy traveling with my father. We went to Wichita. And listen, my friend, believe me when I tell you that the ride in those seats cannot compare with the rides you and I have had in the boxes. There is no wind, no fresh air, and no hint of fresh cut wheat or rye. There’s no sunrise or sunset so bright that it hurts your eyes to look at it like there is from the open door of a boxcar,” Buford said. 23

“Well, Buford, I likes ridin’ the way we do too, jes’ like you. I don’t guess I want to ride on the insides, not really. But if you ever wants’ to, be sure to take me along. Just so’s you won’t have to go by yerself, you know,” Rats explained. 24

The sun blinded Rats as he stared at the ten-foot-tall man dressed in the suit all splayed out on the peeling billboard. The bright light forced him to squint and shade his eyes with his hand as he looked up at the sign.   25

“There would be no need for that, my dear Rathbone, if you had worn the hat I found for you in Junction City,” Buford quipped. He had seen the edge of a frayed fedora brim sticking out of a discarded suitcase in an alley alongside a train station some time back. When Buford retrieved it and offered the hat to Rats, he refused it.   26

“Don’t need that. Jest somethin’ else for me to keep up with,” Rats said. “The last one I had was supposed to be a lucky top according to the stiff that give it to me, but it weren’t so lucky fer me. If I hadn’t been tryin’ to fetch it after it blowed off my danged head, that bull dick wouldn’t have got to me like he did,” Rats said. “Gives me the willies jes’ to think about that day,” Rats said. An involuntary shiver tickled his spine. 27

Buford remembered back to that day, when Rats was beaten close to the point of death. A chill ran through him as he recalled the lumps and the cuts, the blood, the bruises and scrapes that covered Rats’ body after O’Hara was through flogging him. But he didn’t remember Rats ever talking about any hat before. The unlucky topper had been the cause of Rats’ beating, but it had also been the spark that ignited a fine friendship.  Buford decided that he agreed with Rats. He didn’t need another hat just yet. 28

Up ahead were a few one and two-room houses, mostly abandoned, some just needing a new coat of paint. The town was in the throes of dying, just like so many other small towns that had fallen victim to the Depression.  They walked the streets of Harmony, which they called “carrying the banner”, and in those days, this was not uncommon. There were many drifters, homeless sorts that wandered about looking for work or a meal or a place to rest. No one noticed them much; they blended into the scenery. 29

Buford and Rats found the rail station just south of the dilapidated cemetery. They were careful not to get too close to the train that sat and idled on the tracks, steam spewing from its gills, for they were well known and would be recognized by certain rail authorities. They would wait just out of sight of the station, some ways down the tracks, and when a train passed by they would hop aboard and find a boxcar to occupy. 30

For a time, Buford watched the yard lamps that were scattered down the tracks, watching as they winked green, then red.  Then, some time later, Buford judged it to be two hours or so, a train pulled out of the station.  It was a hot one, going faster and faster, but they waited for the front of the train to take the first curve before they began to run along the track. Buford held up his hand to feel for the cold side of the cars. He could sense the steel thundering as the cold metal brushed his fingers as the cars flew by. Suddenly, he felt the flat step as it hit his fingers and he dove instinctively, grabbing on as tight as he could.  His arms felt like they were being pulled from his body, but still he held on.  His body smashed against the side of the boxcar as he fought to crawl up further.  Buford held out his right hand while he held on with all his might with his left, and he grabbed hold of Rats’ arm to pull him up on the steps. Once on board, the next step was to spring up on top of the wheel of the handbrake, get hold of the roof’s lip, and muscle themselves up to the deck of the car.  Once on deck, they were able to swing inside an empty boxcar. Each time the two jumped, they ran the risk of great bodily harm, but they had been fortunate before and now, to avoid serious injury. 31

They found an empty boxcar, or at least, one not occupied by freight or swinging meat. The car contained several bails of damp hay, damp from the piss of some unnamed creature, but both doors of the car were open, so the men stayed at the end opposite the hay bales. They settled down in the coolness of the darkened car and adjusted to the rocking motion, so much so that they didn’t notice it once they situated themselves.  Buford pulled out the tattered deck of playing cards and began to deal two hands of five-card stud. 32

Suddenly, both men froze. They smelled him before they saw him. A smell of stale tobacco and garlic mixed with grime and sweat. He presented a towering shape against the doorway, his belly hung in folds over the top of his trousers. Rats tried to make out a face on the form as it pounced, but all he saw was a profile. The form wore a dark blue coat that pulled apart at the buttons, and his hat had a familiar shape, round with a bill, gold braid in two rows around the brim. He had caught them by surprise, for the seesaw sounds of the train had lulled the two travelers into a false sense of security.   33

Usually, the dicks would wait until the train had to slow to a snail’s pace just before they reached the depot to look for freeloaders, but this one hadn’t done that. He swung into the freight car through one of the open doors and pounced on both men, his arms swinging, the club rising and falling in a blur. Buford was fighting in the blind, as the brute was standing between him and the open door of the freight car. He raised his left arm to ward off the club as it came down heavily while he reached for the knife that lived in his boot. But the blows were coming too fast and he needed his right arm to help combat the swinging club. Rats had jumped on the back of the silhouette, both arms tight around the neck of the unwelcome intruder, but he was discarded quickly, sloughed off like a flea as the conductor mindlessly flicked him off his back with a shrug, and Rats tumbled into the piss-laden hay bales at the other end of the car. 34

As the stranger turned slightly to the left, Buford caught a glimpse of his face.  It was O’Hara, the very same monster that had almost killed Rats two years ago. He knew he must think fast, O’Hara had the jump on them. As O’Hara swung the club toward Buford’s head, Buford lunged forward, grabbing the fat man around his knees. Both men fell, sprawled in the middle of the car. Buford wrestled the club from the man as he straddled his huge girth.   35

“Rats! Rats! Come here and help me!” Buford screamed. Rats appeared from the shadows behind the hay bales, and he approached the two flailing men slowly. 36

“Ba-ba-ba-ba,” Rats stuttered. He stared at the fat man who smelled of garlic, and he was unable to move. His feet were nailed to the floor of the rail car. He knew this man, he remembered him from somewhere. He wanted to help Buford, but he could neither speak nor use his hands. 37

“For God’s sake, Rats, grab on to his arms! I can’t hold him down much longer!” Buford was struggling, and the fat man was beginning to gain ground. “Just help me for a moment, at least until I can get a better grip!” Buford begged. But Rats was not moving. He was paralyzed, his mind reliving the events that had terrorized him two years ago.   38

“It’s, it’s you, you’re the one! I remember you! You tried to kill me, you son of a bitch!” Rats pointed at the pockmarked face that stared up at him, the eyes bulging out of his head. But still he was riveted to the floor, unable to help his best friend. He gulped air, once, twice, then his feet moved and carried him closer to the two brawling men.   39

Rats fell down and began to pummel the evil thing that had caused him so much pain. He pounded the face, over and over, cursing the man who had tried to kill him. O’Hara began to fight for his life, as there were two men now that he must defeat. He mustered what energy he had left and bounced the older man to the side.   40

In an instant, O’Hara turned over onto his hands and knees and looked up at Rats. He was snorting, panting, spittle spewing from his mouth as he struggled to get up. He shouted at Rats, “I remember you, punk! I whipped your ass once before!” 41

He stood slowly, then raised the club high in the eerie shadows of the rocking boxcar, and the wooden spikes that protruded from the sides looked like the pointed ears of a dog. Rats gasped, his words frozen inside his mouth. This was the bull, the bulging eyes, the steam rising from his flesh, just like in his dream! The bull was raging, lunging, the mad dog was snapping, frothing, and Rats was falling, his legs entangled, everything moving in slow motion. The club pounded Rats’ flesh, the stinging spikes sliced the flesh on his legs like a razor. When he landed, the upper half of his body was hanging out the sliding side door, his face dangerously close to the churning wheels, his eyes staring at the blurred tracks and flying gravel beneath the speeding train. 42

Rats screamed, a silent wide-mouthed scream, the words loud only in his head. “Oh, God, don’t let me die! Buford, God, Buford, help me. Stop him, make him stop!” He tried to reach the edge of the door, to get back in the car, but the monster kicked him in the groin, intent on finishing the job he had begun two years ago.   43

Buford’s head had slammed against the bar latch on the inside of the boxcar.  His forehead split open and the blood flowed freely into his eyes. Dazed, disoriented, he tried to wipe away the blood, as he needed to regain his bearings quickly. He tried to get back on his feet, only to fall back against the wall. His eyes squinting through the blood, he could only watch in horror as O’Hara picked Rats up by his feet. As he held the helpless Rats upside down, he turned to look at Buford. “Trash like this don’t ride on my train, see?  Now, ya watchin’? This is what happens to riffraff like youse!” O’Hara leaned out, still holding Rats by his feet. Suddenly he let go, and Rats fell head first into the darkness. There was no sound, no scream, no thud, only the seesaw noises of the rocking train. 44

O’Hara turned back again to face Buford, who was standing steadily now, both hands down at his sides. Buford could see the cigar butt still clenched between the bloated dick’s teeth, the sweat running down his face, the fire in his eyes. Buford’s right hand gripped the knife tightly that had been hidden in his boot. Buford’s own eyes were cold, just like the razor sharp blade he cradled hidden next to his thigh.   45

“I’ve been looking for you, O’Hara.” Buford said, then made a slight movement forward, his voice controlled and calm. “I’m ready for you now, you bugger! Face me like a man!” Buford lunged forward and pushed his knife into the fat man’s gut, the blade buried to the hilt in the flab that stretched wide above his belt. He turned the blade and pushed it upward toward the fat man’s chest. O’Hara was helpless, pinned up against the side of the car. Buford was close enough to the bloated red face to smell the fear that seeped from O’Hara’s pores. “I’ll see you in hell!”  Buford said as he took a step back. He pulled the knife out and shoved O’Hara toward the open door of the boxcar. Buford heaved the massive form out the opening and watched as the lifeless body rolled down the steep bank that dove into darkness next to the tracks. 46

Buford had to jump now, before the train took him even further down the tracks. The train was going fast, too fast to make a safe exit, but he knew he must try to find Rats. When he landed on the rocks below, the force blew the soles off both his shoes. He had hit too hard, and it felt like his spine had pushed up through his brain. Still he ran, mindless of his own injuries, in search of his friend. He passed by the place where O’Hara had fallen, and he could see now that the terrain dropped off steeply into a gorge. He knew it would be a long time before anyone found the bull dick’s body.   47

Some hours later, exhausted and weak from loss of blood, Buford limped toward the train station. He had searched for what seemed like hours, and could find no sign of Rats.  As he approached the landing of the train station, he saw a crowd of people gathered in a circle. Through the huddled throng he saw a man; it was Rats, very still, sitting quietly on a bench, leaning up against the wall of the station house. He edged closer, pushing through the crowd. 48

“Rats? Rats? It’s me. It’s Buford, I've been looking for you all over the place! Thank God you're here!  Oh, sweet Jesus, are you all right?”  Buford leaned toward his friend and put his hand out to touch him. 49

Rats was cold, much too cold to be alive.  Buford looked into Rats’ eyes and saw that he was dead.  His eyes were wide open, but they saw nothing.  Then Buford saw the blood -- how could he have missed all the blood? As he looked closer, he saw where the blood had come from; Rats’ right arm was gone. The razor-sharp wheels of the train had severed his arm at the shoulder after the fat man had dropped him. He must have bled to death sitting on the landing waiting for a doctor that had never come.   50

Buford knelt in front of his friend. The crowd had grown silent, watching the stranger tend to his friend.  Buford reached up and gently closed Rats’ eyes.  He rested both his arms across the dead man’s lap and lay his head down on top of them in despair.   51

“I’m so sorry, my friend. I just wasn’t able to stop him this time. But he can’t do it to anyone else, ever again. I made sure of that, he's gone, Rats, he's gone now.” Buford allowed his tears to flow. He looked up at the crowd, at all the faceless people who seemed perverse in their staring at this man who died in front of their eyes. Buford knew they would bury Rats in the tramp graveyard that was maintained by the railroad. He would be nameless, of course. 52

“He was my good and faithful friend, you know, and he never hurt a living soul.” The faceless crowd was silent as Buford took off his short-billed bowler and gently placed in on Rats’ head. “It’s all I have to give you, my friend. Its yours now.” 53

Buford rose and turned to leave the platform. There was nothing else he could do. It was too late. He walked slowly, mindless of the stabbing pain in his own back, toward the blackness down the line where he would wait patiently for the red and green lights to flash, wait for the next train headed south to pull out of the station. 54

He would be on it. 55