where he could eat—but he had to get out of here.
He gathered up his things, the portmanteau and his shoes in one hand, the bundle of food in the other, and glanced back at the two men. They did not move or speak, but only continued to stare at him from the darkness as he got to his feet, the muscles in his back complaining at the position he had been sitting in against the inside wall of the car for such a length of time. He looked out again, checking cautiously for any sign of the railroad police as well as for any people from the train or station house who might know he should not be here; then he jumped down into the loose dirt alongside the tracks and knelt there for a moment, waiting to make sure he was unobserved before hurrying on toward the woods that stood at a distance behind the depot—he did not know why he looked back, but he did, turning back as he reached the edge of the woods to see the two men jump down from the boxcar only seconds later, wait there for an instant, then hurry off in another direction. Janson stared after them for a moment. And for some reason he shuddered.
He made his way into the woods, stopping for a moment to make sure he had not been followed. He stood still, his eyes moving through the trees, his breathing quiet as he listened to the silence. Then, satisfied, he turned and made his way even deeper into the pines.
The temperature had fallen, the damp, chill ground uncomfortable now even to his toughened and calloused feet—but the air was clean and fresh, and the ground steady, and he decided to stay here rather than to risk going back toward the depot where he might find a warmer place to rest and to eat his food. He took the time to relieve his strained bladder, then happened on a rusting tin water bucket left discarded and forgotten beneath a tree, filled now with rainwater, and topped by a thin layer of ice and dead leaves. He knelt and brushed the leaves aside, then broke up the ice and washed his face and hands in the frigid water, washing away the stench from the rail car, and hissing through clenched teeth as the icy water hit his skin.
He settled down beneath a tree and unknotted the bundle of food his grandmother had given him those long hours ago, his appetite returning now at the sight of the biscuits and cold fried chicken wrapped in the white cloth. It had been sometime late the day before when he had last eaten, a supper of dry corn bread, cold turnip greens, butter beans, and fatback as tough as shoe leather, and he thought now that he had never been so hungry before in all his life as he greedily bit into a fried chicken leg and picked up one of the large buttermilk biscuits.
“You gonna hog all that food t’ yer’self, boy?” a voice came from behind him, and Janson immediately froze, almost choking on the food in his mouth as he turned in the direction from which the voice had come, finding the older of the two men from the rail car staring at him. Janson moved into a low crouch, the food and his hunger both immediately forgotten—the man was alone, but Janson knew the other would be nearby. His eyes quickly scanned the woods near the man, his ears straining for any sound of movement through the underbrush.
“Ain’t you gonna be neighborly, boy, an’ offer t’ share some ’a that food with a hongry man—”
A movement came from the woods to Janson’s right, and his eyes quickly darted in that direction, then back again, as the older man quickly moved so there was no way he could keep his eyes on both men at the same time. He remained in a crouch, a nervous knot of fear constricting his stomach—he knew what sort of men these were, and he knew there was no mercy within either one of them.
“Why don’ you let us get a look at what you got in that suitcase, boy?” the older man said, beginning to move forward, his dirty hands moving down along the thighs of his greasy trousers—Janson rose quickly to his feet, his muscles tensing, his back to the tree so the other man would not be able to get to him from behind. The older man froze, eyeing Janson cautiously. “You do what I say, boy, an’ it’ll be a mite easier on you—”
“Like hell I will—”
“We should’a took keer ’a him back there on th’ train—” The voice came from the woods behind him, making Janson turn quickly in that direction—but the older man shifted, moving closer, drawing his attention back. There was a sudden, quick movement at the corner of Janson’s eye, and he started to turn back—but it was too late; the big man was already on him, twisting his arm up behind his back, turning him to shove him chest-forward against the tree. His ribs impacted the hard wood with a pain that drove the breath from his body, and he struggled to breathe again, his cheek against the rough wood of the pine as the older man moved closer to stare at him.
The man looked at him for a moment, then down at the chicken and biscuits now scattered out over the ground. “Jus’ look what you done, boy,” he said, then bent to take up a fried chicken breast, making only a bare attempt to brush away the dirt and bits of dried leaves that adhered to it before biting into the flesh. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, staring at Janson, cold grease shining now on his mouth and chin. “What you got in th’ suitcase, boy?” he asked, then squatted cumbersomely at Janson’s feet, holding the chicken breast between his teeth as he unbuckled the straps of the portmanteau and laid it open on the ground.
Janson struggled against the man holding him, having his arm forced even more painfully up behind his back as he watched the dirty hands go through his things, his clean clothes being shoved aside, the Bible thumbed through in search of anything of value—then there was a grunt of satisfaction as the man found the little money Janson had knotted into a handkerchief among the other things. The man spat out the piece of chicken and pushed himself to his feet, unknotting the handkerchief and counting out the few coins into one greasy palm.
“I tol’ you he had some money, th’ way he was holdin’ ont’ that there case—” the man behind Janson said, but the older man only grunted in response, shoving the money into one deep pocket of the dirty coat he wore. He turned to look at Janson again, and Janson started to struggle anew, only to have his struggle halted by the question the big man behind him asked. “We gonna kill him, Hoyt?”
For a moment, Janson could only stare at the older man, the muscles in his stomach knotting again—men such as these could kill him without a thought, and leave him here in the woods where it might be days, even weeks, before his body was found. But it was something more than that. He stared at the man, feeling a chill move up his spine.
“Meby—meby not—” the man said, and Janson heard the big man behind him start to laugh—but there was no humor in that sound; it was cold, deadly, something less than human.
“You always did like ’em young—” And suddenly Janson understood. He started to struggle against the big man holding him, feeling a sharp pain stab through his right shoulder with the pressure on his arm. He twisted to one side, bringing his left elbow into sharp contact with the man’s ribs, twisting farther to land a hard punch to his jaw. He lashed out with a foot into the groin of the older man, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling backward, clutching his crotch.
Janson stumbled as well and almost fell, his right shoulder hurting as he grabbed up the portmanteau and his shoes, trying to capture as much of his things as possible as he slammed the case shut and began to run, holding it against his side. He could hear the two men behind him, crashing through the underbrush and cursing—but he did not take the time to look back. His sense of direction was gone, but he could hear a train in the distance, and he ran toward that sound, hoping to reach the area of the depot before the men could catch him—but he had misjudged, coming into the clearing at a place he had never seen before, the tracks before him, and a slow-moving train gathering speed from the station blocking his way.
There was no choice. The men were coming closer, breaking into the clearing behind him. He ran toward the train, trying to match its speed, but failing—there was an open rail car doorway ahead—but the train was moving too fast. Too—
“Get him! Goddamn it, don’t let him get away!” He heard the shout from behind him, the anger. He threw his shoes and the portmanteau in through the open doorway of the car, seeing the portmanteau open and his possessions spill out over the dirty flooring, his shoes bounce off the far wall of the car. He pushed as much speed from his legs as he could, demanding even more, feeling sharp rocks and bits of glass cut into his bare feet. He grabbed for the edge of the doorway,