of his mouth. Each time he puffed his gray-black teeth would flash between his lips before being lost behind a fog of foul smoke.
“How’d it get wet?” asked Connelly.
“Roonie stored it next to his canteen. The man’s an idiot.”
“He’s a bit off, yeah.”
“He’s an idiot,” Pike said again. When he was satisfied with his dogend he lowered the ember and studied their party again. “Tell me, Mr. Connelly. What do you think of these new additions?”
“Think of them?”
“Yes.”
“I think they’re all right.”
“Do you?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, they been roughed up a fair amount last few days. So have we, though. But then we never had anyone die on us.”
“No,” said Pike. “I suppose that’s the true test of man, isn’t it. If his beliefs quake in the face of death. If they do, does he really believe in them?”
“We’ve all seen killing,” said Connelly. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes. But there’s a difference between seeing killing and taking part in it.” He shook his head, eyes not moving, face still faintly lit by the glow in his hand.
“You don’t like them,” said Connelly.
“I don’t trust them.”
“Why not?”
Pike turned the ember over in his hands thoughtfully, his skin never touching the glowing point. “Men,” he said, disgusted. “They are such weak things. Do you know when I first saw death? Do you?”
“No.”
“When I was nine. I saw my brother, kicked by a mule. He was two years older than me. Fooling about in the pen. My mother insisted on an open casket, saying we had to see his face. He had little of it left, though. I remember that.” Pike turned to look at Connelly. “Do you know why he died?”
Connelly shrugged.
“Because he was weak,” said Pike. “Because he was a fool. I know what you think now, though. I do. You think, surely the boy was twelve, and so cannot be blamed for his death? But I was twelve once as well. And I lived. What difference is there between me and him? Either a degree of stupidity, or perhaps those that live on are touched with the blessing of God. I think it may be both. We are all His soldiers, you see. I believe He can save us at any time. If we falter and fall it is of our own doing, none other’s.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.” Pike shook his head again. “Mankind. Mankind is feeble. It is given to lust and hunger and greed. To cowardice. I have seen it in my years of traveling among them. Even when I preached to my flock, I hated them also. For they would weep or tremble, or most often simply forget my preachings mere moments later. Sometimes I sought them out, to see if they had listened. And I found them, then. In their moments of weakness. In their desires of flesh. Soft and senseless. When I found these things I did not let them forget me. No sir. No, I did not.”
He spat on the ground. “I know now that my years of preaching were wasted on them. They were not worthy of the wisdom I had to give. But with the arrival of these new people… I worry. I worry that I have forgotten how weak men can be. That they may falter when we need them most. I say this to you, Mr. Connelly, because I know we are somewhat alike. You are strong. And I do not mean you are strong in arm, though I can clearly see you are. But in spirit. You are stronger than this new band. Stronger, perhaps, than Hammond or Roosevelt. Maybe stronger than me.”
“I don’t know that,” said Connelly.
“No. But I worry for you. We are doing the Lord’s work here. I know this. You and I are great tools in His plan. Do not weaken. We must stay forever sharp. Forever hard. Remember.” Then Pike dropped the ember and crushed it into the dirt with the toe of his shoe. It smoked and sputtered and there was the scent of burning leather. Then he strode back to the fire and lay down.
Connelly watched him for a while longer. Within moments the old man was asleep and slumbering gently. Connelly waited and then returned to his bedding, but sleep still did not come.
They spent the next days in the hobo jungle outside the freightyard, waiting. They were joined by migrants from all over the country, men young and old, desperate and excited. Some were mere children, others young families. Some clung to the idea of travel as their only salvation. The young ones smiled through their hunger and dreamed only of biting the horizon, of the great iron machines eating up earth beneath their wheels, and of freedom.
Some in the camp said this was a tough yard, and Connelly listened. The line he and the rest were going to flip was rumored to be hot, hard bulls with no tolerance for hobos. They spoke of men dragged off and beaten in the woods, whispered of being pushed beneath the cars and being bitten in half by the wheels. Others dismissed it as rumor. All agreed they would rob you, though. It was common for the bulls to herd men off and line them up and take every penny they had. Everyone who was a passenger on the line paid, the bulls would say. Sometimes they paid regular fare. Sometimes they paid more.
“I remember one time when a railroad man dragged us all off the train,” said one old man. “Had a gun and a stick. Told us the fare to ride was half of whatever we had on us. Me, I didn’t care, I barely had a buck, but this one poor bastard had been working day in and day out and had near to fifty. Damn railroad man was lucky that day. Took the money smiling, told us to clear out or he’d toss us in the clink. Laughed as we ran away. I wanted to kill him. Still do.”
“One time there was too many,” said a grinning man. “We was all over the train like crows on a telegraph line. The conductor took one look at us and sighed and waved the train on ahead. We cheered him as we sped by and I think he got a kick out of it.”
Still, you gambled each time you stepped on the rail, they all knew. It was dangerous enough without railroad men kicking you off. The churning machinery would be happy enough to eat an arm or a leg or all of you, should you foul up your mount. Greasing the rails, they called it.
Connelly had been lucky and knew it. He had sewn a few dollars into the cuffs of his pants in case he ever needed to bribe his way out, but he had never been hurt and had been caught only once, when he was hiding in a car carrying piping. He had managed to stuff himself inside one and ride in something like peace, arms and legs crushed into the tube. Then everything had lit up and a man had been crouching at the front of the pipe, flashlight in hand. He had looked at Connelly for a great while, face invisible behind the light, and Connelly had frozen in fear. Then the light had clicked off and in the dark Connelly could make out a sad and sympathetic eye at the end of the tunnel. The man had thoughtfully tapped the flashlight against his leg, then stood and walked away. When the train had slowed, Connelly had crawled out and jumped off and had not looked back.
He never knew why the man had spared him, or even who he was. He told this story to Roosevelt.
“He was soft, that’s what he was,” said Roosevelt. “Men like that are few and far between, and getting fewer. You want to see something?”
“Sure.”
Roosevelt led him out to the woods where the track was clear. A solid line of trees had been chopped down and uprooted, carving a path thirty yards across or so. It was clean and even like a man-made hallway and the rails slid through them like a ship through a canal.
“We’re not going to hop one, are we?” asked Connelly.
Roosevelt laughed. “What are you, nuts? I just want you to come here and see.” He knelt by the tracks and reached out and touched them. Parts of them were rusty red and other parts shone bright from where the train wheels had rubbed them clean.
“See this?” he asked.
Connelly nodded.
“You sure? I mean, you ever really looked?”
He shrugged.
