Varina(49)

A man in a plaid suit separated from the huddles and walked three steps their way.

—You better move along, he said.

A man in a greasy canvas coat stepped up beside him and flippered out both handbacks loose-wristed, like shooing cattle. He said, Get on, young’uns.

The crowd focused and quit milling and aimed all in one direction, at the boys.

The cadets had not considered themselves guardians of the Confederate Treasure Train or of the old men who had led them to this point of collapse. They looked at each other in confusion.

Ryland, real flat and slow and disgusted, said, Well, shit fire.

The man in the plaid suit said, I mean it. Stand aside.

Somebody else shouted, Don’t let Jeff Davis and his gang ruin us all and then get off with the money too. The Federals will be on us by dawn, and they’ll steal everything not screwed to the floor.

Shouts went all through the crowd.

—Get what we can get.

—Get it while we can get it.

—Get it now.

Pushed from behind, the front line of the mob staggered forward a few feet toward the boys.

At that, Ryland and several other cadets unslung rifles and shotguns, and some filled their hands with pistols.

Ryland—rum bold—said, You bunch aim to try us? Really? Y’all?

He said it like there were certainly people who could try them and succeed, but not this particular bunch under any range of imagination.

The men paused.

—Oh hell yeah, Ryland said. Try us. Come on. Get some.

He didn’t shout to the crowd but spoke only to that first row of mobsters. He said, Y’all old men just step up, front and center. See who gets cut down first.

He tipped his head toward Bristol and said, This one here? Best shot among us. Still a kid, but he sure hell can shoot. Not just the fastest, but the best. Bang, bang. Sound like one shot. And you’ll have one neat hole in the middle of your forehead and two bullets blowing mess out the back.

That was a gross exaggeration. Bristol was better than average shooting paper targets with a rifle, but was no pistoleer and had not ever fired at a human being. But he played along. Bristol held his arms crossed in front so that his right forearm rested across his left forearm. His right hand holding the Colt’s navy pistol drooped all relaxed and calm. He squint-eyed watched the mob for the first sign of bad intention.

A woman in the crowd hollered, You’ns sorry drunks gonna let those children face you down? Whoop ’em and run ’em back home to their mommas.

The mob surged again. Voices cursed God and Jefferson Davis equally for the pain they had rained down on the South.

Ryland raised his pistol and fired a single ceremonial shot into the air like the start of a horse race.

Five or six men on the front row of the mob broke to run, among them the man who had flipped his hands. He and two others stepped on each other’s feet and then a half dozen fell in a pile, scrambling against each other like a trapful of blue crabs. Some of the cadets laughed, and then some of the mob laughed.

Loud enough for everyone to hear, Ryland said, Hey, do all us idiots need to be killing one another? We all bet on the same broke-down racehorse.

The steam engine came alive with a grind of metal. Long iron rods and pins and joints worked against the drive wheels until the whole train jolted forward a few inches. And then, shiny steel wheels spun two squealing turns against the rails until friction bound them together. The train began moving at a crawl and then accelerating.

Secretary Benjamin opened a window in the passenger car and stuck his head out. He yelled, You boys jump on. Be quick.

Quick was what Ryland and Bristol did best. They dashed toward the blue boxcar and tossed the long weapons before them into the open door and tumbled in laughing and whooping like they’d robbed a bank and gotten away with all the gold. Then they realized it was only the two of them. The other boys straggled slow and lost behind.


BRISTOL AND RYLAND let their eyes adjust. The slaves sat in a corner lit by the yellow glow of two candle lanterns. The woman held her baby close and her man reached his arm over her shoulders, and they looked only at the baby. The other two men looked only at Bristol and Ryland.

The train reached the pace of a strong canter, and then settled in for the ride south. One of the men looked less than thirty, very dark, wearing a gray suit and white shirt and with hands less beat from work than Ryland’s and Bristol’s—so housework. The other man was a little older. He had a large, round head and had gone bald halfway back. His skin was sort of russet color, and three pale, horizontal scars marked his forehead like old razor cuts. He kept rubbing and squeezing his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand like he had a throbbing headache. The whites of his eyes had gone yellow. He was a big, strong man but looked like half the strength had been worn out of him.

Ry made a one-finger eyebrow salute toward the corner and said, Evening, folks. What’s you’ns names?

The family paid no attention. The scarred man said, Cleon. The man in the suit just kept looking at the boys.

Ryland took a chug from his bottle and passed it to Bristol. After Bristol sipped, he reached the bottle toward the two men, but they declined with sliding level motions of both downturned hands.

Ry took the bottle back and swigged.

—Ah, he said. We’re gonna need us a bunch more of this. They say all the smart people are heading to Havana, and I can see why. Swing in hammocks under palm trees, smoke cigars, and drink rum all day long.