was. Afraid of the open space, and the voices, and the hoofbeats.
He made himself dart forward anyway and snatch the bottle up. No cork; he couldnât hunt for it, and some ofthe water would slosh out, but most would stay in, for a while anyway. He pushed the bottle under the surface and jumped at the glugging sound it made. Hurry, hurry. He pulled it out, dripping, before it was full, and turned.
Plume was coming.
For an endless moment Phin stood frozen as Plume crossed the tracks, head down, watching his feet. His minerâs cap was pulled low over his eyes.
He tripped. Phin dived for the shadows, closed his teeth around the top of the bottle, and scrambled up the crate wall. Water sloshed into his mouth, nearly choking him. Up and over and back, light on hands and feet, and into his corner. Plume got back in, then Fraser and the stallion, and the now-familiar departure noises began.
Heâd missed his chance.
Well, he had water now, and if they were searching this train on Ned Plumeâs orders, then he wasnât out of coal country yet. Maybe it was all for the best. Phin took a sip of the whiskey-tainted water. A drop went down the wrong pipe and he coughed.
Just once. He stifled the next in the crook of his elbow. Tears streamed down his face, his nose ran, his ribs heaved spasmodically, but he held the coughs inside him.
âAye,â Fraser said soothingly. âWalk a bit more, lad, ifthatâs how you feel.â Hooves banged on the floor, providentially making a cover of sound. Phin let out one more coughâhe had to or burstâand the train began to wheeze and whisper, hiding his own wheezes. He sat up, weak and wet faced, and saw a small clothy hump on top of the crate a few feet away.
The sack. Dennisâs sack. It hadnât fallen in the hole after all. When the train sounds had risen to a safe level, Phin crawled over on his stomach, drew it back to his corner, and opened it.
Apples, bruised and cornery, with a lovely scent rising from them. A chunk of the good brown bread the boardinghouse cook made. At the bottom, a small Barlow knife. Its blade was worn almost to a sickle shape; Dennis used it for everything from harness repairs to carving off chunks of tobacco to paring hooves.
Phinâs eyes smarted. He stretched them wide.
Well.
Well.
He had a knife now. What a man neededâa knife to cut his tobacco with.
12
O UT
S unrise struck wavering red rays through the partly open door. The back wall of the car flashed bright and honey colored, rippling with the shadows of trees they passed. Sheltered in train noise, Phin stretched, peed down a crack behind the crates, ate an apple, all in spacious golden daylight.
There were two stops that morning. Both times Plume got out, once Fraser and the horse did, but Phin never saw another chance to escape unseen.
At the third stop the searchers hauled someone to Plume near the car, someone who spoke quick and stammering in a language Phin had never heard.
âDoes that look like a boy?â Plume hit the manâat least, somebody hit somebody. Phin heard the smack and a grunt from Fraser, who must be watching out the open door. A few minutes later Plume got back in and a cork popped.
After this they traveled a long time without stopping. The car heated. Dark drips appeared on the ceiling. Phin touched one, and his fingers came away sticky with tar. He heard the sound of splashing a couple of timesâFraser putting water on the horse to cool him.
That would feel good, but Phin didnât have water to waste. Not enough to last the day, truth be told.
He ate another apple and his last biscuit; recited poetry under his breath, reaching back to the distant pastâyesterday morningâwhen heâd been himself, when his life was recognizable. Train rhythm became washboard rhythm, and he could imagine his mother was there. But not for long.
At last he took out the roll of money.
His hands jumped when he
He made himself dart forward anyway and snatch the bottle up. No cork; he couldnât hunt for it, and some ofthe water would slosh out, but most would stay in, for a while anyway. He pushed the bottle under the surface and jumped at the glugging sound it made. Hurry, hurry. He pulled it out, dripping, before it was full, and turned.
Plume was coming.
For an endless moment Phin stood frozen as Plume crossed the tracks, head down, watching his feet. His minerâs cap was pulled low over his eyes.
He tripped. Phin dived for the shadows, closed his teeth around the top of the bottle, and scrambled up the crate wall. Water sloshed into his mouth, nearly choking him. Up and over and back, light on hands and feet, and into his corner. Plume got back in, then Fraser and the stallion, and the now-familiar departure noises began.
Heâd missed his chance.
Well, he had water now, and if they were searching this train on Ned Plumeâs orders, then he wasnât out of coal country yet. Maybe it was all for the best. Phin took a sip of the whiskey-tainted water. A drop went down the wrong pipe and he coughed.
Just once. He stifled the next in the crook of his elbow. Tears streamed down his face, his nose ran, his ribs heaved spasmodically, but he held the coughs inside him.
âAye,â Fraser said soothingly. âWalk a bit more, lad, ifthatâs how you feel.â Hooves banged on the floor, providentially making a cover of sound. Phin let out one more coughâhe had to or burstâand the train began to wheeze and whisper, hiding his own wheezes. He sat up, weak and wet faced, and saw a small clothy hump on top of the crate a few feet away.
The sack. Dennisâs sack. It hadnât fallen in the hole after all. When the train sounds had risen to a safe level, Phin crawled over on his stomach, drew it back to his corner, and opened it.
Apples, bruised and cornery, with a lovely scent rising from them. A chunk of the good brown bread the boardinghouse cook made. At the bottom, a small Barlow knife. Its blade was worn almost to a sickle shape; Dennis used it for everything from harness repairs to carving off chunks of tobacco to paring hooves.
Phinâs eyes smarted. He stretched them wide.
Well.
Well.
He had a knife now. What a man neededâa knife to cut his tobacco with.
12
O UT
S unrise struck wavering red rays through the partly open door. The back wall of the car flashed bright and honey colored, rippling with the shadows of trees they passed. Sheltered in train noise, Phin stretched, peed down a crack behind the crates, ate an apple, all in spacious golden daylight.
There were two stops that morning. Both times Plume got out, once Fraser and the horse did, but Phin never saw another chance to escape unseen.
At the third stop the searchers hauled someone to Plume near the car, someone who spoke quick and stammering in a language Phin had never heard.
âDoes that look like a boy?â Plume hit the manâat least, somebody hit somebody. Phin heard the smack and a grunt from Fraser, who must be watching out the open door. A few minutes later Plume got back in and a cork popped.
After this they traveled a long time without stopping. The car heated. Dark drips appeared on the ceiling. Phin touched one, and his fingers came away sticky with tar. He heard the sound of splashing a couple of timesâFraser putting water on the horse to cool him.
That would feel good, but Phin didnât have water to waste. Not enough to last the day, truth be told.
He ate another apple and his last biscuit; recited poetry under his breath, reaching back to the distant pastâyesterday morningâwhen heâd been himself, when his life was recognizable. Train rhythm became washboard rhythm, and he could imagine his mother was there. But not for long.
At last he took out the roll of money.
His hands jumped when he
Similar Books
