Crain's Escape by Brian Haycock

Crain watched the headlight of the Superliner grow in the distance. Out here in the desert you could see it ten miles away. A few more minutes, he thought. Then he'd be riding out of Flatiron, Texas, and the mess he'd gotten himself into.

He looked around at the others waiting on the platform. There was a Mexican couple with a baby in a net sling, an older man who might have been a roughneck once, a girl in a UTEP sweatshirt and a nervous man who looked like he could be a dentist. None of them looked dangerous. None of them looked like the goons and legbreakers Pendler kept around to deal with men who played hold'em on markers they couldn't cover.

Just a few more minutes.

Crain watched a pickup pull into the station lot. An old work truck with the finish blown away. A man got out of the truck with a shoulder bag and slammed the door. A big man, a man who'd been around. Crain watched the man look over the people on the platform, saw a look pass over his face as their eyes met.

That would be Pendler's man. Crain's stomach clenched. He'd known this wouldn't be easy, but he'd started to hope when he'd seen that headlight. He tapped his elbow over the thirty-eight strapped under his denim jacket. This wasn't over. He still had a few cards to play.

Pendler's man walked onto the platform and stood about fifty feet away. He wore a wool jacket, old jeans and cowboy boots. Crain stared into the night, watching the man from the corner of his eye. He could hear the train now. Would the man turn and fire while the engine went by or would he wait until they were on the train, far from Flatiron? Would he use a knife, a piano wire? Would he just empty a clip, then slam in a new one and wait for someone to say something?

Crain looked over as the engine pulled in. The man was fishing in his pants pocket, pulling out some bills for his fare. All right. They'd get on, see who got off.

The cars stopped and the conductor stepped onto the platform. Crain held back as they lined up to hand the money to the conductor at the foot of the steps. He watched the man climb the stairs and thought about walking away. That might work for now. But he'd still be in Flatiron, and Pendler had plenty of other men. When his turn came, Crain told the conductor he was going to El Paso and handed over fourteen dollars.

Time to play this out, he thought.

"Is there a place where I can smoke?" he asked. He didn't need a cigarette, but he might want to get to somewhere safer than the passenger cars.

"Sure, at the end of the last car. Between that and the freight car on the back. The brakeman comes back and has one now and then. Don't tell anyone."

"Don't worry. I won't."

Crain climbed the steps and looked around. There were two cars ahead, three behind, all of them near empty. He thought he saw Pendler's man in the forward car, so he moved back. He walked through that car, then the next. He was in the last car now? He was alone. He took a seat with a view of the front end and settled in. In seconds he felt the train begin to move. Flatiron was a short stop, a few minutes there, then out. The train got rolling, swaying a little in time, and Crain started to feel a little better. Maybe Pendler hadn't sent that man, after all. He tapped the gun with his elbow again, just to feel it there.

He stared out the window at the rows of oil derricks in the distance, at the methane flares on the new wells. He wouldn't miss Flatiron. Plenty of trouble and no jobs, that was Flatiron. That was most of the world, from what he'd seen.

Pendler's man stepped into the car. He let the door close behind him. He nodded back to Crain and took a seat at the front end, facing forward.

Crain thought about it. The two of them were the only ones in the car. The conductor had disappeared. He watched the back of the man's head, bent forward a little, like he could have a gun out, could be checking the load. Or putting on a silencer. In a minute he'd get up, walk back, looking friendly, maybe asking him something. Then he'd bring out the gun.

Crain got up, headed back.

He stepped through the door at the end of the car. There was a platform with a flexible roof and waist-high rails, a rough metal grate for a floor. He could see the desert rolling by. He pressed himself against the freight car and lit a cigarette. He could see into the passenger car through a grimy window. He brought out the gun and held it in his right hand while he smoked with his left. He knew what was coming and he wanted to be ready.

It didn't take long.

He watched Pendler's man walking the aisle, coming back. He wasn't in a hurry. Crain pushed his back harder against the freight car and tossed the cigarette out into the desert. The door opened and the man stepped onto the platform. There was maybe five feet between them. Crain brought the gun up.

"Did you think I'd just let you do it?" he asked.

The man stepped back, but there was nowhere to step. There wasn't much light, but there was enough for Crain to see fear in the man's eyes. Good, he thought.

"I just came back to have a cigarette," the man said, staring at the gun.

"Sure you did. When you see Pendler in hell, tell him I said hello."

Crain fired twice. The flashes were bright, but the sound of the gun was swallowed by the clatter of the wheels on the rails. The man went down. Crain thought he should have asked the man his name. If he was going to kill a man, he should at least know the man's name. He checked the car and slid his .38 into its holster, then bent over and pulled the man's wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Paul Wester. Well, he knew the man's name now. He pulled a twenty and a couple ones out and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, then tossed the wallet over the side. Then he bent down to pick up Paul Wester.

Wester's eyes were open, staring at him. He wasn't dead, but he would be. Crain worked him into a sitting position, then got a shoulder under him and lifted. The man was heavy, but Crain felt strong. In one motion he had the man over the railing. He leaned out to watch Wester hit the dirt and bounce, then roll to a stop in the scrub. It was over.

"He do something to you you didn't like?"

Crain spun around. A man was standing in the doorway. It was the older man he'd seen on the platform, the one who'd looked like an old roughneck. He had a thin smile and a black pistol in his hand. He didn't look that old now.

"Pendler says hi, Crain. He says don't worry about that money you owe him. He's going to call it even."

Crain thought he might as well rush the man. There wasn't much else to do. But there was no time. He saw the flash of the gun, saw it again. He didn't hear the shots. He didn't feel the bullets rip through his chest and out his back. He didn't feel the man hoist him over the railing. And he didn't feel his body land in the dirt and roll to a stop in the creosote scrub somewhere between Flatiron and hell.

© Brian Haycock 2008 All Rights Reserved