His ride dropped him at the station, where he checked the schedule, then took himself a ways down the track. It was late in the day and there wouldn’t be another train until morning. He rested against a large pine, too tired to coax any tunes out of Melody. Cricket frogs began to burp out their own evening song, and next thing he knew, he was waking up and surprised to see he’d slept through the night. He drank from a nearby stream, cupping his hand down into the coolness. He splashed water over his head and face, ate a few crackers with cheese, before making a few adjustments to what he carried. He moved closer to the tracks to wait. He was nervous about jumping the train, and his small breakfast rolled about in his stomach.
Midmorning came a low whistle and rumbling along the rails. He put his hand down on the metal and felt it vibrating beneath his palm. He lowered his hat on his forehead to shade his eyes, and a few minutes later, it appeared like some giant hulking monster, a funnel of smoke rolling over the top of it. His mouth went dry as he got himself ready, moving to a spot closer to the tracks, keeping low and out of sight. He believed it was going slow enough. The engine came and went. He remained hunkered down, hidden behind the scrub brush. There were a few cars loaded with coal, then the boxcars started rolling by. He picked one, hesitated, and it was too late.
He talked to himself. “Come on, fool. You ain’t got but so many chances.”
A green car caught his eye. He decided green was his lucky color and began running, his gear bumping and banging against his backside and hip. He found it harder than he thought, so he ran faster. As he reached for the handle to haul himself up, he locked eyes with a skinny man missing a few teeth who grinned down at him. He faltered, tripped, and tumbled over the rocks and into briars.
“Dammit!”
The toothless man’s chortle blended in with the clacking along the metal rails. He stood, swiped the blood off his scratched arms, and spotted a blue car. Blue. Blue could be the lucky one. He’d learned on his first try and started running before it got to him, his sprint lively and quick. This time he grabbed the handle, and this time a pair of hands helped haul him in. His boots skimmed the rocks only for a split second, and then he was unceremoniously dropped like a fish in the bottom of a boat. He got to his feet, winded, but relieved. He adjusted his stance to the rocking motion as he looked at the men who helped him. One had to be in his sixties, silver haired, and the other was about his age.
“First-timer, I ’spect,” said the older man before he shuffled off to a corner.
The younger one had an aloof way about him, only nodding once before he went to the opposite side and sat in the shadows.
Del said, “Thanks,” and kept himself planted by the open door of the boxcar, swaying to the rhythm, edgy and ill at ease.
There were others aside from the two who helped him, but they were as withdrawn as the rest. This was the most humanity he’d been around in a while. One man glanced at him once too often and kept a hand in a pocket, maybe to send a message to Del he might have a pistol or some sort of weapon. About two hours later, the train slowed and everyone started moving toward the opening, ready to bail out. Del felt a bit hemmed in and didn’t much like it.
The old man came forward again, and Del said, “This Valdosta?”
“Close enough.”
Del saw his chance, right after a narrow creek where the wiregrass was thick and soft. He didn’t bother with niceties. He simply jumped and let his legs collapse as soon as he hit the ground, and he went into a roll. Seconds later, one or two others did the same, took a leap and tumbled out. The train trundled around a curve, heads still hanging out of the openings, and then it was gone. Del stood, brushed off his clothes, adjusted his gear, and set off in the same direction as the train. He stayed mostly on the tracks but sometimes veered off for the coolness under the trees. He had no idea where the others went, and didn’t care. After a while, the tracks crossed a dirt road, where he spotted a poorly looking sign, hung crooked. It said VALDOSTA, with an arrow pointing down the road. Encouraged, he walked toward it and began passing fallow fields, and occasionally a farm like Moe Sutton’s, where maybe somebody had seen to save for hard times so they could keep going. He thought of stopping, asking for a job at one of the big ones, except he wanted to do something different, and turpentining was really what he knew.
He’d gone only a little ways when behind him came the squeak of wagon wheels and the familiar clop, clop of an animal’s hooves. He turned and laid eyes on a man and three kids, all tow-headed boys, riding in a dilapidated wagon pulled by what had to be the ugliest mule Del had ever seen.