Chase by Jessie Haas Page A

alone. The man I work for wouldn’t want me telling his business to all and sundry.”
    It was the equivalent of saying, I know you’re a Sleeper. Not wise, not wise at all. Everyone could know these things as long as everyone pretended not to. Fraser should know that. He’d only spent three weeks in Bittsville, but he was no stranger to coal country ways.
    â€œDrink?” Fraser asked.
    â€œGot my own,” Plume said. “Thanks anyway!” The forced lightness in his voice made the hairs rise on the back of Phin’s neck. Plume was suspicious. He wanted to know more before he did something irreversible. “Fine horse,” he said. “If your mules are anything to compare—”
    â€œThey are, as mules go.”
    â€œDon’t speak ill of mules. There’s some down there could run the mine themselves.”
    â€œToo smart,” Fraser said. “Smarter than horses. They won’t work themselves to death like a horse will. Always wondered why they’ll go into a mine at all.”
    â€œWe go,” Plume said. “It’s not so bad.”
    â€œI’d rather slave in a cotton field under the sky and a whip than go down in a mine. Not bad ?”
    â€œWe’re tougher than you Scots, aren’t we? Make the world go. It’s us down there with black powder and picks movin’ this train right now. The world rides on the backs of Irishmen.”
    The open doorway dimmed as if they’d passed into a wood. Fraser said, “More than just Irish. There’s all kinds of folk bent down with toil. English, even.”
    â€œEnglish?” Plume’s voice was cold and vibrant. “You take your share of risks, mule man.”
    Were weapons drawn? If they fought, someone would die. There was no escape in this moving box, no chance to miss.
    But Fraser, like a man who pulls a cat’s tail, then strokes her when she scratches, said, “Nay, I meant nothing by it. I’m all for peace. War makes a man want peace and quiet, don’t you agree?”
    â€œHow’d you know I fought in the war?”
    Fraser sighed theatrically. “A guess. Just a guess. Come, man, lay your hackle! I only want someone to talk to. The horse is a braw lad, but he’s no much for conversation!”
    â€œFair enough,” Plume said shortly. “What d’you say to a game of cards? Is there light enough?”
    Apparently there was. Their voices dropped, and Phin could no longer make out the words. He moved his tongue in his dry mouth to work up a little spit. Water would be good.
    They’d poured water for the stallion. He remembered the crash of it coming at him through that haze of insanity. It was down there now, dark surface shivering with the movement of the train. Black, with silver moonlit ripples. The stallion, whenever he wanted, could dip his muzzle in and flood the thirsty crevices of his mouth. Coolly it would glide down his throat—
    Stop thinking about water.
    He took the bundle on his lap and turned its contents over. Three biscuits left, and a lot of crumbs. He licked his finger, dampening it, and pushed it onto them to pick them up, cleaning out the whole bandanna that way. The bacon taste was strong and there was some other taste, too, wild yet mellow. At first he thought it was the wood of the matchbox. He put the box in his pocket so it wouldn’t get greasy, felt for more crumbs, counted his biscuits again—three, and one so small it was hardly worth saving.
    He picked it up and suddenly knew this wasn’t a biscuit. He sniffed; tears started in his eyes.
    It was a plug of tobacco—the cheap kind that breaker boys chewed, and mule boys. He’d seen everything Mrs. Lundy put into this bundle, could see in his mind’s eye each motion of her hands. This had been slipped in later. Only Jimmy could have done that.
    When Jimmy’d gone into the breaker, he’d started chewing. All the boys did.