completely, and she cried out, “Oh, God, help me!”
As soon as she cried out, she remembered what Travis had said in his letter about wanting to serve God.
She tried to pray, but nothing came. She wanted to ask God for help, but she knew she had hardened her heart, that shewas not the same girl she had been a year earlier. Now she sat in the gloomy interior of the empty boxcar with nothing to hold on to, and whispered bitterly to herself, “If God couldn’t keep my mom and dad alive, He can’t help me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Terror in a Boxcar
For a moment, as he struggled back to consciousness, Chase Hardin could not remember a single thing. All he knew was that his head was pounding and his mouth was dry. He lay still, trying to think, but the pain in his head was terrible—like a spike being driven through from temple to temple. His first conscious thought was, My head is killing me. Why do I drink and bring on these awful hangovers?
Using all his determination, he lifted his head and gazed around. He did not recognize the room but was mildly surprised when he realized it was not a jail cell. He usually awoke behind bars from his drunken binges, but this room, though small and plain, was obviously a dwelling. Coats were hung on nails on the wall, and a scarred and battered pine chest sat in the corner, looking forlorn. The window to his left let in pale beams of light filled with dancing dust motes, illuminating an ancient carpet with the pattern worn off down to the backing.
He was lying on a feather mattress in an iron bed, and a colorful patchwork quilt lay on top of him. Each quilt square had a chicken on it—some were red and some were blue. “I don’t know this place,” he muttered. “Where am I?”
From the next room he could hear someone moving around, and he wondered who it was. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Sleep was a refuge for him, a haven where he did not have to face the world. Drinking served the same function, but he always wound up like this—with a splittingheadache, clothes covered in vomit, and quite often in a cell waiting to appear before a judge who would pronounce a fine he could not pay.
He lay there quietly hoping for sleep, but it would not come. Instead, memories ran through his mind like a motion picture. He remembered meeting a man called Mack, who had told him there were jobs to be had in Pierre, South Dakota. Mack had been a convincing fellow, and Chase had ridden the rails with him until they reached Pierre.
Sadly, there had been no jobs, and Mack had vanished. Chase had been disappointed too many times to feel anything more than a dull pain at the memory of yet another unfulfilled dream. He remembered spending his last two dollars on a bottle of bootleg whiskey. It had had an oily, vile taste, but he had gagged it down anyway, seeking oblivion—and he had found it.
Suddenly the door opened, and light from the other room fell across Chase’s face. He blinked and turned away as a voice said, “Well, you’re awake, I see.”
Shading his eyes, Chase sat up and then swayed, for the pain jarred his head ferociously.
“That’s some hangover you’ve got.”
Chase gritted his teeth and waited until the waves of pain faded, then opened his eyes. A man stood before him—an older man with white hair and a pair of steady gray eyes. He was wearing overalls, a blue wool shirt, and a red sweater with one button fastened. “Do you think you can get up? I’ve got somethin’ on the stove.”
“I guess I can.” Chase turned the quilt back and saw that he was fully dressed except for his shoes. He wore two pairs of socks, both of them full of holes, and he groped around for his brogans. He wouldn’t put them on right away, though. He knew that leaning over to fasten them would destroy him. He had learned that much about hangovers. He got to his feet, swayed, and almost fell back.
“Hey, let me give you a hand.” Chase felt a strong hand onhis arm
As soon as she cried out, she remembered what Travis had said in his letter about wanting to serve God.
She tried to pray, but nothing came. She wanted to ask God for help, but she knew she had hardened her heart, that shewas not the same girl she had been a year earlier. Now she sat in the gloomy interior of the empty boxcar with nothing to hold on to, and whispered bitterly to herself, “If God couldn’t keep my mom and dad alive, He can’t help me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Terror in a Boxcar
For a moment, as he struggled back to consciousness, Chase Hardin could not remember a single thing. All he knew was that his head was pounding and his mouth was dry. He lay still, trying to think, but the pain in his head was terrible—like a spike being driven through from temple to temple. His first conscious thought was, My head is killing me. Why do I drink and bring on these awful hangovers?
Using all his determination, he lifted his head and gazed around. He did not recognize the room but was mildly surprised when he realized it was not a jail cell. He usually awoke behind bars from his drunken binges, but this room, though small and plain, was obviously a dwelling. Coats were hung on nails on the wall, and a scarred and battered pine chest sat in the corner, looking forlorn. The window to his left let in pale beams of light filled with dancing dust motes, illuminating an ancient carpet with the pattern worn off down to the backing.
He was lying on a feather mattress in an iron bed, and a colorful patchwork quilt lay on top of him. Each quilt square had a chicken on it—some were red and some were blue. “I don’t know this place,” he muttered. “Where am I?”
From the next room he could hear someone moving around, and he wondered who it was. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Sleep was a refuge for him, a haven where he did not have to face the world. Drinking served the same function, but he always wound up like this—with a splittingheadache, clothes covered in vomit, and quite often in a cell waiting to appear before a judge who would pronounce a fine he could not pay.
He lay there quietly hoping for sleep, but it would not come. Instead, memories ran through his mind like a motion picture. He remembered meeting a man called Mack, who had told him there were jobs to be had in Pierre, South Dakota. Mack had been a convincing fellow, and Chase had ridden the rails with him until they reached Pierre.
Sadly, there had been no jobs, and Mack had vanished. Chase had been disappointed too many times to feel anything more than a dull pain at the memory of yet another unfulfilled dream. He remembered spending his last two dollars on a bottle of bootleg whiskey. It had had an oily, vile taste, but he had gagged it down anyway, seeking oblivion—and he had found it.
Suddenly the door opened, and light from the other room fell across Chase’s face. He blinked and turned away as a voice said, “Well, you’re awake, I see.”
Shading his eyes, Chase sat up and then swayed, for the pain jarred his head ferociously.
“That’s some hangover you’ve got.”
Chase gritted his teeth and waited until the waves of pain faded, then opened his eyes. A man stood before him—an older man with white hair and a pair of steady gray eyes. He was wearing overalls, a blue wool shirt, and a red sweater with one button fastened. “Do you think you can get up? I’ve got somethin’ on the stove.”
“I guess I can.” Chase turned the quilt back and saw that he was fully dressed except for his shoes. He wore two pairs of socks, both of them full of holes, and he groped around for his brogans. He wouldn’t put them on right away, though. He knew that leaning over to fasten them would destroy him. He had learned that much about hangovers. He got to his feet, swayed, and almost fell back.
“Hey, let me give you a hand.” Chase felt a strong hand onhis arm
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