One Man's Calling : One Man's Calling, Ch 31 by Wayne Fowler Book of the Month contest entry |
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Splurging, Ben purchased a ticket to San Francisco that included a sleeping bunk, but since it was still daylight, he was comfortably seated in a passenger car waiting for the train’s departure, a matter of minutes away. Suddenly his hackles raised, his senses alerted. Two large men approached from the head of his car. They did not appear to be looking for seats. Turning his head, Ben saw two more of similar nature at the back of the car. What would take place in the next minute was obvious. Ben’s checked luggage would be traveling to California without him. “Let’s go, Preacher,” the nearest man demanded, showing Ben a small pistol, one a Colorado tough guy would be embarrassed to own. “Unless you want us to carry you outta here and risk some a’ these fine folks getting’ shot up too.” Ben accompanied them off the train and to a waiting carriage where two of them climbed in with him, the pistol more blatantly displayed. The man to Ben’s left sported shiners that had begun to yellow. He appeared to be pained. Ben deduced that he might have been one of Jones’ subjects. Without warning he spun in his seat, crashing a balled fist into Ben’s solar plexus, knocking every bit of wind from his lings. Paralyzed, Ben couldn’t draw breath for so long he felt himself dying, fading away. He wondered if he would get to see Jesus this time. Finally, with a loud gasp, he sucked in air that, surprisingly, felt nearly as painful coming in as it had going out. His eyes watering, he felt his face flush. Trying to sit up straight, the man to his right whacked him in the forehead with his elbow. Both men looked to each other grinning. Ben didn’t know if he’d been unconscious seconds, or minutes, certainly not hours since they surely didn’t have far to go, the train depot being near enough to either Diamond Jim or Mushmouth. Curious, but not curious enough to ask, Ben waited to see who his captor was. Ben was glad he’d sent Jones on ahead. They certainly would have killed him immediately. The slugger mumbled something to the elbow-er. Ben guessed he had a problem with his jaw. “Oh, yeah.” The elbow-er turned and blindfolded Ben, obviously having forgotten to do it earlier. The hood smelled like a feed bag. Once out of the carriage, they tied Ben’s hands behind his back and then led him down a dank stairway into a basement. Ben thought it felt more like a basement than an earthen cellar. He had the feeling that he’d been in a city alley and or below a city building. The noises were muted and smells confused with the strong winds of that day. “Take off his hood and gag him!” The man descending the stairwell was Diamond Jim. “I don’t want him callin’ God in on this.” Ben tried not to shake his head at the stupidity of the words. After being slammed into a chair, Ben couldn’t help but grin at the idiocy. For his imprudence, he received an open-hand slap to the side of his face. Ben casually and deliberately turned his other cheek. Another slap, this one harder, stinging. He couldn’t make himself smile. Filthy fingers pried his mouth open, a rag jammed in and tied behind his head. “Now, we can talk,” Diamond Jim said, pulling a chair up to face Ben. “Hit ‘im again,” Jim commanded to one of his toughs. ‘I don’t think I have his full attention yet.” This time it was a fist. Ben thought his nose might have broken. Diamond Jim was right. He now had Ben’s full attention. “You might’ve noticed, I’m not Mushmouth. I’ve got a brain. And I’ve heard that horse trough story before. So don’t be thinkin’ you can yank no heart strings around here. “Tie ‘im some more, boys, I see too much wigglin’.” Diamond Jim got up and climbed the stairs out of the basement. Once tied tighter one of the toughs clubbed Ben from behind. Ben slumped over, believing feigning unconsciousness more comfortable than being hit again. +++ “Tony! What’re you doin’ here? Shouldn’t you be in school?” Angelo studied Tony’s face, concerned about the boy’s frantic desperation. “Angelo, I, I don’t know what to call you in your uniform … Captain Angelo?” Angelo laughed. “I’m only a lieutenant, but Angelo is fine. What can I do for you? Are you in trouble? I can’t keep you from being paddled, you know.” Tony grinned. “No, it’s Ben!” “Ben? He’s probably clear through Iowa by now.” “No! He’s here. In a cellar, I think.” “In a cellar?” “I had a dream, and …” “Ahhh.” “No, it’s not like that.” Tony exclaimed. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m a lonely kid who misses his friend and all the action and wants … I don’t know. “No. Ben showed me what he does when he has worries. And well, Mom had my favorite supper last night, but I thought I should skip supper and go to my room to, you know, pray. I mean, I didn’t pray like Ben does, but, I … anyway. Later when I was asleep, I saw Ben hauled off his train and put in a cellar. He was tied up and beat up. You gotta do something, Angelo.” Angelo did not dismiss Tony’s words. Angelo pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer, took a quill and wrote a note to Tony’s principal, asking that Tony be excused for his absence that morning. Signing it, he handed it to Tony promising that he would do all he could. “Get on to school, now, Tony. And Tony … thank you.”
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Wayne Fowler
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