"Bastards", he would say, "all I did was put a beat to that Vivaldi stuff, and the first chair clobbered me"! Since then, and since the pure grain had gotten him divorced from every decent -- and even indecent -- group from Greenwich Village to the Embarcadero, he had become a sucker-rolling freight-jumper. "There ain't nothin' faster, or lonelier, or more direct than a cannonball freight when you wanna go someplace", Feathertop would say. "The accommodations may not be the poshest, but man! There ain't nobody askin' for your ticket stub, neither". He had been conning the freights for a long, long time now. Ever since the hooch, and the trouble with the Quartet, and Midge and the child. Ever since all that. It had been a very long time that had no form and no end. He was -- as he told himself in the vernacular of a trade no longer his own -- riding the dark train out. Out and out and never to return again. Till one day the last freight had been jumped, the last pint had been killed, the last beat had been rapped. That was the day it ended. The freight car was cold, early in the morning. He was pressed far back into the corner of the car on his hay sacks, the rattling and tinning of the wheels on the rails almost covering the sound of his ocarina. He held his elbows away from his body, and the little sweet potato trilled neatly and sweetly as he tickled its tune-belly. The train slowed at a road crossing, and the big door slid open; at first gratingly, caught by grains of corn -- then with a clash into its slot. The boy lifted the girl by the waist and set her on the lip of the floor. She pulled her legs up under her, to rise, her full peasant skirt drawing up her thighs, and Feathertop's music pfffted away. "Now that is a very nice, a very nice", he murmured to himself, back in his corner. A little thing, but the right twist for the action that counted. Hot, that was the word, hot! Hair like a morning-frightened sparrow's wings, with the sun shining down over them. A poet, yet! His thoughts for the swanlike neck, the full, high breasts, the slim waist, and the long legs were less than poetic, however. Zingggg-O! Then the boy straight-armed himself up, twisting at the last moment so he landed sitting. He was less to see, but Feathertop took him in, too, just to keep the records straight. Curly hair, high cheekbones, wide gnomelike mouth, a pair of drummer's blocky hands, and a body that said well, maybe I can wrestle you for ten minutes -- but then I'm finished. "We made it, Cappy", the chick said. "Yeah, seems so, don't it", the boy laughed, hugging her close. "Ah-ah"! Feathertop interrupted, standing up, brushing the pig offal from his dirty pants. "None of that. We run a respectable house here". They whirled and saw him, standing there dim in the slatted light from the boarded freight wall. He was big, and filthy, and his toes stuck out of the flapping tops of his shoes. He held the black plastic kazoo lightly. "Come sit", said Feathertop, motioning them toward him. "That crap is softer over here". The girl smiled, and started forward. The boy yanked her back hard, tugging her off her feet, and gathered her into the crook of his arm. "Now stay with me, Kitty", he snapped irritably. "I vowed to take care of you -- and that's what I'm gonna do. We don't know this guy". "Oooo, square bit", Feathertop screwed his face up. This guy was strictly from Outsville. But nowhere! "What is with this vow jazz"? Feathertop inquired, lounging against the freight's vibrating wall. "We -- we eloped", Cappy said. His head came up and he said it defiantly. "Well, congratulations". Feathertop made an elaborate motion with his hand. These two were going to be easy pickins. They couldn't have much dough, but then none of the freight-bums Feathertop rolled had much. And besides, the chick had a little something the others didn't have. That was gonna be fun collecting! But not just yet. Feathertop was a connoisseur. He liked to savor his meat before he tasted it. "Come sit", he repeated, motioning to the piled hay bags, over the pig leavings. "I'm just a poor ex-jazz man, name of -- uh -- Boyd Smith". He grinned at them wolfishly. "That ain't your name, Mister", the boy accused. "And you know -- you're right"! Feathertop aimed a finger at him. "Oh, come on, Cappy", the girl chided. "He's okay. He's a nice guy". She started to move toward the hay bags, dragging the reluctant Cappy behind her. Feathertop watched the smooth scissoring of her slim, trim legs as she walked to the bags, and tucked them beneath her, smoothing the skirt out in a wide circle. He cleared his throat; it had been a long, hot while since he'd seen anything as nice as this within grabbin' distance. He had it all doped, of course. Slug the kid, grab his dough -- at least enough to get to Philadelphia -- and then have a rockin' ball with the doll. Hmm -- diddle! "Where'd you come from, Mr. -- uh -- Mr. Smith"? Kitty inquired politely. "Where from"? He mused. "Out. I been riding train for a ways now". They lapsed into silence, and the freight wallowed up a hill, scooted down the other side, shaking and clanking to itself. After a while, Kitty murmured something to Cappy, and he held her close, answering, "We'll just have to wait till we pull into Philly, honey". "What's the matter, she wanna go the bathroom"? Ernie found it immensely funny. The boy scowled at him, and the girl looked shocked. "No! Certainly not, I mean, no that isn't what I said"! She snapped at him. "I only said I was hungry. We haven't had anything to eat all day". Joviality suffused Feathertop Ernie Cargill's voice as he reached behind him, pulling out a battered carpet bag, with leather handles. "Whyn't ya say so, fellow travelers! Why, we got dinner right here. C'mon, buddy, help me set up the kitchen and we'll have food in a minute or two". Cappy looked wary, but he moved off the floorboards and followed the dirty ex-musician to the center of the refuse-littered boxcar. Ernie crouched and opened the carpet bag. He took out a small packet filled with bits of charcoal, a deep pot of thin metal, some sheets of newspaper, a book of matches and a wrinkled and many-times folded piece of tin foil with holes in it. He put the charcoal in the pot, lit the paper with the matches, and carefully stretched the tin foil across the top of the pot. "A charcoal pit, man", he said, indicating the slightly-smoking makeshift brazier. "Fan it", he told Cappy, handing him a sheet of newspaper. "Yeah, but what're we gonna eat? Charcoal"? "Fella", Ernie waggled a dirty finger at the younger man, "you try my ever-lovin' patience". He reached once more into the carpet bag and brought up a package of wieners. "Hot dogs, man. Not the greatest, but they stick to your belly insides". He ripped down the cellophane carefully, and laid three dogs on the tin foil. Almost immediately they began to sizzle. He looked up and grinned. "A Kroger's self-serve", he explained. "I self-served". When they had licked the last of the wieners' taste from their fingers, they settled back, and Cappy offered Ernie a cigarette. Nice kid, Ernie thought, too bad. "How come you're riding the rods, kids like you"? Ernie asked. Cappy looked down at his wide hands, and did not reply. But surprisingly, Kitty's face came up and she said, "My father. He didn't want us to get married. So we ran away". "Why didn't he want you to get hitched"? This time even she did not answer. She looked down at her hands, too. After a few seconds, she said, "Dad didn't like Cappy. It was my fault". Cappy's head came around sharply. "Your fault, hell! It was all my fault. If I'd been careful it never woulda" -- he stopped abruptly. Ernie's eyebrows went up. "What's the matter"? The girl still did not raise her eyes, but she added simply, "I'm pregnant". Cappy raged at himself. "Oh he was stupid, her old man! You never heard nothin' like it: Kitty's gonna go have an abortion, and Kitty's gonna go away to a convent, and Kitty's this and Kitty's that like he was nuts or somethin', y'know"? Ernie nodded. This was a slightly different matter. He remembered Midge, and the child. But that had been a time before all this, a time he didn't think about. A time before the white lightning and the bumming had turned him inside out. But these kids weren't like him. Oh crap! He thought, Pull out of it, old son. These are just another couple of characters to roll. What they got, you get. Now forget all this other. "Wanna drink"? Ernie offered, taking the pint of sweet lucy from his jacket pocket. "Yeah. Now that you offer". The answer came from the open door of the boxcar. From the man who had leaped in from the high bank outside, as the train had slowed on the grade. Ernie stared at the man. He was big. Real big, with shoulders out to here, and hair all over him like a grizzly. Road gang, Ernie thought. "You gonna give me a drink, fella"? The big man asked again, taking a step into the boxcar. Ernie hesitated a moment. This character could break him in half. "Sure", he said, and lifted the pint to his own lips. He guzzled down three-quarters of the strong home-blend and proffered the remainder. The man stalked toward them, his big boots heavy on the wooden flooring. He took the bottle with undue belligerence, and making sucking noises with his thick lips, drained it completely. He threw his head back, closed his eyes, and belched ferociously. He belched again, and opening his eyes, threw the bottle out the open door. "Well, now", he said, and reached into his pocket. "I didn't know I was gonna have company in this car". "We're going to Philadelphia", Kitty said, pulling her skirt down around her legs all the more. "No, I don't think so", said the big man, and it was the final clincher for Ernie. He had suspected this guy was trouble, and now he was sure of it. "Maybe you and me will, girlie, but these two ain't goin' nowhere". He advanced on them, and abruptly there was a shocked electricity in the car. Ernie was screaming inside himself: No, damn you, you ain't gonna take my meal ticket away from me! The newcomer stalked toward them, and Kitty shied back, her hand to her mouth. Her scream split up the silence of the car, accompanied by the rattling of the freight, and then Cappy came off the floor, his legs driving him hard. The kid hit the bigger man with an audible thwump! And carried him backward in a footballer's tackle. They went down in a heap and for a long minute there was nothing to see but flailing arms and legs. The kid showed for an instant, and his arm was cocked back. The fist went down into the pile of flesh, and Ernie heard the bigger man's deeper voice go, "Aaawww"! Then they were tumbling again, and the big man reached into the same pocket he had gone for earlier, and came up with a vicious switchblade. He held the knife aloft an instant -- an instant enough to press the stud. The blade came out with a snick! He fisted the knife overhand, and drew back to plunge it into the kid's throat. Kitty screamed insanely and her face was white. She grabbed at Feathertop's sleeve and shrieked, "Help him! Help him! Do something"!