Chad remembers old Westerns. There are two phases of cowboy life, the one with cows and the one with guns, and though he’s no cowboy, his wrangling days are behind him now.
His ears catch the sudden silence behind him, and he feels the air change. It’s like an intake of breath by some great beast. Chad knows it instinctively: it’s the sound of a diesel engine, clutch popped, coasting. He waits.
A pedal creaks. It’s almost on him. Chad spins, draws and fires into the bus in one smooth snarl, and the buck of the gun throws him bodily sideways.
Friday, November 19, 2004
It’s a big one, a three-locomotive beast, but Chad didn’t want some Amtrak commuter for his first haul anyway. His rope is strong; his cleats are clean. He is unafraid.
It chugs into view with a mighty whistle-blast, and Chad spins out his lariat. “WHEEE-LAH!” he whoops, feeling it catch, setting his feet wide and preparing for the contest.
A hundred yards later, he decides it’s over. He releases the rope and spits out a mouthful of turf before standing, shakily, to inspect his scraped and battered body.
Okay, he thinks. But nobody said train wrangling was going to be easy!