Secret Signs Read online

He looked down and groaned. A dark brown smear ran down the full length of his shirt.

  “Don’t stand too close, Hank, you’re making my eyes water!” Clickety Clack fanned the air with his hat as though that would clear the horrible smell, then grimaced and reached for his ankle.

  “Clickety Clack! Are you okay?” Forgetting his own problem, Henry rushed over to him. The tramp’s face was gray under its coating of dust, his eyes full of pain.

  “I think I’ve twisted my ankle.” He tried to stand. “It’s no good, I can’t put any weight on it.”

  “I can help.” Henry ran to a tall poplar tree near the fence. A stout branch with a fork at one end lay on the ground. Picking it up, he hurried back to Clickety Clack. “Do you have your jackknife handy?” The hobo searched in his pockets and pulled out his knife. Henry whittled the branch until he had it trimmed the way he wanted. “Wrap the fork with a piece of cloth and you can lean on it.”

  Clickety Clack took off his scarf and wrapped it around the top of the branch, then grabbed the hand Henry offered and struggled to his feet. Leaning on his makeshift crutch, he tested it out. “Works fine! Good job, Hank.” He stopped and sniffed. “No offence, but as a traveling companion, you stink!”

  Henry grinned. “Think of it as prairie perfume.”

  They looked at each other, relieved to have escaped the angry bull, and then Clickety Clack slapped Henry on the back and laughed his big-bellied laugh. “Whoo-eee! We were within a whisker of death, Hank, and that’s the truth. I thought we were goners for sure!”

  Henry felt a little giddy too. That bull must have weighed a ton. “Whoo-eee!” he crowed, trying to mimic the old man’s gleeful exclamation. “I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast. Not even when I stuck that garter snake down Constance O’Brian’s back and her two older sisters came after me with a broom.” He laughed along with the injured tramp.

  “Come on, Hank, we’ve got miles to go before we rest.” Clickety Clack gingerly tried a couple of steps.

  “Give me one minute!” Henry ran to the fence and took the red crayon out of his bag. Hastily, he drew a picture of two big horns chasing a small stick figure.

  “What in tarnation is that supposed to be?” Clickety Clack asked.

  Henry tucked his crayon back in his bag. “It’s my hobo sign to warn the next traveler that Mr. Bull owns this pasture.”

  The old tramp raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well, now, I ain’t going to argue with you on that one. In fact, I think I’ll add it to my own list of secret signs.”

  Together they made their way down the empty road into the late afternoon sun.

  “I need to rest a bit,” Clickety Clack said as he sat in the shade of a towering tree.

  They’d been resting a lot more frequently and Henry was getting worried. The old man’s skin was ashen. “Mind if I take a look at that ankle?” Henry asked.

  The hobo gingerly pulled up his pant leg. The ankle was an alarming size, swollen and purplish black. Henry remembered seeing Old Man Wilson’s leg; it had looked like that—right before they cut it off! “Maybe we should find a doctor.”

  Clickety Clack nodded as he struggled to his feet, and Henry moved beside him so he could lean on the boy’s shoulder. They walked slowly on in silence.

  “Not far now, Hank. Up there, see that house in the trees?” Clickety Clack used his crutch to point to a small white-washed house in a stand of poplars. “And the sign on that rock yonder?” He pointed to a big boulder. On the side was a cross with a circle containing a smiling face etched in the top right quarter. “That means a doctor lives here and he won’t charge us for his services. Let’s make a house call.”

  The young doctor had the whitest cleanest hands Henry had ever seen. He told them he was about to leave to deliver a baby, but when he saw Clickety Clack’s ankle, he made the old man come in so that he could examine the injured limb.

  “It’s not broken, but that’s about the worst sprain I’ve ever seen,” he said as he bandaged the foot. “I’ll be gone a couple of days, but there’s a place for you to rest in the barn. You need to stay off that foot for a week.” Before he left, he gave them food and apologized that he didn’t have more.

  “Not to worry, Doc. We’ll get by, right, Hank?” Clickety Clack slapped Henry on the back. Henry smiled weakly.

  As he scrubbed his manure-stained shirt at the pump outside, Henry thought about the doctor’s words: No travel for a week! He had to find his father, and a week’s delay wasn’t in his plans.

  When they went to the faded red barn, Henry was surprised to see one of the big stalls contained two canvas cots, a pot-bellied stove, chairs and a table with a kerosene lantern. “Looks like the doctor’s used to houseguests, or should I say barn guests.”

  “I’ll add this one to my list of great stops.” Clickety Clack carefully lowered himself onto one of the cots. “Mighty fine,” he sighed tiredly. “Mighty fine.” In minutes, the exhausted hobo was snoring softly.

  Sitting on the other bed, Henry took out his journal and tried to write the long-overdue letter to his sister, but only got as far as Dear Anne. He kept sneaking looks at Clickety Clack to make sure the old tramp was all right.

  There was no reason he had to stay, Henry thought. He could go on without the old man. High-handed Hank could hop a freight, find food and end up in Calgary with or without Clickety Clack. He didn’t owe the hobo anything. The agreement had been payment when they reached Calgary. Henry looked at the sleeping man. In a flash, he made up his mind. He would leave now, before Clickety Clack woke up. The doctor had left plenty of food, and the water bucket was full. Henry was pretty sure the old man could make it to the outhouse by himself. There was nothing holding him here.

  This was not how he’d imagined today would go, but he’d learned a lot on the road and could take care of himself. He didn’t need anyone’s help. Gathering his belongings, Henry silently slipped out of the barn.

  CHAPTER 11

  After an hour slogging down the gravel road, Henry’s thoughts turned to supper. He kept his eyes peeled for a welcoming sign on a gatepost. Once he found one, he would sing for his supper.

  Henry whistled as he strolled. He was High-handed Hank, knight of the road, free to roam wherever adventure took him.

  But his mind kept slipping back to Clickety Clack. He wondered if the injured hobo’s ankle was any better and hoped the old geezer had been able to make it to the outhouse by himself.

  After rounding another bend in the endless road, Henry spied a faded hobo sign on a fencepost. This one was a flat-bottomed triangle with arms sticking out of two sides. He smiled. They looked like little hands held up in the air; maybe this family gave you two fists full of food.

  Henry marched up to the back door and knocked firmly. A loud explosion made him whirl around. Terror seized him, rooting him to the spot. A grimy old man in filthy coveralls stood ten yards behind him, and he was holding a shotgun!

  Henry could taste rock salt in the air.

  “Get off my property before I blow you to kingdom come!” The angry man raised the weapon.

  “S-s-sorry, mister!” Henry stuttered. “I was looking for a bite of sup… in exchange for me chopping some wood!”

  “I don’t feed bums and I chop my own wood. Now get a move on!” He pointed the gun into the air and fired again.

  Henry lit out of there as fast as his legs could carry him. Once he hit the woods, he stopped to catch his breath and watched as the crazy man stomped back into his house.

  This was not what he had signed on for! Being shot at was not fun. He skirted the edge of the trees, keeping the house in view.

  It was then that he spied a treasure worth two fists full of gold.

  Two fat pies sat cooling in the kitchen window. His mouth watered. What did a mean old man like that need with two pies?

  Now Henry Dafoe, nice upstanding boy who went to church on Sundays and hardly ever cursed, would never steal. It was wrong and against all the rules.
/>   But High-handed Hank, knight of the road, abided by no such rules.

  Henry darted from tree to tree, then edged his way along the wall of the house until he was under the kitchen window. Reaching up, he took one of the pies and dashed for the woods. At any moment he expected to feel rock salt smack him in the behind.

  Once in the sanctuary of the trees, he grinned. Tom and Huck would be proud of him. He was a prairie pirate of the first order, plundering ships laden with gold. He looked down at his treasure and sniffed the spicy apple aroma. He thought how much old Clickety Clack would love a big piece of apple pie.

  A sharp flash of guilt ran through Henry as he remembered all the things Clickety Clack had done for him. He sighed. He had to go back. He couldn’t leave the old guy alone; it wasn’t right. So what if he found his father next week instead of tomorrow? With the precious pie cradled safely in his arms, Henry started walking back toward the doctor’s faded red barn.

  As Henry strolled into the barn, Clickety Clack was pouring a cup of the coffee he’d made on the potbellied stove. “Feel like a big slice of apple pie with that coffee?” Henry asked.

  Clickety Clack looked up in surprise. “When I noticed your gear was gone, I wondered what had happened to you.” His eyes looked sad, and Henry felt a fresh wave of guilt. Then the old man’s expression changed. “But I see you’ve been out hunting the wild Canadian pie. Did you catch that one with a snare or a net?”

  As they feasted on the best pie he’d ever tasted, Henry knew he’d done the right thing in coming back.

  “So how did you come across this delicious masterpiece?” Clickety Clack asked after finishing his third slice.

  Henry smiled. “It all started when I saw a hobo sign on a fencepost. I thought I’d go and offer my services in exchange for supper, like we did with that farm lady.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “But I must need reading glasses. The farmer chased me off with a shotgun.”

  At this, Clickety Clack gave him a startled glance. “What did this sign look like?” Henry described the triangle symbol and the old hobo burst out laughing. “You are one lucky boy, High-handed Hank. That means a man with a gun lives there and he ain’t afraid to use it. The best thing to do when you see one of those is to pass right on by. After seeing you write that sign for hopping a freight, it never occurred to me that you didn’t know what the signs meant.”

  Henry looked surprised. “You mean I got it right and that’s what the picture of a train means?”

  “Of course that’s what it means. That was why I thought you knew the code. Maybe I better have a look at that journal of yours in case you’ve got any more wrong.”

  Henry retrieved his journal and proudly showed Clickety Clack his list of signs and their meanings. The old man read the list, then shook his head. “Who told you what those symbols mean?”

  “No one. I’m excellent with puzzles and figured them out on my own,” Henry boasted.

  “Well you figured these all wrong, High-handed Hank.”

  Henry was about to protest, but the disaster with the triangle sign was too fresh. He shrugged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I do have a thing or two to learn about these particular puzzles.”

  Clickety Clack chuckled, then took out his pencil. “Now, let’s set you straight…”

  Henry was amazed. So many of his guesses had been dead wrong: the top hat meant that a wealthy gentleman lived at that house and had nothing to do with funerals, and the cat alerted you that a kind old lady lived there—no fighting cats anywhere! Clickety Clack showed Henry the symbols for food or good drinking water, where work was available and where hobos weren’t welcome. There were symbols telling you where it was good to camp or that you were in a dangerous neighborhood.

  When Clickety Clack saw the zigzag lightning bolt, he whistled. “You were lucky there too, son. That’s one to be avoided. It means a vicious dog is waiting to take a bite out of your rump.” He wrote the correct meanings beside the symbols and added a dozen more.

  “It is like a secret language.” Henry looked at the list, which now filled four pages.

  “That it is, Hank,” said Clickety Clack. “And it allows old hands like me to get by. The road is long for a man on the move.”

  The hobo had a faraway note in his voice that reminded Henry of the wind sighing in the empty prairie sky.

  They were bunking down for the night when Henry noticed Clickety Clack’s ankle seemed to be giving him less pain. “It looks like you might be healed up earlier than the doctor thought.”

  “Oh, that! We’ll be on the road tomorrow. Doctors are always overprotective. I’ve done worse and didn’t take any time at all to lick my wounds. I’ll be fine tomorrow and we should be in Regina by nightfall.”

  As Henry wrapped himself in his blanket, he realized that he’d nearly left Clickety Clack behind for nothing. They’d only lost one day and were rested and well fed because of it.

  This was not how he’d imagined today would go, but as he fell asleep, he knew that loyalty was something he would never again take for granted.

  CHAPTER 12

  “At this rate, Hank, you’ll be having supper with your pa tomorrow night!” Clickety Clack said as he and Henry strode down a busy street in Regina. They were on their way to the railway yard to catch a train to Calgary.

  The old tramp stuck a fresh plug of tobacco in his mouth, then offered a chaw to Henry.

  Henry didn’t want to offend Clickety Clack, but the thought of chewing tobacco made him sick to his stomach. “No thanks! I’ll stick to cigars.”

  Clickety Clack stopped in his tracks, momentarily taken aback, and then burst out laughing.

  Henry joined in and found himself laughing so hard his sides hurt. “Hey, look there!” He pointed to a faded outline of a train engine. “We can catch the train here.”

  “Why, Hank, you got that exactly right! The bulls here are a good bunch and don’t give us grief. There are lots of trains headed to Calgary, and one of those rolling hotels has a room with our name on it.” Clickety Clack heaved himself over the fence.

  Henry didn’t like jumping onto moving boxcars, but he knew he had no choice. “I was wondering,” he began as they threaded their way through the train yard, “when you talked about riding the rods, what exactly are they?”

  Clickety Clack spat, expertly hitting an empty can on the ground. “That’s one ride I hope you never have the privilege of taking.” He pointed to the slender steel shafts that ran underneath the length of the boxcars. “See there. Those are the rods, and some poor devils wedge themselves up under a car and grab on to them for dear life while the train speeds on. In the winter, men freeze to death, and in the summer they become so hot and thirsty it’s almost impossible to hang on. Not something you want to try. Up top’s not much better.” He pointed to the roofs of the cars. “You darn near choke to death in the tunnels when the engine’s black smoke fills your lungs and you’re breathing cinders. No, it’s best to be inside a boxcar, but sometimes you don’t have a choice, and then it’s a dangerous ride.”

  Up ahead, a train started rolling, making the long string of cars jolt and bump. “Come on, Hank. That’s our ride!” Clickety Clack hurried toward the slowly moving train. As they ran beside the train, a car with an open door drew alongside. Grabbing the edge of the door, Henry swung up onto the wooden floor. “I did it!” he shouted excitedly, then turned to see Clickety Clack falling back. With his bad leg, he couldn’t run fast enough and in a minute the car would be past his reach.

  “Give me your hand!” Henry yelled, holding on to the door rail as he reached for the old hobo. He could see the sweat running down Clickety Clack’s face. The whistle blew and the train started picking up speed. Henry dropped to his stomach and stretched as far out as he could.

  Clickety Clack lunged forward and clasped Henry’s hand. The weight of the old man pulled on Henry’s arm. Henry yanked with all his strength, refusing to let go, but he wasn’t strong
enough. He was being dragged out of the car.

  Henry could see the big steel wheels below him and knew he was in trouble. They looked like huge metal meat grinders.

  Suddenly, strong hands grabbed him, jerking him back inside while others hauled his friend aboard. Clickety Clack rolled onto the floor as Henry fell backward into a tall man standing behind him.

  “You should have said something sooner. We didn’t realize you were in trouble till you started sliding out of the car head-first.”

  Henry looked into the bearded face of Fred Glass. “Thanks, Mr. Glass! I’m mighty glad you decided to lend a hand.” He remembered the meat-grinder wheels and swallowed.

  “That was too gosh-darn-it close, Fred! Next time don’t wait for a dang engraved invitation!” Clickety Clack grumbled as he dusted himself off.

  Henry saw there were half a dozen other hobos in the car. They all looked hungry and tired, and their eyes had no light in them and certainly no laughter. Henry wondered what terrible troubles had extinguished the joy in their lives.

  “You heading for Vancouver too, Clickety Clack?” Fred asked. “Me and the boys are going to pick fruit on the coast, maybe work on the docks.”

  Clickety Clack shook his head. “High-handed Hank,” he jerked his thumb at Henry, who grinned broadly, “and me, we’re getting off in Calgary.”

  Henry picked up his bag and checked to make sure his precious book and journal were still safely tucked inside. “We’re going to meet my pa. Clickety Clack says we’ll be there tonight.”

  Fred stroked his beard. “I’d say right about time for supper at the mission. You haven’t lost your touch, you old rod rider.”

  Clickety Clack harrumphed indignantly and slumped against the wall of the gently swaying car. Henry followed and tried to harrumph too, but it came out more of a cough.

  The small band of travelers sat huddled in the dusty car, and soon a skinny fellow named Boxcar Charlie pulled out a harmonica. The sound was lonely and made Henry think of home. He wondered how his mother was doing in the special hospital and if his sister was having any trouble with the nuns at the convent. He felt bad about not writing to her.