Suitcase Traveler

It is cold when you are riding the rail, but what choice do I have these days. Got my bed roll unpacked in this Hooverville and we sittin’ around the campfire playin’ my harmonica to sad blues tunes and tellin’ stories of our travels. I tell ‘em I am Amos Wright from Greenville, Mississippi, son of a sharecropper who runned away. Now I was tol’ we’s somewhere north of Wichita.

“So, Amos where are ya headed.” Balou, a redheaded Cajun, asks me.

“Wherever there is work.” I lean back on my night roll.

“Gotta be careful. Lots of heathen out there preying on unsuspectin’ folk like us.” Balou pushes his straw hat forward as he leans back.

“I met this man in one of the camps with a collar and a Bible tucked under his arm preachin’ the word of the Lawrd.” Yaegar snickered. I admit I did not like him none on account his family lived up in the hills of Missouri where there ain’t no love of my kind. Heard about hunts that take place. They chase one of my kind through the woods. If the man gets away, they let him go, but if they catch the poor fool…well I’d rather not say what they do to him. My daddy told me some stories of what they did in his time. It ain’t worth repeatin.’

“I kid you not, I seen a one legged man with a crutch running to a cart where they be hirin’ farm hands. He done beat half of the others blessed with two legs and all.” Owens spit some tobacco juice into the fire. The fire sizzled for a moment or two. Owen was a banker from Chicago. His bank failed during the Crash.”

“Amos, you got any stories to tell us?” Balou smiled showin’ a lot of gaps where he ain’t had no teeth. 

“I reckon.” I shrugged.

“Well come on boy.” Yeager urged me.

“All right.” I sat up and lit my pipe, “I don’t recall his name, but he was know’d as the Suitcase Traveler.”

“The what? Is you makin’ this up, boy.” Yeager howled with laughter.

“It is what we all called him.” I glared at Yeager for a moment daring to break the established social rules. 

***********

I was working on a ranch in Colorado when I first saw him hobbling up the dirt road with a single suitcase dangling from his right arm.

“Son, if you’re looking for a job, I ain’t got one.” Mr. Williams tells him before the stranger even reaches the door of the barn.

“I can help you, sir.” He is not dissuaded by Mr. Williams’ remarks.

“I can barely afford the ranch hands I got.” He removes his bandana from the hip pocket of his overalls and wipes his neck.

“What if I work for free this week and let you decide.” He puts his suitcase down in the dust.

“What can ya do for us?”

“Name it.” He looks Mr. Williams square in the eye and sets his jaw just so.

“Alright.” Mr. Williams wipes his forehead with his bandana, “Fill this application out. I reckon ya knows how to write.”

“I do.” He nodded and took the pen from Mr. Williams’ hand.

“Where ya comin’ from?” Mr. Kissel, the yard boss, asks.

“Milwaukee. Tugboat operator.” He smiles.

“Tell me mister, you see any water around here.” Mr. Williams was trying to keep from laughing in the stranger’s face.

“I am a talented man. I have done many things in my life.” He boasts putting his hands on his hips.

“I see you packing pretty light.” Kissel points to the suitcase.

“They call me the Suitcase Traveler.” He smiles triumphantly. “I don’t need much when I travel. Weighs me down, if you know what I mean.”

His emphatic wink unsettled Kissel who was known among the crew as a stern face curmudgeon that most of us tried to avoid when we were working in the yard. Seeing the expression on his face, I knew that him and the stranger were going to get off to a rocky start.

‘I have no extra room in the bunkhouse over yonder.” Mr. Williams pointed to the bunkhouse for the white ranch hands, “but I do have an extra bed in the Colored bunkhouse.”

“Suits me just fine.” He nodded.

“It’s right over yonder.” Mr. Williams pointed to the dilapidated wooden structure on the other side of the coral. “Head on over there. Amos, would you help him get settled?”

“Sure will, Mr. Williams.” I elbowed Mack as I walked over to help the new guy get settled into our bunkhouse. “So whacha name?”

“Just call me the Suitcase Traveler.” He answered.

“I mean, whacha mama call you when you was born?”

“Born?” He glanced at me, befuddled. “I don’t understand.”

“You know when you was…” I stopped noticing he was getting more confused staring at me with just one eye open. “Never you mind.”

“I’m sorry, but there are somethings I still trying to understand.” He confessed.

“It’s alright for now.” I shook my head, “My name is Amos Wright.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Amos.” He smiled at me.

I opened the door to our dingy bunkhouse as a thick odor of mildew greeted me at the door. Other than the sunlight at the open door, there was no other light source. Dust danced in the sunlight which was one thing there was no shortage of in here.

“You can have the bunk next to me.” I pointed to the stiff hard vacant mattress on a harsh wooden frame next to my bunk. He put his suitcase on top of the mattress which released a large cloud of dust. “Why you wanna sleep with us?”

“Gotta sleep somewhere, right?”

“I reckon.” I scratched my balding head. “You bes’ stay clear of Mr. Kissel.”

“Why?”

“He’s a bit of a tyrant. Runs a tight ship.”

“Alright.” He shrugged.

At sunrise, we open the coral gate and let the cattle graze on the hillside. Most of the cattle eat is prairie grass. It’s rough on their stomachs, but it does the job until we can have some hay shipped in. It is expensive, but the hay keeps them regular. A couple of the ranch hands ride up into the hills to keep an eye on them with rifles in case there are rustlers out there. 

While the cattle are grazing in the hills, the rest of us do odd jobs around the ranch. In the early afternoon, the rest of us get mounted up and ride out into the hills to round them up and bring them back to the ranch. 

“Amos, I want you to take the new guy with you this morning with the herd.” Mr. Williams ordered after we had our breakfast.

“Sure thing, Mr. Williams.”

“And keep an eye out. I got a notice that there are some rustlers hiding out in the hills.” He shook his head. It wasn’t that long ago; his own son was bushwacked by some rustlers. After recovering from his injuries, Dodd, Mr. Williams son decided ranching wasn’t for him and left for San Francisco.

Me and that Suitcase Traveler rode the herd up a steep hill where the cattle grazed in peace.

“Nice and scenic.” He leaned back under a shady Douglas Fur. “I could get used to this.”

“Doncha get too comfortable.” I put my back up against the tree. “We’ve got to keep our eyes peeled for wild animals…”

“And rustlers, I know.” He shook his head, “I am not fond of Mr. Kissel.”

“And I reckon the feelin’ is mutual.” I chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess you are correct.”

“Whacha do ‘fore ya come here?”

“Name it. I am what you call a jack of all trades. I did a little of this and that.”

“Is this yawr first time ranchin’?”

“Yes. I always wanted to be out here.” He coughed, “And now, here I am.”

“It’s a hard life, ya know.”

“I suppose.”

It was at that moment I heard an explosion. The loud noise startled the cattle, and they began to stampede.

“C’mon, we has to get them ‘fore they go over a cliff somewhere.” I waved to him as I mounted my horse. He was on his feet in a jiff and together we rode to head them off before they got into trouble.

As soon as we got to near to the leader, I felt this surge of power run through me like electricity. It was a powerful force for sure, but the cattle stopped running for the ravine. When I looked at him secure in his saddle, he had both of his hands on his forehead, but whatever he had done, the cattle stopped and were grazing again. I sat there stunned wondering what he had just done. I didn’t say anything about it until the others came to lead the cattle back to the ranch. Usually there are some strays that some of the ranch hands have to chase after, but not today. All of the cattle marched back to the ranch as if they were in a military formation. I ain’t never seen anything like it.

“What he do?” Mack asked after dinner.

“He put his hands to his head and stopped the stampede.” I explained.

“You full of yaself.” He laughed.

“I seen it with my own eyes.”

“Jus’ like the hand ‘o’ God come down outta the sky?”

“Don’t fun me none.” I waved my hand at him.

“C’mon Amos, I know you are one of the most practical ones out here.” Mack chuckled, “Ya don’ need to be hitting the hard stuff so early in the day.”

“I wasn’t. I swear.”

But Mack had already retreated into our bunkhouse. After a few minutes, I followed him inside. Suitcase Traveler or whatever his name happened to be was sitting on his bunk reading the newspaper Mr. Kissel had discarded. 

“Howdy.” He said without looking up from the newspaper.

“I have me a question.” I sat on my bunk.

“What?”

“What happened out there today?”

“I’m not following.” He looked up at me.

“You did something to stop them cattle.”

“I have no idea what you/re talking about.”

“Yeah, right.” I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.

The next morning, Mr. Williams assigned Mack to go up the hill with Suitcase Traveler.

“I’ll find out what he’s all about.” Mack assured me.

“Yeah, you do that.” I sniffed.

“He ain’t no magic man.”

“Sure, sure.” I shook my head.

“Hey, look Amos, I don’t believe in all that magic crap, alright.”

“Whatever you say, Mack.”

“You’ll be singing a different song, brother.” He put his finger in my face as he walked to saddle up his horse.

“Amos if ya gotta minute.” Mr. Kissel approached me. I didn’t like him coming over to talk to me. He carried a whip that I heard he readily used on more than the livestock at times. Lassiter, the old Negro cook who worked for Williams for a long time, would tell me stories, disturbing stories. 

“Yes sir.” I replied as he stepped closer to me.

“So, what’s up with that guy?” He pointed at Suitcase Traveler.

“I dunno. What do you want to know?” I pulled a couple of saddles that needed some repair. He followed me into the barn to the workbench.

“He’s unusual.” He spit some tobacco into the loose straw on the floor.

“Yeah, that he is.” I chuckled.

“Well, we don’t need unusual.” His mouth became a unbending line. “I don’t like him.”

“Isn’t he working for nothin’?”

“Yeah, but even at that I just don’t trust him.”

“Talk to Mr. Williams and tell him about your concerns.” I suggested.

“Maybe I will.”

As he walked away, I began to breathe a little easier.

Since I was busy with saddle repairs most of the day, I did not have to ride up into the hills to bring the livestock home. I enjoyed working on my own without anyone there to pester me. As I repaired the saddles, I kept seeing him out there waving his hands as a surge of energy buzzed through me. Now, I’d like to think that I got both of my feet on the ground, but I know he done something that I’ve never experienced before. I just knew what it was he did. You can’t stop a herd of cattle stampeding once they get a running.

He acted like he didn’t have a name. Suitcase Traveler was a name used by some old Vaudeville act from my daddy’s day. And who was he to work for free. Nothing about him made sense, except he was a decent man who didn’t care he was sleeping in the Colored bunkhouse. It would not be allowed in Mississippi where I was from. No sir, White and Colored did not mix. There were severe punishments for those who did not heed the Jim Crow Laws. He was a stickler, he was and nobody better cross the line or else. I could not wait to get out of there only to find out the rest of the country had their own laws about Colored and Whites. 

“Hey Amos.” I head Mack call out to me.

“How was working with him?”

“Not much different from any of the other ranch hands.”

“Good. So, what is his name?” I leaned on the workbench where I had managed to put in a full day’s work.

“He wasn’t forthcoming about that.” Mack smiled.

“So, you don’t know.” I shook my head.

“Hey you!” It was Mr. Kissel.

“Who he be yelling at?” Mack was startled.

“Let’s find out.” I walked out of the barn with Mack following.

Standing a few feet from Mr. Kissel, Suitcase Traveler. He began edging away from Mr. Kissel who was brandishing a whip.  He snapped the whip which raised a cloud of dust.

“Now, let’s just talk this out.” Suitcase Traveler waved his hands as if to prevent Mr. Kissel from cracking his whip again, perhaps this time crossing flesh.

“We are done talking.” Mr. Kissel pointed a finger at Suitcase who was dancing away from the whip. 

Crack!

“I swear, I’m about to letcha feel the business end of my whip.”

“C’mon on Don, don’t do it.” Mr. Williams called out to his field boss.

“Howard, I am tired of this man thinking he’s got the upper hand.” Mr. Kissel growled.

“It ain’t worth it.” Mr. Williams was leaning on the closed gate.

“We need to settle this once and for all.” Mr. Kissel raised the whip ready to strike.

Suitcase Traveler raised his hand just like he did the day before. Everything got blurry real fast. It was like being caught in a dust storm. Don Kissel stood with the whip in his hand, frozen like a statue.

“What the he--?” I heard Mack proclaim.

“Just like yesterday.” I uttered to myself.

There was a blinding burst of light. A strong wind twisted in the dust that tore the whip from Kissel’s hand. The sound of the wind whistled loudly in our ears. There was an explosion of shorts.

And then everything was normal. We all stood there wondering what the heck happened.

“He’s gone.” One of the ranch hands pointed to where Suitcase Traveler had been standing. Left was nothing but a vacant space.

“I’ll be, he is gone.” Mack stood there gob smacked.

“Where did he go?” I wondered aloud.

“If I didn’t see it with my own eyes…” Mr. Williams shook his head.

“Where is my whip?” Kissel pumped his fist a few times as if this would bring it back.

Everyone saw it, but no one wanted to talk about it during dinner. The mess hall was as quiet as a church chapel. I looked over at Mack and he looked back at me. 

Do not ask me what happened, because I still don’t really know.

***********

As I looked around the campfire, I saw everyone was just staring at me.

“You expect us to believe that story of yours?” Balou’s face was cracked by a lopsided smile.

“Believe  whacha want, sir.” I nodded.

“I refuse to believe that voodoo crock.” Balou laughed, but his laughter wasn’t sincere, because his eyes were still wide in wonderment. 

There was a flicker on what had been a shadow. When I saw someone walk into the light of our campfire, I knew who it was in an instant.

“Howdy.” He greeted us as he sat on the log we were all sitting on, “May I join you?”

“Help yourself.” Balou nodded. “What’s yawr name stranger?”

“Call me whacha like, but most folks call me Suitcase Traveler.” He tipped his hat.