“You done stabbed me,” the man said. His voice sounded as if it were coming through a squeeze organ.

“You wasn’t gonna give me a picnic lunch,” Hillbilly said.

“That’s my hat.”

“Not anymore.”

“We was just gonna get some loving. There ain’t no fault in that.”

“Unless you don’t want it.”

“I ain’t gonna make it,” the man said.

“You took it under the rib. I think I got your lung. You’re right. You ain’t gonna make it.”

“You’re a sonofabitch,” the man said, and blood poured out of his mouth.

“You’re right about that,” Hillbilly said.

“Just a goddamned horse’s ass.”

“Right again. And I figure you ain’t got but a few seconds to get used to the idea.”

The man jerked and made a noise, then joined his pal in the long fall to wherever.

Hillbilly got up and looked at his guitar. It was junk now. And so was his way of making a living. Hillbilly tossed the busted guitar out the doorway, squatted and thought about things.

He could throw these bo’s out, go into the next town, get off there. Then again, it might be best he got off when the train slowed in Lindale near the cannery. It was a pretty good jump because it didn’t slow all the way, but he had done it before. You tucked and rolled and took your jump where the grass was thick, it was something you could do and not break your neck.

He did that, by the time they found these two, he’d be long gone.

Hillbilly glanced outside. It was black in the distance because of the woods, but the moonlight lay bright on the gravel along the tracks and made the stuff look like diamonds.