The pressure kept up the entire day.
        Apart from trips to the bathroom there was at least one of them trailing him all the time, sitting with him in the lounge or sitting in the same compartment with him.
        The trio had kept up a solid wall of patter, talking about the murder in Detroit and what might happen to whoever did it.  The wolf was the worst of the three, talking piously about confession being good for the soul and worrying aloud about how the killer’s conscience must be weighing on him.
        Tucci privately had to agree.  He wasn’t a professional intelligence officer, like the rest of Broome’s ‘smart kids;’ his profession was salesman.  His training in espionage was part of a clandestine advanced regimen instituted by Broome with the connivance of the Trade Syndicate.
        And he truly hadn’t meant to kill Mastny.  It had been a complete accident.

        The last straw came when he stopped by his compartment before dinner.  The bed had been unmade, and there were signs that his grip had been opened and searched.
        Not neatly, either.
        He waved the conductor over.  “I want to report some criminal activity,” the hare said.
        The conductor, a stern-looking badger, looked at him over the rims of his glasses.  “Criminal activity, sir?”
        “Yes.  My bag’s been opened and rummaged through, and I think I know who did it.”
        “Really.”
        “Yes.  They should be in the dining car now.  Come with me.” 
        He led the conductor to the car and pointed at the three Minkerton’s agents.  “My company’s going to be lodging a formal protest against this railroad for letting these sneak thieves on board, and I have to insist that they be put off this train at once.”  He knew his tone sounded breathless, almost too hasty.
        The badger looked at the tiger, who looked up at him and smiled.  Turning back to Tucci the conductor said, “Oh, I’ll certainly take up the matter with my superiors, sir.  Until then, enjoy your meal.”  He walked away, leaving Tucci glaring at the trio.
        Dinner went by silently on the hare’s part, and he really didn’t notice what he’d had to eat. 
        They’d also found his passport, because they started referring to him by name, along with various jokes that they knew would get under a Rain Islander’s pelt.


        A thump under his bed awakened him that night.  A glance at his watch and he muttered, “Again?”
        “Oh, sorry there, Tucci,” the tiger said.  “Just getting settled in.  Nice of that conductor to give me a bottom bunk, huh?”
        “Real nice.  Be careful, though – we lepines and our big feet, you know.  Wouldn’t want you to catch a shoe in those pretty teeth, Stripes.”
        The implication wasn’t lost on the big feline.  An answering growl, swiftly cut off, followed by another thump under Tucci’s bed.  “You know, I might fall out if you keep kicking the bunk.”
        “Well, you don’t have too far to fall.”
        “Restless?  Want me to tuck you in?”
        “Only if you tell me a bedtime story, Tucci.”
        Tucci lay there a while longer, then got out of bed, put on his trousers and headed for the dining car.
        “Where ya going, Tucci?” the tiger’s mocking voice followed him.
        “To get some fresh air, Stripes,” the hare said, dressed in only his trousers and undershirt.  “Smells like a litter box around here.”
        The tiger chuckled.


        The dining car, at this early hour of the morning, was deserted save for two furs: a Pullman conductor going through his receipts, and seated at a far table a rangy looking feline with a Stetson and a cup of coffee in front of him.
           The conductor glared at Tucci, but after glancing at the cat, went back to his accounting work.  It was clear who was in charge at the moment.
           The seat opposite the puma was free.  Any other seat could have done, but it was the only table that seemed to have (mysteriously) a vacuum flask of hot coffee.  Equally mysteriously, there were two coffee cups, one clean.
        Tucci sat down and got a closer look at his companion.
          The puma was of indeterminate age, though obviously he had spent a very long time outdoors.  His fur was sun-bleached to a pale color, and he seemed to have a permanent squint, as if he were in the bright sun, instead of a darkened railroad car.  A paw with crooked fingers poured some coffee into the empty cup and slid it across to the hare.  Some dots were tattooed on the back of the paw and Tucci recognized them as a tribal tattoo from an area just south of Rain Island's territory.  In addition to his Stetson and boots, the puma wore a clean shirt and denim jeans, and a vest that had once been black leather but had faded to a blotchy chocolate brown.
           When he spoke, the feline's voice was dry and cracked, like a cattle skull bleaching in the desert.  "Them boys keepin' you up, son?"
           Tucci sipped the black coffee, and said nothing.  The puma
refreshed his cup.
           "Used to be, the trains runnin' this route would keep you up all night.  Stoppin' for water and wood an' all.  Ride's a lot smoother these days.  Folks don't appreciate that none."
           "Been riding the rails a long time, then?" the hare asked.
           "Probably seen nearly every line in North America, including some that ain't there no more.  Better'n a desk job.  Only suit 'n tie I'm wearin' is when they bury me."
           Another long silence, broken by Tucci.  "You haven't introduced yourself."
           Sip.  "Well, son, you've got a point.  I ain't never learned manners th' way most furs did.  No book learnin', like they say.  Name's Oscar Rockledge."
           At this, the puma lifted his head and looked straight into Tucci's eyes.  The lepine looked uneasily back, and racked his brains.  The name was familiar, but where . . .
           Oh, Gods.
           Tucci had thought Rockledge was either dead, or a figment of some fur's imagination.  After all, there had been probably hundreds of cheap dime novels written about Minkerton's.
        Hell, he’d read stories about Rockledge.
           "Caught any train robbers lately, Mr. Rockledge?"
           The puma pondered.  "Well, now, them kinds of fellers, they don't make them no more.  Now, back in th' early 70s, and back in th' 90s, you had furs with their tails up 'gainst it, furs who knew how t'think on their footpads.  Folks are soft these days.  Only guns most furs see these days are in th' movin' pictures."
           "So, just a nostalgia ride?"
           "Folks might say so.  The railroads let me ride 'round, no tickets neither."  He paused and looked out the window.  "Caught me a hoss thief back in '79 not far from here.  Feller had shot a guy in th' back, too.  Hard t'say which was worse.  Anyhow, he danced Danny Deaver soon enough."
           "How long have you worked for Minkerton's?"
           The puma raised an eyebrow.  "Well, ain't you th' feller fer questions."  A dry chuckle.  "Folks'd wonder who was the Minkerton's fur.  Well, now, let's see.  Met Old Man Minkerton when I was just a kitten, a drummer fur for General Sedgwick, back in '64.  That don't count none, was only 11 then.  No, first job I did for Old Man Minkerton was '70, after the war.  Makes it 67 years, then.  'Course, my math ain't what it is for th' furs they got t'day.  I warnt hired for none of that."
           Sip.  "No, sir.  All my years, they have me ridin' hosses or rails, lookin' fer furs that folks are interested in.  Hoss thief, cattle thief, boxcar thief, bank thief . . . hell, I even caught me a wife thief oncet.  That feller was nuts offer'n a reward for that.  Scrawny thing with a voice like a pig bein' castrated."
           Tucci looked at the cat's paw.  "And you've been shot seven times."
           "Yep.  You're a Rain Islander, ain'tcha?  Ain't t'wonderin what you seen on my paw.  Yep.  Still got three of 'em in me, too.  Plays hell when it rains.  'Course, more'n a few ways of dealin' with furs.  Had a fur bust me over the head with a fence-post near Leadville back in '87.  Shot him daid as I was goin' down."
           Sip.  "No, son.  Not on the job, official-like.  Them boys messin' with yore haid, them boys are on the job.  Me?  Just ridin'.  Watchin'."
           Sip.  "Seen a lot, son, in all my time.  You're a cool one.”  He chuckled at Tucci’s startled look.  “Dunno if the Agency has the goods on yew or not.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Yew got somethin' on yer mind, that's for shore.  Or maybe it's in yore bag.  I figger not.  Furs I seen don't drag their loot 'round wit' them.  Leastways, not the smart ones.  And you ain't dumb.  Bought lotsa tickets, I'll bet.  Bet the boss has a whole lotta boys watchin' trains from here clean to Boston."  Dry chuckle.
           In spite of the coffee he was drinking, Tucci's mouth was dry.
           Rockledge shifted slightly in his seat, and the metallic gleam of an old, powerful Colt revolver was briefly seen on his hip.
           "So what are you going to tell your boss?"
           "Me?  Gonna tell him yore a cool one, liken I said.  I've talked with many a fur, by now, he's reachin' fer his hogleg.  Well, maybe they make furs different-like these days.  Don't think Brass Buttons over there'd like a bit of gunplay, least at this hour of th' mornin'."  The puma got to his feet, and began to amble down the car with a rolling, slightly bowlegged gait.  He turned back.
           "Piece of advice, son.  Glass of ice water keeps you sharp.  Keeps you sharp, son."
           And with that, he strolled out of the dining car, leaving the hare with his thoughts and a visibly disapproving conductor.
        The puma had paid him a compliment and Tucci felt his confidence coming back.  The greater part of a salesman’s personality is confidence, after all – you started out with believing in yourself before you could persuade other people to believe in you and in the product you were selling.
        He slurped down his cup of coffee and waved at the conductor.
        “Can I get a glass of ice water, please?”

 
        "So, you want a bedtime story, huh Stripes?" Tucci said, prefacing his question with a hard kick against the berth’s frame. There was a rustle as the tiger threw off his bedcovers.  "Gather up your friends and meet me in the dining car." 
        The tiger stuck his head out of the curtain and looked up at the smiling hare. "You serious?”
        “Yup.”
         The tiger growled and pulled back behind the curtain, and Tucci grinned to himself.  As he headed back to the dining car he sent a silent prayer to Coyote for what he was about to do.
        He wasn’t a religious man, but it never hurt to ask forgiveness first.
        Every little bit helps.


         The dining car was dimly-lit again, so late at night, and there were only four furs in it when Tucci arrived.  Rockledge was back in his seat and gave him a nod, while the other three furs looked irritated.  The little dachshund looked furious as the hare waved them all to one table.  "Come on guys.  We have another day and half, so we might as well get acquainted."  When they seated themselves he said to the tiger, "You know, Stripes, I must be getting on your nerves a bit.  What's your name? You already know mine."
         "O'Hanlon."  The name came out as a growl.
         "Barr," the dachshund said softly.
         "Campbell," said the wolf.
         "Good.  Now, I'm going to tell you all a story, because Mr. O'Hanlon seems to want one so much."  He sat back and took a deep breath.  "I was told this by one of my uncles, you see, and he likely got it from someone else.
         "There was a little baby bird up in a tree by a cow pasture, and one cold winter night he fell out of his nest.  Naturally he didn't like that, so he started cheeping and chirping as loudly as he could for help.
         "A cow came on by and took pity on the bird, so she dropped a huge steaming pile of crap on the bird, and walked off."  Rockledge chuckled, while the other three looked mystified.
         "So here's the little bird, and he's all nice and warm now - but he's still mighty unhappy, and why not?  So he starts cheeping and chirping again.
         "Along comes a coyote.  He looks at the little bird, then really gently picks him out of the cow dung, dusts him off very carefully . . . and then eats him, all in one gulp."
         The three Minkerton's agents all sat back, looking offended, and Tucci said, "But wait!  There's a moral - no, three morals to this."  He held up three fingers.
         "Yeah?" Campbell asked.
         "Sure.”  He started ticking them off on his fingers, one at a time.  “One, people who drop crap on you may not be your enemies."
         Tucci looked at Barr, who bristled.  "And people who help you may not be your friends."
         The hare leaned close to the tiger and said, "And when you're up to your neck in crap, keep your mouth shut."  He smiled and stood up.  "Good night, gentlemen.  I expect I'll see at least one of you at breakfast."
        All three furs glared at him, angry at having their time wasted.
         As he walked out he passed Rockledge, who was laughing quietly.  Tucci mimed tipping his hat to the older puma and left the car.
        Before falling asleep, he briefly fretted that he’d been too confident and that his story had inadvertently tipped them off.  Well, he thought as he rolled over, I’ll deal with that tomorrow.
 
         Interestingly, though, he dined alone and in peace the next morning, after having had an unmolested night's sleep.


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