Secret Signs (7 page)

“I wish I had a special name.” Henry put his arms behind his head too. “
Henry
sounds so boring. What kind of a name is that for a knight of the road?”

“Oh, I have exactly the right name for you, boy.” Clickety Clack chuckled. “
Henry
is what your mama called you, but out here it would be shortened to Hank. I believe I'll call you High-handed Hank because of the way you're always bossing people around and acting like the rest of
the world isn't worth wasting one minute of your time on.”

Henry sat up excitedly. “You mean it? I've got my own hobo name! It's like a hobo sign. Only adventurous fellas like us understand what it means.
High-handed Hank
.” He rolled the name around in his mouth to see how it tasted. It was wonderful!

He should write Anne and tell her about his official hobo name, but he was too tired. He'd draw the new signs and include them in his letter the very next day, he promised himself.

This was not how he'd imagined today would go, but the smile on his face didn't fade as he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, dawn was still stretching pale pink fingers into the eastern sky when they roused themselves from their sweetly scented beds. Before they left the barn, Clickety Clack reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked.

“Basic courtesy, boy.” Clickety Clack licked the end of the pencil and hastily scribbled a thank-you note. When he'd finished, he placed the paper beside the box where the biscuits had been.

Henry looked at the note, then rummaged in his book bag. He pulled out a small
blue ball and placed it on the note. “It's my never-miss metal marble shooter. I thought Johnny might like it.”

Clickety Clack patted him on the shoulder. “Now you're getting the hang of this, Hank.”

Henry felt good as they headed out into the rosy morning light.

Several hot hours later they came to a fence with scrub pasture on the other side. Clickety Clack surveyed the barbed wire with disgust. “We have to cross this field. Stand on the bottom strand and pull up the top one, will you, Hank? I don't bend like I used to.”

Henry did as he was told, and the hobo ducked through the fence. Clickety Clack adjusted his old turkey and began striding across the sparse pasture.

Henry pushed between two strands and winced as one of the sharp barbs bit into the skin on his arm, making a checkmark-shaped cut.

Running to catch up, Henry noticed piles of fresh manure scattered in the
field and looked around for the cow that had left those calling cards. As he passed a small stand of trees, he saw movement in the shade.

“Clickety Clack, watch out!” Henry yelled, but it was too late.

With a thunderous bellow, a large black bull burst from the trees, its tail twitching like a deranged metronome.

Clickety Clack took one look, then gestured frantically. “Come on, Hank. Mr. Bull doesn't want company!”

Henry didn't need to be told twice. He sprinted for the fence.

Snorting angry gusts of fetid air, the bull lowered its massive head and turned on Henry, two sharp horns pointed directly at him like the sights of a gun.

Clickety Clack took off his hat and waved it. “Hey, you, pick on someone your own size! Here, Bossy, Bossy, Bossy!” The huge animal's attention veered toward him.

The bull pawed the dirt, throwing up clouds of choking dust; then with a roar it charged the old hobo.

Clickety Clack whirled and raced past Henry, reaching the fence in seconds. He grabbed a post with one hand, then leapt clear over the barbed wire. As he landed, his knees buckled and he rolled in the dirt.

Henry dove under the wire and slid to safety just as the furious animal stampeded past.

At first Henry felt relieved.

Then he sniffed. The aroma of rotten manure was overpowering.

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.

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.