The Anarchist by John Smolens Read Free Book Online Page B

they’re murderers.”
    “No,” he said. “They’re doing their duty. It’s all any of us can do.”
    Disgusted, Victoria got up off the barrel and left the barn.
    “Waldeck, I need money.”
    “You always need money, Leon. You take it from me, from Victoria, and then you go away, and when you come back you need more.” When Waldeck struck out like that, it was a sign that he was weakening, and after a moment’s hesitation he reached into the pocket of his trousers and put some folded bills down next to the first rabbit. “What
are
you going to do?” he asked.
    “Maybe I’ll shoot the president.”
    Waldeck stared at him, incredulous. “You’re always making these … these claims.”
    “You don’t believe me?”
    “They’re outrageous.”
    “It’d be easy—easy as shooting a rabbit. It would make history. That’s what I should do: make history.” He picked up the bills—eight dollars—and then continued to clean the second rabbit. “And this money will smell of rabbit in Buffalo.”
    “And then you’ll be back for more. The way you borrow money and never return it, maybe you should become a capitalist.”
    He watched Waldeck leave the barn, and in the distance there was sound of cow piss driving into the mud.
    Cows rarely looked up from their grazing to watch the train pass by, and Czolgosz often envied their sense of purpose. They were only concerned with eating; locomotives meant nothing to them.
    Turning from the window he saw the conductor working his way down the aisle of the Pullman car, punching tickets as he went, speaking briefly to each passenger. His box cap had a blunt shiny bill, and his dark blue uniform gave him an air of authority. Czolgosz had seen him on the train before, but he knew the conductor would never remember him, which he found comforting. As the conductor approached the two elderly women sitting several rows in front of Czolgosz, something changed in their posture; they squared their shoulders and sat up straight, as though presenting themselves for inspection. The conductor punched their tickets with his silver clipper, and as he returned the slips he said something in an Irish brogue that made both women nod their heads. When he moved down the aisle, their shoulders sagged with relief.
    Though he was a stout man in his fifties, the conductor swayed easily with the train’s sideways movement, and his feet shifted in graceful little dance steps as he maintained his balance.
    “Ticket,” he said.
    Czolgosz stared down at his hands, resting in his lap. He just wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep.
    “Ticket,”
the conductor said impatiently.
    Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out the ticket, which the conductor snatched from his hand.
    “Chicago?” It sounded like an accusation. “Can’t talk, boyo?”
    He glanced up at the man, who had muttonchops and a mustache, black with gray, waxed at the corners. Czolgosz had worn a mustache until recently, and regretted shaving it off. Now he looked younger than twenty-eight, but what he missed was the sense of concealment those whiskers provided. Without the protection of a mustache, his mouth, his face, even his thoughts seemed more exposed.
    The conductor held the ticket as though it were a ransom. “Can’t talk English?”
    Czolgosz looked the conductor in the eyes, and the man’s thick eyebrows tilted inward as the hardness of his expression dissolved into fear, or perhaps awe. Since he was a boy, Czolgosz had known that his light blue eyes could have this power over people. As the train started around a curve, there came a screeching of metal from below the car. The conductor rocked back on his heels, though this time he lost his balance momentarily and his other hand reached out instinctively for the back of the empty bench in front of Czolgosz—and in doing so he dropped his ticket punch into Czolgosz’s lap.
    Czolgosz picked up the nickel-plated tool, studied it a moment,