by Stephen Bly
Catherine clutched her valise with one hand, her purse in the other, then pushed her way down the center aisle.
She passed the woman in a multicolored light chiffon dress perched with two black haired infants so small they looked like ornaments attached to her arms. The next four bench seats filled with dirty men who wore knee high leather boots. One had a mining pan over his face as he leaned back, that amplified his restless snores. All the men seemed as tired as infantry after a lengthy battle. She had seen that look before . . . way too many times.
A gray haired lady with skin more olive than Catherine’s sat in the next to last row. Beside her a pale man in a linen suit stared straight ahead and curled his thick black mustache. His sickly face looked so thin he seemed skeletal. She peeked through the back platform at the next coach then retraced her path.
The other side of the train car held a blanketed man with long, ink black, wild hair handcuffed to a small man wearing a bowler and badge. The long haired man leered at Catherine, revealing two missing upper front teeth. He pointed to his knee, as if offering her a chair.
She scooted past him and several other men. Six girls in matching bonnets and gingham dresses crammed seats, three to a row. Catherine guessed them to be in the fourteen to seventeen age group. They sat straight backed with expressionless faces.
Too close in age to be sisters. Perhaps a class on a trip, but not a very happy one.
A full bearded hulk of a man sprawled next to a short-legged dog who resembled a gray watermelon with legs. Two bushy haired men in grimy duckings inspected her as if selecting meat in a butcher shop. In front of them, a hardware drummer thumped on his catalog to point out some treasure to a placid, white haired old-timer. That brought her back to the front of the car. Four angry men wearing guns on their hips bellowed conflicting rules of a card game as one in the corner shuffled a deck.
Catherine scooted back into the side aisle and frowned at the man with the hat pulled over his eyes. “This is the only open seating until the conductor comes. Would you mind moving your saddle so I may sit by the window?”
“My saddle likes the view.”
“Isn’t that nice.” She plopped her valise down next to the saddle. “But, I might point out, I paid for a seat and . . . .”
“So did my saddle.” His chapped lips moved, but she could not see his eyes.
I read that western men treated women with courtesy and dignity. He must not read.
“What did you say?”
“Lady, I bought one ticket for me and one for my saddle. That seat is paid for. He’s sitting in it. And I’m tired.”
Catherine rubbed the back of her long neck. “Why on earth didn’t you check your saddle with the baggage car?”
“I did that once and they lost him. He spent the whole winter in a train depot in Elko, Nevada. The emotional scars run deep. He still has nightmares over it. So now, any time we travel together, I buy him a ticket.”
This is as futile as trying to reason with a carpet-bagging judge.
“Wouldn’t your saddle enjoy the safety and comfort of the trip more by sitting next to you?”
“Nah, he and I don’t get along that well.”
Catherine crimped her arms across her chest. “That’s incongruous.”
“Yeah, that’s what I try to tell him, but have you noticed that saddles are a stubborn breed? They never listen to reason.”
One of the angry men behind her muttered something about “no guns or knives.” She didn’t look back, but tapped the reclining man’s shoulder. “You aren’t going to move your saddle for me?”
“Lady, there are two empty seats. You can sit next to the saddle or next to me. Your choice.”
Catherine gazed down the aisle of the coach again. The six gingham bonnet young ladies stared at her as if waiting for a cue. This time when the train jolted forward, she staggered back and managed to turn around and drop into the rear seat next to the saddle. She hugged the valise and purse.
Wait until I tell Philip about this. He will be outraged.
“Not a good choice,” he mumbled from under his hat.
“You think I should sit by you?”
“I don’t think you’ll like your back to the door. Every time someone comes in from the Pullman car, you will crank your neck around to see who it is.”
“You’re worried about my neck?” She noticed a button missing from his white shirt down near his belt buckle.
I’m sure sweat and grime holds a shirt fastened long after the buttons wear off.
“And other things.”
Catherine brushed her bangs back. “Which other things?”
He pointed his finger as if lecturing children about the dangers of playing in the street. “When that door opens up, a gust of wind and dust will blow your skirt up in the air. For most ladies, that causes some consternation.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Depends on the woman.”
“Why is it you are so intent to have me sit next to you?”
He sat up so quick, she jerked back towards the coach door. “Lady, I’m praying that you are a short liner and will be getting off at the first stop.”
Oh, my, he has such drawn blue eyes. I don’t think he’s slept in days. The fruit of a reprobate and restless life, no doubt.
She tugged off the glove of her right hand. “I am very content to sit right here. As I told you, it will only be until the conductor comes through. I intend to move up to a Pullman compartment.”
“Whatever.” He yanked off his hat and ran his fingers through matted, dirty hair. “It’s going to be a long trip. Eight days will seem like a month.” He jammed his hat back on, leaned forward, elbows on knees, face resting in his hands. “I plan to sleep through most of it.”
She squinted out the window as a freight car rolled by on the track next to them. “It’s only four days to San Francisco.”
“Have you ever taken this trip before?”
“No.”
“I have. It will take at least eight days. Only express trains make it in four-and-a-half days. This is not an express, and even then, it seldom happens.” He turned to the hefty woman with huge amber eyes who listened behind him. “Isn’t that right, lady?”
When she leaned forward the folds of her neck rolled out like waves. “He’s right, honey. It took me fourteen days last January. We were stuck in the snow three days and three nights with nothing but buffalo robes and peach brandy.”
Catherine yanked the glove off her left hand and examined her slender fingers. “It’s not winter now. I’m sure we’ll make it in four or five days.”
Oh, Philip, you are right. My left hand will look so much more appealing with a beautiful gold wedding ring.
“I am in rather a hurry because I have someone waiting for me,” she continued.
“Your sick aunt?” he asked.
Catherine fussed with the gamp of pale yellow faille at her waist. “Who?”
The man tugged his hat down to his chest and scowled at her. “You told Mr. Passion that you were going to visit a sick aunt.”
Catherine threw her shoulders back. “I said no such thing.”
He leaned back to the large lady. “That’s what she said, right?”
The perfectly round face winked at Catherine. “She most certainly did not. The man at the station called out, ‘Tell your Aunt Demetria we’ll be praying for her.’”
“Doesn’t that presume she is going to visit a sick aunt?”
“There are other reasons for prayer,” the lady replied.
The man slumped back down in the seat. “So, you are saying your Aunt Demetria isn’t sick?”
Catherine rolled her tongue across her lips and tasted the bitter coach dust. “I’m saying I don’t have an Aunt Demetria.”
The woman waved a fleshy hand. “I have an Aunt Delutha. She’s rather obese. I always feel petite around her.”
“If you don’t have an Aunt Demetria, why did Mr. Sweetlips say that?�
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“I have no idea in the world,” Catherine shrugged. I have to admit he has nice looking teeth. But then, so did my first pony.
“That makes no sense.” The man rubbed his cheek as if nursing a toothache. “You must have hinted about an aunt or something of the sort.”
“It makes sense to me,” the big woman broke in. “After all, my Farley thinks I’m taking the children to a Temperance Convention in California. Isn’t that a laugh?” She slapped the man’s shoulder.
He flinched. “I’ve had more meaningful conversations talking to my saddle.”
Catherine dropped her wool valise on the floor and faced the window seat. “Mr. Walker, I trust you are enjoying the scenery.”
Without lifting his hat, the man muttered, “My name’s not Walker.”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your saddle. On the back of the cantle is the name, ‘D. E. Walker, Visalia, California’.”
“That’s the name of the saddle company.”
She kept her eyes on the saddle horn. “Does he always treat you with such disrespect? I just don’t know how you put up with it. What? He does what to you? Oh, my, how horrid.”
“Lady, you’re crazy.” He sounded croaky, like water gurgling down an empty pipe.
“Strange you should say that. Mr. Walker claims the same about you. He told me the only time he’s had any peace and quiet was when he leaped off the train in Elko. He spent the entire winter peacefully lounging about the train station next to a pot-bellied stove.”
The big lady chuckled. “I like the way you think, honey. You remind me of Pepper Paige. I was with her in a horrible blizzard at April’s place when she talked to her mirror all night long.”
“You’re both crazy,” the man sputtered.
Catherine leaned toward the lady. “You know, when a person thinks everyone else in the world is mad . . . .”
“Says something about him, doesn’t it?” She stuck out a fleshy hand. “Honey, my name is Francine Garrity.”
“I’m Catherine Draper.”
“Of the Memphis Drapers?”
“No.”
“New Orleans?”
“No.”
“Well, where are you from?” the big lady pressed.
“East.”
Francine bit her lips and nodded. “Yeah, sweetie, me too.”
“East?” the man growled, then slumped lower in the bench seat. “A mysterious woman of unknown ancestry? It’s like I’m trapped in the script of a boring melodrama.”
Catherine whirled around to the saddle. “Mr. Walker, is he always this incoherent? Usually more so? He must live alone most of the time. No, I cannot fathom what horrors you experienced stuck with him in a cabin in the Rockies all winter. You poor dear.”
She reached over and patted the leather fenders.
The words leapt out like a sprung mousetrap. “Keep your hands off my saddle.”
“Oh, my, what nasty jealousy.” Catherine laced her fingers together in her lap. “Mr. Walker, I suggest you might need to talk to an attorney about this abuse.”
“Lady . . . .”
Francine jammed a finger into his shoulder. “Her name is Catherine Draper.”
“Yeah, I know. Not the Memphis or New Orleans Drapers. Miss Draper . . . it is Miss Draper, isn’t it?”
“Why do you ask?”
His voice rose with each word. “So I will quit calling you ‘lady’ and not get poked.”
“You may call me Catherine.”
“Okay . . . Catherine, will you please stop talking to my saddle?”
“You are the one who anthropomorphized it.”
“That’s a big word for a . . . .”
“For a woman? Yes, college has a tendency to do that.”
“He did what?” Francine boomed. “Is it something sinful?”
Catherine ran her finger across the engraved letters, D. E. Walker. “He made it human and talked to it like it was a person.”
“So, you went to college?” When he rubbed his eyes dirt rolled up in the crevices.
“I graduated from college in Boston.”
“Oh, well, if you are educated, I suppose it’s alright.” His voice tightened with sarcasm. “Go ahead. Talk to my saddle. You two can discuss Schleiermacher and his growing influence on German higher criticism. Just keep it down. I’m still short on sleep. And whatever you do, don’t get him talking politics. He voted for Sam Tilden.”
“Where did you ever learn of Schleiermacher?”
“It’s the kind of thing they teach in Seminary.”
“You went to a theological college?”
“I didn’t say that. Look, I really am worn-out. Talk to someone else.”
She reached over and stroked the saddle, then whispered. “Sweetheart, perhaps when King Grumpy is asleep, you and I can step out on the platform and catch some fresh air.” Catherine leaned closer. “What’s that? At the next stop you want us to sneak off train and run away to some little cabin and spend the winter together? Now that is a very tempting offer.”
“You are nuts, Catherine. Absolutely nuts.” He stared out at the Omaha train yard. “Perhaps I should just toss you out the window.”
“Mr. Walker, I don’t know why you travel with him. What? You don’t even like sitting next to the window? It makes you dizzy? He does it on purpose to torment you? Oh, you poor, poor dear. Listen, I have an idea . . . .”
“Forget it,” he barked.
“Mr. Walker, why don’t you sit over here by the door, where you can relax, and I’ll sit in that cramped corner next to the window.”
“Don’t touch my saddle!”
“Nonsense, I will not have you torment poor Mr. Walker.” She stood up. “Honey, you just scoot over here and . . . .”
The man drew his gun, but didn’t cock the hammer. He held it low. One of the angry men playing poker stomped over to them. “Lady, do you need some assistance?”
Catherine sat back down by the door. “Would one of you handsome gentlemen please shoot this man dead?”
He glanced over at the drawn revolver, now cocked. “Are you joking?”
She frowned. “Yes, unfortunately, I am.” She turned toward the window. “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker, we tried. Mr. Tyrant uses a gun to bully defenseless women and inanimate objects.”
Francine rocked a sleeping baby in the crook of her left arm. “Catherine, I mean this as no chagrin, but how tall are you? I admired how you towered over the man across the aisle.”
Catherine’s shoulders slumped. “I like to say I’m five-foot-eleven-and-a-half.”
“Are you really six feet?” Francine gasped.
“With any kind of heel on my shoes, I am. I try to not think about it.”
“If I had my druthers, I’d rather be tall than big boned. That’s my trouble, you know . . . big bones.” Francine poked the man. “Mister, I believe Catherine is taller than you.”
“I’m six feet, two inches.”
Francine grinned and Catherine noticed perfect straight white teeth.
“Stand up and let me compare.”
“Lady, I’m not going to stand up.”
Catherine jammed his knee. “Her name is Francine.”
“Francine, I’m not playing this game.”
“Of course you are.” Francine jabbed him in the ribs.
He reached for his revolver.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Catherine fumed. “You are going to draw your gun on a lady with two young children. There is a very strange person on this train, and it’s you, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.”
Francine rolled her big amber eyes. “I always say, a man who won’t give his name is hiding something. Perhaps he’s Black Bart? Or Dirty Dan? Or Raymond the Ripper.”
The man waved his arms. “Catherine . . . Francine . . . I will make a deal with you. I will tell you my name and even stand up and show you my height. But then you cannot talk for a solid hour while I get some rest. Is that a deal?”
Cather
ine patted the saddle. “Does that include Mr. D. E. Walker?”
“Especially him.”
“I reserve the right to talk to the conductor about my move to a Pullman compartment when he comes through,” Catherine insisted.
“You may talk to the conductor.”
Francine glanced at her sleeping children. “If Preston and Nancy wake up, I will need to talk to my children.”
“Of course.”
“Can we hum?” Catherine added. “I do love to hum.”
“Oh, me too,” Francine said. “My whole family are good hummers. Can’t whistle worth a fig, but very good hummers.”
“Forget it,” he groused.
Francine slapped her big hand on his shoulder so hard, both children woke up. “Stand up, mister. You got a deal.”
The man pulled off his dirty beaver-felt hat and tossed it over the saddle horn. “I’ve been in gunfights more peaceful than this.”
“Stand up straight, you two . . . back to back,” Francine commanded. “Don’t slump.”
Catherine felt the back of their shoulders touch. The semi-bustle on her dress kept anything else from touching.
“He’s right, honey. I’d say he’s at least two inches taller.”
Catherine scooted in on the bench seat next to the saddle. He plopped back down next to the window, shoved his legs across the aisle, and pulled his hat down.
“I believe you promised us two things,” Francine said.
“Race Hillyard,” he replied.
“Race?” Catherine questioned. “What kind of name is Race?”
“It’s better than Herb.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a long story that I don’t intend on telling you.”
Francine rocked the youngsters back and forth. “Say, you wouldn’t be one of the Hilliards from St. Joseph, would you?”
“Not Hillyards of St. Joseph, St. Louis, or St. Paul. Ladies, you are looking at the last of a proud family of Hillyards from Ash Fork, Texas. Now, I believe I have earned my peace and quiet.”
I shouldn’t have worn a dress with a bustle of any sort. If I had a drawing room, I’d change dresses . . . that is, if I had another dress. Well, I do have that dress. I’m not sure I want to wear it yet.