by Stephen Bly
“How is the marshal?” she asked.
“Deputy marshal. He has a sore head. He’s anxious to get to New Mexico. They’ll change trains in Denver and go south. He offered me a job.”
“Escorting the prisoner?”
Hillyard folded his hands behind his head. “Yeah, a hundred cash dollars.”
“That’s quite a sum.”
“I had me a hundred cash dollars once,” Francine piped up. “Right after the war I sold three of those Union Gatling guns to some rum runners on the Mississippi.”
“Rum runners?” Catherine asked.
“Takin’ it into the Indian Nation, I suppose. I didn’t ask. I was broke and had nothing to eat.”
“Where did you get three Gatling guns?”
“Don’t ask about that neither. Those were the times when we were livin’ one week, often one day at a time.” The contagious smile dropped off Francine’s wide face. “A person has a tough go of it concentratin’ on moral implications when they are starvin’ to death.”
Catherine turned back to Hillyard. “I’m guessing you turned the marshal down?”
“Yep. Told him there were some frail women at the front of the car that I needed to take care of.”
“Frail,” Catherine huffed. “I can look after myself, and I am certainly not a frail woman, and neither is . . . .”
Francine held up her hand. “Don’t be too hasty in your condemnation, honey. Never in my life have I been called frail. I want it to sink in.”
“I didn’t really say frail. I told him all of us up here were headed to California and unable to go south with him. He’s going to lock up Johnny Socorro in the jail in Cheyenne and telegraph New Mexico to send some help.”
Catherine sat straight. “Telegraph! Oh, yes. I’ll need to telegraph Catelynn. Do you think I could wait until after supper with the judge?”
Hillyard shrugged. “I’m sure they run three clicks on the telegraph in Cheyenne.”
“I heard you visit with the Mormon girls,” Francine said. “Did they offer you a ham sandwich?”
“No,” he laughed. “But they did ask if I was married.”
“Married?” Catherine said. “They are too young to be thinking of marriage.”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “They all expect daddy will find them a husband within the year.”
Catherine glanced over her shoulder at the girls. “Which one asked you that?”
“All of them.”
“Ooohwee . . .” Francine hooted. “Race Hillyard and his harem.”
Catherine tilted her head. “And just how did you get out of that one, Mr. Hilly?”
“I tried to imply . . . that you and me . . . you know . . . .”
“You used me for an excuse? How sweet of you.”
“It didn’t work. They all knew you were going to Sacramento to meet your beloved Phillip.”
“Now, how did they know that?”
“I don’t reckon there are many secrets on a train. I think when all is quiet, our voices carry quite well. They can’t help but hear us.”
Once they crossed into Wyoming, it was a straight track to Cheyenne. The sun eased low on the Laramie Mountains to the west and the shadows grew longer. While Race slept, Catherine gazed out the window. The last trees perched on the cliff at Pine Bluffs and now only brown grass carpeted the landscape. She thought about the Amanda Sue in a bathtub on the train and tried to remember what it was like to be clean. She wanted to smell her clothes to see how rancid they had become in the dust and perspiration but couldn’t think of a subtle way of doing it.
Catherine sorted through her cloth valise and pulled out a small blue glass vile with an opaque glass stopper. She poured some on her fingertips and rubbed the strong lilac aroma on her neck, ears and cheeks, then breathed in the sweet perfume.
Phillip, you will have to tell me your favorite perfume. There are a lot of things you’ll have to tell me. In some ways, we know so little about who we are now. But I’m sure it won’t take long to catch up.
Like fog clearing on the Delta by noon, the dream began to take shape. She stood at a crowded train depot. The sign on the red brick building read “Sacramento”. Men and women in simple cotton clothing scurried around as if waiting for a signal to depart. A beautiful black leather carriage rolls up and Phillip steps down. Square shoulders. Wide brim felt hat at a rakish tilt. Wool suit starched to a stylish crease in the trousers. Vest and coat barely conceals the muscular chest and arms.
With polished black leather boots on the outside of his trouser legs, he struts like a prince as he pushes his way through the crowd. His face down, he watches his step. In the din of station noise, she hears his boots announce his arrival. She licks her lips and tastes . . . lilacs.
At last, he’s close enough to clutch.
“You aren’t Phillip,” she gasps.
The deep reply exudes strength. “I most certainly am.”
“You are not. You are Race Hillyard. What do you mean coming here and pretending to be Phillip?”
“I am Phillip Draper.”
“This is not a humorous, Race Hillyard.”
“Who is this Hillyard? Don’t you recognize me, Catherine Goodwin?”
“Go away. What have you done with my Phillip? Go away, Race Hillyard, go away.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You are not suppose to be here and you know it.”
“Be where?”
“Catherine! Catherine!”
A rather large lady shook her shoulder. “Catherine, wake up. You’re mumbling in your sleep.”
Catherine sat up and wiped the perspiration at her neck. “I must have been dreaming.”
Francine sat back. “We’re coming into Cheyenne.”
“Did you hear anything I said?” Catherine took her linen handkerchief and patted her forehead.
“Not a thing,” she pouted.
She glanced over at Race. “Did Mr. Hilly hear anything I said?”
Francine whispered. “Oh, one of those dreams, was it? I don’t think so. His mouth was open like a beached bass and he snored like moose calling for his mate.”
“What delightful images.” Catherine grinned in relief. “I trust I can remember them.”
Polished oak paneling and thick green carpet greeted them as they entered the Judge’s train car. A large, well set, oak table stood under a gas operated, hurricane lantern chandelier. Four black leather and oak chairs circled the table. A polished wooden desk and glass doored bookcase divided the dining room from the rear of the car.
Lace curtains hung from the train windows. Crystal goblets, hand painted China plates, and silver utensils adorned the table top. As far as Catherine could see, there was no dust anywhere.
The Judge moved between them. “Rather exorbitant, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Catherine said. “It might be the loveliest room I’ve ever seen.”
“It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable to tell you the truth.”
Hillyard, hat in hand, rocked back on his heels. “I feel the same way, Judge.”
“Amanda Sue likes it, don’t you, honey?”
“Oh, yes. When we don’t have company, father lets me go barefoot and the carpet feels warm and tickly on my toes.”
“Don’t wear shoes for our sake, darlin’,” Hillyard said.
“Oh, Father, may I?”
“Do I ever tell you no?”
“You did about the baby buffalo.” She kicked off her shoes. “I wanted to take one home with us. There are so many, one wouldn’t be missed. I think he would be a delightful pet. I’d take care of him and raise him and teach him manners.”
The judge snorted. “Even indulgent old fathers have their limits.”
“But buffaloes already have manners,” Hillyard said.
“They do? Oh, goody . . . then I can . . . .”
“But they aren’t our manners.” He squatted down eye-to-eye with the girl. “The Lord created them
just like he wants them with their own set of manners. He doesn’t want them to learn some other ones, just the ones He gave them.”
Amanda Sue wiggled her nose. “I don’t understand.”
“Just suppose a young buffalo took a look at you and said, ‘Oh, what a cute girl. I’d like to keep her for my own.’ And what if that buffalo’s daddy said it was okay? Now, if you were out with a buffalo heard, you’d have to eat grass, sleep on the ground year round, and not wear any clothes. You’d need to run for miles and miles during lighting storms and drink water from muddy streams. You’d have to roll in the dirt to try to get the ticks off you, and stick your head in the water to keep the swarms of fly and gnats from choking you.”
“Yeuw! I don’t want to do that.”
“You’d feel very out-of-place, wouldn’t you?”
“It would be horrible.”
Hillyard patted her shoulder. “That’s exactly how that little buffalo would feel trying to learn human manners. He would be miserable. The Lord didn’t create him to be a yard pet.”
“Well spoken,” the judge replied.
“But . . . then . . . .” Amanda Sue tucked her hand to her chin. “I . . . I’ve decided I don’t want a buffalo.”
“A very mature decision.” Hillyard stood.
“I want a bobcat instead.”
“Oh, dear,” Catherine said.
“Fortunately, it’s time for supper,” the judge announced. “Miss Draper, if you’d sit over here . . . and Mr. Hillyard across from you.”
“You do names very well, Judge.” Catherine responded.
“A politician must remember all names.”
The meal consisted of steaming hot watercress soup. Cranberry salad Florence. Roast loin of pork with prune-apple filling. Brown rice and baby carrots.
For over an hour they ate and visited about railroads, politics, and baseball. After that, dessert was served.
Viennese apricot torte, assorted chocolate dinner mints, then coffee and tea.
The judge pushed back his empty plate. “I don’t usually travel in such elegance. The car belongs to a friend of mine, Leland Stanford. With all the trouble and litigation with the silver mines and this threat upon my life, Leland insisted we take his car. He claimed that any who sought my harm would expect me on the express. I would be overlooked on this train. We all know how well that worked.”
Hillyard poked his calloused forefinger into the handle of the China coffee cup. “What exactly is the trouble in the mines?”
“Most all of the good claims are secure. Now there has been a rash of promoters selling worthless mining claims. They swindle and cheat in the most horrible ways. Much of which is difficult to prove. So, there is violence. Vigilante attacks. I have some litigation tied up for over five years. I don’t know if it will ever be sorted out.”
Catherine sipped African red bush tea. “It sounds like a lot of greedy people.”
“Quite right. And the bench is required to state what is legal, even if it seems to support the morally wrong. Some of the cases are quite troubling.”
Hillyard carefully sat down his cup. “Did you ever hear of a case concerning a bogus diamond mine?”
“Heavens, there are no diamond mines in the West,” the judge muttered. “At least, none that I’ve ever heard of.”
“No, but someone could claim to have found one,” Hillyard added.
“ I suppose, but who in the world would believe him? Gold mines and silver mines, that’s the swindlers territory.”
Catherine interrupted. “What a delightful meal, Judge.”
“The least we could do. Are you sure you don’t want any Beaujolais? It’s Arthur Barolet et Fils, 1871.”
Hillyard shook his head. “Judge, you mention fancy wines and I feel as out of place as a buffalo in your backyard.”
“I am learning to be quite a snob. I need my wife to keep me humble.”
With a linen napkin, Amanda Sue smeared chocolate across her lips. “My mother is a doctor and sometimes she gets blood on her hands.”
“I suppose so,” Catherine replied.
Amanda Sue tossed her napkin onto her plate. “When I grow up I’m going to have a big ranch and raise . . . .” She stole a look at her father, “ . . . bobcats.”
When Catherine stood, the men rose too. “Judge, thank you again for your gracious hospitality. This is the place in the evening where the ladies retire to one room, and the men go to the den and smoke dreadful cigars. The truth is, I need to go to the station and send a telegram before we pull out.”
“Yes, of course. I just can’t show my appreciation enough for how you rescued my Amanda Sue. God is gracious to a rather pompous old judge, isn’t He?”
“He’s gracious to all of us,” Hillyard offered. “Did it work out for you to hire a little more protection?”
Catherine started toward the door. “I really must get to the station.”
“The ex-Pinkerton man adds another wall of security. Perhaps you noticed him checking in on us from time to time?”
“Tonight?” Hillyard asked.
“Yes . . . I asked him to be discreet. I don’t want someone hovering about.”
“I didn’t notice him at all.”
“Splendid. Perhaps you’d like to meet him.”
“If you men will excuse me,” Catherine said. “While you talk security, I’ll slip out and send my telegram.”
Hat in hand, Hillyard turned towards her. “Wait, I’ll walk with you.”
“I’m quite capable of finding the station on my own. Really, it’s no bother.”
Catherine slipped out the door, just as the judge led Hillyard across the car.
“You see, Leland had this mirror installed. It’s a special kind of glass where someone can look through from the other side. That’s where Chet Pinehurst spends most of his time.”
At the sound of the name, Catherine spun back, but the polished oak door had swung shut.
~~ CHAPTER SEVEN ~~
The lights from the blanketed the night sky north of the train station. As Catherine hiked the wood plank platform toward the brick building, she heard the shouts and tunes of a city relaxing its morals.
Lord, I think maybe the things that go on in the dark prove that people believe in You. They are afraid to do those same things in blaze of daylight. Afraid You will see them. Ashamed. But at night, well, they think Your vision or concern is somehow limited. May I only do those things at night that I would do in the light of day.
She heaved open the heavy wooden door to the lobby of the train station.
Come to think of it, my daylight activity is not always that great either. You will need to help me with that, as well. Perhaps I need an angel looking after me.
Inside the terminal, a dozen people lounged on long, high-back wooden benches. Most had a valise or bundle near them. Some talked. Some dozed. Others stared out at the immobile train. The air smelled stale; tasted used. Her clothes felt sticky, dirty. Yet, the tart taste of the Viennese apricot torte swirled in her mouth. She smiled at the “train food” she had just enjoyed.
Catherine strolled towards a Dutch door marked “Tickets: Times: Telegraphs.”
A dark skinned girl about eight-years-old with smudged long yellow dress and tangled, thick black hair accosted her. “Excuse me, ma’am. I couldn’t help but notice that you are all alone.”
Catherine glanced around the room, as if expecting to spy her parents. “Yes, honey. I just stepped off the westbound train to send a telegram.”
The girl shuffled heels of her very dusty, black, lace-up shoes. “Are you reporting good news or bad?”
Catherine peered into the girl’s large, round eyes. “What?”
“In the telegram?” The girl shifted the burlap bag she carried from one shoulder to the next. “Do you have good news or bad news to report?”
Catherine paused and bit her lip. “That is to be determined.”
The girl rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. �
�Are you married?”
Catherine tried to suppress a smile. “No, I’m not. But I’m on my way to California to get married. And you? Are you married?”
The little girl grinned, revealing straight, white teeth. “No, I am not married. But I have been thinking about it.”
“You have?”
The girl picked at one of the soiled spots on the front of her dress. “Yes, you see, Cheyenne can get dangerous at night for beautiful single women like you and me when we go out alone.”
Honey, you are a jewel. Does all of this come natural, or do you practice these lines over and over.
“Oh, is that so?”
The smile melted to scorn. “Only last night a man chased me for two blocks. It is lucky I am quite fast as well as pretty.”
I must fight the urge to comb her hair and wash her face.
“That is a good combination. Perhaps you should stay home in the evenings.”
“Perhaps, but sometimes I need to work. You see, my mother died when I was very young. I know she loved Jesus and is in heaven, but my father works at night at the jail. He doesn’t make very much money and he must buy medicine to help him breathe better.”
Catherine rubbed her chin.
I do believe I’m getting suckered into something.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Ah . . . I was going to tell you.” She glanced around the terminal. “But I don’t want others to hear. Step over here, if you will.”
The little girl took Catherine’s gloved hand and led her to an empty back bench. She dropped her burlap sack with a clank on the worn wooden seat and held out her small brown hand. “My name is Angelita Gomez.”
“And I’m . . . eh, Catherine Draper.” She noticed her glove seemed to stick in the clasp.
“Pleased to meet you, Catherine Draper.” Angelita climbed up on the bench seat. “I believe it is important for single women like us . . . .”
“Single, beautiful women . . . .” Catherine interrupted.
“Oh yes,” Angelita grinned. “For single, beautiful women to have some protection on them at all times. Do you carry a revolver?”
“A gun?” Catherine glanced around but spied no threats. “Heavens, no.”