No Job for a Lady

by Carol McCleary

  He holds it up like it’s a strange creature and I grab it out of his hands. Even the way he holds my bag annoys me.

  “I don’t like lugging around baggage and—and that includes you.”

  He gives me a sardonic grin. “Now why would you say that, especially since it is only because of me that you have this sleeper.”

  I start a reply but clamp my mouth shut. His statement is, unfortunately, true.

  “Good,” he says. “Now we are getting somewhere. Admitting the truth is cleansing to the soul, even if it was just the look on your face. So, dare I say we have a truce at hand?”

  “Yes … if you give me the lower.”

  “No. What about dinner?”

  “No. I already have dinner plans, and to answer your next question, which again is none of your business, yes, it is with that gentleman.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  “Uh-huh.” In a pig’s eye. With carpetbag in hand, I open the door to our small washroom. It consists of a small metal sink with a hand pump for water and a mirror cabinet with enough room to store his shaving needs and an empty space for a jar of my skin lotion. The toilets are in the washrooms at the rear end of the car.

  There is just enough room for me to squeeze in with my bag. I can’t close the door all the way because there is no light inside. I leave the door ajar, just enough to get some light in, but blocking his view of me, even though I only intend to freshen my face.

  Having been raised with brothers whom my mother and I had to constantly pick up after, I am surprised at how neat he is. His personal possessions are not scattered around the compartment, and the few in the cubbyhole washroom are neatly displayed. He has even taken a metal cup to hold his toothbrush and a tree twig. My father also used a twig to rub his teeth with, because he complained that brushes were constantly falling apart.

  If Mr. Watkins wasn’t so sarcastic, I might even be attracted to him, but there is something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. He seems rather inquisitive about me, but I guess that’s natural. I am curious about him, too. Under different circumstances, and if I wasn’t so busy looking for stories, I wouldn’t mind chatting and getting to know him a bit more in a friendly manner, instead of this inquisitional way.

  I also have a feeling that he is not particularly fond of women. He is polite, no question about it, but he seems to take extra delight in refusing to abide by the rule of ladies first—especially when it comes to choosing a berth!

  I wonder what happened in his life to give him such a negative slant about women.

  “I’m surprised,” Roger Watkins states when I come out of the washroom.

  “About what?”

  “How quickly it took you to freshen up. Most women take forever with their toiletry. When they come out, they basically look the same, except that maybe their hair is more combed, and not always for the better. Some women make their faces look like a clown’s, with all that ridiculous stuff on their eyes and lips! Why do women wear such paint on their faces?”

  For a moment, I am speechless. I’ve never heard a man ramble on and on about women, especially their attire. And what he just said to me, is it a compliment, or what?

  “Well, I grew up with six brothers and I wasn’t allowed much time in the bathroom. Besides, my mother doesn’t believe in all that makeup. She says natural beauty is better. Unfortunately, I have neither natural beauty nor makeup.”

  “You are too hard on yourself. You’re not a bad looker, except when you are jawing at me over the berths. And you have a smart mother. Shall we go?”

  “Where?” is all I can say at the moment, for I am still flabbergasted at what he has just said.

  “To the dining car.”

  “What? No. I already told you—”

  “I know you have a dinner engagement. But, I, too, must eat, so I thought I’d at least escort you there. You never know what lurks between train cars.”

  “You read too many mysteries, and yes, I noticed your Poe book. And, no thank you, I do not need your protection.” I square my shoulders. “I am an American girl who can take care of herself without the aid of a man.”

  “Fine. And speaking of Poe, listen to this: ‘Take this kiss upon the brow!/And, in parting from you now,/Thus much let me avow—/You are not wrong, who deem/That my days have been a dream;/Yet if hope has flown away/In a night, or in a day,/In a vision, or in none,/Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem/Is but a dream within a dream.’”

  “I’m impressed. That is beautiful and very poignant. What’s the title?”

  “‘A Dream Within a Dream.’ It was published the year he died.”

  “How sad. Didn’t Poe have a tragic life?”

  “Drank himself to death.”

  “He also didn’t have very good luck with women, did he? I suppose you haven’t, either.”

  What made me say this, I have not a clue, but the minute it slipped off my tongue, I wished I could retrieve it, for the look on Roger’s face made me want to crawl in a hole.

  12

  I leave feeling like a skunk. My wicked tongue made me say that. Unconsciously or maybe consciously, I was testing my theory that he had issues with women. Well, I guess I got my answer. Oh boy …

  It is still too early for dinner, and I take a seat in a passenger car to do some more work on what will be my first news dispatch once I reach Mexico City and a post office.

  The train starts to slow down and I glance out the window to see if we are going to be picking up anyone. I see no one except handsome horses doing something I haven’t seen before. They are thrusting their heads into the water of a pond, “fishing” for grass that grows at the bottom. They stick their heads in until their eyes are below the water and then pull out a mouthful of grass.

  As I stare at the horses, I think about Roger. Why did I have to make that comment about women?

  I’m wicked, that’s all there is to it. And I refuse to share bread with him—yes, I am being stinky. But I can’t let it ruin my evening. I’m excited about having dinner with a Mexican diplomat, and nothing is going to spoil it. Somehow, later, I’ll make up for my petty rudeness and all will be fine. I hope.

  * * *

  THE DINING CAR IS CLOSE to the front of the train, so I have to make my way through other cars to reach it.

  “Oh no” slips out as I enter a passenger car.

  I feel like I have entered the American West version of the den of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Maybe I should have let Roger escort me.

  The air is filled with smoke and sour smells of cheap tobacco, rotgut whiskey—and cowboys. Half a dozen cowboys, all dressed in rough range clothes pretty much like Sundance’s, except his clothes are cleaner and he’s had a razor to his face more often than the rest of these men.

  A group are throwing cards into a hat, with the one who hits the target collecting the ante. Another cowboy blows on a harmonica while a man lies in the aisle, using his saddle as a pillow, his snoring adding to the harmonica tune. Joining the sleeping man in the aisle are the gear of many others—saddles, bedrolls, and rifles—making it a fine mess to navigate.

  “Rustlers” is what my mother would call these gun-toting range hands.

  Sundance looks up from cleaning his gun at the other end of the railcar and does a double take when he sees me. He jumps to his feet, shouting, “Hey, you bunch of misfits! A lady’s present!”

  The cowboys react as if he had fired his gun. Cards get put away, hats are removed, saddles and bedrolls come off the floor, the poor snoring man gets a kick in the shin, and in seconds I am able to make my way as the sea of cowboys parts for me.

  As I approach Sundance, I am unable to hide a big grin. His handsome, boyish face breaks into an even bigger grin as he removes his hat and makes a sweeping motion as if he is a cavalier.

  “Miss Bly.” He gives me a wink.

  I feel like my cheeks are red-hot and all I can do is smile.

  If there is one thing e
asterners believe about cowboys, it is that the men are gallant toward woman—most likely because there are not enough women to go around.

  I decide to take a bold move. Turning back to the cowboys, I tell them, “You have again demonstrated that the American cowboy has more noble manners than the knights of the Round Table.”

  A cheer goes up.

  As I turn back, a hand comes off the seating area to my right and grabs ahold of my skirt.

  It’s Howard, the old prospector whom Sundance and his pals hustled away from me last night in front of the saloon.

  He grins up at me. “Gold,” he says in a drunken slur. “Montezuma’s own pile.” He taps his head. “Them jaguars want it and I’ve got the map.”

  “Take your hands off her!”

  A six-shooter appears as if it had jumped out of its holster in a blur and into Sundance’s hand. The old man jerks back, letting go of my skirt.

  Sundance no longer looks like a youth. His features are as hard as the steel of the gun he is holding.

  “It’s okay,” I tell Sundance as I hurry along. “No harm, he’s just drunk.”

  My voice has an edge to it because being touched again by this drunk brings back memories of my stepfather, who was free with his hands and his bad language. I will never forget his chiding, swearing at, and cursing my mother and us children—he even carried a gun and kept it loaded under the bed at night, threatening to shoot any of us if we misbehaved; many a time my mother became so fearful for our lives, she would take us out of the house and to a neighbor’s. She scandalized the community by divorcing the lout. People had no problem with a violent, drunken man terrorizing the woman and children he was supposed to protect; instead, they condemned my mother for ridding him from the house and me for testifying in court about his gross behavior.5

  A tall, stocky man with a large Stetson hat that almost hits the celling enters. He’s also has a six-shooter in a holster strapped around his waist.

  He tips his hat as he approaches me.

  “Everything okay, miss?”

  “Yes.”

  The cowhands are a rough lot, more hard-bitten than my dime-novel romanticized notions of cowboys. This man, who strikes me as the boss, appears to be the toughest, with a hard-case stare.

  Howard curls up into a ball and Sundance puts his gun back into his holster. Everyone’s personality changes.

  The boss man reminds me of the horse ranch foreman my uncle had. They have that same walk—a jaunt that reeks of authority. If anyone disobeys them, well, they will only do it once, if they’re smart. I never did like my uncle’s foreman. He was mean and liked throwing around his authority, whether it was deserved or not. My dad called him a bully.

  “Do we have a problem?” He addresses Sundance but looks down at Howard.

  “No, sir, Mr. Maddock, everything is under control. Old Howard here just gets too excited sometimes when he’s had too much rotgut. He’s settled down now.”

  “Good.”

  I glance back just as I’m exiting the car to navigate the gangway. The boss man is leaning over Howard, talking. And it appears that whatever he is saying, it’s making Howard agitated.

  Moving between railcars with the train in motion is always a chore because the vibrating gangway between passenger cars is not covered, leaving one at the mercy of rain, wind, and the smoke from the coal or wood being burned in the boiler. I’ve heard there have been incidents of passengers falling while crossing from one car to the next, some to their death, even though the exposed gangway is only two short steps across—two windy and very shaky short steps across.

  Before leaving Pittsburgh I read in the Dispatch that Mr. Pullman was introducing a new style of gangway between cars. He calls it a “vestibule” and will introduce it on the Pennsylvania Railroad later this year.

  I pause on the gangway, my curiosity getting the better of me. As I look back through the small, dirty window on the door, Maddock’s back is to me, but I get the impression he’s still chewing out Howard, because the prospector is rubbing his hands and looking down.

  He looks up for a moment, and I’m almost certain he sees me, as he expresses an emotion about the cowboys’ boss man that I’m not expecting: contempt.

  13

  For reasons I don’t fathom, the incident with Howard left a bad taste in my mouth. And it wasn’t just his grabbing my skirt. He wasn’t trying to be sexually offensive. All I know is I felt an undercurrent, a nasty undercurrent, pass among Howard, Sundance, and that foreman, Mr. Maddock—and Howard’s mumbling about Montezuma’s pile. Something I wasn’t supposed to be a party to.

  When Howard first bumped into me last night, he mentioned gold, Montezuma, and something about stars and Venus. Today, he’s rambling about Montezuma and jaguars and a map. I wonder if he meant some sort of treasure. I will have to ask Don Antonio about that.

  I enter the next car and am moving down the corridor in a brown study when a woman knocks me out of my deep absorption as she rises from a seat, steps in front of me, and boldly says, “How did you fair with the wild men?”

  “Excuse me?”

  It’s the young woman from the lounge car, the one with the big fancy red hat with purple feathers all around it. She has a British accent.

  “The cowboys.” She points behind me.

  I glance back and laugh. “Oh, them, they were fine—like knights of the Round Table, as long as you’re a woman. Why? Did you have an unpleasant encounter with them?”

  “No. I was going to attempt the crossing earlier, but they looked more dangerous than crocodiles on a sandbar. You’re a braver woman than I.”

  I like her immediately. She has a certain openness and confidence that makes one feel welcomed.

  “Actually, a rather interesting young cowhand named Sundance cleared a path for me, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Only he has a six-shooter rather than a staff.”

  “Oh, you must introduce me to him when you get the chance. We have absolutely no cowboys in the British Isles. So, Sundance kept all the other cowhands in line?”

  “Yes, except for a drunken old prospector who can’t keep his hands to himself. He jerked my skirt to tell me something about a map to Montezuma’s pile. You wouldn’t know if that is some sort of gold or treasure?”

  “If I am correct, I think he means Montezuma’s treasure. We must ask my uncle Don Antonio about it at dinner. I’m Gertrude Bell.”

  Unlike most women, she puts out her hand as an offer to shake, and I take it.

  “Nice to meet you. You’re Señor Castillo—Don Antonio’s niece?”

  “Not by blood. He attended university with my father and it’s a title of affection we’ve given him.”

  My instant liking of Gertrude has grown. The handshake sealed it. Most women won’t offer to shake and sometimes stare at me a bit offended when I put out my hand to them. Better yet, she has a firm handshake. My dad was a stickler on how to shake a hand. He never wanted me to shake hands like a fish—soft and wimpy—but to have a good strong grip. “Shows character, very important first impression,” he said.

  One of the first things I notice about Gertrude is her hair. It’s this big, thick, curly mop of reddish—light auburn—hair that is untidy in a fashionable way. Her eyes are piercing green-blue and seem frank, honest, and inquisitive, but I also pick up a hint of confrontation—someone who likes a good fight. I’ve been accused of having the same look and temperament.

  Her face is rather oval, with a good rounded chin, her lips bow-shaped, and her nose long and pointed, a bit sharp. Rather than great beauty, she radiates energy and a lust for life, as if the smallest things could interest her and bring great delight.

  “Oh my, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Nellie Bly. From Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

  “I know. Don Antonio told me all about you. He said you’re a newspaper reporter. How utterly exciting! I’ve never met a female reporter, though I’ve heard of one in London who covers the society page. Are you a
society reporter?”

  “I’m a foreign correspondent.”

  Gertrude gasps. “No. Nellie, that’s so amazing. And they’ve sent you to Mexico? Don’t they know how dangerous it is? Oh, this is so marvelous! I am so impressed. You must tell me—”

  The look on my face has caused her to stop. I know my face is beet red, and I have to hold back tears.

  “Nellie … what is it? What have I said to offend you?”

  I pull her down next to me onto a pair of empty seats.

  “I’m…” I hesitate, trying to get my composure. “I’m going to tell you the truth, but you must promise me you will keep it a sworn secret. Please, promise me this, Gertrude.”

  “Of course, I promise.”

  I believe her. It’s those eyes—they don’t lie. But where do I start? I can’t just tell this obviously well-bred woman that I quit my job and headed for Mexico and am only pretending to be on assignment. She would never understand without comprehending that I haven’t had the bed of roses I’m sure she’s been raised in. I don’t know how to tell a high-class British girl that I once worked in a factory and still keep her respect.

  “I guess when my father died—”

  “Oh, Nellie, I’m so sorry.” She cups my hands. “I know how horrible that is. My mother died when I was three, so I have just a vague memory of her. However, everyone, especially my dad, says I’m a spitting image of her. I don’t know what I would do without my father. He’s everything to me. He’s my life. When did your father die?”

  “A long time ago. When I was six.” I look down at my hands for a moment. “We were very close. To this day, I miss him terribly. Anyway, because of a horrible stepfather, whom, I am glad to say, my mother divorced—”

  “Divorced! Your mother got divorced?” Gertrude looks at me not in surprise, but with more of an awed expression. “What a strong woman she must be. Good for her. I wish there were more women like your mother. So many wives are abused by men. It’s terrible. So, what happened next?”