by Erin Bowman
It makes me smile.
He’s become bigger than himself, an entity people assume to know, when really, humans are far too complex to fit into one newspaper story. But at least some folk seem to think on him positively now, which is all he’d ever asked for.
Come October, the Inquirer office is abuzz with the news of Nellie Bly, who, having taken a job at the New York Post, went undercover in an insane asylum for ten days and published her findings on the treatment—and mistreatment—of patients. We talk about her late into the evening, our eyes wide with wonder, like little girls. My pieces covering life in the southern portion of the Territory—reports on politics and the rail and city developments—seem generic by comparison, but I stay focused and meet my deadlines. The truth is important, and even the smallest stories, if reported irresponsibly, can wreak havoc.
A week or so later, a letter with familiar script arrives on my desk. After so many months of silence, it is entirely unexpected. I tear it open so impatiently that I slice my finger on the stiff paper.
Firstly, I read the Bly piece. Yours are better.
Secondly, I bought a new hat. I know you hated the first, and it were lost on the train that day anyway, so it were time. I also cut my hair. I reckon I look different these days, but it’s still me, at least in all the ways that matter.
I miss you. —RM
My stories are not better, and he knows it. Some days I worry that I peaked with my debut article.
I read the note again, smiling. It sounds like him, I realize. After all this time, I can still hear his voice in my head.
I save the letter, but stop looking for him. He seems happy now, at peace, and I cannot spend my whole life searching for a shadow. I have stories to write and places to visit, and legends are like the wind—intangible and fleeting.
As November comes to a close and the chill of winter evenings settles over Yuma, I accept a journalist position in Pittsburgh. Cousin Eliza—or rather, her mother—has graciously opened her house to me, and Mother gives me her blessing to relocate. I am to write for the very paper Nellie Bly vacated in favor of the New York Post, and it feels as if fate has set the wheels in motion.
Standing at the depot on the first of December, I hold a small suitcase against my knees. I imagine I will greatly miss this Territory—its beauty and its harshness. It is wild in a way Pittsburgh is surely not, but it is also changing. The world seems to be closing in wherever I look, trains connecting even the smallest of towns. I have a feeling I’ll end up back here someday, after several years in the big city, maybe less. I am not certain I am cut out for reporting—at least not exclusively. Even at the Inquirer I favored the small stories to those of politics and campaigns. I’d find myself tempted to embellish details and give people dramatic flair—a blazer they did not don, a feature they hadn’t possessed. Perhaps I should try my hand at novels.
It’s funny, I think as the train approaches, how a person can spend so long chasing the truth only to find they love fabricated stories just as fiercely.
Maybe legends are tangible after all.
Perhaps they are created on the page.
Chapter Fifty-Three
* * *
Reece
I spot her the moment she arrives at the depot.
She ain’t changed much in the past eleven months, and still the sight of her in the flesh makes my heart kick a little faster. I were worried maybe I’d feel nothing. Maybe all that time away would’ve changed things.
’Cus it sure changed me.
Somehow I got on one of the horses that day. I knew it were only matter of time before the train chugged into Prescott and the Law came crawling over the plains. Charlotte were taking too long, and fearing help wouldn’t return for me in time, I found the strength to get in the saddle. Problem was, I promptly blacked out. The horse traveled for home without my guidance, and by the time I came to and realized home for the steed was wherever the Rose Riders had been holed up in Chino Valley—not the Coltons’—we were practically to Banghart’s. Fading in and out of consciousness, I managed to get myself to the nearest claim, where a puzzled old man stepped from his home to greet me. I mighta been sick on his boots as he helped me inside.
He said it were the book in my pocket that saved me, and he placed Around the World in Eighty Days in my hands. I’d forgotten I’d been carrying it, which were ironic, really, seeing as the whole time on the train I were cursing it for jabbing my ribs. There were a hole clear through one cover and out the other, but ’parently the bullet slowed enough that it only lodged in my flesh, didn’t dig deep enough to hit nothing vital. The man kept saying I were lucky as he dug out the lead and stitched up my skin, and I kept saying that even with luck, it still hurt like hell.
Little more than a week after the shootout, he set a paper clipping on my bedside table. “The True Story of the Rose Kid,” the headline declared. I drafted a note to Charlotte immediately, but I weren’t able to mail it to the printing office till a few days later, after sneaking off in the night. Prolly the old man suspected my identity by then, and though it seemed like he bought Charlotte’s word in the paper, I weren’t ’bout to linger and find out otherwise. I left him a note with directions to one of the gang’s old hideouts, where he could find a bit of money for his troubles.
I headed to another hideout of Rose’s and stayed there till late March, when I were healed real strong. I even considered staying permanently, but it were too quiet and so damn lonely. I took just enough of the coin to get by, then wandered.
I thought ’bout visiting the Coltons, to thank ’em, but I’d brought ’em enough trouble already. I went west instead, thinking ’bout Charlotte. She was a tune I couldn’t get outta my head, but instead of turning to Yuma, I kept on till I hit the Colorado River.
Using a fake name, I went into La Paz and asked after my folks, only to learn my father were in a grave and my ma done eloped with a banker from California. That was all the closure I shoulda needed—Ma were safe, Pa were gone—but still I couldn’t sit tight, couldn’t settle down.
I kept wandering, kept running.
I read Charlotte’s articles, read every paper I could get my hands on, read Around the World in Eighty Days, too.
I bought a plain hat and dragged a blade over my skull.
First time I glanced in a mirror following that shaving were the first time I didn’t see my father staring back. Or any piece of Rose or the Kid or them Riders. It was like I were a new man.
I wrote her again that very moment, though I couldn’t pinpoint why ’till a few days later. It were simple, really. I wanted to see her again, had to. Not ’cus I expected nothing, but ’cus she were the only soul who knew me as both people—who met me as the Rose Kid and saw me teetering on death’s doorstep as Reece Murphy. Moving forward—truly living—only felt possible if I owned up to that.
By the time I made it to Yuma and stopped by the Inquirer office, she’d already resigned. A typesetter told me she were headed east, that the train were due to leave sometime that afternoon. I couldn’t bring myself to search out her home, go opening up old wounds if it weren’t something she wanted or were prepared for. So I went to the depot and waited.
I’ll leave it up to her.
I might be able to make do as an invisible man if I keep working at it. I been doing it these past eleven months, and it gets a little easier each day. The rest of the world can think I’m dead or nothing but a legend, but I gotta know if she sees me.
She watches the train chug into the depot.
The passenger car doors slide open. Folks start stepping on, and I hang back, letting her board with the others.
It’s familiar, this Southern Pacific railcar, full of dark memories and bad deeds. I ain’t that person no more, but ugly pasts make for permanent scars.
I board last.
She’s seated near the rear of the car, glancing out the window like she ain’t certain she’s made
the right choice, like maybe she’s leaving something important behind.
I walk forward. Her gaze drifts up the aisle. It floats over me, through me, beyond . . . But then it snaps back. She catches something beneath the brim of my new hat—something she recognizes—and her eyes lock firm with mine.
She lurches upright, fingers pressed ’gainst her lips. Behind ’em, a smile blooms. Ever so slowly, she nods at the cushion beside her, as if to say Sit.
And I reply, “All right, Charlotte Vaughn. If you say so.”
Author’s Note
* * *
The events of Retribution Rails unfold ten years after the events of its companion novel, Vengeance Road, and in that single decade, the landscape of Arizona changed greatly, with trains crisscrossing much of the Territory, connecting towns and altering the way of life.
In some regards, this was a positive thing. Goods could be more quickly transported to towns and cities. Shipping rates became more reasonable. New jobs and industries ventured west. But much of this growth came at disastrous costs. To make way for the rail, Native Americans were driven from their homes, forced to relocate to reservations or killed in cold blood over the disputed land. When lines were built, it was mainly at the hands of minorities—Chinese and Mexicans in Arizona—who made significantly less than white foremen and laborers. And even once the rail was completed, other groups continued to see detrimental effects. Cowboys and ranchers, in particular, faced dwindling job offers. Instead of beef being driven across the plains over the course of months, it could now be shipped by train in a matter of days. In many cases, railroads even cut across cattle routes. The ever-expanding web of rail lines, combined with the winter blizzard of 1887, decimated the cattle industry. It never fully recovered.
While Vengeance Road was inspired by a legend, Retribution Rails was inspired by these rails—the lines that disrupted some lives while connecting others, and the innovation that birthed new industries while killing the old. A great deal of manpower (and money) was put into developing America’s rail systems, many of which did not stand the test of time. The Prescott and Arizona Central, for instance, was completed on New Year’s Eve, 1886, and abandoned a mere seven years later. Built on a shoestring, the P&AC was always plagued by problems—mudslides, washouts, delayed trains, and more—and it was never rebuilt after a spring storm washed out a large section of track in March 1893.
Many of the details regarding this line are historically accurate within Retribution Rails. When Reece and Charlotte arrive in Prescott on January 1, 1887, a celebratory gala was indeed making its way through the streets. The speech Charlotte listens to from her family’s carriage is quoted from one of the many speakers who addressed the crowd before the rail director, Thomas Bullock, brought the celebration to a close. Even the half-hog-ranch, half-work-car that Reece enters to face off with Crawford during the climax of the novel is factual. A crafty maintenance foreman built the pen when realizing that his tools only took up half the bed, allowing the work crew fresh pork while keeping the stench of pigs confined to a small space. Truth really is stranger than fiction. However, you may now be scratching your head at the dining car scene, wondering why such a car would exist on a shoestring operation. It likely didn’t. But this is where I pull out my artistic license card and admit that I doctored things to work for my story.
Another creative liberty? The Yuma Inquirer. No such paper existed, but the market for newspapers was present in almost every frontier town and a newly established one run exclusively by women did not seem that far a stretch. After all, starting a paper was the easy part. The trouble was keeping it running.
The Prescott Morning Courier was one of Arizona’s literary success stories. Its editor, John Marion, worked first for the Arizona Miner (owning it for a period of time) and later the Courier, which he founded in 1882. He was described as tenacious and full of vigor, and his style of reporting was viewed as bullying and slanderous by some, with complaints that Marion relied too heavily on opinion while drafting his pieces. Others maintained Marion’s paper was as reputable as any, that he was simply blunt and ruthless. Regardless, Marion was a staunch supporter of the P&AC and his writing helped rally the people of Prescott behind the rail. Whether the real John Marion would have helped Charlotte as my fictitious version did is hard to say. But had a female-run paper like the Yuma Inquirer existed, I feel strongly that they would have done some fact-checking and then come to Charlotte’s aid as quickly as they could line their composing sticks.
As for Nellie Bly, she would have most certainly been an inspiration for someone in Charlotte’s position. Though Bly was not renowned until the publication of Ten Days in the Madhouse (October 1887) and her subsequent Around the World in Seventy-Two Days (1890), any young girl trying to break in to the male-dominated field of journalism would likely have adored the example set by Nellie Bly, so long as that girl had access to the reporter’s writing.
While Reece and Charlotte are fictitious, the world they navigate in Retribution Rails is not. Despite my many hours of research, it is possible I have overlooked something and a historical inaccuracy has snuck in to this finished copy. Any such errors are mine alone.
Writing this novel felt like standing on a precipice. The West was “wild” in part because it was lawless, but also because nothing was constant. As railroads expanded and modern conveniences closed in, the Wild West slowly died. In many ways, the rail killed the frontier. I’ll leave where Reece and Charlotte land in this strange, shifting world up to your imagination.
Acknowledgments
* * *
Publishing a novel is a team effort and I tend to rely on the same group of champions with each book, both in the publishing world and in my personal life.
On the publishing end, many thanks to my agent, Sara Crowe, as well as the gang at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt: Kate O’Sullivan, Catherine Onder, Mary Wilcox, Linda Magram, Lisa DiSarro, Karen Walsh, Tara Sonin, Cara Llewellyn, Mary Magrisso, Dalia Geffen, Sophie Kittredge, and everyone who touched this project in some way or another. I’m so lucky to have you guys. Also, much love to Teagan White for another beautiful cover.
Thanks to my many writing friends (you know who you are) who stood by me as I struggled to draft and revise this novel. In particular, I owe Mindy McGinnis an incredible debt for her ruthless critiques and lengthy email brainstorms, and I’d be lost without Susan Dennard and Alex Bracken. Thanks for the judgment-free, endlessly supportive, always-there-to-lean-on friendship, ladies. Now let’s get back to work! (#cattleprod) And of course, my utmost gratitude to Ryan Graudin, Mackenzi Lee, and Tamora Pierce, who all read Retribution Rails prior to publication and shared such kind words about it.
To the members of my Vengeance Road posse: I am so grateful for every ounce of support that you have shown me and these Western stories. You keep me inspired, motivated, and determined to grow with each book I write. Thank you.
Buckets of gratitude to my family as well. My parents, sister, in-laws, relatives . . . Your undying support and love is the stuff of legends.
To my husband, Rob, for staying calm and encouraging throughout my many panicked moments these past eighteen months. I know now that I bit off more than I could chew. Two contracted novels plus a short story with schedules that all overlapped? I didn’t even do this much before we had a kid. I’m still not quite sure how I managed it, only that without you I definitely would have failed.
Casey, my love. Since you’ve been in the world, I’ve written two Westerns, this one dedicated to you. It’s strange because this lawless, wild tale is filled with the types of hardships I hope you never have to endure. And yet this book is for you. They’re all for you. I love you, and I mean it when I say you are my wildest, grandest, most amazing adventure.
And last, to the lovers of books—the readers and reviewers, the librarians and educators, the booksellers and book-stockers: You guys make the bookish world go ’round. You make my career possible. Thank y
ou for picking up this novel. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Chapter One
* * *
It weren’t no secret Pa owned the best plot of land ’long Granite Creek, and I reckon that’s why they killed him.
I was down at the water, yanking a haul ’cus the pump had gone and stuck dry again, when I saw the smoke. It were billowing up over the sick-looking trees like a signal to God himself. I heard the yelping next—men squawking like hawks attacking prey. The crows were flying frenzied too.
I whistled for Silver and she came running from where she’d stooped for a drink. We rode outta there like two bats fleeing hell, but it were too late when we got back to the house. They’d only been hollering ’cus the job were already done. The house sat burning to its timber frame, and Pa were hanging from the mesquite tree out front, eyes wider than the moon. Dust puffed up to the south.
I jumped from Silver and pulled my rifle from the saddle scabbard, then dropped to one knee. Eyes on the trail, sight, deep breath, exhale and squeeze. Just like Pa taught me. Just like we practiced for years and years and years. One dark shadow fell from his horse. The rest kept right on riding.
“Who’d you say you were looking for again?”
I glance up at the bartender. “I didn’t. More whiskey.”
I push the shot glass at him, and he don’t seem too pleased ’bout that. But I got some coin and a vengeance strong enough to cut any throat that tries to cross me right now.