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Authors: Carol McCleary
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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.
* * *
T HE 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 easterners 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,
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.
* * *
T HE 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 easterners 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,
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