Read Online No Job for a Lady by Carol McCleary - Free Book Online Page B

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.

 
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    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