No Job for a Lady (8 page)

“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, 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?”

“Well, because of greedy people, my mother and siblings were left in a bad state of finances and I had no choice but to…” Once again I pause, deciding whether to tell her the truth or not—not because I don’t trust her; it’s just that I hate exposing this part of my life. I decide on the truth. “… to leave school and work as a factory girl to help put bread on the table. One day while waiting in line, I read a newspaper article that criticized women who earned their daily bread. This man had the gall to say women are abnormal—a
man-woman
if we worked in a man’s field. Mind you! Utterly ridiculous.”

“Quite so! The nerve of the man! I’m sorry, please continue.”

“Well, every girl I spoke to was angered, but no one would or could say anything, for fear of losing her job. Forget that we worked just as hard as the men and never got a raise in pay, or, heaven forbid, promoted. We worked for ten cents an hour, while the men received twice that amount. All I could remember was my father constantly telling me that I should always stand up for myself. ‘Men are not superior,’ he’d say, ‘even though they’d like you to think so. You are an equal, and never forget it. Do whatever you desire. Fight for your rights. You have only yourself to blame if you don’t. And most important, remember there is nothing you can’t do.’ So, I sent the editor my opinion. Surprisingly, he not only appreciated my view; he offered me a job.”

“Hurrah for you! Quite cheeky, I must say.” She giggles, and that gets me laughing.

When we finally stop the merriment, her expression turns concerned. “Unfortunately, that columnist voices the opinion of most of the men on the planet. As my own father says, nothing will change unless you fight back. Good for you, Nellie. I, too, feel very strongly about that. So, tell me, you must fare quite well at reporting. I imagine newspapers trust only their finest reporters with foreign assignments.”

I dodge the question, trying to avoid telling her I’m living a lie. “Fine, at first, despite the fact that my editor said my grammar and spelling are a bit rocky.”

“Oh my word! You, too?” Gertrude laughs. “What a delight to hear someone else is a poor speller. My poor stepmum is always trying to correct my spelling and constantly tells me I will get nowhere in life if I don’t learn how to spell properly.”

“Well, he also told me my writing comes from the heart and I speak the truth, which is what he wanted, or so I believed, and I decided to make my sword my pen. However, when I wrote a story about the conditions of factory workers at local plants, I caused quite a stir. My editor was flat out told, by particular businessmen, that the paper would lose advertising if I continued to write about workers’ conditions—especially those of women. The next thing I knew, I was attending silver-plate tea parties and weddings. So much for writing about the truth!”