Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (19 page)

“No, no. That’s all right, ma’am.” Mobley felt his knees weaken. The woman’s lips were full and soft, lightly blushed. He shuffled his feet, glanced helplessly at Jack, and mumbled. “Uh, I guess we can take a little time before we start.”

After taking a deep breath, he felt his sense of confidence return. “Besides, it’s time we got this train rollin’ anyway. Edson, go down to the locomotive and tell the engineer the conductor’s busy and can’t give the signal to get moving. Tell him if he don’t, he’ll be back here with Mr. Armstrong and the fireman will be running the train.”

Mobley turned to the passengers. “If there’s anyone else who feels the call of nature, get to it. I figure we’ll be on our way in about three or four minutes.”

Several of the men and one lady made their way to the convenience room or out the back door of the coach, whichever they preferred.

Cotton Armstrong shuffled about, trying to get comfortable on the floor, and then looked up. “What is this trial business? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You’ll speak only when you are spoken to, Mr. Armstrong. Court is still in session. Deputy Jack Anthony Lopes would love nothing more than to remove all of your teeth if you speak out of turn again.”

CHAPTER 26

The train jerked into motion with a loud clank, a long blubbering screech on the horn and a cloud of smoke. Edson stepped back into the coach, a broad smile on his face. Whatever he’d told the engineer had worked, but he said nothing.

The last of the passengers returned to their seats, and Mobley decided the time had come. He walked purposefully down the aisle to the lady and her child. “May I have your name, ma’am?”

The lady smiled up at him, eyes sparkling. “My name is Lydia Sweetgrass. I am a widow, sir. This is my daughter, Gertrude. We are headed for Austin, but will eventually be returning to Waco. All of my poor departed husband’s property is here.”

Mobley dropped his head, trying to control his emotions. The lady’s voice was firm and deep, almost husky. Her long rosy hair was pulled loosely back with a clip, the remainder flowing about her shoulders in loose twists. She wore a small white brimmed straw hat embellished with daisies to compliment her perfectly tailored light yellow suit. Her eyes continued to glow and change shade as he looked, emerald now, sparkling dark green the next.

Mobley knew he was no expert on coy looks, but decided the lady was interested more in him than the proceedings about to take place. A surge of excitement rushed through his body. If any woman had ever looked at him like that before, he could not remember it. He felt warm, powerful.

“Thank you, ma’am. Now, am I correct in assuming you are not comfortable on the benches the railroad has provided?”

The lady dropped her head slightly, but maintained eye contact. “That is undeniable. I cannot imagine who would design such small seats for a passenger train. We’ll all be black and blue from sliding off on the floor before we get to Austin.”

“Not me, momma,” the little girl said, as she sat straight backed and proper on her little bench. Several other passengers murmured their assent, chuckling at Gertrude’s remark. It was clear, none of them were looking forward to the ride.

“I thought as much.” Mobley patted the girl on her fluffy blond head. He nodded to the lady, again holding her gaze for longer than was necessary to accomplish the pleasantry. Continuing on down the aisle, he spoke with another obviously uncomfortable woman. This one had been beautiful once, but was now parading the success of an east Texas farm around her waist. Cold winters and years of delectable meals cooked for skinny harvesting crews had had their inevitable effect. She carried herself straight up and visibly stiffened at Mobley’s approach.

“Ma’am, could you give me your name, please?”

“My name is Katton Athearn, and this skinny old man with no butt next to me is my husband, Riegel. He’s the only man I know who can sit comfortably on one of these benches.”

Riegel looked up at Mobley with a limply toothless grin and two horribly bloodshot eyes, but said nothing. He looked thoroughly hung over, on the verge of being sick.

“Thank you, ma’am. Would you care to join Mrs. Lydia Sweetgrass in complaining to my court about the condition of this coach?”

I surely would. It’s about time something was done about this situation. We came down here last month and it was the same. Just horrible. Worse than riding in the back of a four horse stage coach.”

“Fine, now we have two complainants. That should be enough.”

Mobley walked back to Jack and Cotton, picked up his docket book, sat down on the narrow seat and began to write.

Fifteen minutes later, he stood up, grabbed the hand rail along the side of the roof to help maintain his balance against the sway of the train, and spoke out loudly. “I’m going to call the case of
Lydia Sweetgrass and Katton Athearn versus The Houston and Texas Central Railroad and Conductor Cotton Armstrong
. Mrs. Sweetgrass and Mrs. Athearn both claim the railroad has breached its contract with them to provide reasonably safe and satisfactory passage to Austin from Waco on board its train. They complain the bench seats provided were built for midgets and children, and a full grown adult Texan cannot make use of such facilities, unless of course he suffers the disadvantage of having been born with no butt.

Such failure, if true, would entitle them to a full refund of their purchase price upon arrival in Austin and the issuance of an injunction directing the railroad and Cotton Armstrong to correct the said deficiencies before any one is actually harmed by the dangerous condition of said accommodations. Is that correct, Mrs. Sweetgrass, Mrs. Athearn ?”

“Yes it is,” the two ladies chimed.

“By God, that’s right,” yelled an anonymous voice from the front of the coach.

“Yeah, we oughta string the varmint up,” yelled another. The general outburst of anger and resentment continued for about twenty seconds before Jack’s deep voice echoed throughout the length of the car. “
Silence in the court.”

Cotton Armstrong looked thoroughly frightened.

“Mr. Armstrong. You are an employee of the Houston and Texas Central Railroad, are you not?”

“Yes, I am. I’m the conductor on this train. I’ve been working for the H&TCR Company for five years, even before they started building this line.”

“A conductor is in charge of the train, is he not?”

“Well, the conductor is in charge of everything but the engine. The engineer is in charge of that.”

“What about these seats? Are you in charge of them?”

“Yes.”

“Where did they come from?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did they come with the train or were they added later?”

“Oh, they came with this coach.”

“Are they the same on all passenger coaches on this line?”

“No. Most of the other coaches have better seats. These are standard seats for immigrant trains built for the transcontinental route. We bought a few of them from the Central Pacific a couple of years ago.”

“Do you know why they were built like this, with such small, narrow seats?”

Cotton looked around at the passengers. His face turned white. “The Central Pacific built them so they could get more of the California and Oregon immigrants packed into a coach at one time. To make more money on each trip, I suppose. A few of them came on the market, and we picked them up for our new routes.”

“So, they were purposely designed to ignore the safety and comfort of the passengers, is that right?”

“I suppose so. But what difference does that make? We don’t promise to treat people like kings. We just promise to get them to Austin. Here, look at your ticket. It doesn’t make any promises about seats, does it?” The man was apparently getting his courage back and had decided if he was to be held responsible, he’d better put up a fight.

Mobley reached into his pocket and studied his ticket for a few moments. He reached out with one hand to steady himself as the train picked up speed and began to rock gently back and forth. “You are right, Mr. Armstrong. It does not say the passenger will be treated like a king. In fact, the ticket says nothing about accommodations. But, you do agree, do you not, that the passenger would reasonably expect to be provided with a seat and not be required to sit on the floor?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then, you agree the contract requires the railroad to provide seats?”

“Yes.”

“The contract then, requires each passenger to be provided with a
seat
, not
half
of a seat, nor seats designed for midgets or children?”

The passengers began muttering. A few snarls could be heard. They obviously had not known of their rights and felt cheated. Cotton looked around, eyes darting back and forth. “I suppose you’re right, but there is nothing I can do about it.”

“
Nothing
? Don’t you rent extra boards and cushions to the passengers? I’ve heard all of these old immigrant coaches carry such things for the extra profit of the conductor. You have them, don’t you?”

Cotton looked around sheepishly, nodded his head.

Mobley straightened up, tugged his shirt down under his cloth belt, adjusted his pistol and walked casually away from Cotton Armstrong. He made eye contact with several of the passengers, and gave them a knowing smile. The last was the lovely Lydia Sweetgrass.

He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have examined the evidence and the contract and have concluded that Mrs. Sweetgrass and Mrs. Athearn are entitled to judgment against the Houston and Texas Central Railroad in the amount of the cost of their tickets and the fair rental value of some extra seat boards and cushions for the remainder of this trip.”

The passengers cheered and stomped their boots down on the wooden floor, causing a cloud of dust to rise. Jack started to move down the aisle, a glare on his face. The coach quieted almost instantly.

“In addition, I am issuing an order prohibiting the railroad from continuing to operate this or any other immigrant coach within my jurisdiction until they are converted to provide safe and reasonably comfortable seats for the passengers. Further, since I am aware of numerous other passengers who have been cheated and I cannot in good conscience ignore their plight, I am directing that upon arrival in Austin, all ticket holders on this trip will be refunded the full ticket price.”

The passengers again began stomping. This time Jack drew his pistol and fired three shots in rapid succession into the ceiling of the coach. He slowly lowered the barrel to point down the aisle.

No one breathed, but pretty little Gertrude Sweetgrass started giggling and clapping. “Do it again, do it again.” She waved her hands through the smoke as if trying to catch it. Jack sagged slightly, but otherwise maintained his composure and sour look.

“Finally, I’m going to dismiss the case against Conductor Cotton Armstrong, on the basis he has not been personally responsible for the miserable condition of this coach. The dismissal will be contingent, of course, upon his immediate action in providing extra boards and cushions, free of charge, to all passengers for the remainder of this trip. Do you agree to the conditions, Mr. Armstrong?”

“If I don’t?”

“Then Deputy Marshals Jack Anthony Lopes and Edson Rabb will toss you off the back of the train and get the boards and cushions themselves.”

“In that case, I agree.”

“Good. Now, carry out your duties, Mr. Armstrong. Court is adjourned. Does anyone here have a bottle they’d like to share with my boys?”

The passengers howled and hollered. At least six men came forward with whiskey bottles they had squirreled away in luggage or coat pockets. Men and women danced in the aisle. Little Gertrude started jumping up and down and hopping over the benches. Mobley started laughing and soon found himself with a cramp in the back of his neck.

When the celebration quieted down, many of the other gentlemen on the train ripped up their benches and moved them apart. Ultimately, all of the unused benches were stacked toward the front end of the coach. Leg room was almost doubled. When boards and cushions arrived, people sat back and relaxed. Murmurs of conversation filled the air as people talked with their neighbors; an occasional laugh broke out as someone recalled the look on the conductor’s face as he was arrested.

Miss Gertrude came to sit on Jack’s lap. She played with his now well-groomed, but still bushy mustache. Before long he was reciting outrageous stories of his exploits as a marshal. Edson struck up conversations with several other wranglers who were on their way to join a cattle drive out of the San Antonio area. Mobley meandered casually down the aisle as if headed for the convenience, passed Lydia Sweetgrass and hesitated when out of the corner of his eye; he saw her hand move almost imperceptibly, patting the seat beside her. He turned back.

CHAPTER 27

Mobley was uncomfortable down to his toes. He’d always been nervous around fine ladies, feeling himself something of a hick, out of his element. But he was drawn to this woman. He felt a strong need to reach out even if the result was mortal embarrassment. He bowed and graciously swept his hat in a vertical circle, dislodging a fine dust from the roof of the car which filtered down in an almost unseen cloud, causing Lydia to sneeze. She produced a small kerchief as if by magic, and touched it over her nose.

Mobley’s grandfather Angus had always bowed when meeting a lady. Mobley believed it the proper thing to do, though it did make him feel a little foolish. Mrs. Sweetgrass seemed to understand. She smiled, blinked her eyes, and touched the kerchief to the side of her mouth, as if rearranging her lip rouge.

Mobley straightened. “May I join you, Mrs. Sweetgrass?”

“Of course, Judge Meadows. I’d be honored. But I’d rather you called me Lydia.”

“Of course, Lydia.” Mobley sat down beside her, his knees drawn up as inconspicuously as he could make them. He twiddled his hat in his hands, conscious of the heat on his brow, his long legs, tall knees, and the rocking of the train. Now that he was next to her, he could think of only one thing to say. It came out like the blurt of a nervous adolescent. “Have you been widowed long, Mrs. … Lydia?”

Lydia’s reaction surprised him. Her smile disappeared. She lowered her eyes as if wounded. Mobley felt a rush of anxiety.
Damn fool! What a stupid thing to say.
He was about to apologize when a scent of her perfume wafted to his nose. He leaned almost imperceptibly in her direction, seeking more. She responded by laying her head on his shoulder. Heart suddenly pounding, he jerked away.

Lydia looked at him questioningly, green eyes dark, probing. She nodded almost imperceptibly, seeming to understand his shyness. She traced a finger through a stray wisp on her forehead, and straightened herself up.

“A year, almost to the day. George, that was my husband, was a pharmacist in Waco. He trained me as a pharmacist, too; and I helped him a great deal. But after he died, the town fathers decided since George had not certified me as fully qualified, I should not be allowed to run the pharmacy by myself.”

Mobley immediately perked up.
A problem to solve
? He saw something in her eye as she made the statement, but her features softened before he could decide what it was; anger or determination?

“What happened to the business? Have you already sold it?”

“Well, Richard Coke, the one who’s running for governor? He’s the attorney for the City of Waco. He came down with our local banker and demanded I sell the business to him so he could bring in another man to take over. It was the only building available for use as a pharmacy, they said, and for the good of the town they would condemn it for public use if I did not sell.”

Mobley’s ears started to feel hot. If Coke and his friends were out to mistreat this fine lady, there would be some kind of heck to pay. “Tell me more.”

“I just don’t think it’s fair they won’t let me continue to run the business. My husband trained me for over ten years. Apprenticeship usually lasts no more than two. I’ve read every book on pharmacy ever written and could teach the courses in any college in the country. But I’m a woman. None of the colleges would let me in, so I couldn’t get certification that way either. It’s not fair.

Mobley pondered this for a moment. “In the law, you can become certified to practice by another lawyer or a judge. It’s required that you read all of the pertinent cases, learn to analyze them and make comparisons, and then take an oral examination before another lawyer. Once that’s done, you can practice anywhere. Isn’t it the same with pharmacists? Do you have to have the degree, or can you just take an examination?”

“Technically, anyone can open up a pharmacy. There are no rules at all, and I think that’s got to change. There should be some kind of licensing requirement, but in the absence of a law, certification after a period as apprentice is the only way a customer can be sure a person knows what they are doing. If I could find a pharmacist to test me and issue certification, the city people would have to back down. But where am I going to find one who would do it? They don’t want women in their profession. I’m afraid it’s hopeless.”

“Well, maybe not as hopeless as you think. Have you actually sold the business to the banker yet?”

“No, not yet. I agreed to rent it to whatever pharmacist Mr. Coke brought in. He brought one in a few weeks ago. A nice young man with a wife, but the man’s planning to stay in Waco only as long as it takes to earn passage on to California.”

Mobley sat back and gazed out the window as he considered Mrs. Sweetgrass’s dilemma. How could he help her? It was not right she was being denied the right to work at the only thing she knew, but he could think of no law that could compel the profession to certify anyone, especially a woman. As far as most states were concerned, women were the same as property, not given the legal protections afforded a man.

As he thought back to his studies, he recalled
Wild-Eye
Sagen’s admonition that a good judge followed both the law as well as his heart, and if there was a conflict, he always followed his heart.

If it doesn’t sound right, Sagen had declared, it should not be slavishly followed, but rather, changed. There is nothing sacred about anything concocted by man. What is declared certain and final today, will seem inconclusive and idiotic tomorrow. Be a leader, not a follower. Mobley thought those to be sound words.

“Mrs. Sweetgrass,” Mobley said gently. “What are your plans when you reach Austin?” Another whiff of perfume tickled his nose. For an instant, he felt light headed.

“It is my intention to visit friends to see if they can help me come up with some answers. If I don’t figure out what to do, I will eventually run out of money. The rent I receive for the pharmacy is not very much, and my estate is quickly dwindling away.”

“Why is the rent so low?”

“The bankers insisted it be kept low so the new man would be able to make a good profit. Frankly, I think they all expect a payoff of some kind.”

Mobley felt the beginning of a growl in his throat. “Well, we’ll see about
that!

“What can you do, Judge Meadows?”

Mobley squirmed about, feeling his jaws tighten. “I haven’t got it all worked out yet, but I think I’m going to come up with something soon. It’s right on the tip of my mind.”

“Anything you could do, even if it was just to get my rent raised, would be helpful. I would be forever grateful.” Lydia stared into Mobley’s eyes and smiled in a more than business-like way. “I will be staying at the Excelsior Hotel, Judge Meadows. I intend to stay at least two weeks. I am sure my friends would be grateful to have you take me off their hands once in awhile.”

Mobley experienced a surge of excitement as Lydia blinked at him with soft eyes, childlike. He wanted to embrace her, to rub his nose on hers, but did not dare. “So I shall,” he said, trying to sound gracious. “So I shall.”

Mrs. Sweetgrass’s problem was one Mobley had struggled with for some time. He knew the unequal treatment of women in society was one deeply rooted in history and religion. Some Christian sects openly preached that women were responsible for man’s ejection from the Garden of Eden, God’s favor, and had to be strictly controlled. Others taught that women so tempted men with their bodies that even the most righteous of men could be prevented from achieving a closeness with God. These sentiments at times had resulted in terrible witch hunts where many innocent women had been burned at the stake.

At Harvard, Mobley had participated in numerous debates on the subject of woman’s rights and had been amazed at how easily the most liberal of men could be convinced that women were basically no more deserving of rights than were black slaves in the south. If the people of Cambridge were any measure, he knew there would be no easy solution. For every strong willed woman like Lydia Sweetgrass there were hundreds happy in their roles and frightened of change. They’d come to believe in the superiority of men and jealously defended the positions relegated to women in society.

He recalled the statement of one woman at a meeting on women’s suffrage. She’d fervently proclaimed that expecting women to engage in the busy noise of an election was an insult to the gentle nature of the
true woman
and that by keeping themselves in their own spheres women could provide an influence far greater than they ever could with the elective franchise.

Change would be slow in coming, but as he’d listened to Lydia Sweetgrass and considered the injuries being inflicted upon her, he resolved to do everything he could to help. That he hadn’t been able to think of a quick solution bothered him. There must be one. There always was. Somehow, the intensity of his feeling, being near her, had interfered with his analytical ability. Could that be what the preachers were condemning? It was an attraction unlike any he’d felt before.

He stared down at Lydia as she talked on of miscellaneous things, but was not truly paying attention to the details. Nevertheless, he would have faked his way through the conversation all day just for the opportunity to stay close and inhale whatever it was that smelled so wonderful on her. But something told him she was tired, in need of rest. The gentle rocking motion of a train tended to put people to sleep. At the first opportunity, he stood up, made his excuses, bowed slightly and returned to his bench.

Edson was asleep, head sprawled back, mouth agape. Mobley nudged him awake. Jack gazed out the window as the east Texas scenery passed by. He only casually acknowledged Mobley’s presence.

“How long does it take, Edson, to get to Austin?”

Edson sputtered himself fully awake, rubbed his eyes with balled fists, and yawned. “Oh, I’d guess about two more hours. It’s only about a hundred miles in all, but we’ll have to stop at least once somewhere along the line to water the engine.”

Jack turned away from the window. “Water the engine? What’s in there? Do they have a horse running around in that big old tank?”

Mobley and Edson laughed.

“No, Jack,” Mobley said. “It’s pack of squirrels runnin’ around on a great big ol’ wheel. Couldn’t you hear ‘em a hissin’ and a chirpin’ in there while we were back at the station?”

Jack sat up straight. With perfectly straight face, he replied. “No, and neither did you. Squirrels, hell. Anyone knows a pack of squirrels couldn’t move something as big as a train. Dogs maybe, not squirrels.”