No Job for a Lady (3 page)

The bench that I was determined to sit on till dawn is nowhere to be found. Every single one is completely occupied. It is evident that I cannot await the glimpse of dawn ’mid these surroundings. Even if I had planned on spending the rest of the night miserably nodding between sleep and wakefulness on a hard bench, I can’t; there isn’t even a squeeze-in space.

With a deep breath, I square my shoulders and leave, entering into the night again.

There are no inviting lights of hotels, and I have to wonder whether most travelers with a stopover at El Paso sleep on the streets.

A man with a lantern on his arm comes along and I ask directions to a hotel.

“They’re all closed at this hour, filled anyway for sure,” he says, “but if you can be satisfied with a room in a second-class guesthouse, my wife will put you up for the night at less than what a hotel would charge. Very clean, no bugs.”

I am only too glad for any shelter and the thought of not sleeping with bed bugs for the night; well, to say the least, I am happy with his offer. Without one thought of where he might take me, I follow the light of his lantern as he walks ahead of me.

I expect wood sidewalks, but instead there is just sand. The Texas border town is obviously not in a high state of building arts.

As we are passing a saloon, its double doors fly open and an old man in rough clothes, with a battered, dusty hat and a thick beard, comes staggering out, bumping into me.

“Jus’ me and ol’ Montezuma … we know where the gold’s at,” he says in a drunken slur, blowing alcohol breath in my face.

I move forward to get away from him. I have an extreme dislike for drunken men—they remind me of my stepfather, who got drunk regularly and became quite abusive—but the drunk takes ahold of my dress sleeve.

“Let go!” I jerk my arm out of his grip.

“Venus.” He points his grimy, filthy index finger up. “The stars, they tell everything.”

The doors to the saloon swing open again and three men come out. My guide also has come back, but he keeps a few steps away from us.

“Howard!” The younger of the men takes ahold of the drunk. “You old geezer, here you are.”

“No,” he says to me, as if it is a plea.

The young man, a cowboy by his dress, grabs the old man by the shoulders and steers him to the other two men, gents who look like nothing argues with them—not even the meanest bull.

Howard gurgles something indecipherable; all I pick up is the word
Montezuma
as he looks back at me with pleading eyes as the men pull him away.

“What are you going to do with him?” I ask, stepping forward, concerned because rolling drunks is a favorite pastime of thugs.

The young cowboy steps between me and the men hustling the old man down the alley next to the saloon.

“Sorry Howard frightened you like that, miss.” He tips his hat and gives me a smile and a friendly look of concern.

He doesn’t look much older than I am, but behind the smile he has the same hard edge as the other two. He’s wearing a white Boss of the Plains hat made by Mr. Stetson, which is popular with cowboys. His mustache appears neatly groomed and his hair respectfully short, which I prefer, unlike the slightly longer hair on the man I met earlier at the ticket office.

He’s wearing his six-shooter low on his left leg—a southpaw, something not too common. His whole appearance gives him the look of what they call a “gunslinger” in dime novels.

“I don’t think he wants to go with your men.”

The young cowboy gives a quick glance back. “Howard’s fine, always a little ornery after having too much to drink. Hope he didn’t offend you in any way.”

“Drunks are always offensive, but no harm done.”

“You sure? Howard has a tendency to mouth off and say crazy things—what did he say to you?”

“He’s trying to get away from those men.”

He glances back again in the direction Howard has been taken. “Like I said, he’s an ornery coot who says crazy things.” He gives me a grin. “You can just run along.”

“Excuse me?” I look him square in the eye and stand my ground. “My feet take me where I alone tell them.”

“I’ve gotta git,” my lantern carrier says. His tone tells me he wants no part of the gunslinger, and he turns, hurrying away.

“Something’s fishy,” I mumble under my breath as I turn to leave.

“What’d you say?” the cowboy asks.

“Nothing.”

“I thought I heard you say something.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Then I suggest you hurry along, or you’re going to lose your friend.”

He’s right: My lantern carrier has wings on his feet.

“Wait!” I yell to him.

I don’t go far before I can’t help but glance back. The cowboy is rolling a cigarette and appears in no hurry to go back into the saloon—as if he is standing guard at the alley or making sure I do leave.

I know I should shrug the incident off, but it’s hard for me when my gut tells me something is wrong. But robbing a drunk doesn’t seem like a very likely motivation on the part of the three men, if for no other reason than they were better dressed than the older man—who didn’t leave an impression of having much jangling in his pockets. Yet my gut says that the old man was frightened of them.

Walk away, Nellie;
there is nothing for you in this
. I hear my mother’s voice in my head and I know she’s right, as usual, so I reluctantly keep walking away and don’t look back again. She has always claimed that I stick my nose in so many places it shouldn’t be in that one day it’s likely to get pinched.

What is wrong with me? I haven’t even crossed the border yet and I’m already sticking my nose where it might get pinched. It’s just that I hate seeing someone being manhandled. Having six brothers, I not only learned how to defend myself; they also instilled in me a desire to defend the helpless, though the fact the older man is boozed up doesn’t particularly endear him to me.

Within a short time, through the sandy streets, we reach the place where there is but one room unoccupied. I gladly pay for it and, by the aid of a tallow candle, find my way to bed.

Relaxing as best I can on a cold-stiff mattress, I try to turn off my mind, checking off my encounter with the drunk and the gunslinger like it was a bad nightmare, but a puzzle keeps knocking on my head, wanting to be invited in. Finally, I realize what’s bothering me.

The hats.

The cowboys all wore wide-brimmed Stetsons, but Howard was wearing a bowler, though it had been battered enough to hardly be recognized as one. And while Howard’s clothes were that of a man who worked with his hands, they were strikingly different from the range outfits the cowboys wore.

All that meant is that the old man and the cowboys were not peas from the same pod. And what was Howard trying to tell me? Something about the stars and Montezuma? The Aztec emperor who’s been dead for hundreds of years? Drunken talk that made no sense.

I wish my mother was here so I could talk this out with her. I need her common sense, for I know my imaginative and suspicious mind will weave a tale that will have little connection to reality.

I shake my head. I should bang it on the wall to get some sense into it, because I need to be up early and fresh. Tomorrow I am boarding the train for Mexico City and a grand adventure! I have to get to sleep.

Rats!
All my logic is still not working, for I can’t stop tossing and turning.

Frustrated, I get out of bed and go to the window. Maybe some fresh air will clear my mind of all this foolishness.

I’m about to raise the window, when I see a man standing below the gas-lit lamp on the street below, smoking a cigarette. He’s wearing a white Stetson and—I’ll be—he has a six-shooter strapped low on his leg.
His left leg.

I’m sure he’s looking up at my window, and I step aside so I can sneak a peek out.

Okay … and what does this mean? What’s he doing out there?

I carefully peek back out again.

Yes—he is definitely there looking up at my window.

He takes a step forward and I jerk my head back in and press my body against the wall, my heart pounding.

Did he see me watching him?

“Get ahold of yourself, Nellie,” I tell myself in a strong voice to calm my nerves. It’s dark in my room, so I wouldn’t have been silhouetted and easy to spot. Besides, what could he do even if he knew I had spotted him? I’m up here. He’s down there. I’m safe.

I peek out again. He’s still there, but now he’s leaning against the lamppost.

I slip back into my place of complete darkness and try to take deep breaths to relax and think. Be logical. Think. Maybe he is waiting for someone. One of the other guests? When I signed the register, there were three names—all male. Good Lord, he might be staying here, because it might be the same three men who came out of the saloon.

No, that doesn’t work. The man who rented me the room would have recognized them back in front of the saloon.

So why’s the young cowboy, gunslinger, whatever he is, out there? A coincidence? Why not? I’m just being silly and paranoid.

I slowly look back out.

He’s gone, yet the hairs on the back of my neck are still standing straight up. I lean back and bang my head against the wall. Darn it! I gave myself a good scare. And it all started because I stuck my nose into something.

I crawl back into bed. The morning can’t come soon enough.

Tomorrow I’ll board the train for Mexico City and leave behind the jabbering drunk and whatever schemes these El Paso cowboys have under their hats.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” as my mother would say.

3

There were no drunks or cowboys outside the boardinghouse when I scurried out the next morning. I had, in fact, looked the moment I jumped out of bed.

Wanting to be the first in line to ensure getting a sleeper berth and knowing the reputation of Mexican trains for not watching the clock, I had a boardinghouse bowl of thin gruel boiled in water rather than sweet milk, then got myself to the southbound tracks an hour before I was scheduled to depart.

As I approach the ticket counter, I can’t believe my eyes. There is already a line.

“But it’s not even eight
A.M.
How can this be?”

“Do you always talk to yourself?”

I turn, to find the young gentleman who had asked me out to dinner last night in a rude manner.

“You again.”

“Good morning to you, too.” He tips his hat.

“I, uh, good morning.” It comes out more reluctantly than I intend it to because a cat’s got my tongue, again. I lied to him last night about traveling with my mother and now I will be caught.

“No need to explain. I know I have this charming effect on women.”

“
Charming
isn’t the word I was looking for.”

“Ouch—you don’t mince words. Well, not to worry, I’ve been told it’s a big train. Hopefully, this will be the last we see of each other.”

I start to reply, but then turn around and shut my mouth. It’s rare that I walk away from someone when I should put him in his place. I don’t like it a bit, but it’s more important to get my sleeper, so I let it go.

Putting the man behind me out of mind, I take out my notepad and start penciling some thoughts about El Paso, the main portal to Mexico.

I am still at it when in a fog I hear
“Next
 …
next
…”

“The ticket seller means you,” the annoying man behind me says.

“I’d like a single sleeper, please.”

“We only have a compartment for two left—husband and wife, mother and daughter, two people of the same sex—”

A door behind him opens and a man sticks his head out. “Jack, come here. Sorry, miss, he’ll be right back.”

I’m glad he was summoned. My mind is whirling. I need to think. What am I going to do? I want that sleeper. The thought of sitting up all the way to Mexico City makes me want to go collect my mother and go home.

“Are you going to take the compartment for you and your mother?” my shadow asks.

“My mother’s sick,” I blurt out. “I’m going on alone. I have to; my job demands it.”

“What job is that?”

“I—I—” For some insane reason, unbeknownst to even myself, I don’t want to reveal I’m a newspaperwoman, and my usual golden tongue is at a loss for words. “That, sir, is none of your business.”

“I thought so.”

“What do you mean by—”

“It means you’re just trying to get sympathy, and that isn’t going to work with me. I’m going to take the compartment.”

“You can’t take it. It’s for two people.”

“That’s true, but”—he nods vaguely to the rear—“my, uh, traveling companion is back there catching up—”

“You’re lying. You invited me to dinner last night when you didn’t have anyone else to go with you.”

“He’s sick, too, and, frankly, having dinner alone was infinitely more entertaining than it would have been with you.”

“You have a nerve—”

“Excuse me!”

The ticket seller is back.

“Husbands and wives don’t get to argue in line. Now I have one last compartment to rent. If you two don’t want it, step aside.”

“We’ll take it!”

4

Did I really say that?

I freeze for a moment, paralyzed by the impact of what I have just said. I have just claimed that this stranger is my husband.

I quickly shoot a glance at my “husband.” He looks a bit amazed and about to spill the beans. I try to jar him into acquiescence.

“They’re the last tickets—
dear.
”

“I—I—” he stammers.

The ticket agent holds up his hands palms out as a signal for him to stop.

“Don’t argue with her. It won’t do any good; she’s a woman. Twenty dollars, or step to the side.”

I quickly put twenty dollars on the counter and grab both tickets after the agent makes a pencil mark on each of them.

“Let’s go,” I instruct my companion.

My knees are weak as we walk away. I acted completely audacious and now I have to face the man. I need to say something clever to get over this hump—
mountain
—I have created, but nothing comes to mind.