Cattle Kate

by Jana Bommersbach

  He also had a new cast iron muffin tin and sugar and vinegar. “Never can have enough sugar and vinegar,” he said, as though he had to explain provisions for his own kitchen. “And oh, yeah, I thought you’d get a kick out of this.” He threw down on the table a brochure from the Union Pacific entitled: “Wonderful Opportunities for Homesteader or Investor.” It included a poem: “Mary had a little farm, she kept it neat and tidy. It gave her crops and chicks and cows and she loved it mighty.”

  Mr. Stone thought it was funny that the railroad was trying to get women to go west and claim land and he laughed about it, thinking I’d would laugh, too. But that silly little poem kept running through my mind and it wasn’t long before I dared to think: “Ella had a little farm….”

  The next time we went into Red Cloud for supplies, I stopped by the railroad office and asked about claims farther west. They were all too happy to give me brochures and articles from Collier’s magazine. I read them all so often, I almost memorized the stories they told. They all painted such a rosy picture of life on a homestead. I took them at their word.

  Mr. Stone provided room and board and I already had three good work dresses and a Sunday outfit, so I didn’t need any more and could save almost every cent Mr. Stone paid. Within six months, I was able to save forty-six dollars. My grubstake.

  That’s when I told my family about the new life I saw for myself in Wyoming Territory.

  “There’s no land left to claim here.” I didn’t have to tell them, but I did anyway. They already knew that. My brothers already knew their dreams of their own claims were being crushed because there was no longer any land left to claim in Kansas.

  “Pa, I want to own my own land, like you and Grandpapa. I want my own cabin and my own crops and my own herd. There’s not many places a woman could have all that for herself, but Wyoming Territory is one of them. Women can even vote out there, Pa. Imagine that.”

  “You couldn’t vote anyway cause you’re not even a citizen,” he shot back.

  “But I will be. Like you, Pa. I’ll file for citizenship and study and take my test, just like you’re doing.”

  He jumped on that right away, insisting I couldn’t even think of going until I’d helped him pass his citizenship test, but I had an answer waiting for that objection. “Annie is more up on her American history than I am. She can help you. She’ll be better at it than me.”

  I swatted away every concern like I was at a field picnic, keeping skeeters off the cornbread.

  If there had been any plea that gave me pause, it was from my little sisters. “Ella, you’d leave us?” Little Jane held onto my skirts while she cried out her disbelief. “How can you leave us?”

  Annie wondered if I was going away forever and wailed, “I couldn’t stand it if I never saw you again.” I knew I couldn’t stand that either. I had to admit that if I’d had my way, I’d have a sister old enough to go with me—the two of us would be company for one another, and it would be so much easier to go with someone else than stalk off on my own. But Franny was my only hope and at seventeen, she was already being courted and had no interest in moving away.

  Whatever soft spot my sisters punched in my spine, William Pickell hardened back up. He refused to answer my petition for divorce—not once, not twice, but three times—and to pile on the agony, he filed his own decree claiming I abandoned him! He claimed to be blameless for the breakup.

  He got darn right obstinate about it all. He kept showing up wherever I was. Mr. Stone threw him off the farm, but I saw him lurking more than once. I hated to admit how much that scared me. To be honest, sometimes I wasn’t sure what was pushing my fantasies about a new life—the challenge of it, or the fear of what William Pickell would do if he ever caught me alone.

  I pushed all those thoughts out of my mind as I settled into Seat No. 19 with my mother’s blessings in my ears: “You’re goin’ on Saint Paddy’s Day and that’s a good sign.” There weren’t many Irish customs that clung to Ma—Irish potato soup, of course, and soda bread, and always saying if a fork fell off the table, “Oh, a woman is coming to visit.” But St. Patrick’s Day was always special in the Watson home, no matter what day of the week it fell.

  “The Catholics aren’t the only ones to claim him,” Ma told us. “All the Irish honor St. Patrick because he drove the snakes out of Ireland.” That’s all I knew about it, but that’s all I needed. Anybody who could drive the snakes out of a country was a saint in my mind.

  “Saint Paddy himself is looking out for you as you start this journey. Don’t you forget that. Be a good girl. Be careful. And come home to us someday.” Ma turned away from me then, sending me off. I knew she was crying. I was too.

  Pa waved to me from the barn and when I started to go toward him, John held me back. “Best let it be. He’s taking this real hard.” I knew my brother was right.

  ***

  “One way to Cheyenne?” the conductor asked as he punched my ticket.

  “Yes, sir,” I smiled at him. To my surprise, he returned a real smile to me.

  I’d been watching him punch tickets along the way, and I saw the phony smile he gave to most of the passengers. Especially the painted ladies three rows up.

  One wore a red silk dress and a hat full of feathers. Another had checks so red, I wondered at first if she was sick, but then I smiled to myself when I realized it had to be rouge. One had a snappy poodle and I thought it was queer that you’d bring a dog on a trip like this. Every one them had painted nails and hands full of flashy rings.

  I had to look like a church mouse next to them. The conductor smiled at me again like he was looking at a sister after Sunday services.

  “You have business in Cheyenne, ma’am?”

  “I’m going to Cheyenne to start a new life.”

  “Your husband meeting you there?”

  “No, I’m on my own. I’m going to be a homesteader one day.”

  I saw him flinch, like this was an amazing thing. I passed it off as just another man who thought I was a woman who didn’t know my place.

  “I wish you the best of luck. And you be careful, Cheyenne can be a rough place.”

  “I can take care of myself, but thank you, sir.”

  I snuggled into my seat and looked out the window. There was the familiar landscape of the prairie that I knew so well. Nearly flat land covered with crops or grasses, trees here and there standing guard, or lining a creek like cows at a trough. I’d seen this same picture every day for years, but now I was seeing so much at once—the train was going so fast, mile after mile was running by the window. I bet I saw more in the first half hour of my first train ride than I’d seen in all my twenty-four years.

  I decided I was due a treat in honor of my new life, so I turned away from the window and pulled my valise up onto the empty seat beside me. Oh, I was thankful I didn’t have to share this bench with another passenger, but could spread out for more comfort.

  I took out a piece of cake carefully wrapped in cloth that Ma had packed. Truth be known, if I unpacked all the food Ma insisted I take, the valise would have been half empty. It was an extra generous piece of Ma’s famous chocolate cake—a treat hardly ever made because cocoa was rare in our home. But Ma traditionally made it for St. Patrick’s Day and this year, it not only honored him, but honored my trip. I was glad Ma had been so generous in her cut, and it looked to me like I’d be nibbling on this cake most of the way west. That’s what I was thinking when I took my first bite of that delicious dark sweetness.

  “My, does that look like a fine piece of chocolate cake.”

  I jumped at the surprise of a loud voice, only to find it belonged to the woman across the aisle in Seat No. 21.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I was just admiring that fine piece of chocolate cake. Someone sure loves you to send you off with something so delicious-looking.”

  Well,
what was I supposed to do? My Ma taught me better than to stuff the cake in my mouth and ignore the woman who was salivating across the aisle. Yes, it pained me, but I did the only decent thing. I broke off a hunk and offered it to her.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” But her hand was already reaching while her mouth was protesting.

  “How very sweet of you.” She ate that hunk in two bites. Wouldn’t you think you’d take it slow? Not this woman. I massaged my regret at losing a piece of my cake with the thought that it was a good omen to share something sweet when you’re starting a new life.

  “I’m Sally Wills. He’s my husband.” She cocked her head to note the man in window Seat No. 22. “He’s Horace.”

  I noted that Sally Wills was busy licking her fingers of the last remnants of the cake and had not once offered to share with Horace. He didn’t appear to notice or mind. I bet it wasn’t the first time his wife hadn’t shared.

  “Where you goin’, sweetie?”

  All I had to say was “Cheyenne” and that started a travelogue lecture that went on all afternoon. My contribution was nothing but “is that so”; “oh, that’s nice”; “glad to hear it.”

  Sally Wills is one talker!

  “You’re gonna love Cheyenne, why it’s one of the prettiest cities in all the West—not that I’ve been to them all, but it’s so beautiful I just know it measures up. And they’re going to build a grand Capitol building as soon as we’re a state—everyone says that won’t be long. I mean, Colorado was let in and if they took Colorado, they surely want Wyoming. Horace says all the territories will be states someday, well, maybe not Arizona, who wants them? There’s just Indians and Mexicans and Mormons down there and Horace doesn’t believe they’ll ever catch Geronimo.” I nodded, at least agreeing with the Geronimo part.

  “We just love W.T.—that’s what we call it, you know, because your jaws would be tuckered out if you had to say ‘Wyoming Territory’ every time, don’t you think?” I had to agree it was a mouthful.

  “My husband is a cobbler and you probably couldn’t be in a better profession in W.T., because, believe me, those men go through boots and shoes like they’re tryin’ to wear them out. He has some very fancy customers—those cattlemen from Scotland and England like fancy things and they have the money to pay and my Horace said fine footwear is like a badge to them. My Horace is a real good provider. Do you have a husband?” I said I didn’t and left it at that.

  “We have four children—their aunt is taking care for them for us—and they’re a handful, but I still have time for my temperance work. Did I mention I’m a member of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union?” I shook my head no and smiled at this crucial news.

  “You know, I’m not a bloomer like some of those radical women, but I do believe we have to address the problem of too many spirits.” Mrs. Wills lowered her voice, leaned across the aisle and confided: “Do you know, some men come home drunk and beat their wives?” I pretended I didn’t know.

  “Yes, it’s true, and if we just had some sensible laws on all those saloons, it certainly would help. We’re a growing group in W.T.—they said the WCTU could never happen here in the West because the saloons are so important. My own brother-in-law told me: ‘Sally, there were saloons here before there was a single decent woman and so don’t go gettin’ all high and mighty on us’, and I told him back, ‘But there wasn’t anything else here then and it wasn’t until decent women and children came that this place was worth anything.’ Well, I think I cocked his hat because he just turned and walked away and I took that as a win for our side. You know, our W.T. Chapter is getting so big, we think we can get Frances Willard out here to speak to us. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  I knew it would be and for a second, I considered doing a little bragging of my own by telling how I’d already heard “Saint Frances” speak at a temperance rally in Kansas—the top woman herself, convincing people all over the country to support Dry laws. But I thought better of it so I wouldn’t have to explain anything.

  “You should think about joining the Temperance Union. We’re always looking for fine young women. Next meeting our topic is ‘Intemperance causes more sorrow than war,’ and I think it does, don’t you?” I had to agree. I promised to look into joining.

  “But women in Wyoming Territory can vote, can’t they? Couldn’t you just vote temperance in?” I thought it was a logical question.

  “Oh yes, women in W.T. have FULL VOTING RIGHTS.” She said the words like they were all in capital letters.

  “But my dear, we don’t have near enough women in W.T. to vote something like that in. You know, that’s why they did it. Gave us the vote. To bring women here. I guess loneliness hurts worst than pride.” Sally Wills chuckled at her joke. “They thought women would come if they gave them the vote and yes, many did, but it’s still a man’s world out here and don’t ever forget that. At first, of course, the polling places were in the saloons, and no decent woman would go into a saloon, even to vote. But we got the voting out of there—at least we got that much—and into schools and churches and now women can vote in a decent place. But it just fluffs my feathers that the women who are here aren’t good at voting. We work on them all the time, the WCTU does, and we always hear, ‘oh, my husband makes those kind of decisions—I don’t understand politics,’ and I’d just like to swat them with my rug beater because that attitude is not going to get us anywhere. Can you imagine, if I let Horace make all those decisions [and by now, Mrs. Wills’ voice was low and conspiratorial]. Well, I vote and I tell Horace how to vote in each election, and when he walks into that polling place, that’s how he votes.”

  I had to look away so she couldn’t see me smile—she foolishly thinks her vote counts twice because her husband does her bidding. Does she really believe that, or is she just saying it? Well, I decided right then that as soon as I could, I would vote—even if I had to go into a saloon.

  The day went on like that until it was obviously time for a late lunch and my stomach was anxious for a piece of the chicken in the valise. Mrs. Wills finally succumbed to her husband’s tugs and excused herself to open their own food-laden satchel. But not before she announced: “We didn’t want to take our meals in the dining car this trip, not when my sister-in-law in Wichita—that’s where we were visiting—is such a fabulous cook and just forced all this food on us. I told Horace, ‘Horace, it would be a sin to waste this food by going to the dining car like we usually do’ and of course, he agreed.”

  I rolled my eyes and hoped I’d never see the day when I’d wear such fake airs. Yes, I knew that elsewhere on this train, people were sitting at white-clothed tables and served hot meals by Negro waiters. There was wine and plenty of chocolate desserts. Then the women and children would retire to sitting rooms with more velvet and stuffed cushions than existed in all of Kansas and the men would go to the smoking car for their cigars. But I could never afford that fare—over ten times more than my ticket—and even if I could, it wasn’t something I hankered for.

  My chicken tasted all the better for the peace that came with it, because I learned Mrs. Wills would rather eat than talk and after she ate, she liked her nap.

  I was watching the landscape—more trees than normal—when I nodded off myself. The jostling train was like being rocked, even if it wouldn’t let you hold a tin of water. I have to write that to John in a letter! When I woke up, the scene out my window was something I’d never seen before. There were trees everywhere and rock walls that had been cut away to make room for the tracks. I cracked the window, and the smell of the air was totally different than the smells in Kansas. Even through the smoke from the engine, I could smell pines.

  “Where you going to work?” I was startled again and doubted I’d ever get used to Mrs. Wills’ trait of making no introductory remarks before resuming a conversation.

  “I don’t know. I’m going to see if there’s a good boardinghouse that n
eeds help.” And then I prayed Mrs. Wills had not failed to mention she owned a boardinghouse that needed help.

  “Oh, we have many nice places where a clean girl can get honest work. Maybe you could get on with the Inter-Ocean Hotel, oh, that’s a fine place, the city’s finest hotel. They do allow spirits, but you wouldn’t be in the saloon part—they have a beautiful dining room. But of course, they require real waitress training? Do you have waitress training?”

  I allowed that I didn’t, but that didn’t stop Sally Wills.

  “Oh no, better yet. You should try at the Simmons Hotel—it’s owned by a nice man from Norway and that’s where the actors like to stay when they come for our Opera House. Have I told you about our Opera House? Oh my, you have to go there immediately when you get settled. It’s on Hill Street. You know, it was the first Opera House west of the Mississippi, and it brings in the very best talent and the plays are always suitable for decent folk, and the actors like to stay at the Simmons Hotel and they have a big dining room and I bet they always need help.”

  I was only half listening because I never expected I’d work in a fancy hotel, but surely, there must be more modest places that could use a good, strong woman. Or maybe there was a farmer like Mr. Stone who needed a housekeeper. Or a rancher. I’m betting the wages out here are better than in Kansas. I should be able to save up pretty quick. But the blabbering kept on and when I focused again, Mrs. Wills was bragging about Cheyenne.

  “Don’t know if you realize what a fine city we have in Cheyenne. What’s so remarkable is that it isn’t even twenty years old yet—came in with the railroad, and oh, those days they tell me it was called ‘Hell on Wheels,’ but that didn’t last the minute decent women arrived.” By now, I had heard that term so often, I was sure I understand the western distinction between women and decent women.

  “We already have a city park down by Lake Minnehaha, but stay away in the heat of summer because there’s a terrible odor then. But otherwise, it’s a very pretty place for a buggy ride. We’re working on getting a library—won’t that be wonderful?—our temperance group has been one of the big supporters and I can’t tell you the hours I’ve put in. I’ll tell you a secret, we already have 200 books collected. We just need an appropriate building and there’s a committee working on that. I’m on the collection part and some of the books are in crates in my parlor—oh, it will be such a wonderful day when we can open a library and anyone can come and borrow our books.”