by Stephen Bly
Catherine gazed at the empty seat across from her. “I am not sleeping in your bed even if we have fifty dirty, grimy witnesses.”
“It’s a shame to let those facing seats go to waste,” Francine said.
“If you and the children would like to share the sleeping arrangements with Mr. Hillyard, I’m sure Mr. Walker and I will be quite comfortable in your seat.”
“Certainly.” Francine reached down into her dull green purse.
“Here’s a dollar for my half of the rig.”
Hillyard refused the coin. “Let’s just forget it. Some things don’t work out.”
Catherine’s shoulders arched. “Do you mean, you’ll gladly share your bunk with a single lady, but refuse to do so with a married woman with children?”
Hillyard slumped down in the seat next to the window. “Something like that.”
She refused to glance at her shaded, mirror-like reflection in the window. “So you did have something in mind besides sleep?”
He didn’t bother looking up. “Forget the whole thing. I’m too tired for this. I thought it was an act of kindness. That’s my mistake.”
The train slowed as it curved to the right. She glanced out at the black, starless night. “You’ve slept most all afternoon.”
“I have a lot of catchin’ up to do.” Hillyard yawned and stretched his long arms straight up. “I reckon I can continue to do that sittin’ next to you, providin’ you and Mr. Walker keep the conversation down.”
Francine’s thick, calloused hand gripped Catherine’s narrow shoulder. “It’s a shame to let one of them sleepin’ seats go unused. Preston and Nancy sleep much more sound when they can stretch all the way out.”
Catherine turned towards Race with arched eyebrows.
He sat straight up. “I suppose since Miss Draper and I will be sitting up all night harpin’ at each other, it won’t matter which seat we occupy. We’ll trade with you, just for the night.”
Catherine picked up her hat and pulled her valise to her lap. “And I’m sure Mr. Walker won’t mind sleeping on the floor under the board.”
“Well, I would have never imagined. What a pleasant surprise.” Francine pressed her full cheeks. “We appreciate your generosity.”
Hillyard stood and shoved on his dirty hat. “You gals get things moved around. I’ll go fetch the conductor for that sleeping rig.”
Francine hefted Preston. “I suppose you’ll want me to pay the whole two dollars . . . since me and the babes will be using it?”
One small lamp cast a golden glow in the train car. Sounds filtered to an occasional cough or snore. Most windows were shade covered and the few that weren’t framed a black prairie night. A couple of partially open windows provided slight air movement that wafted dust, sweat and sweet perfume.
Race Hillyard scrunched down in the window seat, his coat rolled up as a pillow, his hat pulled over his eyes.
Catherine leaned her head sideways on the leather seat, her face just inches from his ear. “That was nice of you to allow Francine the use of the sleeping seat.”
“I didn’t figure I had much choice.”
“It is a logical decision. I must apologize for snapping at you the way I did.”
“You sayin’ that you didn’t mean it?”
“After pondering, I realize that I would not have accepted those arrangements, no matter who offered them.”
“Even if it were your beloved Phillip?”
“Not unless we were married. No matter how platonic the situation, my soul would have been in torment all night. But I was very wrong to question your motives. I don’t know you well enough for that. I’m afraid I assumed you a lecher like others I’ve known.”
“Catherine, you are a very attractive lady.” He opened one eye and peeked out from under his hat brim. “And I don’t claim all my impulses Puritanical. But truly, at the moment I offered to share the sleeping board, I was not contemplatin’ ungodly thoughts.”
“I believe you, Mr. Hillyard. I’m afraid we’ve got off to a rather adversarial beginning.”
“All I want is a quiet, peaceful trip west.”
“That’s something we agree upon. Do you think our conversing will disturb others?”
“I don’t think anyone on this train gives a hoot what we whisper about. Isn’t that right, Francine?”
Catherine peered over the seat to spy the large woman curled on her side, back against the train car. Preston and Nancy slept under her protective, fleshy arm. All three had mouths open, eyes closed. “I believe you are right. So, I have a question for you, Race Hillyard.”
“Is it personal?”
“Yes, but not accusatory.”
He unfastened the neck button on his dirty, white shirt. “I’m not real good with talkin’ about personal things.”
“But you know quite a bit about me.”
“I know your Phillip waits in California to marry you. And that you shot a no-account lawyer in Virginia.”
“And you know I lost my parents in the war and have an identical twin sister in New York.”
“And the point is?”
“I know very little about you. Except that you’ve spent a lot of time outdoors . . . are more well-read than you look . . . and you haven’t slept well for a while.”
“That is the important part.”
“I also know that you are ready to use your gun to get your way . . . about like I use my smile and soft voice.”
Touche, Mr. Hillyard.
She opened her eyes. He was looking at her.
“You’re right. Different weapons, same motive. Okay, ask me that personal question, but I don’t promise to answer.”
“Where have you been that made you so worn out? And where . . . .”
“You can’t bluff me, Wyatt Earp, I’m going to kill you!” The drover shouted his threat from the aisle of the car, his cocked revolver waved in front of him.
Catherine clutched Race and tried to shove herself toward the train window. “Is he drunk?”
With dusty black hat hanging from a stampede string behind his back, the wild eyed man stalked the aisle. “Come out, Earp . . . you cain’t hide any longer!”
Hillyard shoved Catherine in the window seat, and scooted to the aisle, his Colt clutched in his right hand, but lying in his lap.
Though most were awake now in the car, the passengers crouched back, trying to avoid the circling muzzle of the cocked revolver. One of the other drovers leapt to the aisle. “Put down the gun, Cantu. It’s just another bad dream.”
Cantu marched straight at his pal. The revolver weaved over the heads of the passengers. “I ain’t listen’ to you, Virgil. You ain’t no better than your no account brother!”
“I’m not Virgil Earp. I’m your pal, Gates. You know me. Now, put down the gun and let’s get some sleep.”
“Draw, Wyatt, and I’ll kill ya. I’ll swear I will. And then I’ll kill that yella skunk brother of yours.”
Catherine’s fingers clutched tight in front of her chin.
Lord, this can’t be happening.
Another of the drovers stood. “Cantu, it’s okay. Your old mutt, Tippy, is alive. Earp didn’t shoot him.”
Cantu pointed his .45 at the new target. “Where is he? Where’s my dog? I don’t see him. Tippy. Here, boy!”
“He’s at the bunkhouse. Waitin’ for you. Come on, put the gun down.”
“I ain’t putting this gun down until I deal with Earp.”
Catherine leaned over to Hillyard. “Shall I pull the emergency brake cord?”
He shook his head, but didn’t take his eyes off the man with the gun.
“Let’s sit down and talk about a plan, Cantu.” Gates inched closer to the gunman. “You don’t want to go off half-cocked . . . .”
The blast ripped a hole in the wooden floorboard of the train car. The report vibrated through the entire car like a cannon blast on the 4th of July. Catherine clamped her hands over her ears and coughed, as black powder smoke f
illed the train car. When she blinked her eyes, Race Hillyard stood in the aisle, his gun pointed at Cantu.
“Put the gun down, cowboy. Don’t give me a good reason for killin’ you,” Hillyard grumbled.
“Who in blazes are you?”
“I’m Wyatt Earp and I hope you know Jesus, because you are only seconds away from hell.”
“You’re Earp?”
“And you’re dead.”
“But we both have drawn guns. I could kill you.”
“Cantu, did you ever get so drunk and sleepy that you could miss a target at twelve feet? Did you?”
“Well . . .” Cantu staggered back a step. “Maybe.”
“I never have and this bullet is aimed straight at your heart. Did you ever hear of Earp missin’ what he aimed at?”
“He’s right, Cantu,” Gates offered. “Earp don’t miss. Holster your gun.”
“How do I know you’re Wyatt Earp?”
“How do you know I’m not?” Hillyard tramped down the aisle. “Give me the gun, Cantu . . . it’s the only way you’ll live to see mornin’.”
“I’ll shoot you.”
“You won’t shoot me. You’re the type that won’t do it, unless you can shoot me in the back on some dark, empty alley.” Hillyard continued toward the cowering gunman, his wide blue eyes had turned to Atlantic ocean green.
“Stay back, I’ll do it.” His shout hovered between anger and abject fear.
“Hand me the gun. It’s your only choice.”
“You killed my dog in Bozeman.”
“I’ve never been to Bozeman. Give me the gun. I’m tired of this talk. I need the sleep. If I have to shoot you and toss you out the window to get some sleep, I will.”
“I give you the gun, you’ll shoot me,” he hollered.
“I promise I won’t. Did you ever hear of Wyatt Earp not keeping his word? If I wanted you dead, I would have shot you already.”
The revolver dangled from Cantu’s index finger, but he didn’t release it.
Hillyard grabbed the man’s arm, yanked it down with one motion and slammed the barrel of his own revolver into Cantu’s forehead.
The gunman crumpled to the aisle.
The passengers broke out into applause as Gates scooted up the aisle. “Mister, you didn’t have to cold cock him.”
“I’ve seen the trick with the dangled revolver before. Beside, both Cantu and me need some sleep tonight.”
Gates dragged his pal back up the aisle. “I still say you didn’t need to bust his skull.”
“No, I could of just shot him. I reckon I’m just an old softie.”
Hillyard had just settled back down next to Catherine when a sleepy-eyed conductor shuffled into the car. “Was there a gun shot in here?”
“Accidental discharge.” Hillyard nodded to the unconscious drover across the aisle. “Everything has been taken care of.”
“I reckon you’re goin’ to stop the train and toss us off?” Gates shrugged.
The conductor peered out at the black night. “Not a good place to stop. We’re in the middle of Big Springs Canyon.” He glanced over at the unconscious Cantu. “What happened to his head?”
“He accidently bumped it into the barrel of my revolver,” Race admitted.
“Lots of accidents in this car.”
“It’s not boring, that’s for sure.”
Gates wrapped a bandana around Cantu’s head. “Maybe you ought to stop the train and let us get him to a doc.”
“We’re forty miles from a town.”
“We’ve got our horses in the cattle car.”
“I’m not delaying the rest of the passengers because of a drunk cowboy. In the morning, I’ll need a full report of what took place.”
The gunsmoke filtered out of the car as Hillyard scrunched back in the window seat. The rumble of the westward bound train seemed to settle everyone down.
Then Catherine leaned closer. “Not boring?” She pulled her fingers from their prayer-like grasp. “I was scared witless.”
“I reckon I was just too tired to worry. Kinda dumb, I suppose.”
“It looked brave to me. Was the man sleepwalking?”
“Or drunk. Or both. Some men do strange things in their sleep. We had a neighbor who walked in his sleep and kept setting his out-house on fire.”
“Oh, dear, what happened to him?” She noticed his eyes faded back to the sky blue color.
“You don’t want to know.” He shoved his revolver back in his belt and closed his eyes. “Something strange about this deal, though. I’m too sleepy to figure it out. But, they surely seemed like they wanted to get off the train in a hurry. They acted disappointed that the conductor didn’t stop and toss them off.”
Catherine watched his eyes blink close and his leathered, dirty face relax. She tried to listen to the muffled conversation across the aisle as she re-set the combs that held her brown hair high on the back of her head. When she finally nudged Hillyard’s shoulder, his right hand reached for the belted revolver. The light in the car was so dim, she wasn’t sure if he opened his eyes or not.
“Race, there is no way I can go to sleep with the sound of that gunfire in my ears and the smell of black powder still wafting in this car. Don’t forget you were about to tell me who you are and why you are so tired.”
He rubbed his calloused fingers across his thin lips. “I’m from Texas.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised.”
“Jackson Springs area. My father was a surveyor’s assistant when the Allen brothers platted the city of Houston. During the days of the Texas Republic, he and an uncle moved fifteen miles south and built a small armament factory.”
“I should imagine it was a good business.”
“By the time the war hit, it was very prosperous. So much so, my older brother Robert attended a Baptist Theological Seminary. I was only seventeen, but read for the law with Judge Webb. Of course, once Texas seceded we wanted to join the army and save the Confederacy. President Davis had other plans.”
“My Father was a friend of Mr. Davis’.” She reached over to swat a fly off his chin, but hesitated and pulled her gloved hand back.
“Mine had never met him. But Dad’s reputation at the armament plant got around and he was asked by President Davis in 1862 to move to Macon, Georgia and help operate the big armory there.” Eyes closed, Race swatted an inch in front of his chin, caught the fly and threw it to the floor. “Dad insisted he needed his sons to help run the place. Davis disagreed. So, there was a compromise. Robert went with dad. I got drafted into the army. Mother stayed home by herself and held the place together, so to speak.”
“What about your armory?”
“They boarded it up and all the workers went off to war. I followed orders down to Brownsville and spent the entire time aboard ship running the Yankee blockades with Captain King.”
The train slowed down. Catherine peered out the window but blackness blanketed everything. “An Army man in the Confederate Navy?”
“Officially, a corporal in the Army, but I was a crack shot. They kept me in the crow’s nest as a sniper. All I had to do in the war was sit up there in the salt air and shoot Yankees if a ship got too close.”
The train stopped. “Did any get too close?”
“I was more successful than I care to remember. Shooting men hardens a conscience.” He opened his eyes. “I reckon we pulled over to let another express pass through.”
Catherine continued to stare out the window. “No sign of a town or stations, perhaps we stopped for the buffalo to cross.”
“If buffalo tromped past, we’d hear them.”
“All I hear is repulsive snoring. You’re probably right. Just an express train.” The cowboys across the aisle stirred a little, but when she glanced over, all seemed to be sleeping. Catherine lowered her voice. “I’m not sure they are happy with what you did to Cantu.”
“That’s what I think. Did it seem like an act to you?”
“You mean tha
t whole scene of waving his gun and all?”
“Yeah, Wyatt Earp shot my dog. Seems like a scene out of a dime melodrama. That’s got to be the stupidest line I’ve ever heard.”
Catherine’s eyes widen. “And shooting the floor?”
“He wasn’t about to hit his pal . . . and he didn’t want to hit a bystander.
“What would have happened had you not stopped him?”
“That’s what I’ve been ponderin’.”
The three cowboys crowded the aisle. Gates turned toward Race Hillyard. “As long as we’re stopped, we’re going to check our horses. We’ll be back so don’t cold cock Cantu again.”
All three sauntered out of the train car and into the night. Race pulled his revolver from his belt and laid it on his knee.
“Do you think they went to look after the horses?” Catherine whispered.
“I’m not sure. Change seats with me.”
She slid over to the window. “Do you think they’ll be back?”
“Oh, yeah.” Hillyard scooted across the aisle.
“Are you going to hit him again?”
“No.” Race pulled Cantu’s revolver. “Just neutralize him.” He flipped the cylinder open and ejected the cartridges into his hand. He eased the gun back into the man’s holster.
When he settled back into the seat, she leaned over. “You expecting a surprise?”
“I’m hopin’ to get some sleep. But I intend to be ready for anything.”
Catherine listened for the sound of another train, but heard only distant, muffled voices. She turned back to Hillyard. “So, what did you do after the war?”
He scrunched back down, his hand still wrapped around the walnut grip of his revolver. “I didn’t make it back home for a few months. It took a while for the news of Lee’s surrender to reach south Texas. And then lots of confederate troops and families attempted to sneak into Mexico. I hung around to help them.”
“You didn’t want to stay in Mexico?”
“No,” Hillyard rubbed his unshaven chin. “But maybe I should have. It took Dad and Robert a while to make it back to Jackson Springs, too. They had been in a Union prisoner-of-war camp in Chicago.”
