by Eden Carson
An insistent pounding on the door startled her out of her reverie. Ruth set her shoulders back and grabbed her satchel off the bed. She was determined not to be a coward, not ever again. She’d lived in fear through the four long years since losing her parents. She’d promised Papa not to be afraid. It was time she lived up to that promise.
Chapter 4
Frank Masterson silently promised himself this would be the last – the absolute last - whore he’d take up with, as he lugged her lifeless but still warm body into the alley behind the saloon. He paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat that was dripping into his light blue eyes. She sure was heavy for someone so young, he thought resentfully, as he carted her down another flight of rickety stairs.
He cursed as he stumbled and jammed his shoulder into the side of the clapboard building. Women were all greedy and clingy, to his way of thinking, but this one could cause him no end of trouble. He’d barely smacked her and the tiny bit of a girl went flying into the table edge. He hadn’t meant to kill her – just shut her whining mouth for five damned minutes. He hadn’t paid to hear her whine.
He’d soon have a wife for that purpose.
Masterson chuckled. He’d have to be more patient with the wife, he warned himself. He couldn’t stand a skittish woman ducking around corners every damned time he walked into the room. His mother had been just like that, which is why the weak bit of skirt hadn’t survived his father’s hand past Masterson’s eighth birthday. But he had survived his old man and outdone the bastard tenfold.
As he settled the rapidly-cooling corpse into the buckboard, Masterson fantasized about Pa turning in his grave at his only son’s success. He glanced over his shoulder, then quickly covered the back of the wagon with the piece of canvas he’d stolen from the blacksmith’s shop. He tied it down and prayed the wind didn’t kick up tonight. He tucked a last bit of lace under the canvas and pulled his hat down over his face. He wasn’t known in this town, but the West was smaller than most people knew, and he was always careful.
He climbed up on the buckboard and slowly rolled out of town. It wasn’t yet sunrise, and most of the lonely cowboys and miners had been carousing until three. There was no one about as Masterson drove around the back side of town, and turned the team toward the lone cemetery. If he were lucky, there’d be an open grave he could toss her in and cover her up just a bit. If he weren’t so lucky, he’d maybe have to dig up someone fresh and toss them in together.
“Some lucky bastard just might get a whore to warm him up in Hell,” he muttered under his breath, figuring he could do worse himself when his time was up.
Chapter 5
“Time’s up Halper,” Mike shouted to be heard over the rising wind. “We’re coming in.”
Mike cocked his well-oiled musket before whispering to his silent companion. “Don’t suppose they’re gonna surprise me on my birthday and come out nicely?”
Jackson cracked the barest hint of a smile. “Twenty dollars says they’ve already left.”
“What the hell?” Old Mike dribbled a mouthful of tobacco juice on his snakeskin boots as his toothless smile dropped open in surprise. He whispered right back at Jackson. “We’ve been here all night. Them city lawmen ain’t much use tracking, but they can’t have missed three mounted men going out the back. You and me took the front. Ain’t nobody got past me on my watch, and the best Injun scout couldn’t crawl past you on a moonless night in the pourin’ down rain.”
“Relax, Old Man. I let them leave less than twenty minutes ago. We can’t arrest them yet, no matter what our city friends out back think. We don’t have enough proof to convict them of robbery much less murder. We need to catch them in the act. And now I know where they’re headed.” Jackson pulled a scrap of paper out of his coat pocket and slid it through the dirt for Mike’s inspection.
“Take a look at this,” Jackson ordered. “It’s a map showing the way to a crossroads with the Union Pacific rail line. I got it off the scout after he missed my scalp with a hatchet. It’s got tomorrow’s date on it.”
“Didn’t think any of them boys knew how to write,” Old Mike mumbled under his breath. He examined the hastily scratched dates and realized they matched the string of robberies they’d been hired to stop.
“They don’t,” Jackson whispered back. “Joshua Halper and Bear Standish both had to make their mark when they were arrested two years back. Then there’s the Mexican. His English is broken, so can’t see him as the author.”
“So your hunch was right. There’s someone else been planning these train robberies all along.”
“Seems so,” Jackson replied.
“You figure the head honcho’s gonna show his face this time?” Mike quietly asked.
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “It’s a lot of cash money to trust to outlaws, no matter how afraid they are of you.”
“Those tracks are pretty close to the territorial border,” Mike observed. “Be mighty tempting to just keep riding into Indian Territory and take your chances. If this boss man ain’t the type to get his hands dirty, can’t figure he’d follow them.”
“Could hire someone to do it, though,” Jackson suggested, running his hands through his short black hair.
“I suppose,” Mike replied. “But it’d cost a pretty penny to keep a band like that loyal. Good thing your mama brought you up right, my boy.”
Jackson cracked the barest excuse for a smile. “Let’s make sure I’m right and no one got left behind to slow us down.”
“Even Bear Standish ain’t dumb enough to leave just one man to stop us. He might get lucky and make your mama cry, but he’d need another two for me.” Old Mike chuckled. He didn’t worry about keeping his voice down, knowing after ten years of following his partner that no one left in the night or stayed behind that Jackson didn’t know about. He’d bet his last night with a woman on it.
Old Mike grinned at that happy thought. Not wanting to miss out on any slim chances at the ripe old age of sixty-one, he whispered back to Jackson. “You take the left, just in case.”
Chapter 6
Ruth slid across the narrow passenger bench, as far to the left as she could manage without falling off the edge. She quickly wedged her carpet bag on her right side, effectively preventing Jasper Smith from coming in physical contact with her, even though he forced her to share the seat with him.
Every time she caught him ogling her, she tried her best to ignore the chill that ran down her spine. It’ll be over soon, she kept telling herself. This train ride was the last leg of her journey, and she could only cling to the frail hope that her husband would respect her wish to never again lay eyes on Smith.
Smith grinned slyly at the girl’s efforts, not fooled for a moment by her attempt at nonchalance. He could bide his time. Let the skittish miss take comfort in the presence of the other passengers, he thought, and it’d be that much easier when he caught her alone.
“You know, Mrs. Masterson, I been your soon-to-be husband’s right hand man for goin’ on twenty years, now. Knew him as a kid. We lived on the streets, even. Survived all kinds of horrors I wouldn’t repeat to a sweet thing like you. But it kept us close. Goin’ that far back together – you can’t buy that kind of loyalty. And you can’t marry it, neither.” He guffawed at his own chatter, not expecting a response from Ruth, and not getting one either.
A white-haired gentleman smiled in sympathy at Ruth’s obvious efforts to avoid any physical contact with Jasper Smith. At a subtle nudge from his wife, he leaned across the aisle and took Ruth’s hand. “Don’t you pay any mind to your companion, my dear. We men can be purely uncivilized until we come across a real lady, and she reminds us of our proper place.” With Ruth’s small hand held in his, he stared directly at Smith, as he spoke his warning.
Smith snorted in disgust, not the least bit intimidated by a dandified threat from an old man. “Mister, let me tell you some stories of real men. Take Missy’s husband here. Darn near single-handedly killed a band of Arapaho
back in ‘64, when them savages tried to stop good white folk from settling here.”
The old woman visibly blanched at this news and quickly averted her eyes. Ruth knew when someone wasn’t telling her the entire story, and the old woman across from her had that look now. She’d seen that look growing up, as good Southern gentlemen tried to protect the ladies in their life from harm. Unfortunately, Ruth quickly learned that once a girl’s men were dead and gone in War, she found out about all the ugly things never spoken out loud in mixed company.
When the silence grew, Smith stood up in disgust at the weak company. He’d been expecting gratitude at Masterson’s bravery against the Indians. It was just like city folk to want a warrior when death was knocking, but turn their noses up when they were tucked safe and sound on a speeding train. How did they think the tracks below them got laid clean through Indian lands? he thought bitterly. Smith stormed off without saying another word.
Ruth leaned forward and gazed directly into the elderly woman’s eyes. “What is it? I need to know what you’re not telling me.” Ruth’s eyes silently begged for the truth. Once again, she had no one but herself to rely on, she thought tiredly, coming quickly to the conclusion that her unknown husband was not going to be the protector she had dreamed of.
The old woman exchanged glances with her companion, who quickly nodded his agreement. “Tell her what you know, Betsy. She’ll find out soon enough. It’ll be better coming from you.”
Betsy pursed her lips in distaste and quickly told the tale everyone in the Colorado Territory knew by heart. “That band of Arapaho Mr. Smith talked about was massacred in their sleep. The men were off hunting. When a group of whites arrived disappointed at no fight, they spilled blood just the same - old men, women, and even children. Everyone was killed. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the Army came across the camp before the Braves even returned from hunting, no one would know what really happened. The Army, fearing reprisal, then systematically tracked down the Indian hunters and killed or imprisoned them to prevent retaliation.”
Ruth felt sick and defeated, fearing her husband had something to do with this. “Didn’t the Army arrest the white men for murder?”
“The Army Colonel in charge claims he tried, but by the time his scouts had returned the Indian men to the reservation, the white men’s tracks were long-since washed away.”
Betsy patted Ruth’s hand in comfort. “I’m sure your companion was just telling tales, my dear. I know it’s hard to believe, but out here, there are some who think killing any Indian no matter the cause is just fine and good. He probably thought being from the East that you’d be terrified of any Indian, and you’d be impressed.”
Ruth’s color didn’t return. She feared the woman’s words were false and said to comfort her, when there was no true comfort to be had. She politely excused herself and headed down the aisle, hoping some fresh air would clear the fear out and help her think.
As she stepped outside onto the tiny platform at the end of the car, she found her peace of mind once again destroyed by the presence of Jasper Smith. The man leaned against the iron rails, smoking a cigar not two feet to her right.
He attacked before she could turn and re-enter the car.
“Missy, them weak ones don’t last long out here. They die young or turn tail and run back East to more civilized folk.” Smith turned and spat out the side of the speeding train. He chuckled openly when Ruth cringed in disgust.
“You, little wifey, had best grow a tougher hide, if you expect to keep your husband interested,” he added, scratching his thinning brown hair.
“Since I’m not your wife, Mr. Smith, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that. These nice people might get the wrong idea about this proxy marriage.” Ruth vowed to maintain her bravado at any cost in front of this man.
His eyes narrowed. “Well, ain’t you a delicate southern lady all of sudden. It seems to me a ‘lady’ would be a little more particular about selling herself to the highest bidder - sight unseen.” He grabbed her arm roughly, leaving a bruise. “I’m off to get myself a drink and play some cards. Don’t you go nowhere, ya hear? Your husband wouldn’t like it much if you were to jump off the train and hurt yourself. You just might end up a worthless cripple, instead of having the decency to die.”
Ruth bit her lip to keep herself from crying out. Smith would enjoy seeing her fear, she knew. So she struggled to keep her emotions off her face, as it finally sank in what she’d done.
She might not have arrived at her final destination, but she’d already bonded herself to a stranger, both legally and in the eyes of the church. No one would help her escape those bonds, no matter what kind of man Frank Masterson turned out to be.
Smith tossed his cigar butt at Ruth’s feet before returning back inside the train car.
Trying to gather her wits, she gulped down as much fresh air as she could manage. She’d be damned if she survived the War just to end her life like a coward, all because of one bully. She thought back over her life for the past four years and quietly gathered her strength for the battle ahead.
Chapter 7
Frank Masterson was a big man and used every pound of that strength, as he bullied his way to the front of the line at the Land Surveyor’s Office. He was cursed and jostled along the way, but no one made any real effort to stop him. He was unapologetically ruthless and mean, and people could see it in his eyes. He seldom had to put forth much effort anymore to get his way. Sometimes he regretted the loss of that challenge, he thought absently, but not today, when he was in a hurry.
“Hey, you!” He shoved his meaty hand into his coat pocket and produced nearly two dozen homesteader deeds, all signed over into his new wife’s name. “I’ve got a handful of claims to register, and I don’t have all day.”
The skinny clerk examined the documents and made a token effort at upholding the law. “How’d you come by these? You need the original owners to come in person, so I know these are genuine signatures.”
Masterson narrowed his eyes. If he hadn’t wasted all morning digging up a grave for that damned slut’s body, he’d have gotten here first thing, before he had a crowd of nosy bystanders peeking over his shoulder. He could have just paid the man his usual bribe directly, instead of playing games.
“You know me, Charlie. It’s my business to buy up unwanted homesteads from widows and orphans who just want cash to go back East. These aren’t gold mines or anything special. There’re just tiny lots of unwanted land, with hardly enough water to scratch out a living. I have a sworn statement for every last one, signed by the circuit judge, saying they were duly bought and paid for. You take a look. That there’s Judge Meyer’s signature, all right and proper.”
Masterson tapped his meaty fingers on the rough wooden desk, as the clerk took his time examining the signature, putting on a good show for the handful of gold miners and green settlers crowding the tiny office.
“All right then,” the clerk said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “I see that this here is the Judge’s signature and we can file all your claims, in no time a ‘tall.”
Masterson knew the clerk had spotted the forgery, but the impromptu speech seemed to satisfy the onlookers, who were growing impatient to take care of their own business.
After Masterson finished registering his claims, nice and legal, he headed toward the telegraph office, which was conveniently located across the rutted dirt street. Just as he’d expected, he had a sweet little telegram waiting for him. He read the news that Jasper Smith had married Masterson to Ruth Jameson and they were on their way home.
Masterson couldn’t wait to bed his new bride. He’d be leaving this town barely satisfied as it was, and by the time he made it home, he’d be randy enough to fuck Ruth’s aging auntie. He cackled at his own dark humor as he rode out of town.
Chapter 8
Jasper Smith insisted on walking Ruth to the door of her sleeping compartment. The unrelenting grip on her arm meant Ruth would have t
o make a scene if she protested.
Thank God her husband was rich and had been able to afford separate quarters for the two of them, she thought. Ruth imagined if her husband were smart enough to have gotten so rich, he must realize the kind of man he had in Smith. And maybe Masterson didn’t trust Smith alone with her virginity any more than she did.
“Here we are, Ma’am.” The conductor stepped aside politely after sliding the door open and motioning her ahead of him. The doorway was narrow enough that Smith was forced to let go of her arm, so she could enter the room.
She hadn’t kept up much with God since the War, but Ruth decided to pray now that there was a good strong lock on the inside of her sleeping compartment. Otherwise, she wouldn’t sleep at all.
She was surprised at the size. She’d only ever been on one train – the one she’d taken with her aunt to meet Jasper Smith in Kansas City – and then she had been forced to make due sleeping upright in the common cabin. Now Ruth wondered if her aunt had traded in the more expensive sleeper tickets her husband had purchased for them and pocketed the extra cash.
Ruth might have been bitter at her aunt’s deception, except that the little bit of money she’d shared with Ruth had come in handy to buy ammunition for her Papa’s war revolver. She was comforted by the weight of the gun, which she’d sewn into the hem of her skirt. She sighed in relief as the conductor showed her how to lock the door.
“Shall I put your luggage over here, Ma’am?” The conductor offered as soon as it became apparent the man with her wasn’t going to offer.
“Thank you, but I can manage.” Ruth could carry her entire world with just one hand. Her bag was half-empty since she’d outgrown most of her old clothing years ago.
“Suit yourself. Dinner’s at six sharp in the next car over.” The conductor turned and walked down the narrow corridor, passing two more doors. “Here’s your cabin sir.” The conductor turned around only to see that Smith had not followed him.
