GLOWING CINDERS FLEW back from the smokestack as the train chugged eastward into the dawn. A rolling, snow-covered prairie lifted gently under a lavender-salmon sky, relieved now and then with craggy-topped buttes and peppered occasionally with sparse buffalo herds.
A grizzled pioneer in a torn coat and scraggly beard waited at a crossing with a wagon load of hay, the yellow dog on the seat beside him cocking its head at the clattering wheels.
It was Mark Talbot’s fourth and last day on the train. He’d been staring out the window nearly every waking moment. Although his back ached from the stab wound, he was able to appreciate the view, which was growing more and more spectacular. Isolated clusters of cottonwoods, frozen sloughs spiked with cattails, tidy gray cabins nestled in hollows and flanked with windmills and hitch-and-rail corrals.
Talbot reflected that most travelers, unacquainted with the Northern Plains, would no doubt find the starkness disconcerting. Born and raised here, Talbot found it restful. While growing up, he couldn’t wait to see the world and fight in a war or two, search for gold in legendary Mexico. Seven years of warring and wandering behind him now, he couldn’t wait to be home, on the open plains, where the scalloped sky took your breath away and the prairie went on forever.
Of course all the blood had something to do with it. You
couldn’t see that much, spill that much, and not pine for home. You couldn’t see friends like Max Schultz or Louis Margolies or Sergeant Maloney butchered on the burning, rocky wastes of the Arizona desert or hacked to death in their sleep in the White Mountains, the creeks in the morning flowing red with the blood of Mescaleros and soldiers alike—you couldn’t see a lovely Mexican girl’s slender, ruined throat—and not long for a quiet cabin on Crow Creek in western Dakota, windows ablaze with the setting sun, the quartering breeze spiced with chokecherry blossoms and sage.
The thought was interrupted by a tap on Talbot’s shoulder.
He turned. A young woman and a man stood in the aisle. The woman was a dark-haired beauty in a fur coat and hat. Painted lips set off the lush brown eyes, which regarded Talbot boldly. Her hands were warmed by a rabbit muffler.
The man next to her was older but dressed with similar elegance, out of place amidst the raucous snores, stiff upholstered seats, and sooty windows of the tourist car. The man’s slender frame was cloaked by a shiny bear coat and beaver hat, and his thin lips were smugly pursed. His small, silver-rimmed pipe filled the air with an aroma akin to balsam and sage.
“Yes?” Talbot asked.
The man spoke in a melodic tenor, enunciating his words very carefully. “Pardon us, sir, but the lady couldn’t help noticing that you appear to be injured.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s blood on the back of your coat,” the young woman said, pulling a hand from her muffler to point.
Talbot reached behind his back with his left hand, probing his vest with his fingers. Sure enough, the blood had leaked through. The movement sharpened the pain, and he winced. “It’s nothing,” he said, not wanting to make a spectacle. “Just
backed up against a loading fork back on the Frisco docks. Probably looks worse than it is.”
“Oh, my,” the girl said. “That must have hurt.”
“It’s really nothing.”
With small, lightless eyes, the man said, “Why don’t you join us in our suite, and I’ll tend it for you?”
“He’s a doctor,” the girl explained.
Talbot studied them, wary. Why were these two well-dressed strangers so concerned for his health? You didn’t survive the Mescalero Apaches and Old Mexico during the gold boom without a healthy dose of xenophobia.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.” Talbot turned back to the window.
“As you wish, sir,” the girl said. “Come along, Harry.”
Talbot turned back to see the two moving off down the aisle, between sparse rows of rustic western travelers—cowboys, drummers, and gamblers who were either playing cards or curled uncomfortably on the hard seats. The girl’s long chocolate curls cascaded down her slender back, bouncing lightly as she walked.
Talbot sucked his cheek, watching her. She was lovely, and she had simply offered help to a stranger. Suddenly her motivation didn’t seem to matter.
“Hold up,” he said, rising with his bag. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I could use a fresh dressing, I reckon.”
The girl’s eyes brightened as she turned to regard him. She gestured to the door at the end of the car, and the man called Harrison stepped aside to let the rough-hewn stranger pass.
Two cars back was a Hotel Pullman decked out with Turkish rugs, inlaid woodwork, two red-velvet daybeds, and a potbellied stove flanked by a stack of cordwood logs split so precisely they looked surreal. Peering at himself in the gilded mirror over the sofa, Talbot gave a complimentary whistle.
“Daddy won’t let me travel in anything but luxury,” the
girl said, tossing aside her coat and muffler. Carefully she lifted the hat from her head, removing pins and brushing loose hair from her impossibly smooth cheeks.
Talbot furtively filled his lungs with her fresh, rosy smell, not so subtly feasting his eyes. American women.
“And on long trips, he makes me take a physician—thus Harrison here,” she said. “He’s a friend I met at the theater.”
The man in the bear coat lifted the curled ends of his waxed mustache in a wry smile. “I’m Harrison Long. That’s Suzanne.” There was an ironic tone in the doctor’s voice and expression, as though he envisioned himself a cultural prodigy among savages.
Talbot tore his eyes from the girl to stroll around the car, taking in the ornate hangings and plush green drapes. “So this is how the privileged live,” he said. “If information about this gets out to the tourist cars, you’re liable to have a riot on your hands.”
Harrison chuffed. “Such rustics as I saw up there could not appreciate this kind of luxury.”
“Oh, I bet they could,” Talbot countered good-naturedly. “They’d have some party back here.” He caught the girl smiling at him, and returned the smile.
“How long have you two been riding the rails?” he asked.
“Since August,” Suzanne said. “I tend to get owly during the fall and winter on the Plains, and Daddy sends me traveling.”
Talbot cocked an eyebrow. “Who’s your daddy—Jay Gould?”
“King Magnusson.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s not surprising,” she said with a laugh.
Talbot wasn’t sure whom she’d just insulted, him or her father. As he feasted his eyes on the girl’s lovely lips parted to reveal a delicious set of pearly whites, on her long, slender
neck and ripe bosom pushing at the low-cut shirtwaist, he didn’t care. He’d been at sea a long time.
“We’ve told you our names,” the girl said. “What’s yours?”
“Mark Talbot’s my handle, ma’am.”
Smiling brightly, with the understated vigor of the well-bred, the girl took two strides forward and held out her long, pale hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mark Talbot.”
“Likewise, ma’am,” Talbot said, his gaze held by hers. Her hand was thin and fine-boned, but her shake was firm. Talbot held it, enjoying the feel of her warm, soft flesh.
Dr. Long gave a warning cough. “Let’s take a look there, shall we?” he said, taking a step toward the visitor and indicating Talbot’s back.
“Where?” Talbot asked.
“Right here is fine,” the doctor said, holding out his hands to accept Talbot’s vest.
Talbot made no move to take it off. “No offense, ma’am, but … with her here?”
“Oh, I won’t peek!” Suzanne exclaimed playfully. “I’ll ring the porter for some rags and a bowl of water. Would you care for some coffee? It’s French.”
Ten minutes later, Talbot was lying facedown on the sofa, crossed ankles draped over an arm, hands folded beneath his chin. Sitting on a footstool beside him, Dr. Long was sponging the wound and puffing his pipe.
Long frowned. “This was no mere hook you backed into, was it, Mr. Talbot?”
“Looks nasty,” Suzanne said. She stood over the doctor, coffee cup clutched to her breast in both hands, and observed the doctor’s work with an arched brow.
“Just a scratch,” Talbot said.
The doctor squeezed blood and water from the sponge and dabbed at the dried blood and pus around the slit. “It looks nastier than it is, but it’s no scratch. It is, I believe, a knife
wound. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Suzanne.”
“A knife wound!” she enthused. “Really, Mr. Talbot?”
Before Talbot could answer, Long said, “I think you should know, Mr. Tatbot—if that’s your real name—I am armed with a Smith & Wesson .35 caliber pocket pistol, and I know how to use it.”
“Oh, Harrison, don’t be melodramatic!” Suzanne laughed. “Besides … it might be fun.”
“Suzanne!”
Talbot craned his head to look at the doctor. “What do you mean, she’s outdone herself?”
“Suzanne has a habit—it’s a game, really—of picking up interesting strangers and becoming acquainted. She spied you on a stroll through your car earlier. I agreed you did look interesting, but the blood on your vest put me off.”
Suzanne shrugged. “I thought it was a good excuse to introduce ourselves, Harrison being a doctor and all.” Visibly excited, Suzanne wheeled around, skirt flying, and landed in a chair. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, placing her coffee cup on her knees. Her smile was radiant.
Talbot watched her as the doctor continued to clean the wound. He couldn’t help being smitten by the effervescent girl. He guessed she was no more than nineteen or twenty, and despite her means of travel and dress he sensed she was more than just a spoiled coquette. She was an educated, well-built, spoiled coquette.
“Come now, Mr. Talbot,” she begged, “how did you come to be stabbed?”
Talbot laughed at the girl’s innocent delight. “Well, I’d like to tell you I was trying to rescue a damsel from a horde of Arab slave traders, but it was really a lot less interesting than that.”
Suzanne smiled delightfully. “Let me be the judge.”
Talbot told her the story of the fat businessman and the
Chinese boy and the two ruffians who’d tried to clean his clock. Suzanne listened, wide-eyed. When he finished she said sincerely, “What a valiant man! Did you hear that, Harrison?”
“Yes, valiant. Hold still, Mr. Talbot; I’m just about done here.”
“You’re an adventurer, then, Mr. Talbot,” Suzanne said admiringly.
“I reckon I had an adventure or two,” Talbot allowed. “But I’m going home now, to Dakota, and I plan to stay there. I’ve had my fill of knockin’ about. Once a shitkicker, always a shitkicker, I reckon. Pardon my French.”
“Dakota! Well, that’s where we’re headed. Where abouts, Mr. Talbot?”
“A little town called Canaan, on the Canaan Bench. My older brother has a ranch thereabouts.”
Dr. Long was taping a bandage to Talbot’s back. “I appreciate this, Doctor,” Talbot said. “I was getting tired of that wet apron wrapped around my chest.”
“I think you’ll find this considerably more agreeable,” Harrison said. “You can slip into your clothes again, if you’d like.”
Suzanne frowned thoughtfully. “My father’s place is on the Canaan Bench, and Canaan is …” Suddenly her eyes widened. “My gosh, that’s only a two-hour ride from where we live!”
“Is that right?” Talbot said, sitting up and reaching for his clothes.
“Yes.” Her smile widened, and her eyes flashed. “We’re practically neighbors!”
She got up, retrieved a china cup from the tray the porter had set on the trestle table in the middle of the car, handed it to Talbot, and filled it from a silver pot. Turning to the doctor, who stood rolling down the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, she said, “Would you like a cup, Harrison?”
“No, I think I’ll go smoke and leave you two to your hometown chatter,” he said dryly.
When he’d donned his broadcloth jacket and his heavy bear coat and hat and left, Suzanne turned from the door with a mischievous flair. “He’s jealous, you know?”
Talbot frowned, opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
“Oh, not of you, of me. He’s … he’s one of those— couldn’t you tell?”
Talbot raised his eyebrows. “One of those?”
“Yes. I do love Harrison dearly—he’s the best friend a girl could ever have—but he’s quite irrevocably … one of those.” In two light-footed strides she’d fallen onto the couch beside Talbot, smoothing her skirt beneath her, turning to the side and gracefully crossing her long, coltish legs. “When you had your shirt off, I thought he was going to start foaming at the mouth—elegantly, of course.”
A curl slipped from behind her ear and fell gently along her cheek. Talbot stared at it, fighting the urge to smooth it back behind the delicate ear. Her smell was fresh and subtle, like the rain in Chihuahua. Her eyes softened, as if reading his mind.
“To tell you the truth,” she said breathily, “I didn’t blame him one bit. You cut a handsome figure, Mr. Talbot.” Her lips stretched back, revealing all those perfect teeth, faintly gleaming.
“Mark,” he said, coloring a little at her candor. He was surprised that a girl of her station could be so forward.
“Mark,” she said, lowering her eyes, turning suddenly girlish and shy.
Talbot’s heart tom-tommed in his chest, and he could feel the sweat pop out on his forehead. The girl was like a drug, a tonic washing over him. His head fairly swam, and he wondered for a moment if he weren’t dreaming.
Of its own accord, Talbot’s hand rose from his knee. Slowly it traversed the space between him and Suzanne and rested on her chin, cupping it gently in his first two fingers. Lifting it, he leaned toward her. Her head tilted back, offering her slightly parted lips.
Suddenly the car jerked and slowed, and they fell back against the couch. Suzanne sat up and turned to look out the windows. “Oh, my goodness—we’re finally stopping!” she said with cheer.
“Great,” Talbot said wryly, dazed from the attempted kiss.
The girl seemed to have forgotten all about it. She knelt on the sofa, cleared the steam from the window with her hand, and watched the first few cabins and shanties slide by as the wheels clattered on the iron seams. The car slowed, shuddering as the breaks worked against the locomotive’s giant wheels.
Suzanne read the sign attached to the station house. “Wibaux.”
“Wibaux?” Talbot said with surprise, turning to see for himself. “That’s where I switch to the branch line.”
“Oh, Mark, no—I stay on until Big Draw!” Suzanne exclaimed, swinging her eyes to him. “We were just starting to get acquainted!”
I’ll say we were, Talbot thought. Reaching for his war bag and awkwardly gaining his feet, he laughed mirthlessly and wagged his head. “You sure made the time fly, Miss Magnusson.”
“Oh, fudge, Mark,” she lamented, pursing her lips in a pout. “Promise me you’ll look me up … once we’re both home and settled? I want to hear all about your adventures. They sound so … so … romantic.” Her voice had become a resonant purr.
“It’s far from that, but I’ll tell you about it,” he promised. As he moved out the door, Suzanne was on his heels. The
train had nearly stopped, its couplings clamoring like thunder, steam fogging the windows.
“Promise? … Oh, no you won’t! Before you even think of me again, the local girls will be pounding on your door.”
Talbot laughed. He jumped down from the car and turned to her, standing between the cars with both hands on the rail, her breath visible in the cold air. He knew that if anyone was going to have suitors knocking their door down, it would be she.
“No local girl could hold a candle to you, Suzanne. I’ll look you up. You can be sure of that.”
He tipped his head and returned her smile, laughing heartily. “Thanks for everything. Say good-bye to Harrison for me.”
“I will. Travel safe … until we meet again.”
Talbot turned to walk down the platform. He turned back to her, still watching him like a lovelorn heroine from a British romance. “If I’m going to look you up, I’ll need the handle for your father’s ranch.”
“Oh … it’s the Double X,” she said.
“The Double X,” Talbot echoed. He hadn’t heard of it, but he supposed a lot of new outfits had moved in since he’d left. “I’ll find it.”
He waved, hefted his war bag over his shoulder, and strode toward the station house to await the branch line that would carry him on the last leg of his journey home.