12
The Chivalrous West
Tonight I sleep with 26 men. Should I ever write my memoir, I’m not sure I will include this episode except that it speaks to the chivalrous West, where even the most crusty rancher removes his hat at the sight of a lady, holds it to his chest, and with watery eyes calls me “Ma’am,” as though he approached royalty rather than a bedraggled, dust-shrouded woman. Robert had warned me about the lack of privacy at times, but this is surely the prime example.
April 15, 1879, at a stage stop somewhere in the West
They were as miserable as I was. The worst for me was that I couldn’t undress and there were no bathing options, except for the pitcher and water bowl provided (and refilled by the agent).
But the occasion did affirm what I was coming to learn: chivalry was alive and well in the West. Yes, this country was wild, with whole towns overtaken by corrupt lawmen and gun-toting inebriates who intimidated, raped, and pillaged. (Robert didn’t write about that. He didn’t want to scare off the travelers seeking their dreams. And I certainly didn’t write of that kind of thing in my epistles to my family.) But they were brought under control by good men and women bravely stepping up to take their towns back. It would be those same kinds of people who built the settlements that Robert promoted.
Indeed, those miners and buckaroos sharing their blankets were examples of what I wanted to believe was the real West. And it’s true: Sir Walter Raleigh had nothing on the cowboy. Those wiry men remove their hats in church; and when a lady enters a room, western men hold those weather-worn John Stetson beaver hats or simple felt chapeaus to their chests. Men give up their horses and walk in rough terrain so a woman can ride. They even take the outside windows in a coach, despite the closer attack of dust surging through the openings allowing air in but also assault by the elements.
We’d traveled through forty miles of such sagebrush desert with no water along the way except what was carried for the horses, only to find ourselves in that room with twenty-six men, all of us stuck in the only structure at the station. We’d rattled through ashy earth, clouds of dust shrouding the stage wheels as though snow poured up from the ground instead of down from the sky. We breathed through scarves over our noses. Everyone in the stage looked like racoons, eyes framed by dust. Or like bad bandits hiding behind our bandanas.
“We can’t accept all these blankets,” Pard told the men that night. “We have enough with our own. Let’s all be as warm as we can. But we thank you for your generosity.”
“Well, take the place by the stove then.” This from a miner with one bad eye he kept patched.
Pard agreed and then they all moved as though choreographed as one unit, away, so we could lay our blankets down.
Those twenty-six men were all as dusty as we were. The room we were in had but one small window, though a wide gap at the bottom of the door let in skiffs of snow and dust and bracing March winds. Robert took one of those proffered blankets and used it to stuff the opening under the door. Our spot by the stove felt heavenly despite the hard floor. I held gratitude that we weren’t trying to stay warm in the coach.
I didn’t mean to shriek when a chivalrous traveler grabbed my ankle instead of a chunk of wood in the night as he hoped to stoke up the fire. It was a miracle he didn’t faint dead away with my screech. My mother was of the belief that a woman’s ankles were as untouchable as her bosom. I, on the other hand, had read a suffragette say that “until we get control of our ankles we women will never have control over our brains.” I had control of my ankles; my scream proved it as he dropped the blanket like a hot poker.
The poor buckaroo (that’s what they call cowboys in that Idaho country) apologized profusely, but I assured him he was forgiven and Robert insisted he’d take no revenge on his wife’s limb being mistaken for a log.
“At least you didn’t imply he’d touched your property,” I whispered when we’d settled back down beneath our blanket.
“And have you beat me over the head with your umbrella? You’re no property of mine, dear woman.” I felt more than heard his chuckle. I wished he could have seen my grin with his recognition that I belonged to myself and not to him as chattel.
And that was another thing about the West: women were seen more often as equals, despite that cowboy’s horror that he’d touched another man’s wife’s ankle. Wyoming allowed women to vote as early as 1869. Oregon’s married white women could own property in their own name from 1850. Even single women could own land there. Robert opined that suffrage for women came to Wyoming before anywhere else in the States because there were few women, and men didn’t feel threatened by them getting the vote. I, on the other hand, suspected those men granted the vote to attract more strong women. Granting franchise was a golden glow to many women that could lure them west even without a husband to accompany them. Robert’s West was also a place that could bring new beginnings to women who might be seeking a mate or an independent life. If they were willing to work for it, their male neighbors would grant respect to their efforts, if sometimes a bit grudgingly. Those twenty-six men I bedded down with (I didn’t write it that way when I wrote to my mother) likely hadn’t seen a woman for weeks or even months. They treated me with such deference so as not to scare me off.
There was no begrudging my presence that night, and there is something to be said for opportunities for generosity. Giving makes us feel better about our own circumstances and receiving can be a gift as well. Our accepting that warm place by the fire appeared to be a gift to all those men.
In the morning, their generosity continued with Robert and me allowed to sit on chairs at the table while others stood. We knew we’d all be heading out again into the same dust and chilled weather they spent their days in until they reached the mines clutched in the mountains’ hands. There’d been no bed within twenty miles of that stage stop.
We departed that morning, six of us inside and another six up top the coach. They were farther from the dusty wheels but more exposed to the mercury hovering below freezing, at least until the sun came up. Our fellow passengers spoke of trials, of longing for family not seen in months or years. One started to speak of a child’s death by a rattlesnake, and I coughed, interrupting.
“Maybe some references to danger in your pamphlets would be good,” I suggested to Robert that evening. We had a room to ourselves for that night.
“I don’t want to frighten people.”
“No, but they must know it’s not always soft pillows and popped corn. Perhaps telling of an occasional tragedy would be a providential warning so there’d be no claim that they were misled.” He seemed to consider my suggestion, tapping his lead against his lip. I added more. “And perhaps share the message that despite the hardships, people endure. That immigrant family from Inspiration Pass is doing well in Montana, didn’t you tell me that?” Robert had followed up on that Missouri family.
He nodded.
“So you see, a few authentic stories of pain and the resilience of recovery could be good additions in your books.”
“It’ll appeal to the adventurous side of a woman too, I imagine you’ll try to tell me.”
“Yes, the adventurous side. The mountain-climbing, ferry-operating, boardinghouse-owning, gold-mining woman. Just the kind to win over a western man.”
“They like ladies too, I’ve noticed. Beautiful ones, like you.”
“Charm will get you anywhere with me, Mr. Strahorn.”
He returned to his writing and I filed my nails, feeling a little lost despite his appreciation of my suggestions and his compliment. I picked up my little wedding-favor bird, squeezed it. I’d have to find another purpose besides hoping one day to have a family of my own or merely playing second fiddle to a maestro. Without that, I’d become morose and bring Robert down with me. No, I was still an adventure-seeking woman. I just had to let her come out.