The Union Belle Page 8

  Finally she did sleep, though not soundly. She came awake with a jerk, her eyes going at once to the blanket roll beside the bed. It was empty, and it frightened her that he had risen and left so silently that she had not even sensed it. Quickly she rose and dressed, the thought plaguing her mind that he might never come back.

  He did return, however, just as she was pinning a bow into her short hair. She went to the door at a quick knock, and after hearing a stern voice announce, “It’s Winslow,” she opened it and started to speak. The unfriendly expression on his face silenced her, so she merely stepped aside as he came into the room.

  “We won’t have time for breakfast,” he said evenly. “If you’re ready, we’ll go to the ship. Maybe we can get something to eat there.”

  “No matter,” she said. “I’m not hungry.”

  They gathered their things, then Lola followed Mark out of the hotel and along the street. The vendors were already out, hawking their cheap wares and vegetables. The smell of the Gulf was strong as he led her to the dock, then stepped aside at the gangplank that led up to a tired-looking packet boat. “Watch your step,” he said. “That gangplank’s not too secure.”

  He followed her up the swaying plank and then turned left. “Room is down this way,” he said briefly. He led her along the narrow deck to a door, and after putting the luggage down, pulled out a key and opened it. She stepped inside and he brought the bags in. It was a tiny room, no more than eight feet long and six feet wide. Two narrow bunks, an upper and a lower, were fastened to the inside wall. The only other piece of furniture was a small pine chest with three drawers. She moved to look out the porthole, then turned to face him. The encounter last night had shaken her, and she didn’t want to let the situation haunt them.

  “I’m sorry I spoke to you so sharply last night, Mark,” she said evenly.

  He nodded. “The fault was mine. It won’t happen again.”

  It was a brief apology, unsatisfactory to her, but there was nothing else to do. She said, “I’ll take the top. That bunk doesn’t look strong enough to hold you.”

  “Take the lower,” he said with a shrug. “I was able to get another room.” He looked at her, and for one moment the silence seemed to hang in the air between them. They were both proud, independent people, and had little experience making apologies. He would have done better if she had been a man. But as that was not the case, he changed the subject. “Come along and we’ll find some breakfast.”

  The dining room was small and foul-smelling, but the eggs and bacon were decently cooked. For a time they ate silently, the room filled with the conversation of four other passengers. After the others left, Mark observed, “Well, we’ve got a long way to go, Lola.”

  “How far?”

  “To Omaha? About a thousand miles.” He shrugged and traced the journey for her. “We’ll take a riverboat from New Orleans up the Mississippi as far as St. Louis. From there we’ll take another boat up the Missouri to Omaha. Won’t be hard to get to the end of track from there.”

  “Do you have a job there, Mark?”

  “No. But they’ll need men.” He rose and she followed him out onto the deck. They leaned on the rail and watched a pair of late passengers scurry up to the deck. The first mate yelled for the gangplank to be raised, and almost at once they felt the ancient boat shake beneath their feet as the engine took hold. “What will you do, Lola?”

  She looked up at him and saw that the old camaraderie was gone. Formal politeness lay in his eyes, and she felt isolated. “I’ll make out all right, Mark.”

  He asked no more questions, either then or during the long days that followed. Every day they ate together, and he pointed out the features of the banks as the country flowed by. She was delighted by the trip, never having been on a boat of any kind, and he took pleasure in her excitement. They went ashore at riverports several times in order to feel solid ground under their feet. At night, however, he left her alone. Most of the time he spent in the saloon, watching the other passengers play poker. Once or twice he walked with her around the narrow deck before bedtime, always saying in a strained voice when he brought her to her cabin, “Good night, Lola.”

  So the journey went, with both of them under an awkwardness that had been birthed in one moment—one which both of them regretted. They ate together and talked for long periods, but it was artificial. Lola regretted the loss, but did not say so, nor did Mark.

  Weeks later, they made the final trip up the Missouri, and when they got off the boat at Omaha, the din and ferocious activity of the place stunned Lola. Omaha was alive with men, all of them, it seemed, shouting at the top of their lungs. Everywhere she looked, mountains of materials were stacked high—rails, ties, boxes—scattered all over the streets. Ferries were working overtime, moving the freight across the river to Council Bluffs. From there, he told her, it would go to the end of track.

  He took her to a hotel named The Royal, and after she had registered, stood before her, his hat off. “I’ll be looking for a job,” he said. “But I’ll be around.”

  She gave him an odd look, then shook her head. “No, you’ve done enough for me, Mark,” she said firmly. She put out her hand and he took it with a confused look on his face. “Let’s say good-bye here. We may meet again—but you won’t have me on your hands anymore.”

  He stood there silently, weighing her words. Something about them seemed like a judgment on him, though he could not say why. He protested, “This is a rough place, Lola—especially for a woman.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never known anything but rough places.” Then she smiled at him. “Thank you . . . for being good to me.”

  He was not happy with her decision. “No, it’s you who’ve been good to me, Lola. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still be stuck in a Texas prison.”

  “Then . . . we’ve helped each other,” she said, and smiled again briefly. “Not many people can say that, can they?” She turned quickly, going up the stairs and disappearing down a hallway, leaving him standing alone in the lobby.

  He moved away slowly, greatly dissatisfied. He wanted to go up the stairs, to argue with her, but then thought, I’ve had a thousand miles to talk to her. What would I say now? He left the hotel and moved down the bustling streets of Omaha, trying to put her out of his mind—but he knew that would be virtually impossible. He shook his head sadly, filing his memories of her away with others he tried not to think of too often, and directed his steps to the sound of the steam whistle that screamed loudly from its place at the terminal.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A New Kind of Dealer

  For over a week Lola remained at The Royal. Her second-floor room was directly over the bar and the late night raucous din disturbed her sleep. During the days she walked the plank sidewalks that practically floated in a sea of mud created by the April rains. Women were scarce, and the annoying, coarse catcalls from the men grew tiresome. She soon formed the habit of going to her room after supper in order to avoid the male-dominated crowds. The rough voices of men and the shrill laughter of women from the saloon below were much like the world she had come from, as was the tinny piano music and smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey that permeated The Royal, and by the end of the week she was growing desperate.

  She showed the manager of the hotel the faded photograph of her father, asking if he’d ever seen him. “Never did. What’s he do?”

  “I think he works for the railroad.”

  “Doing what?”

  She hesitated, not knowing how to answer. “I don’t know.”

  He shrugged and suggested, “Guess you might ask over at the construction headquarters,” before returning to his work.

  The morning sun was high in the sky as she stepped out of The Royal and walked east along Front Street. Wagons jostled one another, piled high with freight and timbers, and the rough voices of the mule-skinners rose above the sounds of the street. She had to cross several precarious bridges made of planks that spanned the muddy interse
ctions, but soon found it impossible to keep the red mud from staining her skirts.

  The river ran parallel to Pine Street, she had discovered, and the closer she got to it the heavier the traffic became. Ferries constantly plied back and forth across the swift-flowing current, and she stopped to watch one of the cargo boats docking. It was piled high with timbers, ropes, steel rails, barrels, and a hundred other items, all looking thrown together in a confused state. But the men who unloaded the material knew how to sort it out, for it flowed off the deck onto the flat cars that waited on the side track. Even as she watched, a long trainload of materials moved off, drawn by a puffing steam engine.

  One of the buildings had a sign in front, UNION PACIFIC, and she entered it. It was as busy inside as on the loading docks outside, filled with desks and men who talked loudly to one another as they hunched over paperwork. She stood there hesitantly, not knowing what to do. A man with a young face but gray hair walked out of the inner office at once and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to locate someone who works for the railroad,” she said.

  “Why don’t you come into my office,” he nodded. “It’s a little noisy out here.” She followed him across the large room into a small office. Most of the space was taken up by a large draftsman’s table, but he hastily cleared one of the two chairs. “My name is Lowell Taylor,” he said as she sat down.

  “I’m . . . Lola Montez.” She paused slightly when she gave her name, a hesitation not lost on Taylor. “I’m looking for a relative.”

  “He works for the UP?” Taylor asked.

  “I—I think so,” Lola said. She felt awkward, and for one moment was tempted to tell the man she was looking for her father, but a lifetime of keeping her own counsel stilted the impulse. “He’s a relative and I’d like very much to find him.” She felt like a fool as she pulled the picture from her purse, saying, “This is an old picture of him. I only know his first name—Jude.” Feeling the weight of his steady gray eyes on her, she added hurriedly, “I haven’t seen him for years, Mr. Taylor, and I don’t know what he does—or even if he still works for the railroad.”

  Her words sounded feeble to her own ears, but Taylor did nothing to indicate he found her request unusual. He rose to his feet. “If you’ll wait here for a few minutes, I’ll check with our payroll department. Maybe one of them has seen him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Taylor walked out of the room with the picture, and Lola sat in the chair, aware that her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She had no other plan, and suddenly she realized how important it was for her to find her father. For weeks she had thought of him, and now her mind was cloudy with a sharp fear that she would never find him—or if she did, that he would have nothing to do with her. All of her information about him came from her mother, who had said little of her marriage. Now the door was shut on her past and the future was obscure, and she had to fight down the fear that rose sharply as she waited.

  He was back in five minutes, a smile on his face. “Well, Miss Montez, one of our men thinks he remembers this man—but he can’t remember the name. He did remember that he was with one of the track crews. So he would not be here.”

  “Not in Omaha?” she asked. “Where is he?”

  He looked at a slip of paper in his hand, then back at her. “He’s working at the end of track.”

  “The end of track? What is that, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Why, that’s the spot where the railroad has reached. Right now it’s in a place called North Platte.”

  She smiled and her dark eyes were more peaceful than when she had come in. Taylor was curious about her. Not many beautiful young women came into Omaha, and he realized from her accent that she was from Mexico. Her dark green dress was of good quality, and he noted that her hands were well cared for, not roughened by hard labor. There was no wedding ring on her finger, and she had not introduced herself as a married woman, so he assumed she was single.

  “Can I get a train to North Platte?” she asked.

  He rubbed his chin and gave her a doubtful look. “Well—to tell the truth, Miss Montez, there’s not really a town there—at least not what you’d call a town. It’s just a bunch of shacks thrown together out on the prairie—that and some tents. There wouldn’t be any place for a lady to stay.”

  Lola shook her head. “I’m not afraid of roughing it, Mr. Taylor.”

  Lowell Taylor was intrigued. “Well, I can get you a place on the work train, that’s no problem.” He hesitated, then added, “Omaha is pretty rough with all the saloons and bars, but believe me, North Platte is even worse, I’m afraid. These end of track camp towns are a lot worse. No respectable women there, you understand? Right now,” he added dryly, “there are twenty-two saloons in North Platte—and all of them pretty rough.”

  “I understand, Mr. Taylor,” she smiled, and her face seemed to him very fresh and unspoiled. “But I must find this man. Will you get me a ticket?”

  He bit his lip, not wanting to do anything improper, but seeing that her mind was made up, offered, “You’ll be a guest of the Union Pacific, Miss Montez, no charge. When would you like to leave?”

  “Today,” she said at once.

  “Well, I’ll give you a note and speak to the conductor. And I’ll give you another one for Jack Casement. He’s in charge of construction and should know the man you’re looking for.” He went to his desk, scribbled out the messages, then gave them to her. “The train leaves at one-thirty.”

  She took the note and then put her hand out. It was warm and soft in his, but with a firm grip, and her smile was not only on her lips but in her fine dark eyes. “Thank you so much, Mr. Taylor.”

  He hesitated, then made one more effort. “It’s a rough world at North Platte. Many people refer to railroad towns as hell on wheels. I’m afraid that’s pretty close to what they are.”

  An enigmatic light touched her eyes, and she said evenly, “Thank you for the warning. I’ll be all right, Mr. Taylor.” She rose to her feet and gave him a final smile. “You’ve been very kind.”

  He walked over and opened the door for her. “I’ll be in North Platte in two weeks,” he said, walking with her through the office. “If you’re still there, perhaps I’ll see you.”

  “Perhaps.” She paused and turned to face him at the outer door, conscious that most of the men in the office were staring at them. She had met very few men like this one. He was not one of the roughs, she saw. His clothing was better than most, and there was something about his manners that revealed he was used to a better class than she knew. He had been kind and gracious to her, and such treatment from a man was a rare thing for Lola Montez.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Taylor,” she said, offering her hand once more.

  She turned and left the office, and at once L.C. Dance, the assistant manager, came to say, “Where’ve you been keeping that one hidden, Lowell?” He was a bright-eyed young man of twenty-five, tall and thin. “You might have introduced me, old man!”

  Lowell shook his head, not answering. He was thinking already of North Platte and what it would do to a woman like Lola Montez. Maybe I can get this paperwork done and get away from Omaha in a little less than two weeks. He turned and walked rapidly back to his office, attacking the pile of papers on his desk with a new energy.

  ****

  Taylor had not underestimated the raw quality of North Platte, and Lola discovered this at once. She had gotten her single suitcase from The Royal and been on the work train when it pulled out of Omaha. It had been a rough trip, but the middle-aged conductor, a thick-set man with hard brown hands and a pair of bright black eyes, had made things more comfortable by creating a place for her near his seat at the front of the train. He had told her of his family and refrained from any personal questions, but she knew that he was curious. I’ll have to get used to that, she thought. A single woman out here is going to be an oddity.

  She got off the train and the conductor said dubiously, “You mi
ght ask General Jack about a place to stay, Miss Montez. There’s not much choice. Good luck to you.”

  She thanked him and walked down the wide street in the falling darkness. Both sides of the street were lined with flimsy buildings and tents, all ready for the nightly blast of activity. The railroad workers, she saw at once, were milling around, shouting and punching at each other, the sound of their varied accents rich in the cool afternoon air. She made her way through the throngs of track hands—Mexicans, Indians, and dozens of Irish laborers—but had not gone a block before she realized the peril of her situation.

  A dozen times in that space she had been approached by men, and not all of them were gentle. One of them, a huge man with a pistol at his side, took her arm with a force that shook her, and the whiskey on his breath was raw as he said, “Aw, c’mon, honey. Let’s you and me have a drink!”

  She had pulled away from him in something close to panic, making her escape in the crowd. But there were others, and for one frightening moment her mind was blank with fear. She had never felt so alone, so vulnerable, and her eyes darted around wildly as she sought some sort of refuge. She still held the note for General Jack Casement, so she entered a supply store and asked the man behind the counter, only to hear, “General Jack? Why he went out two days ago with a survey team, Miss. Won’t be back for a week at least.”

  She thought for a moment, then asked, “Is there a hotel in town?”

  The store owner, an older man with a full set of whiskers, gave them a thorough scratching before answering. “Well, not what you’d call a hotel. Woman named Langley keeps a boarding house. Don’t know if she’s got any room, though.”

  “Can you tell me how to get there?” she asked. The fatigue of the long trip and the pressure of the search had begun to wear her down. “I’ve got to find someplace to stay.”

  The owner studied her carefully. He had thought at first that she was a saloon girl, but now a more direct examination gave him some doubt. She had none of the hardened look of that breed, nor was she dressed like one of the shrill-voiced women who prowled the streets of North Platte like predators. He rubbed his beard, thinking hard, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. “I’ll have to take you there,” he said finally. “Too dangerous for you alone.” He called out, “Larry, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Keep an eye on the store.”