This started as a freeform atmosphere piece and before it finally found it's direction and voice. Then I had to tweak it and do some research. Be kind.


Going East

Red gritty dust. The smell of cattle and salt and sweat. The sun glaring off distant rocks, making my eyes burn. The squeak of leather and sound of an empty night under the stars. These are the things I will miss. I throw my satchel onto the train that heads east. It is time for the failed cowboy to put on his fine clean coat and run away.

I could have stayed. I should have stayed. She was sweet and opened herself. She asked for nothing and got it. She could have said “Stay.”

I had nothing to sell but my gun. The horse and gear belonged to the boss. The clothes on my back and the gun and my precious books were all I had to show for two years riding herd. Selling the gun would get me enough for a ticket and a fine clean coat. And I could trade my boots for a new pair of shoes. Well, new to me.

She could have said “Stay.” But I still would have gone.

I rode the herds as long as I could. But I was not cut out for the life of hard work, no sleep, poor food and cold beds. I had to admire those who thrived on it, but it was not my lot in life. Childhood damage to my lungs had made my breath short and my blood thin. Strong and wiry, yet without the stamina that was needed for the long rides. And a farmer’s life was not one I could imagine. Being tied to the unmoving Iand, isolated by miles of rippling wheat. Living under the land in a sod house; it would be like being buried alive. Instead I admired those driven ones who managed to work when they would and survive. Masters of their destiny. Riding with the wind. New towns every day. New faces. New challenges.

The train rumbles and bucks over track past towns so fresh and new that the wood cladding still drips sap. Instant towns just for the railroad. Old towns just a few miles away are already abandoned or reduced to almost nothing. Ghosts rattle through them like the cattle did not long before.

In the end the gun stayed in my holster and I tried one more time to make my fortune. She helped, knew the right men, got me a horse that was ugly but swift and finally I could ride with the wind.

The journey that once took me weeks on horseback takes days by train. St. Louis is on the horizon. I see the smoky haze of coal fire. I can almost hear the clang of metal on metal, the hiss of steam, the rattle of wagons and the bustle of all those people trodding, hurrying, needing to be where they are not. There are as many people in this one city as in the whole of the Arizona, New Mexico, Wyoming, Idaho and Dakota Territories. Combined. It’s a city you can disappear into or conquer. The launching point for so many possibilities.

My satchel rests between my feet, holding all of my worldly goods. The books I could not bear to sell or give away and a spare shirt and clean collar. And all of that that comes of being a failed cowboy. And all of that that comes of being a successful outlaw.

The hand that I had always been expecting finally settles on my shoulder. The familiar square face that should have been a trademark for Pinkerton. He discreetly flashes a badge, unnecessarily. He is so obvious that all aboard the car look to see. At his gesture, I move to the window seat and he sits in the aisle seat and props his feet up on the seat back of the seat in front.

“St. Louis is a hell of a town.” is all he says.

Nice.

Love the setting of the train.

Great atmosphere.

Absolutely brilliant, Maria. I just read it twice to make sure.

Stupendous work. Economical and incisive.

Great piece. I love the idea of a failed cowboy trying to make one last go of it.

Wow. High praise, indeed!

Thanks!

Good turnaround.

What Frank said. That's fantastic stuff. The language was sparse, perfectly so, and evocative.

Again I say - wow. Thanks so much!

I really enjoyed this one too. I love me some westerns

Nice. I read this and was inspired to write one this afternoon.

Yay! I will read yours when I get home.

Great. The way his thoughts are most dominated by the reasons for failure. He's the most reflective outlaw. And I love Pinkertons.

It's hard posting late in the thread, after everybody else has used up the superlatives.

It is the greatest story ever told.

Too much?