No Job for a Lady (16 page)

The rustle of something moving through the bushes causes me to pause and I look around, wondering if it’s another pack animal. It’s hard to tell because the bushes are shrouded in fog.

The fog takes on a more sinister feel as my paranoia kicks in about who—or what—is lurking in the bushes.

“Stop it, Nellie,” I mutter aloud; “you’re being foolish.” And I start to move on. That’s when I hear movement in the bushes again, only this time louder and more pronounced—something that is moving slowly in the brush, then stops.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing.

Ready to bolt or scream, or both, I try to keep myself from panicking, because I know better than to cause another disturbance. I realize it’s stupid to be worried about a noise in the bushes. If this were home, I would assume it was a deer or a cow—something harmless. Instead, I’m keeping a rein on my fear and standing my ground for no other reason than I don’t want my overworked imagination to send me running to the train, screaming, with my tail between my legs.

Never being one good with directions, even on a clear day, I look for the dark outline of the train and move toward where I think it’s at, hoping I’m right. It strikes me that I know zero about the four-legged predators in Mexico and that in those bushes there could be an animal looking for a meal and that if I don’t hurry, I might be it.

As I walk at a brisk pace, the noise comes again.

I’ve had it. I spin around, praying it’s one of the German’s laborers leading a donkey. Instead, a hideous face, buried in the fog and shadows of the bushes, confronts me with a hostile glare.

Without thought, I whip around, pick up my dress, and run as fast as my feet can carry me toward the dark wall ahead, which, thank God, turns out to be the train. I fly by passengers who have gotten off to check out the terrain. Just as I reach the steps, I turn around.

There is nothing behind me but fog and a few people.

My poor heart is racing and my breathing is trying to catch up with it as I grab the hand support and step up on the gangway. Once safely inside, I go straight to the compartment. Roger is there, his head in a magazine.

I plop down across from him.

He doesn’t even look up, but says, “Why are you breathing so hard? And please don’t tell me you saw something like that creature again.”

The man is incredible! If I weren’t a lady, I’d smack him on the side of his head.

“As a matter of fact…” Thank goodness my brain catches up with my tongue before I blurt out that I had been pursued by a strange beast. Since he already thinks I’m crazy, I lie. “I nearly stepped on a snake.”

“Hmm.”

What did I see? I got a good-enough look to know it was a face. But not a human one. And it wasn’t the same as the face I saw behind the prospector.

I’m beginning to wonder about how much of the mystery and magic of Mexico is of the black arts. That thing in the bushes was something grotesque, the stuff of nightmares. It was the face of an animal. A jaguar? Maybe. Like the other face, it had a feline look. However, knowing that it was the face of an animal wasn’t the only thing that shivered me to my bones.

The most soul-wrenching thing of it all is that I could make out enough of the dark shape to which the head was attached to know that it wasn’t a four-legged beast.

It was half human, half beast.

In a strange way, seeing this
thing
in the fog made it clear to me that what I saw the night Howard was killed was an inanimate mask—the attacker’s face was lifeless.

What I saw outside the train was made of flesh and blood.

Blood.
That thought shivers me. I’ve heard more about and thought more about blood in the past couple of days than ever before. Mexico’s ancient gods must have bathed in the stuff.

Leaning back, I close my eyes and concentrate. Okay, girl, you’ve seen a murder committed by someone in a circus mask. Now you’ve seen a creature of the night that looks like it came out of a nightmare. What do you make of it?

“Will you do me a favor, Roger?”

He stumbles out of his reading trance. “What?”

“This trip to Mexico has taken on many interesting facets. If I give you the name of the hotel where my mother is staying, would you wire her if anything unfortunate happens to me?”

How much I would like to paint the beauties of Mexico in colors so faithful that the people in the States could see what they are losing by not coming here. How I would like to show you the green valley where the heat of summer and blast of winter never dare approach; where every foot of ground recalls wonderful historical events, extinct races of men and animals, and civilization older by far than the pyramids. Then would I take you from the table-land to the mountain, where we descend into deep canons that compare in their strange beauty with any in the world; the queer separation of the earth, not more than 100 feet from edge to edge of precipice, but 400 feet deep. More wonderful still is the sight when the rainy season fills these gorges with a mad, roaring torrent.

Then would I lead you to the edge of some bluff that outrivals the Palisades—and let you look down the dizzy heights 500 feet to the green meadows, the blooming orchards, the acres of pulque plant, the little homes that nestle at the foot of this strange wall. Then further up into the mountains you could see glaciers, grander, it is claimed, than any found in the Alps.

—N
ELLIE
B
LY
,
Six Months in Mexico

27

The City of Mexico is simply called “Mexico” by the country’s inhabitants, which fits, because when we get off the train, we see no city.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” I tell Roger. “They should have the train going straight into the city.”

He doesn’t respond because he knows it is not a statement of great import, but a meaningless observation created by my frustration as to what I see as bureaucratic malfeasance.

I have been aware since I got on at El Paso that the train would stop short of the city, but I still feel the need to complain. The government simply has not extended the rail system all the way into the city. That leaves the passengers with the necessity of hiring transportation to complete their journey.

It’s hot and humid and starting to get sticky. That and the fact that I had another restless night with dreams of half-human creatures with jaguar features attacking me has left me in a less than my usual even temperament.

My nocturnal struggles even woke poor Roger, which is a miracle in itself. He banged his head when I let out a yelp for help. Fortunately, the sound had not traveled any farther than the bottom berth, or Don Antonio would have had me make my way to the railhead by shank’s mare.

Our last dinner had been slightly awkward. Don Antonio, always the diplomat, had not shown any sign that Roger and I had been invited only because Gertrude had requested it, but I’m reasonably certain that was the case.

Everyone made polite dinner talk and never broached the subject about the prospector or Roger and I sharing a compartment—which was fine with me. Mostly, Gertrude chatted about how she is going to learn how to speak Arabic and challenge male domination in the world of travel and exploration, especially in Egypt and the Holy Land, where she has friends in the British Diplomatic Service.

The two men made insipid listening responses, leaving me to wonder what they really thought of women with lofty ambitions. I hope she will be able to make her dreams come true, as well as my own.

I was relieved when Gertrude offered to play a game of chess after dessert. I really didn’t want to be alone, but I also didn’t want to talk, making the concentration required by chess perfect. And she tutored me in Spanish, which helped fill in the empty holes in our conversations.

I suspect she was too polite to bring up my sleeping arrangements with Roger, and I was in no mood to share. It was hard enough not to confide in her about what I had seen outside. If I started talking about it, I would end up telling her about the man-beast and lose whatever credibility I had left with her—if I had any left. I was sure she was miffed at me for not confiding in her about my “relationship” with Roger and, worse, was questioning my morals.

Of course, no one questions the morality of Lily Langtry, who has had a host of lovers. The rules of morality for women don’t extend to making love to kings and millionaires.

Before we parted, I was surprised when Gertrude gave me a genuine hug and took the name of my hotel, with a promise between us to get together. I had assumed she had written me off as a tainted woman.

I hate promises like that because they rarely get fulfilled, especially when traveling. Besides, I’m not sure how long I will be in the city, because I don’t know where stories will take me or how much free time, if any, I will have.

I have to shake off all the strange things that I’ve encountered and get to work. Nothing is going to stop me from achieving that goal. Not even jaguars or people who look like jaguars.

And I have the issue of my mother—I mustn’t keep her waiting too long. She promised to stay put until I sent for her, but, knowing her, after a few days she will be antsy and try to make her way to me. However, with so many weird things happening, I waiver between wanting the comfort of her company and praying that she stays put—I wouldn’t want her to encounter the dangers I have. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her.

Roger breaks into my brown study. “It’s hopeless. We’re going to be stuck here awhile.”

Dozens of public coaches and a few private ones are lined up at the entrance to the station; all the public ones are being swamped.

“Well, be prepared to do battle.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“We will have to wait for more to arrive, but I have learned from experienced travelers to the city that one must be prepared not only to get a coach but to make sure one is treated fairly.”

“And how do we get treated fairly?”

“When a public coach procures a permit, they are graded and marked. A first-class coach carries a white flag, a second-class a blue flag, and a third-class a red flag. The prices are, respectively, per hour: one dollar, seventy-five cents, and fifty cents.”

“I would imagine that the cleanliness and comfort are directly related to the price paid.”

“Yes. And while the rules are meant to protect travelers, this doesn’t always work, because the drivers are very cunning.”

“You don’t say.” Roger gives me a grin. “Sounds like every livery driver I’ve encountered in every large city I’ve been in.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, I continue. “I was told they’ll remove the flag and charge double prices, even though they can be punished for it. And as you’ve guessed, one does not want to take a third-class rig, because they are unreliable and filthy. Anyway, you’re right: It will be a while before we can try and elbow our way aboard.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because there were rumblings among the passengers that a lesser number of coaches will be available because they have been requisitioned by the military to convey troops.”

Roger puts his luggage down and sits on it. “Perfect. Well, we might as well try to make ourselves comfortable, since we are resolved in having to wait until the carriages return after dropping off loads. And considering it’s an hour over and back, we, my dear Nellie, will be here for a couple of hours.” With that, he pulls his hat down over his eyes.

“How can you be so nonchalant?”

“I have come to accept in life that there are times when I can do nothing to alter the undesirable, so why get my feathers ruffled? It won’t speed up the carriages. You might want to try it. It might make you a bit less … tense?”

“Oh, so now you are a philosopher and critic! I am not tense. But as you sit back and ponder the meaning of life, keep in mind that you’re a student of ancient history—you don’t have to worry about competition and deadlines, because everyone you deal with is dead.”

I turn and pace back and forth. Me—tense? The nerve of him. What has he done? If I waited for things to happen, I’d be nowhere. But now that I’ve let him know I won’t take his guff, I have to admit that he’s right in this instance: Nothing can be done but wait, even if I’m antsy and it will drive me nuts.

To bide my time, I lapse into my favorite pastime when I’m forced to wait—watching people.

They are like little worker ants—all scurrying around in a crazy but orderly manner. Some are gathering up their luggage, others waving good-bye to fellow passengers or saying hello to those who have come to pick them up, while some, like us, appear to know it’s hopeless to try to get immediate transportation.

My attention is drawn to the freight car at the rear of the train. The German gentleman who tried to whip the donkey is standing by a mule train that appears ready to take on a load. I didn’t realize he had stayed aboard.

What really piques my interest is that Thompson, the farm salesman, and Maddox, the cowboy boss, have gathered together with him and are talking like they know one another, unlike strangers who have bumped into one another in a train yard. It’s their body language. “Old home week,” my mother would say. Sundance is also engaged in their conversation.

Hmm … now all I need is to have Don Antonio join them.

Interesting—I’d love to be a fly on one of their hats and find out what they have in common.

“There’s a seat on that one!”

28

I spin around, to find Roger, bag in hand, running for a stagecoach.

Before I can react, he has thrown his bag up to the man riding shotgun, who, in turns, tosses it atop the already-large pile of bags and trunks on top of the coach.

Roger climbs aboard, slipping through the open door and onto a seat as I grab my carpetbag and make a mad dash for the rig.

Roger slams the door behind him and leans out the window, holding up his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “Sorry—last seat.”

I am too much of a lady to repeat here what I say under my breath, but the word describes Roger’s ancestry in a vulgar fashion.