Cattle Kate (8 page)

“My, does that look like a fine piece of chocolate cake.”

I jumped at the surprise of a loud voice, only to find it belonged to the woman across the aisle in Seat No. 21.

“Ma'am?”

“I was just admiring that fine piece of chocolate cake. Someone sure loves you to send you off with something so delicious-looking.”

Well, what was I supposed to do? My Ma taught me better than to stuff the cake in my mouth and ignore the woman who was salivating across the aisle. Yes, it pained me, but I did the only decent thing. I broke off a hunk and offered it to her.

“Oh, I couldn't.” But her hand was already reaching while her mouth was protesting.

“How very sweet of you.” She ate that hunk in two bites. Wouldn't you think you'd take it slow? Not this woman. I massaged my regret at losing a piece of my cake with the thought that it was a good omen to share something sweet when you're starting a new life.

“I'm Sally Wills. He's my husband.” She cocked her head to note the man in window Seat No. 22. “He's Horace.”

I noted that Sally Wills was busy licking her fingers of the last remnants of the cake and had not once offered to share with Horace. He didn't appear to notice or mind. I bet it wasn't the first time his wife hadn't shared.

“Where you goin', sweetie?”

All I had to say was “Cheyenne” and that started a travelogue lecture that went on all afternoon. My contribution was nothing but “is that so”; “oh, that's nice”; “glad to hear it.”

Sally Wills is one talker!

“You're gonna love Cheyenne, why it's one of the prettiest cities in all the West—not that I've been to them all, but it's so beautiful I just know it measures up. And they're going to build a grand Capitol building as soon as we're a state—everyone says that won't be long. I mean, Colorado was let in and if they took Colorado, they surely want Wyoming. Horace says all the territories will be states someday, well, maybe not Arizona, who wants them? There's just Indians and Mexicans and Mormons down there and Horace doesn't believe they'll
ever
catch Geronimo.” I nodded, at least agreeing with the Geronimo part.

“We just love W.T.—that's what we call it, you know, because your jaws would be tuckered out if you had to say ‘Wyoming Territory' every time, don't you think?” I had to agree it was a mouthful.

“My husband is a cobbler and you probably couldn't be in a better profession in W.T., because, believe me, those men go through boots and shoes like they're tryin' to wear them out. He has some very fancy customers—those cattlemen from Scotland and England like fancy things and they have the money to pay and my Horace said fine footwear is like a badge to them. My Horace is a real good provider. Do you have a husband?” I said I didn't and left it at that.

“We have four children—their aunt is taking care for them for us—and they're a handful, but I still have time for my temperance work. Did I mention I'm a member of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union?” I shook my head no and smiled at this crucial news.

“You know, I'm not a bloomer like some of those radical women, but I do believe we have to address the problem of too many spirits.” Mrs. Wills lowered her voice, leaned across the aisle and confided: “Do you know, some men come home drunk and beat their wives?” I pretended I didn't know.

“Yes, it's true, and if we just had some sensible laws on all those saloons, it certainly would help. We're a growing group in W.T.—they said the WCTU could never happen here in the West because the saloons are so important. My own brother-in-law told me: ‘Sally, there were saloons here before there was a single decent woman and so don't go gettin' all high and mighty on us', and I told him back, ‘But there wasn't anything else here then and it wasn't until decent women and children came that this place was worth anything.' Well, I think I cocked his hat because he just turned and walked away and I took that as a win for our side. You know, our W.T. Chapter is getting so big, we think we can get Frances Willard out here to speak to us. Wouldn't that be something?”

I knew it would be and for a second, I considered doing a little bragging of my own by telling how I'd already heard “Saint Frances” speak at a temperance rally in Kansas—the top woman herself, convincing people all over the country to support Dry laws. But I thought better of it so I wouldn't have to explain anything.

“You should think about joining the Temperance Union. We're always looking for fine young women. Next meeting our topic is ‘Intemperance causes more sorrow than war,' and I think it does, don't you?” I had to agree. I promised to look into joining.

“But women in Wyoming Territory can vote, can't they? Couldn't you just vote temperance in?” I thought it was a logical question.

“Oh yes, women in W.T. have FULL VOTING RIGHTS.” She said the words like they were all in capital letters.

“But my dear, we don't have near enough women in W.T. to vote something like that in. You know, that's why they did it. Gave us the vote. To bring women here. I guess loneliness hurts worst than pride.” Sally Wills chuckled at her joke. “They thought women would come if they gave them the vote and yes, many did, but it's still a man's world out here and don't ever forget that. At first, of course, the polling places were in the saloons, and no decent woman would go into a saloon, even to vote. But we got the voting out of there—at least we got that much—and into schools and churches and now women can vote in a decent place. But it just fluffs my feathers that the women who are here aren't good at voting. We work on them all the time, the WCTU does, and we always hear, ‘oh, my husband makes those kind of decisions—I don't understand politics,' and I'd just like to swat them with my rug beater because that attitude is not going to get us anywhere. Can you imagine, if I let Horace make all those decisions [and by now, Mrs. Wills' voice was low and conspiratorial]. Well, I vote and I tell Horace how to vote in each election, and when he walks into that polling place, that's how he votes.”

I had to look away so she couldn't see me smile—she foolishly thinks her vote counts twice because her husband does her bidding. Does she really believe that, or is she just saying it? Well, I decided right then that as soon as I could, I would vote—even if I had to go into a saloon.

The day went on like that until it was obviously time for a late lunch and my stomach was anxious for a piece of the chicken in the valise. Mrs. Wills finally succumbed to her husband's tugs and excused herself to open their own food-laden satchel. But not before she announced: “We didn't want to take our meals in the dining car this trip, not when my sister-in-law in Wichita—that's where we were visiting—is such a fabulous cook and just
forced
all this food on us. I told Horace, ‘Horace, it would be a sin to waste this food by going to the dining car like we usually do' and of course, he agreed.”

I rolled my eyes and hoped I'd never see the day when I'd wear such fake airs. Yes, I knew that elsewhere on this train, people were sitting at white-clothed tables and served hot meals by Negro waiters. There was wine and plenty of chocolate desserts. Then the women and children would retire to sitting rooms with more velvet and stuffed cushions than existed in all of Kansas and the men would go to the smoking car for their cigars. But I could never afford that fare—over ten times more than my ticket—and even if I could, it wasn't something I hankered for.

My chicken tasted all the better for the peace that came with it, because I learned Mrs. Wills would rather eat than talk and after she ate, she liked her nap.

I was watching the landscape—more trees than normal—when I nodded off myself. The jostling train was like being rocked, even if it wouldn't let you hold a tin of water. I have to write that to John in a letter! When I woke up, the scene out my window was something I'd never seen before. There were trees everywhere and rock walls that had been cut away to make room for the tracks. I cracked the window, and the smell of the air was totally different than the smells in Kansas. Even through the smoke from the engine, I could smell pines.

“Where you going to work?” I was startled again and doubted I'd ever get used to Mrs. Wills' trait of making no introductory remarks before resuming a conversation.

“I don't know. I'm going to see if there's a good boardinghouse that needs help.” And then I prayed Mrs. Wills had not failed to mention she owned a boardinghouse that needed help.

“Oh, we have many nice places where a clean girl can get honest work. Maybe you could get on with the Inter-Ocean Hotel, oh, that's a fine place, the city's finest hotel. They do allow spirits, but you wouldn't be in the saloon part—they have a beautiful dining room. But of course, they require real waitress training? Do you have waitress training?”

I allowed that I didn't, but that didn't stop Sally Wills.

“Oh no, better yet. You should try at the Simmons Hotel—it's owned by a nice man from Norway and that's where the actors like to stay when they come for our Opera House. Have I told you about our Opera House? Oh my, you have to go there immediately when you get settled. It's on Hill Street. You know, it was the first Opera House west of the Mississippi, and it brings in the very best talent and the plays are always suitable for decent folk, and the actors like to stay at the Simmons Hotel and they have a big dining room and I bet they always need help.”

I was only half listening because I never expected I'd work in a fancy hotel, but surely, there must be more modest places that could use a good, strong woman. Or maybe there was a farmer like Mr. Stone who needed a housekeeper. Or a rancher. I'm betting the wages out here are better than in Kansas. I should be able to save up pretty quick. But the blabbering kept on and when I focused again, Mrs. Wills was bragging about Cheyenne.

“Don't know if you realize what a fine city we have in Cheyenne. What's so remarkable is that it isn't even twenty years old yet—came in with the railroad, and oh, those days they tell me it was called ‘Hell on Wheels,' but that didn't last the minute decent women arrived.” By now, I had heard that term so often, I was sure I understand the western distinction between women and decent women.

“We already have a city park down by Lake Minnehaha, but stay away in the heat of summer because there's a terrible odor then. But otherwise, it's a very pretty place for a buggy ride. We're working on getting a library—won't that be wonderful?—our temperance group has been one of the big supporters and I can't tell you the hours I've put in. I'll tell you a secret, we already have 200 books collected. We just need an appropriate building and there's a committee working on that. I'm on the collection part and some of the books are in crates in my parlor—oh, it will be such a wonderful day when we can open a library and anyone can come and borrow our books.”

I had never been inside a library. I had never borrowed a book, except for the Canadian history book back in school, but I could clearly see how wonderful that would be, and I smiled appropriately for Mrs. Wills.

“Even though Cheyenne is pretty new, my Horace says it already rivals Chicago or New York,” and this time, I was sure Mrs. Wills was stretching the tale too far. “Horace says we have more millionaires in Cheyenne than they do back in the States and I wouldn't doubt him for a minute.” I sure did.

“And wait till you see the club the cattlemen just built! Why, it's right in the center of town and has the first Mansard roof Cheyenne ever saw—oh, that was the talk all right.” I had no idea what a Mansard roof was, but it didn't seem right to ask.

“It has this grand veranda and they sit up there, looking down at the city and knowing they're bringing millions, I mean, millions to W.T. because of all their wonderful cattle. Horace says their club is more highfalutin than anything else in the whole country. They only allow men who are rich ranchers and members of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association. They have to wear black tie or, or, or—Horace, what's that funny name they call the white tie and tails the men at the Cheyenne Club have to wear?”—Horace filled in the blank with “Herefords”—”Yes, that's it, the men have to wear black tie or Herefords.”

I really didn't care much about a fancy place with strange clothes, but Mrs. Wills was sure I wanted to know every detail.

“And the women they invite to dinner! They wear the most beautiful jeweled evening gowns—some ladies send away to Paris for their gowns for the Cheyenne Club. I told Horace to save up, because I'm going to want a fabulous gown when we're invited. And they serve the most fantastic food: fresh oysters on the half shell and duck and veal and puffy French desserts. Horace says they spend more on champagne at the Cheyenne Club in one night than a ranch hand earns in a year. Can you imagine that?”

I couldn't imagine any of it.

It was a welcome treat when the train finally stopped at a station and the conductor yelled, “Ten minutes. Ten minutes at this stop.”

“Oh, let's get some hot coffee.” Sally Wills sounded like she was about to drink the finest wine in the world. Well, I knew the feeling because I was more than ready for a nice cup of coffee. But when we finally got inside the station, we found everybody on the train had the same hankering. The one waitress was handing out cups of boiling coffee as fast as she could. Boiling coffee!! I looked at my cup and knew it would never cool down enough for me to drink it.

“Not used to western coffee, ma'am?” The cowboy at the counter was looking at me with a smile in his eyes. In front of him was his own cup, sitting beside a saucer that was served to those who had more than a ten-minute stop.

“We like it real hot out here. Here, mine is already saucered and blowed.” He handed me his saucer.