#hell on wheels

The windows of the train car had been opened to let a breeze flow through the small space. It wasn’t hot outside, not in the middle of a cool spring, but the bright sunshine against the metal roof had heated the car up faster than it had the outdoors. I sat back in my chair, reading through the most recent newspaper to come from back East with my legs crossed in a way that my mother would have scolded me was unladylike if she were here. But she was not. The newspaper was a week old and the next one wouldn’t arrive for another week, at least. Old news. Always old news. I was flipping through it to see if there was possibly anything interesting on the back pages when the door to the car opened. I looked up, expecting my father or maybe Henri, because those were really the only two people to whom I spoke to anymore. Instead, it was one of the men from the camp who came stepping into the train and closing the door behind him. I lowered the newspaper.

“Miss Durant.” The man tipped his black hat and looked around, as if there could have been someone else hiding in the cramped car. “I came to see your father.”

Of course he had. That’s why anyone ever came to the train, why anyone was even here in this so-called Hell on Wheels to begin with. My father and his railroad. Although, this man did look familiar. He had been here before. I couldn’t remember his name or what he did for my father. He certainly knew my name, although that was not surprising. I was sure that the arrival of Ellie Durant, daughter of the great railroad man Thomas Durant, in Hell on Wheels had spread quickly over the last few weeks. “My father isn’t here.”

“Yeah, I can see that, ma’am. You expect he’ll be back soon?”

“I wouldn’t know.” I uncrossed my legs and crossed them again at the ankles, smoothing out the wrinkles in my pale-yellow skirt instead of looking up at the man. “You’ll have to come back.”

I turned my attention to the newspaper in my hands but didn’t really focus on the words. When I didn’t hear the sound of the door opening again, I looked up. He was still standing here, hat in hand, leaning a little back onto his right foot. He didn’t look like he was preparing to leave or had paid any attention at all to my request.

“I said you will have to come back, Mister…?”

“Bohannon, ma’am. But your father asked to see me and I ain’t keen on runnin’ round camp looking for him only to end up back here.”

“You ain’t keen.”

“No, ma’am, I ain’t.”

The man, Mister Bohannon, kept his eyes fixed on mine, not turning away like many of the other men at camp would on the rare occasions I crossed paths with any of them. But he wasn’t looking anywhere else, either. Just my face. I stared back. He tapped out a rhythm onto his hat with his forefinger and raised his eyebrows. I was the one who finally looked away.

“Well, if you insist on waiting for him…” I didn’t finish the sentence and instead picked up my newspaper. I flipped to the second page and then the third. Of course there was nothing interesting. I could have moved to the other car, to the one that was mine alone with a small sitting area and bedroom, but I refused to get up and leave while this Mister Bohannon was standing there staring. I would not be run out. I glanced up at him.

He was leaning against the wall in the corner, focusing on straightening a section of his hat and acting for all the world like he belonged here.

“What is it you do for my father, Mister Bohannon?”

“I’m the foreman, ma’am.”

“The foreman.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I resisted the urge to sigh. “Yes, but what does a foreman do?”

“I’m in charge of the walking bosses, keep the work moving.” He settled his hat back on his head, apparently satisfied with whatever he’d done to it.

“That’s it?”

“Yep, that about sums it up.” His voice was level, sounding almost bored. His slow, southern drawl was mostly to blame for that, drawing out his words like he had all the time in the world. Like he had stumbled into being foreman of my father’s railroad by accident. Whatever reaction I was trying to pull from him with my questions—and I was not sure what it was I was after—I didn’t get it.

“Well, that doesn’t sound too difficult.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would to you, ma’am.”

I glared at him and went back to reading. Neither of us spoke again until my father appeared and of course I was instantly asked if I didn’t have something I’d rather be doing in my own car instead of having to be bored with railroad business, so I collected the paper and a discarded bit of embroidery and left through the back, closing the door on the voices of both men.

Suppertime saw my father and I seated at the small dining table, eating steaks that Henri had cooked for us. My father was occupied with a stack of telegrams and we ate in silence, until he suddenly set down his whiskey glass.

“Any of the men of the camp bother you and you’re to tell me, understand?”

“Yes, you’ve told me, daddy.”

“I mean it,” he added, pointing a finger at me to drive home the point. “Bad enough you’re out here in this godforsaken place, but I won’t stand for anyone disrespecting you.”

I gripped my fork at another reminder that I wasn’t wanted here. They were constant. But it was not as if I could forget that I wasn’t here by choice. “No one’s said anything to me. Most of them won’t even look at me.” I wasn’t certain if he was trying to avoid disrespect that would be directed at him if there was word that he couldn’t protect his own daughter from the men around camp, or if he was really concerned about the effect it would have on me. The few weeks I had spent here in the west were the most time I had spent with my father in, well, forever, and the only thing I had learned was that I didn’t know him.

“Good. I don’t like leaving you alone in a place like this, but it can’t be helped when there’s business to attend to. But Bohannon, he’s smarter than most. Smart enough not to try anything.” He raised his eyebrows and took a long swallow. “He knows there would be hell to pay.”

Something in my father’s voice sounded almost smug.

“Bohannon’s your foreman, isn’t he?”

“How do you know that?”

I pushed some potatoes around the plate. “He told me. While he was waiting for you.”

My father huffed and I heard him uncork the bottle. “Yes, he’s my foreman. And that’s enough from you about railroad business. You don’t need to be sticking your nose into things you don’t need to know anything about. You’re leaving in a week, anyway.”

I took another bite and the meal ended in silence.

Leaving in a week. He’d said the same thing last week. And the week before when we’d arrived in Hell on Wheels and I’d looked out over the makeshift shanty town of dirty tents in horror. But I knew as well as he did that the scandal that had sent me all the way out here from Chicago was not going to blow over in another week or two. Broken engagements, and the rumors that followed in their wake, did not simply disappear from people’s minds. The worst part was that while I was exiled out here in the middle of nowhere, I couldn’t do anything to try to fix things. All I could do was wait.

The days I spent in the Nebraska territory all ran together. I had learned early on, when I asked about taking a walk or going riding, that my father would not allow me to go far. The short walks I did take were just down the track halfway to the makeshift station we had arrived at, or the other way to the end of the short rail spur that had become my home. There was never conversation with anyone beyond my father, even rare as that was, or attempts with Henri. After my first question about whether there were any other women living here who I could go walking with or visit was met with laugher, I had learned that the only other women at the camp were ones of ill-repute. I also found that I would not be allowed to walk through the camp even if I did want to associate with them. I didn’t.

The same rules went for riding as went for walking: it was always only short rides and only within sight of Hell on Wheels and my father always sent one of the Swede’s men with me. I thought his name was Lacey but I didn’t know and I didn’t ask. Whoever it was, my father didn’t trust him (or me) enough to let us go riding far so I stopped going altogether. I didn’t know who the Swede was, either, other than that he made my skin crawl and that I avoided my father’s train car whenever the man was present.

The result of all this was two weeks spent trapped in cramped quarters watching my father, and the men who worked for him, come and go with barely a look in my direction. Another week passed. Another week-old newspaper. Another seven nights curled up in my bed in my train car with the doors locked, listening to the sounds of men and coyotes. Another stack of letters written to friends back home that I didn’t know how to deliver. Another parade of memories playing across my eyelids when I tried to sleep, an endless repetition of the man I’d planned to marry and his face when I told him I could not go through with it. Of the aftermath.

I was being driven mad. The endless plains around us provided no distraction, no diversion from the bleeding of one day into the next. No woman should have to exist in a place like this, I repeated to myself like a mantra. Not when I should be back in Chicago, going riding or walking or visiting friends. One was recently married and we had planned to settle into our new lives as wives and keepers of our own homes together. My decision to call off my wedding had put an end to that and somehow that had led to being stranded here, where I wasn’t even allowed to walk far enough to keep my body from practically aching with unrest and inactivity. I’d been exiled to a place where I wasn’t even allowed to walk down the nonexistent streets and my former fiance was back in Chicago continuing to tell the lies that had sent me here.

The sun was just an hour or two over the horizon on a particularly beautiful spring morning when I went barreling into my father’s train car, dressed in my riding gear, only to find it empty. I flung open the door and started down the rail line toward where I saw him and his distinctive white hat.

“Daddy, I’m going riding,” I called when I was still a dozen paces away. He was with someone, talking, and the conversation stopped when I interrupted. His foreman. What was he called? Bohannon? It didn’t matter, I was here to talk to my father and I wasn’t going to be put off or dismissed or asked to go move to another car because the men were talking. Not this time. Not again.

“Not now, Ellie.” He waved a hand at me, still looking at Bohannon.

“I’m going out riding, properly. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“I said, not now. We’ll talk about it over dinner.”

“I want to talk about it now.” I crossed my arms. My mother would have said I was being petulant, I was sure, and that just frustrated me more. I wasn’t being childish or spoiled. I was just being driven crazy in a prison the size of a Pullman Coach.

My father sighed and finally turned to me. “Alright, what is it?”

He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. “I’m going riding.”

“Oh, no, that’s far too dangerous.”

“I’m going.” I crossed my arms. Bohannan sighed and looked away down the railroad, like he would rather be anywhere than here. I sympathized.

“You will not,” my father responded. “You are perfectly safe back in the train, which is where you should still be.”

I glowered up at my father. “I’ve been in the train for nearly a month. It’s only riding, it can’t be that dangerous!”

“Mister Durant, if you…”

“Not now, Mister Bohannon!” My father’s loud voice was sharp in contrast to Bohannon’s quiet drawl. “Ellie, you are not going riding alone and that’s final.”

“But there’s no one to go with me out here!”

“What about that fellow that works for me, what’s his name? Lacey?”

“I don’t like him! And he smells, worse than the horses!”

My father groaned in frustration. “Well, you should have thought of that before—”

“Isn’t there anyone else?” I pleaded. I needed to escape this place, even if it was just a few hours.

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m trying to build a railroad, not run a riding camp for—”

“I’ll ride with her, Mister Durant.”

My father and I both turned. My father’s face was positively red from being interrupted so much and I didn’t know if the flush on my own cheeks was much better. Bohannon was standing where we’d left him with his hands on his hips. When he had our attention, he spat on the ground. “Men have the day off on account of the rain yesterday. I can ride out with her, make sure there’s no trouble.”

He was looking at my father, not at me. Of course. This wasn’t about me. But that was alright.

“Okay then, go.” My father gestured away with a shooing motion. “Heavens, I wish I’d had a son.”

I flushed and turned away before I could see whatever reaction Bohannon had to that statement. The horses weren’t far and I walked in that direction without waiting another moment. Bohannon caught up with me within a few feet, falling into step beside me with his much longer legs. I didn’t look at him while he saddled the horses. I used the block to climb up onto the horse and we started off.

I broke the silence almost immediately. He was too self-assured, too comfortable, almost smug in how he’d so selflessly offered his presence.

“I didn’t ask you to ride with me, Mister Bohannon, so I hope you don’t expect any thanks.”

“Can’t say I did.”

I glanced over at him. He had a good seat on his horse, leaning forward a little and looking relaxed at the easy pace I was setting. Like he’d been born to ride a horse. “Good.”

“Sure sounded like you were asking, though.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“Right. Just for your father to find someone.”

“Yes.”

“Who you like. And who don’t smell.” Bohannon leaned over the side of his horse to spit. “That’s a tall order ‘round these parts, Miss Durant.”

“Every man here smells like horse, sweat, or whiskey.” My white mare stepped toward Bohannon’s bay as I leaned toward him and I adjusted the reins to steer her back straight again.

“You’re in the wrong country if you’re looking for parties and men who smell pretty.”

I gripped the reins tightly and my teeth tighter. “I am very aware of that fact, Mister Bohannon.”

He laughed. I nudged my horse faster with my heels and started off at a trop that turned into a canter as we passed through the tall grass of the Nebraska plains. The ground was still wet so I didn’t push for a full gallop but even at this pace I could feel the wind in my hair and the pounding of blood in my veins. I leaned low over the saddle and gripped the reins and watched the ground fly under the feet of my horse. For the first time in weeks, even with my breath coming short, I felt like I wasn’t suffocating. Like my world hadn’t shrunk to the size of a few train cars, a father who I didn’t know, and the surly voices of men who wouldn’t be allowed into the New York neighborhood where I was raised or the Chicago one that I had, until recently, called home.

Finally, heart pounding, I came up to the low banks of a river and pulled my mare to a stop. The river gurgled over rocks and into shallow pools as it cut its way across the landscape. A few of the pools had trees growing up around the banks and those led into more forested land away to what I thought was the south. Purple buds were still visible on some, while others had already given way to green leaves.

My horse nosed at the shorter grass beside the water and I slid down off the saddle. My riding boots sunk into the soft soil whe I led her over to the water to drink. A little way downstream, Bohannon did the same with his own mount but he didn’t speak. Rushing past my feet, the water looked clear and cool and I was almost jealous of my horse as I watched her swallow mouthfuls. I stroked her neck instead.

“Good girl. There you go.” I patted her neck and stepped back, turning and coming up short when I found Bohannan much closer than I’d left him.

“Here.” He held out a canteen.

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought to bring one and he knew it. I glanced down at the flowing water.

“You wanna join your horse down there, you be my guest.”

“No, thank you.” I took the canteen and unscrewed the cap, swallowing down a few mouthfuls. I handed it back to him. He took it back without a word and turned toward the east where the sun was rising higher in the sky. A few drops of water clung to his beard and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. I stepped out into the grass and let it tickle at my palms. The stalks pulled at the hem of my dress as I moved a little further into the endless meadow. The sun had risen higher and I took off my hat to feel it full on my face. It was warm. Calming. I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed deep.

It was quiet out here. Quieter than the camp where there was always the sound of men's voices, usually yelling or cursing. Horses. Dogs. The roar of the train. The clank of wagons or of wood and steel for the railroad. And it was quieter than Chicago with its noisy street and endless busyness. Here, out in this wilderness, the only thing I could hear was the wind and the calling of birds and buzzing of insects. Grasses rustled by the wind tickled against my palms and I opened my eyes.

“It’s beautiful.” The words fell out of me in a whisper.

“Yeah. It is.” Bohannon’s tall form appeared at my side. His hat was still firmly on his head and it left his eyes in shadow. I had almost forgotten he was there. I settled my hat back on my head and tucked back some yellow hairs that had escaped from my braid. The buzzing of insects became louder as the day grew warmer. More insistent, like they were demanding to be heard.

I wanted to ask Bohannon why he’d offered to ride with me when it was obvious that he hadn’t wanted to, but I didn’t. I heard a cry from somewhere up above and looked up, holding onto my hat as I found a bird circling high above us.

“Is that an eagle?”

“Chickenhawk. He’s got a red tail on him, see?”

“Oh.” I squinted up at the shape as it wheeled overhead. As it turned, I caught sight of a flash of red. “How did you know that?”

“Seen enough of ‘em.”

“Oh.” I watched the bird continue to circle above us. Hunting, probably, for whatever a bird like that ate. I doubt there were many chickens for it to find out here. I picked the head off a stalk of grass and pulled apart the tiny seeds and fluffy strands. The wind pulled them from my fingers.

Bohannon was still standing quietly and I sneaked a glance at him. He was looking out over the hills. He didn’t seem as rough as the other men who I saw around the camp, but I didn’t know anything about him or where he had come from. At least he didn’t make me want to crawl into a hole and disappear like the Swede did. I supposed that being the foreman required more respectability than a common laborer. Maybe he had been with the railroad since the beginning. But he was a southerner, that much was obvious. I doubted he had fought in the war, my father wouldn’t hire someone who had fought against the Union, so maybe he had been in the north for a long time. I opened my mouth to ask when he turned to me.

“Should be heading back.” Then he spat in the grass. My nose wrinkled before I could stop it. Disgusting habit.

“We just left.”

He didn’t answer. Just raised his eyebrows at me again, like he was waiting for me to realize that he was right and I was wrong. “You think your daddy’s not counting the minutes ‘til we get back?”

I turned back to my horse where she had drunk her fill and had begun nibbling at the grass alongside Bohannon’s. She looked rested. I hadn’t pushed her hard, after all. I walked over to her and took her reins in hand, stroking her neck. Her skin shivered under my palm and she flicked her tail at some insect that was buzzing too close. Bohannon wasn’t wrong. One of the things my father did seem to care about, at least since I had come out west with him, was knowing where I was at all times. He would probably lock me up in his safe if he could.

“You heard the man, Daisy. Should be heading back.” I reached for the saddle horn and lifted my foot for the stirrup but on the soft ground and without the mounting block, I couldn’t reach. I tried again.

“Oh, dratted…”

“You need a hand with that, Miss Durant?”

“No, I’ll manage.” I gripped the saddle horn tighter but Daisy was already annoyed with me and she shifted, forcing me to hop along with her until Bohannan grabbed the reins.

“You sure about that?”

“Would you…” I dropped back down on both feet. “Do you have to do that?”

“Do what, Miss Durant?”

“Talk like that all the time.”

“Well, this is the only way of talkin’ I know how to do.”

He sounded so infuriatingly calm, standing there and holding the reins to my horse and just watching me. His eyes were bright on his tanned face, standing out from his mass of black hair, some of it speckled with grey.

“Yes, but you don’t have to…” I let out a sigh. There wasn’t any point. This man had seen me practically beg my father for someone to go out riding with me and here I was refusing his help to even get back on my horse. I squeezed my hands into fists. None of this was fair. And it was turning me into someone who wasn’t me. “You can help me up onto my horse, Mister Bohannon.”

“Well, now I ain’t so sure.” My eyes had barely widened when Bohannan let out a laugh and stepped closer with his hand out. “Come on, then.”

His hand was rough, calloused, and warm when I finally took it and his other palm was on my waist for just a moment before I was safely in the saddle and he pressed the reins into my hand. I adjusted my seat on the horse, and then my hat on my head, and then smoothed my skirts while Bohannon mounted his own horse. I rode up beside him.