Nellie sat at her writing desk in her cozy compartment, trying to write the first sentence of her next article. The Coburns were in the dining car, and Nellie had promised them the sleeping compartment for the night. She only had minutes left of peace before she was exiled to the noise of the third-class car, and so she had to write quickly.
But the urgency was lost on her. She was finding the scenery wheeling past her window to be a much more interesting story. As quick as the crew pumped the train’s heart with coal, the sun was still the faster runner in the world. It had already settled into the soft west for a long night’s sleep, but not before laying down rails of light for the train to follow. Nellie watched as the sunshine played in the fields to the north. The way that the red dusk and the shadows it cast rippled in the fields reminded her of a wriggling coral snake she saw in the Arizona Territory once.
It burned her that she couldn’t figure out how to start her article. She chose to blame it on her new editor – a writer’s only as good as their editor, and Samuel was a miserable excuse for his title. Her former editor at the New York World, Mr. Jacobsen, was too quiet for the newspaper world, but he saw a writer where others saw a woman, and Nellie appreciated him for that. But when he passed away, Samuel replaced him, and it felt to Nellie like she fell into a hole that went straight to hell. Before she left New York some days before, she had gotten into a heated debate with Samuel over her writing.
“Ms. Cochrane,” Samuel said, referring to her by her actual name instead of her pen name from the papers, “when you come back from your little excursion in San Francisco, we’re going to have a little talk about your writing.”
“Samuel, we’re going to have this talk now. Just hearing the way you said that makes me angry, and you don’t want me to pent up my rage over the next few months.”
“When you come back, we’re putting you on the society page.”
Nellie looked disgusted. “I already did that back in Pittsburgh. If you want to be arrested for homicide, put me on that and watch me die from boredom. You want me to talk about fashion? I can barely spell the word as it is.”
“Perhaps, but the fact of the matter is your writing is a gimmick. The readers are more interested about you going undercover than they are about the subjects. Soon, the novelty is going to wear off like it is ink on the page, and where would that leave you? You’re going to have to evolve, Ms. Cochrane, as much as you don’t want to.”
“You do know that we work for a tabloid, right?” Nellie asked, baffled.
“Why do you think they hired me? All this paper does is print stories about crime sprees. It’s as mature as children passing notes in class, and that is why the deep pockets that run this paper hired me, so that the paper can get the respect it deserves.”
“And just like a child, the paper’s going to regret it ever wanted to grow up,” Nellie snapped. “You’re caught up in the old ways of playing this game.”
“And you’re caught up in your own sensationalism.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you have to distance yourself from your work and not take things so personal. It means working to standards that aren’t your own. And it means not to make so many enemies.”
“You mean you don’t want the newspaper to make enemies,” Nellie said cynically. “I’m not a dog – you can’t expect me to make friends.”
“I’m starting to understand that about you. You know what I also understand? In this world, you can either help people or make money. You can’t do both. I want you to think about that the next time you write an article. You can choose to write a review of a play that the theater paid us to write. Or you can write an article about orphans being forced to blast holes in mountains and get everyone upset. But I can guarantee you that, as outraged as everyone would get, they won’t act on it.” Samuel paused, then added nastily, “If that’s all you’re looking for is to do good, then you should have become a nun.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Nellie lurched back into the present. She looked up from her blank paper to the door behind her. “Who is it?” Nellie called out.
“I’m one of the porters, ma’am. I’m just checking to make sure everything is in order.”
“Everything’s fine in here.”
“Are you sure? Are you a qualified porter, like I obviously am?” The voice persisted.
Nellie laughed a little, now wanting to put a face to the voice. And so she walked across her little room towards the door and opened it. Standing in the doorway was a man who was dressed like a porter but who looked nothing like one. He was too skinny for his uniform, the sleeves fitting him like a loose blanket. And his hair was too slimy, and his beard too gnarled, for the train company’s strict dress code. But as slovenly as the man looked, his eyes were the boxer’s sharp jabs when so many others looked at the world through vacant eyes.
“How’s everything in here?” The porter asked vigorously, squeezing past a surprised Nellie and inspecting the room. “Are your pillows comfortable enough? We could strangle some birds if you need more feathers for the pillows. Are you getting enough light in the room? Of course not – it’s nighttime after all. Did you need another bottle of wine?”
Nellie looked quizzically at him. “Since when did they start serving drinks in the sleeping compartments?”
The porter paused, trying to find the next words to say. He then feigned shock. “You mean to tell me that the porter I saw taking a bottle out of the dining car was actually stealing it? You know, sometimes I don’t even recognize this country anymore.” Before Nellie had a chance to say anything else, the porter barreled on, “Anyway, did you need any more blankets?” He saw the Coburns’ luggage sitting on the floor next to the bed. “It looks like you have company. Did they need any more blankets?”
Nellie peered at him, growing more curious by the second. “You ask a lot of questions – now let me ask one. Do I know you from somewhere? Something about you seems so familiar.”
“That’s funny, ma’am, because I was about to ask you the same exact question. By chance, are you related to someone who was found dead under mysterious circumstances?”
Nellie was taken aback by this. “No, but I bet you say that to all of the pretty women you’ve ever met.”
“Not all of them – just the ones I want to stop asking questions.”
Nellie flopped down exaggerated on the mattress, pretending to be casual. She was actually digging through the bedcovers, trying to find the stiletto that she had put on the bed earlier when she was unpacking. She had gotten the knife from a man in New Orleans who had tried to rob her. In the dark, she felt the handle and grasped it. The moment the porter decided to stop playing games, she would be ready to make his stomach leak.
“Mister…?” Nellie asked.
“Sigerson,” the porter said, finishing her sentence.
“Call me crazy…”
“What a name for someone to give their child,” the porter interrupted.
“You didn’t let me finish. As I was saying, call me crazy but I don’t think you are who you say you are,” Nellie said accusingly. The porter looked nervous and tried to say something, but Nellie cut him off. It was her turn to interrupt him now. “Stop trying to be so clever – you’re just making yourself sound stupid.”
The porter stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “Oh well, I guess there’s no point in me continuing the charade.”
“No, no there’s no. Who are you really?”
“Would it sound less ridiculous if I said that I was an inspector checking on the thread count of pillows onboard the train?”
Nellie simply rolled her eyes. The porter shrugged. “It was worth a try. And I need your trust because I might need your help.”
“And what makes you think you can trust me?”
“To put it simply, if I don’t confide in someone soon, I’m going to go insane.
And you look like the kind of person I can trust. We may have known each other for only a minute, but I feel like we’re both the same person in more ways than one.”
“I’m hoping that wasn’t meant as a compliment.”
The porter looked sour, but continued, “My name is Ian Hunter. I’m a professional adventurer who’s currently working pro bono.”
“So you’re a vagrant,” Nellie said bluntly.
Ian couldn’t help but laugh. “No, no – that would mean I wouldn’t have any direction in my life. I know exactly where I’m going.”
Nellie lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? It seems like you can’t even decide who you are right now.”
“Speaking of that, how did you know that I wasn’t a porter? I want to know, for educational purposes.”
“It was simple really. Anyone with half a brain could have seen right through that disguise of yours.”
Ian protested, “But I already fooled over a dozen people before I got to you.”
Nellie snorted. “Again, anyone with half a brain could see through it. For one thing, every porter that works for the company seems like they’re fitted for their uniform, and your uniform is a few sizes too large…”
“Well, eating right and exercising can do that.”
“Two, you were acting smart.”
“Thank you for that…” Ian started to say then stopped. “Oh, you meant the bad kind of smart.”
Nellie nodded. “This train company treats its passengers better than it treats its own employees. Based on the way you’ve been talking to me, the company should have fired you a long time ago.”
“It sounds like I’m not the only one around here who has pretended to be someone else.”
“You said you’re doing it for free – I do it for money. I’m a journalist who works undercover.”
Ian looked interested. Nellie was expecting him to recognize the only prominent female journalist in the country, but all Ian said was, “Do you have a sample of your work? I’m interested in reading some of it.”
“Maybe later.”
Ian looked thoughtful. “Well, I can see you working undercover now. That would certainly explain why you weren’t alarmed when you found me out. Anyone else would have been terrified. Although I imagine if I had a knife in my hand, I wouldn’t be afraid either.”
Surprised, Nellie glanced down, but she saw that her hand with the blade was still concealed under the bedsheets. “How did you know…?”
“You looked too calm, and you were gripping onto something tight underneath the sheets. Since you aren’t a child, I’m assuming that it isn’t a doll.”
“That’s very perceptive for an adventurer.”
“Professional adventurer,” Ian corrected her. He sat down at the desk chair. “Perhaps I should provide some context.”
“Yes, please.”
“Some adventurers climb mountains, others swim in shipwrecks. I’m going to Cheyenne to save a woman I know from being murdered.”
“Okay, you’re going to need to provide a bit more context,” Nellie requested.
“You’re going to find this hard to believe, but I have a lot of enemies,” Ian explained. “I came across a letter not too long ago that confirmed that hit men were being hired to kill the woman in my life. I’ve already put a stop to one of the hired killers, but the remaining one is onboard this train somewhere, waiting to be caught without knowing it.”
“And what, exactly, makes you think that I’m not the killer?” Nellie asked.
Ian looked at her oddly. “Well, it’s simple, really – you aren’t a former military officer who’s from Louisiana.”
“You found all of that out just from that one letter?”
“Of course I did. The letter was written by the second hitman to his employer, accepting the assignment. He opened the letter with Bonjou, which is a French greeting with a pronounced Cajun twist to it. As well, the letter’s writer referenced that he will be in uniform during the trip to Wyoming.
“And what makes you think that just because he’s wearing a uniform that makes him a soldier? Lots of people wear uniforms. He could be a postal worker for all you know.”
“Because dressing as a military officer gives you certain privileges, like instantly earning people’s trust as well as being able to carry a gun.”
“Still sounds like a postal worker to me. But this is all very perceptive for a professional adventurer like you.”
“I’m no detective,” Ian said modestly. “I can sit on an apple, though, and tell you what flavor it is.”
Nellie laughed – she couldn’t help it. “I suppose there’s no amount of explanation that can possibly help. I just want you to know how incredible all of this sounds. This must be some woman of yours.”
Ian shook his head. “First, she’s no one’s woman. Second, have you ever met someone so flawless that they ruined your life? She’s that person to me.”
The words had sounded bitter enough, but there was a little smile that Ian couldn’t hide. Nellie, who had spent some time living as other people, could see when other people wore masks. There was a heart beating behind Ian’s cold, logical heart, even if that heart was nothing more than a fiber. Nellie couldn’t find it in herself to turn him away, even a few minutes later, when Ian convinced her to let him see a sample of her work. Her thanks was him deriding her writing as having as much heart as it did logical fallacies. He was a jackass, but a good jackass.
Chapter 5