Chapter 34

(Railroad Camp to Mormon Territory)

After that graphic example of the high level of violence in the railroad camp, we did our best to blend into the background of the chaos that was ever changing right in front of our very eyes.

The womenfolk on the wagons retreated a bit further into the shadows of the interiors unless they were actually driving and our Indians managed to look a little less Indian and a little more like dirty, dusty figures on horseback.

Fortunately, the vast majority of the flotsam and jetsam of unwashed masses of humanity ebbing and flowing in and out of the flimsy tents and into the murky alleys leading away from the solid anchor of the track were in some sort of trance like shell-shocked survivors of the heat of battle in the American Civil War. It was probably that constant struggle for survival in the midst of chaos that made them oblivious to their surroundings and that was a point in favor of our group being able to move without confrontation in the middle of the camp.

I looked down into the muddy street below and saw a solitary boot sitting forlornly by itself. It was quite a distance from the body of the recently departed and it took a moment for me to associate it with the remains of that lifeless blob. It seemed impossible that the man had been slammed so rudely from his footgear but the evidence was right there in front of my face.

The recently rescued Mormon survivors were noticeably upset by the violence, but I suspected they had seen their share in recent weeks and months and were quickly learning how to adjust to life on a lawless frontier. The rule of the gun was the order of the day and that was one of the guiding principles that allowed this great country to continue making a mark on the pages of history long after other great Empires had fallen by the wayside.

Rachel and Clarissa were trembling with fear huddling below my knees on the wooden platform of the driver’s section in front of the sturdy wagon. They were wide-eyed and I could tell they wanted us to get away from the shouting and the sounds of guns being fired either into the air in drunken jubilation or at some unfortunate soul in the wrong place at the wrong time.

One of the prettier, decorated tents had drawings of a circus with elephants and tigers and God know what else and on a little platform out front a circle of unhappy looking females were sporting their business-like corsets and leather boots like a uniform of carnally designated altars of sin-related nastiness behind closed doors or curtains. A couple of them had vestiges of remaining beauty that had not quite worn off as yet. The sign over the door simply said, “Two Bits” per hour. I didn’t think the “hour” reference was realistic because in the hustle and bustle of the times, it only took a few short minutes to consummate a sexual relationship of the illicit kind.

I admit I probably looked at the tableau a bit longer than necessary, but I was interested in the fact that the variety of females was interesting from a purely scientific point of view.

I saw China Dolls, a couple of dark-skinned country girls from the Deep South and some nut-brown Senoritas from below the border. Right in the middle of the pack was a lost-looking blonde with the bluest eyes I had ever seen wearing a corset that accentuated her perfect heart-shaped bottom like a frame in some big city art museum.

For a moment, I thought I recognized her, thinking that she was the spitting image of my ex-girlfriend from Brooklyn long forgotten until that moment in time. I remembered I used to call her Maisie, even though that wasn’t really her name. It was some dippy film actress with a heart of gold and a mind that was out to lunch when brains were dished out. Then, I saw it was only a figment of my overactive imagination.

The scared girls at my ankles were looking up at me wondering what I could possibly be finding so interesting when there was danger all around us. The more intelligent Rachel was hugging my knee like she was thinking about exploring a bit higher and I got distracted from my long-range ogling by female pursuits a bit closer to home.

We stopped at the main watering pump and watered down the thirsty stock managing to stay relatively out of sight and out of mind in the midst of the confusion.

I took the opportunity to wander over to the circus decorated tent and struck up a conversation with the blond, blue-eyed female with the tight packed corset of feminine perfection. She told me that she was originally from Poland and had started her western journey with her husband. Unfortunately, he had been caught in a stampede of runaway Texas cattle all unsettled because of drunken cowboys shooting off their six-guns into the empty blue sky just to show all around them that they were free, white and twenty-one. I never did understand that inclination because I had spent a good portion of my life reloading my own rounds and knew the value of each bullet when ammo was low and hard to find.

Her name was Natasha and she confided in me that the other girls called her “Nasty” behind her back because she was willing to do anything that turned on the cowboys with money in their pockets. She was smiling when she told me that and I sensed that she really resented it, but felt helpless to change the circumstances of her lowly position in the scheme of things in the harsh environment of the railroad camp.

I knew her time was money, leading me to purchase an hour of her time. We bounced together like a pair of clowns on the damaged bed until she got hold of my business with her hand and made me a whole lot more compliant with her need for control. I have to admit, she did remind me of Maisie a whole lot and I thought that there was some cosmic force at play tricking me into making a mistake that would mess up the orderly march of time and perhaps even leave me without any future to go back to if I wasn’t real careful.