The Railwalkers

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1Chick-uh chick-uh, chick-uh chick-uh.

From beneath the train, iron wheels clacked against their rails, speeding along the track as one, great beast. Giant plumes of steam shot from its metal smokestack as it roared along the plains. The horizon stretched out for miles and miles of flat land. It was devilishly hot inside, even with the train windows cracked to allow in the desert air. Ladies fanned themselves, and gentlemen pat their sweat casually whilst reading the newspaper. Currently, the train was on its way from Georgia, through Mississippi, and into the new land of the Arkansas territory. Directly in the middle of the compartment, riding beside her mother, little ten-year-old Violet Donovan stared out the window, watching the horizon pass by.

Violet was the curious sort, with big brown eyes evenly set in a peachy, soft face. Her curls were loose and matched her eyes, tucked currently into a pale blue bonnet. She wore a blue dress, done up with lace and bows along her hems. It was the nicest dress she owned; despite the heat, her mother insisted she wear it. Mrs. Donovan, sitting beside her child, rode otherwise alone. The ring on her right finger suggested a widow, and the price of her dress implied her wealth. Violet laid her arms along the edge of the window, staring mindlessly towards the horizon. Even the glass was hot, but Violet didn’t mind. “What’s Arkansas like, Mama?” she asked. “Does it look like this?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Donovan. She took a photograph from her clutch purse, examining it. On the back was an inscription in pencil: Donovan Estate, AK, 1874. “All I know is what the house looks like.”

“It’s so much smaller than back home,” said Violet, looking at it. “Do I get horses?”

“Of course, sugar. Maybe not as many.”

Violet went back to her window. “Don’t see why we gotta move anyhow,” she said. “I liked home just fine.”

“Things change, Violet.” Her mother returned the photo. “Doesn’t mean it’ll be a bad change.”

“Hm.” Violet tapped her fingers on the glass, leaving little smudges behind. As her mind wandered, something peculiar caught her eye. An unusually thick cloud of dust kicked up like a storm, just a few yards away from the train. Looking closer, Violet saw horses obscured by the cloud. A thrill of excitement shot through her, and she turned to tug on her mother’s arm.

“Mama!” she said excitedly. “Horses! I saw horses outside! Men ridin’ em, too!”

“What? Don’t be silly, child.” But Mrs. Donovan looked out anyway. To Violet’s surprise, the horses and their riders were gone from sight. Mrs. Donovan clicked her tongue. “I swear, your mind gets away from you sometimes.”

“But I really saw ‘em!” she swore. “Honest!”

“Yes, Violet.” Mrs. Donovan closed her eyes, resting her head against her seat.

Disappointed, Violet went back to the window, eager to find the mystery horses again. She saw no sign of them. With a sad huff, she laid her forehead against the hot glass, wondering if she had in fact imagined it.

That’s when she heard rustling above them. Violet looked around and saw that a few other passengers noticed the noise as well. Violet pushed herself to her knees, craning her neck over their many heads to see if something was happening.

Bang! Shouts of surprise echoed through the compartment like an ocean wave. People fell back, women clutched their pearls, and young Violet braced herself against the headrest of her seat, staring at the back of their train car.

The door, just seconds ago, had been kicked wide open. In came two bandits, bandannas covering their lower faces. The first was a colored man, a derby low on his forehead. Wireframe glasses pinched his nose. In each hand he held a loaded six shooter, both of which were pointed at the terrified passengers. The second, carrying a dangerous Winchester rifle, was a c******n, his hair long and braided down his back. He wore a cowboy’s hat, the brim nearly hiding his dark eyes.

“Alright y’all, stay still and keep your hands where I can see them!” The first man barked orders, leaving the passengers cowering in their seats. When the panic settled, the two slowly made their way through the compartment, eyes scanning the crowd patiently. Violet’s mother grabbed her tight, and pull her in to safety. Still, both frightened and fascinated, she struggled to watch.

“Now,” the bandit continued, “comply with our request, and we shall rid you of our presence right quick. We’re lookin’ for a Mr. Randolph Johnson!” They continued to walk through the train car, until they were just parallel to Violet’s seat. She watched through her mother’s arms as the man continued to search. Violet turned to the second. His face had not changed expression, his eyes sharper than knives. The c******n turned suddenly to where Violet was watching him. He didn’t seem too old. Violet felt his eyes pierce into hers, yet as frightened as she was, she couldn’t look away. Their gazes only broke when Mrs. Donovan shielded Violet with her arm.

“Come now,” the first bandit continued. “There’s no need to try and hide, Mr. Johnson. We know you’re here. We know your face. And we think you know why we’re here for you.” That’s when he stopped, spotting a rotund gentleman near the front row. “There we are.”

Randolph Johnson, a squat, fat fellow with an expensive suit, burst from his seat and tried to escape through the front door. But as he did, it swung open to reveal an Indian twice the size of a normal man. His face was not covered, and his features were square and serious. His black hair was tied in a knot beneath his own cap, which barely fit his huge head.

Johnson, sweating, turned back and forth. Guns behind him, a beast before him. He truly had nowhere to run. Near the middle, a man began to stand, perhaps to alert the conductor or try and help, himself. But with a c**k of his rifle, the c******n kept him at bay.

“Keep still.” His voice, Violet immediately noticed, was unlike a man’s in every way. Why, this person was a woman. The well-meaning passenger quickly sat back down, his wife clutching his arm. The woman pulled her rifle away and nodded to the Indian standing at the doorway.

Without a word, the native grabbed Johnson by his collar and yanked him through the door and up to the roof of the train. The black man followed, but the woman lingered. She turned, her rifle at the ready, though no one dared go after them. Once more, her eyes fell to Violet. Violet hadn’t cowered, or looked away as so many other children had. Instead, she sat in her mother’s lap, staring intently at the outlaw, as if afraid to blink and miss something.

Under her bandanna, the woman smiled, and shut the door behind her. The minute she was gone, a great commotion rose up with the passengers. Some brave men tried to get through the door, but found it barred from the other side. Violet quickly rushed back to her window with just enough time to catch the three outlaws riding away, Randolph Johnson dragging behind them in the dirt.

* * * *

Violet woke slowly. Outside her window, the sky was still somberly gray, but she could hear the birds and bugs begin to stir. The springs in her mattress creaked as she sat up, a sweat already coating her skin from the humid night before. Downstairs, she heard Charlie up and working on breakfast.

She went to her washbowl and wet her hair and face. Patting it dry, she caught sight of her reflection. It’d been ten years since her move to the Donovan Estate in Arkansas. And ten years since seeing the notorious Railwalker Gang in person. Since then, Violet had grown into a respectable young lady. Her hair had transformed into a dark honey color, her childhood freckles fading. While her more innocent features gave way to womanly shapes, her eyes remained the same. They were still wide and brimming with curiosity.

By the time Violet had changed for the day, the sun was starting to peek over the little town of Redrock. Violet’s home was near the end of the town, looking over the small stretch of buildings along a single, dirt road. There was the general store, owned by Mr. Munts, the barber, a school house, church, saloon, barnyard, and a few homes and businesses sprinkled here and there.

“Violet!” came a call. “Up yet? Breakfast’s almost ready!”

“Coming, Charlie!” Violet gave her hair one last brush before heading downstairs. Charlie had been hired by Mrs. Donovan just a few days after their arrival. Born in the south and later freed as a young woman, Charlie moved out west to make a name for herself. She had pitch black skin and even darker eyes and hair. Only her smile and the white of her eyes contrasted her face. Violet had grown a good liking to Charlie, and Mrs. Donovan made it a point to pay her well.

“Good morning, Miss Violet,” she said pleasantly. “We’ve got hotcakes today.”

“Oh!” Violet looked over Charlie’s shoulder with glee. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, Miss,” said Charlie with a smile. “Just figured I’d make ‘em.”

“You’re too good to me, Charlie.” She kissed Charlie’s cheek. “You need any washing water?”

“No, Ma’am. I gots it all already, thank you.”

“Well, I’m gonna go see Maple before breakfast,” said Violet.

“You be sure and wash up before you eat!” Charlie called after her. Violet nodded and walked through the back door of the kitchen. The Donovan Estate covered about one hundred and fifty acres, most of it overgrown with trees. There was, however, enough open land to support a small group of horses, raised by Violet herself.

Not minding the mud on the edge of her dress, Violet walked to the stable, where she heard pleasant burrs of her horses. She opened the door and stepped inside. “Good mornin’ ladies!” The horses replied in kind, and Violet went over to one particular stable door. Maple, the horse behind it, was butterscotch and cream colored, whose eyes reflected Violet’s own warm browns. Violet grabbed a handful of feed and brought it up to her. The horse happily gobbled it from her palm, leaving a puddle of spit in its place.

Violet giggled. “Today feels like a good day for a ride. How’s that sound?” Maple nodded her head eagerly, as though she understood the question. After breakfast, Violet helped Charlie with the washing and the silver. She never minded, even though her mother disproved. Violet liked conversations with Charlie; she always had a story to tell, and Violet was an eager audience. Stories of adventure, of heroes and monsters. Even now as an adult, she would eagerly listen whenever she could. Today, Charlie retold the story of Bobby Hansen—a man lucky in cards, unlucky in love—and the Boo Hag.

“…So night after night, Bobby’s new bride would scuttle away just after he fell asleep, only to come back just afore sunup. She’d never say where she’d been, and always acted so sweet in the day. Not knowin’ what to do, Bobby sought the advice of a Hoodoo priestess ten miles out of town. ‘You watch her,’ she tells Bobby. ‘You pretend to be a’sleepin’, and you watch her. And then, you come back to me.’ Well, Bobby does as he’s told, and follows her one night up to the attic. He watches his wife sit at a spinnin’ wheel, and starts spinnin’ off her very skin!”

Violet, hands resting on the edge of the silver pitcher she’d forgotten about, watched with eager eyes. “The Boo Hag!”

“The Boo Hag,” Charlie agreed with a smile. “Sure ‘nuff, Bobby comes back to the priestess to tell her what he saw. ‘You’ve married a Boo Hag,’ she says. ‘A shape-shiftin’ witch who brings men to her Boo Daddy, who eats their flesh and bones. And if you don’t get her first, that’s exactly what’ll happen to you.’“

“I hardly think this is an appropriate story for a young lady to hear.” Both Violet and Charlie turned to see Mrs. Donovan at the door, a frown on her face. “Really, Charlie, ain’t you got nicer stories to tell?”