“I intend to be,” Malcolm replied.
From the bank he took a hansom cab to Grand Central Station, where he bought tickets to Denver, Colorado.
“Ha,” he said to himself as he took a seat in the cavernous waiting room to wait for his train. “Duff MacCallister, you are going to be one surprised man when you see me.”
Chapter Ten
Three days earlier, Duff had left New York via the New York Central Railroad. The train traveled along the Hudson River for a while, then passed through Buffalo, Cleveland, and Toledo, and finally, Chicago. At Chicago, he changed from the New York Central to the Illinois Central, which took him south to St. Louis. There he boarded the Missouri Pacific Railroad to Kansas City, paralleling the Missouri River across the state. At Kansas City, he realized that his clothes seemed out of place with the type of clothes worn by most of the men here, so he visited a clothing store to update his wardrobe. Here, he bought three pair of blue denim trousers, a pair of boots, and three six-button shirts, one red, one white, and one blue.
The store had a hardware department including a gun store. Duff wandered through the gun store and though he initially was drawn by curiosity only, he saw a display of Enfield Mark 1 Revolvers.
British Enfield Revolver
Sidearm of British Officers
and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
You can own this fine weapon
for only $20.00
This was the pistol Duff had carried during his military campaign in Egypt. He was familiar with it, and particularly liked the potency of its bullets, which were slightly over .47 caliber. When he picked the piece up, its heft and balance felt familiar to him.
“You know anything about that gun, Mister?”
“Aye, I know a bit,” Duff replied.
“Here now, and are you English?”
“Scottish.”
“Well then, maybe you do know something about it. To tell the truth, we just got an order in. Most of the folks comin’ through here are buyin’ Colts, Remingtons, Smith and Wesson. Ain’t nobody bought one of these yet. Are you lookin’ to buy it?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you buy it, I’ll throw in a box of ammunition.”
“Make it three boxes, and I’ll also buy a belt and holster for it,” Duff said.
A broad smile spread across the storekeeper’s face. “Mister, you got yourself a deal.”
An hour later, with his newly purchased clothes, gun, holster, and ammunition packed away in his sea bag, the same one that Kelly had given him when he left the Hiawatha, Duff boarded a Kansas and Northern Railroad train bound for Omaha. There, he made the final change of trains, boarding a Union Pacific train called the Western Flyer. He found the name of the train amusing, for while the Eastern trains had averaged a swift forty miles per hour on the open track, the Western Flyer proceeded along at the leisurely pace of from sixteen to twenty miles per hour.
While at the station in Omaha he bought a book called Williams Pacific Tourist and Guide Across the Continent.1
The book had an entire page of testimonials and endorsements, including a review from Publishers’ Weekly that declared it to be among “the very best efforts ever issued,” with a “richness and completeness in illustrations, information and description that can only be realized by an examination of the work.”
The slow, steady pace of the train traversing over long, straight rails made it easy for Duff to read.
Colorado is an empire of itself in enterprise, scenic beauty and abundance of pleasure resorts. In 1870, few or none of these were known, and towns were small in number and population. Since that time, it has become a center of great railroad activity, has grown in wonderful flavor as an attractive region for summer travel; and as a country for health-giving and life-giving strength, it has drawn thither thousands who have made it their permanent home.
Looking through the window, Duff could almost imagine that he was at sea, so vast was the expanse of gently undulating prairie, the grass waving rhythmically in the breeze. And, as if he were at sea, his view extended, uninterrupted, all the way to the horizon.
He saw three horsemen come toward the train. They rode alongside, not only keeping pace with the train, but often racing ahead, then dropping back. They took off their hats and waved them overhead. It looked as if they were shouting as well, but Duff could not hear them above the noise of the train.
“Oh, look, Sally!” said a young woman in the forward part of the same car in which Duff was riding. “They must be cowboys!”
“How exciting!” the other young woman replied, and they raised the window and began waving, flirtatiously, at the three young riders. Duff was certain that there must be other young women on the train, providing the same inducement to the cowboys, and he smiled, then turned his attention back to the book.
Cowboys are, as a class very rough fellows, with long hair and beard, wide-brimmed hats, best fitting boots they can buy with large spurs jingling at their heels, and a small arsenal in the shape of revolvers strapped to their waists with a careless appearance.
Odd, Duff thought, that at the very moment he was seeing cowboys, he would be reading about them. A second glance at the three young riders bore out the comment in the book, that they would be armed, for all three were wearing holstered pistols.
He returned to the book.
Their chief pleasure is in a row; their chief drink is straight whiskey, and they usually seem to feel better when they have killed somebody. Houses of prostitution and tippling saloons follow close in their wake.
They are generous to their friends, dividing even the last dollar with a comrade who is broke, treacherous and vengeful to their enemies and human life is but little account with them. Their life is one of constant exposure and very laborious. They are perfect horsemen—usually in the saddle sixteen out of every twenty-four hours. Many have died with their boots on, and many more will perish the same way. Living violent lives, they often meet with violent deaths. The community in which they live, and the country generally, will be better off when their kind is gone.
As there was no dining car on this train, as there had been on the trains east of Omaha, it made regularly scheduled stops for meals, the first stop being North Bend, Nebraska.
As the train began slowing, the porters moved through the aisles of each car making the announcement.
“Folks, we are in North Bend. We’ll be here for an hour and a half. If you’re hungry, best you buy somethin’ to eat, here.”
North Bend was a thriving town with several stores, a hotel, lumberyard, and grain elevator. Meals were served in the depot restaurant for one dollar, which Duff had learned, was the standard fare for all meals west of Omaha. The meal was ham and fried potatoes, which also seemed to be standard fare.
Next door to the Union Pacific Depot was the Occidental Saloon. Not wanting to fight the crowded lunchroom, and in no mood for the standard ham and fried potatoes, Duff stepped into the saloon, hoping they would also serve food of some sort.
“Yes, indeed, we serve food,” the bartender said. “Lots of folks come in here from the train ’cause they don’t like the crowds.”
“And would ye be for tellin’ me what sort of fare can one get here?”
“You’re a foreigner, ain’t you?”
“Aye, from Scotland.”
“Yes, sir, I thought it was somethin’ like that. I can tell by your accent.”
“What can I get to eat here?”
“Chicken an’ dumplin’s is what you can get here. And it’s a might tastier than the ham an’ taters you get over at the railroad depot.”