End of the Line
The construction of the Union Pacific Railroad brought hopes of prosperity to the region when it reached Cheyenne on November 13, 1867. The population at the time numbered over 4,000, and grew rapidly. This rapid growth earned the city the nickname "Magic City of the Plains"
Chapter 1
Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867
The rhythmic clatter of iron wheels against rail filled Róisín's ears as the train sliced through the unfamiliar Wyoming landscape. She pressed her forehead to the soot-streaked window, green eyes wide, drinking in every passing detail. Rolling hills blurred into sun-baked valleys dotted with scraggly brush. The foreign scenery rushed by in a flash of dusty hues.
A dull ache throbbed in her gut, sharp pangs of homesickness mingling with the constant rocking of the railcar. The pungent smell of coal smoke stung her nostrils, her mind wandered back to those final nights in the cramped Boston flat. Mama's wheezing breaths, the bitter tang of medicine, the cold hand of death an unwelcome intruder.
Róisín swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. She smoothed a crease in her faded blue dress. No time for a new mourning gown with the urgency to reach Lochlan. Not after paying the parish fees for Mama's burial from the scant savings. Her slender hand toyed with the cameo brooch at her neckline, a final cherished memento, as her vision blurred with unshed tears.
"You best tidy yourself, miss." The bass rumble beside her shattered Róisín's melancholy reverie. She stiffened, slender shoulders drawing inward at her seatmate's thick Southern drawl. "We'll be stoppin' in Cheyenne before the sun sets behind them buttes."
Róisín blinked, glancing over at the portly man. He worked his way through a plate of eggs and a greasy strip of bacon, speckles of grease glistening on his ruddy cheeks. Róisín's stomach churned and she swallowed hard against rising nausea.
When she didn't reply, the man wiped his mouth with a pristine white handkerchief and thrust out his palm. "Name's Henry. Henry St. Paul, ma'am, at your service."
His meaty hand engulfed Róisín's slight fingers as she managed a polite smile. "Róisín Brannigan."
"My apologies, Miss Brannigan." A chuckle shook his ample belly beneath a sweat-stained shirt. "You must've been sleepin' when I joined ye. Else I'd have introduced myself proper." His beefy finger jabbed toward her empty lap. "You missed the breakfast service. Want me to flag the cart for you on its return?"
Róisín swallowed again, willing her rebelling stomach to settle. "Thank you, Sir, but I'm not feelin' quite myself at the moment."
"Well, don't you fret if you change your mind." Henry puffed out his chest, pride ringing in his slow cadence. "The Union Pacific prides itself on top service."
His bluster triggered a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "Do you work for the rail, then?"
A conspiratorial wink accompanied Henry's cryptic "Somethin' like that. Just say I help keep the whole operation runnin' smoothly."
Before Róisín could probe further, a piercing shriek shattered the rhythmic chug of the locomotive. Her heart thumpt against her ribs as a violent lurch whipped her forward. Her hand shot out, fingernails scrabbling at the wooden armrest to maintain balance. Shouts and the thunder of boots erupted from the rear car.
"What in God's name?" She gasped, throat tight with panic as several men sprinted toward the engine car.
"Now there's the root of the problem," Henry murmured, his genial demeanor evaporating. His blunt finger pointed beyond the sash window.
Squinting against the blazing sun, Róisín strained to discern a cluster of mounted figures silhouetted against the horizon on a nearby bluff. Dread crawled up her spine as she realized with dawning horror – they were men on horseback, six or seven by her count, garbed in strange regalia.
"Bandits?" Her voice cracked, barely audible over the frantic pounding of blood in her ears.
Henry snorted disdain. "Worse'n bandits. Damn savages, them, just waitin' to strike once we slow for the station."
A gun materialized in a younger man's grip as he rose to his feet beside them. Róisín emitted a strangled gasp, hands flying to her throat as the barrel leveled with the window. She squeezed her eyes shut, shrinking against the seat. Dear Lord, was this to be her fate? Cut down by wild Indians before even reaching Cheyenne?
Guttural cries pierced the air, haunting and feral, propelling Róisín's lids back open. Through the smudged glass, a painted face snapped into view, vivid streaks of colored clay contorting with loud shrieks. The warrior's eyes bored into hers for an endless heartbeat, flashing with rage and untamed fury. As his lips parted, revealing his teeth, a blast sounded from within the car.
Crimson sprayed across the glass, as the warrior clutched his chest. He crumpled backward off the galloping pony, legs trailing limply before thudding to the dry earth in a puff of dust. The remaining warriors scattered and fled, as the train picked up speed.
"You shot him!" Róisín's voice trembled as strong hands grasped her arms.
"Of course I shot him." The young man with the rifle spoke with an edge of impatience. "You know what would happen if that got his filthy hands on you?"
Róisín shrank from his harsh tone, her face blanching. "I've..." Her words faltered, the haunting image overwhelming any semblance of rational thought.
Henry's booming intercession silenced the brash shooter. "There'll be no talk of ethics on the frontier, William." He turned a far kinder expression on Róisín. "Where'd you travel from, young miss? From the way you took to heart that little...unpleasantness, I suspect you ain't seen much of this land."
"Boston," she whispered, hugging her elbows beneath the frayed sweater. "I'm from Boston."
His bushy brows lifted in surprise. "Well, I'll be damned. Quite a trek you've made then." A rumbling chuckle vibrated in his barrel chest. "Though I reckon they don't have Injuns like that back East, even in the city slums. Not like the breed that roams these territories."
As Henry continued on about the 'civilized' savage, Róisín sat back against the padded bench. Squeezing her eyes shut she tried to force the image of the man's twisted face from her memory.
Within the hour the brakes hissed and the locomotive shuddered. Activity beyond the soot-caked windows signaled their arrival – Cheyenne at last. A welcome reprieve, so she thought, from the nightmarish visions replaying in her mind.
The train slowed to a jerking halt, steel wheels shrieking against the rails. Through the warped glass, Róisín glimpsed a ramshackle collection of tents and rickety wooden shanties clustered around the crude depot platform. A tang of smoke and sour odors wafted through the cracked window.
"End of the line!" bellowed the conductor's gravelly baritone.
Róisín rose on trembling legs, clutching her meager belongings – a faded travel bag and a threadbare shawl to ward off the evening chill. She hesitated on the swaying step, peering out at the squalid encampment with trepidation. This... this was to be her new home? The dismal scene fell devastatingly short of Lochlan's letters depicting a burgeoning boomtown.
"Not quite what you pictured, eh, Miss Brannigan?" Henry chuckled, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes as he took in her disappointed expression.
His thick palm engulfed her fingers as he clasped her hand. "Second thoughts about joinin' your brother? No one would fault you for turning back to Boston's civilized streets after that..." He trailed off with an understated grimace.
Róisín's gaze drifted down the tracks they had just traveled, where the fallen warrior's form had dwindled to a speck amidst the vast landscape. A tremor racked her body, though she couldn't discern if the chill stemmed from lingering terror or her own doubts of leaving Boston.
"I'm here now, sir," she replied, permitting a flicker of determination to harden her delicate features. "No sense in turning around now."
"Well said, my dear." Booming approval swelled Henry's rotund cheeks into an approving smile. Henry leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper as he gently squeezed Róisín's shoulder. "Listen carefully," he instructed, pointing towards the bustling encampment on their left. "Stay on this side and don't wander past that large tent in the center. That's where the...Negroes and Indians reside."
"Make sure you keep to town, the railroad camp will be moving on after the winter, once they make it to Laramie." Henry chuckled, catching her off guard with a wink. "You'll find most folk out here aren't as refined as you are."
Róisín couldn't help but smile at his unique way of describing things. Refined? She had never considered herself as such, and the thought nearly brought a laugh to her lips. As she looked around at the makeshift tents and unkempt men who seemed to have forgotten when they last bathed, she had to admit there was some truth to his words.
Suddenly, Henry's booming voice called out, drawing her attention to a man approaching the platform. "Ah, Mr. Carson!" Henry greeted him with enthusiasm, beckoning him over for a word.
The tall well-built man in sweat-stained chambray removed his battered hat as he approached, his long blond curls tousled in the breeze. "What can I do for you, Mr. St. Paul?"
A sudden flush of heat blossomed across Róisín's temples as the men beside her dissolved into an indistinct blur. Black spots flickered in her vision as exhaustion, grief, and trauma swelled in her chest. Her eyelids fluttered, the sickly scents of the ramshackle town assaulting her senses until she swayed precariously. Strong hands steadied her from either side, anchoring Róisín's to the present. She blinked, refocusing on Henry's round, concerned frown and Carson's worried grimace.
"Easy there, Miss," soothed Carson.
"See this young woman to safe keeping." Henry clapped Róisín's shoulder, nearly driving her slight frame to her knees. "Brannigan is awaiting her arrival. I trust you can ensure she finds him without any...unpleasantries befalling her after the excitement along the tracks."
"Excitement?" Carson questioned Róisín as Henry waddled off.
Róisín's eyes widened with fear as she looked up at Carson. "Indians," she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "They stopped the train and one of them rode right next to the window, screaming and covered in paint."
"Was anyone hurt?" Carson's forehead creased with concern.
"One of the men on the train shot the Indian, but no one inside was injured."
"Sonuvabitch!" Carson muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Sorry for the language Ma'am."
"It's okay," Róisín replied, blushing slightly. "I'm sure I'll hear worse around here."
"Oh, you will," Carson chuckled, picking up her trunk with ease. He then offered her his arm. "Let me help you with this." "Brannigan huh?" Carson shook his head in disbelief. "I wasn't aware that ole mick was married."
"No," Róisín laughed softly. "I'm his sister."
"Beg your pardon ma'am." He smiled and
Róisín tilted her head curiously. "What do you do here, Mr. Carson?"
"Just Carson," he replied with a smile, scratching at the stubble on his jawline. "I oversee the work crew. Most these men are fugitives or have some other kind of trouble following them. Just remember to stay inside at night and steer clear of that part of the camp over there." He pointed towards a specific area where a large tent stood in the center.
As she trudged through the muddy trail, Róisín suddenly felt something pull at her boot. She struggled and tugged until it finally released with a loud squelch. "Mr. St. Paul, warned me," she thought ruefully, nodding in acknowledgment as she wiped off the mud from her boot onto the grassy ground. "Is it always so…" she stammered at a loss for polite words.
"There's a great many things we lack here, Miss Brannigan," Carson remarked with a sidelong glance. His mouth twitched at one corner, not unkindly. "But filth, stench, and hard work ain't among 'em. You'll become accustomed to them soon enough, I reckon."
Róisín stumbled a smear of grime streaked her hem as she righted herself with a quiet huff. "I expect so, Mr. Carson. Though my brother failed to paint an..." Her brows arched as she struggled for a diplomatic phrasing, "... accurate picture in his letters."
Carson snorted a chuckle as they rounded a corner. His grimy knuckles rapped against the weathered oak door before them. "Can't say I'm surprised ole Lock would gloss over a few details about this godforsaken camp."
Before Róisín could voice an indignant retort, the scuffed door swung open with a protracted groan of rusted hinges. Lochlan, her sole remaining family, filled the doorway – taller and leaner than she remembered yet still unmistakably her elder brother. His ruddy complexion was sun-beaten, creased around the edges of his sky-blue eyes in a squint of confusion. Róisín's heart stuttered at the sight of his familiar features after so many years apart.
"Róise?" The lines around his mouth deepened into a stunned grin as he clamped a hand on the doorframe. "What in God's name are you doin' out in this ungodly place, lass?"
Róisín tried and failed to withhold a reciprocal half-smile, her chin quivering with a complicated swell of emotions. "It's...been too long, big brother."
"Too damned long if ye thought to just show up unannounced, without so much as a telegraph ahead!" Lochlan threw an arm around her shoulder, tugging Róisín through the doorway in a fierce embrace that stole her breath. The scent of stale whiskey and cigar smoke clung to his shirtfront, oddly reassuring in its familiarity. "And alone, no less! Knowin' the Injun dangers lurkin' along the route..."
He pulled back, gripping her shoulders to hold Róisín at arm's length for scrutiny. Concern furrowed his brow as he raked his gaze over her pale complexion and the dark rings etched beneath her eyes. "What's happened, Róise? Why've you traveled across half the country to this forsaken corner of the world?"
With a ragged breath, the floodgates crumbled and the bitter truth came pouring forth in a torrent.
"Mama... she's..." A sob hitched in her chest, shattering the words. Róisín ducked her chin, swiping weakly at the tears spilling down her cheeks. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, struggling to compose herself. At length, she managed a whisper, "She's gone, Lochlan. I did all I could, but..."
Comprehension – and guilt – dawned across Lochlan's weathered features. He cradled the back of Róisín's head, tucking her against his shoulder. "Oh, Róise, lass... I'm so sorry. So damned sorry..."
He murmured tenderly, rubbing her back soothingly. The dimly-lit tavern and boisterous patrons beyond the doorway faded to insignificance as Róisín buried her face into shit, muffling her sobs against the solid expanse of her brother's chest.
At long last, she lifted her head, swiping the heel of her hand beneath her reddened eyes. "I didn't know what to do after Mama passed."
"What about your schooling, lass?" Lochlan's brow furrowed.
Róisín could only offer a helpless shrug in response. "Mama fell ill." She explained. "I had to put aside my studies to provide her care."
Lochlan's weathered face darkened, the deep creases etched around his mouth tightening into a scowl as he responded with more than a hint of defensive edge sharpening his tone. "I was sendin' money back every month."
"Aye," Róisín assured him with a somber nod, her muddied eyes flickering up to meet his hooded gaze. "And we were grateful for the funds. But with Mama's tonic fees and the taxes on the flat, try as I might, I just couldn't make ends meet any longer."
A flicker of regret contorted Lochlan's rough-hewn features as he truly registered the hardship his younger sister must have endured these past few years without him. Clearing his throat gruffly, he muttered "I'm truly sorry, Róisín. I should've been there for you both."
"Mama understood you building a life for yourself," Róisín said gently, placing a comforting hand on his forearm.
Lochlan nodded soberly, his broad calloused palm absently stroking Róisín's disheveled chestnut tresses. "Well, you did the right thing comin' out here, mo stóirín," he murmured, a rueful sigh wheezing from his chest. Using the old Gaelic endearment, he pulled her into a gruff embrace. "Christ, this is no place for a gentle soul like yourself." Lochlan muttered under his breath before forcing a reassuring smile.
Squeezing her shoulder, he continued in a more buoyant tone, "But never you mind all that for now, I've got a room upstairs where you can settle yerself, get a bit of respite from the road at least. You could lend me a hand around the saloon - a pretty young lass like yerself would surely charm the patrons while cleanin' tables or pourin' drinks? How does that prospect strike you?"
Her weary smile widened into a grateful beam as she replied, "Thank you." She leaned into Lochlan's protective embrace, letting the comforting solidity of his presence envelop her.
Slinging a bearish arm around her slender shoulders, Lochlan began guiding her towards the rickety staircase to the left of the bar. "Get settled into your room for now. But I'll warn you, tonight's like to be a wild one," he said with a rumbling chuckle. "The boys'll want to get all their drinkin' and carousin' done afore mornin' mass and the confessional."
Róisín's finely arched brows shot up in surprise. "There's a church here?" She asked incredulously, emerald eyes wide.
"Not of our faith, but a church nonetheless." Lochlan boomed with a full-bellied laugh at her evident shock. "Even us sinners gotta have a place to seek absolution from time to time! Wouldn't you agree?" He winked roguishly.
Róisín couldn't help but return his playful grin, the lightness of their teasing sibling banter easing her troubled heart somewhat. "Let me take a wild guess," she replied with an playful lilt, her lips quirking in a sly smirk. "Even with a house o'worship nearby, you still plan to indulge in your Sabbath mornin' lie-ins?"
"Ah, you wound me with yer cheek, lass!" Lochlan exclaimed with an exaggerated grimace before squeezing her shoulder affectionately. Reaching for the door handle to the least dilapidated of the rooms upstairs, he leaned in close with a conspiratorial wink. "Get some rest now, little sister."
"Good night then, Lochlan," Róisín replied warmly, and brushing his bristled cheek with a kiss.