Free Far Away Home by Susan Denning Page A

clerk seated at a cluttered desk. He was
a young man, in his twenties, she estimated, with greased dark hair and a
serious look. As Aislynn approached, he puckered his mouth, as if sucking
something sour.
    When he failed
to greet her, she asked, “Can you help me?”
    “Don’t know,” he
replied. “I’m very busy.”
    “Maybe I should
speak to your employer?” she threatened, affecting an air of superiority.
    The man huffed
and told her to take a seat. “I’m jus’ very busy.”
    “So you said.
But I have business which I must take care of and if you can’t help me, I’ll
have to find someone who can.” 
    She started to
rise, but he ordered, “Sit, sit.” 
    He pushed some
papers aside and asked what she needed.
    “I’m going west
and need to deposit some money. I want to carry letters of credit and be able
to withdraw my money in Chicago, Cheyenne and Ogden.”
    “Where you
going?” his interest piqued.
    “My final
destination is Ogden in the Utah Territory. I don’t want to carry cash for the
entire journey; I might lose it.”
    “More likely
someone will take it from you. Who you travelin’ with?”
    Aislynn thought
the question was terribly personal, but she answered it anyway. “I’m traveling
alone.”
    The young man
let out a laugh. With sarcasm, he asked, “How you gonna get there alone?”
    “Well,” Aislynn
hesitated. “I intend to take the train through to Cheyenne and the stage from
there.”
    “And you intend
to travel by yourself?” his critical eyes raked over her.
    Aislynn
straightened in her seat and looked at him hard, “Yes.”
    He leaned back
in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Well, now, I know it ain’t
none of my business but I jus’ come back from a little trip west. I railroaded
through to Cheyenne and took one of our stages through the Black Hills, and I
am grateful to be sittin’ here to tell you it was the worst experience of my
life. Now I ain’t no sissy, but you ain’t never seen nothin’ like Cheyenne. You
know they got ten thousand railroad men sittin’ there waitin’ out the winter.
They got nothin’ to do but live wild. Why the newspaper has a daily column
named ‘Last Night’s Shootin’s.’ Them men are drinkin’, gamblin’ and … never you
mind what else. They are the most unruly bunch. They’re forever shootin’ guns
in the air, and my theory is what goes up must come down. The whole time I was
there I kept prayin’ ‘God don’t let them bullets come down on me.’ ”
    Aislynn knew the
way west was difficult. Tim’s letters told of the rough rail ride followed by
long hours in an unfamiliar saddle. In school, she learned the search for an
easy route west began with the discovery of the continent. However, it was not
until the Civil War highlighted the growing need that the American imagination
set out to build a passage, an iron road stretching from sea to sea. After the
war, the progress of the transcontinental railroad progressed swiftly, but its
westward branch only stretched into the Dakota Territory, 436 miles from Tim.
    Aislynn devised
a way to avoid the problem of being in such a dangerous environment. “I don’t
intend to stay in Cheyenne. I will board a stage and leave town immediately.” 
    “A stage?” the
man leaned closer to her, “Well, now, I’d be glad to sell you passes to take
you clear ‘cross that godforsaken country, but let me tell you about those
coaches. First, they’ll be overloaded. Every one of the occupants will stink
more than any animal you’ve ever had contact with. Most will have lice and be
happy to share them with you. Some will be drunk. Why, I seen one man kill
another for jus’ talkin’ down the South. Everyone carries a gun by the way; you
better get you one, or you’ll be out of fashion.”
    “I don’t need to
hear all of this.”
    “I think you
do.” He paused and scrutinized her, “Why you goin’ west alone anyway?”
    Annoyed at his
effrontery, Aislynn