Hope Survives: Episode One: Eyes of Death

By Alan White

TEXAS, 1895
Wrapped in a framework of historical events Hope Sullivan travels from Chicago seeking a life of romance and adventure in the Wild West. But she finds herself trapped in a land of desolation, uncertainty and
unimaginable horror.

There are deadly decisions; right or wrong they can get you killed. Who is the man she has been sent to marry, the man who can kill her or the man who can set her free? And how can she escape into a land where there is nowhere to run. Can she acquire the skills, strength, and courage to save herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan White
• Release date: Jul 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463161647

Book preview

cover-image, Hope Finiished Really

A TRILOGY of the WEST based on HISTORY and HORROR

Hope Survives

Episode One: EYES OF DEATH

Written by

Alan White

Dedicated to:

Wild Hearts and Free Spirits

Also by Alan White

Undead Passage

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Copyright ©2018 PixelMotel

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher,

except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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Cover by: Alan White

Observations: Jacqueline Monahan

Hope Goes West

Give the cowboy

his horse and saddle.

Give the Indian

his canoe and paddle.

Give the cook her apron and kitchen.

Give the farmer

his cows and chickens.

Give the poet the material

and you have a poem.

But you can always give me

The comforts of home.

- Hope Cavanaugh, 1895

I t was a rolling nightmare.

Too hot, too smelly, the seat was uncomfortable at best. Flies were uncountable, while dust and soot filled the rail car as if she were still standing on a street corner in Chicago. There would be two more days of discomfort and apprehension before she reached her destination, which for all she knew, she was taking a train ride into hell; no hand basket involved.

Hope held an embroidered handkerchief to her nose as the train slowed to a crawl through a side-spur construction. Small groups of convicts labored on the rails and perspired heavily under the watchful eyes of well-armed guards and the blistering Texas sun. The train passed so near the workers; she swore she could see rivulets of perspiration coursing the dusty gullies carved across their backs from years under the lash. Dust rolled through the windows with each swing of their picks and shovels threw dirt from one place to another.

The prisoner's toil raised clouds of dust that mixed the billowing coal soot raining upon beads of perspiration like jewels mired in the dirt. She could hear the clang of picks and hammers upon the rocks and rail spikes; men who grunted in unison, pouring their souls into the soil, hoisting heavy cross-ties and rails. The rattle of their chains bound them to a sound of desperation with each swing of the hammer. Laborers who dared raise their eyes to the passing locomotive only to dream of another life far away were quickly rebuked by the overseers on horseback.

Of course, there was no lack of construction workers on the streets of Chicago, building things up; tearing things down and hauling whatever it was away. Dressed in their 14 wale corduroy trousers; once fine, now worn and shabby; heavy suspenders over white shirts and frayed caps. They had it rough no doubt, but at least spared the whip and knew they would be sleeping at home that night. If they were doubly lucky, had someone to love.

Here on the rails, however, men of enormous proportion, uniformly clad in filthy white pants with horizontal black stripes from top to bottom, held in place solely by a length of rope. They were shirtless, but for dirt, sweat and scars. She could see their muscles surge, swell, then retreat and if truth be told, a side-glance from behind her fan at this Grecian tableau: they were frightful men of dangerous disposition yet passing fascination. These were sights that found her straddling a familiar sensation usually reserved for those single-candle evenings of self-exploration and exultation. Here she bit deep into her bottom lip, lest her fellow passengers find her rapid breathing and pounding heart a cause for alarm or scandal. Merely the appearance of a singular female riding the rails was cause enough for a choir of well-hoisted eyebrows. Yet they too would have to endure.

She could hear the overseers clicking back the hammers of their shotguns signifying to their charges; this was no time to attempt hopping a train.

There was little doubt she would endure this rolling horror, but the very thought of transporting oneself from the civilized society of Chicago into the apparent wastelands of WhoKnowsWhere, Texas was equal parts adventure, horror and bored loneliness she had never (as yet) experienced.

After several days crossing this godforsaken desolation during the summer inferno, she had hoped to pause at a shaded oasis to dangle her toes in a fresh spring. Maybe flirt with the frogs and discover fluffy animals hidden in the clouds, but this was reality and a living hell, inhabited by the barely living with nowhere to run. Having the porter close the window for a few moments would only invite the stifling heat and add to the stench of smoldering cigars, cheap cologne, and range worn cowboys; her fellow passengers to the one. A frightful sight, this panorama passing slowly as it was. Of interest perhaps to these carpetbaggers and scofflaws which she assumed most of her fellow passengers to be. No, not for any particular reason but for the added drama of train travel; hardly for the delicate sensibilities of a proper Chicago traveler.

She chuckled to herself at the elevated attitude one might garner merely lifting a hankie to her nose while others wiped dirt from their faces with just the hair on their bare arms; if and when the guards permitted them to do so. Hope had little doubt her travels would at best, be a soul-crushing test of endurance, but these men had already arrived at their destination and were working for room and board in hell.

The couplers at last jerked and banged together signifying an appreciated increase in speed which rallied her to reality and left the palpable despair behind in a thick black cloud.

Small talk began enthusiastically among the passengers boarding in Chicago yet quickly dwindled to a blasé, painful silence. No one could deny traveling cross-country; a mere few days in relative comfort was a miracle of the modern age but oh, how quickly that miracle descends into such a tedious experience. This was an adventure begun as unbridled excitement which soon transformed into a mundane, posterior-numbing test of discomfort and perseverance for which the likes of Job would prove no match. Generations who made the crossing by covered wagon were of heartier stock and let the constant fear of immediate death chase away such petty concerns as boredom, and body odor.

A trio of travelers livened the day with some rousing spirituals proving more annoyance than entertainment. All the while an earnest, though inebriated fellow loudly proposed the depression of 1893 and implementation of the Dawes Act would put an end to President Cleveland’s ministrations. Hope sighed and returned to staring blankly across the plain.

Several dreary days had passed since the train left Chicago Station and she quickly wore thin the pages of numerous magazines and a dime novel she had brought along which she finally discarded to appreciative travelers equally in need of distraction.

Her timepiece, a beautifully crafted man's pocket watch given to her by a most loving grandfather upon his deathbed hung from a gold chain around her neck. It was an ingenious device which by releasing the face cover, would play three-seconds of Mozart's Turkish Rondo. It was heavy enough to remind her to walk gracefully, lest she receive a sound thunk from the device upon her chest. It now read 3:30 pm., but from her window, nothing had changed but the position of shadows skipping over the windblown sand and scrub along the tracks.

Not that there weren’t distractions along the way. One afternoon the train came to a halt for an endless sea of bison passing before and around the train. It was a magical experience as if the train were a ship sailing a brown, rough and ragged sea that Hope would not soon forget. Several daring individuals reached from the windows trying, though unsuccessfully to touch the beasts. On the other hand, the encounter protracted her trip by several hours and remains another travail of modern travel.

The appearance of an Indian hunting party in pursuit of said animals crested a small rise and sparked a brief riot among curious passengers, each boasting notions to which tribe they belong. The Indians looked on with suspicious curiosity at the smoke-belching iron-dragon invading their territory. Debate ensued over whether the redskins were friendly or fixin' to take scalps.

The inebriated gentleman in the corner seat awoke amid the clamor; staggering to the window and slurred several pronouncements what he'd do if he got his hands on them pesky savages and waved his fist excitedly. It was easy to make such boasts thought Hope as the train carried him quickly away from dangers real or imaginary. While no agreement had been reached on the most minute observations regarding these primitive souls. The subject of hurling the drunk from the train and letting him have at them was bandied about for the sheer entertainment of it all; at which the drunk solemnly, if ungainly returned to his seat; cursing softly to himself.

Eventually, the travelers yawned, stretched their legs briefly and returned reluctantly to their seats reclaiming their boredom as if it were part of their luggage. With a unanimous sigh, Hope smiled at how quickly the entire incident had become a mere footnote in her collective adventures west.

The Texas heat sent rivulets of perspiration under the brim of her hat behind her left ear leaving a moist trail along the soft curves of her neck as if it had been a snail. It paused a moment upon the ledge of her collarbone, and that which she could not blot with her handkerchief continued its path slowly between her breasts, the length of her belly negotiating the confines of her corset to pool just a moment in her navel where similar drops collected. Here she closed her eyes as the clattering ambiance faded and thoughts focused on this mischievous sprite coursing between her thighs which she parted just-so to allow this exquisite passage yet not draw attention from bored passengers attuned to the slightest distraction. She imagined lips of a new lover on the same course and again bit her lower lip as the unseen adventurer nestled into her bloomers.

She revived at the slamming of metal doors that announced the arrival of the conductor promising Next stop Fort Worth Station. This was the last stop till her destination further down the line and would afford her a moment to revive her warn and dusty countenance. She would loathe arriving journey's end the following day appearing as weary as she felt.

The conductor was a stout fellow, well dressed but sweating profusely and found much difficulty navigating the aisle as his prodigious girth collided with each seat to the left or right. But he was of sound nature and stopped to chat with inquisitive passengers, inquiring to their well being and prospects upon arriving in Fort Worth.

Sparsely strewn sticks and stones of primitive shelters transformed into the brick and mortar of civilization as the locomotive left the wasteland behind and pulled into the station.

The surroundings were that of a genuine city of no little substance and renown. This would be a most welcome stop she thought for travel-worn passengers heading westward; loading mail and water for the steam engine and privies.

This stop would allow an extended walk on solid ground and to tidy one's person. Her family finances permitted a single if fetching outfit, that must be  endured; day and night of the entirety of her four-day journey. She had a trunk following in a baggage car somewhere behind though she carried a small carpetbag with a few necessities.

Here the train came to a complete stop with a rattle, a horrifying scream from the whistle and mountainous clouds of steam. Hope’s traveling companions rustled from their seats and queued for disembarking amid stretching, limbering, yawns, and a sudden urge to share excited conversation with fellow passengers as if meeting them for the first time. Steam burst from the engine with a dragon’s hiss and spread like fog across the platform, climbing the walls of the station itself.

Hope remained seated until the car emptied, grabbed her bag and proceeded unfettered toward the exit.

The passenger before her stepped from the car leaving Hope on the top step gazing at the busy station with the same wonderment as if she had landed on the moon. But for the prevailing smell of neighboring stockyards greeting her nostrils, Hope was most pleased with her first impression of Fort Worth; the most civilized since leaving Chicago. A large landing with a well appointed bright yellow building and white trim that still smelled of fresh paint.

Passengers of all stripes were allowed to leave their cars to stretch and mingle with those from more affluent carriages though all were warned not to wander beyond a row of nearby vendors and miss the call to re-board.

The bustling station; travelers coming and going juggled their bags. Pyramids of luggage were constructed here, deconstructed there and recklessly tossed from or into baggage cars. Further down the tracks, cars were shunted onto other rails to unload a stable of horses into corrals where seas of wailing cattle awaited the train that would deliver them to a brief existence on the coast. Hope was pleased to be upwind from much of this.

The conductor called ma’am breaking her attention and assisted her down the steps, onto the platform.

Thank You she spoke though oblivious to her host, mesmerized by the large glass windows allowing a view into the station. Here she found a busy establishment of nattily dressed personnel seemingly bent on getting from whatever side of the building to the other through a course of desks and chairs under the din of clacking telegraphers and a flurry of paper. Young boys grabbed bags of fresh telegrams, bounded onto waiting steeds or selected one of the new Safety Bicycles from a rack of half dozen or so and disappeared from view while others arrived with equal gusto.

The locomotive gave a sigh, heaving breaths of steam while rosy-cheeked children dared one another to dash through each burst. The conductor scolded them for doing so but chuckled as they did.

Heat, the unbearable heat, Hope bemoaned and could swear she was melting onto and between the wooden planks of the platform and plied the fan in her right hand to no avail. Between the heat and her corset, she was sure she would pass out here and now, as if she were a common tippler. The awning offered shade but little comfort from the heat that sent surrounding areas rippling as if she were underwater.

Hope turned her attention to the water tower with much interest as it funneled its precious, twinkling liquid into the engine's boiler and wished she was at the receiving end of that refreshing torrent; enveloping her body with a single splash, transporting her anywhere away from here. Instead, a droplet of perspiration perilously dangled from the tip of her nose, which returned her to the dry wastelands of reality and a handkerchief that remained simultaneously damp and dusty.

Her feet: hot and swollen in these shoes purchased more for presentation than performance, and she stepped from the platform into what little shadow was afforded by a side awning where rows of crates stuffed with noisy fowl were stacked high and out of sight of fellow passengers. She lighted upon a large trunk to loosen her shoes, wriggle her ankles and toes enthusiastically with exultation and relief. She stood and straightened her tan skirt and buttons of her prudent striped shirtwaist, collar and petite bow tie. She found her reflection in a glass pane less than pleasing and re-pinned the broad-brimmed white straw Breton hat with a fine pearl hatpin. Her blonde hair once tightly coiffed now hung lifeless and dirty. For now, it will suffice to be stuffed under her hat.

She had been bound into her corset in Chicago with help from one of her sisters, determined not to be free until she made the perfect first impression on her husband-to-be at the end of her travels, and then given freedom only by his hands. But now perspiration stains were appearing to soil her shirtwaist which, the dust had turned from white to a fine ecru.

Her first train trip had filled her with more excitement than practicality yet finances deigned she must sit in a single outfit for the duration. She brought a few necessities for freshening; consisting of a single bar of soap still wrapped in colorful pink paper and a small vial in which she had purloined a quantity of Lilyopsis perfume from her mother’s vanity.

She caught the curious gaze of a young telegrapher regarding her ministrations upon which she blushed, pushed up her nose haughtily and stepped from under the awning. Quickly she sidestepped a trio of steers that had freed themselves and galloped by in a bid for freedom with several harried cowboys on foot close behind. This raised another cloud of dust and chicken feathers. She winced, caught hold of one of the trunks and thus saved herself from tumbling to the ground altogether. She coughed and fanned the dust from her face and took care cleaning the crystal of her watch.

Humph , she thought. In my dreams, getting halfway around the world seemed much quicker and certainly cleaner! I’ll bet if there was no such thing as dust, I’d have already fallen off the edge of the earth! Her brain buzzed with frustration trying to catch her reflection in the window. That boy appeared silently laughing at her discomfort as if in repayment for her chilled demeanor.

Hope pressed on and surveyed the sights beyond the station once broken through a barricade of vendors and scruffy children with their hands out. Both the vendors and children, alas were hounds barking up the wrong tree. Her name was Hope, not Charity for a reason.

Here was a teeming thoroughfare of horses, carriages and anxious pedestrians melding through a veil of endless dust surrounded by a bustling assortment of saloons, hotels, brothels draped with beckoning harlots, mutoscope parlors, and other businesses catering to locomotive maintenance and immediate whims of travelers.

In the distance and over the rooftops she could see the Texas Brewing building which stood several stories above the rest of town. In another direction was the Tarrant County Courthouse under construction with a water tower now being topped with a large clock which would soon be visible several streets away.

No doubt about it , she thought, I have now entered that once unfathomable territory given the vague moniker Out West with more land still to cover , and with this, she found no little satisfaction.

There were adventures to be had in this burgeoning metropolis of 1895, she was sure of it, but her future lies further down the line in a more bucolic area of Texas far from the bustling shops, theaters, museums and comparative civility of Chicago. She would be forced to surrender to a lifestyle and desires of her husband to be.

The very thought filled her with equal portions of excitement and dread.

Rails

Steam; ephemeral, intangible,

yet carries me across the world

with the same rhythm that drives

the beating of my heart.

Horizons… destined to be seen

from both sides.

No Columbus I, yet sails set for other worlds

and paths not taken,

broken heart nor love forsaken.

But a pair of flashing eyes

and my soul surrenders.

- Hope Cavanaugh, 1895

A loud blast from the train whistle roused Hope from her reverie and drew her reluctantly back to her seat with a sigh of surrender.

She checked the schedule hastily written in chalk on a blackboard; long a victim of the elements. The train was remarkably on time, which she thought meaningless in this land where time stood still and one day appeared much like the next. The sun sat perched atop the distant hills preparing to settle in for the night and allow the train to press on.

At last and amid clouds of thick black smoke belching from the stack, steam, dust and blaring whistles, hurried conductors and porters called to lagging passengers. Hope was among the last to board and took a final gaze across this scorched landscape as the conductor again broke her thoughts with his familiar gloved hand to assist her aboard. She gained the first step, turned again and was awash with a sense of unbearable loneliness and despair as though heading into the mouth of hell. The train blew a final cloud of smoke and lurched into the wasteland.

There were no rules where anyone could sit as long as you remained within the social class that matched your ticket. She returned to where she had sat for the last three days, with no surprise her fellow passengers to the one had done the same. Hope shared this car so long she could recall most passengers from memory. There was the corpulent, yet nattily attired businessman sporting a gold watch fob, a fastidious mustache and a Bowler hat. To the best of her memory the hat had not left his head nor the cigar from his mouth for the length of the trip. He looked neither left nor right but into a never-ending supply of newspapers and later a small notebook into which he busied himself with endless scribblings. He seemed one not commonly found in a car this close to the coal tender, and oddly, neither he nor his female companion had spoken a word for days. Hope guessed he was a man on the way down the social ladder unless things picked up at the end of the rails.

Across the aisle were two young men making their first trip out west as well. They too had boarded in Chicago brimming with anticipation and gleeful conversation of adventures to come. There were dangers waiting to be conquered, beginning anew as far from relative civilization as this train could take them. Their discourse had dwindled into silence days ago, and they now sat glumly without movement except to shoo the ever-present flies.

One fellow amused himself by snatching flies from the air with a single swipe and on those occasions of success, flung the creature from the window with a smile of delight and purpose. For each banished fly he etched a small line into his bench with his penknife and had accrued 15 such notches. While a crude display perhaps, she was as thankful for his pursuit as the distraction.

There were others aboard as well; nondescript travelers; faces full of hope. When she left Chicago the cars were full of passengers, uncomfortably so. Many had disembarked at one station or another and in doing so left the coach more comfortable for everyone else; spacious and certainly less odiferous.

There were several other couples; few if any she felt would disembark at the same dirt-water junction as she. They would travel on to California no doubt, while her journey would be ending the following day.

On the opposing bench sat a tall, waifishly gaunt woman, dressed entirely in black. She was annoyingly prim and sat painfully, silently erect with skeletal hands crossed as though she had turned to stone. Atop her head was a peculiarly small hat adorned with a large red paper rose and swathed in black netting which hung across her face. At no time had Hope seen her change position, clothing or demeanor or even leave to eat or visit the privy. Hope chuckled to herself for a moment thinking she had seen cemetery figures with more expression and color to their complexion.

This odd woman found no cause to look elsewhere but in Hope’s direction; apparently inspecting her from top to bottom; style of dress, hair, and comportment. At one point, Hope arched her brows, stared directly into the old woman's eyes; then made a fearsome face and lurched forward with her tongue prominently displayed. The woman harrumphed, batted her eyes, gave her black lace fan a swish then turned her gaze to the passing landscape. Hope relaxed into her seat with arms crossed and a smile of satisfaction.

Her glance shared the same horizon as the crone and let her thoughts skim the wasteland, conjuring sights of oxen pulling covered wagons across the unforgiving terrain. She would never dream of herself in such a situation. But then her current state had not occurred to her just two weeks prior.

The train sped across the countryside as if in rivalry with the telegraph wires that ran parallel and the distant hills passed like rolling waves of earth.

Hope considered any distraction a blessing, and while crossing a trestle over a chill blue river could see cars on her train from their reflection in the water below. She was sure there were more when they left Chicago but paid no attention to the comings and goings of cargo until the desperation of boredom demanded it.

Of course, there was the engine and coal car, the carriage in which she was now seated, the dining car, a sleeping car for those who could afford luxury; a party of which she was not included. And the remaining cars for those of the upper crust. Two more which might hold mail and cargo headed for California, and the caboose. By and by, the sun disappeared from the horizon leaving such observations for the next day.

There were occasions when passengers from other cars bent on exploration, peered into her car for but a moment and with the same enthusiasm as if staring into the cattle car. Having done so, turned, shut the door behind them and were never seen again. Even in the rarified atmosphere of the dining car her fellow passengers were deigned equal service during limited hours so as not to sully the dining experience of the more affluent. The bar remained a cordial watering hole where all were welcome and could belly to the bar as dictated by thirst and purse.

Her fancy was repeatedly captured by a singular cowboy aptly attired as though he had fallen from the pages of a dime novel. Slouched on his seat, he wore a light grey duster and reclined thereon with a large Stetson pulled over his eyes. A red kerchief about his neck and a shelf of long brown hair fell about his shoulders. There was a train ride worth of stubble upon his chin and his long, lanky legs clad in tight, worn denim disappeared under the seat before him.

This one she wagered had been this way before.

He was young and robust even in repose. His arms were crossed, clearly not soliciting conversation though Hope could not but give notice to the bulge at the juncture of his thighs, that spoke volumes.

To think I once toyed with those silly city boys , she thought, while the West was fit to burst with real men who have been places and done exciting things!

Their paths had crossed once during this trip. She on her way to the dining car and he returning from same and held the door with his right hand as she passed and with his left, touched the brim of his hat.

Ma'am, was all he said in a pleasant, unhurried tone and the slight accent of somewhere hot and dusty.

Drawn by an unseen magnetism as she passed, her right shoulder brushed against his chest, and a whisper of hair protruding above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt just so… and caused her to pause and tremble slightly.

She blushed, flashed her eyes and caught him looking down at her. His eyes were blue as a topaz picked from a cold mountain stream, and he smelled of hay and leather.

Hope produced a timid smile, gave a curt nod, flashed her eyes and continued into the dining car giddy and flushed.

Her appetite waned in his wake for thoughts of the childish clerks and hoodlums she left behind on the streets of Chicago, running down alleyways and stealing produce from street vendors. This cowboy was the first she had come in contact with and the first to illicit these new sensations if only in passing. He or someone like him could be the man who might have her, heart and soul and do as he pleased with the rest. Would that her fiancé be such as he; handsome, strong and hellbent for adventure and not some squat businessman in the middle of nowhere reeking of cigars, newsprint, and manure.

Alas, such thoughts were daydreams and only served to pass the day and not to be resolved till the next stop. She had put her life on the rails and found herself traveling west at the insistence of her parents, fallen on hard times. At the age of eighteen and eldest of three sisters, Hope alone remained unmarried and thus subject to coarse speculation, and inquisition by family and neighbor alike.

There was marriage at the end of the track for Hope, no doubt about that as undesired as it was. Her parents had chosen wisely to hear them tell it and effervesced with reassurance at any hint of doubt on her part.

A respected cattle Baron of a monied family they’d boast, with neither time nor inclination to seek a bride of his own and like the rest of his property, delivered by train she thought quietly to herself.