Roland Smith had lost track of the days.  

Days became weeks, even at sea.  Blending from one to the next in a string that never seemed to end. His fault for buying passage on the slowest hulk ever to sail the seven seas.  

Then after he’d arrived, his travels could be more accurately measured in towns rather than days.  

Ames.  

North Bend.

Schuler.

Columbus.

Duncan.

Silver Creek.

Clarkville.

Chapman.

The names went on forever, as did the land between.  At the beginning of his voyage, he’d picked a destination that lay beyond the reach of the railroad.  He’d been slightly worried about the long arm of the British law somehow catching up to him.  Or more likely Pinkertons or some other private detectives hired by his father.  He felt absurd, a forty-year old first-time criminal conducting a heist across two nations.  Wasn’t this a game for the young?

It was hard to remain properly paranoid through the hundreds and thousands of miles he’d crossed with his ill-gotten gains.  Boredom and Time stole away the sense of being a thief.  The rocking ship, then the chugging iron horse.  That’s all he’d known for time beyond counting… despite it being only a couple of months.

Throughout his long escape, he’d convinced himself that he was less a thief and more the appropriator of a rightful inheritance.  When he was feeling introspective, he supposed that many crooks explained away their crimes with such self-righteous reasoning.  His was probably no more valid than most.

But he clung to it all the same.  He wasn’t a thief and would never be a thief.  He despised thievery.  He’d killed robbers, who were little more than scum, and cursed them for trying to take his father’s property.  He didn’t feel even slightly bad about that.  Then he’d immediately emulated them.

Overlooking his own misdeeds, he re-labeled it justice.  Because how else could an honest man live with himself after such a deed, unless he agreed to tell himself lies about his honesty?

Now here he was in Oakdale.  Or Oakvale.  Or… he forgot what the conductor had called it, actually.  It was the closest railroad stop to his destination, which was still a ways further on.  

He’d picked up a Horse in Aguila Springs, named it Ember.  A black beauty, he sat atop her now.  And he sat beside a ton of assorted machinery, tools, and even a collection of used revolvers and rifles- traded in as partial payment by wealthy customers who were ready to trade in their old percussion wheelguns for more reliable Lancasters.

His horse and his heap of stolen goods waited where they’d been unloaded.

Waiting for the freight service to arrive, a service he’d contracted for before ever leaving London.  Anything could be gotten by correspondence, now.   He hoped that the letter and payment had preceded him as intended, or he’d be waiting here a long while for the wagon.

A land barge on wheels that would carry him across these endless lands to the final leg of his journey.

And then, set up in a town that might need his talents,  he could finally become the honest man he pretended to be. 

Could hypocrisy be re-forged into honesty?

He meant to find out.

Tag: Adelaide 'Addy' Chappel  (Bongo)

As long as she'd had to come all the way to Oakdale anyway, bringing a load of building supplies from Kalispell, Addy was happy to have a return cargo as well.  The station master tried to coordinate deliveries, but most of the time she was headed back empty, so she was happy that she'd be doubling her profit on this trip, and had even splurged and stayed the night in one of the modest hotels in town, rather than in the barn with her wagon and team!

The day seemed to be shaping up well, so the trip home shouldn't be more than two days, and after the horses were groomed and hitched, she made sure that there was fresh hay and grain for them, and staples for herself and the freight's owner. 

Dressed in a dark blue wool skirt and cream-colored man's style shirt under a well-worn blue jacket, her wide-brimmed slouch hat jammed on her haphazardly-braided hair, she climbed onto the seat and gathered the lines, turning her team toward the train station.  On her right side she sported an 1858 Remington conversion pistol, and there was a shotgun stowed under the seat. 

Her cargo was pretty evident, it was the only pile of goods outside the station, but she still confirmed it as she pulled the wagon to a stop and nodded to the man seemingly attending the cargo.

"Afternoon."  She smiled and nodded.  "Ya Mister Smith?  Goin' ta Kalispell?"

Even with his limited vantage, as an observer going from town to town along the railroad lines, Roland had seen some curious things in America.  

In one town named Green Junction, he'd seen a pig wearing a hat.  The creature had been led around on a short tether of rope by a pre-teen girl on her way to get sweets from the local dry goods store.  The girl had been dressed in her Sunday best, such as it was in this country.  But on a Tuesday.

In another town, he'd watched- somewhat horrified- as one man beat another man half-to-death over a game of cards, using nothing more than the large mug of beer he'd been served.  The local constable had remarkably arrested the man whose nose had been flattened by the heavy brew receptacle.  Apparently, on accusations of having cheated.  The attacking brute had seemingly been a town favorite, as his word on the matter was accepted without question.

But of all the myriad things Roland had experienced in his weeks in this country, he had never seen so unlikely a sight as the one now before him.  

A handsome woman, to be sure, with the fire-bright hair common to Irish beauties back home.  Her clothes were clearly meant for work, but weren't ruined by it.  Well-maintained and at least occasionally cleaned, which was as much as one could ask for on the edge of civilization.  None of that was unusual or unwanted.

No... three things set the appearance of this woman onto the stage of the bizarre and unprecedented:

One- this woman seemed to be alone.  Un-escorted even by a hat-wearing porcine.

Two- this woman was armed.  And not with some dainty purse or pocket pistol, but with a handgun common to officers at war.  The Remington Revolver was a hardy beast, often chambered in high enough calibers to end a horse, and comprised of nearly three pounds of Brass and Steel.  

And Three- she was driving the vehicle.  Such was a job for a man in any civilized country, and not one to be forced upon ladies.  One could hardly find a woman driving a stately carriage in London, never mind a conveyance of freight through an untamed country's wild plains.

But then, as he had already noted, he was at the edge of civilization.  The usual rules clearly did not apply.  Still... there were practical matters at hand.

He reached up and lifted his hat off of his head in a gentlemanly greeting.  The hat was a purchase he'd made further East, after numerous people commented unfavorably on his British Bowler.  The new headwear was a concession to his new home. 

When in Rome, after all. 

Some people had also commented on his sidearm, but if they were going to impugn the prestige of British gunmaking, they could pound sand.

The rest of his clothes constituted what he referred to as a 'Country Suit,' a gray outfit elegant enough for a picnic with a lady, but casual enough for light horsemanship.  The outfit was already dustier than he was comfortable with.

"Good morning, Ma'am," he said, "you have me to rights.  Roland Horatio Smith, at your service."

He leaned slightly to one side, looking past her, before returning his attention fully to her pleasant features.  

"Pardon me my ignorance, Ma'am, as I am only lately a visitor to your fine country. 

But is there a troupe of lads following in your wake to take up my baggage?  I fear we shan't manage it ourselves.  The steam engine alone is near-on to five-hundred pounds of weight.  Well within the capacity of your wagon, I'd wager.  But I'm ashamed to admit my feeble arms are another matter."

He cast his gaze aside again.  There were always youths and vagabonds attending these train stations.  Perhaps the inducement of a nickel might hire some help in loading up his gear.

Tag: Adelaide 'Addy' Chappel  (Bongo)

Addy set the break and hopped to the ground, giving the pile a good look-over, then shrugged.  "Reckon we can git us some help, station master's pretty congenial ta such things."  She pulled off a leather glove and held out her hand.  "Name's Addy Chappel, I'll be gettin' ya ta Kalispell.  Team there's Duke, Daisy, Mike an' Frank."  With a proud grin, she nodded to the six big Belgian horses, then looked over at Roland's mount. 

"That's a fine lookin' horse ya got there.  Yer free ta ride up with me, or in th' saddle, whatever suits yer fancy.  C'mon, let's go talk ta ol' Mister Murry, git loaded up an' on th' road, so's we can make th' Rock Creek swing station before dark."

She noted that the gentleman had a foreign accent, English, maybe, and that had her wondering how long he'd been in the states, and just what his cargo was.  None of her business, though, so long as it wasn't stolen!

"That there things ain't stolen, are they?" Best to be sure.  She grinned widely.  "If they are, I'm gonna need a cut!"  She gave the man a friendly punch in the arm.

"Well," Roland said, placing his hat back onto his head, "here's to congenial station-masters."

He dismounted his horse and led it over to her wagon.  "A pleasure to meet you and your horses, Miss Chappel."   Roland patted his horse's neck as he tethered her to the vehicle, "And I'm sure Ember appreciates your kind regards."

He gave the matter of the trip ahead some thought.  "It would be kinder to her if I rode in your wagon... but I wouldn't wish anyone to impugn your reputation if you should be seen driving this vehicle with a non-relative at your side."  The statement was a question.  He did not know about the customs in this country.  Back home, one had to be very careful about appearances.  But he had no idea what the Yanks regarded as a social transgression.

She outlined their itinerary, and he nodded.  "Yes, by all means, let us be on to Mister Murry and this Rock Creek Swing Station."  Whatever that was.

When she asked if his goods were stolen, he stopped short.  His face was a painting of abject surprise.

Caught out?  Here, of all places?

But... no.  She was jesting.

"Oh.  Ha.  Ha Ha."  His laugh may not have been entirely convincing.  "I'm sure we can come to some accommodation," he winked at her, a more natural expression falling over his features.

Steady on, Roland.  Steady on.

Tag: Adelaide 'Addy' Chappel 

Bongo

"Well, I got no reputation ta worry on," Addy declared as she led the way up the stairs of the station platform, "an' if anyone wants ta say different, I don't give 'em no mind.  People need ta stop judgin' others, but then, I reckon that'd take some'a th' thrill away!"

Chuckling, she stepped into the station, nodding to the man there.  "Mr. Murry."  She didn't know him well, except that he had a healthy respect for her after he'd teased her about her freckles, only to get a good slug to the chin in return!  "Gonna need some help with that cargo, if ya've a mind?"

"I think we can do that, Miz Addy."  He smiled and nodded nervously to Addy and her companion, then called into the back storeroom.  A moment later, two strapping teens emerged, and with their help, the wagon was loaded, with Addy directing the positioning of the freight to be sure everything fit nicely and the weight was properly distributed. 

After securing a tarp over the cargo to protect it from dust and any rain they may encounter, she nodded to Roland.  "Well, that's it, got it all, got you, Miz Ember there...time ta get movin'."

A lot had been said about good British breeding and good British manners.  Mostly by the British.  But Roland had to admit that there was something deeper and better going on here on the edge of civilization.

Although he'd only just met Addie, her lack of care for things like reputation and social standing was refreshing in a way that Roland hadn't realized he could appreciate.  But now, it was gradually dawning on him that this wasn't just a different country.  It was a new country.  And the things that mattered here were very different from what he was accustomed to.

His mother had been a disgraced member of a noble family.  He had done the best he could with that legacy, becoming a respected craftsman at a respected trade.  Until recently.

But all the balancing he'd done his whole life, trying to preserve a fragile social standing, seemed pointless out here.   She shrugged off his concerns as easily as one might sweep a fallen leaf off of their shoulder.  And she was not alone in her refreshing demeanor.  The station-master seemed to have little reason to render aid so readily in this matter.  And yet he summoned up well-muscled lads without any notice, getting them to do hard labor without complaint.  

There was a difference between being well-mannered and nice.  Americans... at least the Americans here... they seemed to be authentically nice.

As for reputations... perhaps such things were built on more solid ground here than parentage and the rumors that circulated among wealthy gossips.

"Thank you lads," Roland said, passing each of the boys a nickel and hoping it wouldn't be an insult to tip them.  He'd heard that gratuities were more common in the States than back home.  Besides, they hadn't asked for pay... so that made him feel they were doubly deserving of it.

With everything loaded, and Ember secured to the wagon, Roland began to approach the front of the vehicle.

But then he paused.  He had ridden by train, thus far... but there was a custom he knew from stories and rumors.

Returning to Ember, he pulled his Lancaster rifle from its scabbard at her side.  Labeled Lancaster, but he felt it was his own.  He'd polished and fitted it, performing final assembly.  One of the kindnesses his father had shown him was allowing him to make his own pistol and rifle and buy them from the company at a discounted rate.  These things were rare as pearls and just as expensive.  The name Lancaster meant something.  Perhaps the name Smith would, one day, as well.

Then he chuckled to himself as he returned to the wagon, climbing up to the front. 

Smith was, in fact, already a quite famous name in gun-making.

"I believe the term is, 'I have Shotgun,'" he said to his new traveling companion and driver.  Then he tipped his hat in her direction.

"A fair day and a fair Lady.  This will doubtless be the most enjoyable part of my journey thus far."   

He smiled at Addy, feeling a strange swell of optimism come over him.  This was the final leg.  Soon, his new life would begin.

Little did he know... it would begin with a close scrape to the Reaper.

Tag: Adelaide 'Addy' Chappel 

Bongo

Addy gathered the lines in her gloved hands, then snapped them and clicked with her tongue to get the horses moving.  Then she glanced at her companion with a smile.  "Got a good day for it, so long as the rain don't come."  But the local 'joke' that if you didn't like the weather, just wait a few minutes, was true, especially the higher they got into the mountains.  It could be fair and sunny one minute, and a short time later, billowy, dark clouds would move in, dump rain enough to drench you, then move on their merry way! 

"I truly hope yer right.  Things go well, we oughta be in Kalispell early tamarrow afternoon."  She wouldn't break the news to him that likely, within a couple of hours, his butt was going to go numb from sitting on the hard bench seat of the wagon.  That was one advantage for her wearing skirts was padding -- not just the skirt itself, but the layers of petticoats under it.  Even so, she took breaks every few hours so her derriere didn't go completely dead!

"So, now," she started, "ya talk right pretty.  That English?  From England, I mean?  Real far off that.  I only come from Pigeon Forge...that's in Tennessee, though I been ta th' Colonies some durin' th' war."

"Well, with your skill and experience on the route, things will surely go off 'without a hitch,' as the saying goes."  At least, that's what he'd heard the saying was.   Though now that he considered it further, her wagon had several horses hitched to it, so perhaps he was treading upon a professional vernacular he did not understand.

Admittedly, he was making an assumption that she was skilled and experienced, but he judged such an assumption to be a safe one.  Any woman working what was traditionally a man's job, and accepted in that role by the community and her employer, would surely be especially competent at her trade.

When she asked if he was English, he chuckled.  "The genuine article.  But do not be deceived!  I was sent to a special school at a young age to teach me all of the things I needed to know to fool the world into thinking that I am a learned English gentleman.  Those multitudes of Englishmen who came up in the world without such a secret advantage end up speakin' as plainly as any coun'ry lad aw lass wi'hou' 'alf a 'int' ov refinemen', an' 'wice 'he 'onesty."

He slipped an exaggerated Cockney accent in at the end and winked at her.  "The secret to 'proper' English from England is to come at your subjects sideways and to use two words to conceal the meaning of a third.  But 'improper' English in England is much more common and much more sensible in actually saying what it means to say... albeit with an accent that might be thicker than you can pull any meaning through."

When she mentioned that England was far off, he nodded, feeling some pang at being so far removed from his home country. 

"Farther than I ever thought I'd go.  But I suppose my tale is hardly new to this place.  Even before you Yanks gave us the boot, people were coming here looking for new opportunities they couldn't find at home.  And from farther away than England, I hear.  I'd often read about Chinese communities building American railroads in the newspapers back in London.  Hard workers, the articles said.  And harsh conditions.  But somehow, still better than they could find at home.  Else why would they come?

That's what your America is to the world:  A land of opportunities. 

In London, there are scores of great gun-makers.  But here?  I suspect the competition in Montana will be somewhat thinner on the ground."

He blinked when she mentioned her origins... and war.  Had she fought in war?  Did America allow women to do even that? 

"Forgive my ignorance... until this morning, I didn't know that women drove freight. 

Now you've mentioned a war... the Civil war?  An Indian war?  Do women fight in this country, too? 

As a gunsmith, I could hardly fail to notice the iron on your hip.  Not what our London Ladies would carry, I assure you... if they even consented to carry anything whatsoever. 

I'd love to hear about your life."

Tag: Adelaide 'Addy' Chappel 

Bongo

"Wasn't in th' war exact," Addy explained, "not enlisted, they don't let wemmen do that, but I drove freight an' ambulance wagons fer th' Confederacy."  She glanced over at him, thinking that, your own life really didn't seem so remarkable until someone pointed out that it was!  "See now, I grew up with eight brothers, pa was a muleskinner..."   She chuckled.  "No, that don't mean actually skinnin' mules, it's raisin' an' trainin' an' drivin'..."

From the time she'd been a sprout, she'd been climbing around large four-legged critters and wagons, it was all second nature to her.  "Was just a way ta help out where I could, an' after that, I got me a job drvin' fer th' Millegan Stage Line, kinda ended up here in Kalispell, far from th' frippery what says I should be cookin', mendin' an' seein' after a husband.  Not that I'm agin' such things, just don't suit me.  Wemmen out here do what they hafta.  Even th' proper ones, if ya ain't tough, somethin's gonna git ya."

Then she glanced at the rifle he was carrying.  "Gunsmith?  That's a fine looking piece ya got there, town could use a gunsmith.  I think ya'll  like it."