The boarding house he’d chosen was several blocks from the New York University and quite near Washington Square. It met all of Darby’s requirements for anonymity and only required a small weekly payment. To the others there he could very well be a student or a clerk in one of the office buildings off Broadway and so he dressed like one and acted like one, but he spent his days at the library.
The family had mourned Sean’s death until Christmas and then life moved on, and so did Darby. He told his parents he was moving into the city where it would be easier to find a job. His father accepted that, his mother told him he would always have a place in the family home. Sons grew up and moved on to find their own place in life, his parents understood that.
It was a cold January in the new year of 1906, but his boarding house was kept warm by Mrs. Abercrombie, the landlord. A widow of some means she had opened her house to students from the university a short time after her husband died. To her it was like having a new family and Darby soon became a favorite.
She had tea every afternoon at four o'clock for any of her residents that cared to attend. Darby would walk the six blocks to the Astor Library every morning except Sunday to study and he tried to be back by four.
The library was a godsend to the city since there was no public library at that time. With several hundred thousand books to choose from Darby managed to sit for hours with a short stack of books in front of him. The Astor did not allow books to be checked out so he had to stay there for his reading, but that soon opened up the opportunities for social engagement.
At first Darby sought books on the American southwest. Literature was scarce on that subject except there were histories on the Mexican War and the geography of the region. He found a section on maps of the region in an atlas and quickly realized the vast distances between cities and towns in the west. Tombstone looked to be in the middle of nowhere.
There were books on the native Indians which gave him their history of war with the United States. Arizona was still a territory but had ambitions of statehood before too long. But the photos he found of Indians in their tribal lands were fascinating and he wondered if he would ever meet one.
There was an account of the lawlessness in Tombstone and the shootout between Marshall Wyatt Earp and the Clanton gang back in 1881. Surely those days of gunfights in the street were gone, he certainly hoped so. But in all of the photos he saw everyone seemed to be carrying a gun of some kind, at least he still had the derringer.
As for social interaction, he had coffee with some of the people he met in the library and the college students in the boarding house. That was an occasion for discussion about politics in Europe and the American literary scene. L. Frank Baum had recently published his Wonderful Wizard of Oz book and that fed the conversation because everyone was wondering what the man was trying to say. Darby had not read it, but he bought another book to take on his journey.
Good bookstores were hard to find, but there were plenty of places that sold the popular dime novels. These little booklets varied in subject matter but only a few attracted the coins in Darby's pocket. Life on the frontier, cowboy adventures and horrific stories about the atrocities committed by Indians on the poor pioneers traveling west seemed the most interesting.
On the warmer days of late winter Darby managed to visit shops here and there for the essentials he thought would be necessary. He found a tailor and had two suits made. The hardest part of that was picking the fabric. From all the reading he discovered that the Arizona climate could be a hundred degrees by day and downright cold at night.
It was nigh onto impossible to find a pair of western style boots in New York. The photos had revealed a style of clothing worn by the locals out west that he had never seen before, but the boots fascinated him. He would have to wait and purchase some things upon arrival.
One item came to mind as he prowled the city streets through the slush and snow, he would need a means to carry his money. He found a money belt, a cloth device worn around the waist under his pants that could hold all the cash he would have to carry.
He still had the Remington derringer pistol but he had never fired it. The guns he had seen in the photographs of Arizona looked huge by comparison and had to be carried in a holster worn around the waist. How awkward, and no doubt they were heavy. But even with only two barrels the derringer fit snugly in his vest pocket and he would have to make do with that for the time being.
Darby didn’t become emotional about leaving the city of his birth. He had spent his life looking forward because tomorrow brought the promise of new things to learn and experience. New York had been part of that, what little he had seen of it. But as he went about his travels he took the streetcar past Battery Park. Looking out across the waters of the Hudson he saw the distant figure of the Statue of Liberty.
How many refugees from Ireland had viewed that tall lady standing upon the waters as their ships sailed into the city? She had held a promise for many of them, the O’Brien family included. But Darby was several generations removed from that beginning and his promise was far to the west. It was time to go find it.
Mr. Williams was sitting at the counter behind his little grille when Darby approached the ticket counter in Grand Central Station. It was the first week of April and time to buy his first train ticket.
“Good, you came back,” Williams said.
Darby smiled. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Never know, but something told me you were serious.”
Williams reached under the counter and pulled out a heavy envelope. “So you’ll need a ticket I suppose. When were you planning to leave?”
“In two weeks if I can,” Darby replied.
“Train to Chicago as I recall. A first class ticket will cost you twelve dollars.”
Darby smiled and slid a twenty dollar bill across the counter. Williams nodded and set the money aside.
“I spoke with the ticket master in Chicago. The train from New York will arrive in time for you to catch the train to Arizona. He promised to get you a nice sleeping cabin on one of the Pullman cars.”
“You spoke with him? How is that possible?” Darby asked.
Williams pointed at a device sitting on the desk in the corner of his office. “That’s a telephone, ever see one before?” And Darby shook his head.
“Very modern device for communication, much better than the telegraph. Railroad has them in almost every station now. It does take a few minutes to get my connection in Chicago but then I managed to speak to the ticket office there.
“The 20th Century Limited will leave this station at ten sharp. A beautiful train, the queen of the rails if you ask me. If all goes well it will arrive in Chicago by nine the following morning. You will room overnight at the railroad’s hotel and board the Golden State of the Southern Pacific Railroad early the following morning.
“Five days later you will reach Tucson where you will complete your journey by train. In all it should take you less than a week to reach your destination.”
“Tucson? I have no idea where that is.”
“The town is southeast of Phoenix. Tombstone is about seventy miles further along. You can wait for a local train in Tucson if you desire. The El Paso and Southwestern line was just completed this year, or you can take the stagecoach. If you’re in a hurry it would have to be by stagecoach since the southbound train only goes through there twice a week.”
Darby sighed. “It seems like you have done a lot on my behalf. Mr. Williams.”
“Always wanted to head west myself ever since I was a youngster. It’s a far different kind of country out there and I hope you’re prepared for it.”
“I’ve read everything I could find at the Astor Library. I don’t suppose there is anything else I can learn on the subject from books. It just seems best to get along and see what the town is like. It will be quite a change.”
Williams nodded and pulled a ticket booklet out of the envelope. “So let’s begin by writing your ticket. Full name?”
“Darby Padraig O’Brien.”
He left the twenty dollars sitting on the counter after he took the ticket and shook Mr. William’s hand. If he could receive such helpful attention along the way Darby knew his journey would be made easier.
“Don’t forget your change,” Williams said.
“No sir, please accept it as a token of my thanks for all your help. Take your family to dinner.”
“You shouldn’t be giving your money away, Mr. O’Brien.”
“My Uncle Sean said that everything in life has a cost either in time or money,” Darby said. “But it doesn’t cost a dime to do the right thing. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Williams.”
Darby left the man sitting behind his counter with a smile on his face. Sean was right, he had always been right. It remained to be seen why he had managed to force Darby into accepting the conditions of his will. There was more than money involved here. From beyond the grave Sean was trying to teach him another lesson.
It was the last Thursday in April when Darby engaged a Hansom cab to take him and his baggage to the train station. A day of rain and cold temperatures, but with a promise of spring in the air. The city was bustling with activity, even at six-thirty in the morning. He would be early, quite early, but he didn’t want to miss the train.
Darby had said his goodbyes to Mrs. Abercrombie the night before and gone off to have a final beer with some of the students he had come to know. The wet streets of New York would soon be replaced with the dry and dusty ones in Tombstone. Did it even rain out there?
There had been moments of trepidation during his preparations, but he was sure Sean would not set him up to fail, this was just another challenge. He would make new friends in Tombstone, have a few beers and see what kind of a home Sean had left behind. At that point his glimpse of the future was a blank and Darby tried not to think about it.
The sign board for the 20th Century Limited to Chicago was standing on the sidewalk by the entrance when the cab stopped along the curb. Darby gave the driver his two dollars and motioned for the porter to take his bags. Two fine leather suitcases and an overnight bag which held all his worldly goods.
“Train to Chicago, sir?” The porter asked.
“Yes, please,” Darby said, and gave the man a quarter.
Mrs. Abercrombie had suggested he take a small pocketbook with change for just such an occasion. She had traveled the world with her husband and knew the value of services he would encounter.
“People service our lives, Darby, and they expect to get paid for it. A quarter here and there won’t break the bank, just be careful with your money. The most expensive gratuity will be your porter on the train, but only if he gives you fine service. Don’t pay him until your trip is over, that way you can judge what he deserves.”
The baggage porter wheeled his luggage along and led him to the gate for the Chicago train. Darby looked out along the platform and could barely see the locomotive at the front. A long string of shiny blue cars, each with the name Pullman in gold lettering above the windows.
“This is the lounge car here at the end, sir,” the porter said. “The first dining car is in front of that and the other is at the front of the train. This gentleman walking towards us is the conductor. He will want to see your ticket.”
The man in his railroad uniform approached and Darby removed his ticket from his coat pocket.
“Hello, young man…may I see your ticket?”
He glanced at the ticket and then consulted a small notebook. “You have a first class seat in sleeper car accommodations. That would be three cars up where that porter is standing by the door. Breakfast service begins at seven, lunch at eleven, and the first seating for dinner begins at five. The porter will remind you.”
With that said the man moved on to greet the next passenger.
“This way, sir,” his baggage handler said.
The porter for his car hefted the bags up into the car and stowed them in a locker while Darby kept his overnight bag. The baggage man tipped his hat and wheeled away while Darby followed the porter into the car.
The seats were arranged along a row of windows on either side with a strangely curved bulkhead above the glass. The porter saw him looking and nodded.
“That will be your bed for tonight,” the porter said. “I will come through and make it up around eight o’clock. This is your seat for the trip, just remember number six and look for the little sign above the window. The train isn't due to leave for over an hour so you might walk back to the lounge car and have coffee if you so desire.”
Darby slipped the man a quarter and nodded. “I think I will have coffee, thank you. Can I leave my bag here?”
The porter smiled. “It will be quite safe, just slide it under your seat.”
His seat looked more like a small comfortable armchair, as did all the others in the car. There were only three other people seated at the moment leaving at least a dozen empty places. Darby slid his bag under the seat and went towards the rear of the train and the lounge car.
He had accepted Mr. William’s advice in traveling first class. Days of jostling around in a rail car would certainly wear him down. He passed a cubicle just beside the vestibule that had a small plaque on the door informing him this was the lavatory.
Beyond the vestibule was the door to the next car. He walked through that and the now empty dining car. The tables had place settings and he could hear pans being rattled in the kitchen area, then he reached the lounge.
Tables and chairs, several waiters, and a haze of blue smoke from cigars and cigarettes. This looked very much alike a pub on wheels, except the bar was closed. There were probably twenty men in the car and not a single woman. Darby doubted that they would tolerate the close company of men with cigars.
“For God’s sake, someone open a window in here,” one man called out. There were actually several windows open and Darby chose a seat beside one of them. Across the table sat a well-dressed man reading the morning Herald. Darby judged his clothing to be top notch, very expensive, and that was a curiosity because he didn’t appear to be more than twenty years of age.
The man folded his paper and smiled. “Please, have a seat. Alex Morgan, by name…and you?”
“Darby O’Brien, how do you do.”
Morgan waved a hand at one of the waiters and pointed at the table. The man was there in a minute with a clean cup and a pot of coffee and Morgan set his paper down.
“So are you heading to Chicago?” Morgan asked.
“No, sir. I’m heading west.”
“Really? California bound are you? I’m going to El Paso.”
“I’m stopping in Arizona on family business. Morgan is a well-known name…any relation to the bankers?”
Morgan nodded. “My grandfather is old J.P. himself. Although at the moment the family is a little upset with me. My father went to Harvard, expected me to do the same, but I’m not cut out for a career in banking and investments. I studied Engineering and Applied Science at Princeton, but now I’m dabbling in the film industry.”
“Engineering, my goodness,” Darby said. “So how does that apply to this film business?”
“Someone has to design the equipment they use. I’ve been following all the devices and techniques Mr. Edison is using in New York. His biggest problem is the place he chooses to work. My friends and I think El Paso should be just perfect…or maybe California, we haven’t decided yet.”
“I don’t know anything about making a film. I’ve only seen one moving picture show down in the Bowery and it was filled with…um, ladies.”
Morgan laughed. “Yes, they do seem to be popular. But quite soon moving pictures will become a major source of classical entertainment for masses of people. I want to get in on the ground floor and watch it develop.”
Eventually the train lurched forward and all conversation in the car stopped. Finally, they were on the way. Morgan seemed to understand Darby’s sense of excitement.
“Is this your first trip away from family?” Morgan asked.
“My first real trip to anywhere,” Darby said, and then he grinned. “I’m going to become a cowboy.”
They talked for a while until the desire for coffee eluded them both. Morgan claimed he had some reading to do and Darby took the hint. Morgan was polite enough to suggest they might dine together around seven and Darby agreed.
From his place at the table Darby watched the last vestiges of the city disappear as the train headed north. It would be a long day of travel but only the first of many. The schedule showed him the various cities where they would stop, places like Albany, Syracuse, Buffalo and Toledo. Names on a page for now, but he didn’t expect to see much of those cities from the train.
Darby returned to his seat and pulled out his book. There were few empty seats in the car and a general hum of conversation filled the background. The book was Call of the Wild by Jack London, something one of his student friends had recommended. Man against the wilderness the bookseller had told him, how apropos.
The book would help while away the hours, but the view through the window was distracting. There through the rain splattered glass were the plowed fields and farms that fed a city, people whose lives were not facing such a dramatic change. He would have to remember the images of springtime green because where he was going there would be nothing like this.
Darby became engrossed in the tale Mr. London had written and didn’t even bother to look up as the other passengers passed in the aisle heading for lunch. Food didn’t have much appeal at the moment because it wouldn’t be his mother’s good cooking. Was he doing the right thing?
The anxiety increased the further they got from the city and in Buffalo Darby had his final bout with despair. He could leave the train and take the local back to the city or hire a seat on a coach. The thought came and went, redeemed only when seven o’clock arrived and Darby joined Alex Morgan for dinner.
“This is about the fourth or fifth time I’ve run away from my family,” Alex revealed. “The urge to assert my independence came early.”
“I ran away when I was nine to avoid a spanking,” Darby said.
“Then you understand. I grew up a child of privilege and did my best to avoid the trappings of wealth. People claim money can buy you anything but I don’t believe that. We achieve independence through asserting strength and will power.”
“But you do spend your family money for trips like this,” Darby said.
“I do, and without regret. If I was to start giving it away that would create further problems. I am not a philanthropist or a gold seeker, but I do look forward to spending it on ventures that will modernize the world. My family lives in the past while you and I are the future, Mr. O’Brien.
“I was seven when I first discovered that I could assert myself. The family had an estate on Lake George and I was given a small sailboat to use. Although I am sure they expected me to stay close to the shore I sailed all the way across the lake and back before deciding I could handle that boat. On my second trip I headed north for about ten miles and landed on an island.
“I had visions of being a pioneer in a new world and actually did discover an early campground used by the natives, at least I think that was what it was. But when it got dark I made a fire and that’s how they found me. My first adventure ended in a whipping and the loss of my boat.
“But there were other escapes, none so dramatic except maybe the train ride to Quebec when I was fourteen. By then my little escapades had the desired effect, they didn’t come after me. My grandfather put it in perspective by telling me he had a dozen grandchildren and at least some of them would follow in his footsteps. If I wanted to fall off the ends of the earth and kill myself at least the family would go on.”
“You’ve alienated your grandfather?” Darby asked.
Morgan smiled. “Hardly, he respects my streak of independence, says it reminds him of his own youth. And how does your family see this little venture of yours?”
“They don’t know anything about it,” Darby said. “I’m following in the footsteps of my uncle and heading west. Once I get there I will write them of my plans just so they don't think I've fallen off the ends of the earth.”
They talked for what seemed like hours before Darby returned to his seat and discovered his bed had been opened and the covers were in place. He removed his suit coat and shoes, placing them on the chair before climbing into the bed and pulling the curtains closed. And thus passed the first night of his new life in the gentle sway of the rail car as it sped towards Chicago and the jumping off point of his long journey.
Alex had given him a business card with his home address and assured him that a letter would reach the proper destination no matter where he might be in the months to come. It seemed like a proper friendship had been introduced which amazed Darby. Their lives were so different, but it seems their goals were much alike. Darby had slid the card into his wallet and promised to stay in touch before they parted.
Chicago seemed to come early the next morning. The LaSalle Street Station was bustling and confusing, but as he had in New York Darby thought to find directions from the ticket office. Alex was nowhere in sight so perhaps he was already moving towards his southbound train connection.
Darby found a baggage porter who followed him across the station to the ticket counter where he slid his used ticket form across the counter.
“I need to purchase a ticket for the Golden State tomorrow,” he said.
The man read his name off the ticket and smiled. He motioned to another clerk who moved over to the window and looked down at the old ticket.
“Mr. O’Brien…we’ve been expecting you. Charlie Williams said you would be along…told me to take good care of you.”
“How considerate of him, such a nice gesture.”
“Never met the fellow but we did speak on the telephone. I have your ticket here and a sleeping cabin already assigned for you on the Golden State. I’ll require a payment of seventy dollars for the ticket before you go. You also have a reservation at the Drake Hotel for tonight so your porter can take you to the cab station out front and speed you on your way.”
Darby removed eighty dollars from his wallet and slid it across the counter. The clerk stamped his ticket and gave him the change.
“Train leaves at eight o’clock sharp in the morning,” he said.
“I’ll be here at seven,” Darby said, and stuck out his hand to shake. The clerk smiled when he realized Darby had palmed the ten dollars and was giving it back without anyone else seeing the transaction.
“Thank you, sir, and have a good trip.”
* * * * * *
A good trip…well, yes it had been, until now. Darby looked back on the past week as a time of adventure and learning. Trains moved quickly across the vast territory between cities and offered unparalleled service when compared to the Modoc Stage Line coach in which he now sat. Another hole in the road jarred his backside and the woman beside him groaned with certain pain.
Five passengers crammed inside made for hot and smelly travel. Dust kicked up by the team of horses out front boiled past the window openings which had no glass. There was a cloth flap that could be pulled in place but then no air could circulate. Darby and all of the passengers were covered in a fine dust which seemed to hang in the air.
He closed his eyes and tried to accept the misery. There had been four changes of horses since they left Tucson and the driver had mentioned it would take five horse teams to reach Tombstone. A jarring thud as the wheels went over a rocky outcropping. This will soon be over, he thought, and if possible I will never ride another stagecoach as long as I live.
The luxury of his journey by train was now only memory. Fresh brewed coffee with breakfast, polite conversation with other passengers at the table, and best of all, the smell of clean sheets on his bed in the private cabin…all gone and leaving him with bumps and road dust.
He should have waited the two days in Tucson for the passenger train to Tombstone. Sean was long gone so what was the hurry? The urge to keep moving, to finish this journey was an overwhelming desire he could not ignore. Ignorance was pushing him because in Tombstone he would find answers to what had happened to Sean and he couldn’t begin a new life without that knowledge.
Darby wondered if the Golden State train had reached California by now and if Mr. Johnson was down on the Pacific shore collecting seashells for his grandsons. Johnson had been his porter on the train and the very first colored man Darby had ever spoken to for any length of time.
The man's father had been a slave in Mississippi when Johnson was born back in 1859. The Civil War eventually reached every corner of the south but it almost bypassed the plantation where the Johnson’s lived. Their owner had gone off to fight at Greenville and never returned, leaving behind his wife and three daughters. All the menfolk were dead.
“My father was the high butler in that house, treated more like family than a slave. He watched those white children grow up, leave, and never come back. I was born in that house after my two sisters, attended by white women and nursed by one of the maids when my mother died in childbirth.
“But the Yankees did come, sure they did. Some cracker Lieutenant and four men bent on revenge and destruction. They threatened to burn us out, including the colored folk who lived there, and so my father caused them to be killed. Buried the lot of them, boots, saddles and all, then we ate the horses. Mighty fine eating for folks who had little meat for nigh on to three years.
“That was our home and I see what my father did in defense of family, white and colored alike. He died ten years after the war ended but he did the right thing. My sisters and I were educated on that plantation even though it was illegal to teach a slave how to read and write.
“I can see the value in serving others and so here I am a porter on this grand train. I get to see the country and bring back a little of it for my grandchildren. I hope someday they get to see the whole world and share in God’s bounty.”
Mr. Johnson had taken good care of his passengers and Darby hoped the others tipped him as well as he did when they reached their destinations. But the man had seen him off the train in Tucson and shook his hand before returning to his job. A colored man’s story of survival made Darby realize how lucky he was. It would be something to ponder the rest of his days.
Another wayside stop to change horses and the end of the line was near. It had taken all morning to get this far, the hottest part of the day was now upon them. Thank goodness he hadn’t come in summer, but he would be here when it arrived.
Through the dust Darby could see the dry flat lands with only distant hills to alter the landscape. Green was a scarce color and even the roadside plants looked covered in dust. How could anyone live out here?
The spare driver leaned down from his seat and peered through the window opening.
“Coming into town, folks, time to gather up your belongings.”
It would be a relief to take a room in the hotel and have a bath, a simple pleasure that seemed like untold luxury at this point. A few houses passed by and then they were in the town proper with people on the street and lots of buildings. Tombstone looked vibrant, alive, and all this time Darby had thought the worst.
Tombstone wasn't just a small town, Darby had learned, there were thousands of residents. Copper mining was the main enterprise that had brought a lot of people to the area and built the businesses along this main street. Miners were a tough breed who worked hard and sought their recreation in the town.
The woman who sat beside him had managed to say the copper mines bred lawlessness and sin. She was appalled as she told him there were dozens of bars, several dance halls and…well, she never finished that sentence but Darby took her point.
The stagecoach stopped in front of the Willard Hotel and the driver jumped down to help the ladies out of the coach. Darby was the last one to exit and the driver tried to help him.
“I’m fine,” Darby said.
“Then watch your step,” the driver said and smiled.
Darby stepped down and felt something squish up under his shoe. Great, a heap of horse dung was all he needed right now. The luggage was tossed down off the roof of the coach and Darby hefted his bags. Not a porter in sight as he struggled up the steps onto the porch of the hotel.
“Need some help, son,” A voice said.
Darby looked up and saw an unfamiliar face. The man was sitting in the shade against the front wall of the hotel, dressed fairly odd, and then it hit him. This was an Indian, his very first. His long dark hair was tied in two braids that hung down his back and there were several silver necklaces draped across his chest.
“Do you need help, Mr. O’Brien?” the Indian asked.
“You…you know me?” Darby asked.
“You had to be Sean’s nephew. Only a city boy would step in a horse pie and not cuss up a storm. You even dress like a city boy.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Indigo. That’s a color in case you don’t know. Sean gave me the name because he couldn’t pronounce my real one.”
“How well did you know my uncle?”
“Well enough for him to earn my trust. He said you would be coming here someday and that I should look out for you. Been meeting the stage for the past two months. I figured you’d come in the spring, but I’m surprised you didn’t take the train.”
“Wish I had, but then you would have missed my arrival,” Darby said.
“Nope, station master would have sent someone to fetch me. Everyone knew you’d be coming. Sean said you would. Now wipe the crap off your shoe on that rail before you track up the lobby in the hotel.”
“Thank you,” Darby said.
“What for? I haven’t done a thing just yet.”
“For meeting me, for being so kind…and for being Sean’s friend.”
“You haven’t seen your uncle in eight years…you have a lot of catching up to do,” Indigo said.
Darby smiled. “Guess I do. So tell me, why did he name you Indigo?”
“Fair enough. Indigo is a color of blue, a deep dark blue and it has significance to my people. Right now you need a bath and then we can talk.”
Indigo hefted the bags and walked through the doors into the hotel lobby. Darby didn’t know much of anything about Indians, but this one seemed exceptional. He spoke English better than most of the people back in the city.
Darby wanted to hear everything Indigo knew about Sean, but he was sure that the man’s own story would be just as fascinating. He looked back at the town and the stagecoach rolling away down the street. Maybe Tombstone wouldn’t be so bad after all.