I hate the trains, and just about everyone on them. By 1875, I had ridden on ten total trains, each set to plunge into lands ripe for settling. Each ride killed a bit of my soul, and faith in us. I wasn't its only victim; the land and animals carried the brunt of the trains. They infected wherever it crossed, seeping its tendrils into the unclaimed soil. Rides were consumed like dirty food and water, carrying a unique brand of dysentery that slowly poisoned the west: Civilization.

Manifest Destiny had already done its damage, so I sit here on this train, and wait for retribution.

As I look across aisles of the first-class car, to the front and back of my seat, I see the grossly ornate carvings with that uncanny curvy look to it. Red velvet hangings drape the walls and dangle around my head, I feel like a prize ready to be opened by a snickering baron's sniveling kid. And we are the prize, the rich man's prize. Those who come from the trains get buttered and coddled, to have this taste of wealth before they start their western endeavors. Before they achieve the dream, psychologically, they trick them into thinking they've already succeeded. I hold no such delusions. The West has thoroughly coddled me, and I was sent bearing a message. One, two, three . . . about seven in the car excluding me and the staff, giftwrapped in fine linens and gemstones.

A newsboy walks through the car for the second time, nose and cheeks powdered in dust. A walking billboard for the phrase, getting your hands dirty, that characterized the western working man.

"Extra, extra, health benefits of smoking! Extra, extra, read all abou—"

The newsboy bumps into my left elbow, dropping a small slip of paper. I promptly pick it up, read it, and stash it in my right pocket.

"Hey! Watch it, mister!"

I tuck my elbow away and let the boy pass.

"Extra, extra! Clyde Bonneview's gang terrorizes the Central Pacific railroad! Extra, extra . . . "

"I'll take one!" A man says in the booth behind me, after the exchange of six cents for the paper, the newsboy continues his path.

"I for one am grateful Mrs. Potts," piped up an older lady in the booth in front of me, "That this land is becoming less . . . savage."

"My dear, I couldn't agree with you more. We shall be in good graces in the future, my daddy would be pleased to see we're rehabilitating the natives." The lady next to Mrs. Potts said.

Behind me, a little voice asks the burly-sounding man about the paper he had just bought.

"But that means an innocent who can't receive communion can't go to heaven, is that fair, Father?"

"Well Joy, there's a difference between an innocent and an outlaw and even those savages out there."

"I never thought of it that way." Said Joy.

"Because you've never been to the West, dear."

As soon as they get a taste, it's as if they've lived with it their entire lives. I have. I was baptized in dust, kicked up by these Easterners and their lust for deforestation and poor farming. My mother paid for it, my father too, and little Belle . . . who inhaled less air than dirt in her short time, succumbing to consumption. If I told that to the preacher, would he think she died of overeating? Do our words even have the same definitions anymore?

I transfer my ears from the back to the front and catch a damning sentence from Mrs. Brill. "They're happier now, aren't they? They were living like animals."

Can anyone not live like an animal? Do we not eat, sleep, drink, piss, and shit like them? Because our excrement drops into a bucket, does that make us civilized? We are certainly the most cunning animals. Easily the most ruthless. And the only animal to call each other "animals." That's what this train brings, the human hubris. With enough of us in one place, it's easy to think we are dominant or holier than thou, yet we move like these bison outside my booth window. Moving where the spring rains bring green grass. Yet the West barely rains, and the grass is blown over by the dust which dries my throat.

"Father, look! Bison!" squealed Joy, squishing her face against the window to get a better look. Her face reflects over to my window, her genuine wonderment beaming at each bison. I knew the smile wouldn't last long, yet it was enough. To see someone else enjoyed the sparse wonders that appear every hundred miles or so.

"Duck your head Joy," The Preacher said, cracking open the window and leveling his six-shooter out of it, "Time for sport."

Subsequently, other passengers came towards the right side of the train, sidling into booths and lowering windows. The first gunshot startled little Joy, as she let out a whelp before more shots began. I stayed still, hand hovering over my own colt. I count six men armed, four who couldn't handle iron, and two who could. Three repeaters, and the rest with small caliber handguns. They unloaded bullets into the bison, quickly mowing down the lined-up mammals, and leaving a trail of death behind them. They laughed while they did it, giving each other high fives and the occasional, "nice shot." I didn't have to see the little girl to know she was covering her ears, whimpering as firearm smoke mingled in the car. A minute later the smoke left, and evidence of the massacre floated out behind the train. It kept chugging along, moving further away from the scene of the crime. The passengers settled and went back to their mingling. Apparently, forgiveness doesn't cure guilt, but only a couple of miles will.

The shooters put their firearms to rest, repeaters resting against the side booth seat, revolvers sliding into leather lined holsters. I listen carefully, blocking out the dribble from my fellow train farer. Singling out the clinking of iron, the clicking of a six-shot cylinder, cartridges sliding into slots, it was silent. They weren't expecting more sport the rest of the ride, a terrible judgment.

I slowly begin to filter back in the normal hubbub of the train when a scrawny dude slides into the opposite seat of my booth. He removes his satin top hat and covers his mouth with a clenched hand as he clears his throat.

"A horrible sight, isn't it?

I elect to say nothing, these slick types tend to drone on about nothing while saying a bunch, I don't have time for that. But the view isn't bad, empty, yes, but vastly open.

"If you say so." I said, trying my hardest to look as if my head is void of meaningful thoughts.

"No, not that, though London is far better," said the man. "I meant what happened earlier."

"I've heard London is shit."

"If you call character shit, then I finally understand what happened before."

"Are you sappy, English?"

"Dead bison don't sadden me, sir, we do"

There's an outline on the Englishman's right breast pocket. It looks small caliber, likely a holstered vest. Left-handed then? Blisters show slightly on the middle phalange of his pointer finger and hammer thumb.

"What's got you so troubled with us, dude?" I said. The landmark I was looking out for passed by, a group of sticks stuck into the ground, some with white cloth tied to the ends.

"Those men, shooting, their faces were horrible. So sure of themselves they were. Sure it wasn't them grazing grass, they were sure they were in the safety of a moving train. You could see it in their faces. Making sure their aim was true, trying their hardest to hit their target," the man shifts in his seat, "It's done because they can, not because they should." He lets the mood settle until he says, "And I've seen stonings for god's sake, good on us for revolutionizing stonings, right? Now we can do them hundreds of feet away!"

I understand now. He's using me, consuming me as a part of his worldview. No doubt he will present me as an example when talking to his colleagues or wealthy friends in the saloon. A performative anecdote to demonstrate his high and mighty ethics. I have ethics of my own, an impetus to why I'm here.

I will rob this train, like many others. And I won't just take their cash or jewelry, I will take their smiles, their beliefs, morals they hold and manners they act. I might even put a bullet in one of them. Skin them and drape their hide around my shoulders like a rich cashmere. I will reinforce their superstitions of wild men driven purely by the Id. I'm here for the money too, don't get it twisted.

I thumb my left coat pocket, feeling the tip of the hammer on my fingernail. An elderly gentleman in conducting attire came by asking for tickets, the Englishman and I flashed ours. "This part at the Bodie train stop?" I said.

"We should pass there in about two minutes." Said the ticket taker.

"Thanks." I said, the ticket taker moved along

"Bodie, eh?" Said the Englishman.

"The train stop." I said

"Don't mean to ruin your mood, sir, but you're on the wrong train," he said, "I'm afraid the train doesn't stop at Bodie."

I look at him, then peer out the window to see the train stop coming.

"This train will stop at Bodie." I stand and use my right hand to pull down the whistle. A bell rings out from the top of the car as the brakes squeal and the horn blows.

The train halts in front of Bodie station, and a rising level of confusion circles the car.

I straighten my Stetson hat and whip out the colt from my left pocket.

I quickly strike the Englishman in the jaw with the butt of the gun, taking him by surprise as I kneel on his stomach. I reach into his coat pocket and remove his small .22 caliber. I stick it in my belt and shove the bag into the Englishman's arms, still recovering from the blow. My hand moves and rests the end of the barrel between his eyes.

"Walk the aisle, and put any jewelry, cash, or valuables in the bag, quickly."

The Englishman scrambles to do as I ask, choosing to obey the barrel between his eyes. People begin to hand them their things, slowly. That was until three gunshots rang out from the car behind us. Good, they were taking this seriously.

"I have a gun too, you know." I say, as I level the .22 at Mrs. Brill.

Things seemed to go much quicker. More of my guys started moving to the front car to explore the luggage stashes of the first class. As I stepped off the wretched thing, drinking in the clean air, two of my riders brought out the little newsboy.

"Here he is, boss."

The boy steps off and walks up to me, boldly holding out his hand expectantly. I fish out a wad of cash and counted out a hundred dollars.

"You've got the horse and everything right?" The kid said.

"Behind the outhouse." I said.

The newsboy skips off with his score, exceedingly jolly after helping the robbery of the incoming polite society.

The rest of my men come down from the conductor's car, the engine and gears clicking into place as the train starts up. Then, like a heaven-sent present just for me, the Preacher leaps off the steps, landing firmly. He started to raise his hand; gun leveled. My men sprang into action, unloading their might into God's bastion, fanning their hammers to the melody of their own heartbeat. The Preacher fell, and the little girl, Joy, came to him. One of my guys walks towards her. I could see it in his eyes, he wanted to kill her, because he could. I wouldn't let him.

After I slotted a hole firmly between his eyes, and dumped a couple more into him, I turned toward Joy. She was trying her darndest not to cry, blinking in rapid succession. I come towards her, holding my gun limp to show no harm. She kneels next to the Preacher and takes out a pocket bible from his coat. As she flipped the pages, she mumbled indistinctly, trying to produce something. She couldn't, so she kept flipping till the pages were found. Joy slowly turned the book towards me, tapping with a bloodied finger to the right passage.

"It says to l-love us," she cried, "To love your enemies."

I knelt to her level, "Am I your enemy?" Her eyes met mine, and for a minute, I was looking at Belle. I couldn't take notice of her fancy dress, polished shoes, or silver ring, only her eyes. They held no hate for me, or contempt. Reflected in them was my own, I knew it, yet it was unrecognizable. I was a haze of red, like a bloodied dust djinn about to consume. There was no one to stop me. I can do whatever the hell I want . . . 

When you go to war with society, there's this great illusion of immortality, of death in blazes of glory. You go out loud or be forgotten. Then, when you've barked and bitten as loud as you could . . . silence. No one tells you the truth about these things. I didn't hear it when it happened. She was two steps away . . . and I didn't hear a thing. And then it came, a trickling sound like a dripping pail, blood ran warm red streaks down the bridge of my nose. The gun smoke coming from the barrel of her gun siphoned up my nose as I took a final, sharp inhale.

The train begins to roll backwards, not forwards. Back towards the bison, towards hundreds of miles of nothingness. They looked so happy out on the plains, within the moving train. I only gave them a contemporary welcome. Something tells me the wildernesses won't be so warm, and a lot less compassionate. They've left me back in the dust.