This is a story that is set in the Old West and in the present day. It starts out slowly, but it speaks to the fact that transgenderism is not something new but has existed for a long time.

- Marina Kelly and Monica Rose
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Chapter 2 - The Saga is Set in Motion

Trying to figure out what was going on was going to give her a headache. She had not thought that she believed in ghosts, but that might be the only way to explain where the girl had gone. There was no way she could have run away without being seen.

Walking back to her work area, Mary Sue checked the book she carried for any damage. It looked like it had not suffered from being mistreated, so she decided that the best thing to do was to leave it on the table so that someone could put it back in its proper place. She would have tried to find its spot on the shelf, but it would also be easy to misplace it as well. Nothing was more annoying than to be unable to find a book when it was out of place on the shelves.

When she saw the subject of the book, Mary Sue froze. It dealt with memoirs of famous western figures and it triggered a new train of thought. Her eyes went to her notebook and back to the library book she held. What was so important about larger than life western idols? Most of what was ‘known’ was 10% fact and 90% fiction. She sat down and began making some new notes.

History was told so often from a narrative point of view that history books became dry texts. Historical events are witnessed by people. The experiences and impressions of those witnesses could be valuable. History used to be passed down through families in a verbal fashion but these oral accounts were often overlooked or discounted by today’s scholars because they were not considered to be completely accurate accounts of history. With the advent of the printed word and literacy, verbal histories became even less common. Perhaps her thesis could be an attempt to capture some of those verbal histories as they pertained to the settling of the West.

She worked to develop the concept of her thesis, trying to refine it. She had struggled with writer's block early on with her approach though. After using her roommate, Evelyn, as a sounding board, she decided to examine the 'who, where, when, and why, not just the what' of history. Evelyn's pursuit of her own doctorate in psychology helped Mary Sue with organizing her thoughts.

* * * * *

Mary Sue hunched over at her assigned work area in the history section. Her collection of old letters and journals covered the old mahogany table. For months now, she had been gathering them as part of her work toward her doctorate.

Time had begun to lose its meaning lately as she was spending more and more time here. Evelyn, her roommate, had learned that this was the first place to look during the week when she couldn't find Mary Sue. There were books of notes, but the central content of her thesis still needed to be put together, meaning that she had to convert those notes into a coherent document. She thought whimsically, 'If I could just smuggle a cot up here, I wouldn't need to take breaks.' Then she got a whiff of the aromatic cloud that surrounded her and realized that a shower break might be a good thing.

She tried to get her bleary eyes to focus as she looked through her papers again. She had been through the chicken scratch of old letters a hundred times, but was still having a hard time deciphering the handwriting and 19th century spellings and word usages. It was obvious that schooling was not a top priority in the 1890's. The dim light in the NYU library's rare book section and the faded words on the old parchment all combined to give her a major headache.

She gently massaged her temples with her finger tips as she reviewed the contents of her latest finds. Her research had shown that until about 1870, travelers encountered hundreds of thousands of bison migrating through Nebraska on both sides of the Platte River, and most travelers killed several for fresh meat. By 1900, a lack of understanding of the concept of conservation had eliminated the buffalo as a source of sustenance. The wagon train that Mary Sue was researching did not have the luxury of the buffalo. Their diet was as bland as the flat prairie, consisting mostly of beans and rice, dried meat and salted bacon. As they traveled, they hunted and fished for antelope, deer, elk, rabbit, birds, and trout.

She recalled the disdainful attitude her faculty advisor had taken when she described the abstract for her thesis. He really did not think that her paper would have any value to other historians and would be better suited as an adventure novel. Her subject had already been approved by the thesis committee, of which he was not a member. That might be more than anything what made him so negative about her focus. She wanted to keep history alive and relating the experiences and thoughts of those who came before seemed to energize her.

The subject matter of the letters and journals she had accumulated had drawn her along like cheese that baited a mouse. They described all the expected hardships that one had traditionally associated with crossing the continent in a wagon. The heat, the dust, insects, the fierce wind, rain, and lightning storms were common in the spring and summer across the Great Plains, as was having to deal with the ever rampant disease of cholera that took more than its share of victims.

But her in-depth research had found that the composition of a wagon train was as diverse as any small city of the time. Everything was there from drunkenness, gossip, torrid love affairs; child abuse in the name of discipline, theft, bullying of the weaker ones. The most disturbing theme was the senseless killing of Native Americans almost as a sport.

What surprised her most was that fornication seemed to be a favorite topic. Men, women, children, even livestock...no one seemed to be safe. As the pioneers forged their way west most every human emotion and vice were packed into their wagons and taken with them. This was the story Mary wanted to tell in her thesis, she just did not know how. The stereotype about brave and virtuous pioneers was old and over-used. Her goal was to tell the world that not all the pioneers wore white hats. At times, it seems the east had emptied their prisons and jail cells in an effort to fulfill Horace Greeley's quote "Go West, young man."

Her greatest find had been a detailed manifest by the wagon master, the illegitimate son of the legendary Jim Bridger. It had literally fallen off a shelf in the rare books section of the library in front of her and she had been hooked from the time she opened the cover. What was really confusing was that the head librarian had no record of the book being part of the collection and she had been told that it might be old, but it did not appear to have any value. She was allowed to take the narrow ledger with her when she left the building.

Bridger had been literate and the first of what would be known as anal retentive. He recorded every individual's name, occupation and an estimate of their livestock and belongings. Mary Sue's heart about leapt from her chest at the discovery of his journal in a long forgotten storage room in the museum. It listed every soul who had signed up for the arduous 2,000-mile journey that would take them from the Missouri River to valleys in Oregon. The settlers piled everything they owned into canvas-covered wagons, handcarts and any other vehicle that could move, and set out along a dim track called 'the Emigrant Road.'

By 1897, the transcontinental railroad had attracted most of the less adventuresome and the wagon train Mary Sue was researching would end up being the last wagon train to travel the Oregon Trail. Despite the lateness of the season, the fact that "Buffalo Bill Cody had signed on as the train's chief scout attracted a lot of attention and people vied for a spot in the wagon train. A train that would eventually reach 120 wagons in size by the time it departed Missouri.

Dime novels about Wild Bill were commonplace during that time period. The allure of his name attracted all kinds of ne'er-do-wells. As a result, the passenger list included a number of people intending to turn this trip into a literary gold mine for themselves, which explained the unusual number of journals kept by the participants. However, only the hardiest prospective authors survived the trip and remained with the train all the way to the Pacific Ocean. There were an inordinate number of documents that had been unearthed detailing the trial and tribulations of the last wagon train to follow the Oregon Trail.

Unlike most of her contemporaries, Mary Sue still preferred the old fashioned way. She wrote all her notes in longhand and later transcribed them onto her computer. At times, she realized she almost needed a Rosetta stone to decipher her own handwriting.

She picked up her trusty well-chewed-on pencil and added to the list of words she was using to translate the documents to readable modern English. She scanned the latest additions and underlined those that seemed the most useful: Oakum was used when referring to hemp fiber rope, Warm/warmly really meant difficult, quick-paced. Where Verdant was an adjective for lush or fertile, Discommode meant annoy. Viands were a frequently used word for food, usually reserved for choice dishes. Fag end was the equivalent for last years, final part. Obloquy was a substitute for false accusation, or malicious gossip. Quondam meant former, Pusillanimity was a synonym for cowardice. Then her latest addition Insipid, that stood for bland or tasteless.

Her eyes seemed to cross as she tried to read and Mary dropped her pencil back to the table. Intending to just rest her eyes for a few minutes, she laid her head down using her arms for a makeshift pillow. The smell of the old wood of the table filled her nostrils and was somehow soothing.

* * * * *

It was hours later that Mary felt a gentle push at her shoulder. Mary Sue opened her eyes just a crack and saw Evelyn standing at her side. The two of them were pretty much pretty each other's only friends on campus, pursing advanced degrees left little free time for socialization. It had been Evelyn’s observations about history that had caused Mary Sue to see history as more than just a recording of events. Mary Sue had embraced that philosophy with a passion and had come to believe that everyone’s experiences and reminisces were valuable.

"Mary, wake up!" The tone of her voice was a combination of desperation and exasperation. "Professor Friedman called the apartment looking for you. You missed your one o'clock with your thesis committee and he's not a happy man."

Glancing at the watch on her wrist, she went on, "He wants you standing in his office by three PM. We've got 20 minutes to get you presentable and across campus to his office. He expects you to explain your latest lapse in judgment. It seems you go out of your way to antagonize him."

Mary Sue made a face and said, "You’re right Eve. I really don't like him and regret the day he was made my advisor. The man’s a predator. Every time we’re alone, he hits on me. I had to threaten to report him for sexual harassment after he made it clear that my thesis would breeze through the committee if I agreed to certain favors. He may be a renowned history lecturer, but to me he is more of a lecher, period. Degree or no degree, the professor is one vulgar remark away from earning a broken nose!"

Evelyn frowned. "I’ve no doubt what you’re telling me is the truth, but you have invested three years in this degree, so you have to find some way to work around him. Now let’s get you cleaned up. Do you have a clean shirt?"

Mary Sue walked over to her filling cabinet and retrieved a neatly folded peach colored top and a small toiletry kit. Displaying the blouse to Evelyn she said, "This should do." They trooped down to the restroom where Mary Sue quickly brushed her teeth to get rid of the dragon breath. The mirror showed a somewhat cute brunette with blue eyes that seemed to glow. Her nose was not the typical button nose that all girls seemed to want, but was just an average one, not too long and too bulbous or narrow. The nose was just about right for her face.

Changing clothes, she pulled off the baggy university sweatshirt to reveal a statuesque figure. Her medium build meant that she probably would never qualify as a Victoria Secret girl. She was nowhere near being a stereotypical stick figure of a runway model.

Evelyn was surprised by her friend’s curvaceous figure. The two women hardly saw each other during the week anyway and Mary Sue was gone every weekend for her part time job. Their schedules had been such that neither girl was present in the apartment with the other that often. On the evenings when they were together, Mary Sue had gone out of her way to avoid being seen unclothed. Mary had always dressed in loose fitting bagging clothes. Evelyn had thought that Mary Sue was just body shy and had given the other woman her space. Yet, here she stood with a knockout body that Evelyn had to admit that she was jealous of. The fact that Mary hid her figure was rather confusing.

"Mary, I know that this is crude of me, but why hide a body like that?"

Mary blushed at the compliment, "Oh you mean these little old things." She gestured to her large, perfect breasts. "Well…they're the best money can buy. But I try and keep them under wraps."

Evelyn wrinkled her nose in confusion. "You mean you paid for a breast augmentation and now you're trying to hide them. What’s going on?" She was sure that Mary Sue's endowments were a fairly new change to her friend.

Mary Sue smiled wryly. She rolled on some deodorant and pulled on the blouse. She quickly ran a brush through her hair and pulled her hair into a severe bun so that she could secure it with bobby pins. Slipping on a pair of glasses, she hoisted her backpack to one shoulder and was ready to go. Even with bloodshot eyes, she was attractive enough to turn heads, though she didn't realize it.

"Come on, I’ll explain while we walk across campus, but you have to promise to keep this just between us. I need to give you a little background first.

"Growing up, I had a rather boyish appearance. Being around four older brothers, meant that I was a bit of a tomboy. My mother was never a real girly woman and I think she was just as happy that I liked doing the things my brothers did because those were the things she knew. Both my parents enjoyed sports and most athletic activities. So I played sports, climbed trees, and did all the things my brothers did. They trained me well. I was always one of the first chosen in baseball and basketball games. They also taught me to stand up for myself.

"I didn’t really have any problems until puberty hit and I discovered boys but they never really noticed me. Other girl’s figures filled out, but mine didn’t. I wanted to be like the other girls; but the fairy that hands out the breast allowances missed seeing me, probably because of all the testosterone at my house, so dressing and acting like my brothers was the easier way to go. At least until high school. I found friendship in sports and became a bit of a bookworm. Let me tell you, as a girl I went through a lot of Kleenex weeping over my lack of development and of lack attention from boys."

The day was clear for late April, but the girls knew that they wouldn't want to stay outside for too long in the cool air. Fortunately, it was warm while they were in the sun. The quad was fairly empty because of the coolness, so the girls were quickly away from any prying ears.

Mary Sue glanced around to make sure that they were alone and asked, "Eve, what is the current tuition for NYU?"

Evelyn paused for a moment as the question seemed to come out of the blue. "I’m not sure, somewhere around 25 grand a year."

"Where do you think a kid from a farm in Iowa gets that kind of money?"

"I don’t know. Scholarships?"

Mary Sue gave a quick chuckle, "What I get in scholarships and grants helps a lot, but it doesn't cover all of my expenses."

A confused Eve looked at her friend in bewilderment. "I give up. How do you afford this place?" Evelyn had been the beneficiary in her parents' insurance policies and she did not have the same kind of financial issues that Mary Sue did. The fact that both women were orphans was something that had bonded them as friends, Mary Sue had not had the benefit an insurance settlement or the inheritance of a large estate.

"Eve, think about it. How do women normally acquire large quantities of cash?" She was half-tempted to say, 'And I don't mean inheriting it,' but she was sensitive to Evelyn's feelings in that regard. Even though her own relationship with her parents had been strained, she did miss them.

"School loans or, better yet, marry for it."

"Sweetie, don’t be so naive. I have a part time job on the weekends. I earned it the old fashion way...through hard work."

Mary Sue’s statement hung in the air, Evelyn still confused, "What kind of part time job pays that kind of money?"

Mary heaved a heavy sigh. "Well it sure isn’t in waitressing. The first job I got was a real eye opener for me. Even when I tried to flirt with the guys the way the other girls did, I still didn’t get good tips. I didn't need Sherlock Holmes to tell me that the girls with the bigger tits got the bigger tips."

Evelyn already suspected that she knew the answer, but she asked her question anyway. "Mary, what did you do?"

"One of my friends suggested I look for a job as an exotic dancer in the Village. While the money sounded good, I just couldn't do that."

"Why not? You have a pretty face and gorgeous hair, and anyone can learn to dance." Of course, Evelyn was missing the fact that it would be a job as a stripper.

Mary Sue smiled. "Thanks for the compliment, but you are my friend so you're not totally objective. I may have a great body, but my face is pretty much ordinary."

She pushed her glasses back up on her nose and said, "I just couldn't bring myself to even contemplate being a stripper. So I did the only thing I could. I maximized on the feminine assets I did have. I went to work as a cocktail waitress in a casino at Atlantic City. By arranging my schedule so I don't have any Friday classes, I commute down Thursday nights and work double shifts all weekend.

"But I realized I needed a hook to draw in the high rollers. The double D’s were it; I call myself Dee Dee at work. I wiggle these at a guy, and once he gets hard, the money seems to fall out of his wallet. The best part was that they were a tax deduction as a business expense."

Shimmying her chest, she said in a light hearted manner, "These puppies have paid for themselves ten times over. Besides, when I'm dressed in provocative costumes with daring décolletage no man ever even notices my face." She didn't connect how her appearance and behavior as a cocktail waitress might be compared to an exotic dancer.

Evelyn really could not picture her friend working in a casino. "You’ve got to be kidding."

"No, I’m not. It pays well but it's a lot of hard work and long nights, especially when I have to wear heels. On top of that, I've been so paranoid that someone will recognize me. That’s why I try to downplay my figure during the time I'm on campus. Besides, baggy sweatshirts are comfortable and no one comes to this part of the library anyway."

"Do you think that the professor has seen through your cover up?" Evelyn asked.

Mary Sue looked thoughtful for a moment. "I don’t want to prejudge anyone; but that might explain his boorish behavior. Besides, he's the kind of guy who might go down to Atlantic City…if he could afford it."

At that, they arrived outside Doctor Friedman’s office. Squeezing Eve's hand, Mary said, "Thanks for listening to me, I feel better getting that off my chest - no pun intended." She squared her shoulders and knocked firmly on the door.

When she didn't get a response right away, Mary knocked more loudly a second time.

"Get in here and stop making that racket!"

Her glasses slipping again, she pushed them back in placed and cautiously pushed the door open with her foot and stuck just her head in. "Doctor Friedman, it's me, Mary Sue."

"Oh so you are alive Miss McLaughlin. I could only surmise you were dead or on your death bed. No other rational excuse would keep a doctoral candidate from a meeting with her advisor."

Mary pulled up on her thread worn old Levis and boldly went where no sane person would ever go voluntarily. Stepping in, she started her apology, "I'm sorry, but I can explain."

The professor dismissed her with a wave of his hand, "Don't bother; I don't have time for some tomfoolery of an excuse. Just get in here close the door and brief me on your progress. Your first chapter is due by the beginning of next semester. That doesn't leave you with a lot of time." His opinion of her thesis and its focus came through quite clearly.

Mary sat in the designated visitor chair, that she could see was intentionally made several inches lower than the professor's chair on its small platform, so everyone had to strain their neck to look up to the dean of the history department.

Mary opened her backpack and withdrew her handy note book. She excitedly started a recitation of her research. "Doctor, I am going to present a detailed account of the last wagon train on the Oregon Trail in 1897."

"Stop! Just stop!" He said with a bored tone as he held up a hand. "This is not some high school term paper. You are required to produce a scholarly manuscript that will add to the body of knowledge about American history. That is the only way you'll be given a doctorate from this university – well there is one other way, but that is better discussed over a glass of chardonnay at dinner. How is this topic going to meet that criteria?"

That got her ire up; her paper had been approved long ago, she just had to write it. Why did she have to justify herself every time she spoke to him? She stood up and put both hands on his desk and leaned forward, invading his personal space. Looking him directly in the eye, she said, "Sir, my topic meets all the requirements. First off, it is significant because this was the last wagon train to go over the Oregon Trail. Secondly, there are two historical figures directly involved that have never been researched in this vein. The chief scout was none other than Wild Bill Cody and I have proof that the wagon master was the illegitimate son of the legendary Jim Bridger."

The professor leaned back in his chair and said, "Go on Miss McLaughlin, there has to be more. This is not a script for some western movie."

"Yes sir. I have a complete list of everyone who started the trek from Missouri. I plan on following their progress and document how many eventually made it to Oregon and how their lives turned out. Another point I plan on hitting in my thesis will be gender roles. Almost everything the public knows about that time period has been popularized by television and movies. Everything about the west seems to focus solely upon men. Name another memorable woman from that time, other than Annie Oakley.

"Were tasks split up between men and women, husband and wife or were they done by whoever was available? The final aspect of my paper will be the oral histories that I collect from the descendants of the members of the wagon train."

The professor's eyes sparkled. He had not read the abstract of Mary Sue’s proposed thesis as thoroughly as he should have and she was actually proposing some interesting viewpoints. "You might be on to something there. That approach has never been done. How large was the train?"

"It contained almost 100 families. When you add in servants and drovers, the train contained over 700 men and women, the exact number of children is harder to pin down."

"How do you intend to determine how their lives turned out? It has been estimated that the overall mortality rate on the Oregon-California Trail was 4 to 6 percent of those starting west. You must remember that statistically, there is an average of ten graves for every mile. You must account for as many of the lost souls as you can."

Mary was ready for that challenge, thinking quickly on her feet she said, "I'll start with official 1900 census. Following that, I'll examine the federal tax rolls, the forms at that time required a person's address and occupation."

Feeling very sure of herself, she suspected she had come across a factoid the professor was unaware of so she continued, "The income tax was passed by Congress in 1862 in the Internal Revenue Act. The National Archives hold records of income taxes paid."

The old man leaned back in his chair and let her finish then sat up straight and lectured, "Very good Miss McLaughlin; but you do realize those taxes only applied to people who made over $600 a year. That was a lot of money back then. How many of your 'emigrants' would have qualified for the federal tax? Where else will you look Miss McLaughlin?"

"I don't know, maybe Ancestor.com." His questions touched upon areas that she had not yet considered and her uncertainty showed.

That got a belly laugh from the old doctor.

With a smug look on his face that Mary found disconcerting, the professor went on like he was teaching a history class. "As your advisor, let me suggest that you look to another source. By the end of the civil war, there were over 5,000 newspapers being published in the United States. A lot of them are readily available in digital form or on microfilm. They may turn out to be a most valuable source in filling in your personal backgrounds. Most were weeklies, usually printed on one sheet that folded in half to make four pages. So when searching, keep in mind that there may be a considerable time lag between an 1897 event and its appearance in a newspaper."

Friedman was not talking like a condescending jerk now; he was in full-blown teaching mode. "Miss McLaughlin, you have been locked up in libraries and museums for far too long. I think you need to do some real field work. Get out there and follow the train's trail, there will be records dispersed along its length. See what you can dig up, perhaps grave stones from the less fortunate, and I'm sure there were some that dropped off along the way. Find their stories as well."

The professor's observations actually made sense to her and she said, "Alright professor, I'll show you the best investigative thesis anyone has ever seen."

"You?" he gasped, "Why you're just a mere girl! This job calls for a man's touch. I'd be willing to accompany you and inject my expertise where needed."

Just when he had managed to show that he was a learned academician, he had to sink back to the gutter. He knew that his statement was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it as soon as the last breath left his mouth. She flushed with anger. "Don't 'girl' me, and you can keep the innuendos to yourself!" she said firmly.

She didn't wait for an answer she turned and went out the door. Her assertiveness was rather attractive and he decided to make a point of following her progress - besides she had a great body.

Mary Sue had the strongest urge to slam the door; but she just couldn't as she was raised to control her emotions. She had learned that with her brothers. If you showed them they had gotten to you they just kept digging at you. So she let door close itself quietly and headed back to the apartment.

"What happened?" Eve asked when Mary Sue plopped in the chair in front of the desk.

"He challenged my work and made more harassing comments, the old coot. Now I have to hit the trail literally and do field research. But he did offer some valuable suggestions."

"When are you leaving?"

"I need to do some planning, but I think that I could leave this coming Saturday and get to Independence, Missouri by Monday. Then my work really begins. I have some savings built up from the stipends I've gotten, but I really was not planning on using it in this way. I was planning on some field work anyway, the old goat just pushed me to do it sooner rather than later."

* * * *

It took a couple of days to arrange research access at some of the large universities along her path to the west coast. While she could try to find out what she wanted at newspaper offices, publishers had an annoying habit of going out of business when circulation dropped. Considering the time period she was working on, she would have to consider herself lucky to find any newspapers from that time still in business. Still, there were a handful still around and she noted them as places to approach.

The day before she was to set out was busy. She gathered the research materials she wanted with her, glad that it was in electronic form. The hard-copy versions of everything would remain here at home. Even though she had an assigned work space that the library staff would look after for her, the material she had gathered was too important to leave for however long she might be traveling. She wished that there was some place to store it all at the university, but her research material would be safer at the apartment.

It was early the next morning when she dragged her luggage out to her most prized possession: a 10-year-old Volkswagen Beetle convertible and wrestled everything into the back seat and trunk. She thought that she had everything she needed, the most important being traveler's checks and maps. Evelyn came down with her to see her off.

"I have a present for you," Eve said. She handed over a small rectangular box. "Every woman needs her own special scent, how else is she going to attract a man?"

Mary unwrapped the package to find a large bottle of 'White Diamonds' perfume. She wasn't a perfume type of girl but the sentiment of the gift brought tears to her eyes. She dropped the bottle in her purse and said with a smile, "You know that I'm on a research trip and not a husband hunting trip, right?"

"I know," Eve replied as she hugged Mary Sue goodbye. "But it can't hurt to have it along."

Mary Sue promised to call every day or two to make sure that Evelyn knew where she was and that she was okay. Sliding into the driver’s seat and putting on her sunglasses, she waved goodbye and yelled, "Wagons Ho."

With the sun at her back, she quickly realized the sun was not an adequate directional guide to getting out of the city. Mary Sue never made it to the Holland Tunnel before she pulled over and set her GPS for Independence, Missouri. In record time for New York, she was on the open road in only four hours.

* * * * *

She hadn't done a lot of cross country traveling growing up. The most her family had done was to make a couple of trips to Maine. Five kids in a car for too long just wasn’t fun for anyone. She had never gone for more than an hour drive on her own and that never really gotten her out of the New York area. She was able to contend with the heavy traffic on I-80, but Mary Sue found the silence hard to take.

The first time she couldn’t find a radio station she liked, she turned it off in frustration. She reviewed her research and how she was putting things together. She thought about her family, and she thought about what a creep Doctor Friedman was. The next time she turned off the radio, she found herself thinking about her job and how a lot of the men at the club were a lot like Dr. Friedman, but with the way she was dressed and the money they paid her seemed to make the way they acted okay. Wondering why her mind was going down this road drew her back to her high school years where she wanted the attention of the guys and couldn’t get it, she had the attention of the men at the club but none of that was serious and Dr. F’s attention was not welcomed at all.

So now what? She wasn’t very experienced but she knew she didn’t fit the tomboy life she had growing up and she sure didn’t want to be a cocktail waitress forever. Most of those guys didn’t care that she had a brain too. She would find herself revisiting this subject many times over the next weeks.

As much as she wanted to get her research done and get home again, she didn't want to push the car too hard. It had lots of miles on it, but it hadn't given her trouble in a long time. She resigned herself to the possibility that this trip might be the last long one that the car might make. She stayed close to the speed limit and took the recommended breaks. She had enough cash for this expedition, but she didn't want to pay out for traffic tickets or repairs because she was hot-rodding.

* * * * *

It was Sunday evening when she rolled into Independence, Missouri. She pulled into a Motel 6 parking lot and got out to stretch her cramped legs. Cars like hers were great on gas mileage but lacked basic amenities like legroom.

Mary was happy to get checked into a room. She quickly unpacked thinking that she might be around for a few days. Her few dresses she carefully hung in the closet, alongside her pantsuits. Her sweatshirts and jeans got stuffed into a drawer. She fell into bed and didn’t move until the morning light shone through her window. She made herself a cup of coffee, opened her computer to figure out where she would go first.

The city of Independence was known as the "Queen City of the Trails" because it was a point of departure for trains travelling the California, Oregon and Santa Fe Trails. It was great trivia but not much help for her paper. Mary Sue put on her normal outfit, Levi's and a sweatshirt. Wearing dresses and high heels to dig around in files and records was just silly. She put her hair up into a French braid, put on a minimum of makeup and grabbed her bag of notebooks.

After a barely filling breakfast at McDonalds, her first stop was the local tourist information center. She was directed to a display with a reproduction of several pages from a Lewis and Clark journal. It said that they stopped in what is now Independence in 1804 to pick plums, raspberries, and wild apples at a site that would later form the city center. Which, again, was interesting but of no use whatsoever to her research. She did pick up a handout that listed the location of all the historical markers in and around the city. She had not added that information to her collection as yet and she thought that it might of some value to her now.

She discovered the city was home to the largest stand-alone public genealogy research library in America. That sounded like a good place to start. She drove straight there, requiring only two laps around the parking lot to find an open space.

She wove her way between cars to reach the front entrance, a lovely gothic facade with almost 50 stone steps leading to the main entrance. The climb up the steps seemed to be designed to discourage everyone except the serious researcher. Her relaxed collegiate outfit should enable her to blend in to the crowd. Asking for help at the information desk was a test of her patience, a bored receptionist looked up at her NYU sweatshirt and merely handed her a photocopy of the research center's layout.

As she looked around for a place to work she noticed the amount of attention she was getting. She assumed that it had to be due to the logo on her sweatshirt. Folks tended to take school rivalries seriously, but it never occurred to her that it might be what was in the Levis and sweatshirt that the boys found so interesting.

Later in the day, she found a very nice young man who happily showed her how to work their antiquated microfiche system. He apologized that the older 19th Century records still hadn't been transferred over to the computer database system as if it were somehow his fault.

She worked until the library closed that evening and returned the following day for more than half a day. As a result, she was able to identify numerous names from her list of wagon train participants. She took copious notes and was satisfied with her progress. Bridger’s log book listed a dozen family names that were from the local area. Among the names was a young girl name Yolanda Petalengro, who was listed as a gypsy and a nanny for a pioneer family. Both the name and the fact that a nanny was on the trip were unique and stood out to Mary Sue.

Her cross-referencing identified one family living in the area by the last name of Petalengro. However, according to the 1896 census, tax and voting records the family only had a son, no daughter. Mary Sue made a note of the discrepancy, but she didn't find this surprising. Gypsies at that time were not known for voting or paying taxes and their vagabond lifestyle would make them hard to capture in a census. Actually, the fact that they were part of the census at all was unusual.

She stopped for a few hours at the National Frontier Trails Museum and Research Library, the largest public research library in the U.S. focused on the Overland Trails and the settlement of the American West. She had already consulted their archives remotely and retrieved a wealth of information. She did find brochures and leaflets that might be sources of inspiration though.

She learned that the average train went by way of a route that was a broad ribbon of threads, sometimes intertwining, sometimes splitting off into frayed diversions. It ran beside waterways, stretched across tall-grass and short-grass prairies, wound through mountain passes, and then spanned the Pacific Slope to the promised lands of Oregon and California.

The road to the Far West had become known as the Oregon Trail. For the most part, the members of the wagon trains were farmers and family men, with wives and children - who had a common goal of seeking a promised land of milk and honey in far-off Oregon, about which they knew as little as they did about how to get there. There were scallywags, drunkards, con-men and swindlers who managed to attach themselves to the trains, seeking their share of the pot of gold.

Mary Sue's planned route was to follow the trail as much as she could where it intersected with the road system that had sprung up along it. There were long stretches where the two routes either closely paralleled each other or the road had been built upon the trail itself. There were many small towns dotted along the old wagon train route.

Her next stop was the town's local newspaper. It was one of the few old publishers still in business and her list of historical sites showed had a lineage of ownership going back to the civil war. Driving across town and arriving just before lunch, she found a parking space just across the street. She grabbed her purse and backpack, locked her car and jogged across the busy street.

Mary Sue walked into the office expecting a receptionist. Instead, she found a young man about her age, slumping over a large oak counter that looked like a real antique. The walls were covered with framed front page articles. One in particular grabbed her attention, the headline read, "President Lincoln Shot by an Assassin. The Deed Done at Ford's Theatre Last Night. THE ACT OF A DESPERATE REBEL!"

She set her backpack down and browsed around the reception area. She picked up a business card from a holder on a table, seeing that it had the address, phone number and email of the paper. It even had a number for a hotline for anyone wanting to phone in a breaking news story. She dropped the card in her purse.

As she walked around the room, the young man studiously ignored her. About the time she reached the door to an empty office and stopped to look in, he finally reacted to her presence.

"How may I help you Miss? I'm Tim Greenleaf, the head reporter and junior editor. I'm in charge at the moment. My uncle is the owner and managing editor but he is out of town for the day."

She smiled at him for a moment before she finished looking into the office. The walls were covered in an assortment of hunting trophies, deer, elk and fox, the occupant was obviously a gun aficionado. She stepped into the office and boldly picked up a picture in a frame, examining it closely. It was obviously a wedding picture of an older gentleman and a striking redhead that appeared young enough to be the man's daughter. She wore an exquisite wedding dress, which made Mary Sue envious.

Tim came around the counter as she brazenly walked into the office, concern written on his face.

"Is this your uncle?"

"Yes, it is. Please put it down; he'll kill me if anything happens to that picture. Just what are you looking for? If you tell me maybe I can be of some help."

"I would like access to your papers for the spring and summer of 1897. Your on-line archives don't go back farther than World War 2."

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" His guarded reaction to her request piqued Mary's interest: There was something here to be found. "You've been on our web page that is all we have."

She frowned at Greenleaf. "I know every newspaper office has a morgue! What I'm looking for must be in there then!"

Her familiarity with that newspaper terminology surprised the young man. He looked at the woman with renewed interest.

"I'm looking for everything, from that period in particular, Obituaries, Birth and, Death Announcements." Then, as if it had just occurred to her she waved at all the front pages proudly displayed on the walls and added, "And of course your headline stories for that period."

At that, the young man suddenly became less than cordial. He stiffened and arched an eyebrow in a dismissive manner. "I'm sorry Miss, our files dating that far back are locked in the basement and are still in filing cabinets and storage boxes. We have never organized them for research purposes."

Not to be put off that easily, Mary responded, "No problem, I can just browse through the files."

"Oh Miss, a lady such as yourself, wouldn't feel comfortable in the musty old basement. Why I bet there are probably all kinds of yucky spiders and mice down there."

His dismissive attitude managed to rub Mary's last nerve the wrong way.

"Spiders, you say. That changes everything. Growing up, I had a tarantula I kept in my bedroom as a pet, I would feed it baby mice. I really like arachnids and view mice as a food source. Are you aware that the Romans considered mice to be a delicacy and fed them to their guests?"

The look the Mary Sue had on her face as she described her mythical mouse-eating spider would have unnerved anyone.

Flustered by her response, the man stumbled for a retort. Most people would have gotten the hint by now that they were not welcome. He tried another approach. "I'm still sorry but those files are private and off limits to all but company employees."

"Do you have access?"

"Why of course, as the number two man here I have the keys right here in my pocket."

He glanced anxiously at the clock and then out the window, "Miss, please leave. I have to lock up. I have a luncheon appointment."

"Alright, I'll come back later." She had no intention of being brushed off this easily. What kind of historian would she be if she could not get access to the information she needed?

He followed her to the door and locked it as he stepped outside after her. Crossing to her car, Mary Sue started up the engine and prepared to pull out. Movement caught her attention, as a large baby blue Mercedes-Benz pulled up in front of the newspaper. Tim dove into the front seat, where the woman driver pulled his head towards her and gave him a lip lock that must have sucked to air out of his lungs. She watched as Tim tried to sit up but the driver pushed his head to her lap and held it there, where he was hidden from view.

Mary Sue's eyes became round saucers of shock, as it took her only a moment to recognize the driver as the woman in the wedding picture. Things began to click for her and she decided to stick around for a while. Instead of driving away, she wandered the downtown area in search of some place to have lunch that would also allow her to monitor the newspaper office. Over a lunch of a mediocre hamburger and greasy fries, Mary Sue became lost in her mind trying to decide what to do proceed on her mission.

She fully intended to get a serious look at the newspaper's files. The question was how. She mentally listed and evaluated her options. She could go back and play the helpless woman and try pleading; while shedding a river of crocodile tears. That solution made her ill and was immediately rejected. Women had come too far to play the helpless damsel in distress. She could become the strong and demanding corporate type and threaten Tim with lawsuits under the Freedom of Information act. That would probably work but would require time and money she didn't have. Next she imagined herself in a Mission Impossible scenario where she would break-in after dark. A great fantasy but totally unworkable. She had no idea how to break into a locked room besides the only law she had ever knowingly broken was crossing Fifth Avenue against traffic and she would never do that again.

The alternatives were rapidly diminishing. The solution that best fit her character was to simply go back there and tell the truth, her whole academic future could depend on what she found in those files. She would simply ask for his help and understanding.

As she passed the time finishing a cup of coffee, she realized that the truth was a delusional plan as junior editor Tim had shown no tendencies toward understanding and did not appear ready to help anyone. Yet she had to get in there somehow. She was considering a second cup when the Mercedes-Benz reappeared. It barely slowed down as it passed the office and Tim came tumbling out. Watching the young man trying to compose himself as he fumbled with the keys to open the door, his shirt tails flapping in the breeze and hair all bedraggled. This was her 'Eureka!' moment.

Mary Sue gave Tim a few minutes to get settled and walked in the front door like she owned the place. She walked over to the desk, opened her purse, pulled out a tissue and her smart phone. Handing the tissue to Tim, she looked at him critically, saying, "You might want to wipe the lipstick off before anyone else notices."

The young man could only look back at her with a confused look on his face. Following up on her opening salvo, she took the tissue back and said, "Here, I'll get it." She rubbed at a spot on his cheek for a moment to remove the non-existent lipstick.

Then she hit Tim with the next round in her arsenal. She held up her phone, but was careful not to let him see that she had no pictures. "You know…these new phones have exceptionally good cameras in them, the clarity is remarkable. I wonder if your uncle would like to see just how friendly his nephew and wife have become."

Tim's eyes looked like saucers as he realized how much trouble he was in. "W...what do you want?"

Mary shrugged. "Nothing much. Just the key to the basement files. I'll spend the afternoon down there and then you will never see or hear from me again."

"That's blackmail!"

Mary smiled at him, enjoying his outrage. His previous behavior really did not inspire any sympathy for him on her part.

"I can understand how you would see it that way. I'd prefer to think of it as a life insurance payment."

Tim dug into his pocket, handed her the key, and pointed her to the basement door. His expression said that he hoped she would fall down the stairs and break her busybody neck.

Mary Sue found the light switch and cautiously made her way down the rickety old stairs. It looked like the basement had never been updated from the last century. She fervently hoped that the old lumber would hold up long enough to let her get the bottom, as well as let her get back out when she was done.

Reaching solid ground, she breathed a sigh of relief and started browsing along the cabinets and boxes. Happily, everything was well labeled and she found a section dealing with the summer of 1897. She carefully spread them out on an old table and proceeded to go through them page by page, taking notes. Occasionally a photograph caught her attention and she used her smartphone to copy it. She found one picture of her wagon train as it was pulling out of the city on the beginning of its journey, Buffalo Bill waving gaily. Mary noted that almost no one was riding in the wagons but walking instead. Some pictures had captions that identified their subjects, allowing her to put faces to names in her notes.

She also perused the birth and obituary sections. One front page stood out. There was a full page article that jumped out at her. It described how a local farmer, Timothy Greenleaf complained of losing a goat. He had demanded his neighbors join him in a posse to hunt down the culprit. It seemed they had come across a lone gypsy camped on the outskirts of town. The man was questioned at gunpoint and identified himself as Hugo Petalengro who claimed to know nothing of any lost goat. Searching his belongings, they found a fresh goat hide. That, combined with the fact he was a gypsy, was all the evidence they needed. Petalengro was hung from the nearest tree. It mentioned he was survived by his wife and 16-year-old son. On the next page was a brief editorial comment about rushing to judgment; as the lost goat found its way home later that night. Mr. Greenleaf apologized for the misunderstanding.

The next day, a member of the vigilante group was found stabbed to death. Suspicion immediately fell on Petalengro's son, despite the fact he was known as a studious, shy young lad; it was also common knowledge he was never without his dagger. A reward of $500 was offered by the Greenleaf family for the gypsy's son, dead or alive. Mary Sue scrutinized every paper for a month after that announcement. Nowhere did she find where anyone had even seen the missing young man.

* * * * *

Packing her bag the next morning, she looked through the handout she had picked that listed historical markers. She noted that there was one adjacent to a Potter's Field, which was in use after the Civil War up until the turn of the century. It was used to bury the poor or people with no known identity. It was located on the outskirts of town and on her way out of town. She made a point of stopping to examine headstones.

As she wandered the cemetery examining gravestones, she found no names that had any meaning to her. As she was about to give up, the sky turned an eerie black and thunder could be heard in the distance. Mary headed to her car before the rains came and she wasn't watching where she was stepping. She tripped over a stone sunken into the ground. There was no name just a date, one that corresponded with the time of the wagon train's departure. It was a simple but touching inscription, "Herein lies a poor nameless soul of a wandering gypsy. He had done me a kindness so I placed his mortal remains here in consecrated ground. May god have mercy on his soul."

Very pleased with the information she had gathered in Independence, Mary Sue headed farther west. The solitude of the drive allowed her to do some more soul searching. The memory of the look on Tim's face when he thought she had gotten a picture of him and his "aunt" made her laugh out loud. She wasn't impressed with herself for having resorted to extortion to get what she wanted. She needed to hold herself to a higher standard from now on.

Family entertainment on any car trip usually involved some kind of trivia game. Back then, she never would have thought that she would ever have a figure that men would be attracted to. Now, other than at work, she found she was often uncomfortable with the attention she got. It seemed the only way guys will look at you is if they see your chest first, without the boobs they're not going to give you the time of day. In the years she had been working at the casino, she should have figured this out.

She still longed to have that one special person in her life. Not that she hadn't had offers from high-rollers in the casino. But she wanted someone who would hold a conversation with her while looking her in the face, not talking to her chest. Why should the world be so superficial?

She listened to the tires hum across the concrete pavement, lost in her own thoughts. She was delighted at the material she had collected so far, but surprised how she acquired some of it. The whole business with Tim Greenleaf still played upon her mind. Relationships are complicated enough, why have an affair? She sat in comfortable silence, almost mesmerized watching the endless flat prairie passing by.

Her first major stop was Ft. Kearny, Nebraska. It was the first military post built to protect the Oregon Trail emigrants. It was the headquarters of military and civil government, an important stage station, a home station of the Pony Express, and an outfitting depot for many Indian campaigns.

Her drive from Independence was not a direct route though and she found herself following smaller roads to stay close to the original route of the trail. A true researcher would have stopped in each and every town along the way, but a true researcher would also have a much larger store of funds to draw upon. Instead, she stopped at only a couple of towns.

Driving along the country roads was quite different from racing along at breakneck speeds on the interstate system. The smell of freshly tilled soil and general feel of spring reminded her of what it was like growing up in the country. She really missed this.

She found that the best way to find people who might have a connection to the wagon train was to stop at a church and speak to the pastor or priest, if they were present. She got lucky in Hebron where she was able to talk to an elderly woman who was able to relate some stories that she claimed came from the wagon train Mary Sue was following. She filled almost half a notebook with the results of that one interview.

Once in Kearney, she was happy to get out and stretch her legs. She hunted through her bags in the back seat, looking for a specific diary. One belonging to emigrant William Kelly. Leafing through it, she refreshed her memory and read his comments again.

'Ft. Kearny was not the walled fortification that I expected. It was instead a collection of ramshackle buildings, most made of sod. The construction was so crude that snakes slithered through the walls. The enlisted men were not overly refined. A most unsoldierly looking lot they were: unshaven, unshorn, with patched uniforms and a slovenly attitude. The privates being more particular in their inquiries after whiskey, for which they offered one dollar for a half-pint; but we had none to sell them even at that tempting price.'

Mary had no real expectations about finding anything here but she had to try. She went to the visitor center and, after flashing a young Park Ranger her brightest smile, asked if there were any records kept of the various wagon trains that had passed through the area. He was a gentleman and looked directly at her face and sadly informed her due to the high traffic through the fort in the early days, there were no records of that period. He did tell her some of the officers stationed at the fort had kept diaries and, if she could locate them, they might be of assistance. He provided her a list of the names of the commanding officers. Mary Sue filed the list away for future reference.

She grabbed a hotdog from a vendor to make a quick lunch before she took advantage of the public rest rooms. Then it was time to head out on the road again. She fueled her trusty steed before putting the top down. Tuning the radio to a local country and western station, she set out again. It was a beautiful day and all was right in the world.

She drove until dusk, when she started to look for someplace to eat and a motel to spend the night. Passing up a number of options, she finally came to an off ramp that offered a motel that she was comfortable with. Once in the room, she put her feet up and flipped on the television. She watched a movie and ate her fast food dinner. It was good to just put her mind in neutral and enjoy the experience. A quick shower and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

She awoke to a warm, sunny morning. The spring temperatures were warmer than average at the moment. To survive the day, she decided upon a bright yellow sundress rather than the baggy clothes she normally wore. Shoes were a bit of a problem and, rather than her customary tennis shoes, she went with a pair of hard sole flats with a one-inch heel. A dab of lip gloss and a quick swipe of mascara completed her transformation from tomboy to young woman. After a quick breakfast, she stopped only long enough to gas up and replenish her supply of travel snacks.

The day started fine; except there were no clear radio stations and she resorted to listening to her favorite CD of show tunes. She was roaring down the high way singing gaily to the tunes, if a bit off key. A trait that had been her life's most embarrassing moment. She had been singing during her high school choir rehearsal. It was a particularly challenging piece. The choir master had pulled Mary aside and politely asked her not to sing this particular number. He asked if she would just mouth the words, leave the singing to others.

Mary glanced at the car that had been passing her like she was standing still, her engine straining to make it up the rolling Nebraska hill. A teenage boy was in the backseat, looking directly at her. As their eyes met he smiled at her. Mary responded with a brief smile of her own. He must have read her smile as a positive gesture and he blew her a kiss. Impulsively, before Mary before she had time to think about it, she pursed her lips at the kid in impish reply. That kind of behavior was unheard of in NYC. All her life, she'd cultivated a talent for being overlooked, a comfortable invisibility. Single woman in the big city never made eye contact with strangers and certainly never flirted with young teenagers. Just a few days back in the Midwest had altered her perception of other people. Eye to eye contact was not only polite but expected. But to Mary Sue out here on the wide open prairies it was a bit liberating.

Driving with the top down must have distracted her enough to cause her to push the car too hard because a terrible racket started coming from the engine and the car began to jerk as if it were actually dying. Mary coasted off to the side of the road and turned off the motor. She sat and listened to the engine tick as it cooled. To her utter dismay, her cell phone informed her that she had no cell coverage at the moment. She got out and opened the engine compartment, acting like she knew what she was looking at. Mary bent over and prayed that whatever had made that terrible noise would be obvious, like maybe she had run over a 12-pound prairie dog. She wished that she had learned something about car engines from her brothers.

A crunch of gravel on the road behind the car alerted Mary to the approach of an old pickup truck that was sliding to a stop a few feet back. Brushing some stray strands of her hair out of her eyes, she watched a muscular young man in his late twenties climb out of the truck. He could have been the stereotypical cowboy in his Levis, work boots and cowboy hat. The grease-stained muscle shirt ruined the image though.

"Howdy ma'am, I'm Steve. I work at the garage a few miles back. May I be of some assistance?"

"Thanks, I'm Mary Sue." It hadn't escaped her notice that Steve had been talking to her breasts. Kicking the tire on her car, she said, "I could really use some help, the car just started making a noise like it was dying."

He was unashamed as he stared at her in a lascivious manner and gave her a million-dollar smile. It made Mary Sue's skin crawl.

"No problem missy, I got my thirty-aught-six in the truck so we can put it out of its misery, if'n I can't fix it. Now step aside. Once I get my tool box from my pick up, I'll show you how a man does things." Using his car keys, he opened a tool box in the bed of his truck. He clipped the keys onto a belt loop.

With her big city wariness of strangers, Mary had strong reservations about trusting this knight-errant, but left with no other option she put her immediate destiny into his hands. As Steve worked, the sun rose right along with the temperature. Mary Sue was glad she had dressed in cooler clothing. She found herself wishing she had put sunscreen on her shopping list. Steve had taken off his t-shirt to use to wipe his face, now his shoulders and back were starting to turn red. She could only imagine that her fairer skin would resemble that of a lobster.

Unfortunately, the heat had not impaired her sense of smell. The hotter and dirtier he got, the more the smell increased and, mixed with the fumes of the cars that had driven by, made Mary feel rather ill. While the scent of a man was something she actually liked, Steve's odor was of a man who should take a shower twice a day to keep from offending those around him.

He went between looking into the engine and then peering under the car enough times that his jeans were no longer blue on the thighs and back because of the grease from his hands and the dust of the ground. He probably would have climbed under the car, but the clearance was less than a foot. He was so invested in what he was doing that he did not say much. From the amount of work he was not doing, Mary Sue began to wonder if he actually knew how to repair the car.

She was a little startled when he slammed the hood closed and told her to give the engine a try. She turned the ignition and the engine caught right away, even though a dirty black cloud coughed out the exhaust. Steve stood and wiped his hands on his jeans one last time.

"Missy, that should get you to the next town. That metal tape I wrapped around those rusty pipes will hold for a little while. You need a mechanic to give it a thorough once over though," he said as he wiped his face and torso with the now ruined T-shirt.

Something about how he described the work he had done did not sound right, but she could not argue with the fact that the car was running again. As much as her instincts told her to not get back out the car, her manners required that she stand and thank him for his efforts. Despite her profuse thanks, he waved off her words as if his efforts were of no consequence.

"I must pay you for your trouble, it's the least I can do."

She opened the car door to get her purse intending to give this Good Samaritan what cash she had. As she stood to give him the money, she found him suddenly standing too close for comfort and his smile let her know that her instincts about strangers had been correct.

"Here missy, let me help you." He took her by the wrist and pulled her against his grimy body. His still greasy hands wrapped around her and landed on her ass.

For a big guy, he was surprisingly fast. She was so caught off guard that she was momentarily paralyzed. As he pulled her hips tighter to him, her surprise turned to fear. With just the two of them along side of a lonely road, he could have his way with her and there seemed very little Mary could do to stop him. Steve leaned forward to force his mouth to hers; he ground his groin up against Mary. The Horny S-O-B was dry-humping her.

Mary pulled herself back as much as she could, pushing against him with her free hand was useless because of his strength. Her other hand was still caught in her purse and she frantically fumbled for anything that might serve as a weapon.