Southbound Train to Louisville

Journal Entry – April 7, 1871

The train pulled out of Cincinnati at dawn, wheels grinding like teeth. I watched the river disappear behind us, swallowed by mist and memory. Ma didn’t say a word—just tightened her shawl and stared straight ahead, like if she didn’t move, the past couldn’t grab hold.

The conductor asked where we were headed. Ma answered “west” with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. I let her do the talking this time. I’d already caught a man staring at me through the glass—he looked like the type who carries questions in one pocket and a bounty notice in the other.

I keep thinking about the man they say Ma killed. Her late husband. Or her last one, anyway. Ma hasn’t said his name once. Not since Boston. Not since the posse started trailing us like shadows at dusk. She claims it was self-defense, that he was cruel and drunk and twisted. I believe her. But I also think she enjoyed watching the light leave his eyes.

We have that in common.

Louisville’s just another stop. Another face to wear. Another town to smile at before we disappear again. We’re running, yes—but I can’t help feeling like we’re hunting, too.

The tracks hum beneath us. Steady. Predictable. I almost feel safe.

Almost.

— K