Chapter Text
Bilbo waved goodbye to his neighbor, Mr. Gamgee, who’d been kind enough to give him a ride to the train station in his buggy. After squeezing through the crowds on the platform, he nervously boarded and quickly found his seat, tightly grasping his single, overstuffed bag on his lap.
In a short while, the whistle blew, piercing the air with its sharp, echoing sound, and the cars lurched forward, clouds of steam from the engine filling the air. He felt the jolt of movement as the train began to pick up speed, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on the tracks creating a familiar yet unsettling melody.
He turned his gaze to the dirty window, smudged with fingerprints and grime, and watched as the landscape transformed. Familiar buildings, trees, and faces began to blur and fade, replaced by a stream of colors that swirled together in a dizzying rush.
Each passing moment felt like a goodbye, as everything he knew slowly disappeared from view—his childhood home, the park where he played, the cobblestone streets lined with memories. The world outside grew more distant, and an ache settled in his chest; a mix of nostalgia and uncertainty.
As the train surged forward, Bilbo felt a strange sense of both freedom and loss, knowing that he was leaving behind a part of himself, venturing into the unknown with only the rocking of the train and the fading echoes of his past to accompany him.
In his waistcoat pockets, he carried ten dollars, his father’s gold watch, and a letter from Mr. Ori Brown, confirming that a teaching position awaited him in the West.
A few years earlier, his parents had succumbed to smallpox, leaving him with a profound sense of loss. Aside from his teaching job at Harborton College, he had nothing tethering him to the place. There were no prospects for advancement, no opportunities for romance, and no friends to share his life with. His days had become dull and monotonous, filled with the same routine that offered little excitement or fulfillment.
He yearned for change– something to break the cycle of his uneventful existence. What he needed was a fresh start in a new place—an adventure that would reignite his passion for life and open doors to possibilities he had yet to imagine.
Early one morning, while savoring poached eggs and a strong cup of coffee in the farmhouse where he had grown up, Bilbo noticed an advertisement in the newspaper. It called to those seeking a new life and adventure to head out West. Without hesitation, he applied for the opportunity. This felt more than just a coincidence—it felt like fate.
Before he knew it, he had been hired to teach in a one-room schoolhouse in a brand-new town, hundreds of miles away from Harborton. The prospect excited him, filling him with a sense of purpose he had long lacked.
Not long after, he attended a meeting with other travelers preparing for the journey West. The land agent confidently assured them that with the expansion of new railways, the danger of native attacks had been significantly reduced. It was now a civilized country, ripe with wide-open spaces just waiting to be populated by pioneers like themselves.
However, the land agent conveniently neglected to mention the bandits known to ambush trains and rob passengers blind.
Bilbo was aware of this risk. An avid reader, he had diligently followed the news through telegraphs and newspapers, absorbing reports of everything from random native skirmishes to the increasing threat of bandits targeting hopeful settlers. He understood the dangers that lay ahead, but his desire for a fresh start outweighed his fears. This journey would be his chance to embrace the unknown and carve out a new life for himself.
Unlike some travelers who brought all their possessions with them, Bilbo was being practical. Most of his belongings were scheduled to arrive by wagon in a month, so he packed only what he needed in his carpetbag to get by in the meantime.
The town's school board had promised him a teacherage within walking distance of the school. The small home would be his alone, although the school would also serve as a church on Sundays. He was expecting a dozen students of varying ages to attend daily, except during the busy harvest season.
Bilbo had spent the last ten years training aspiring teachers, preparing them for the realities of both city and rural classrooms, even though he had never stepped foot outside of Harborton, Maine. Born and raised there, he had lived his entire forty years in that familiar town.
Now, he felt a surge of excitement about the change ahead, noticing subtle shifts in the landscape through the window.
He glanced down at his stamped ticket, his fingers tracing the name of the arrival station: “Lonely Mountain, Idaho.” He had never seen mountains before, except in illustrations from textbooks like The Geography of the West by Bristle Puckin. The thought of witnessing them in person filled him with nervous anticipation.
Yet, as he looked outside, he realized that he was far from those majestic peaks. All he could see were flat, golden plains stretching endlessly, with the occasional body of water punctuating the landscape. Still, it was a refreshing change from the brick buildings and stone-paved streets he had known for so long.
His excitement about the trip had kept him awake the night before, and he thought now would be a good time for a nap. Just as he was beginning to doze off, a loud voice broke through the quiet, followed by a booming laugh.
Bilbo squinted his eyes open, trying to suppress a scowl. Sitting across from him was a man clad in leather, from his boots and chaps to his vest and hat. He looked exactly like Bilbo had always imagined a real cowboy would—complete with a long mustache that curled up at the ends. The man exuded a rugged charm, and despite his initial irritation, Bilbo felt a flicker of curiosity about the life this stranger had undoubtedly led.
“Howdy,” the man said, his voice boisterous. “Hope I didn’t wake ya’.”
“No, no,” Bilbo replied kindly, though he couldn’t help but notice the strong odor of dung wafting from the man. It was the same kind that was swept from the streets back home. A quick glance at the man's boots and spurs confirmed his suspicions—they were caked with it.
“Good! The name’s Bofur. I’m headed back to the Durin spread. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Bilbo hated to disappoint him. “No, I’m sorry. Should I have?”
Bofur’s thick, dark brows shot up in surprise. “Well, I’ll be! It’s the biggest spread in Montana! It’s 800 thousand acres with 25-thousand head of cattle and horses. I’m the foreman there,” he said proudly. “Been in the city taking care of my brother for a bit. He don’t hear or speak none, but I got him a nice place to stay. Took all my earnings from that last cattle run, but my peace of mind’ll be worth it. Where you headed?”
Bilbo was unsure if he was glad for the company or if he’d rather drift off to sleep. Deciding he could nap anytime during this ten-day journey, he opted to make a friend. Despite the man’s odor, he seemed kind, and Bilbo was starting to get used to the smell anyway.
“My name is Bilbo Baggins. I’ve taken a teaching position in Lonely Mountain, Idaho. It will be my honor to become the esteemed educator of a coterie of students there.”
Bofur stared at him, bewildered as if Bilbo were speaking a foreign language. Perhaps he was. When the West had first begun to be settled, educated instructors weren’t exactly the first to venture out.
“A coat uh… what the hell are you talkin’ about?”
Bilbo grinned. “I beg your pardon. What I meant was a small group of children.”
“Oh!” Bofur snorted loudly, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Thought you was talkin’ ’bout one of them cotillions. I was ’bout to say—we ain’t got none of them fancy balls out West. Maybe a barn raisin’ or a square dance once in a while.”
“No,” Bilbo laughed softly. “Not a cotillion, just a small group of children.”
“So you’ve had a lot of book learnin’, then. Good for you. So’s my boss. He went to some fancy college back East and knows all them big words like you do.”
“Haven’t you had the opportunity to further your education?” Bilbo asked, trying not to presume. Bofur seemed to lack considerably in vocabulary, and he was genuinely curious about the man’s background.
“Me? Naw,” Bofur guffawed, shaking his head. “I went through primary school and learned a little grammar, but then Bifur was born, and Pa took off. I had to find work to help out. Mr. Durin was kind enough to hire me on, and I’ve been with him ever since.”
“By the way,” the cowboy continued, his tone brightening, “we’ll be passing by the ranch on the way. It ain’t too far from where you’re headed—about a day’s ride or so. You should stop by when you’ve got time to sit a spell.”
Bilbo was touched by the invitation and secretly hoped everyone out West was as friendly as this cowboy. What a relief that would be!
“Thank you for the invitation,” Bilbo replied earnestly. “When harvest begins and I get a break from teaching, I may take you up on that. I’d like to see more of this country and the ranch as well.”
Suddenly, Bofur’s attention was drawn to the window. When Bilbo followed his gaze, he saw nothing but a cloud of dust swirling in the air.
That was probably why Bofur abruptly pulled a piece of cloth up over his mouth and nose.
“I’m glad to get to know ya, Mr. Baggins,” he said, his voice muffled. “Do me a favor and sit there quietly. Don’t make no fuss, and nothin’ bad will happen to ya.”
Nothin’ bad? What did he mean by that?
Bilbo was about to ask when the train's brakes began to squeal, gradually slowing the cars to a complete stop.
Some passengers, like Bilbo, looked confused, while others, particularly the women, hurriedly tucked their rings and necklaces into their bosoms.
Being an educated man, Bilbo quickly pieced together what was happening just as three figures stepped into the car, their faces covered and guns drawn.
Bofur confronted one of them in the aisle, speaking in a low voice that Bilbo couldn’t hear. But when the other man’s gaze drifted toward him, Bilbo felt a chill run down his spine. Were they talking about him?
His heart sank. Had he been singled out? For what reason? He had no money, no jewelry of value—just his father’s watch, some clothes, toiletries, and a few books crammed into his bag.
He had almost convinced himself he was safe—after all, Bofur had said if he stayed quiet, he wouldn’t be hurt. But if that were true, why was the other man, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes advancing toward him?
“I’ve been told you are an educated man. A gentleman. Is that so?”
The voice that emerged from behind the blue cloth was steady and deep, carrying a strange kind of calm. It sounded kind, but Bilbo suddenly felt uncertain about his judgment. He’d thought the same thing about Bofur just a few minutes ago.
“I am an academic,” he replied curtly, trying to maintain his composure.
“And you are an experienced instructor?”
Bilbo felt his annoyance grow at the bandit's probing questions. “If I may be so bold,” he declared, “what is the nature of your inquiries?”
There was a long pause, and Bilbo could see the crinkles at the corners of the man’s eyes. He would have believed the man was smiling were it not for the circumstances.
“I’m in need of your services,” the masked man said, suddenly pointing his pistol directly at Bilbo’s face. “You’re coming with me.”