The Gentleman Outlaw and Me--Eli

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Caesar and I followed Papa up a steep side street to a tidy little house made of wood and painted blue. A sign in the window said Miss JENNY HAUSMANN, PHOTOGRAPHER.

  Papa knocked on the door, and a lady with a no-nonsense look about her opened it. She had brown hair pulled up in an untidy knot on top of her head, and although she was wiping her hands on an apron, there was nothing of the housewife about her. In the sitting room behind her, I caught a glimpse of a big camera on a tripod.

  Miss Jenny's smile turned to puzzlement when she saw me. "Why, Alfred, who's this little fellow?"

  "Believe it or not, he claims to be my daughter, Eliza," Papa said in a passably humorous way. "I'm turning the rascal over to you. Whichever he is—boy or girl—the child is in desperate need of a bath. When he's clean, tell me what you think of him—or her, as the case may be."

  With that, Papa walked away. He had the stiffest back I ever saw.

  I turned to Miss Jenny. "No matter what he thinks, he is my pa," I said, "but I wish he wasn't. He's got my friend Calvin locked up in jail and he thinks I'm a liar. Which I'm not."

  Miss Jenny took my hand. "Whether he's right or wrong to suspect you, Sheriff Yates is most certainly right about one thing," she said in a good-humored voice. 'You're in need of a good scrubbing. Once the dirt's gone, I reckon it will be a sight easier to discern your true identity."

  I began to object, but Miss Jenny insisted in such a nice way I ended up following her to the kitchen. Caesar pitter-pattered behind us, still limping a bit. I wanted to tend to him, but Miss Jenny said she knew a lot about dogs. "I'll get to work on him after I finish with you," she promised.

  While the water for my bath heated on the stove, Miss Jenny fixed me a nice meal of eggs mixed with potatoes and onions and green peppers. She made sure I had all the bread I wanted and plenty of milk, and she found some treats for Caesar. By the time the bath water was hot, I was full of good food and feeling a tad better about my future.

  Which didn't mean I'd forgotten Calvin, who was lodged in my thoughts like a worrisome splinter. I hoped Papa had fed him and talked nice to him and made a friend of him. Surely he'd pardon the Gentleman Outlaw for his crimes, which I knew consisted of no more than stealing a cheap watch and three broken-down horses—unless you counted cheating at cards and lying and being a vagrant.

  As for Calvin's hatred of Papa, I imagined it came from some sort of misunderstanding that I'd soon get to the bottom of. Surely a sheriff wouldn't kill a man like Mr. Featherbone, Senior, in cold blood.

  Miss Jenny poured hot water into a tin tub and turned her back while I peeled off my dirty clothes. As soon as I was chin deep and decently hid under soapsuds, she commenced to scrub me.

  When it felt like she'd just about flayed the skin off me, Miss Jenny said, "You're crawling with lice, Eliza, and your hair is full of nits."

  The way she said my name told me she'd seen enough of me to know for sure I was a girl. Closing my eyes, I let her douse my head with kerosene to exterminate the vermin I'd been harboring for weeks.

  "Well," she said, yanking a comb through my hair one last time, "I believe that takes care of the little critters. Lord knows, lice are nothing to be ashamed of. Seems like you can't ride the train these days without catching them."

  After I dried off, I followed Miss Jenny into her bedroom. She went through her wardrobe, searching for a dress that might fit me, and came up with a calico she'd shrunk in the wash by accident. It was nicer than anything I'd ever owned, but it felt stiff and tight and I couldn't fasten it without help. What fool thought of putting buttons on the backs of girls' clothes anyway?

  When she finished gussying me up, she stood me in front of the mirror. "There," she said, smiling at my reflection. "You look a sight better, Eliza."

  I pulled a face. Even though my hair was short, I was most definitely a girl again. In fact, it seemed to me I was more of a girl than I'd been before, if you know what I mean. Elijah was gone—and so were my adventures, sorry as they sometimes were.

  Next I'd be washing dishes and sweeping floors and polishing the furniture. Lord, I might even have to take up embroidery. Begging in saloons and sleeping in caves seemed preferable to spending the rest of my life in petticoats and ruffles.

  "Don't worry," Miss Jenny said, thinking to comfort me but guessing at the wrong cause. "When your hair grows back, you'll be the prettiest little gal this side of the Mississippi."

  I flung myself on the bed. "Don't want to be pretty," I muttered. "Don't want to be a girl, either."

  Miss Jenny sighed and sat down beside me. I expect she thought something was wrong with me. No doubt there was. What kind of girl doesn't want to be a girl? I hid my face, sure Miss Jenny was about to give me a tongue lashing that would no doubt include words from the Bible and threats of hellfire.

  She took a deep breath, but before she had a chance to speak her mind, someone commenced knocking on the back door. The noise set Caesar to barking.

  While I hushed my dog, Miss Jenny welcomed Papa into her little kitchen. Waving one hand at me, she said, "Whether or not she's your daughter I can't say, but the child's a girl beyond all doubt."

  Papa studied me hard. Suddenly his eyes filled with tears. "Eliza's mine all right," he said. "Now she's dressed proper I see her mother in every feature except her hair. She got that from me, right down to the last curl."

  He took me in his arms, as shy as a stranger, and gave me a hug and kiss. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Eliza," he whispered.

  According to Miss Jenny, it was a right touching scene. She said later if she'd seen it on stage, she'd have wept for a week. Even the hardest-hearted man would have broken down and sobbed, she claimed. It was that moving to see a father and daughter reunited at last.

  When Papa could speak, he explained why—aside from my appearance—he'd doubted me. "I just mailed your allowance to Mabel and Homer. Why didn't they tell me you were coming?"

  I stared at Papa, amazed. "You've been sending me money?"

  It was Papa's turn to stare. "Of course I have. What sort of man do you take me for? I've been wiring ten dollars every month since I got word of your mother's death."

  "That's the first I ever heard about any money," I said, astonished by the news. "Aunt Mabel and Uncle Homer told me you'd disappeared and were most likely dead or in jail."

  "I don't understand," said Papa, his face awash with confusion. "Didn't they give you my letters?"

  I shook my head.

  "But there was a message from you in every letter they sent me."

  "Well, it surely wasn't me that wrote it."

  Papa was flummoxed. He sputtered and hemmed and hawed and got red in the face. "I trusted Homer and Mabel to take care of you. They said you were like a daughter to them."

  "More like a slave," I muttered, remembering beatings and whippings and going without dinner and being locked in the fruit cellar to repent my sins. There was no sense telling Papa about all the grief I'd endured from those kindly souls, so I contented myself with saying, "They lied to us both, Papa. And cheated us too. Just take a look at this."

  I reached into my dress pocket and pulled out the newspaper clipping I'd been saving since I left Miss Pearl's house in Kansas. "Aunt Mabel and Uncle Homer think I'm dead—yet they're still taking your money!"

  Papa read the story of my murder slowly and carefully. When he finished, he gazed at me sadly. "I made a terrible mistake, Eliza. I hope you'll forgive me for trusting your well-being to those heartless scoundrels."

  Although I don't think of myself as a calculating individual out to take advantage of other folks' guilt, I must admit Papa's words gave me an idea. Edging closer to him, I peered into his eyes, hoping shamelessly to melt his heart like Millicent would have. "Of course I forgive you, Papa, but..." Here I paused to toy with the gold star pinned to his coat.

  "But what?" Papa asked in a tender way.

  "Well," I said, "I hope you'll remember all Calvin did to get me here safely. It seems
to me he deserves a reward, but instead, he's locked up in jail."

  Papa sighed. "Life's a mixture, Eliza. It was good Calvin brought you here, but the way he did it was bad. Stealing horses is a crime. You can't ignore the law. If everyone did as he pleased, what would happen to civilization?"

  Sometimes I thought we'd be better off without so much civilization, but I knew better than to say that to Papa. "Well," I said, "how about shooting unarmed men in the back? Do you call that civilized?"

  Papa looked puzzled. "What has shooting a man in the back got to do with Calvin's being in jail?"

  "It's why Calvin hates you, Papa." I stared him straight in the eye, daring him to lie. "He claims that's what you did to his father. Killed him in cold blood."

  "Calvin told you that?" Papa spoke as if he could scarcely believe his ears. "The truth is Featherbone was a desperado, Eliza—a cheat, a thief, and a killer. Why, he was wanted in every town in the West. It was he who started the shooting, not me. By the time I got to the Emerald Saloon, he'd already killed two gamblers and wounded three others—all because they'd caught him cheating and had the temerity to say so."

  I stared at Papa, my head whirling with confu sion. "Calvin says you cheated him and then shot him down in the street. Left him to die in the dirt. It's all in a letter he showed me. I read it myself, Papa."

  "The Lord only knows who wrote him such a passel of lies," Papa said. "I shot Featherbone in self-defense. Elliot was there, he can testify to it."

  "Your father's telling the truth," Miss Jenny said. "Featherbone's death was written up in the paper. Why, I even photographed his body. The bullet hit him in the chest, not in the back."

  'You'd better tell Calvin that," I said. "Knowing him, it will take a sight of fancy talk to persuade him it's true."

  "Most likely it will," Papa said, "but I'm right good at speechifying when I put my mind to it."

  I noticed he winked at Miss Jenny when he said this, and she blushed a pretty shade of pink.

  "Calvin's not a bad man, Papa, just a mite confused about things." I tried the girly trick of batting my eyelashes. It always worked for Millicent. Maybe it would for me, too. "If you were to let Calvin out of jail, I bet he'd never trouble you again."

  "Well, now, Eliza, I'm afraid I can't do that. I've notified the sheriff in Ouray already. He's sending a man to fetch Calvin. He should arrive on the train tomorrow evening."

  I gasped. "Is he coming for me too?"

  Papa shook his head and smiled. "Why, how can he, Eliza? Elijah Bates has mysteriously vanished from the face of the earth. Nobody knows where that boy went."

  Glad as I was to know I was safe, I couldn't let the subject drop. I tried to persuade Papa to free Calvin, but even though I argued till I was near speechless, Papa was just as determined to keep the Gentleman Outlaw in jail as I was determined to get him out.

  Finally Papa said if I mentioned Calvin's name one more time, he'd string him up himself. That shut my mouth. But it didn't stop me from thinking. There had to be some way to get Calvin out of jail.

  23

  THE NEXT MORNING, MISS JENNY TIED A BONnet under my chin to hide my short hair and took me to a dressmaker. She ordered me a whole set of ruffled girls' clothes that weighed me down with so much gingham and calico I could hardly walk, let alone run.

  If that wasn't bad enough, Papa tied up Caesar, something my old pal hadn't experienced since we'd run off from Uncle Homer's place. Papa said it was for his own good. Caesar was weak from the hardships he'd suffered. If he wandered away, he might meet up with a pack of stray dogs and fare poorly.

  Maybe Papa was right, but it just about broke my heart to see poor Caesar lying in the hot sun, looking so pitiful. He couldn't understand what he'd done to be punished so.

  Worst of all, Calvin stayed locked up. Papa wouldn't even let me visit him. The jailhouse was no place for a girl, he said.

  It seemed Calvin, Caesar, and I had come all this way only to end up no happier than we'd been in Kansas. It was a mighty disappointing turn of events.

  ***

  Just as I was getting as sorrowful as sorrowful can be, things improved unexpectedly. Papa had come by for dinner, and we were still sitting at the table when a visitor came to the front door—Mr. Roscoe Suggs himself. Before Miss Jenny let him in, I scurried out of sight behind some drapes. But not out of earshot.

  "Your deputy told me I'd find you here, Sheriff Yates," Roscoe said as bold as you please. "I came to see about my fifty-dollar reward."

  Papa reached into his pocket and took out five gold eagles. "The money came this morning," he said, handing the coins to Roscoe.

  Through an opening in the drapes, I watched Roscoe drop the money into his pocket. "Thank you, sir," he said, making the words sound more like an insult than an expression of gratitude. "I'm glad to see you still have that plug-ugly in the lockup. The world will be safer for us honest folks when the rascal's hanged, but I can't help wondering where the boy is. Your deputy clammed up tight as a fresh oyster when I asked."

  "It appears the boy has a relative in town," Papa said. "Believe me, he's the sort who'll make sure the little rascal behaves himself."

  It seemed to me Papa raised his voice while delivering this bit of information. Perhaps he intended it for my ears as well as Roscoe's.

  "Well, now, I'm mighty pleased to hear that," said Roscoe. "As the Bible says, spare the rod and spoil the child. Whippings and beatings aplenty—that's the way the good Lord wants us to bring up our progeny."

  Flashing his gold tooth at Miss Jenny in what he no doubt fancied was a charming way, Roscoe bade Papa good-bye and swaggered off toward Harrison Avenue and the saloons that lined it.

  Before Papa or Miss Jenny noticed me, I grabbed my bonnet and scampered out the back door. It didn't take long to catch up with Roscoe. I skipped past him, acting as girly-girly as I could, and pretended to trip over his foot. Even though I fell on purpose, I knocked the wind right out of myself.

  Just as I'd hoped, Roscoe leaned down and helped me up. "Why, bless your little heart, darling, did I hurt you?"

  He wouldn't have spoken so kindly if two ladies hadn't been standing a few feet away, twirling their parasols and watching him closely. It was clear they were prepared to attack at the first sign of rudeness or indifference on his part. Make no mistake, they seemed to say, men who trip little girls are not looked upon favorably in Tinville.

  Playing the part of a helpless creature, I pressed my hand to my heart. "I feel faint, sir," I whispered. "Could you please help me home?"

  With those ladies watching, there was nothing for Roscoe to do but take my arm. "I'm sure I never meant to trip you," he murmured, trying to hide his true villainy.

  "I believe you, sir," I said, smiling as sweetly as the sweetest of girls.

  He peered at me. "What's your name, honey? You look strangely familiar."

  "Eliza Yates," I said. "Perhaps you know my papa, Sheriff Alfred Yates? Folks say I resemble him most remarkably."

  "The sheriffs little daughter," Roscoe said. "My, my, it's a pleasure to meet you, darling. I paid your papa a visit just a few minutes ago."

  He stopped to give my hand a little squeeze. "I hope you won't tell your Papa I tripped you, Miss Eliza. I sure wouldn't want him thinking ill of me."

  "Oh no, sir," I assured him, smiling so hard my whole face ached with the terrible effort. "It's plain to see you're a perfect gentleman, not at all the sort to cause harm to an innocent creature—child or animal."

  Roscoe flashed that gold tooth again, and we walked on. Still feigning weakness, I leaned against his side, forcing him to support me. Before we reached Miss Jenny's front gate, I managed to slip my fingers into Roscoe's pocket. Remembering everything I'd learned from watching Calvin, I pulled out the five eagles he'd wrapped in his handkerchief. Slowly and carefully, I transferred them to my pocket. The Gentleman Outlaw would have been proud to see how deftly I did it. The coins didn't even clink.

  Just as Rosco
e opened the gate, Papa came out the front door. "Eliza," he cried, "what's the trouble? Are you hurt?"

  "I tripped and fell, Papa," I murmured. "This kind gentleman brought me home."

  Papa looked perplexed, but before he could ask me any questions, I slipped through the gate and darted up the porch steps. Miss Jenny opened the door, and I ran inside, followed by Papa.

  "What happened, Eliza?" Miss Jenny asked, sounding every bit as puzzled as Papa. "Did you hurt yourself? Do you feel ill?"

  Without answering, I peeked out the window. Roscoe was meandering along, just as pleased with himself as he could be. Now that I'd gotten what I wanted from my enemy, I turned to Papa.

  "That man is an outlaw," I announced. "It's him who should be in jail, not Calvin. If you let him leave town free as a bird, he'll have made a monkey of you and the law, Papa."

  Papa studied me a minute. "Are you telling the truth, Eliza? Or just seeking revenge?"

  I felt my face heat up with anger. Papa still doubted me. Speaking fast, I told him of my first encounter with Roscoe and everything that had happened since. "He tried to kill Calvin more than once," I finished up, "and me too. Lord, Papa, a man who'd kick a poor dog off a moving train has got to be a low-down, worthless good-for-nothing!"

  "Now that I think about it, Eliza, Mr. Suggs did look familiar," Papa said, buckling on his holster as he spoke. "I believe I've seen him in Tinville before. Perhaps I'll invite him to drop by the jailhouse for a friendly little chat."

  ***

  When Papa showed up for supper that night, he thanked me for telling him about Roscoe. "It seems Mr. Suggs is wanted in every state and territory west of the Mississippi," he said. "We'll be collecting a nice reward for his capture, Eliza. To think I almost let that skunk walk out of Tinville scot-free!"

  "Papa, you didn't put Roscoe in the same cell as Calvin, did you?" If he had, there was no telling what Roscoe might do to my poor friend.

  "Of course not," Papa said, speaking as if I'd insulted him. "Tinville's a prosperous city. One cell couldn't hold all oar criminals." He laughed. "Why, Tinville is so full of crooks poor old Roscoe had his pocket picked in broad daylight. Lost every cent of his reward money before he could gamble it away at the faro table."