The Gentleman Outlaw and Me--Eli

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Miss Jenny chuckled and said it served him right. I joined in the hilarity, hoping nobody suspected I had anything to do with Roscoe's misfortune.

  To change the subject, I asked Papa if he'd told Calvin the truth about his father.

  'Yes, I did, but I had the devil of a time convincing him. That young man threw so many long words my way he almost knocked me out with the weight of them."

  Papa paused to light his pipe before going on. "If it hadn't been for Elliot, I don't believe Calvin would have accepted my version of his daddy's death, but fortunately Elliot saves wanted posters. He found three featuring Calvin Thaddeus Featherbone, Senior, as well as a newspaper account written the day after the shooting, laying out the facts as I told them."

  "Poor boy," Miss Jenny said. "It must have been a terrible disappointment to learn his father was a no-good scoundrel."

  "He was mighty glum," Papa admitted, "but he perked up a sight when he saw we'd arrested Roscoe. I left the two of them hurling insults back and forth. Calvin was definitely getting the better of Roscoe, who tends to be a bit slow-witted to say the least."

  It looked like Papa was finished talking, but there was one more thing I was curious about. "Did Calvin show you the letter his mother got?" I asked.

  Papa nodded. "Elliot and I figured it was written by one of Mr. Featherbone's lady friends. Probably Miss Flora. She kicked up a terrible ruckus after the shooting. Went from saloon to saloon, seeking vengeance. When nobody offered to shoot me, I reckon she wrote to Mrs. Featherbone, hoping Calvin Junior would ride into town on a white horse and do the job."

  When Papa paused again to fidget with his pipe, Miss Jenny said, "At least Flora had the decency not to sign her name to that letter. No sense hurting a widow's feelings."

  "Where's Miss Flora now?" I asked Papa.

  "Oh, she left Tinville a month or two ago. I reckon she grew weary of waiting for your friend to appear."

  Miss Jenny excused herself to fix a pot of tea. When she came back, she and Papa began talking of the new minister who was preaching against saloons, gambling houses, and dance halls. Seemed like a number of townspeople agreed with his views. Wouldn't be long before they cleaned up Harrison Avenue, Papa said. Times were changing. Civilization was taking over everywhere.

  Left to my own thoughts, I contemplated Papa's jacket hanging over the back of a chair. In its pocket were the keys to the jail. If I could get my hands on them, I could free Calvin.

  24

  AFTER SUPPER, MISS JENNY SUGGESTED A game of dominos. I said I was too tired to play, but I hung around watching for a few minutes. When I was sure Papa and Miss Jenny were paying more attention to the dominos than to me, I slipped my hand into the pocket of Papa's jacket and pulled out his keys without his noticing a thing. It scared me to discover how easy thievery is. I hoped I wasn't heading for a life of crime after all, but I supposed I could always reform after Calvin was safely out of jail.

  I yawned real wide and said I was going to bed. Papa gave me a kiss and wished me sweet dreams, which made me feel powerful bad. But not bad enough to stop myself from climbing out the bedroom window, which wasn't easy in a dress, and untying Caesar's rope. I'd have given anything for my boy clothes, but Miss Jenny had burned them to get rid of the vermin breeding in every seam.

  Slowed by skirts and petticoats, I ran down the street with Caesar at my heels. Somewhere on Harrison Avenue, I bumped right into a tall, skinny man. He'd just stepped out of a saloon doorway, and he spun around to face me. I must have startled him, for he was pointing a gun right at me.

  "Lord, don't shoot," I cried.

  The man smiled and dropped his gun into his holster. "I'm not in the habit of killing ladies, big or small," said he.

  The moon was shining full on his face, and I recognized the mysterious gentleman who'd given me those gold eagles way back in Pueblo. He looked a sight the worse for wear. Thinner, paler. At death's door, Aunt Mabel would have said.

  "You don't remember me, sir," I said, "but you did me a favor once."

  "Why, I'm mighty pleased to hear it," he said. "These days, I rarely meet a person who doesn't hold a grudge against me for one thing or another."

  "I was traveling with a fellow by the name of Calvin Featherbone. He's in jail now," I went rushing on as. if I were telling my life history, but the man seemed right kindly and in no hurry to leave. "My papa put him there," I said. "Maybe you know him. He's Alfred Yates, the sheriff."

  The man smiled. 'Yes, indeed, I know your father well." He looked at me curiously. "But I must admit I don't recall meeting a young girl on my travels."

  "It was a while back, in Pueblo," I said, "but I wasn't a girl then. I was a boy."

  "Indeed?" The gentleman scrutinized my face and laughed till he brought on a coughing fit. When he recovered, he said, "I've encountered many a peculiarity since I left Georgia, but this may be the oddest tale yet. Tell me, dear, how did you accomplish this amazing transformation?"

  "Just by wearing boys' clothes and giving myself a boy's name," I said. "It's amazing how easy it was to fool everybody, even Calvin."

  The man smiled as if he wanted to laugh but was afraid of bringing on another coughing fit. "Is Calvin by any chance the young rogue who was so adept at three-card monte and so inept at the faro table?"

  'Yes, sir, that's him," I said, "but he improved considerably at gambling."

  'Yet he's in jail."

  "For horse theft," I admitted. "It seems he wasn't very good at that."

  The man shook his head. "Too bad," he mused. "I've been in jail myself a few times. It's not a pleasant experience."

  Before I could say more, a man stepped out of the saloon. "Come back inside, Doc," he said with the utmost courtesy. "We're waiting on you to deal."

  I stared at the man, almost but not quite speechless. "Are you Doc Holliday?"

  He bowed like a true gentleman. "I am indeed, my dear."

  "Doc!" someone hollered from the saloon.

  "Excuse me," Doc said to me, "but the four queens require my company."

  I stood there, taking him in, memorizing every detail from his drooping mustache to his ruffled shirt and diamond rings. Doc Holliday. The most famous desperado of all. The one nobody could outdraw or outplay or outtalk. I was looking right at him, standing only a few inches away, breathing the same air he breathed.

  Doc touched my shoulder as if he was waking me from a dream. "I suggest you go home, my little daisy, before mischief claims you."

  "Wait," I whispered. "I have to ask you something."

  Doc turned back. "What is it, sweetheart?"

  "Do you remember Calvin's father, a dealer named Calvin Thaddeus Featherbone, Senior?"

  Doc thought a moment. The lines around his mouth deepened. "So that's why the boy looked familiar," he muttered almost as if he were speaking to himself, not me. "I do recall the man, Eliza, and I must say I'm sorry to hear he's your friend's father. A worse miscreant I never encountered. A despicable cheat, a liar, and a coward. Had the temper of a rattlesnake. Why, he'd shoot a man just as soon as look at him."

  Turning away to cough into a lacy handkerchief, Holliday went on as soon as he could speak. "Featherbone Senior is one of the few men I can safely accuse of being worse than myself. Tell Calvin to go back home before he follows in his father's cheating footsteps."

  "He's got to get out of jail first," I said.

  Doc smiled. "I'm sure a girl with your wits will find a way to accomplish his escape."

  So saying, he bade me good night and vanished into the smoky saloon.

  I stood there awhile listening to the honky-tonk piano music and the sound of men's laughter. Caesar pawed my leg and barked. I suppose he wanted to follow Doc inside and relive his glory days, performing tricks and such. If it hadn't been for poor Calvin, that's just what I would have done. Lord, what a memory that would be—seeing Doc Holliday at the faro table. But I couldn't keep Calvin waiting.

  Turning away reluctantly, I crept do
wn the alley behind the jailhouse and stopped under a barred window. Whipping out my harmonica, I commenced to play "O, Susanna!" Caesar raised up on his hind legs and sang along just as if we were doing a show.

  In no time, Calvin was peering out at me. "Stop that racket, little girl. You'll wake the dead."

  It peeved me he didn't recognize me. Whipping off my bonnet, I scowled at him. "If I can't get you out of here, you're going to be in the graveyard sleeping with the dead yourself. No matter how much racket I make, I won't be able to wake you then."

  Calvin took a good look at me and chuckled. "If you aren't a sight in that dress. No wonder I never suspected. Clothes might make the gentleman but they certainly don't make the lady."

  Though I hate to admit it, I'd been secretly hoping to impress Calvin. His teasing words hurt me more than I'd thought possible. "Don't you go making fun of me," I said, "or I'll leave you here to dance on the end of a rope."

  "Oh, Eli." Calvin's voice dropped down way below serious, more dejected than I'd ever heard it. "Much as I appreciate your concern, I don't think there's anything you can do to prevent me from swinging."

  "Don't say that." I rose up on tiptoe, grabbed the bars on his window, and hoisted myself high enough to look him in the eye. "I've got the key. I stole it out of Papa's pocket."

  I dug my toes into the wall to keep from slipping back to the ground and showed Calvin the key ring, but the sight of it didn't cheer him one iota.

  "How do you plan to get past the deputy, Eli?"

  I slid down the wall and landed hard on my backside. I hadn't counted on the deputy being at the jailhouse. A vague recollection of a story I'd heard about Doc Holliday floated through my head. He'd been in jail, all set to be hanged, but his lady friend Big Nose Kate rescued him by setting a fire behind a fancy hotel. Everybody ran to put it out, Kate shot the guard, sprung Doc, and the two of them lit out for Dodge City.

  The trouble was I had neither matches nor gun, and even if I had, I doubted I was up to setting a fire or shooting Elliot who seemed to be a nice man.

  A better idea came to mind. "Don't you worry, Calvin. I'll get you out of there."

  Leaving him staring after me, I ran down the alley and dashed into the jailhouse. Elliot was sitting behind the desk, feet propped up, reading the latest issue of Police Gazette. He dropped the magazine when he saw me. "Who the dickens are you and what do you want?"

  "It's me, Eliza Yates," I cried. "Sheriff Yates's daughter. Don't you remember?"

  Elliot stared at me. "Why, pardon me, Miss Eliza. I didn't recognize you," he apologized. "Miss Jenny sure has done wonders with your appearance."

  "Thank you," I said, remembering the manners Calvin had taken such pains to teach me. "Papa sent me to tell you he needs help at the Diamond Saloon. Doc Holliday's on the rampage."

  "Oh, Lord," Elliot whispered. "What's Doc doing here? Last I heard he was in Glenwood Springs, dying of consumption." Jumping to his feet, he ran out the door and vanished into the dark.

  Faster than you can say "Jack Robinson's barn," I unlocked the jail door and out came Calvin.

  "What the devil's going on?" bellowed a familiar voice from the adjoining cell. Caesar almost tore down the bars trying to get at Roscoe, but I grabbed him and held tight.

  While Calvin smoothed his hair and preened, Roscoe raised a ruckus, making enough noise to wake snakes.

  'You thieving little cuss," he hollered at me. "It was you in that dress! First you stole my reward money and then you turned me in to the sheriff! I should've killed you when I had the chance, you and Featherbone both!"

  It appeared Calvin was about to start an argument, so I grabbed his arm. "Come on, Calvin, you haven't got time for any shenanigans!"

  With that, the two of us headed for the hills, running like the north wind, with Caesar following close behind. How Papa would feel didn't bear considering. Right now I just wanted to get Calvin out of Tinville as fast as I could. I'd worry about Papa later.

  25

  ONCE WE'D PUT A FEW BLOCKS BETWEEN US and the jailhouse, Calvin came to a halt. "There's something I have to see before I leave Tinville," he said.

  Argue as I might, there was no changing Calvin's mind. Sticking to the shadows, he led me to a graveyard on the outskirts of town. 'Your papa told me where it was," he explained as I followed him through the gate.

  In the moonlight, the burial ground was a scary place, bare and dusty. A few scrawny trees cast shadows over the hillside. There were lots of graves, mostly marked by crooked wooden slabs and surrounded with spindly little fences, making them resemble cribs for sleeping children. Clumps of sagebrush grew here and there, and the wind sighed sadly through them.

  Calvin stared at the desolate sight. "In Maryland, cemeteries are as green as parks," he said slowly. "Winding boulevards, groves of trees, ponds, flowers, marble headstones, cenotaphs, angels, rows of mausoleums as fine as mansions."

  I shivered and said nothing. Caesar was roaming around sniffing the ground as if he knew bones were buried there. Keeping an eye on my dog, I took care not to step on anybody's grave. Aunt Mabel taught me you'd have bad luck all your life if you disturbed the dead.

  "Are we looking for your papa?" I whispered, afraid to speak normally in such a place.

  Calvin nodded. "Your father told me his friend Miss Flora raised the money to bury him here. He said the townspeople didn't want a criminal interred with the righteous, so his grave is at the top of the hill beside the fence, as far as possible from everyone else's."

  When we finally found Featherbone Senior's burial place, Calvin took off his hat and stared solemnly at the wooden marker. It leaned forward, worn and weathered as if it had been there a hundred years or more. From what we made out, it said, HERE LIES CALVIN FEATHERBONE, SENIOR. 1839–1887. HE HAS BEEN DEALT HIS FINAL HAND.

  The ground covering Mr. Featherbone was dry and rocky, and his little picket fence was falling down on one side. It was a mighty sad spot for a man to spend eternity, I thought.

  Calvin fetched up a sigh as mournful as the wind. "It seems I've come all this way merely to discover my father was a worse cheat than I and no doubt deserved to be shot," he said with some bitterness. "It's obvious neither my name nor his will be preserved in the annals of the Wild West. Or anywhere else, for that matter."

  I touched his sleeve, as worried by his sorrow as if it were mine. "What are you fixing to do now, Calvin?"

  "From what I've seen of the outlaw life, I fear it's vastly overrated," he said glumly.

  Since I'd reached the same conclusion myself, I was glad to hear Calvin had come to his senses at last.

  "Before I left home," Calvin went on, "I was planning to enter Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore—at Grandfather's expense. If he can find it in his heart to forgive my foolish and ungrateful behavior, I believe I'll continue my education."

  He paused and studied his father's grave for a moment. "I certainly don't intend to end my days in a place like this."

  "Me either," I agreed.

  We stared at each other. The wind breathed and sighed around us, and the moon slid behind a cloud like it was too shy to show its face. For a moment, I glimpsed something I'd never seen in Calvin's eyes. A tenderness, I swear that's what it was, but I could have been mistaken. Suddenly embarrassed, I kicked at a tumbleweed rolling past.

  Calvin broke the silence. "I'd best be going, Eli."

  I grabbed hold of his arm. "Wait," I said. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the coins I'd taken from Roscoe and put them in his hand.

  Calvin stared at the gold eagles. "Fifty dollars," he whispered. "Where did you get this, Eli? Surely you didn't purloin it from your father?"

  "There you go again with those highfalutin words. I didn't purloin it from anybody—whatever that means. I stole it right out of Roscoe's pocket. It's the reward money he got for turning you in. It's only right you should have it."

  Calvin laughed and dropped the coins into his pocket. Then he looked at me serious
ly. "I don't know why I never noticed how pretty you are, Eli—I mean, Eliza."

  I blushed in the most girlish way imaginable. "Do you really think I'm pretty?"

  "Have you ever known me to prevaricate?"

  I hauled off to punch him, but Calvin was too fast for me. Before I guessed what he was up to, he'd given me a peck on the cheek.

  "That's so you'll remember me," he said, stepping away. "No girl ever forgets the man who gives her her first kiss."

  Without letting me say another word, Calvin hopped the cemetery fence and strode off toward the mountains. Caesar started to follow him but turned back when I whistled. Like my dog, I was tempted to run after Calvin and beg him to take me with him, but I stayed where I was, gripping the iron railing and thinking of Papa. Now that I'd finally found him, I couldn't very well run off and leave him.

  At a bend in the trail, Calvin paused to wave. "I'll see you again, Eliza," he called. "Wait and see."

  So saying, Calvin vanished into the night, and Caesar and I were alone in the cemetery with nothing but a chilly wind whispering sad songs in our ears.

  26

  WHEN I GOT TO MISS JENNY'S HOUSE, THE moon was low in the sky. I'd taken my time walking back from the cemetery, for I knew I was about to get the worst whipping of my life. Spilling milk and jam was nothing compared to helping an outlaw escape from jail. The only thing in my favor was I hadn't started a fire or killed anybody.

  Coming up the walk, I saw Papa sitting on the front porch, but the light was too dim to read the look on his face.

  I climbed the steps as slowly as I dared. If Papa had been Uncle Homer, he'd have been on his feet, hollering my name and cracking the air with his belt. But Papa stayed seated and spoke soft, putting me in mind of deadly copperheads that strike without warning.