The Women in Pants

by Stan Himes

  However, strictly interpreted and analyzed, I believe that my crying jag came about the same time that Mary’s first bullet struck Brute and was over by the time Pearl emptied the gun into him. So, yes, I believe it’s accurate to say that we were done with crying at that time. However, when such a statement involves women—and men, too, I’m sure—it’s only true until things change.

  Still, under that bright moonlight, reunited once again, we were all business.

  Mary and Katie had returned, pulling Pearl on a makeshift travois behind Brute’s horse, which had not known such a light load for who knows how long. Mary and Katie could have sat there and hugged each other all night, but Pearl was in bad shape. She was unconscious, bloodied and bruised. Based on circumstances, they assumed her ribs were cracked if not broken, and that she was bleeding inside. Warm reunions would have to wait.

  There was no thought given to burying Brute. “Leave him be,” Mary had said. “A feast for the scavengers.”

  “Still better than he deserved,” added Katie.

  They took his guns and, as with the burial, gave no thought to covering him with his pants. If the garment hadn’t been so filthy, they might have used it as part of the travois or to help cover Pearl, whose clothes had been torn to shreds. “Even if his clothes were store-bought fresh,” Mary said, “we’ll never let anything of his touch Pearl again.”

  Prudence and I arrived back well after midnight, having found three horses, though mine was the only one with a saddle.

  It was a time of fast-rising and fast-falling emotions. Each appearance was heralded with hugs and smiles followed almost immediately by stark horror at Pearl’s condition. She remained unconscious, and it was likely for the best. Clean Through was also worsening as Sally’s bandages hadn’t fully stemmed the bleeding and she no longer had her sewing kit for stitches. Throughout all discussions and movement, Mary was never more than an inch away from Katie. She wasn’t about to lose her again.

  There was no sleeping that night. We stayed awake as much to share all that had happened from our different perspectives as we did to guard ourselves against further attack. Even more, we stayed awake to plan.

  After Katie had told us of her frightening experience and Pearl’s brave sacrifice and the rescue by Mary, and after Prudence had told of our wandering search for horses, and after Sally had offered up a clear, direct report of the injured—“Pearl and Clean Through need a real doctor or they’ll die. Ernestine’ll live if she don’t get feverish, but that gash in her hand ain’t pretty and needs some doctoring, too”—we began to assess our situation.

  We had the three horses Prudence and I had gathered, Pearl’s horse, Brute’s horse, and the two mules. Three saddles, plus the one Katie noted was still on Pitch. All of our guns except for the rifle Katie had left sheathed on Pitch, plus Brute’s pistol and rifle. The chuckwagon was full of ingredients, though a little over a day’s worth of jerky was the only food currently prepared. We whispered the food part because the last thing we wanted was Clean Through to overhear us and decide to pop up and start cooking. Any exertion was likely to increase his bleeding.

  Our discussion about our next action was interrupted by Ruth cocking her rifle. “Rider!” she shouted while shouldering the rifle and pointing it at a shadowy shape coming from the woods to the north. All of us with at least one good hand snatched up our guns.

  “One of those men would’ve come from that way,” said Prudence, indicating the trail heading northwest toward Dodge.

  “Might’ve looped around,” said Ruth.

  “Comin’ in awful fast,” Sally noted. “Not keepin’ himself a secret.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to hold our attention,” said Mary. “Sally, Laurie, Ernestine, you watch the other directions. The rest of you, if you see his hands move from the reins, start firin’.”

  A moment later Katie changed the mood from concern to elation. “It’s Parker! Oh, don’t shoot, it’s Parker!”

  About that same time, up the trail where the remainder of his gang had the cattle settled for the night, Sean was tired of watching for Brute. He lied down and stared up at the moon. Ruining the first two women must not have satisfied Brute, he thought. He must have gone back for the others. Sometimes when he thought about Brute and women, he smiled. Other times he shuddered, and now was one of those times. Come to think of it, his train of thought continued, no woman had ever satisfied Brute. And none were ever left in any condition to try again. Ah, well, ’tis a sad thing for those women that they crossed Brute’s path, and—here his smile returned—a sadder thing for the rest of us that he won’t leave us a taste. But, he thought as he pulled his hat over his face and closed his eyes, the money these cattle’ll bring from Yankton will buy enough drinks and women to make up for it. Then Brute won’t be the only one having a good time.

  We lowered our guns only a bit until we were sure that the rider was Parker, but Katie was correct. That they’d only known each other for a few hours and yet his shadowy shape was familiar to her spoke volumes. Perhaps back home we might have teased her a little, but out here we were thrilled to welcome a kind soul. Throwing all thoughts of propriety aside, Katie embraced him and buried her face in his chest. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her. She said nothing and simply listened to his heart.

  Mary gave them their moment, but there were too many things to do to let that moment linger. First, she wanted answers.

  “How’d you ever find us?”

  Parker loosened his grip on Katie and turned to Mary, his more formal nature returning. “Chinmay sent his grandson to tell me you were being chased and said I’d find you on the northwestern branch of the Chisolm.”

  “I guess we made an impression on him after all.”

  “He also said the beef was good.” Then Parker’s face clouded. “Guess I was too late to be of any help.”

  “No,” said Mary. “You might’ve missed out on the first party, but if you’re willin’ to help, we could use you in the next one.”

  “Of course I’ll help,” he said, which in turn made Katie stand just a little taller and prouder.

  Up went the hand. “You mean to go after the herd, Mrs. Bartlett?” asked Prudence.

  “You bet I do.”

  “Good,” was all Prudence said, but it summed up the feelings of the rest of us. There were nods all around.

  “Nobody gets away with hurtin’ our people,” said Mary. “And nobody sells Circle B cattle but Circle B ranch hands.”

  We talked more through the night. Katie filled Parker in on all that had happened, and I think he was ready to go empty another gun into Brute’s dead body. Mary and Katie assured him that Brute’s days of hurting women were over.

  Under the first pink light of dawn, we got our first good look at Pearl. My God. She was a rainbow of bruises—yellow, red, green and purple. Sickly colors, not pretty. Where bruises had yet to form, her skin was bloodless and pale. If it weren’t for the bruises, she’d have had no color at all. Sally lifted up one of Pearl’s eyelids and saw no sign of life. Yet she breathed and had a heartbeat.

  “She saved my life,” Katie whispered as we stared at Pearl.

  “Rescued us from those women-stealers,” added Prudence.

  “Our first duty is to get Pearl and Clean Through to a doctor,” said Mary. “Parker?”

  “Closest would be back in Caldwell, I reckon. Doc Evert. Good one, too. Don’t hardly drink at all.”

  “How long in the wagon?”

  “Steady pace’ll get you there by nightfall.”

  “I’m not takin’ them, Ernestine is.” Ernestine raised her eyebrows. Mary kept talking. “Pearl and Clean Through deserve every chance to live, and you need your hand looked at. Can you drive the wagon all right?”

  “I’d rather help kill the men that shot me.”

  “You’ll be helping considerable, Ernestine.”

  Katie spoke up. “It would sure mean the world to me if Pearl got
some proper doctorin’.”

  “She saved my life, too, and Clean Through fed me,” Ernestine said. “I’ll get them there fast, you can count on it.”

  Perhaps accepting the inevitable, Mary started treating Parker like a son-in-law—she put him to work. With Katie’s help he had the mules hitched and the wagon turned in the right direction in just a few minutes. I filled a canteen for Clean Through, who now drifted in and out of consciousness but was thirsty when awake, and Prudence and Ruth made sure Pearl and Clean Through were blanketed and secured for the ride. There was a little talk about Sally riding along to tend to the wounded, but her wanting to fight and our needing every gun ended the discussion. Before the pink sky had begun its shift to orange, Ernestine was ready to get the wagon moving for Caldwell on the route Parker thought best.

  “One more thing,” said Mary. “After you get them to the doctor, before you worry about your hand, you send a telegram to Edward to let him know you’re all right and to tell him to deliver to Jonas the next telegram that comes through from me. Then send this.” She handed Ernestine a folded piece of paper. “It’s important that he deliver it.”

  Ernestine nodded. “I’ll make sure.” Then she looked at the rest of us, offered a quick “Good luck,” and was on her way.

  I like to think that at some point during the night Sean was also taking stock of his situation and was taken aback some. After all, he and his gang must have thought they could brush us aside or scare us off with ease, yet we had killed two of the men (plus Brute, though Sean didn’t know that). Did he wonder if he had underestimated us? Or overestimated his men? Or did he only care that he was still alive and that fewer men meant larger shares for the rest? He had the herd and we didn’t. Maybe that was his bottom line.

  One thing was certain, we had made them work. It cost them a fourth of their gang to take the herd, plus they were now three to four days out of Dodge instead of a little over one. That meant more long days in the saddle for people who made their living doing anything but work. Having to do work likely galled them more than having a few of their men killed.

  By morning light, they were starting the herd forward. As Sean cinched his saddle, the red-haired man kicked out the remains of their fire. Spotting Sean looking back down the trail, he laughed.

  “Ol’ Brute must be havin’ quite a time.” Then he got serious. “Means more work for us. If’n he don’t get back, you still gonna give him a share?”

  “Would you tell Brute he can’t be havin’ a share?”

  Red gave a sheepish grin. “Reckon not.”

  “He’ll be along. He keeps his own schedule.” Sean rode off for the herd, but his thoughts lingered on Brute. Was he finishing off the women one by one? Or had something happened to the big man? No, he shook off such thoughts. Ten men couldn’t hurt Brute, let alone a group of weak women.

  Still, something didn’t feel right and over his years of circumventing the law, Sean had learned that trusting his feelings was often the difference between success and jail time. He called Red over to him. “Somethin’ I need you to do.”

  For once, we didn’t have to rush. Let the men move the herd for a while.

  With the fresh light of day, a little jerky in our stomachs, and the injured out of sight, our confidence was growing. In the chaos of the attack, we had each seen different men and together our best guess was that there were eight men in total, give or take one. We had killed two during the attack and then Brute, meaning that there were five, maybe six, men left. Counting Parker, and he insisted on being counted, there were seven of us. The men likely shot better than we did, especially with Pearl gone, but at least we had an advantage with numbers. Plus, we were mad.

  Mary rode Pearl’s horse. I rode mine. After raising the stirrups quite a bit, Ruth and Prudence teamed up on Brute’s horse, both fitting easily in his saddle and totaling far less weight than the big man, plus they likely pleased the horse simply by not using spurs. Parker had his horse, of course. Sally and Katie each rode one of the bareback horses. Since neither of them felt comfortable without the control of reins, our next order of business was to ride to where Pitch had been shot out from under Katie. It wouldn’t be a pleasant reminder for Katie about her experience, but we needed the saddle and gear. And the rifle in the sheath.

  “I’m not looking forward to tellin’ Pa about Pitch,” said Katie.

  “All he’ll care about is that you’re fine,” Mary assured her.

  Perhaps because we had time or perhaps because we were delaying our sight of the magnificent Pitch in such a pitiful state, we slowed to a walk as we ascended the ridge leading to the bend where Katie had tried to escape.

  Mary was the first to reach the top. “Oh my!” The words were spoken with elation, not sadness, and we all rushed ahead. There was Pitch, standing, grazing, still saddled and ready to ride.

  “Pitch!” Katie yelled with delight. She slid from her horse and sprinted to Pitch’s side and hugged him.

  “Looks like he was creased,” Parker noted as he rode over. He pointed to a gash on Pitch’s neck, now crusted over with dried blood. “That’ll knock a horse cold.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Sure, should be. Let’s check him out.” We watched as Parker got down to examine Pitch. His experience around horses was evident. He had a soothing, casual way about him as he touched Pitch’s ears to feel for fever or shock, rubbed his hands down every leg, and checked everywhere for further injuries. “Looks good.” He gave Pitch’s face a gentle pat. “You’re a fine one, you are.”

  Mary smiled. Jonas would like seeing the way Parker treated a horse with kindness. She hoped Jonas would have the chance to meet this young man; he’d find him to be a good match for Katie. Mary’s smile faded as her hopes turned to just wanting everyone to survive as they battled to re-take the herd.

  We returned to the main trail and walked the horses all day, not wanting to catch up to the herd and the men until dark. Walking also made the ride easier on Sally, who was not only riding bareback but also had her pistol tucked down her pants in the small of her back since she didn’t have a gun belt or saddlebags. Every time I glanced at her I ended up patting my saddlebags to make sure they were there. You don’t think about things that simple until they’re gone.

  By mid-afternoon, the slow pace was becoming tedious, giving our minds time to dwell on re-taking the herd. It would be reasonable, even natural, for fears to build up at the thought of taking on a practiced gang of thieves. In fact, had the time been six or seven weeks earlier when we were still new to the trail, it’s a safe bet we would have been traveling the other direction. But we’d changed over those weeks, which felt like a lifetime of learning. We still had our hopes and dreams—part of Katie’s rode right beside her—but now, instead of hoping for them, we were determined to make them happen. Those men took what was ours. We wanted it back.

  The thoughts made us anxious to move, and Mary had to keep reminding us that it wasn’t yet time to attack. Parker was itching to scout ahead, and Katie made sure he stayed with her, out of Ruth’s sightline. Ruth was downright eager to shoot a man and the dogged tenacity in her eyes had Katie worried that Ruth would shoot without thinking if Parker got too close. Even Prudence had a steely resolve. Instead of asking questions, she seemed more likely to settle arguments with her gun.

  We were going to kill those men.

  You can call it flat-out murder if you like. It would be a fair charge, I suppose, since it’s what we planned and were on our way to execute. You could call it revenge, since we were going after those who hurt—and for all we knew ultimately killed—our friends, shot at us, stole one of us, and stole our herd. You could call it frontier justice, saying that they had it coming and the only law that mattered was who was standing at the end. You could pick out a dozen Bible verses that condemn it or find another dozen that say it’s righteous.

  We didn’t have a name for it. It was just that thing we were going to do.

&
nbsp; Chapter 24

  After we located a spring and stopped for water, I made the mistake of offering to switch horses with Sally for a while. I thought perhaps she’d say, “That’s all right, I’m used to it now,” but instead she couldn’t trade fast enough. If you ever want to appreciate a saddle, ride on a horse’s bony back for a while. I think the horse appreciates a saddle, too, since I’m sure the seams of our pants dug into its skin.

  Just before sundown, Mary rode ahead. Parker had wanted to go, but Mary made it clear who was in charge. “I’m the scout. Period.” She was back in a little over an hour, riding toward us silhouetted against the last fraction of the orange sun.

  “Went farther than I thought they would, about two miles ahead. Herd looks in good shape.”

  “Could you see how many there are?” asked Ruth.

  “I counted four, but it was dark and I wasn’t about to get closer. Four seems low, though.”

  “Just so one of them has a saddle I can take,” was Sally’s only comment. I nodded agreement.

  “Even if there’s another one or two I didn’t see, we still have the number advantage,” Mary said. “At first light, we’ll go in firing. Catch most of ’em sleepy-eyed and holding coffee instead of guns.”

  While we were planning at sundown, Ernestine was rapping on Doc Evert’s door. It was fortunate that the man had returned home from getting his dinner only moments before, because one look at Clean Through and Pearl told him that he was in for a long night.

  Ernestine and a burly passer-by called Dutch helped carry the injured into the office. The raucous town was filled with others who could help, since a big group of ranch hands was in town spending the last of their earnings from delivering a herd up in Abilene, but they were too busy drinking and shooting into the air and laughing to take notice of the wagon; it was likely a good thing that Ernestine was wearing pants and a shirt, because they might have noticed a dress and wanted to help her in ways that she didn’t wish to be helped. But Dutch was a good friend of Doc Evert’s and carried the wounded like someone who had done it many times. He was also kind enough to respect the blanket that the doctor had placed over Pearl and her torn clothes, which we had been hard-pressed to cover.