Etta: A Novel

by Gerald Kolpan

  For a moment Harry was dumbstruck. The rider's wind had defeated her hat pins, and she now taunted him bareheaded. As it always did in sunlight, her hair had turned to flame, and the scarlet strands that had escaped her careful fastening seemed to him like wildfire around her head. Then a smile slowly spread across his face and the race was on.

  Over the next few miles Etta would cut in front of him, whip him with her crop, and goad him when he fell behind. She reached the river first and jumped down from her saddle, releasing to her waist the auburn hair he had never seen undressed. A second later he dismounted and she ran to him.

  Never forgetting who she was, Harry tried to be a gentleman. He caressed and fumbled, not quite sure if one handled this kind of woman the way one did the usual kind. There were, after all, so many hooks and eyes, so many fine pearl studs, and, underneath, so much lace. His hands moved across her as if she would break, faint caresses slowly giving way to the unjoining of this and the untying of that.

  Etta would have none of it. The woman whom all of Powder River was likely cursing as a she devil wasn't about to stop being one now. She kissed him and tore at him, ripping buttons and pulling leather. What he couldn't remove quickly enough, she did, until they stood by the river in a pile of cotton and leather.

  They paused as if in midair and then blended together in a sea of warmth and chills. At last they kissed and he took her hand, guiding her into the river, and there they bathed in the water and the light. She hooked a long leg about his waist as he stood tall and still, bracing her gently against the currents. She cried and bit the hump of his shoulder as she took him, then lifted her head, holding his firmly between her hands and peering into his dark eyes.

  “Look at me,” she said.

  She broke their embrace and leaned back from him, locking both legs around him and holding his forearms tightly. She did this so that he might see her, all of her.

  Up until this moment, being beautiful had never been anything Etta treasured. It was merely an inheritance, something easy and unearned. But now it was no longer hers. The eyes, the lips, the neck, belly, and breasts, all of the parts the world had always seen as perfect now belonged to him. And so she filled his eyes with her beauty, bestowing it upon him as a balm and a gift.

  Then she enfolded him again and they slipped into the river, still joined. The water rushed around them, cold from the mountain snows, and when they rose again, it was as something new. Something finer than a rich girl and a sad young man. Something purer than two thieves.

  LETTER TO JOSIAH LONGBAUGH

  12 State St., Phoenixville, Pa.

  14 September 1900

  Dear Father,

  I hope this finds you well and in no ways put out by news appearing in the presses that makes me out a murderer. And I am very sorry that policemen and agents of the Pinkerton have come to our home and questioned you and my brothers.

  I cannot tell you that I have not shot at men in the heat of battle or at those who shot at me first. I may be a gunman but I am no liar. Yet so far no one lies dead of my weapons. And if I may have the luck that seems to elude the Longbaughs then this way it will remain.

  Just as it is a lie that I am a killer, it is the truth that I am a thief. I am good at this and have amassed a small fortune through my efforts. But please know that those who gets taken off by me and my band are only those that steals the greater from people like us, folk with naught to spare.

  For more than any other reason I write you to say that in the midst of the world's misery I have at last found love. She is most beautiful and dear and some ten years my junior. She is also near a hometown girl, hailing from Chestnut Hill in Philadelphia, and is as refined as that place produces. She talks right and proper and can eat with three forks when she has them and alas, like all of the quality, cannot cook so much as a bowl of beans.

  But for all that she holds no airs and takes the good with the bad like Mother would have. She sleeps on the ground when we do. Even when we are cold or hungry, she does not complain. She can ride and shoot so clever, she is now considered within our bunch a full partner. We have not as yet had benefit of clergy but live as man and wife, happy.

  And Father, she is kind like few are. There was a little Indian girl here who was being hurt by one of our men. I didn't do nothing. But my Etta, she rescued her and nursed her to health. Just this morning that little girl left our camp with one of our young bucks called Dave Atkins, who has courted her all this year. They hope to go back to Texas, where he has people, and maybe ranch or rustle.

  Like us all, my Etta is wanted. For the men of my band this is fair enough, as we are guilty of our charges and more besides. But my girl is innocent of what they say she done, and I tell you now that I will kill if it comes to that to save my love from regulator or lawman.

  I don't ask your blessing nor pity for the life I chose. What I ask now is that you pray for me and her. Pray that God in heaven not now consign me to fire over all I have done, just at the moment He has allowed me to find this love.

  And if it is true that love may bring grace, then a bad man like myself and a good man like yourself may yet meet one day in paradise.

  My best to you and for your health, Father.

  Affectionately, your son,

  Harry Longbaugh

  From the

  JOURNAL OF ETTA PLACE

  1 October 1900

  Queen Victoria Hotel,

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Diary,

  We slept last night in this good hotel, and today Harry says he will take me shopping for jewelry. It is typical of him to be so thoughtful, jewels being the kind of gifts a poor boy imagines a rich girl likes. Actually, I would be just as happy to remain here in these sheets, warm against him, and continue our intimacies of the previous evening.

  But one must meet the world, non? I only worry that every woman in the street who sees my smile and looks at my man will know the source of my joy.

  Bedroom, sidewalk, or dime museum, I am more than ready for a respite from our adventures, especially as our deeds seem increasingly hazardous, the danger coming not only from the law and the Pinks but from the little serpent in our bandit Eden.

  Every time we emerge from hiding to do our work, I thank the Lord for Curry's craven fear of Butch and Harry. I have seen with my own eyes his open and excited willingness to take the life of a bank teller or conductor without even token hesitation. But Butch says it is better to have his fearless skill with us today than against us tomorrow. If only I could believe that the stories Butch tells are not just an Irishman's blarney: how Curry saved his life, dispatching the leader of a hijack crew even though his throat had been cut; how, unarmed, he fought off a wolf intent on devouring the infant of one of the Prairie Saints; how with only two pistols, he broke Elzy Lay from the Moab jail—leaving three deputies wounded, their shotguns unfired—and then took their dinner for the ride back to camp.

  Still, I wonder if such courage is worth its madness. I feel I am not being immodest when I say I can outride and outshoot Curry (something I would not say about Ben Kilpatrick or even Peg Leg) and get my work done without leaving a mess. Were I the leader of this gang, I would dig a hole in the sand, deposit the evil dwarf inside, and be gone by the time he managed to climb out.

  Curry's bloodlust notwithstanding, no lives have yet been lost in our escapades, although we did come perilously close on the two occasions in which we encountered a young fool named Woodcock, who seemed to believe that the contents of the Union Pacific's treasure car belonged personally to him. During the Wilcox job last year, I hear they practically had to shoehorn him from the car so that the dynamite could do its work. Thank goodness he realized resistance was useless by the time we robbed his second train at Tipton. On that occasion Butch greeted him in his usual avuncular manner, almost as a long-lost friend, and congratulated him on his bravery in the first incident. Just the same, they once again blew his car to kingdom-come-alleluia.

  Do I seem a
much-changed girl from the one who used to write of cotillions danced and ribbons won? Oh, yes, my friend, I am. Of course, I was raised with the teaching that stealing is immoral, that “he who takes what isn't his'n/must pay up or go to prison.” But out here, the moralities are not at all the same as in the polite society from which I came.

  Here, the railroads control everything and everyone. Their greed is relentless. I have seen whole towns—man, woman, and child—evicted from farms and homes for the need of a railroad right-of-way. I have cried more than once over their treatment of the cruelly exploited Chinese—an ancient and noble race, judging by those I have met—who have been worked to death driving stakes and laying track. And then there are the hapless Indians. For the railroads' profit, they have forfeited entire villages and been death-marched to remote areas. Here they starve for want of the now-slaughtered bison that once served their every need. This, while “dudes” from the East shoot the few remaining specimens from the windows of private railcars.

  I contrast all this, Diary, with Harry and Butch, who have often come to the aid of such unfortunates. The woman with the pox for whom Butch rode over three states to retrieve medicine. The young Indian boy whose pony was shot from under him by Pinkerton goons and who would surely have died in this rough country without a mount. Harry gave him our finest: a fleet bay mare Thoroughbred quarter, stolen from a shipment of polo ponies bound for a Connecticut millionaire. There was even U.S. Marshal Eben Walsh of Rio Blanco County, Colorado, who was suffering the takeover of his domain by renegade soldiers armed to the teeth. Harry and Butch, along with Ben, Della, O. C. Hanks, Dave Atkins, and a few others, managed to drive them off without firing a shot. Butchs considerable charm figured prominently here, but the soldiers, being cowards, had no stomach for taking on seasoned gunfighters. Their usual competition, after all, was likely to be but a single lawman and a few frightened homesteaders.

  Even in my capacity as “highwaylady to the ladies” I have learned by their example. Before I relieve any woman of so much as an earring, I ask myself the following questions: What is the quality of her shoes, how expensive is her dress, is her hat bespoke, and is she traveling with a personal maid? If by these inquiries I determine she can weather the loss, I gladly take her baubles, as they will be easily replaced—and in any case, she (like the railroad) is likely to be insured. At all times I do my best to set these women at ease and convey to them the idea that I am of a similar social class as they and that being robbed by me is far preferable than by someone rougher.

  In my work, I try always to smile … and I have become adept indeed at spotting those trinkets that mean the most to the lady: a particular brooch, a ring given in celebration of a child's birth, a wedding band. These I never take, just as I never take even so much as a stickpin from a maid, farm wife or daughter, Chinawoman or prostitute, unless the lady has achieved the status of house madam. (During the Tipton job, I was approached by one such woman who offered me employment on the spot, allowing as how we would both make as much in a month as I was making in a year and that it would be from pleasure and joy instead of terror. I smiled and politely declined. She gave me her card “just in case.”)

  Tomorrow we leave for Fort Worth, Texas, and the wedding of our erstwhile colleague, Mr. Will Carver, to Miss Lillie Davis, an employee of Madam Fanny Porter. I have been informed that not only does Miss Davis possess a beautiful singing voice but that she has never in her career been subject to any of the various and sundry diseases associated with her calling. This is due in part, I am told, to the carriage trade that is Mrs. Porter's clientele and the excellent medical attention provided to all ladies in her employ. It will be a drive of something like a week, but Messrs. Longbaugh and Cassidy have engaged a private stagecoach for the occasion. The traveling party will include only the finest of outlaw society: the aforementioned gentlemen, Miss Place, Miss Bullion, Mr. Kilpatrick, and, for spice (Lord help us), Mr. Curry.

  PINKERTON'S NATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY

  Founded by Allan Pinkerton, 1850

  “We Never Sleep”

  REPRESENTATIVES OF THE

  UNION PACIFIC RAILROAD CO., INC.

  $10,000 REWARD

  internal memorandum. confidential.

  do not remove from files.

  On August 29, 1900, about 2 P.M., Tipton, Wyoming, the express car of the No. 3 Union Pacific was “held up” by mounted highwaymen armed with rifles and sidearms. Safe was blown open and the car totally destroyed. The similarity of this incident and the events of June 2, 1899 at Wilcox, in which another Union Pacific train was exploded, indicate the involvement of the so-called HOLE-IN-THE-WALL GANG, lately also known in the press as THE WILD BUNCH. Express Clerk WOODCOCK, once again the poor victim of such a robbery, positively identified gang members ROBERT (formerly GEORGE) PARKER, alias “BUTCH CASSIDY,” HARRY LONGBAUGH, alias THE “SUNDANCE KID,” FRANK ELLIOTT, alias “PEG LEG,” BEN KILPATRICK, and the murderous HARVEY LOGAN, alias “KID CURRY.” Courtesy agent C. Siringo, the young woman riding with the group has been positively identified and is described below.

  PLEASE NOTE: ALL STATISTICS BELOW ARE ESTIMATES, AS THE YOUNG WOMAN IN QUESTION HAS SO FAR NOT HAD CONTACT WITH EITHER PUBLIC OR PRIVATE LAW ENFORCEMENT AND NO PHOTOGRAPHS OR DRAWINGS OF HER ARE CURRENTLY AVAILBALE.

  SUSPECT IN THIS ROBBERY

  Description of ETTA PLACE

  AGE: 19–22 years HEIGHT: 5 ft, 9–5 ft, 11 inches

  WEIGHT: 125-130 lbs BUILD: slender

  COMPLEXION: light COLOR OF HAIR: red-brown

  EYES: green MUSTACHE: none

  NATIONALITY: American OCCUPATION: prostitute

  CRIMINAL OCCUPATION: Associate of outlaws, thief, murderess.

  ETTA PLACE is known as a criminal principally in Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, Colorado, and Nevada and is known to travel in the company of her paramour or husband HARRY LONGBAUGH, alias “KID” LONGBAUGH, alias THE “SUNDANCE” KID. Over the past year or so, PLACE has been known to acompany LONGBAUGH and his comrades in the outlaw brigade variously referred to as THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL GANG and THE WILD BUNCH. According to the Grand Junction (Colo.) Citizens News, she emigrated west from her native Pennsylvania to establish a house or houses of prostitution. She is currently wanted in Colorado for the May 29, 1899, slaying of EARL CHARMICHAEL DIXON, a prominent citizen of the city of Grand Junction, an offense for which she was tried and convicted. With the aid of unknown confederates, PLACE escaped from the Grand Junction jail, 30 June 1899. Despite her polite demeanor, considerable beauty, and fashionable clothing, PLACE is an active participant in the group's nefarious doings and is both an expert rider and a crack shot, especially with a rifle. She is believed to have recently helped her fellow road agents in the robbing of the Powder River Farmers Bank and Trust Company in Powder River, Wyoming, using a rattlesnake as a diversion. Agents should be advised that, if captured, all courtesies due a female should be followed as dictated by procedure, but be warned: underestimating this young woman could be a fatal mistake. In the event of gunplay, no special consideration is to be afforded ETTA PLACE.

  3

  ohn Swartz had made many fine images in his ten years in business, but he truly believed that this time he had triumphed. Artistically speaking, it was the best group photograph he had yet produced: five men, all attired in their finest, their ties perfectly knotted, each with a shining new bowler atop his head. If they hadn't been somewhat rough in manner and smelling strongly of whiskey, Swartz might have taken them for the core sales force of a local concern or even a group of North Texas oilmen come to document their big time in the city of Fort Worth.

  Within the frame, two of them stand at the rear, right hands upon the shoulders of their seated brothers. These were the shortest of the men and thus were assigned the upright positions, lest they be dwarfed by the taller three. Even seated, the man at the center, the one they called Ben, is nearly half a head taller than those on either side. Gazing at his work, Swartz remembered that the gentleman who had
initiated the transaction, one Robert Parker (seated, far right), was particularly jovial and friendly, so much so that by the end of the session Swartz was referring to him by the same nickname used by his fellows.

  “All right, Butch,” Swartz had said, “a little taller in your chair, please. Relaxed, right hand on chair arm, and … hold it.”

  Nothing could have surprised John Swartz more than the reaction of the shortest man, the one with the huge handlebar, upon the explosion of the flash powder. As it popped off in black smoke and lighted the room, the little fellow let fly with an oath and then tucked and rolled toward a corner of the studio, coming up with a silver .38-caliber pistol. Swartz hit the floor just as the first shot shattered the lens of his great nine-by-twelve-inch Dierdorff. The second shot landed harmlessly in the ceiling as, by now, Mr. Harry Place, the second tallest and by far the handsomest of the five, had tackled the small man. He was followed by Mr. Parker, Mr. Kilpatrick (the giant seated center), and a thin fellow whose name Swartz never did get. The small man railed as he struggled with each of them, screaming curses against their parentage and loudly proclaiming that Swartz was, in his words, “a Jew name.” In their turn, each of his cohorts had exhorted him to calm. “Curry,” they shouted, “it's a camera, not a goddamn gun!”

  It took all three men to remove Mr. “Curry” from the studio, leaving behind only the shaken photographer and a sanguine Mr. Parker.

  “Hell of a thing,” Parker allowed, panting from his exertions.

  “Yes, Mr. Parker,” Swartz replied, wiping new perspiration from his forehead. “Hell of a thing.”

  “Now, now, John! It's been Butch all day and I hope this regrettable incident will not change the friendship we've developed, just as I hope you'll forgive us this trespass. We are rough fellows newly in from the nether regions farther west, where we were doing our best to convert the heathen redmen to the ways of the Savior. Our friend Mr. Curry has endured many horrors and privations during our service, and ever since he was staked out on an anthill by the Oglala, he has been a different man. At the slightest provocation, he tends to go into a defensive posture, as you, I'm sorry to say, have witnessed. Please believe me when I tell you that we had no idea that he had even purchased, let alone was carrying, a firearm. Had we been aware of such a thing, suffice it to say we would have done all in our power to separate him from it and prayed long and hard that his formerly calm and holy disposition would return to him.”