Charlie Siringo read the item twice and then threw down the newspaper and snapped the linen from his lap. Tossing a dollar on the table, he rushed from the dining room and hurried across the street to his hotel. Gaining his room, he gathered his belongings, quickly retraced his steps, and made for the ticket office of the Santa Fe. Once his fare was paid, Siringo ran across the platform and filed a quick message with a startled telegraph clerk he had awakened from an afternoon doze.
WESTERN UNION
TELEGRAM
TO: MR. WESTON SIMS JAN 8, 1902
PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY
330 MARKET ST.
PHILADELPHIA, PA
REASON TO BELIEVE H. LONGBAUGH IN YOUR CITY. MAY HAVE DEALT WITH MEMBER OF BLK HAND IN MATTER OF CHRISTMAS DAY. TAKE NO ACTION BESIDES SURVEILLANCE UNTIL I ARRIVE FOUR DAYS STRATFORD HOTEL. POSSIBLE LONGBAUGH MAY SEEK MEETING WITH EP AS YOURS HER HOMETOWN. LONGBAUGH ARMED AND DANGEROUS AS ANY. EP TOO. CAUTION.
SIRINGO
Brown birthmark above his lip. Charlie Siringo could not have been more certain if someone had asked him his own name. He needed to see no Wanted bills, needed to hear no jail-break news. The Sundance Kid had escaped from prison and paid a visit to Philadelphia. He had murdered Dante Cichetti as a warning to the Black Hand. And if Harry Longbaugh was in the East, he was there to rendezvous with Etta Place.
From the
JOURNAL OF ETTA PLACE
10 January 1902
Parlor Car Peachtree Princess
Bound for Atlanta
Diary,
It has been some days, my old friend, since I have written. What with the constant practice (at today's matinee I shot out half a dozen candles rotating upon an electric wheel!) and the care and training of Buster (the biggest horse you have ever seen not pulling a beer wagon), it has been difficult to find time for you.
Too, almost all the moments I have reserved to put pen to paper have been carefully reserved for ER. And that paper is truly a tissue of lies. It is especially painful to carry on the deception that I am traveling with my husband and am the happy recipient of all the tender affections that accompany marriage, when in fact I am as lonely and empty as Little Nell herself. But how could I ever tell her that I am pursued on all sides—the Black Hand, the lawmen, the Pinkertons—and that the “husband” to whom I have never been wed is rotting away these precious years in a western prison?
In these days, it seems, my only solace comes at showtime, when I may truly escape inside the buckskin fringes of Annie Oakley and feel my first sense of accomplishment since I aided the poor girls of Rivington Street. There is something to be said for relieving the daily care of an exhausted farmer and his wife with a few retorts from a buffalo gun, and I now understand why there are those who spend their lives in pursuit of applause. Our own Mr. Elliott is a clear example. To Peg Leg's delight, the colonel has begun to feature him under his own name. The posters now display this addition:
SEE “PEG LEG” ELLIOTT! MASTER OF THE
LARIAT AND SNAPPY REPARTEE!
TRICKS TO AMAZE YOU, JOKES TO AMUSE YOU!
Still, Diary, if anyone had ever told me that living a lie so big would be this easy I would have thought them fit for committing. Under orders from the colonel, no one with the show has revealed my identity to either reporter or copper, and I suspect that the code of the carnival has something to do with that. Nor would I find it surprising if Cody had locked away somewhere a secret about every single “artist” in his parade, full as it is with convicted felons, phony Indians, beautiful girls of dubious reputation, and sundry mountebanks.
In any event, the colonel has so far proved correct in his assertion that the audience in these small southern hamlets is deeply invested in my being who they want me to be. If I am bigger, more “attractive,” a better rider and a worse shot than my erstwhile namesake, it seems to matter little as long as people receive their money's worth … and I have determined to give them that.
If the truth be known (and at this point some truth should), the most critical problem we have yet faced was getting a much larger suit of buckskins tailored for me in the week we had between New York and the South. A Blackfoot woman who is traveling with us managed to get such a proper outfit done in time for my first appearance, but Lord, it was close! Indeed, she was sewing me into her work of art even as the music introducing me began to play.
Thus does my life become a world of aliases: Lorinda Reese Jameson, debutante; alias Etta Place, outlaw; alias Mrs. Harry Place, newlywed; alias Annie Oakley, trick shot. There are, Diary, hours when I fear I will lose my true self in this morass and others in which I hope that I will. In these last, I think, How grand to be someone else … someone at whose heels no dogs are nipping. No Pinks. No law. No bandit lost to me.
And no seventeen-year-old girl alone inside a frozen house in Manhattan, the only victim caught in these lies too good, too sweet, too fine to deserve them.
From the
ATLANTA CONSTITUTION
January 25, 1902
ATTEMPT ON LIFE OF ROOSEVELT HERE! PRESIDENT SAVED FROM ANARCHIST BY FAMOUS TRICK SHOT ANNIE OAKLEY.
“LITTLE SURE SHOT” FOILS ENCRAZED FOREIGNER!
OAKLEY HAS DISAPPEARED!
COLONEL CODY SAYS SHE SEEKS NO PUBLICITY!
By our correspondents
As he enjoyed a performance of Buffalo Bill's Wild West last evening, an attempt was made upon the life of the president of the United States. The cowardly attack was carried out during a matinee at the fairgrounds in Ormewood, some ten miles from our city.
The would-be assassin, who appeared disguised as a rodeo clown, was described as an anarchist. He tried to shoot President Theodore Roosevelt by use of a small-caliber revolver concealed within his vest. Eyewitnesses said the man approached the president's box via the performing ring and came within only a few feet of the chief executive.
Mr. Roosevelt would almost certainly have been injured or killed, had it not been for quick action on the part of Mrs. Phoebe Anne Butler, known to the world as the famous sharpshooter, Annie Oakley. According to police and audience accounts, Mrs. Butler was performing on horseback when the villain approached the president and she noticed the gun in his hand.
Just as the degenerate shouted forth some oath in an unknown language, Mrs. Butler, who has performed her amazing feats around the globe, exclaimed to the crowd, “Pray get down, everyone!” Then did the heroine of the day gallantly charge her enormous stallion directly at the criminal, knocking him off his feet and causing his pistol to discharge harmlessly into the air, its projectile tearing a hole in the ceiling of the show's great tent. Secret Service agents, who are charged with the protection of the president, then made for the assassin and threw him to the ground.
At first, many in the throng believed Mrs. Butler's selfless act to be merely part of the program with the president playing along. But it soon became apparent that the assassination attempt was genuine and the danger all too real.
After he was released from the grip of the agents protecting him and the tense moment had passed, the president was heard to remark, “Splendid! A bully adventure! I am quite unhurt.” Mr. Roosevelt then asked to see the famed “Little Sure Shot” in order to thank her for saving his life. However, after she had dispatched the madman, Mrs. Butler lingered only long enough to ascertain the state of Mr. Roosevelt's welfare and then inexplicably rode her horse through the spangled performer's curtain and did not reemerge. In due course, the president and his party vacated the premises without meeting her.
Later in the day, Colonel William F. Cody, U.S. Cavalry (retired), proprietor and namesake of Buffalo Bill's Wild West, held a conference for the press in which he stated that Mrs. Butler was “as any woman would be,” in a near-fainting state from the heroics of the day and sought no accolades for foiling the plot of the evildoer. “She believes,” said Buffalo Bill, “that any reward or undue publicity resulting from her actions of today would be unseemly. Our Annie thanks the pr
esident for his gratitude but says she only did what any patriotic citizen would have done in her place.” Col. Cody also stated that Mrs. Butler would not be made available to the government, the police, or reporters until her own health and well-being had been firmly established.
As we go to press, the identity of the blackguard has not been released. He is said to be of middle-European extraction and is more than likely a member of one of the many dangerous anarchist sects that infect that region of the world. No member of the president's party would comment to the Constitution about where the insane plotter was being held. At 5:30 P.M. the president and his party returned to Washington aboard a special train. Given his famous indomitable will and iron constitution, Mr. Roosevelt will no doubt be his chipper self by morning, if not sooner.
onsidering what she was used to, the trip back to New York was unglamorous and Etta was glad of it. She had had it to the neck with fancy dress and the center of the spotlight. Now her concentration was on simple pleasures. The food on the Great Montrealer was nearly as well prepared as that served on a Harvey train, and the money Colonel Cody had provided allowed her to remain in a private drawing room where those meals could be served to her in peace.
Given a choice, Etta most certainly would have opted for more social surroundings, but she was still a wanted woman. As the idea of remaining in disguise for the better part of two days seemed tiresome at best, she holed up in her compartment like a rich girl, seeing only the faces of black porters and managing always to avert her own in their presence.
For her current luxury, she had William F. Cody to thank. During their final negotiation, the colonel had driven an unexpectedly soft bargain, offering to remit additional monies for her silence. After all, it would not have done for the great showman to be exposed as a fraud, a man whose “Annie Oakley” was not only an imposter but an imposter wanted for murder. But Etta had refused his offer, noting his many kindnesses to her and his generous keeping of her own secrets. The private compartment and a small stipend would be sufficient for her needs.
“I get it,” the old man had said, through a thousandth hemorrhoidal grimace. “Trade secrets. You trade me your secret and I'll trade you mine.”
Etta's life now seemed all future and no past: a place without home or parent or friend to distract her from her losses. During the month she had toured with the show, there had been at least some diversion from emptiness. In Cody's railroad cars and wagons at night, Etta had sat quietly among her fellow outcasts, raised a glass in their drunken toasts, and turned over cards that won or lost their penny-ante pots. But now even this humble warmth was gone.
All that remained was the smallest and most precious of her lies. Had she been true to her conscience, she would have laid this aside as well. But met with so much emptiness, Etta sought the only thing solid to which she could now cling: the rock called Eleanor Roosevelt, the last person Etta loved not yet imprisoned or killed.
As the train rocked its way through South Carolina, Etta began to write:
10 February 1902
My Dearest Nell,
I can only hope that this letter finds you well and happy. I must confess that my own life is far poorer for not seeing you every day. And that is why, my most precious darling, with a full heart and your kind permission, I am coming to visit you.
Harry has concluded much of his business here in the South. Truth be told, I believe he needed me mostly as a companion and hostess during the endless balls and parties these rebels like to prepare for themselves. Now, all that is left are the sordid details of money and delivery and suchlike. I think at this juncture he can complete the dullest parts of his ventures without his little wife to distract him.
And so, dearest, I would like to return to you for a little while. As of tomorrow afternoon, I will once again be stopping at Mrs. Taylor's. The telephone is now laid on there and I may be reached in this way, although I know you find such electric conversations public and undignified.
I will contact you when I arrive. To roam New York without my great friend would be like visiting heaven without its greatest angel.
Yours always,
EP
As she penned her last initial, Etta found that she was smiling. She slipped the small cream-colored note into its envelope and heated a stick of purple wax with a wooden match. She sealed the letter, addressed it, and slid it beneath her pillow. All that night, her sleep played hide-and-seek with her hopes, and she was wide awake at dawn when the porters came to collect the mail for posting at Norfolk.
herever she walked, Etta Place caused people to stop. The reaction may have amounted only to a slight hesitation of step or a short sharp intake of the breath, but, looking at her, people would begin to wonder things: How does Nature produce such a girl? or Why am I not that tall? or Can her hair really be that color? or How was I so cheated in love? These and a thousand other foolish or jealous or obscene thoughts would swirl about her at all hours and in all places. Everyone was subject, no one immune: men, women, even little girls.
In contrast, Phoebe Anne Butler was as unnoticeable as the plaster composing a wall. Less than five feet tall and with few distinguishing features, pointing her out would be like remarking upon the shape of the curb where it meets the street or the cement binding two particular bricks.
Not that she minded. She reckoned blasting a sheroot from the mouth of the Kaiser was attention enough for any girl; she relished the idea that, when not in her buckskin and boots, she was a nobody and looked the part. How tiresome it would have been to be shopping for the most confidential of a lady's needs and have the shopgirl gush and call for her colleagues. No, she preferred to live in disguise right down to her name.
To Phoebe, Annie Oakley was like a hat or a pair of boots: something to be put on before a show and removed after. During those short hours that she lived, Annie worked hard. She shot the flames from candles revolving on a pinwheel or exploded a dollar through the eagle's wing. When she was finished, she was rewarded with wild applause and big bags of gold.
Now, on this cold evening, Phoebe Anne sat across a gilt-topped table from Buffalo Bill Cody. They had taken a private booth at Luchow's and sent the waiter away. Secluded enough, thought Cody, to avoid fools and the gossiping press. Public enough, thought Phoebe, to embarrass her former boss with press-attracting pronouncements if the negotiation failed to go her way. Between the two legends sat Phoebe's husband, Frank Butler, a second-rate trick shot and third-rate husband, known to the world at large as Mr. Oakley.
“Really, Bill,” Phoebe began, her tone calm and measured, “this should be a matter for the lawyers. I'm not gone from your sideshow one day but that you find some stretched-out tart to take not only my place but my name.”
“Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe,” Cody replied. “It was really only a borrow. I thought you and Frank here was off on the grand tour, seeing the great capitals of Europe and Asia. How'd I know you was still in America? You wasn't working, and as you wasn't working you really wasn't using the name. You know I never like anything to go to waste.”
Frank Butler's narrow cheeks flushed with rage. “Cody, it's an outrage, what you done to my Phoebe! Why, the only reason I ain't as yet throttled you bug-eyed is that my wife won't allow violence on account of her Christian lean-tos! Up to me, I'd settle this like men and no guesses to it.”
Phoebe sighed. “Shut up, Frank.”
Buffalo Bill shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Aggravation always caused flareups in his hindquarters, and the pillow the maître d' had brought to him seemed to bring more pain than relief.
“If I've offended you, my dear, I sincerely apologize,” the colonel said. “But try to see it from my side. My star, my beautiful shining star, leaves the arena practically in the middle of her performance. And in New York City, no less, the town that loves Annie Oakley most! My star deserts me over a mere pittance of money to go off around the world. It's not like you was going to perform anywheres of consequence. The tour was just th
e tank towns down south: tobacco spitters, married brothers and sisters, kids with two heads. I figured it couldn't hurt your reputation for me to—well, re-create you for a month or so as long as the girl could do the tricks aright. And meanwhile I had time to figure a way to lure you back to our family—our Wild West family.”
Frank Butler moved to speak again, but quick as birdshot his wife clapped her right hand over his mouth. “You didn't think it was such a pittance when I asked for it, but you'll give it to me now, and much more.”
“And what would cause me to do that?”
“Because now, bastard, I am a hero.”
Buffalo Bill stared into those mercilessly accurate eyes and began to feel sympathy for all those targets and candles, those cigarettes cut off in the flame of youth, those funny little cutouts of Crazy Horse.
“Yes, Bill, a goddamned hero. A national hero. A hero who saved the life of the President of the United States.”
“But Phoebe, now, you know that wasn't really you. I don't think you're being fair, trying to take credit for it.”
“But I am going to take credit for it, old man. I'll take credit for it right here in front of you, just like you took my name when I wasn't looking. And you'll sit still for it even if it makes them piles of yours burst into the devil's own flame. Because there's money to be made.
“I'm not stupid, Bill. I know you already can't handle all the demands for interviews. A cigar maker wants to put me on a box of Coronas. Some breakfast-cereal magnate is crazy enough that he thinks my picture on the box might sell his mush. And you know something? You're going to be just as crazy as he is. You're going to put my picture on every poster, every lobby card, every advertisement. You're going to fill the lobbies with copies of the autobiography Mr. Buntline is at this moment writing for me, you're going to sell every one, and—”
Etta: A Novel Page 17