Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  “One, though it’s little more than a closet. We’re full up.”

  “Fine. How much?”

  “Five dollars.”

  “For a closet?” Rosemond said.

  The clerk shrugged and looked behind us. “I imagine one of those cowboys behind you’ll take it.”

  “We’ll take it,” I said.

  “No, we won’t,” Rosemond said. “Come on, Helen.”

  I smiled at the clerk, raised a finger, and said, “We want the room. Excuse us, for one minute.” I pulled Rosemond aside. I lowered my voice but didn’t curb my anger. “Enough. We’re here, and almost destitute. We need to talk about what we’re going to do.” Rosemond opened her mouth again, but I raised my finger. “You want my help going legitimate, I have a say in what we do.” I felt the knife hidden up my sleeve. “We have been traveling for two days and I’m dirty and exhausted.” I’d lied to myself that the body odor I smelled on the train was a miasma from the mass of people. In truth, I knew from the experience with my father that it was I who smelled, my body secreting the remnants of the opiate.

  “Dunk needs to know I’m here, and I need to figure out what I can do to help him.” She paused. “If anything.”

  “I am not going anywhere until I clean up. Do what you want, but I’m taking the room.”

  “Your two bits won’t cover it.”

  “Good thing I lifted your winnings while you were passed out between Buda and Kearney Junction.” I walked to the counter and smiled at the clerk. “We’ll take the room.”

  The man narrowed his eyes at us but pushed the hotel log toward me. “Sign in.”

  Rosemond watched me sign “Mrs. Helen Graham and Miss Eliza Ryan” in a sloppy script and push it back to the clerk, who handed me a brass key. “Top floor, end of the hall. Facilities at the end of each hall.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you want to see that nigger you better hurry. There was talk of hanging him at dawn.”

  “Tomorrow?” Rosemond asked.

  The clerk glanced at the clock above the door. “No, twenty minutes ago.”

  Rosemond’s face paled, and she turned and ran out of the hotel. I followed.

  The sheriff’s office was one of the few stone buildings in town, asserting the town leaders’ commitment to law and order as well as the protection of their investments. Two deputies holding rifles stood in front of the door. Men milled around nearby, waiting restively. The sound of hammering punctuated the early-morning quiet.

  Rosemond stopped at the sight of the armed guards. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply a few times. She rotated her head in small circles, opened her eyes, and smiled. Her expression transformed from terror to provocative, though I could still see the fear on the edges. She walked forward and stopped in front of the guards.

  “We’re here to see the prisoner,” she said.

  The guards made no secret of assessing us from head to toe. My vanity was slightly wounded when their gazes traveled quickly, and uninterestedly, over me but lingered on Rosemond.

  “What for?”

  “We’re friends of his.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve known the prisoner since we were children,” Rosemond said. She placed her small, soft hand on the guard’s arm. “Please let me see him one last time.” Her voice trembled slightly.

  The guard spit tobacco juice on the ground and surveyed the crowd with narrowed eyes. “Best be quick. Not sure how long this crowd will be quiet.” He opened the door.

  “Gentry!” A fat, red-faced man sitting at a desk stood as we walked in. “I told you no more visitors.”

  “They’re friends of the prisoner,” he said, and closed the door.

  “Are you the sheriff?” Rosemond asked.

  “Yep. Enoch Hall. Gentry shouldn’t have let you in. It’s not safe for ladies to be here right now.”

  “Sheriff Hall.” Rosemond held out her hand. “I’m Eliza Ryan, and this is my sister, Helen. We’re here to see your prisoner, Duncan March.”

  I perused the bulletin board of Wanted posters. There mine was, front and center. I flushed and turned away, keeping my face averted from the sheriff.

  “What business do you have with that big buck?”

  I glanced at Rosemond, whose smile never wavered, but her voice cooled. “He works for me.”

  “Does he?”

  “He was a slave of my father’s and after the war he came to work with me. He helped me run a boardinghouse in Saint Louis.”

  “Did he?” Hall looked Rosemond up and down. “We have a couple of those in town ourselves. You come out here to start your own?”

  “No. Passing through. We got separated from Dunk in Grand Island. My sister and I missed the train. We’ve been checking for him at every stop. Imagine our surprise when we find him in jail in Cheyenne.”

  “Well, he killed a white man.”

  “So we heard. When is his trial?”

  Hall laughed. “Twenty men witnessed it. He’d already be strung up if there was a big enough tree within fifty miles.” He jerked his thumb. “They’re reinforcing the gallows right now. He’s uncommon big.”

  Rosemond placed her fingertips lightly on Hall’s desk. “Surely there’s something that can be done, Sheriff. Jail time? A fine? A promise to leave town and never return? As you probably noticed, Dunk is a simple-minded man. I’ve known him his entire life and he’s never hurt a soul.”

  “Oh, I find that hard to believe. A big buck like that working for a beautiful woman like you? I’m sure he’s had cause now and then to hurt a man.”

  Rosemond’s shoulders straightened as she inhaled. I stepped forward and intertwined my arm with Rosemond’s. “May we see him?” I said.

  Hall studied us, his eyes lingering on me. I thanked God for the first time that my hair had lightened so much as to make the photo taken of me four years earlier almost unrecognizable. Age, weather, and want had transformed my smooth, round face into one with sharp cheekbones and fine lines around my eyes and mouth. The dark circles under my eyes and the paleness of my complexion from my body adjusting to life without laudanum no doubt disguised me further. I was horrified at the visage I presented, but I held his gaze steadily.

  “You sick?”

  “Recovering, thank you.” I cursed my body for the hot flash that was coming on, which Enoch Hall would probably mistake for embarrassment. Why couldn’t it have been the chills, instead?

  Hall lost interest in me. He turned his head and yelled, “Webster!”

  A middle-aged man shuffled into the front room. He wore a gray slouch hat and a double holster. “Yep.”

  “These ladies want to visit the nigger.”

  Webster worked his mouth, turned his head, and spit a stream of tobacco juice perfectly into the spittoon next to the wall with a solid ding. “Yep.” He turned and walked back into the room he’d emerged from. Rosemond and I followed.

  The back of the sheriff’s office was twice as large as the front. Four cells with small, barred open windows set high in the stone walls were divided down the middle by a narrow walkway. The sound of the crowd outside was more prominent back here. A heavy fog of fear hung in the air.

  At the far end, a man sat on a chair outside the cell, head bowed, his pale hands gripping large black ones. Beneath the man’s murmured prayer, I heard Dunk sobbing, softly. A woman stood next to the preacher, head bowed. Rosemond made a strange, strangled sound.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  She stared at the tableau with a pale, stricken expression on her face, her chest heaving with small, sharp breaths. “Rosemond.” I put my hand on her arm and shook her. She looked at me, her eyes unfocused. “Are you ill?”

  As she stared at me, her eyes cleared and her color returned. “No. I’m fine.”

  The preacher said, “Amen,” but kept his head close to the cell. He murmured to Dunk as the woman lifted her head and saw us for the first time. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bu
n, but tendrils of curls managed to escape, giving her head a bristly look.

  “Who is that?” Rosemond said to the deputy, her eyes fixed on the couple.

  Webster spoke up. “Preacher and his wife. Reverend Bright. Nice fella. Not your typical Methodist.”

  The Reverend stood and released Dunk’s hands. He stepped back and let his wife move forward, picked up his chair, and followed. Reverend Bright’s wife walked past us with a brief nod.

  “Portia,” Reverend Bright said, a little sharply. The woman stopped at the door and turned. The Reverend motioned for her, and she came forward. He held out his hand to Rosemond. “I’m Reverend Bright, and this is my wife, Portia.”

  Rosemond took his hand briefly. “I’m Eliza Ryan. This is my sister, Helen Graham.”

  Portia Bright’s eyebrows lifted and her gaze shifted from Rosemond to me, revealing a pair of clear blue eyes, with a brilliant orange ring around the irises. Mesmerized by her eyes, I barely heard the conversation between Rosemond and the Reverend.

  “You must be the woman Dunk mentioned,” Reverend Bright said.

  “Yes. We got separated at Grand Island. Surely there’s something we can do to help him,” Rosemond said.

  “I’m afraid not,” Reverend Bright said. “The town leaders think it’s a clear case, despite the fact that the other man pulled a gun on him. If Mr. Duncan were a white man, it would have been termed self-defense and that would be the end of it. Since he’s a Negro, they’re going to hang him.”

  Webster spit into a nearby spittoon. “You let one nigger get away with killing a white man, they’ll all think they can do it. You got five minutes to say your piece to him.” Webster nodded toward the cell. Rosemond moved down the hall.

  Reverend Bright smiled at me and ran his hand over his balding head. “You haven’t visited before?”

  “We’ve only arrived in town. Dunk stayed on the train while Eliza and I got out for food and drink. One thing led to another, and we missed the train,” I said.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Boulder.”

  “Indeed? That’s where I met Portia,” the Reverend said, gazing with affection at his wife.

  “Don’t you want to say your good-byes?” Portia Bright cut in. Her singular eyes flamed with animosity.

  I jerked my head back in surprise and felt my face redden. As Portia glared at me, I realized my mistake. Of course she was offended by the way I’d gaped at her earlier. “Of course. Excuse me.”

  When I arrived at the cell, Rosemond and Dunk went silent. Dunk’s eyes were red and tears streaked down his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to do it. You gotta help me.”

  “What were you doing gambling, anyway?”

  Dunk looked down at the floor. “I was waiting for you on the platform, and I heard this man talking about a game. I was bored, and thought one game wouldn’t hurt. Help pass the time.”

  “How much of my money did you lose?”

  Dunk wouldn’t lift his eyes.

  “Did you lose my lot in Boulder?”

  Dunk nodded. The men outside started whooping and hollering. “You gotta help me, Miss Rose.”

  “Of course I will. Where’s the trunk?”

  “I checked it at the depot. The sheriff took the ticket.”

  Rosemond glanced down at the end of the hall. The Reverend and his wife were gone. Webster leaned back in the chair, reading a newspaper. There was a banging outside, like wood on wood.

  “BRING HIM OUT, SHERIFF!”

  Webster folded his paper and unhurriedly went into the main room.

  Rosemond patted Dunk’s hand. “Don’t you worry. I’ll get you out of here.”

  “How?”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “Rosemond,” I said, but she’d turned and walked away.

  I heard Dunk say, “I’m sorry,” as I followed.

  “Tell those men to go away,” Rosemond said to the sheriff. The Reverend was at the front window with his wife, who looked terrified. Holding a rifle in his hand, Webster stepped out of the office and closed the door behind him.

  “Settle down, settle down,” Webster said.

  “Bring that nigger out here!” a man yelled.

  “And why would I do that? He ain’t had his trial.” The sheriff and Deputy Webster laughed.

  Ignoring the crowd outside, Rosemond sat on the edge of the sheriff’s desk and smiled as if they had all the time in the world. She touched Sheriff Hall’s arm lightly and said, “What can I do to set my friend free?”

  The sheriff’s eyes raked over Rosemond with a leer of understanding. “There’s only so much I can do.”

  “You can at least ensure he has a fair trial. I do believe the law requires it.” She squeezed his arm. “My gratitude would know no bounds.”

  Portia shot forward, surprising the sheriff, who reluctantly took his eyes off Rosemond. “Sheriff, this has gone far enough. Do your duty and send this crowd away this instant. Duncan deserves a trial as much as the next man.” Her face was flushed and her eyes blazed with indignation.

  Reverend Bright, astonished at his wife, recovered himself and stepped forward. “Portia is correct, Enoch. Send the crowd away. Do you want Cheyenne known for mob justice or law and order?”

  Rosemond studied the preacher’s wife, who kept her eyes steadily on the sheriff, as if her undivided attention would will him to do as she bid.

  The door burst open and pandemonium broke loose. Men carrying rifles and yelling obscenities flooded the small office and made their way to the cell. The deputies and sheriff did their best but couldn’t stem the tide of the mob’s bloody enthusiasm. Reverend Bright pulled Portia and me away from Hall’s desk and into the far corner before diving into the crowd, entreating them to stop.

  “Where is she?” Portia said, panicked.

  Rosemond was nowhere to be found. I moved forward and pushed through the crowd to the edge of the desk. Relief swept over me when I didn’t see her prone form on the floor. Above the cacophony, I heard a female voice. “No, please! Don’t take him!”

  Two men dragged Dunk between them, his mouth bloody, his eyes unfocused. Rosemond held on to the arm of one of the men. He tried to shake her off but she held fast. “Don’t! Please stop!” Another man lifted his rifle and hit Rosemond on the temple. She went limp and collapsed in a heap. I lunged forward, but Portia beat me to her, throwing her body over Rosemond’s. The men continued on around us, like a herd of cows being driven around an obstacle.

  The Reverend followed the crowd, his entreaties falling on deaf ears. Soon the office was empty, save us. Portia held an unconscious Rosemond in her arms. I dabbed the handkerchief Rosemond gave me on the train against the cut on her head. Through the open door we heard clearly the loud cheer from the chair. Portia sobbed. “It’s best she’s unconscious.”

  “Yes.”

  I stood and went to the door. Whoops and hollers of all sorts of vile comments assaulted my ears. I glanced back at Portia and Rosemond. Yes, it was better that Rosemond would not witness the death of her friend. I moved toward the spectacle.

  “Where are you—” Portia’s voice was soon lost amid the clamor of the crowd. Dozens more than had stormed the office gathered around the gallows, with more and more people arriving by the minute. Women, children, men. Old and young. I walked into the crowd, being jostled forward from one person to another, until I was near the front. I looked up at Dunk, hands tied behind his back, a noose being tightened around his neck. Mostly unconscious from the blows to his head, he leaned into the man holding him steady while another tightened the noose around his neck. The man holding him slapped Dunk’s face, waking him. He looked around, confused, then realized what was happening. His terror-filled eyes searched the crowd for Rosemond before falling on me. I held his gaze, fully aware that his fate rested squarely on my shoulders. He knew as well as I did that I could do nothing to save him. His face hardened into a mask of hatred.

  The hangman released the tr
apdoor and Dunk fell to his death.

  The show was over, but not the celebration of it. The crowd faced away from the gallows and toward the photographer who had set up on a rooftop opposite. I watched from the front of the sheriff’s office, disgusted with the spectacle and the urge to chronicle every event, no matter how abhorrent or evil. I cursed Matthew Brady and his battlefield photography, and knew that photographs such as this would only become more common as photographers like William Soule traveled the West.

  I rubbed my queasy stomach and glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the office where I’d left Portia and Rosemond. I couldn’t avoid facing Rosemond and the accusation and blame I knew would be in her expression. And anger. She couldn’t be angrier than I was at myself. One more death attributed to my hubris. Would Death ever stop following me?

  I propelled myself forward, determined to meet Rosemond’s anger and do whatever I could to atone for Dunk’s death. I was making a mental list of what I needed to do—attend to Rosemond’s wound, inquire about Dunk’s funeral, convince the sheriff to release the trunk to us, get Rosemond back to the hotel to rest—when I entered the office and saw Rosemond leaning against the sheriff’s desk, pale-faced and shaky. Portia stood near, reaching out toward Rosemond to dab the handkerchief against her wound. They looked startled, as if I had caught them in the middle of a secret conversation.

  Rosemond straightened, hope in her eyes and expression. I shook my head slightly and she slumped again. Portia reached out as if to catch her, but Rosemond moved away, toward me. She opened her arms and pulled me into a strong embrace. Brief astonishment at this unexpected reaction—I’d expected anger and a good slap across the face—was softened to compassion when I realized she was crying. I tentatively wrapped my arms around her. I’d offered condolences to family in my time as a doctor, but I couldn’t remember the last person I’d embraced in grief. It was foreign, and awkward. Portia watched us closely, still holding the bloody handkerchief. Rosemond, feeling my lack of response, squeezed me and said in my ear, “Sister,” to remind me of the role I needed to play. I held Rosemond tighter, wondering how much longer the embrace needed to last, when the Reverend and Sheriff Enoch Hall walked through the door. It was a convenient excuse to release Rosemond.