Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  Rosemond walked away from the telegraph office and in the opposite direction of the hotel.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To see Dunk.”

  I put my hand out to stop her. “Oh, Rosemond, don’t.”

  She stared at my hand on her arm until I removed it, then lifted her steely eyes to mine. “What kind of coward would I be if I didn’t look upon what I wrought?”

  “You didn’t bring that on Duncan, I did, and the knowledge of it will haunt me all of my days.” I swallowed the sob that threatened to escape me as his final expression filled my mind. “I don’t think it wise for you to see him like that, but I cannot stop you, nor will I go with you. I refuse to let you guilt me into seeing him hanging on the gallows, again. I will make restitution by finding a game and earning enough to bury him properly.”

  I hurried away, my stomach twisting at her words. What kind of coward would I be if I didn’t look upon what I wrought? I thought I’d become hardened to death after my flight across Indian Territory, but now I knew I was not. A small part of me was relieved I’d retained my humanity, but the rest of me grieved for the wanton loss of life caused by my decision to leave New York City. Kindle had convinced me the deaths in Indian country were no loss to the world, and I’d comforted myself with the thought. The deaths of Cora Bayle and Duncan March offered no such solace.

  I stopped on the wooden sidewalk in front of the Union Pacific Hotel and looked back down the street the way I came. Cheyenne’s business day was in full swing. Teamsters drove wagons in and around one another on the wide main street, with only few arguments and shouts breaking through the din of jingling tack, snorting horses, and general indistinct cacophony common to all busy towns. Stray dogs skulked around on the edge of the streets and in the alleys, searching for scraps. A young boy sold newspapers on the corner. Two other boys hid in an alley and peeked around the corner. When the newspaper boy turned toward them, they stepped out into the street and threw a chunk of horse manure at him, hitting him squarely in the eye. The two urchins ran off, laughing. The newspaper boy wiped the manure from his face and continued on with his job.

  I looked to see if Rosemond had taken my advice. Of all the activity in my sight, there were only two women walking down the street. Neither was Rosemond.

  I slid into the line for the front desk behind a hirsute man with the look and smell of a miner long used to being alone. Or was the smell coming from me? A discreet sniff near my shoulder confirmed that the opiate withdrawal was overcoming my recent bath. A glance in the mirror on the wall opposite the front desk told me I would need to use Rosemond’s paint tonight to protect against my wildly fluctuating complexion.

  The clerk finished his business with the miner in front of me and smiled as I stepped to the counter. I looked around, leaned forward, and lowered my voice. “I was wondering …?”

  “Charlie.”

  “Charlie.” I smiled again, hoping I didn’t look like a dope fiend searching for a fix. “Would you happen to know of a game where a woman would be welcome?”

  The desk clerk studied me with a knowing air. “I might.” Charlie placed his hand palm up on the counter.

  I smiled. “Charlie, if I had money enough to bribe you, I wouldn’t need a game, now, would I?”

  The clerk shrugged. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “We know how this works. You get a kickback from the dealer for sending people their way.”

  “The last time I sent a woman she broke the bank.”

  “I have no intention of breaking the bank.”

  Charlie scoffed.

  “I’m not a gambler. I need to earn a specific amount, and I’ll stop.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough to get me back East, and eat along the way.”

  “Just you? Not your sister?”

  I smiled conspiratorially. “She doesn’t approve of gaming. Moving west was her idea, not mine.” When Charlie looked unmoved, I begged. “Please?”

  He sighed. “Rollins House Hotel tonight, eight o’clock. Ask for Lily Diamond.”

  “You’re a peach.”

  I walked across the crowded lobby, the bed upstairs beckoning my exhausted body and mind. I needed to rest to be mentally agile enough to win at faro, a game I hadn’t played in some years.

  “A thousand dollars is a lot of money for a dead body,” a man with a showy set of neck whiskers said.

  I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, my hand on the newel post. Perspiration popped out on my upper lip and I swallowed the lump of fear lodged in my throat.

  “The Langtons can afford it,” his companion replied. The man puffed on his pipe and continued, “Can you blame them? She’s proved a difficult piece of calico to take alive. I wonder what man she’s seduced to save her this time.”

  “I understand she’s lost her looks, after being taken by the Comanche. Who would want to poke her, after those savages had their way?”

  “There’s more than one way to fuck a whore.”

  The men laughed heartily and I walked up the stairs on unsteady legs. I rushed down the hall to the communal bathroom and just made it to the commode before vomiting bile from my empty stomach. I wiped saliva from my mouth with the back of my hand, ignoring the tears rolling down my cheeks.

  Why was I surprised, or upset? I knew how men talked, what they thought of me. But it had been a long time since I’d heard it firsthand. The armor I’d built up over years of fighting against the misogyny had weakened during my time with Kindle. He provided me with protection, and I had gotten soft as a result. I splashed water on my face and stared at myself in the mirror. I didn’t need to worry about people recognizing me from the Wanted poster. I was too different. I suppose I should thank the Comanche for the broken nose and the hardening of my countenance. The only thing that could give me away was myself, my actions.

  And Rosemond.

  Would she turn me in after I won her money as retribution for Dunk’s death? Would I do the same to her if she’d been responsible for Kindle’s?

  Yes.

  I went into the bedroom and checked the contents of my medical bag before latching it. I glanced around the room, thinking. Planning. How observant was Rosemond? If I took the bag downstairs and checked it at the desk, would Rosemond notice the bag was gone? Everything else in the trunk was Rosemond’s, and off-limits. Besides, I didn’t want her things. My medical bag and enough money to buy a train ticket back to Saint Louis and to eat along the way. I would have plenty of time on the train to decide what to do next. Cable Sophia, the young woman I mentored at the orphanage, in the code I used in correspondence with my cousin? If the Pinkertons were watching the orphanage for me, they would be focused on correspondence to Kindle’s sister, not a sixteen-year-old mulatto orphan. I had no doubt she would do whatever she could to help me, but was it fair to ask? No. She had her life in front of her. I didn’t need to risk her bright future for my own skin.

  I would worry about my destination later. I needed to earn money for Dunk’s funeral, a small stake for Rosemond, and enough to get me away from a woman I couldn’t fully trust to keep my identity secret. Once again, I needed to go where I was unknown to anyone, friend or foe alike. This time, I would go alone.

  I was lying on the bed in my shift fighting off a hot flash when Rosemond returned.

  “Did you find a game?”

  “Yes. And you are the disapproving sister who must be kept in the dark.”

  “Good. Resting up for tonight?”

  “Yes. This bed is atrocious. I adjusted the slats so if we balance just right, we shouldn’t fall beneath the bed.”

  Rosemond removed her hat. “We should have the answer from my friend in the morning.”

  “Okay.”

  Rosemond paused, the long gold hat pin primed to puncture her head. “Okay? I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

  I closed my eyes. “Whether we go this afternoon or in the morning won’t
change what the answer is. I need to focus on winning two hundred dollars.”

  “Huh.” The bed creaked as Rosemond lay down next to me. “I told the agent to only give the answer to me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want you sneaking away without fulfilling your promises.”

  “Why do you think I’d do that?”

  “Because it’s precisely what I would do. Be quiet. I’m starving and the only way to not think about food is to sleep.”

  “My eyes are closed. You’re the one who keeps talking.”

  The small, windowless space felt like a jail cell. I hadn’t slept since Grand Island, and my sleep there had been laudanum-induced. Any rest it had provided was negated by the shivering craving for more of the opiate the following day, and exacerbated by the uncomfortable train ride. My legs and arms suddenly felt like they weighed a hundred pounds, my brain like a boll of cotton. I crossed my arms over my chest and let the sound of Rosemond’s steady breathing lull me into an uneasy sleep.

  CHAPTER

  11

  I expected Lily Diamond to be flashy, possibly a madam earning extra money by dealing faro, presiding over a smoke-filled room full of men. Instead, the woman I found in the tea room at the Rollins House Hotel was a diminutive, plain-looking woman in full mourning, sitting on a cushion to give her enough lift to sit square to the table.

  She spotted me and her round face broke into a jolly grin. “You must be the fill-in Charlie mentioned. Welcome!”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m Lily Diamond.”

  “Helen Graham.”

  The room was small and feminine, with pale pink wallpaper patterned with rosebuds and intertwined with greenery. Lily Diamond and two women sat at a bare table in the middle of the room. The other two cloth-covered tables were shunted off against the wall out of the way. Lily shuffled cards with a deft hand and dealt. There was no shoe, no abacus for counting cards, and room for only four players. My suspicion that this wasn’t a faro game was confirmed when the woman with her back to me turned around, and her open, friendly expression morphed into one of irritation.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bright. Good to see you again,” I said.

  Portia Bright nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Oh, you’ve met Portia?”

  “Yes, today at the jail.”

  “Did you and the Reverend go visit the condemned man?” Lily asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose he repented,” the third woman said with derision.

  “Now, Amalia, the Lord forgives those who ask,” Lily said.

  Amalia harrumphed and held her hand out to me. “Amalia Post.”

  “Helen Graham. Nice to meet you.”

  Lily motioned to the open chair. “Have a seat.”

  I sat and adjusted the neckline of my dress, hoping against hope it would cover my cleavage. I’d dressed in one of Rosemond’s more revealing gowns, hoping to distract my male playing partners with what little cleavage I had on offer. Now I sat conspicuously with three fully covered, prim women. Portia pointedly ignored me. She truly didn’t like me, though I couldn’t figure why.

  “What are we playing?” I picked up my cards.

  “Bridge.”

  “You do know how to play,” Portia said.

  “Of course. Are we betting?”

  All movement stopped and the women gaped at me. “No, dear,” Lily said. “Just for fun.”

  I paused. Damn you, Charlie. It would be rude to leave, but every minute here meant one less minute earning money to leave. I hoped Rosemond would make her entrance soon.

  “What a relief,” I lied. “I’m terrible at gambling.”

  We went around and bid. Lily declared the trumps and I laid down my dummy hand.

  “Why were you visiting the prisoner?” Amalia asked.

  I gathered my thoughts. I’d expected to be quizzed but not so soon. I’d decided the less detail the better, as all good liars know. “He worked for my sister, Eliza. We’d hoped to be able to help him.”

  “It is untenable that there wasn’t a trial,” Portia said, taking the first trick.

  “True, but he would have been convicted,” Amalia said. “It was only delaying the inevitable.”

  “It doesn’t make it right, Mrs. Post,” Portia said.

  “What brings you to Cheyenne, Helen?” Lily asked, trying to turn the conversation from death.

  “I came with my sister.”

  “Why?” Portia asked.

  “Why?”

  “Why did your sister come west?”

  “I suppose she was looking for adventure. Something new. She had a friend who came out here and I think it motivated her to do the same.”

  “Who?” Portia asked.

  “My, aren’t you curious tonight, Portia,” Amalia said.

  “We get so few women who move to Cheyenne,” Portia said. “Especially single women.”

  I chuckled. “I assure you, Eliza isn’t here for a husband.”

  “And you?” Portia asked.

  “Nor am I.” I lifted my hand and showed my thin wedding ring. “Enough about me,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t quiz me about my husband, where he was, and why I wasn’t with him. “Tell me how you ended up in Cheyenne.”

  “My husband owns one of the general stores in town,” Amalia said.

  “Mrs. Post is being modest,” Portia said. “She’s as good at business as her husband.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I own some property,” Amalia said.

  “Women can own property?” I said.

  “You didn’t hear of it?” Portia asked, narrowing her eyes at me. “It was all over the papers last year.”

  Not only did Portia not like me, she was suspicious. I sighed and decided the only way to deflect her curiosity was to dust off the flibbertigibbet personality that had been a somewhat successful disguise in Indian country.

  I waved my hand in dismissal. “Oh, well. Who reads the papers? Such frightening stories. It brings me low, always has. And what man wants a serious wife? None that I’ve ever known.”

  “You’ve had a lot of husbands?” Portia asked.

  “No, dear, just the one.”

  “Where is your husband?” Portia asked.

  “In Europe on business. Which is why I have plenty of time to help my sister settle into her new home. The West is thrilling, don’t you think?” I pursed my lips at Portia. “Or are you not the excitable type? You strike me as very practical. Levelheaded. Today was the perfect example.” I included Amalia and Lily in the conversation with a glance. “She threw herself over my sister to protect her from the mob.”

  Lily gasped. “You were there when the mob came in?”

  “We were. My sister got a horrible gash on her head. Good thing I was a nurse in the war. Stitched it right up.”

  “You,” Portia said.

  “Yes, dear. I’m quite good at needlepoint. You have the most extraordinary eyes,” I said. “I was incredibly rude, staring at you as I did when we first met. I do hope you’ll forgive me?” I grasped her hand and gave her my best vacuous, pleading expression.

  “Of course she will,” Lily said. “Portia is one of the sweetest women I know.”

  “Indeed?” I said, not believing it for a second. “Now, Amalia. You were talking about women and property rights?”

  “Yes, and we have the right to vote. I served on a jury last year, was the foreman,” Amalia said. “It was a murder case. Two murders, in fact.”

  “Goodness! What happened?” I asked.

  “Found guilty and hanged. So, you see, I have experience with capital trials. If a white man is hanged for murder, what else should a Negro who killed a white man expect?”

  “I suppose he expected a fair trial, as the white man received,” I said.

  Amalia ignored my comment. “There is no fun sitting on a jury where there is a murder case to be tried, but it’s a civic duty. If women want to be seen as equals, we cannot shirk o
ur responsibility.”

  “Or give the men any reason to take the right away,” I said.

  “Oh, they’ve tried,” Lily said.

  “Mrs. Post put a stop to it,” Portia replied. “Went straight to the governor.”

  Amalia focused on her cards, but she did not blush or preen at the compliments. She took it like it was her due and nothing more. No need to simper away her accomplishments. I liked her immensely.

  “My husband sells building supplies. Canvas tents, mostly,” Lily said.

  “I always thought that would be a going concern in the West,” I said.

  “It is,” Lily said. “He sells them the tent when they arrive, then the prefabricated building, then the tools to make repairs.”

  The last round of cards was played and the tricks tallied. Amalia pulled the cards to her and shuffled. A waiter walked in and placed a tray of coffee, mugs, and small cakes on a table. “Thank you, Don.” Lily rose. “Who wants coffee?”

  We all accepted. “Let me help,” I said.

  While Lily poured, she asked, “How will you and your sister make a living?”

  “Eliza is a painter,” I said. “Does either of your husbands have a sign painter he recommends to his customers?”

  “There’s one in town, but he isn’t good and charges a fortune. Does she paint signs?” Amalia asked.

  “She does.”

  “That’s hardly an appropriate job for a woman,” Lily said. “Standing on ladders like they do.”

  “I’m sure she would prefer to make a living painting portraits, but in a booming town like Cheyenne, signs are more practical.”

  “Have her come talk to me at our store on Fifteenth Street,” Amalia said.