The Winchester’s trigger guard was stylized. They began manufacturing the elegant Winchester rifles after the Civil War. Thank God they didn’t have the Henrys or Winchesters, the repeating rifles, back then. There would have been far more casualties. There were already too many casualties.
When a debtor saw me coming, the oversized mitts, the mug of a man, the broad shoulders, the long arms hanging well past the cuffs of my sleeves, the height, the layers of baggy clothing, the history of knocking out ranchers with one punch, I am sure I looked like a very rough, and capable, man wearing a dress. The rifle, the cigars, the disposition, all played a role in how the town developed. Like it or not, folks had to figure out a way to respect me or else. This probably meant something about showing folks how their attitudes could change, given the right circumstances.
My behavior gave them the right circumstances, alright. I was the oddity that scared the Hell out of them. I absolutely shocked them out of bigotry, made them see that bigotry was wrong and could be overcome. I was the first to force the locals to respect the rights of a woman. The massive hands, the height, the weight, the vulgarity, the hard work, the cigars—it all meant something to the evolution of the Old West. It meant we could change. It meant we could accept women as full citizens.
I may have been the first, but if Cascade could do it for me, it could do it for everyone. Folks were fond of saying we were trailblazers, but we weren’t just blazing trails. It was far bigger than that. We were blazing the entire country, every inch of it. And it was a mighty big country, too.
They started getting used to the idea. I was doing this and doing that, and just when folks settled into the notion that I was going to be treated fairly, bigotry aside, this poor excuse for a janitor, poor excuse for a white man, started to cause problems at the Mission. He, of all people, took offense at getting less money than a colored woman. I didn’t have a problem with it. I had a problem with him.
I was his boss. I was skilled as a carpenter, mason, planter, and a host of other things. He was unskilled, and he was lazy, at that. I did twice the work of any man and three times the work of the janitor. You can say he had an entitled attitude to even dare suggest that he should receive the same pay as Mary Fields.
There was a rumor that he had complained to the bishop that no colored woman should be paid more than any white man, regardless of the circumstances. If he didn’t get what was coming to him, there would be a problem at the Mission. I figured I could help him get what was coming to him, and it wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. I was well aware that the janitor packed a pistol. Most folks did. So, the next battle I fought in Montana would not involve my fists. It would involve my .38.
Chapter Eleven
I built the Mission’s chapel, steeple, schoolhouse, and dormitory. I built the stable stone by stone, the garden, and the hen house, and I built it all without much of a budget. I did it all for just nine dollars a week. It was an act of charity.
Of course, the skill of a carpenter, a mason, and a farmer were required. If you didn’t possess those skills, if you couldn’t do it yourself in the wilds of Montana, a tradesman wasn’t likely to come bouncing along to do it for you.
I was also the Mission’s groundskeeper. That meant the girls, the nuns, the priest, and our guests would have lawns across a beautiful campus to behold rather than an open field. It was hard work keeping the grounds from becoming overridden by weeds.
The land in Montana yearns to go back to original unbroken prairie, or the rowdy patches of nappy scrub brush that grows sporadically on mountainsides. Naturally, I cursed at the girls and the nuns and the bishop and whoever else trampled across the grounds when the grounds were freshly cut. I knew they were preoccupied with their faith, but I had to remind them in the best way I knew how.
I tended to the chickens and horses, grew vegetables, hitched the team to a wagon to go on supply runs or pick up a visitor in town, and more importantly, I packed a shotgun and .38 to keep ambitious bandits and Indians at bay. I did all of this for little or no pay.
The Mission allotted me the paltry sum of nine dollars a week, which was barely enough to keep me liquored up. I didn’t complain. I lived at the Mission and ate the Mission’s food, so I had to factor that into what I was paid. I managed to get by on homemade cigars. I always had work, so I didn’t want for anything other than work clothes. The nuns once outfitted me with a proper dress, but I was a sight to see in a proper dress. I felt more comfortable wearing work clothes and preferably the work clothes of a man. Anyway, all was well until the Mission decided to hire a white man to work under my supervision.
It seems that the only business the white man was good at was filing complaints with the bishop and the nuns. It was clear that he had designs on taking over my job as foreman at the Mission. The trouble was he was unskilled.
He couldn’t do any carpentry, masonry, couldn’t hitch a team, couldn’t grow vegetables, and definitely couldn’t scare away bandits or ambitious Indians. But he could definitely make it his business to complain to the nuns and the bishop whenever I got rowdy, cursed, knocked out a fellow, or got good and liquored up. He said no “nigger” should be in charge of “nothing” in Montana and colored folks should never receive better pay than a white man, according to his mind. He was trouble from the start.
The handy man was, at best, a helper. I was the boss. He ended up doing little more than leaning against a broom all day as the Mission’s janitor. He packed a .45 and a bad temper. I packed a .38 and an even worse temper. The two were bound to clash, and when they did, I was more than ready.
The first secret to being good at drawing a pistol in Montana, and really anywhere, was to draw first, and that wasn’t really such a big secret, either. That was the first rule in a place where typically there were no rules. And the second, and final, rule covered the importance of not only being first at the draw, but the added importance of being accurate. One without the other made for a predictably bad result.
Those two rules were all that mattered to me when it came to finally dealing with the janitor’s bigotry and his .45. I heard rumors that the janitor’s father was a Copperhead, having fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. That made sense. His father must have raised him in a way that made him well versed in ignorance, because it took an awful lot of ignorance for him to believe he could take on the likes of me. The clash began on the very hour the janitor announced he was unwilling to take orders from a colored woman any longer.
“I want you to start cleaning the chimney flues after you finish sweeping the hallways,” I said.
“You can want to be Chairman of the Territorial Legislative Assembly, but you need to win an election first,” he replied, mysteriously.
“I am hitching the team and running to town. Make sure the flues is clean by the time I get back, hear?”
I knew the flues weren’t going to be clean upon my return from town the instant the words left my mouth. The janitor had deceit on his mind. There was bound to be conflict and retaliation.
Chapter Twelve
I drove the team into town. I got supplies and headed back to the Mission. I didn’t bother stopping at the saloon. I knew bandits were somewhere out on the prairie that day. I could feel it.
Of course, I was right.
Mexican bandits rode up out of the distance and pulled up their mounts alongside the wagon, bouncing around in their saddles like half-full sacks of potatoes. There were two of them.
They wore black hats with oversized, floppy brims, red bandanas, bright red and white checked shirts that looked like tablecloths, and angry-looking silver spurs. They had barrel chests and short legs dangling free of the irons, physiques that might have been perfect for climbing the Sierra Madre Oriental a few generations back, but less than perfect for robbing stagecoaches in Montana.
The Mexicans’ horses were decked out in expensive, deep leather saddles. The saddle cloths were busy with the colors orange, blue, and yellow sewn into th
e fabric. When the Mexicans grinned, their pencil mustaches worked upward in the shadows cast over their faces by their sombreros. Of course, they showed the butts of .45’s turned backward in the holsters on elaborate gun belts. The mere sight of the guns made most travelers as good as robbed, but that didn’t pertain to me. As usual, I wasn’t in the mood for foolishness.
I eyeballed the crew. I didn’t halt my wagon. I didn’t even ease the team. I didn’t wish to concede anything that looked like fear, not during this incident, not ever. Fear is the bridesmaid of death on the prairie.
I figured the Mexicans probably spied only one figure seated on the buckboard of the wagon from a distance. This typically meant the wagon would be easy to rob. Usually, men rode in twos to discourage stick ups.
I don’t know whether it was the size of my mitts flopped over the lock plate of the Winchester, the broad shoulders, the cigar smoke, the mean face, the black skin, the confident manner, or possibly all six, but the Mexicans eased their mounts, chatted briefly, turned their horses away, and rode off.
Truthfully, I was a little shaken by the bandits. I was good at not letting my true feelings show. The best gunfight is the one you bluff your way out of. When bullets start to fly, anything can happen. In a gunfight, there are winners and losers. Typically, there are no ties.
I turned up the flask of whiskey I sheltered under my coat. It was really good whiskey, too. It burned like a fire ball as it went down. It was the kind of burn that had no trouble getting your attention.
I was still a little jumpy from the brush with the Mexicans when I got back to the Mission. I was in no mood for foolishness. However, I figured that’s exactly what the janitor had in store for me.
I gave him explicit instructions prior to leaving the Mission. If he hadn’t cleaned the flues, as instructed, there would be trouble. I was the boss. I was perfectly ready, willing, and able to enforce my authority if he decided to test me. He was spoiling for a fight. I wasn’t the type to run from a good fight.
Chapter Thirteen
Predictably, the work was not done. The flues were not clean. The floors were not swept. Furthermore, it didn’t seem that the janitor was inclined to do any work at all. Instead, he merely leaned against a broom with a smirk on his face.
“Did I, or did I not, tell you to sweep the floors and clean the flues before I left for town?”
“You did, but that don’t change nothing. I ain’t gotta do shit for you, lady. I don’t take orders from no colored woman, not in Montana, not anywhere, hear?”
We faced each other at the schoolhouse door. The girls and the nuns were engaged with their lessons in the classrooms. The bell was not due to ring for another fifteen minutes or so. There were no spectators. Nevertheless, the spectacle of a confrontation on school grounds was inevitable.
I was wearing enough clothing for two women, as usual. I wore men’s trousers under my oversized dress. The wool overcoat I was wearing was buttoned up to the neck. I let my arms dangle at my sides, which meant my wrists and hands cleared the coat sleeves by a good inch or two. However, the coat made it difficult to move freely.
The janitor, on the other hand, was a wiry sort of fellow, precisely the type it was not wise to underestimate. He had a scar across the bridge of his nose, which suggested that he was accustomed to a scrape. He wore a plaid short. No vest. His arms swung freely along his thighs.
I knew the janitor’s real name was Igor Bellanova, but he went by the alias, Jeff, in honor of Jefferson Davis, the Confederate president. Unlike Igor, Irina, his wife, had no trouble using her real name. The contrasts didn’t end there.
While his wife was an elegant woman, Igor was quite the opposite. He was crude. Igor’s father was crude, too.
Igor’s father was a Copperhead. He went to his grave sore at Mr. Lincoln for what had been done to liberate the South. Igor’s family was of Slavic descent, which meant his family tree ran across the sea to the Russian Empire of the 15th Century. The Slavic blood gave Igor a fiery temper and a ruddy complexion. It was well known in Cascade that Igor had already beaten a murder charge in open court. The folks in Cascade knew everything about Igor, except possibly his real name. This record, together with the .45, meant Igor was trouble.
Similarly, the folks of Cascade thought they knew me, too. The problem was there was a lot about me that was not knowable. For instance, I knew my family tree, like Igor’s, ran across the sea. However, the difference was I didn’t know exactly where it ended up. Like Igor, I had a fiery temper. Unlike Igor, I had a knockout punch to match my temper. If the knockout punch didn’t work, I had the .38 to fall back on.
“You got a problem with me, partner?” I invited Jeff to place his manhood on display.
“I got no problem having a problem with you, lady. You got a problem with me having a problem with you?” He placed emphasis on the word lady, like he hated even the thought of it.
“Sounds like you’re a little mixed up, Igor.”
He looked at me sideways as though calling him by his real name, Igor, instead of his alias, Jeff, meant that I was in on to some kind of secret.
If he actually had a reward out on his head somewhere, and he believed I found out about it, Jeff would have every reason to shoot me dead on the spot. Like the wolf attack, it was a simple matter of survival.
I looked deeply into his eyes, stared at them, really.
I didn’t want to blink or show any fear by looking away. However, I clocked his every muscle in my peripheral vision. I looked for any warning he was about to draw. I had no choice.
“How so? I ain’t mixed up at all,” Igor said.
“Then, suppose you explain why you ain’t done no work today.”
“Ain’t done no work today I am figuring because I don’t see no cause to do no work around here just on a colored woman’s say so.”
“That so?”
“Yelp, that would be the nature of things.”
Jeff knew I had the .38. I knew Jeff had the .45. The issue was joined.
“Igor, I tell you what I’m gonna do.”
“Suppose you spare me your ideas on what you’re gonna do or what work needs to be done around here, unless, of course, you figure out a way to become a white man to do the telling.”
If there was going to be a draw anywhere in the Montana Territory, you didn’t need to be just quick at the draw. That was not enough. You needed to be the quickest. That was a huge distinction. In my case, it wasn’t only whether Jeff’s hands moved or his muscles twitched that counted. The things that were in his head counted, too. Actually, everything mattered when it came to anticipating a draw, everything.
For example, I knew Igor hated women, and he definitely hated me, a colored woman. This would influence his judgment. Hatred would make his fingers itchy. Hatred was a weakness. It made Igor predictable.
I also knew Igor wanted to replace me as foreman at the Mission, even though he didn’t have the skill to do so. He felt entitled to more pay than a colored woman, even though he did less work. This, too, made him more likely to draw.
Igor knew I didn’t care about his hatred for women or anything else that bugged him. I was going to insist on respect. He knew that if he decided to box or wrestle me, I would make short work of him, dismiss the myth of male superiority, and promptly break his nose or worse. This left gunplay as his only option.
Then, there was the issue of the alias and reward posters out on him that were probably tacked up somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. If calling him out by his real name bothered him, it was probably for good reason. If he was a wanted man, he would be very anxious to draw.
Finally, Igor believed I always packed my .38 beneath my apron. He figured the coat would make it difficult for me to draw quickly. He was wrong. I didn’t always pack the .38 under my apron. That routine would have made me predictable. I was tactical, not predictable. Therefore, I often changed my patterns. The .38 was in the pocket of my coat that day, not under my apron.
&nbs
p; Shockingly, Igor began raising his voice: “I tell you…”
I drew. I didn’t trigger the .38, but I drew. I was first. Igor drew, too, but late.
I was staring down Igor’s .45. He was staring down the .38. Nobody moved. No shots were fired—not yet, anyway.
The bell rang. The nuns and the girls came pouring out of the classrooms. They witnessed the spectacle.
“Put those guns away!” Sister Amadeus screamed, rushing out of a classroom in horror. She placed emphasis on the word “guns,” like the word itself was an evil created in the lowest, most faraway places in Hell and the Catholic God had told her so.
She stepped between that evil, showing precisely the same fervor and courage she once displayed to stop hostilities between the Blackfeet and Flatheads. Back then, she was new to the prairie, and she still hadn’t learned to speak a single word of Crow, but the tribes had already learned to trust the spirit of the “Black Gown,” as she was called. The sides were painted, showed feathers, and the arrows had already started to fly. However, the sight of the “Black Gown” stopped the bloodshed. Similarly, she showed courage stepping between the .45 and the .38.
The nuns shepherded the girls back into the classrooms, trying to shield their eyes from the spectacle. No shots were fired. It didn’t matter. The girls, the nuns, literally everyone, had seen the exchange. We put our guns away without further incident.
Just as a nation cannot un-live its history, and once rung, a bell cannot be un-rung, I could not take back the standoff. I didn’t want to take it back, either. I actually enjoyed pointing the .38 at Jeff. It still felt good, and in his case, I am not sure I wouldn’t do it again, if given a second chance.
Chapter Fourteen
The bishop got the news the next day. The story he heard was inconsistent with the facts. He was told that I had drawn my .38 and held the janitor at gunpoint. Nothing else.
Stagecoach Justice Page 8