But Richard’s flat expression didn’t hold the confidence Harlen wanted to see.
* * *
Later in the day, Harlen sat on the sagging cot in his cell, lounging against the wall while he smoked. At least the deputy on duty wasn’t a tough guy out to prove he had the upper hand. He’d given Harlen a smoke when Harlen asked for one.
Richard Robison had come by earlier and tried to reassure Harlen that he was doing the best he could. Harlen didn’t doubt his abilities. Richard and he went back to ’84 when Harlen had saved Richard’s life in a saloon brawl at Rock Springs. He hadn’t known at the time that Robison was the foremost criminal lawyer in that area. From that time, Robison had become permanently indebted to Harlen, and the gang had used his services on more than one occasion.
Though Harlen was no stranger to the confines of a cell, he could never get used to the suffocating feeling of entrapment. At least his stays had always been less than a week. This was the longest he’d ever been incarcerated.
As the sun poured in through the tiny slice of window and the iron bars made linear shadows across his bed, Harlen took in his young life and tried to figure out just exactly why he’d ended up this way. He’d grown up in a home that had treated him fairly. He’d had two parents who’d taught him the straight and narrow, and had preached the Bible to him. But that hadn’t been enough to keep Harlen out of trouble. He’d strayed, and it began that summer of 1881 when Whitt Trammel had come to his hometown of Moab in the Utah Territory.
Harlen’s first arrest warrant had been issued when he was fifteen. The charge: cattle rustling. His signature had been on a bill of sale for some hundred mavericks. A few of the hands who worked over at the Kittleman Ranch figured anyone with thousands of head of cattle wouldn’t miss a few here and there. It took those tight-pursed, greenback-rich cattlemen with their fancy spreads a year to catch on to Whitt’s scheme and start an investigation. When they did, the paper trail led to Harlen.
His one fault—if you could call it that—was a loyalty to friends and family that was never violated, even in the tightest spots. Those friends of Whitt’s all had wives and children to feed on a poor wage. Even though Harlen hadn’t rustled a single one of those cattle, he took the blame thinking that he could explain his way out of things. He was good with words and well liked in the community, but he found out that the only talking he could do to wealthy folks was from behind bars. Imprisonment seemed imminent, so he did about the only thing he could do to save his family from further shame.
He fled to Columbia, Colorado, to work in the silver mines.
At the age of sixteen, Harlen was arrested for horse stealing—the horse in question being his own. He’d left his colt, Samson, at a nearby ranch for eight months while he was working in the Revenue Mine. He paid to have the horse put up and fed, and planned to start breaking him in over the summer. But when Harlen turned down the rancher’s offer to buy Samson, the rancher had a warrant drawn up. The charge was horse theft. Harlen’s dad, Clement, was notified and he came to Columbia. It had humiliated Harlen to have his dad see him sitting in a jail. And though Clement didn’t have to say it, he was humiliated for his son even though Harlen was innocent. Harlen swore that if ever such an incident occurred again, he’d never let his parents know.
Everyone in Columbia knew that Samson had been in that rancher’s pasture for some time. So it did look as if Samson belonged to the rancher. Luckily, Harlen had had enough friends from the Revenue Mine to testify for him that the colt was his. And luckily, the jury believed him. He was acquitted.
There were other such incidents involving scrapes with the law. The time he was put in jail for rolling a drunk—which he hadn’t. That was a dirty crime. He’d never stoop that low. And then there was the incident when he really had stolen a horse, though no one could prove it was he who’d stolen it, so he’d been released on insufficient evidence.
By this time, the west had three natural enemies encroaching on the wild land out of which Harlen’s family was trying to carve a living: giant cattle companies, banks, and railroads. It was the end of an era when a man could roam the countryside with freedom on his back, and he was being driven out by herds of longhorns, cities springing up overnight, and rail crews cutting the prairie with lengths of steel and spikes.
Civilization was coming, and with it came corruption.
Harlen had known about corruption. The land his father had set aside for Harlen to start up his ranch had been repossessed by the bank on a trumped-up clerical error, and there hadn’t been a damn thing his dad could do about the swindling. It was that unethical episode that stuck with Harlen most of his life. To his way of thinking, there was always somebody hanging around to cheat you out of something if he had a bigger bank account than you. The laws that were supposed to protect people and their rights only protected the man who already had more money than he knew what to do with.
By seventeen, Harlen had crossed the line and turned into a full-fledged outlaw with four other desperados: Manny Vasquez, Nate Bender, Thomas Jefferson Ellis, and Colvin Henkels. Their list of offenses included cattle rustling, horse thievery, bank robbery, and despoilers of the Union Pacific Railroad. Those U.P.R.R. fellows had sworn out more arrest warrants and hired more detectives from Pinkertons than any of the western barons put together.
Harlen robbed because he had every intention of buying back the land bordering his parents’ homestead with the bank’s own money. But he always ended up sinking his cash into women and liquor, and anything else that gave him pleasure. So he’d have to rob again. High on whiskey, he began to lose focus of the land over the immediate luxuries he could afford to buy for the first time.
Over the years, Harlen had sent his folks honest money when he worked in the mines or wrangled cattle, but as soon as he started earning it dishonestly, he stopped sending them tainted support. He’d been raised to be a good Baptist and respected his parents too much to give them money that he hadn’t rightfully earned on a paycheck. He realized his ambitions of buying back the land with stolen money would never happen. His parents would never accept it from him.
There had been many times that Harlen had tried to go straight. He’d even worked out a deal with the U.P.R.R. bigwigs with Richard’s help. All charges were dropped against him. But things had gotten screwed up. People hadn’t been where they were supposed to be when they’d said, and Harlen had thought the whole amnesty affair had been a trick. After that, he’d raided the railroad with a vengeance, turning to disguises, though having more robberies than he committed pinned on him. Too late, he realized his mistake of not trusting his lawyer.
Harlen crushed out his smoke in the bucket of sand beside his bed. It might be too late for him now. He could be headed for a lengthy jail stay. All he knew was if that were the case, he’d rather be given a death sentence. He’d been too long in the open to be caged up like an animal. He’d never survive it.
* * *
The trial lasted three days. The jury was only out of the room for five minutes, if that. Harlen got to feeling sick to his stomach when the foreman handed the bailiff the verdict.
Judge Peabody requested, “Will the defendant rise.”
The clink of the cuff chain on Harlen’s wrists seemed to be deafening in a stifling courtroom that had gone deadly silent. He could barely breathe. He could barely see through the sweat clinging to the lids of his eyes. The suit he wore was wool. His expensive shirt stuck to his chest and his legs; the tie seemed to be cutting his throat.
It seemed that every railroad official had come in for the verdict. Up here in the Idaho Territory, this was big news, though Richard had told Harlen that the news was contained to this area. No one in Colorado knew of his whereabouts, nor had any of the other boys been apprehended.
“Has the jury reached a verdict in the case of the People Versus Harlen Shepard Riley?”
“We have, Your Honor,” the foreman replied.
“Bailiff, if you’ll remit the verdi
ct to me.”
The folded paper exchanged hands. Harlen’s fate depended on that paper, and he wasn’t feeling as hopeful as he should.
The judge opened the note, scanned the contents, then put the paper on top of his Bible. “Harlen Shepard Riley, you have been found guilty of the crime . . .”
But Harlen didn’t hear anything more above the frantic rap of the judge’s gavel and the loud voices in the courtroom. Richard put his hand on Harlen’s forearm as reassurance.
“Order! Order! I demand order!”
The buzz faded to a drone when Peabody continued. “Since I have full jurisdiction of the court, and seeing as I have already evaluated this case should the verdict be such, I see no reason to delay sentencing. I have given the matter great thought. For the crime committed, and the guilty verdict rendered, there is no penalty of death. Or else I would have imposed that sentence.”
Harlen didn’t know yet if he was relieved or not by that news.
Peabody slipped a sheaf of paper from his notes and began reading. “Harlen Shepard Riley was on the fourth day of October, eighteen hundred and eighty-seven indicted for the crime of armed robbery to the premises known as the Montpelier City Bank in Montpelier, Idaho, on November third, eighteen eighty-five. The said defendant was duly tried before the court and a jury, and on October twenty-eighth, eighteen eighty-seven was by verdict of the said jury found guilty of grand larceny. Also on October twenty-eighth, eighteen eighty-seven, the court, in accordance with said verdict, proceeded to and did pronounce to the effect that the said defendant, Harlen Shepard Riley, be on the eleventh day of November A.D. eighteen eighty-seven, at the hour of twelve P.M. of said day, being a twenty-year sentence in the Idaho Territorial Penitentiary.” Letting the paper rest on the desk, Judge Peabody looked directly at Harlen and said, “May God have mercy on you as you pay your debt to society. This court is dismissed.”
The gavel’s slam was dry and final.
7
If you wish to know the mind of a man, listen to his words.
—Chinese proverb
Leah was disappointed.
The mail from the midmorning post had arrived ten minutes late. And when the few envelopes had fallen from the brass slot next to the front door, there had been no letter from Mr. Giuseppe Ciccolella of Italy. Nor had there been the package she was expecting from the Littlefield Publishing Company of Rochester, New York. She’d sent them one dollar and a stamp, and was waiting to receive a copy of The Complete Guide to Italian Cooking.
Rather than be despondent about the lack of good news, she’d rummaged through the toolshed searching for Tug’s tackle box and fishing pole. Though Owen had been in the last stages of his illness after Tug’s birth, he’d insisted on a trip to the hardware emporium. He bought his son baseballs, bats, a striking bag, Indian clubs, boxing gloves, a football, rubber balls, and boxes of other sporting accessories Leah had never opened. They were heaped in the toolshed next to the shelves of paint, gardening tools, and a hammock Leah hadn’t figured out how to assemble.
As Leah gathered the creel and poles, she couldn’t remember Tug’s ever having used any of it. He’d gone fishing a few times with other boys and their fathers, but he’d never asked to use his own things. And she’d never had the hindsight to offer them to him. She doubted he knew he had them. Her heart swelled when she thought of him borrowing without making a fuss.
The day was perfect for a picnic, and Leah had quickly put her office in order earlier in the morning. Afterward, she’d packed a dinner basket. The bottom was heavy with canned deviled ham, a quarter loaf of bread, and a jar of American Clubhouse cheese spread, sweet pickles, two Swiss milk chocolate bars, and six bottles of Hires root beer, with a bottle opener, butter knife, and napkins. A bound writing tablet rested on top for Rosalure to use to press wildflowers.
Leah managed to walk to Geneva’s while holding on to the food basket’s handle with the crook of her arm, as well as Tug’s tackle box, along with two fishing poles and her Kombi camera, which was small enough for her to carry in her skirt pocket.
Reaching the impressive walkway of the Kirkland home, Leah trudged toward the veranda supported by decorative spindles. As she neared the steps, Leah couldn’t help admiring the lovely craftsmanship of the home. The clapboards were cream, while the trim and railings were white. The sashes were of dark green, and all the outside doors varnished. The home was the finest in all of Eternity, but one would expect the banker’s residence to be of the utmost expense and taste.
Leah juggled her burdens as she struggled to crank an electric doorbell that chimed the first twenty notes of “Oh Promise Me.” Hartzell had had the rather whimsical bell installed on his and Geneva’s silver wedding anniversary as a token of his undying affection, though Leah suspected the costly gift was more of a pacifying show of attention to his oft-neglected wife.
The melody played through, and soon thereafter the click of shoes could be heard on the opposite side of the door. The entry swung open and Leah was greeted by Geneva’s housemaid, Posie.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kirkland,” she said with a sunny smile. The young girl was too good for Geneva, putting up with the older woman’s stormy disposition and commanding of orders. But Posie seemed to handle the situation just fine. She looked no worse for the wear, her coiffure of blond hair tidy beneath the smart white cap she wore, and her complexion rosy as ever. “Do come in.”
Leah managed to slip inside without catching anything on the doorway. She set her things beside the umbrella stand, then straightened. “I’ve come for Tug and Rosalure.”
“Oh, the children have been having a wonderful time. I believe Miss Rosalure is in the gazebo sketching, and Master Tug is apt to be aiming his slingshot at the ground squirrels who run across the electrical wire hooked up to the house.” Apparently seeing Leah’s look of horror, Posie added, “Don’t you worry. He’s never hit a one yet.”
The death of a squirrel wasn’t what had Leah worried. Tug could knock his eye out if the slingshot backfired.
“If you could pack Rosalure and Tug’s things and round them up for me, I’d appreciate it,” Leah said. “I’ll let Mrs. Kirkland know that I’m taking them. Where may I find her?”
“Upstairs in the boudoir.” Posie rolled her eyes. “She’s got a new health aid she’s trying out. The gadget scares me. I told her I wasn’t going to touch it when she was finished cooking herself inside those walls. She called the thing a Turkish bath. It came on yesterday’s freight stage, so big it was.”
Leah nodded, used to Geneva’s unconventional home treatments. Laying her hand on the balustrade, she climbed upward, reached the top landing, then headed down the hallway to Geneva’s room. Though it wasn’t spoken, she and Mr. Kirkland didn’t share a bedchamber. This was apparent by the masculine decor in the room across the hall from the opposite room which was in shades of pink—Geneva’s favorite color.
A hissing sound spilled into the hallway as Leah lightly knocked on the wall next to the open door.
“Geneva?” Leah asked with fright, unprepared to view the cabinet that was at least four and a half feet tall, with only Geneva’s head exposed through a tight hole in the top. She was sitting inside the box, on Lord knew what, with some sort of steaming mask on her face that was attached to a thin hose.
“What?” Geneva hollered above the loud noise of a large vaporizer. “I can’t hear you! Come closer, Posie, and remove the mask!”
Leah went to the cabinet and tentatively took hold of the facial gear and set it on top of the box. Geneva’s face was as red as a beet, and sweat trickled from her every pore and strand of wilted hair.
Seeing Leah, Geneva was obviously taken aback, and flushed an even deeper shade at being discovered in such a contraption. “Leah . . . how pleasant you’ve come to call.”
Leah knew Geneva’s feelings were anything but pleasant.
“Excuse me at the moment,” Geneva sighed on a tired note, “but I’m trying out what the Racine
Bath Cabinet Company declares is a sure way to shed extra inches and improve upon one’s health.”
“Is it working?” Leah asked, reining in her skepticism.
“I’m not quite sure yet. I haven’t stepped out, though I’m just about ready. The alcohol stove I’m sitting on is cooking me to well done. So surely the cabinet must work. I feel pounds lighter already and I’ve only been in for half an hour.”
Leah grimaced. A half an hour of torture. No thank you.
“What is it that you wanted?” Geneva inquired, slipping an arm through a false top and swabbing a towel over the rivulets of perspiration running down her temples.
“I’ve come for Tug and Rosalure. To take them on a picnic.”
Geneva’s drooping brow arched. “A picnic?” she quipped.
“Yes, I packed a dinner—”
“Of what? You can’t cook. The poor darlings are starved for decent food. All those Chinese vegetables and herbs are bad on their digestive systems. Why, the only well-balanced meal you eat is when you come to my house for supper.”
“I’ve managed to pack a nice dinner for this afternoon,” Leah maintained, bridling a loose tongue.
“Well, I think the children would be better off here for dinner. Posie is going to fix some egg sandwiches and give them each a slice of the blueberry cobbler Rosalure and I made yesterday. She so loves to cook, but hasn’t the resource to learn her way around the kitchen.”
As much as she didn’t want to, Leah let that remark pass. “I’m certain dinner here would be lovely, but not today.”
“What about your studio?”
“I hung up my Closed sign.”
“You did what?” Geneva’s strained her voice over the noise. “You never close.”
“I did this afternoon. I want to spend time with my children. I know you’ll want them to enjoy the outing I’ve planned.”
Geneva feigned great hurt. “You know how attached I am to little Owen. He’s such an angel boy, and so like my Owen . . .” She sniffed very melodramatically. Leah had seen the routine over a hundred times.
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