Portraits

by Stef Ann Holm

  Tug felt heavy in Wyatt’s arms, even though he wasn’t all that heavy. The minutes he’d been standing seemed to turn into hours. Sweat dampened his forehead at the band of his hat. Wyatt held his teeth tightly together and when Leah finally said, “Smile!” in a cheerful voice, he could no more muster a smile than a corpse.

  “Hold still!” Leah took a new plate from Rosalure. Wyatt remained where he stood, the crowd and heat pressing in on him.

  “That’s good. I want to take another, just in case. Now, smile!”

  But Wyatt remained smileless.

  Rosalure’s laughter came to his ears. “Mr. Holloway, you look like you’re laid out on a table waiting for embalming.”

  Her analogy hit him as if she’d slapped him across the cheek.

  “W-What, Rosalure?”

  “You look like you’re laid out at Mr. Uzzel’s waiting for him to . . .”

  But her words drifted with a gut-wrenching pull that took Wyatt back to the past.

  He sat in Darling’s Photography studio with Colvin, Nate, Thomas Jefferson, and Manny. They wore their finest suits and, hidden beneath, the guns that had given them their reputations. That day in Telluride had been the start of a journey to hell.

  What Rosalure had just spoken had left him shaken and frozen in limbo in a place he didn’t want to be. Those very words had been said to him before when he was having his portrait taken. But back then, Little Darling had been the one in the studio to speak them, and she’d been about ten years of age. Rosalure couldn’t have been there to know, because today that girl from Telluride would be in her mid-twenties. Just like . . .

  . . . just like Leah.

  18

  There is a day to be born and a day to die.

  —Chinese proverb

  February 13, 1888

  Idaho Territorial Penitentiary

  For several months, while lying on the stiff cot of his cell in the pitch dark, Harlen Shepard Riley relived the words of Little Darlin’.

  “You all look like you’ve just been laid out on the undertaker’s table and are waiting to be embalmed.”

  Harlen had stolen from fat-pursed banks, cattlemen, and railroad owners without conscience, for he knew that those men could afford to be robbed. A crime was a crime, and by committing one an outlaw flirted with the inevitability of paying his debt to society in prison. Harlen had never counted on being caught, but if he had to do time for a single criminal act, it would have been for that day in Telluride.

  A burden of guilt had fallen heavily on him for what had happened on those streets. He’d gone over and over the incident in his head until he’d committed to memory a picture of the events. Yet, with all his intense thoughts and reflections, he still couldn’t sort out which one of them had been holding the gun that had shot and killed Evaline Darling as she crossed the street. The uncertainty of not knowing and the depressing horror of penitentiary life drove him a little crazy.

  Like a wild animal caught and caged, he resisted the rules and paid dearly for his disobedience. Beatings and lockups in Siberia were his punishments. In those darkest hours sitting on the cold, damp floor nursing his bruises, he would close his eyes and try and conjure the warmth of the sun . . . the kiss of a breeze.

  Freedom.

  He never realized how valuable freedom was until it had been taken away from him. He’d thought himself strong enough to own up to his failings, but days spent in solitary confinement in an area that had a heavy plate and door with ventilating holes no more than three-quarters of an inch mentally tortured him. The guards had a saying about Siberia. You put a normal man into the box, and an animal would come out. When Harlen came out, he wasn’t an animal, but he was a shell of his former self and bowed his head in submission. His attitude toward his time had changed.

  He would spend his days subservient to the penal codes and be a model prisoner, but his nights would still belong to him. Those were the nights he laid awake thinking about Evaline Darling and her little girl. About the boys. His parents. His brothers and sisters. And his attorney, Richard Robison.

  Harlen wasn’t allowed to write more than two letters a week, which really didn’t mean a thing to him, because he couldn’t write a letter to where a person could read it. By brief and strictly monitored visits, Richard had informed Harlen that his request for an appeal had been denied. There had been no errors in the first trial to constitute a second one.

  Richard had assured Harlen he was doing everything possible to get him out. But by February, Harlen’s hopes were dying. On a Friday afternoon that swirled snow in drifts and blankets against the building of the laundry where Harlen had been assigned, Harlen was informed that his attorney had come to report to the commissary for visitation.

  Harlen did so, and the look on Richard’s face instantly gave him away. All hope had been exhausted. Robison’s petition to the governor for restoration to citizenship to one Harlen Shepard Riley had been denied, and the best Harlen could hope for was another hearing in five years.

  Alone in the dark that night, time ceased to have meaning. A second, minute, and hour all became one. With a thin blanket to keep him warm, Harlen went over the letter he’d been writing to Little Darlin’ and her father. In it, he voiced his sympathy and his sorrow for the death of Evaline. He told them he understood real regret for the first time in his life, and would do anything to make up for what had happened, if he could.

  As the beads of water that had collected on the stone walls from the moisture of warm breath in a cold room dripped in a steady rhythm to the icy slabs of floor, Harlen composed the letter until he got the words perfect. Any letter that went out, the warden would open and read, and even then, Harlen wondered whether the letter would be mailed at all. But that really didn’t matter, because Harlen didn’t have the skills actually to write the words on paper, so his thoughts were never shared with the girl who’d looked at him through the window with open hate in her eyes.

  Little Darlin’ never knew how sorry he was.

  * * *

  Manny Vasquez was brought to the pen the next day to serve a sentence of fifteen years for his part in the Montpelier robbery. Harlen didn’t have much of an opportunity to speak with him, but he found out that Manny had been arrested down in Alma, New Mexico. He’d never found Nate, Colvin, and Thomas Jefferson, but people were saying the boys had ridden into Mexico without him.

  In the ensuing days, Manny was given a job in the sign shop. Harlen learned more in their brief passings. Manny said rumors were circulating on the outside that Harlen had gone up to Canada and was living high on the hog with the sixty thousand dollars. The boys had supposedly bought this rumor and were calling Harlen a traitor to the Loco Boys.

  Harlen was sickened by the news that his riding partners had thought he turned against them, betraying them and spending their money. He swore that when he got out, he’d set them all straight with his fists.

  August 21, 1889

  Idaho Territorial Penitentiary

  When Harlen turned twenty-three, he became a member of the Quarry Gang. The men had been assigned work detail in the hills to cut sandstone for the building of the new cell house. The guards held long rifles and kept bloodhounds at their hips in case any of the inmates took it into their mind that they would escape.

  Harlen had resigned himself to the pen until 1892, but Manny could see no life in confinement. He resisted. The outcome was a face that always wore a cut across the cheek, or an eye that was bruised. Manny was solidly built and strong as an ox, and therefore too useful to be put in Siberia anymore once the warden was told he had the funds to build a new wing.

  Manny was assigned to the Quarry Gang with Harlen.

  As the heat stung Harlen’s skin, sucking out his sweat while he picked away at the stone, he gazed at Manny. Manny was his only friend on the inside, but he wasn’t the same as he’d been before. His movements were edgy and confined, not limited to the shackles on his ankles, and he took every opportunity to bait the
guards’ dogs and have them snapping at him.

  The bloodhounds looked docile enough, but Harlen had seen them choking against their collars before being let off their leashes to run down some fool inmate who thought he could scramble down the side of Table Rock to freedom. An escape wasn’t to be had with those dogs and the guards’ shotguns in sight.

  But Manny Vasquez would try anyway.

  June 25, 1890

  Idaho State Penitentiary

  Cell House Number Two was near completion the year Idaho became a state and the penitentiary’s name was changed. Manny had slowly been losing his mind in his cell and would swear many times to Harlen that he would break out. Harlen had thought along those lines himself, but still held out hope Richard Robison could pull something off. Harlen was tired of running, and were he to gain his freedom by escape, he’d have to run.

  Richard’s visit earlier that day had been full of news about the boys.

  Sitting in a suit across from Harlen, Richard said quietly, “Words been circulating anew about you. Now it’s told that you made off with a hundred thousand dollars from that Silverton robbery. There are some rumors that the boys are in Mexico and are swearing to see you dead for cheating them.”

  “It’s still not known where I am?”

  “Court documents are sealed, Harlen. The judge thinks that if the boys want revenge against you, they’ll come out of hiding and the law can apprehend them.”

  Harlen put his hand on the flat of the table. “You hear anything about that photographer in Telluride?”

  “I’d have to investigate.”

  “No . . . don’t.” Harlen was afraid to know. He’d just been wondering if the family had gotten on all right without the mother. But maybe it was better not to bring all that up again.

  Richard flicked the edge of his notepad. “I ran across some news about your mother, Harlen.”

  Harlen’s eyes lifted, and he saw his mother’s face in his mind’s eye. “She’s all right?”

  “She’s been sick. The family had to take her to Hanksville for medical treatment for her blood.”

  “Is she okay now?” Harlen’s pulse beat inside him like the kick of a guard.

  “She’s better. The girls are watching over her.”

  Despite himself, Harlen asked, “And my dad? He’s okay?”

  “He’s working close to the place to be near your mother.”

  Harlen nodded.

  “Harlen, I think you ought to tell them where you are.”

  “No.” Harlen adamantly shook his head. “I’m not going to bring them any further shame. It’s best they think I’m in Canada, or six feet under. Any place but in here. It’d kill them to know.”

  Richard gathered his notepad and slipped it into a portfolio. “If you ever change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  Nodding, Richard stood. “I have an appointment with the governor next week to speak to him about you. I can’t promise anything. Your pardon hearing won’t be for another two years, but if he’s abreast of your case now, that could help us.”

  Harlen slouched in his chair. “But you’re not hopeful.”

  “The Idaho courts haven’t been granting any leniency in the last few years, because the public is demanding that criminals be kept for their full incarceration time. The pressure is making it hard for me to argue with the government. They feel it necessary to act on the full extent of the law.”

  Disappointment barely registered in Harlen. He had too much to think about. His mother. His father.

  Harlen rose and shook Richard’s hand. “I appreciate your coming by, Richard.”

  Going back to work detail, Harlen bottled his feelings for his family inside. It was unsafe to take them out during the day. At night, when time slipped by slowly, Harlen could afford to let his mind wander. For now, he had to keep a clear head. There was Manny to look after.

  Fearing Manny would try and put together a futile plan, Harlen had talked to him while they worked on the line side by side. Without backup men to cover him, or a waiting horse, Manny had no chance of escape. But Manny didn’t see things that way, and Harlen feared he would lose the only friend he had.

  The sweltering sun buzzed with flies, beating down on the rock and the prisoners who’d been stripped to the waist to work. The guards sat in the lethargic shade, the bloodhounds panting nearby.

  “When I get out, do you want me to send word to your family?” Manny whispered.

  He’d asked Harlen that question many times, and Harlen had always replied they would both get out together.

  Sweat ran down Manny’s sun-browned face. “Come with me, Harlen. It’ll be you and me. We can start up where we left off.”

  “It’s pointless, Manny. You can’t get out until they’re ready to let you out.”

  “No talking on the line!” W. T. Fulton, one of the day guards, yelled out to them from his cool spot in the shade where he sipped a drink of water.

  Manny swore beneath his breath. “I could kill him. It would be so easy. I’ve never wanted to kill, Harlen, but I do now.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he leaned over to dig the tip of his pick into the rock. “You know, this place made me a criminal. I never really was an outlaw until they put me in here. Now I think of killing. I think about it all the time. I could kill Fulton. And the warden. And half of the men in this stinking place.”

  Harlen gave Manny a sidelong glance, but kept up with the motions of his pick. Manny had turned into someone Harlen didn’t recognize. Siberia had done it; Manny hadn’t been the same. “You quit thinking thoughts like that, Manny. We’ll get out together. You and me.”

  Manny straightened his spine, his eyes moist as he stared at Harlen. “I can’t take it anymore, Harlen.” His parched voice cracked like a clump of dirt. “I just can’t. I’ve got to get out now. Freedom . . . I have to feel it or I’m going to die.”

  “Manny, don’t.”

  But Manny had already started to walk. Slowly at first, and then with an uneven gait from the chains on his ankles. At first, the guards thought Manny was going for the water bucket, but when Manny walked past it, the men in the shade rose, calling the dogs to their feet as well.

  “Number 452! Hold your steps!” Fulton yelled, his rifle raised and pinned on Manny’s back.

  Manny kept on walking down the hill to where an apple orchard was spread across the valley above Boise. On balmy days, the smell of those blossoms drifted up to the inmates and nearly made Harlen sick with the longing to put his nose in the buds and drink in the fragrance of something sweet instead of greasy.

  “Number 452! Hold your steps or I’ll shoot.”

  “Manny!” Harlen couldn’t contain himself, and he shouted to Manny. “Get on back.”

  Without a word or backward glance, Manny started to run down the embankment. Fulton gave the order for the dogs to go after him. The hounds caught Manny by the legs, but Manny wasn’t put off by them. He took one by the neck and strangled it. This set Fulton off in a frenzy, and without another warning, he pulled the trigger and shot Manny in the back. A crimson stain spread across the prisoner’s soiled shirt as he crumpled to his death in the dust and weeds.

  Harlen squeezed his eyes closed and the pick slipped from his hand. His chin fell to his chest. Manny was his last link to his old life, and though the life had been lawless, it was a life that Harlen knew. He’d had a bond with Manny, even Colvin, Nate, and Thomas Jefferson before the trouble had come. And now Manny was dead. His family was gone.

  Standing under the oppressive sheet of the sun’s rays, Harlen didn’t want to find the boys anymore. He hoped to God he never saw Colvin, Nate, or Thomas Jefferson again. He wanted nothing further to do with the past. He didn’t want to see or hear them ever again.

  For all intents and purposes, Harlen Shepard Riley died that afternoon with Manny Vasquez. There just wasn’t any grave marker to prove it.

  19

  Light a fire in seven places, and there wil
l be smoke in eight.

  —Chinese proverb

  The headline of the Sunday edition of the Eternity Tribune read:

  CHILD RESCUED!

  Wyatt and Tug’s photograph was directly beneath the bold headline. Leah gazed at the paper, wishing Wyatt would have had a more enthusiastic expression on his face. But that she’d been able to give him credit for his heroic deed was enough. Now all of Eternity would know what a good man he was.

  “Momma!” Rosalure’s voice carried up the stairs into Leah’s studio, where she sat in her dressing robe. “Oh, Momma!”

  Leah rose from the plush chair in her studio and went to the landing. “Rosalure, how many times must I tell you not to yell like that in the house? If you want me, come up and get me.”

  Rosalure stood by the door and let the panel turn inward while saying, “Wyatt’s here.”

  Putting a hand to where the fabric of her dressing robe met across her breasts, Leah stammered, “W-Wyatt. What a nice surprise.”

  Seeing him on a Sunday morning truly was a surprise. He didn’t attend church and kept to himself on the Lord’s day. So finding him at her doorstep put her at a loss. Not that she was disappointed. She was glad to see him. She only wished he’d come sooner.

  Last night, in all the excitement of Tug’s encounter with Cricket, Wyatt hadn’t walked her home. Leah’s house had been filled with family and friends, all wanting to know about what had happened to Tug. Geneva had taken notes on a tablet and went frantically to work on the article at the secretary in the parlor while Tug basked in the moment on his grandfather’s knee and Rosalure called Tug’s escapade just another dumb thing to do.

  Wyatt hadn’t returned with them, even though Leah had invited him. As soon as she’d taken his photograph, he’d withdrawn and moved away from the crowd. She’d thought it was because he hadn’t wanted his picture taken and she’d done so anyway. So she’d chased after him to apologize and tell him that he truly was a hero and should be recognized for it.