Bandit Queen

by Jane Candia Coleman

  Cal and I named him Dale, and Cal was as proud of him as if he were the father. Whatever worries I had on that score were forgotten as I watched him playing with and showing off the child everyone believed was his.

  It seemed my life was settled at last, and I thanked God for the fact. When we returned to the States, several months later, all went as Cal had predicted. No one questioned my identity or even appeared to recognize me as the infamous Bandit Queen. To one and all I was Mrs. Cal Jameson, a happy wife and new mother.

  Lulled by this sense of secure well-being, I set about making the little house into a true home for us and for Emma and Little Joe, who were arriving soon, accompanied by my mother.

  My spirits were high that bright fall day. I was singing as I scrubbed the porch with Dale propped in a basket by the door. Cal had gone off to town, and Tally was in the kitchen, blacking the stove.

  “Soon, soon,” I crooned to myself, to the baby, to the cool and brilliant air flowing around me, and heard the baby chuckle as a migrating butterfly landed on the edge of his basket and rested there.

  “Pretty,” I exclaimed to him. “Pretty thing!” And then, as I turned back to my scrubbing, I noticed a man coming slowly up the road. He walked with a purpose, but something in the way he moved was furtive, as if he was being cautious and watching his back trail.

  I called, “Tally,” in a low voice, but got no answer and stayed crouched behind the railing in the hope that he would pass us by.

  Closer he came. Closer. And with a sickening lurch of my heart I recognized him—his cruel hands, his bloated face, his demented lust. How had he found me? And what did he intend? He turned and came toward the house, and I saw he was smiling. It was a smile of pure evil, full of cunning and purpose.

  “Tally,” I called again, afraid to move. “Tally, for God’s sake.” All that came in answer was the cooing of my son from under his snug blanket.

  My son! Regardless of the circumstances of his conception, Dale was mine. And Cal’s. Simmons had no place in our home, our lives. I stood up, prepared to fight him, to protect what was mine and what I loved.

  Seeing me, he stopped, his legs spread, that fiendish smile still on his face. “Well, well,” he said. “Missus Jameson.”

  I said: “Get out,” and my fingers curled into claws.

  “A fine way to greet the kid’s father.” He moved closer, his eyes on Dale, who was waving his hands in an attempt to catch the butterfly.

  “Come any closer, I’ll kill you,” I said.

  “Sure you will. And go back to the pen for life.”

  “How’d you find me?” I asked, desperate to keep him talking until I could lay hands on some kind of weapon—a stick of wood, the pistol in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, if somehow I could get inside.

  “You ain’t exactly invisible…you and the nigger.”

  He put a foot on the bottom step. “Your parole ain’t up. I figured you’d go back nice and quiet for the sake of the kid.”

  I took a tiny step toward the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But he was observant.

  “Stand still.” The tone of his voice, filled with menace and a clear purpose, was more terrifying than the sight of him. I’d be lucky to live long enough to go to prison if he had his way. And that would leave Tally and Dale alone and helpless. And Cal would come back to an empty house and carnage and never know the truth.

  At the thought I went crazy. I went for his eyes, his brutal face, and fury gave me strength. He toppled back into the yard, bleeding from scratches where my nails had raked his face. I bit, kicked like a mad thing, but in the end he overpowered me with a punch in the stomach and a blow to my head that knocked me to the ground where I lay half unconscious, struggling to get up and fight again.

  My hand closed around a rock—a poor weapon, but better than nothing. I took a ragged breath and swallowed hard to keep from vomiting, and all the beatings of my life flashed through my head: the horrors, the agony, the blood, and the crack of my bones.

  I pushed myself up on all fours, blinking to clear my sight, and saw Tally, pistol in hand, her expression as grim as death’s head before she pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. The explosions echoed off the cañon walls and in my ears.

  Simmons staggered back, fell, and lay quite still in a rapidly growing puddle of his own blood. Tally held the pistol on him for a long minute. When he didn’t move, she stooped and picked up Dale, who had begun to whimper.

  “There,” she said to him. “There. Nobody’s gonna hurt you or your mama. Not while Tally’s here.”

  I said: “Is he dead?”

  “If he ain’t, he will be.” Her face was set.

  The seriousness of what had been done struck me. Tally had killed a man to save me. But who would believe us—excons, and her already a convicted murderess?

  “What’ll we do? What’ll we say when they find out?” I was babbling. The future looked even worse than it had just minutes before.

  “They won’t find out ’less we tell ’em,” she said, putting Dale down and walking over to Simmons. “He’d’ve killed us. And gone away with this child and killed him, too. You know it.

  I know it. Now you go hitch up the wagon.”

  “What for?”

  “We gonna take him out in those hills and leave him. And we’re gonna clean up this yard and smile when that man of yours gets back. And not say anything. Let it all be on my head. I’m the one did it, and I’m glad.” Her voice softened. She laid a hand on my arm. “And if you want me to go, I’ll go and leave you to live in peace. You just tell me.”

  She meant it, that brave little woman who had just saved our lives, and whose first concern, always, was me. She stood there, and I read loyalty in her eyes and love and a shadow of doubt, as if she feared what I’d say next.

  “You can’t go!” I put my arms around her. “How could you even think it?”

  “You never know what folks’ll take into their heads to do.”

  That shocked me. “Even me? Even after all we’ve gone through?”

  She shrugged. “Even so. Sometimes trust comes hard.”

  She was the old Tally speaking, the girl who had learned the hard way, whose life had been crueler than mine had ever been. We stood there in the yard, outside the house that now belonged to me, and I knew I’d never have a better friend, not in a lifetime, that we were bound together by our pasts, the present, and the future.

  “Tally,” I said, speaking around a lump in my throat, “I don’t think we can get along without you. And that’s the truth, so help me.”

  Her smile trickled across her face. “I hope you never think different. Now let’s clean up this mess and get on with it. And let’s never talk about it again.”

  We buried Ed Simmons in a prospect hole, one of thousands dug into the mountains. It was deep. A long time passed before we heard his body hit bottom.

  “God rest him,” Tally said.

  And I said: “How could you?”

  “Somebody’s got to care,” she answered. “It must be awful to die and have nobody mind.”

  We drove home slowly with Dale crowing in his basket between us. The shadows were long on the valley floor, and the beginning of a crimson sunset stained the sky to the west. Cal would be home soon.

  At the thought I wondered if I could ever keep what happened a secret from him. But if I told, what would he think of Tally? I looked at her, handling the reins with care.

  “I won’t tell,” I said. “I promise.”

  “Honey, you could tell that man anything, and he’d understand,” she answered, and then said: “But maybe it’s better you don’t.”

  Silently I agreed. I could tell about myself, but Tally’s life and privacy were strictly hers.

  As we crossed the creek and came into the yard, we were surrounded by a cloud of butterflies, their orange and black wings swirling like a tapestry—or a blessing. They had miles to go before they reached their resting place, a long, hard journey with many
falling by the way. Was it luck that got them through, or determination?

  I didn’t know, simply wished them well as I climbed the steps to the porch and entered the little house, my journey’s end, my home.

  Author’s Note

  Those who remember Pearl Hart remember her as a small, quiet woman who never revealed the truth of her past by so much as a word. When she died, she took her secrets with her. The diary that she kept makes no reference to any of the events in her early life, concentrating instead on day-to-day happenings in her life with her second husband.

  What may be inferred from this diary is the fact that she was well-educated, intelligent, and literate, giving the lie to some newspaper accounts that spoke of her as “a low type,” barely able to utter an intelligible sentence. One other fact stands out in reading about her later life in her own words. She was secure and happy at last.

  That her first marriage was to a gambler named Frank Hart who abused her is true. It is also true that she ran away from him after the Chicago World’s Fair, supported herself by singing, and that, following the accepted pattern of abused women,took him back and lived with him long enough to bear two children.

  Pearl’s place in Arizona history, however, rests on the fact that in May, 1899, she and her partner, Joe Boot, held up the Globe-Florence stage in Cane Springs Cañon and were apprehended several days later in an abandoned schoolhouse near Benson.

  Pearl escaped from prison in Tucson, was recaptured in Deming, New Mexico, and was sent to Yuma Prison, not for robbing the stage, but for the theft of the driver’s pistol. At her trial—and beforehand in newspaper interviews—she spoke eloquently for the cause of women’s rights, which obviously did her no good at her trial.

  Her early release from Yuma has always been shrouded in mystery, but a reliable source believes that she was, indeed, pregnant, that the child was born in Cananea, Mexico, and that, when she returned to the States, she had married a second time. The name Jameson is a pseudonym. Who the real father of the child was is not known. Typically, Pearl never spoke of it.

  Ed Simmons, who appears as the father in this book, is fictional, as are Tally and Rosa, although they are based on two women, one black and one Mexican, who were imprisoned at about the same time. Harry Hu is also fictional. Pearl was cooking for miners near Globe, but that is all that is known. There were, however, many Chinese farmers and storekeepers in the area.

  The little house near the wash where Pearl and Cal lived is still there, still isolated and surrounded by paloverdes and citrus trees. It appears a happy house, and, again, those who knew her remember how she sat on the porch, smoking handrolled cigarettes, smiling, and keeping her secrets to herself.

  Ed Simmons, as stated above, did not exist as such and was never shot by anyone. It is worth mentioning here that in the Pearce, Arizona, cemetery is a tombstone bearing the name Joe Boot. Whoever he was, he kept his secrets, too.

  Acknowledgments

  My sincere thanks to my husband, Glenn Boyer, who cheerfully accompanied me on research trips and read and reread this manuscript without complaint; to Jim and Aline Bywater and Larry Kellner for their invaluable insights; to Joan and John Freytag, who introduced me to Yuma prison and helped me in my search for documents; to the Yuma Prison Archives and the Arizona Historical Society; to Linda Hunt Ortega, who ignited my curiosity; to my neighbor, Tony Celaya, who helped me with Spanish not found in the dictionary; to Ben Traywick, Tombstone historian; and to editor, John Tuska, who believed in me and in this book. Bless you all!

  High Praise for Jane Candia Coleman!

  THE SILVER QUEEN

  “This rags-to-riches biography of a forgotten woman is a banquet of adventure, with true grit and history that’s earthy and feminist. Readers will feel empowered by Coleman’s women and encouraged to seek out their strengths and triumph.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Jane Candia Coleman presents an empathetic portrait, highlighting the themes of steadfastness, independence in the face of adversity, compassion for others, and inner strength.”

  —Merrimon Book Reviews

  “Coleman writes truly historical novels…[The characters] were not perfect people and their human frailties are what made them so interesting to read about. Coleman did a good job in describing life during those turbulent years.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  TUMBLEWEED

  “In this well-researched novel about the life of Allie Earp, Coleman successfully brings to life the exciting, unforgettable story of a nearly forgotten woman. With her sharp eye for detail, dialogue and her respect for the people she writes about, it’s no wonder she’s been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “It is a fascinating book, beautifully written, and highly recommended—a must read for Western fans.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Readers see a wider, deeper scope into the Earp legends from a woman who was with them through many of their adventures. Jane Candia Coleman will enthrall her audience with this fine tale.”

  —Midwest Book Reviews

  Other Leisure Books by Jane Candia Coleman:

  THE SILVER QUEEN

  TUMBLEWEED

  Copyright

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  December 2009

  Published by special arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 1998 by Jane Candia Coleman

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