—Are you holding us up, Mrs. Butler? Really?
—I am.
—You’re that female gang.
Grace turned to the man standing beside her.
—You said they were a myth. Yet here they are, robbing you.
—Be quiet, you silly woman.
Benjamin Adamson, God rest his soul, held his shaking hands aloft, and sweat ran down his face, but his voice was gruff. I wondered if he was more afraid of the gun held to his head, or more angry at the fact that a woman held the gun.
—No need to be testy. No one’s going to get hurt as long as you all do what you’re told, Benjamin.
His face turned a mottled red at my use of his Christian name, which answered my question.
A shot splintered the stagecoach. Grace Trumbull flinched, and I saw her smile fade at the realization that she wasn’t living in a penny dreadful, and that there were real bullets in our guns. The guard, I think his name was Toddy, froze, his eyes wide. Blood bloomed where a sliver of splintered wood scratched his cheek, and it slowly trickled down into his beard.
—I tole you not to move.
Hattie leveled her rifle from the back of her blaze-faced black horse. She wore a Union soldier’s coat and kepi with a turkey feather sticking out of the band. The hat sat at a jaunty angle over her close-cropped kinky hair. A thick cigar smoldered in the corner of her mouth.
—Toss your gun down. Slow like.
—We got a gun on each of you.
Joan and Stella stood back-to-back, with a gun trained on the driver and one on Adamson. A breeze rustled their blonde hair, which fell down around their shoulders and made them both look five years younger than they were, which had come in handy since we left Cañon City. The doll at Joan’s feet had helped convince our traveling companions they were two young daughters on their way to Columbia to join their mining father. Joan’s fresh-faced beauty had distracted Adamson and Grace Trumbull from the gun hidden beneath the doll’s dress.
—And don’t think ’cause we’re young we don’t know how to use them, Joan said.
Jehu, as the driver and man in charge, tossed the guard’s rifle down.
—And your pistols, I said. Jehu did as told.
We moved quickly, giving ourselves about five minutes for the holdup, the road between Cañon City and Columbia being busy with traffic to and from the gold mines tucked into every gulch and pass in the mountains ahead of us. Everyone knew her job: Stella gathered the guns, Joan went around the bend in the road to retrieve the getaway horses Hattie’d left out of sight, and, with a rifle held steady on him, I told the driver and guard to bring down the strongbox.
We had to yell for our voices to be heard over the river rushing twenty-five feet below the wagon track. Hattie sat on her horse in front of the coach, blocking the draft horses from moving forward and holding the driver and guard accountable with her Spencer. Stella stood between the mountain wall and the coach, both guns trained on the teamsters unloading the strongbox, while I held my gun on Grace and Adamson. Four guns for four people. Good odds, I’d say.
—You rode in the stage with us for hours, making conversation, knowing this is how it would end, Grace Trumbull said.
It had been one of Hattie’s more brilliant ideas. Buy as many places on the stage as we could to decrease the number of people we had to guard. Gain the passengers’ trust so they would be easier to manipulate when the time came. We’d luckily lost a passenger at the Gunnison stop, which left us with Grace Trumbull, a Chicagoan traveling through the West with an eye to writing a book about her adventures, and Benjamin Adamson, a lawyer on his way to Columbia to deliver the payroll to the Connolly Mine Company. He hadn’t told us that, of course, only saying he was going to Columbia to deliver papers to his boss, but he was the reason we were on this particular coach. Or the Connolly payroll was, I should say.
Grace took us outlaws in, one after the other, and shook her head.
—I would have never supposed. I thought you were a war widow.
I looked at her from behind the tightly woven tulle of the black veil that covered half of my face and said maybe I was.
She said she doubted it and proceeded to tell me about how buying three seats on the coach increased our odds, gave us fewer people to deal with.
—I suppose me being a woman helped as well.
I dipped my head, impressed with the adventurer’s discernment.
—It did. Thank you.
—And your consumption? Is that a ruse, as well, Mrs. Butler? Grace Trumbull asked.
I shrugged, watching the men pulling down the strongbox communicating with significant looks.
—I needed a reason for the stage to stop at our assigned spot, and having a fit seemed to be easiest.
—Less talking. You two hurry up, Hattie said.
Grace studied me, a small smile playing on her lips, ignoring Hattie.
—Is Emily Butler your real name?
—Real enough.
—Does your gang have a name?
—We’re a myth, remember?
Since the spring of ’75 we had four holdups to our name, not counting the first bank I robbed in Denver, and still there was no word in the papers about the female outlaws and their exploits. If the press’s determined ignorance of our existence hadn’t given us a good cover to keep on stealing, I’d have been offended at the slight.
I turned my gaze to Adamson.
—So I’ve always wondered: Will you pay them—I jerked my head in the direction of the teamsters who had the box on the ground now—to say it was the Spooner Gang that robbed you, or will you all just agree? A gentleman’s agreement to not let the rest of the world know you’ve been bested by a bunch of women?
—You haven’t bested me yet.
I looked at the gun in my hand and pointed it back at Adamson.
—You have a gun trained on you, Ben, and, as my young associate said, we know how to use them.
—We practice our shooting every day, though when it comes to killin’, I am partial to blades. Big ones, little ones. Don’t matter, Stella said.
—You’ve never killed anyone before, Adamson said.
—Oh, so you have heard of us, I said.
—I’ve heard of you, Grace said.
I turned my gaze to the adventurer, knowing Stella had Adamson well covered. I partly hoped he would go for me so I could shoot him. My trigger finger was itchy.
I’d liked Grace Trumbull from the moment I met her, which just goes to show I’d gotten soft and complacent with all our success. She talked too much and had an alarming affinity for the ridiculous tall tales Henry Pope spun about the West in his penny dreadfuls, but she was uncommonly intelligent otherwise, as evidenced by the way she’d pretty much deduced our holdup plan from the moment I pulled out my gun. Between Cañon City and the first team change I’d spent an enthralling thirty minutes listening to Grace and Adamson argue about education and women’s suffrage, an argument Grace won. Made quite a fool of Adamson, which made me like her even more.
With wide, disbelieving eyes I opened my mouth and clicked my tongue at the lawyer.
—What do you think of that, Ben? Grace has heard of me from as far away as Chicago.
—Us, Stella said.
—What?
—She’s heard of us from as far away as Chicago.
—Yes, us. Of course.
—Three minutes, Hattie said.
—Give me the key, Ben.
Adamson inhaled deeply, his face mottled from anger.
—I will not.
Stella stepped up behind the lawyer and hit him in the back of the head with the butt of her gun. Adamson yelled and dropped to his knees. Stella pressed the gun to the back of his head. Joan had returned with the horses, astride her own. She handed the extra reins to Hattie and kicked her horse forward to pin the driver and guard against the stagecoach. It was Joan’s first heist, and she was showing herself to be a natural. She’d been pestering me for months to allow
her to go with us. I’d finally relented, surprising everyone. When Hattie and Stella had asked me why, I’d told them that adding Joan would allow us to do bigger jobs. The truth was, I’d decided this would be our last.
—I don’t like the way you looked at my sister, Stella said.
—I didn’t like it much, either. You think you have the right to leer at young girls because they’re sitting in front of you? Grace said.
—She was flirting with me.
Stella hit him again, this time drawing blood on his temple. Grace gasped and turned white at the sight. She clutched her throat and swallowed. Stella pressed her Colt to the back of Adamson’s head, her eyes blazing with a fever I knew only too well.
—Can I shoot him?
—Of course not.
—No, no. I’m sorry. Don’t kill me, Adamson said.
—Wasn’t going to kill you. Just make you wish I had for the rest of your life.
I shook my head at Stella in warning.
The front of Adamson’s pants darkened. Grace looked away from his shame, and I almost felt sorry for him. I stepped forward and held my hand out. Adamson dug into his vest pocket and handed me the key.
—Thank you.
Hattie pulled irons from her saddlebag and tossed them at Grace’s feet.
—Come on, woman. We ain’t got all day.
I told Grace to put the irons on Adamson. The clerk didn’t look up, but put his hands behind his back. After Grace clamped them on, she looked at me expectantly, her eyes shining with excitement.
—Now, Grace, I’m going to open that strongbox. You aren’t going to give us any trouble, are you?
—No. Of course not.
—Humor me and move back a few steps.
She did as told.
—And keep your hands up. You boys, too, I said to Toddy and Jehu.
—Ain’t no boy, Jehu said.
Stella had mounted her own horse, and she tossed me an empty saddlebag. Our horses jerked their heads up but didn’t move. They’d done this before, and I’d trained them well. I opened the strongbox and filled the saddlebag with greenbacks and coins.
—You know you ain’t just stealing from the mine owner, Toddy said. You’re stealing from a lot of hardworking men.
—Hardworking men who will drink and gamble and whore away their pay. While their California widows starve with the children.
I closed the bulging saddlebag and threw it over my shoulder, enjoying the heft of a good haul.
—Besides, they should have kept their claim instead of selling it to this bastard’s boss. It’s always better to be your own boss than to rely on someone else to provide.
Hattie motioned to the guard and driver.
—Unhitch the team.
Joan moved her horse away, releasing the men.
—I ain’t taking orders from no jumped-up slave, Jehu said.
I’d expected one of the men to challenge us, but not Jehu. Everyone looked at Hattie, wondering what she’d do.
When we finally unmasked ourselves as the fairer sex, men were so shocked at being robbed by women they’d comply easy enough. When we were challenged, they mostly went Hattie’s way, and she’d done a fine job of keeping her temper in check. Until the Columbia robbery. From Hattie’s expression, she hadn’t expected the challenge to come from this quarter, either.
Hattie got down off her horse with a slow deliberation we didn’t really have time for—our five minutes had come and gone, but I knew better than to go against Hattie LaCour when she was angry—and handed the reins of our getaway horses to Joan. She holstered her rifle, and Joan and Stella pulled theirs back out and leveled them at the men. Hattie stood in front of the men with her hands behind her back, and I saw in Toddy’s eyes that he thought that was their chance, despite the four guns pointing in their direction.
I cocked the lever of Toddy’s own Spencer and put it up on my shoulder. He stopped moving.
Hattie LaCour blew cigar smoke in the driver’s face.
—What’s your name, little man?
—I ain’t got to tell you nothing.
—That’s true enough. Why would you? I’m just some jumped-up nigger, and a woman to boot. It’d be a downright insult to your manhood to do the courtesy of telling me your name.
Quicker than the eye could notice, Hattie’s knife was out of the scabbard at the small of her back and the blade was between his legs. His eyes bulged with surprise, then narrowed in anger.
—Everybody wants to sass the nigger woman. Nobody ever sass …
She looked my way.
—Emily?
I nodded.
—Ole Emily over there. Everyone treats her with the utmost respect, even when she humiliates them with her words. She got some mouth on her, that Emily. She ain’t ever made a man piss himself before, so I suspect we might need to start looking over our shoulders. We always known there was a limit, that you men wouldn’t let us get away with this forever. So if the Pinkertons gonna come after us, might as well give them a real reason to chase us.
—For God’s sake, tell her your name, Grace Trumbull said.
—Don’t do it, Toddy said.
—He talks big without a knife on his pecker, Stella said.
—My name’s Jehu. I’ll unhitch the team. Take that goddamn knife off me.
Jehu was short and wiry, with strong arms from driving horses for a living. His hands were small for a man’s, but rough and scarred, with leather dust tattooed into the creases of his knuckles.
—Nope. Not now. I want you to get down on your knees and kiss my boots.
—That’s enough, I said.
—What? You gonna let this cracker insult me?
—You’re taking this too far, Jehu said.
—Oh, I could take it farther. I haven’t killed a white man in a good long while. I’ve been itching to, I gotta admit.
—We’re out of time. You’ve made your point. Unhitch the team, Jehu. Toddy, help him.
Jehu stepped away from Hattie and with the guard’s help unhitched the team. Hattie shoved the knife back into its scabbard. I tied my saddlebags onto my horse, checked the cinch, and returned to the carriage. I pulled Grace Trumbull’s carpetbag out of the stage and started rifling through it.
She stepped forward.
—Wait a minute. There’s nothing of value in there.
I pulled out a Peacemaker.
—I figured you for the derringer type, Grace. This is a big gun for a little lady like you. Expecting to be robbed at gunpoint?
—If I were, you’d think I would have had it in the cabin with me.
—True.
I put the gun in the back of the waistband of my skirt and pulled out what I had been looking for: a leather-bound journal. During one of her soliloquies she’d let drop about her travel journal for future publication. I’d known immediately the journal was worth stealing. I would need a good book to read in my retirement.
—Not that, please. That’s months of work.
I rifled through the pages, noting that a good bit of it was blank.
—You can start your new one with a retelling of your first holdup.
Hattie, Joan, and Stella were on their horses. Hattie scowled at Jehu as he unhitched the team. I pulled two sets of irons from her saddlebag and put Grace’s journal and gun in it. I squeezed Hattie’s leg, felt energy thrumming through her. I glanced at the driver.
—Good job, but don’t take it too far.
Hattie jerked her chin down in acknowledgment.
The driver and guard finished unhooking the four-horse team. I motioned for Grace to come close. She did, with a wary expression on her face, her eyes on the irons.
—These aren’t for you. They’re for them. Lock the driver and guard together.
I mounted my gray horse, and my gang rode off around the bend. Old Blue danced around in excitement for the getaway she knew was coming.
—Wait. You can’t just leave us here, Grace said.
�
�That’s how this works, Grace. I rob you, then I ride away. Someone will be along soon enough to help you.
—Take me with you.
—Why would I do that?
Grace stepped forward and grabbed the reins of my horse to keep me from leaving.
—So I can tell your story. Everyone says you don’t exist. I can make sure you get the recognition you deserve.
I have to give her credit. She knew exactly what I wanted before I knew myself. If I’d had more time, logic would have prevailed and I would have left Grace Trumbull on the road to Columbia. But I didn’t.
—Come on, then.
She closed her carpetbag haphazardly and handed it to me. I looped it on my saddle horn, held my hand out, and helped her up behind me.
Jehu’s voice managed to rise above the rushing water and ricochet off the mountain walls.
—You’re going to regret this.
He was right, of course.
3
WPA Slave Narrative Collection
Interview with Henrietta Lee
Sunday, September 6, 1936
Well, look who came back. It’s a good thing I’m an early riser, Grace Williams, or you might have caught me without my tignon. Worn one for years. Your auntie wore one? All the best aunties wear one.
“Now, I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to tell you today. I didn’t get much rest last night. Talking to you yesterday brought up all those old memories. I sit on this porch every day, watch the world go by, and remember. But it’s a different kind of remembering when you’re telling a story. In my mind I can replay the same things over and over, the best parts, I guess you could call them. But if I’m going to tell this story right and true, I have to give you the bad parts, too. Parts where I don’t come out so shiny or innocent.
“Let me see that notebook. How are you getting this down? Those symbols don’t look like they mean anything to me, but I guess I have to trust you. Suppose this story is going to be like all the others, filtered through someone else. Some of the truth will be lost. Oh no, I don’t mean you’ll do it on purpose, but there’s probably a lot of shifting between what happened sixty years ago, my memories now, my words to you, your shorthand, and then to true words. Right now there’s no story, so I guess whatever you get down will be better than nothing.
Heresy Page 3