“Where’d I leave off? Grace Trumbull. Right. Thinking on it last night, I need to back up a little more before we get to Grace, but we’ll get to her today, don’t you fret.
“After the colonel stole Garet’s ranch and she robbed his bank, we went up to Cheyenne for the winter. It was big enough town we could blend in. Jehu drove freight. I got on as a cook at a hotel. Garet did some nursing for one of the doctors. Mostly watching over people at night. Joan was too young to work, so she and Stella stayed in the little house we rented, took care of it. We got along fine that winter of ’73 to ’74, but none of us were very happy. I hated cooking, being ordered around by people. Course I’m good at cooking, but that doesn’t mean I like it. Garet was a good nurse, but she couldn’t stand being cooped up inside like that. That woman could get by with less sleep than anyone I’ve ever known. Four, five hours. When she had free time during the day, she sweet-talked the livery man into letting her exercise horses, brush them, feed them. Didn’t take him too long to realize who she was. Her reputation as a horsewoman was that good. They spent a lot of time talking horseflesh and racing. That wasn’t Garet’s line, but she’d learned a lot about it from her grandfather. That livery man picked her brain something fierce. He was a gambling man and wanted to make his fortune with the horses. Men bet on anything back then. Probably hasn’t changed, I don’t know. Jehu wasn’t ever much of a gambler.
“The man, I can’t remember his name, got kicked in the leg by a draft horse. Bones sticking out of it from all angles. Garet said blood was spurting everywhere. She saved his life, stopping the blood and sending for the doctor. Course, the man lost the lower part of his leg. He was out for a couple of months and asked Garet to run the livery for him in the meantime. So she did. He appreciated her keeping his business afloat, appreciated her running it so good he was making a tidy profit, even during the slow winter, but he sure didn’t appreciate the fact that other men poked fun at him about it. So when he got a stick to hobble around on, Garet was back to nursing.
“We could have stayed there, had an OK life. We’d made some friends. Garet even thought about opening her own livery to compete with the men. There was a woman there who was going to give her a loan, but Jed showed up and told us he knew just where we could stake a claim that no rich rancher would ever try to steal. None of us liked living in town overmuch, so we followed him to Timberline, his hideout on the Western Slope.
“Brown’s Hole was hell to get to. It was a box canyon that was part of three states, so the law didn’t tend to look too hard for it. Jurisdiction was a booger to figure out. Jed Spooner found the town the year before when he was on the run from the Cheyenne bank holdup. He offered the town money if they’d let them hide out there when needed. Jed kept that town afloat for a few years, until the pressure got too much and he and his gang split up for a spell, went down to Mexico. Those Texas Rangers turned him into a cold-blooded killer. Another story ole Hollywood gets wrong.
“The men were gone and the town was too remote to have much in the way of business. Those settlers were sold a bill of goods by the land promoters, and that’s a fact. Course, everyone lied to settlers. Nothing new. I suppose Timberline was worse off because they were almost trapped in that canyon. There was only one way in and out, and it was treacherous.
“Someone needed to take care of the town, so we did it. I always knew Garet wanted to pull another job. Saw it in her eyes every time Spooner and his boys would get into the bottle and start bragging. She knew she could do it better, and we did.
“We had a good run, too. Two years. Six jobs. Over fifty grand. You better believe it, ’cause it’s a fact.
“You know what, nah. I’m not going to tell you this story if you’re going to sit there and say you don’t believe this and I’m lying about that. We are too early in the proceedings for that. Hell, it isn’t any wonder women’s stories don’t get told. Anything out of the ordinary is written off as fanciful, or an overactive imagination. Like it never once occurs to people that women are just as capable as men, more capable in most cases ’cause we’re not all caught up in being men, and all that means.
“If you’re going to have that attitude about everything I tell you, if you’re going to interrupt me with that, you better get on up and leave right now. I have no time for it. Good.
“Jehu was what you might call our forward scout. He would keep his ears peeled for gossip about goings-on, listen to when payrolls were typically delivered and how. Gauging which mines were most successful, where the booms were, so we could hit the mine office. If we were hitting a bank or an office, Garet and I would move to the town, separately, and get jobs there. Well, I got a job. Garet would pretend to be rich British woman looking for investments or on a jaunt in the West like that Bird woman. You never heard of her? She was a little sensation back then. Wrote a book about her time in the Rocky Mountains. I read it. Not terrible. People didn’t think it too strange when Garet pretended to be the same.
“The first stage we held up in the spring of ’75 was up in Wyoming. Wore masks for that one because we knew men wouldn’t comply with women, especially since there was only three of us, me, Garet, and Stella. Jehu was the driver and he had a signal for us. If he wore a red kerchief around his neck, then there were too many guns in the stage. If he wore a blue one, we weren’t outnumbered. It went pretty smooth, but the odds made me nervous, all the same. There were five men and two women, all told, with only three of us. We knew Jehu wouldn’t try to take us, but you just didn’t know with the others. Went fine, though. We never stole from the passengers, only the businesses.
“We wanted to rob another stage in the mountains because we could disappear before anyone could get to the next town to call for help. We had horses trained in mountain riding. There wasn’t a posse in Colorado that could track us, and we knew it. When Jehu finally got a route that carried a Connolly payroll, I suggested we be bolder still. Purchase tickets on the stage to decrease the number of passengers we had to guard. It was Joan’s first job, so we had three people in a six-person coach. We lucked out even more when one of the passengers got off and his seat wasn’t taken. We were afraid if I rode in the stage someone might get suspicious, a black woman traveling alone wasn’t a common sight. I met the stage on the road at the appointed spot, and Garet had already had the stage stop and had everyone guarded.
“Went off without a hitch, and on the ride up to the cabin where we were going to change horses, I was having visions of doing more regular jobs, maybe going farther afield, doing some jobs in Utah, Wyoming. Hell, maybe even Arizona Territory. There’s nothing like the rush of outlawing, let me tell you. Nothing.
“I didn’t know that was the last job we would do when Garet rode up with Grace Trumbull riding double, but I guess I should have known. You can’t kidnap someone, bring them into your family, and expect for everything to keep going on as it was.
“Losing her ranch on the Poudre changed Garet. In lots of ways, but I think she saw injustice everywhere, even where it might not actually be. She saw the fact that the exploits of a female gang were being ignored, swept under the rug, as one more wrong against women. Hell, I saw it as a free ticket to do what we were doing as long as we could.
“I don’t think Garet wanted to brag about what we’d done, but she wanted us to get credit. Sounds like a contradiction, but it wasn’t. Not really. Garet saw in Grace an outsider who could write about us, objectively I guess. But Garet had a motivation I didn’t know anything about, and wouldn’t for a few more weeks. It was the most selfish thing she ever did, bringing Grace Trumbull along, and for a bit I hated her for it. Grace, not Garet. Garet had done too much for me, for others, to hold a grudge. I’ll be honest, my loyalty and love for Garet were put to the test more than once that summer. But you’ll forgive the people you love for a lot, I’ve found.
4
Margaret Parker’s Journal
Events of Wednesday, May 23, 1877
Written Monday, October
1, 1877
Heresy Ranch
Timberline, Colorado
When I rode up with Grace riding double, Hattie was not amused.
The trio had changed into their getaway outfits. Hattie had shed her masculine Union army getup for a plain brown dress. The red sash she’d worn around the waist of her coat was wrapped around her head in a turban. The cigar was gone, and her face had relaxed into its normal pleasant expression. The tone of her skin looked different, though I knew that she had done nothing more than change the color of dress she wore. Hattie LaCour was a chameleon and could change her entire demeanor with the slightest rearrangement of her features, going from a brusque, uneducated woman to the plain black woman in front of us to a beautiful seductress, if need be.
The sisters, however, could not. They were farm girls, intelligent in their way, but they would never make a living at poker. They were who they were, and didn’t see the need to apologize for it, and, as such, needed more help to hide in plain sight. They’d worn the disguise of innocent sisters easy enough, though Stella had chafed at the lace and frills. It was no surprise to see Stella with her hair slicked back, and wearing pants and a serape she traded for in Cheyenne and a light-gray felt John Bull she stole off a man during our first holdup. Joan’s frilly bodice was covered with a tight-fitting short green coat, and she was twisting her little-girl ringlets into one long braid that she liked to wear over her left shoulder.
—What are you doing, Margaret? Hattie asked.
—Margaret? That’s your name? Grace said.
Hattie sighed dramatically and walked off toward the cabin.
—Margaret. It suits you.
She was too close for me to focus, so I looked away.
—I prefer Garet.
—Shouldn’t have told her your name, Joan said. She shook her head with a maturity belying her seventeen years and tied her braid with a leather thong with wampum beaded on the ends. Stella handed Joan a brown gambler’s hat, and the transformation from a child holding a dolly to a young woman was complete.
It’s difficult, even now with everything that’s happened in the four months since we robbed the Marshall Pass stage, to come to terms with the fact that Joan is a woman. She and Stella came to us when they were twelve and nineteen, respectively. They were wise beyond their years; growing up on the Nebraska plains will do that to you. Joan wasn’t so lost to childhood that she didn’t enjoy, and take advantage of, all of us treating her like a child. Hattie, Jehu, and I did it out of love, to fill the hole of the children we would never have. Stella did it out of protectiveness, or control, to make sure what had happened to her didn’t happen to her sister. Stella succeeded, in a way. Joan was no shrinking violet, and she had more discernment than her sister did, but she was young, inexperienced, and headstrong, no thanks to us petting her. Stella didn’t like strangers, as a general rule, and she hated men. She trusted slowly, if at all, and during our hours in the stage together, I’d seen her throw a few smoldering looks Grace’s way. Joan had warmed to Grace on the stage, which probably accounted for a fair bit of Stella’s animosity toward Grace. I imagine Joan got an earful from Stella about the bluestocking on the ride to the cabin, fueling Joan’s newfound guardedness with Grace.
—I won’t be any trouble, I promise, Grace said.
—You’re already trouble. Look at your horse, Stella said.
I patted Grace’s knee and told her to hop off.
She landed on wobbly legs and reached out as if to touch the horse to steady herself. But a strange expression flitted across her face, and she pulled her hand away and stepped back.
My gray’s head hung low, and her breath came out in heavy gasps. I’d been careful not to blow her on the ascent to our meeting place, but she was close. I rubbed her sweaty neck and put my mouth close to the mare’s ear. “You’re my best girl. I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.” She turned her head to me and nudged me gently with her nose, showing that there were no hard feelings for the extra weight. Old Blue was an ugly horse; her head was too big, her neck too short, and her pale eyes gave her a crazy aspect that didn’t match her personality. But she was a devil in the mountains, sure-footed and a smooth ride no matter the terrain—and, if I was honest, probably the smartest member of our gang.
I miss her.
Joan came to take Old Blue’s reins to cool her down for me. I pulled Joan into my arms.—You were marvelous today.
—You really think so?
—A natural.
—Not according to Stella.
—She’s just afraid you’ll be better than her one day.
—Not bloody likely, Stella said.
I winked at Joan, who walked Blue off toward the barn. Stella glared at Grace, her scarred lip curled into a menacing sneer, and followed her sister.
—What is this place? Grace asked, her head swiveling around as she took in our surroundings.
The log cabin sat on the bank of a nameless creek that rushed across gray stones smoothed into perfect ovals from thousands of years of Rocky Mountain runoff. The cabin was small, but tidy and well cared for, and a thin stream of smoke rose from the chimney. Joan and Stella led Blue down a narrow, well-worn path to the small barn and corral. The getaway horses were in the corral getting their reward, while three saddled horses waited patiently, tied to the fence.
I told Grace to help the sisters with the horses and followed Hattie into the cabin.
The inside of the one-room cabin was as tidy as the outside. A brass bed mounded with quilts and thick pillows sat in one corner. An elk-hide rug lay on the floor between two rocking chairs, which faced the small fire crackling in the fireplace. Hattie was at the stove, stirring a pot of stew. I can still smell it, though the thought of eating it right now, months later, makes my stomach lurch unpleasantly.
Hattie handed me a cup of coffee.
—Thank you.
—Would you like to tell me what that woman is doing out there?
Hattie’s Creole accent came through her voice clearly when she was emotional.
I sipped the six-shooter coffee, knowing it would be strong enough for Jesus to walk across. I prepared myself for it to be horrible, but still pursed my lips and jerked my head back as the bitter taste hit the back of my tongue.
—Where’s Horace?
—Does it matter? Don’t change the subject.
The second swallow was always better than the first. I wrapped my chilled fingers around the warm, thick ceramic mug and drank to buy time. I’d asked myself why I’d brought Grace Trumbull along for the last two hours and hadn’t come up with a good answer, at least not an answer Hattie would like. I’d left plenty of innocent people in more remote spots, and had never given them or their comfort a second thought. Until Grace Trumbull. Grace, as if sensing my regrets, had been silent for the entire ride, besides a gasp or two as Blue nimbly made her way up the almost nonexistent mountain track. She had clutched my waist so tightly I’d finally had to tell her to loosen her grip, unless she wanted me to die from suffocation.
Hattie waited, arms crossed over her chest. I couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet.
—I don’t know. I like listening to her talk.
Hattie slipped back into her ignorant-slave patois.
—Our talk ain’t ’telligent ’nuf fo’ ya?
—That’s not it.
The answer was too quick.
Hattie looked at me from the sides of her eyes and went to the stove to stir the stew.
—She’s interesting, Hatt. Lord knows we need a little variety in Timberline.
She rounded on me.
—You’re bringing her home? Do you want us to get found out?
—No, of course not.
—We’re safe enough now, with her only knowing your name. But when Jehu walks through the door it’s all over. You can’t put him at risk like that.
—What was that with Jehu?
—Stop changing the damn subject, Garet.
Hattie point
ed the wooden spoon at the door. A bit of potato slipped off and onto the floor.
—You take that woman to Gunnison, drop her off outside of town, or we’ll all end up twisting from a high branch. That what you want?
—No, of course not.
—You’re sure acting like it.
A log in the fireplace settled and fell out onto the packed dirt floor. I used the small shovel leaning against the wall to toss the log back in. When I turned around, Hattie was watching me, the wooden spoon forgotten in her hand.
—You going to tell me what’s really going on? You don’t do anything without a plan, Margaret.
—That’s not entirely true.
Hattie tilted her head to the side, but remained silent, no doubt remembering my trembling, tearful confession about the unexpected direction my first bank job had taken. She was the only person I’d trusted with the knowledge that I’d killed a man, the only person I’d known wouldn’t judge me for my lack of remorse.
—Doesn’t it just … I squeezed my hands into fists and my voice deepened into a growl.—Infuriate you that we’re dismissed? Ignored. Jed Spooner is getting credit for everything we’re doing, and why? So men can save face.
—No, so we can keep on doing what we’re doing. And I’ve become somewhat partial to breathing. I’d like to do it for fifty more years.
—Look at Spooner. Angus King. Jesse James. Our jobs are bigger, cleverer. Hell, King can’t rob a train without using three times the TNT, injuring innocents. Jesse would just as soon kill someone as rob them. Spooner is a little more cunning, I’ll give him that.
—They also have sheriffs and Pinkertons and bounty hunters always after them. Hell, Spooner and his boys have been in Mexico for two years, laying low. You itching to visit Mexico?
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