—God, no. I hate the heat.
—Me, too. What does all this have to do with that woman?
—Her name is Grace.
—I don’t care what her name is.
—You jealous, Hatt?
Hattie scoffed and turned her back to me, giving more attention to the stew than it probably deserved. I went up to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
—Horace leave this for us or you make it?
Hattie shook her head. She refused to cook. Said it reminded her too much of her slave days.
—I want to make sure you get your due. You’re the brains of this outfit, Hattie.
—That’s true.
Hattie met my gaze, her copper-colored eyes serious, and told me to answer her question.
—I want Grace to be our witness.
—Our witness? For the trial against us when she turns us in?
—She’s out here on a grand tour, to write her memoirs.
—Rich white woman memoirs, just what the world needs.
—I want there to be one objective person to know our story. To tell it. No one will believe us. Men will lie about us. Grace won’t.
—You sure got a good read on her from knowing her a few hours.
—I know that I can manipulate her into writing what we want. The Legend of Hattie LaCour. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
—I don’t want to be a legend.
—You will be, though. With a name like Hattie LaCour, how could you not?
—Please. No one will tell a story with a slave as the hero. Especially that rich white woman out there.
—You’re not a slave anymore.
—Doesn’t matter and you know it. Margaret, you know good and well if people knew for sure that we were pulling these jobs that they wouldn’t leave us be. They’d be damn sure to make a spectacle of us so we wouldn’t give any other women ideas. There is no way in hell they’re going to give a Negro woman her due. They’ll be imagining a black uprising before they finish reading a sentence. Have you never thought of what they’ll do to me if they catch us? Won’t be the same they do to you, I can promise you that.
I looked down and away, ashamed that I hadn’t considered it, and sick at the knowledge she was right. She’d never told me about her time in captivity. Not a word. But I’d seen the scars on her back and knew she’d suffered.
She let the silence lengthen, to make sure I felt my shame sufficiently. I embraced her, and after an initial pause, she wrapped her strong arms around me. Hattie was tall and big-boned, with warm light-brown skin. Long eyelashes framed her copper-colored eyes, and once a month one of us takes a straight razor to her head. Not that it matters overmuch, since she wears a tignon all the time. She is quite possibly the most intelligent woman I’ve ever known, and without a doubt the most beautiful. She enchanted me from the first time I saw her standing defiantly in my barn, wearing my own dress. It was easy enough to see that Jehu was head over heels for her. Loving Hattie, respecting her, was the easiest thing in the world. I can admit now, at the end of my life, that a germ of motivation for most of my exploits was to impress my best friend.
—Henrietta LaCour, I’d die before I let anything happen to you.
She squeezed me close.
—I’d prefer none of us die.
—You’re too ornery to die.
—That’s true.
We pulled apart and didn’t look at each other. We weren’t much for hugging or showing emotion, and when we did we tended to pretend it hadn’t happened. But it always stayed with me long after, and I knew it did the same for Hattie.
I wish I’d hugged Hattie more.
Hattie ladled some soup into a bowl and held it out to me.
—We’re damn lucky we haven’t robbed someone who’s not too proud to admit it. We will, one day, and soon, probably. Might have today, Hattie said.
—If Jehu wasn’t on our side, I’d be worried.
—I was talking about the pissing man.
—I’m not worried about Adamson. But I do want to know what that was with Jehu. And don’t tell me I’m changing the subject. You two have a fight before he left?
—Jehu doesn’t fight. You know that.
—After what you pulled, I have a feeling he might when he gets home.
Hattie put a spoon on the table next to me and smiled for the first time since we’d left the ranch a week ago.
—Good.
I never did find out why Hattie threatened her lover with a knife.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. I tried not to grimace when the food hit my stomach. I put the spoon down, hoping I’d eaten enough to keep Hatt from being suspicious.
—Grace is only a threat if she can find Timberline. We’ll blindfold her, or put a flour sack over her head. We’ll take her on a tour of the mountains so that she’s so confused by which way is which, she’ll never be able to give away our location.
—It’s a big risk.
—You remember when we met? I trusted you on a lot shorter acquaintance than I have with Grace Trumbull. Now I’m asking you to trust me.
Hattie inhaled deeply and looked up to the heavens. I knew I had her, but I decided I needed one more bit of assurance.
I reached out for Hattie’s hand. My friend looked at me in resignation.
—I won’t let my guard down. If I start to suspect she’s not on the level, I’ll kill her myself.
Grace knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.
—They rode off without a word.
—That’s what dey’s ’posed to do, Hattie said.
She’d pushed her bottom lip out, overemphasizing its fullness, and wiped her hands on her apron like a kitchen maid. I half expected her to ladle up some soup for Grace, but apparently Hattie’s playacting didn’t extend to providing hospitality to a bluestocking such as Grace.
—We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Grace Trumbull.
Grace held out a gloved hand to Hattie, who barely acknowledged it and didn’t shake it.
—If it wasn’t for you, we’d be leaving, too, Hattie said.
—I don’t mean to slow you down.
—Would you like something to eat, Grace?
—Yes, I’m famished. Banditry sure makes you hungry.
Her laughter died at Hattie’s stoic silence. Grace couldn’t disguise the fear on her face, and decided to hide it through chatter.
—What is this place?
—A cabin, Hattie said.
—Well, yes, of course. But whose is it?
—Eat. I placed a bowl on the table with a spoon and returned to my own.
Grace set her carpetbag by the door. Hatt stood directly in the way of Grace’s place at the table. Grace moved to one side, then the other, but Hattie didn’t move. Grace laughed nervously, straightened her shoulders, and looked Hattie directly in the eye.
—You don’t like me much, do you?
—No.
—Well, I like you very much.
—You don’t know me.
—Nor do you know me.
Hattie looked down her nose at the woman, taking Grace Trumbull’s measure. The bluestocking wore a copper-colored traveling suit and a feminine John Bull the deep green of late-summer leaves, with a thick silk ribbon that matched her suit. After a long moment in which Grace smiled steadily, Hattie stepped aside. Grace relaxed just enough that I knew the confrontation had taken some courage. With gloved hands she unbuttoned and removed her coat, showing a vest beautifully embroidered with intricately intertwined vines over a bright white shirt. She draped the coat over her chair with great care and sat down to eat. Her hand shook as she picked up her spoon. She blew on the steaming stew before taking a tentative bite. Her eyebrows rose, and she nodded in appreciation.
—Irish stew.
—Squirrel stew, Hattie said.
Grace coughed, spewing her mouthful onto the table. Hattie’s mouth twisted into a grin.
—She’s teas
ing you. It’s Irish stew.
I caught Hattie’s eye and shook my head. She shrugged one shoulder.
With her eyes defiantly on Hattie, Grace took another bite.
—Umm. Whatever it is, it’s delicious.
Hattie tossed a towel on the table for Grace to clean her own mess.
—Is this your cabin? Where you live?
—No.
—The owner lets us rest here. Change horses, I explained.
—Where’s the owner?
—None of your business, Hattie said.
—I’m merely trying to make conversation.
—You’re not making conversation; you’re interrogating.
—I hardly call two questions an interrogation.
—You understand every question you ask us puts our lives in danger? Knowing Garet’s name puts us in danger? Hattie said.
Grace rested her spoon in her bowl and wiped her mouth with the towel. She cleared her throat.
—What can I do to make you trust me?
—Hmm … Most likely nothing.
—I understand your plight better than you think.
—My plight.
—As a Negro. I come from a long line of suffragists and abolitionists.
—Oh! She’s an abolitionist. That makes all the difference.
—My parents and grandparents were. I was too young to do anything. But I eavesdropped on their meetings and have heard them reminisce about the movement and its success.
Hattie’s eyes narrowed and her mouth pressed into a very thin line. I wondered, briefly, if Grace was trying to antagonize her.
—Well, we sho thankful for dey’s help in freein’ us.
Grace blushed and looked down at her traveling gloves, but she didn’t apologize.
—Where are you from? Hattie asked.
—Chicago.
—What is a woman like you doing on a stage in Colorado?
—Traveling.
Hattie leaned over and looked Grace up and down again, taking in the richness of the woman’s dress.
—Your family let you travel like that alone?
—Like what?
—Dressed like you shit gold coins.
Grace stilled and glanced back and forth between me and Hattie, apparently realizing she was a rich woman alone, in a remote cabin with two outlaws. Her gaze settled on me.
—Don’t look at her. I’m talking to you.
Grace lifted her chin and turned to Hattie, but she didn’t look her full on.
—I think you’re trying to scare me.
—Garet said you were smart.
Hattie leaned forward over Grace.
—I’m protecting me and my own.
—I’m no threat.
—You keep saying. Lies are thick on the ground out west. Here we judge people on their actions. Remember that, blue belly. Eat up. We leave in five minutes.
Hattie let the door slam behind her. Grace exhaled and turned to me.
—Why didn’t you stand up for me?
—Why would I?
—Because she’s … I thought we were friends.
—I’ve known you for a day. I’ve known Hattie for years, trust her with my life every day. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister. She’s suspicious of you, and while I don’t necessarily agree with her, I respect her opinion.
—You trust me.
—I wouldn’t go that far. That’ll be the last bit of food you get till morning, probably. Best finish it up.
—Are you going to let her boss us around like that?
—Why shouldn’t she?
—Well … I thought you were in charge.
—What gave you that idea?
Grace sniffed, but didn’t answer.
—We’re equal partners, Hattie and me. The color of her skin makes no difference to me, or Joan or Stella. If it does to you, I’ll take you to Gunnison right now. I have no patience for that kind of pettiness, nor do I have time to deal with it. So which’ll it be? Gunnison, or Heresy Ranch?
—Heresy Ranch? Is that where you live?
—Yes.
—Where did you …
—Answer the question; we’re running behind.
—Heresy Ranch, of course.
I pulled some money out of the saddlebag on the bed and placed it on the small dresser.
—You pay these people to help you?
—Horace hired us to do the job. To get the full worth of his mine back from Connolly.
—You’re like Robin Hood. You’re stealing to help people.
—I’m doing it for the thrill. Helping people keeps me from feeling guilty that I enjoy it so much.
Grace seemed disappointed, and truth be told, I probably should have let her believe I was all beneficence for a little longer.
—No one does anything out of the goodness of their heart, Grace. Even Mainline philanthropists get satisfaction from their generosity, either self-satisfaction, or, to give them the benefit of the doubt, the pleasure in knowing they have truly helped someone. But everyone wants something in return.
—You want something from me?
—I do. I’ll tell you in good time. Are you going to finish your stew?
—No.
She took her bowl to the basin and stared at the water.
—There’s … um … remnants.
—Yes.
—What should I do with them?
—Eat them.
—Is this squirrel stew?
—Probably.
She wrinkled her nose and finished her portion in a very unlady- like few bites. She turned to the basin and daintily dipped the bowl in the water, trying not to get her gloves wet.
—It would be easier if you took the gloves off.
—This is fine.
She cleaned the bowl and asked me where she could relieve herself.
COLORADO WEEKLY CHIEFTAIN
THURSDAY, MAY 31, 1877
BOLD STAGE ROBBERY AT MARSHALL PASS
The Wells Fargo stage from Cañon City to Montrose was robbed by four masked bandits on May 23. The four outlaws made away with the Connolly Mining Company payroll, making it the third time in a year that one of the late Colonel Connolly’s businesses have been targeted. News of the robbery has been sent to Columbia, where his son and heir, Callum Connolly, is working alongside his miners.
A posse left as soon as the stage made it to Gunnison, but the thieves’ lead was too long and they successfully used the rocky terrain of the mountains to get away.
It is suspected this is the same Spooner Gang that has been targeting Connolly Industries for the last two years. However, there are conflicting reports about the identities of the bandits. It is rumored that Jed Spooner and his men have been in Mexico since their confirmed robbery of the Cheyenne National Bank back in ’75. The Connolly outlaws have given Spooner credit from the beginning, but announcing his name isn’t something Spooner has ever done in his confirmed robberies. There are some similarities, though: both gangs hit quickly, are extremely efficient, avoid violence and manage to get away cleanly. Until now. Benjamin Adamson, Connolly’s new clerk, was beaten during the Marshall Pass robbery. He is laid up with a concussion, but should survive.
5
Margaret Parker’s Journal
Thursday, May 24, 1877
Northwest of Marshall Pass, Colorado
I’m writing this by the glow of a fire under a star-speckled moonless sky. Hattie is asleep next to me, brows furrowed, body tense, head pillowed on the seat of her saddle, her rifle within reach. Grace is across the fire, her face slack, her mouth open in a slight snore, careless of danger, her hands folded together on her chest, her gloves grimy with leather dust from choking the saddle horn for three hours as if her life depended on it. Our horses are picketed just outside the glow of the fire, but I can hear their snuffles, swishing tails, and the occasional stomp of a hoof, and it calms me.
It’s hard to believe it hasn’t been a day since we held up the stage. Th
is isn’t where I’d imagined we would be, or whom I’d imagined we’d be with, when planning the heist. Hattie is beside herself with anger, though her placid demeanor and expression would make a stranger think different. She’s never more terrifying than when she’s silent. If she’d yell and rail against me, or Grace, it would be a comfort. I can talk anyone, man or woman, out of that kind of mood. Silence, though, always cuts straight through me. Of course, Hatt knows that, which is why she’s been spare with her words.
I’m extending my watch a little longer so I can start this journal. I haven’t written a diary since the early days of our time in the territory. My journal was the ranch accounts and correspondence. There was too much work and too little time. Writing about my hopes and dreams and wishes and chronicling my life seemed indulgent. Besides, my life was the ranch; there was very little outside of it, until Jehu started bringing strays home, but that’s a story for later.
I’m starting with the events from Horace’s cabin, because my memory of the robbery is thin. It’s always the way. The high I receive from the event seems to wipe my memory clean. There are impressions, but it can take me days to remember the details, what was said, who did what. I want to chew on it for a while and get it down right. I think the last heist of the Parker Gang deserves that much, at least.
Hattie and I were mounted and waiting when Grace finally emerged from the outhouse with an expression of revulsion on her face, complaining about the closeness. I asked if she’d never used an outhouse before and she replied,—I have, only not one so … fetid. Hattie snapped that we didn’t have all day and that a posse would catch us for sure if we didn’t put some ground between us. When Grace held out her carpetbag and made ready to get on behind me, well, I think Hattie’s head would have exploded if it weren’t so tightly wrapped.
—What are you doing? Don’t you see the horse tied to the fence?
A docile, saddled blaze-faced bay with its back leg cocked turned its head to assess Grace. I’d left a little extra money to pay Horace for the horse and tack, with plans to return it as soon as possible and exchange this horse for Old Blue. I introduced Grace to Rebel, her mount for the next few days. In a faint voice she repeated the name and said she hoped it wasn’t indicative of his personality, before cautiously approaching the horse. I assured her Rebel was the gentlest horse imaginable (only a slight lie, but as long as we didn’t run across any snakes she would be fine).
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