Heresy

by Melissa Lenhardt

  Grace’s voice sounded rather close by.

  —This is an uncomfortable ride, Salter. Why don’t you let Ruby and me take your place? You know how to drive a wagon, don’t you, Ruby?

  —I do.

  —There you go.

  —I’m not about to put you in charge of driving the wagon.

  —You don’t trust me?

  —No, I don’t, Claire Hamilton. Pinkerton told me about you, how softhearted you are.

  —I know all about you, too. And I know the chances of us making it to Denver are slim. Especially since you’re heading north, not east.

  —You probably would make a good detective.

  —I am a good detective.

  —Not as good as I am, and not for much longer, you aren’t.

  I took a deep, steadying breath, and the stitches in my stomach pulled tight. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying out.

  Grace and Hattie had painted the scene for me as best they could. Two men on the driver’s bench, three women in the wagon bed with my coffin. A lid that was open just enough I could hear easily, and I could see the dark-blue fabric of a woman’s dress to my left. I lifted my head to see toward my feet. Lighter-colored fabric next to the blue. The side of the wagon visible through the right edge. I thought the head of the coffin was closest to the end of the wagon, but I wasn’t sure. I pushed against the lid and, after the smallest resistance, it released, widening the crack a quarter inch. I breathed deeply and wished I had a bit of the hawthorn to slow my racing heart down. It was nothing like the adrenaline rush I got from outlawing. Taking a man’s life is a sobering proposition, even if it is in the service of saving someone else’s.

  It’s been a few weeks. I’m over it now.

  I lifted the lid a bit more and saw Ruby’s face. I pointed toward my feet and mouthed,—Two men? She nodded. I held up three fingers and counted down. When I hit one, I curled my hand into a fist and pushed against the lid. I sat up and pumped the rifle at the same time. Hattie, directly in front of me, ducked. I put a hole the size of a melon in one man’s back, pumped the rifle again, and blew half of Salter’s head off. In the split second before Salter realized he was dead, I saw his shock that he had been bested by a bunch of women.

  The gunshots echoed off the canyon wall, and the wagon horses bolted. Hattie got up unsteadily, realized her hands were cuffed behind her back.

  —Grace, she shouted.

  Grace climbed over the coffin and around Hattie and got the reins.

  —Pull back, pull back, Hattie yelled.

  —I am, goddamn it. They’re strong.

  —Well, you better hurry the hell up because see that curve up there? The horses are gonna make it, but this wagon sure ain’t.

  I pushed myself to my feet for the first time in I didn’t know how long. The world went sideways, and I nearly fell over the side. Ruby caught me and told me to sit down.

  —Give me one, Ruby said, and together she and Grace were able to slow the horses down enough that the wagon didn’t go careening over the side of the cliff and into the river. It took them about a hundred more yards, but they were finally able to stop the team.

  The last thing I saw before I passed out was Ruby and Grace hugging, and Hattie telling them to stop celebrating and find the damn key.

  BLACK HAWK BULLETIN

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 28, 1877

  CHARNEL HOUSE ON GREGORY STREET

  FRANK & LANA CHAMBERS AMONG FOUR DEAD

  Frank and Lana Chambers, owners of the Gregory Street boardinghouse bearing their name, met a bloody fate on August 23, when an argument turned deadly. Mrs. Chambers, whom residents of Black Hawk know as feisty, pulled a gun on a Pinkerton who was there looking for her son, Zeke. Frank Chambers defended his wife, as any husband would, and the result was a pulpy mess of dead bodies on the kitchen floor. Two other Pinkertons survived the onslaught to give testimony of an event no one else witnessed.

  The fourth fatality was a woman who succumbed to cancer after a lengthy illness. Dr. Alida Avery, a doctor who accompanied Susan B. Anthony to her speech at the Methodist church, attended the sick woman, as well as those who met with violence, though nothing could be done to help.

  Lana and Frank Chambers will be buried in the Masonic Cemetery on Saturday at two o’clock, with a short service performed graveside.

  The boardinghouse, located in a prime part of Gregory Street, will be auctioned off by the town on Tuesday next. There have already been rumblings from some that the auction is for show only, and that Nathaniel Hill has already reached an agreement with the mayor for the vacant house, for use as a dormitory for the smelters he is bringing in from Wales. The auction is expected to be eventful, so get there early, and bring a picnic lunch.

  ROCKY MOUNTAIN NEWS

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 26, 1877

  OBITUARY

  DUCHESS OF PARKERTON, MARGARET ELIZABETH STANDRIDGE PARKER

  Born in 1843 in Somerset, England, died August 23, 1877, Black Hawk, Colorado. Preceded in death by her husband, Lieutenant Thomas Parker, veteran of the Charge of the Light Brigade. Mrs. Parker and her husband toured the West on their honeymoon in 1863 and decided to settle in the territory. Lieutenant Parker claimed 160 acres for himself and 160 for his wife in the Cache la Poudre valley and started a horse ranch, which was stolen from her by Colonel Louis Connolly after Mr. Parker, then the Duke of Parkerton, died from a long illness. Since she cannot be buried next to her husband on their ranch, she will be buried in Riverside Cemetery.

  26

  Margaret Parker’s Journal

  Sunday, August 26, 1877

  Denver, Colorado

  I woke in a lumpy bed in a seedy room, with Alida Avery listening to my heartbeat with a stethoscope. She smiled when she saw I was awake, shook her head, and said I might live forever.

  —Don’t say such a thing. What day is it?

  —Sunday, August twenty-sixth.

  —The vote is almost upon us. What do you think of your chances?

  —I’m not sure bringing in Miss Anthony and her comrades has been to our advantage.

  —I’m sorry to hear that. I would like nothing more than to see the amendment pass before I die.

  —So would I.

  —Where is everyone?

  —They have gone to rescue someone named Jehu.

  She told me not to sit up, but I ignored her and regretted it. She helped me lie back down, gave me a sip of water, and wiped the perspiration from my forehead.

  —Rescue him from what?

  —He’s in jail in Cheyenne, I believe. That was where they left for yesterday, at least.

  —Yesterday? How long have I been here? When did I ki—When did they bring me to Denver?

  —Two days ago. The ruse worked, against all odds.

  I steeled myself against the pain and sat up again. She asked me where I thought I was going.

  —To help my friends.

  —Hattie told me you would do this.

  —You’re goddamn right I’m doing it.

  —Really, your language is unnecessary.

  —I apologize.

  She handed me a letter, which I’ve already lost, of course. In it Hattie told me to sit still and recover for a day or two. If things went as expected, Joan and Stella would be in Cheyenne and they would easily be able to spring Jehu with five people, maybe six if they could talk Rhodes into helping. When they got back with Jehu, the real planning would begin. The job was still on, as far as she was concerned. The only thing that could muck it up was if I got it in my mind to come save the day. She had it under control.

  What was unsaid, but in between every line, was that it was about time they went out on their own. I wasn’t going to be around much longer, and they had to learn how to rely on themselves.

  —They left you a loaded shotgun. And a box of shells, which is a bit much for a bedridden woman, don’t you think?

  A gunshot rang out in the distance, and Alida jumped.

  —I suppose not, she
said.

  I started laughing and grabbed my side in pain.

  She repositioned me in bed and gave me a draught of laudanum, a small one at my request.

  —What happened to your escorts?

  I shook my head and didn’t answer. A pained expression crossed her face.

  —I am afraid I’m mixed up in something that will haunt me, she said.

  —No. I promise. When they return I will leave Denver and never return. I will be dead soon, and none of the gang will give you up. I swear it.

  She took a deep breath as if steeling herself to believe me.

  —I feel I should tell you something, though Hattie asked me not to.

  —What is it?

  —The shooting, at the boardinghouse. The Chamberses were killed.

  Though she hadn’t witnessed it, she was able to fill me in on the details she’d heard secondhand from Claire, which led to one inescapable conclusion: Lana, Zeke, and Frank were all dead because they’d helped me, and Callum Connolly was responsible.

  —Was he arrested?

  —Who? Connolly? No. He didn’t kill anyone, as far as I know. He left soon after, remember?

  —Yes, of course. Was anyone arrested?

  —No.

  —Dr. Avery? What are you not telling me?

  She cleared her throat.—It was blamed on the Chamberses. Hattie, Grace, and that pretty little Chinawoman tried to tell the sheriff what happened, but he wasn’t interested. The newspaper article wasn’t terrible, at least. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

  —Thank you for telling me.

  —From your expression, I’m afraid I shouldn’t have.

  —No, Doctor, this is my I probably should have a stronger dose of laudanum expression.

  —I knew it.

  She turned away to mix the drug with whisky, and I snatched her stethoscope from her bag and put it under my blankets. She placed the drink on the small table next to my bed.

  —When you are better, will you go home, Margaret?

  —You mean there’s the possibility I will get out of this bed?

  Dr. Avery looked sheepish.—A small one, yes.

  —Well, if I am so lucky, I’m not sure what I’ll do. In truth, I’m not sure there’s a home to go to.

  —Where else would you go?

  —I hear there’s a canyon in Arizona Territory worth seeing before you die.

  Dr. Avery’s mouth tightened, as if my death, and her inability to stop it, were somehow her fault.

  —I’ve thought a lot about it, my death. That’s a benefit of knowing it’s coming sooner rather than later. Of course, we are all terminal, but I’ve been given a gift, don’t you think? I can determine how and when I die.

  —You wouldn’t …?

  —Take my own life? Hmm. No, not personally. There’s more than one way to die.

  —Oh, Margaret. I wish I could do more for you.

  I didn’t know what to say to her, how to make her feel better, if it was even my responsibility. Dr. Avery had removed the tumor, and I was generally more comfortable for it. How could I not be with a five-pound solid mass no longer poking out of my abdomen? But her news that the cancer had spread to other organs, while expected, was still devastating.

  Dr. Avery was quiet for a moment.

  —Can I ask you something?

  —Of course.

  —Are you an outlaw?

  —Did Grace give you that idea?

  —Who’s Grace?

  —Right, Claire Hamilton. Former Pinkerton agent.

  —Is she truly? I had no idea. But it makes sense. At a meeting last month, she asked a group of us about a gang of female outlaws and if we’d heard of them. She was talking about you, wasn’t she?

  —Do I look like an outlaw?

  —No.

  —Have you ever met an outlaw?

  —No, but with everything that happened in Black Hawk …

  —Of course.

  I drank the opiate-laced whisky and felt the familiar rush of numbness almost immediately. I hated myself for the weakness, for choosing this little bit of oblivion for the night instead of facing what I’ve wrought, but I’m just so damn tired. I’m alone, and don’t have to be strong for anyone. Not for a few hours. The reckoning will come soon enough.

  —Promise me something, will you, Dr. Avery?

  —Yes.

  —Don’t believe everything you hear about me.

  —What if I hear good things?

  —Especially not the good things.

  —I have only known you for a brief time, and much of that time you’ve been unconscious, but there is something about you that is fascinating.

  —Claire said the same thing the first day we met. Once she got to know me, I think the fascination wore off.

  Dr. Avery laughed.

  —Hardly. I’ll come check on you tomorrow afternoon. If you need anything at all, this is how to find me. She placed a small card on the desk next to the box of shells, which sat on top of a familiar-looking notebook.

  —I can’t believe that made it back with me.

  —Is it your journal?

  —My memoirs, in fact. I need to work on them with all this free time I have.

  —I hope I get to read them someday.

  —So do I.

  Sunday, August 26, 1877, cont

  I’ll confess I’m disappointed there wasn’t a funeral for me. Rather difficult to have one when the two men returning you to Denver are dead and had been rolled down the side of a canyon, I suppose. The obituary ran, so I am officially a dead woman.

  It is rather freeing.

  Indulge me while I imagine what my funeral would have been like if I hadn’t shot Salter and the other Pinkerton full of lead. It would have been held on a Saturday afternoon, in a small church near the Riverside Cemetery. You know the one, all out there by itself three miles down the Platte toward Nebraska. The wind would have been blowing across the plains, whipping the mourning dresses worn by Claire, Dorcas, and Alida Avery. Her presence would have been necessary to put the final nail in my coffin, so to speak. To complete the ruse. I would hope that they would let Hattie out of jail for the service, but most like not. If she could go, she’d wear the bright red tignon, in one of her more fanciful styles, tied on the side like I like. Ruby would be there, too, I suppose. I still haven’t gotten a clear story on how she came to be in Black Hawk. There’s going to be lots of explaining to do when they return with Jehu.

  But since there was no funeral, Dr. Avery doesn’t have her reputation staked on my death. None of us will rat her out; the only man who knows she confirmed the death is Callum Connolly, and, well, I have plans for him. He doesn’t expect any of us to come back from Black Hawk alive, and he won’t miss Salter or his henchman for a while. Which buys me some time.

  It’s Sunday afternoon and the business district is quiet. I stared into a shop window at the building behind me. Dark and quiet at the front, as expected. I walked down the street, stopping at every window, a man out for a morning stroll. The truth was the laudanum had worn off and I needed to stop frequently because of the pain in my stomach. It felt as if someone had taken a whisk to my insides, and the stitches holding everything in were tight and painful. In an hour or less I could drink the laudanum in my pocket. It would be my reward for a successful job.

  Pain or no, I knew when I saw that safe in Connolly’s office a month ago that I had to crack it.

  Years ago, when Spooner and his gang first started using the Poudre River Ranch as their hideout, Ought-Not taught me how to crack a safe. He needed to practice for the job they were planning, and our safe was the same brand, only significantly smaller, as the one they were robbing. I stood over him to make sure he kept his eyes averted from the dial. When I asked to have a go at it, he handed me the stethoscope, and I cracked it on the third try. Ought-Not was impressed, said I had a career in crime. When Jehu and I robbed Connolly’s bank back in ’73, I didn’t try to crack the safe. I was too nervou
s and not confident enough in my skills. It was easier, and more of a sure thing, to use the clerk.

  I went down the alley at the back of the building and found the service entrance. I knocked and waited, listening for footsteps. When none came, I pulled out the twelve-inch crowbar I’d borrowed from a blacksmith near the tenderloin district (one of my first rest breaks), wedged it between the door and jamb, and pried open the door, leaving more damage than I’d wanted.

  I walked through the building as if I were supposed to be there. It’s easier to pull off a lie if you’re confident about it. I saw no one, thought, This is too easy, and smelled cigar smoke at the same time I saw the light on in Connolly’s office. I shoved the crowbar beneath my belt and pulled my sawed-off shotgun out from under my coat.

  Grace, or Claire, you may be wondering right now what’s gotten into me. When did I turn into a cold-blooded killer? November 19, 1873. The day I robbed my first bank.

  What follows isn’t a justification of my actions, and it isn’t an apology. I did it, and I don’t regret it. At least not anymore. I stopped regretting killing men when I poisoned the colonel in ’74.

  Alfie Gernsbeck caught me on a bad day, one of the lowest of my life. Instead of trying to help a woman who was clearly starving and without a coat at the start of winter, he decided taking me to a back alley and fucking me was what I needed. I needed his coat, and a distraction, so I blew his brains out, much like I did with Salter. It was an impulse born of months and months of being taken advantage of, of being dismissed, betrayed, talked down to, being insulted by almost every man I came in contact with. I didn’t think of men as individuals, but as a toxic hole whose only goal was to protect their power by keeping women down, subservient. By taking me into that alley, Alfie Gernsbeck showed himself to be just another man, like all the others who had put me in the position of needing to rob a bank to survive.

  After the job, I wasn’t sure if my elation was from robbing the bank or killing Gernsbeck. I didn’t analyze it too much. We had money, Spooner took us to the Hole that next spring, and we started over. I should have been happy to move on, content, but I kept thinking of the adrenaline of that day, how alive I felt. I knew I was going to do another job, I just wasn’t sure when. As I replayed that day over and over in my mind, reveling in getting away with something so brazen, of making a fool of Connolly, I started seeing the colonel’s face when I lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. It was the colonel’s skull I saw splattered on that wall. You imagine something like that enough, and it gets in your brain. I knew that I’d killed the wrong man, that it should have been the colonel, and that my mind wouldn’t be at rest until it was.