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 pointed 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?

—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 teasing 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.