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. This 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).

Grace hooked her carpetbag on the saddle horn, untied the horse, and started to mount. From the right side of the horse, with the wrong foot in the stirrup. She started to pull herself up, realized she would be facing backward, and stepped back down.

Hattie cursed under her breath and said to me,—You kidnapped her, you help her.

Grace’s face was pale and her gloved hands shook. I saw her silence and strong grip around my waist on the ride to the cabin in a new light, and asked her if she knew how to ride. She shook her head and stepped away from the horse. Grace grasped her throat, swallowed thickly, and asked if she could ride with me.

I told her riding double in the mountains was too difficult for the horses, and besides it would slow us down considerably. We needed to put miles between us and the posse that was sure to follow.

Grace acquiesced, but all the color had drained from her face. Even her lips were white.

I led her around the horse and instructed her how to get on, assuring her the whole time that Rebel was a very calm horse. Rebel, as if determined to show me for a liar, threw his head up and down. Grace squeaked.

I placed my hand on her knee and told her horses could feel her fear, to which Grace replied, with a wry humor I hadn’t expected,—Wonderful.

Showing humor in the face of fear, well, it made me like her even more. I gave her a few more tips and Hattie’d had enough, saying in a gruff voice that we didn’t have time for mollycoddling.

—Then leave, I snapped.

Hattie dismounted and went into the barn.

I adjusted Grace’s left hand so that it held the reins correctly and proceeded to explain to her how to ride in the simplest terms possible.

Hattie emerged from the barn holding a rope. She fashioned it into a makeshift halter and put it over Rebel’s bridle. Hattie readjusted Grace’s reins and mounted her own horse, lead rope in hand.

—Hold on, she said, and clicked at her horse, and they were off.

I watched them ride away with mixture of anger and astonishment. Leave it to Hattie to simplify everything and take action. Her practical streak had saved my life more than once, but it’s never stopped chafing me that she sees through all the complications to the simplest answer and course of action.

When I caught up, Hattie handed me the lead rope and loped off.

—Where is she going?

—To scout ahead.

—Am I really slowing you down?

—Yes.

—Tell me what I can do to remedy that.

—Do what you’re told, and don’t bait Hattie.

—Bait Hattie? She’s the one …

Grace saw my expression and finished,—Yes, OK. Don’t bait Hattie.

We carried along at an easy trot for a half mile. I watched Grace carefully. For a woman who was afraid of horses, she had a surprisingly solid seat. Her back was erect, from tension and fear, I suppose. She didn’t bounce around in the saddle like so many new riders, though Rebel’s smooth gait probably helped her. She was comfortable enough to start talking and asking questions.

—That’s her name? Hattie?

I’d forgotten Hattie had made a point of not introducing herself.

—Yes.

She started asking questions about Hattie and I stopped her. If Hattie wants to tell Grace her story, as it doesn’t relate to us, that’s her business. I’m not going to do it, though. Grace was disappointed but said she understood.

Grace waved away a black fly buzzing around her head and almost fell off her horse in the process. When she spoke, her voice was shaky.

—So, Garet, tell me how you got started in the outlaw life.

—We were hungry and didn’t have any money.

—But why banditry? Surely there was another option.

—Such as?

—Oh, teaching, perhaps. I hear they’re in short supply out here.

—I don’t like kids. No one would hire Hattie, and the sisters are illiterate.

—Are? Haven’t you tried to teach them to read and write?

—Hattie has. Stella doesn’t see the letters in the right order and gave it up pretty quick. Joan doesn’t see the need.

—Of course there’s a need. Women can’t expect to win the right to vote if we aren’t educated. By keeping us uneducated, men are able to control us.

—That’s not the only way.

—No.

Grace was silent for a bit, then said,—And men aren’t the only ones who want to control what’s acceptable for women to do, to be. She said it real quiet like, and when I glanced over she was rubbing her fingers against her palms. She stopped when she caught me, smiled, and said,—But we have no chance of slipping off the yoke of oppression if we can’t learn, think, and reason for ourselves.

—Is that what you did?

She got all haughty on me.

—I don’t know what you mean.

I moved on, but I was sure to keep her actions and words in the back of my mind to ponder later on.

—Oh, then you probably heard it in a women’s salon where they talk about women’s rights but don’t ever seem to make much progress. You’re new to the West, Grace, so I’ll let you in on a little secret: All this talk of freedom to make something of yourself, the American dream and all that? That’s only meant for men. Women alone can’t be too successful. Men are threatened by independent women. Especially independent colored women.

Her mouth tightened. Grace really doesn’t have a poker face, though I can tell she tries.

—You sound like you know that from experience. Are you speaking of your banditry?

—Not only, no. I haven’t always been an outlaw. Have you always been a travel writer?

—No. Do I detect a hint of an accent in your voice? Where are you from?

—England, originally. I’ve been over here since ’63.

—Tell me all about it.

—Later.

—How did Stella get the scar on her lip?

—I don’t know.

—How do you not know?

—She hasn’t told me, and I haven’t asked.

—Aren’t you curious?

—Some people don’t like to talk about their troubles. Some people do. I listen when they need an ear and stay silent when they want to keep their own counsel.

—It’s going to be difficult to write about you all if you won’t talk to me about how you ended up here.

—Hattie doesn’t want me to.

—And do you do everything she says?

—It’s always good advice. I’d be a fool not to.

—Can you tell me how you named your ranch?

—We are heretics, Grace. Didn’t you know? Women doing men’s work, not knowing our place. Having the audacity to think we should be treated with respect. It’s scandalous.

—The ranch name is facetious, then?

—It might have started that way, over a few glasses of whisky. Our motto was definitely the result of whisky.

—Motto?

—It’s from The Tempest. Hattie thought of it. It came later, after our first job in ’75. We’d splurged on a good bottle of Kentucky bourbon and got roaring drunk under a full moon. Hattie starts quoting Shakespeare when she gets drunk. She was raised a slave in a New Orleans theater. Knows the Bard’s words better than I do, and I’m British. Anyways, we were talking about what the men would do if they found out women had robbed the stage, and that quote just burst from her lips. Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. I painted it on the sign a couple of days later, after I recovered from my hangover.

—I like it. All of it.

—You’ll probably fit right in.

Hattie rode hell-for-leather around the corner, stopped next to Grace, and told us someone was coming.

Grace was looking at me with a bemused expression and didn’t see Hattie pull her gun and swing the polished walnut handle to hit Grace on the back of her head. Grace slumped forward, unconscious. Hattie grabbed Grace by the collar and pulled her off the horse and onto the ground.

—Bloody hell, Hatt. What are you doing?

—Leave her horse and follow me.

—I will not.

—Garet, by God, if you don’t listen to me, trust me for a goddamn minute, I’ll put a bullet in your head right now.

She would’ve, too. I dropped the lead line and followed Hattie up into the trees about fifty yards. We dismounted and crept back close to the road. Grace lay there, a lump of fine brown cloth against the road, a sharp gray rock poking into her temple.

—Are you going to tell me what’s going on?

—Horace is coming.

An old miner on an ornery old mule of indeterminate color trotted around the curve and pulled up when he saw Grace and Rebel on the road. He dismounted with his canteen and went to Grace’s aid. In a few minutes, she had revived and sat up, dazed, her hair flying away, her hat discarded on the road.

—Ma’am, did you fall off your horse?

Grace touched the back of her head, where a large lump had formed, and grimaced. She looked around, her eyes glassy and unfocused. When she saw Rebel standing docilely by, her eyes sharpened slightly. She took in the man and recoiled a little.

—I must have.

—What’re you doing out here, riding alone? There’s some dangerous bandits on the loose.

—Oh, I … um … rented this horse in …

—Ouray?

—Yes, Ouray, and was just out for a little ride. The livery assured me this was an easy road. I think my horse got spooked by an animal in the woods there. What’s this about dangerous bandits?

—Four men robbed a stage this morning. Took a woman captive, they say. A Yankee, like you.

The man looked at her with suspicion, though with his walleye, you’d think he was looking more back down the way he came.

—Heavens. I assure you I haven’t seen any bandits or captive women. Besides, I’m not a Yankee. I’m from Chicago.

—Anyways, you shouldn’t be riding alone, especially without a gun for protection. I’ll take you back to town.

—I don’t want to trouble you. I can find my way back, thank you.

I almost laughed at the expression of horror on Grace’s face at the idea of riding with this frightening-looking man.

The miner stood and looked around, searching.

—No trouble. Which livery did you use?

Grace touched her temple and looked at the blood on her glove.

—I don’t remember. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. You are too kind, but I really don’t require assistance. Rebel here is a very capable horse, I’ve discovered.

The man nodded slowly and agreed.

Hattie came out from behind the tree and walked into the road.

—That was the friendliest interrogation I’ve ever seen.

—You didn’t tell me to scare her.

—Just the sight of you was scare enough, Hattie said.

—That ain’t very generous of you, and me doing you a favor.

Grace looked between the man, Horace Whatley, and Hattie, her face darkening. She turned to me.

—This was a test? Were you in on it?

—No, I wasn’t. And while I don’t agree with the way Hattie did it, I’m glad she did.

Grace looked as if I’d slapped her.

—Don’t get your bloomers in a twist. Passed the test as far as I can see, though you ain’t much for geography. Ouray’s about eighty miles thataway, Horace said.

Grace glared at Hattie. Hattie had a shit-eating smirk on her face. Honestly, I wanted to slap her myself, but I’d take it up with her in private.

—You enjoyed hitting me over the head.

—I did.

—Goddamn you, Hattie.

I stepped between the women.

—What’d I tell you, Grace?

—You told her my name?

—I agreed not to bait Hattie, but I didn’t agree to being beaten and thrown onto the road for some sort of initiation, Grace said.

—The initiation is much tougher than this, Hattie said.

—Not helping here, Hatt.

—It’s amazing you women get any holdups done at all, the way you fight and bicker, Horace said.

—We got your money back from that crook Connolly easy enough, I said.

—Did you now? How much did you take? His roaming eye wandered around—looking for our horses and stuffed saddlebags, no doubt.

—None of your business, Hattie said. She shoved a few extra dollars in Horace’s vest pocket and told him thanks for the help.

—Did you pay for the horse and tack?

—Left extra money, Hattie said.

—I’m coming back for Old Blue. You better treat her right. You better not let that jackass of yours mount her, either.

Horace waved at me as he rode away to his cabin, his mule honking its pleasure at being close to home. Hattie went to get our horses.

I tried to look at the gash on Grace’s head, but she moved away. Even when I told her she was bleeding, she refused. A wry sense of humor and grit. I was liking Grace more and more.

She picked up her hat and put it on and was dusting the dirt from her skirt when Hattie returned. Before I could intervene, Grace stepped up to Hattie and raised her hand as if to slap her. She stopped, her hand in midair, and her head snapped back. I moved forward and saw the point of Hattie’s knife holding Grace’s chin up.

—The last whitey who raised a hand to me got his throat slit. I have no qualms about doing the same to you.

Grace’s voice shook when she answered.—Take that knife off of me.

—Or what?

In one deft movement, Grace stepped back and pushed Hattie’s hand with the knife away.

—Don’t ever touch me again, or I won’t have any qualms about killing you, either.

Hattie stared at Grace for a long time, and Grace held her gaze. I could see a little muscle working in Grace’s jaw. I don’t know where Grace’s mettle came from. I hadn’t expected it, and I’m sure Hattie hadn’t, either. One thing Hattie hated was weak-willed women, and Grace showed herself to be anything but by standing toe-to-toe with Hattie and her Bowie knife.

—Fair enough.

Grace looked at Hattie’s outstretched hand in shock, but took it. They jerked their hands down once and released. It was a start, at least.

Happy the rest of the journey would be tense only part of the time now, I got us moving.

—Come on, then, or we won’t make camp by nightfall.

Grace got Rebel’s lead rope and draped it over the horse’s neck before she got on. She was still awkward and looked nervous, but had apparently decided to go it on her own. Maybe once she faced down Hattie and her knife, falling off a horse didn’t seem so bad. We mounted and loped off. A mile down the road, Hattie reined her horse onto a small animal track that peeled off from the road and wound its way uphill into a colony of aspens. The silvery-green leaves shimmered in the breeze, the saplings swaying on their pliable trunks as we climbed up the side of the mountain.

—Heaven help me, Grace said.

Rebel lunged up the steep mountain, and all of Grace’s riding poise on the flat road disappeared. Rebel’s neck bobbed up and down with the effort of the climb, and Grace hunched over and grasped the saddle horn, swaying back and forth like a thin spear of grass buffeted by high winds. The incline leveled out slightly, and the horses’ gaits smoothed out. We exited the trees and were greeted by a majestic Rocky Mountain sunset. The sky was a mixture of purple, blue, and gold, and shafts of golden sunlight lit up the rocky precipices on the mountain opposite us.

Grace gasped at the sight. The big gash over her left eyebrow from hitting the road had scabbed over.

I asked her if she was glad she came, and she said with an awe-filled voice that she was.

We continued on the trail, which now cut across the open mountaintop. Rocks of all shapes and sizes littered the slope and protected patches of untouched snow on their northern sides. Wildflowers covered the ground like a multicolored carpet. Grace asked for her journal so she could write down what she was seeing. I lied and told her it was with Stella.

Hattie reached a ridge and stopped. Grace pulled up next to her, and I did the same. In the shadow of a massive peak, three gulches met in a riot of undulating rocks and grassland crisscrossed by animal trails. Crooked paths of snow wound down like frozen rivers through the dips and crevices of the uneven ground until finally dissolving into a lake of pale, almost translucent, blue.

—Every scene is more beautiful than the last. How is that possible? Grace said.

I shrugged. I’d long since lost my wonder at the beauty around me, and I mourned the innocent pleasure Grace received on seeing this for the first time.

Across the lake a herd of elk grazed on patches of spring grass. One elk raised his head and looked our way. He surveyed us for a long moment before sauntering off, the rest of the herd following him, oblivious to our presence. The lead elk stopped, lowered his head and grazed, apparently deciding we were no threat.

—Wouldn’t he look handsome hanging in our smokehouse? I said. My mouth watered at the thought of a thick elk steak.

—There’ll be plenty for you to kill at home, Hattie said.

—You hunt? Grace asked.

—No men around to do it.

—Wouldn’t matter if there were. Garet’s the best shot in the Hole.

—Hatt only says that so she doesn’t have to do the hunting.

Hattie grinned with real pleasure for the first time that day.

We made camp next to the lake. I killed and skinned a rabbit while Hattie showed Grace how to care for the horses. The adventures of the day had exhausted the bluestocking, and she fell asleep almost immediately. Hattie kept her own counsel while the rabbit roasted on the open fire, and we ate. She lay down, giving me first watch, falling into her half sleep while I read Grace’s journal. It’s not as interesting as I’d expected, her prose is a little too florid for my liking, but it is precisely what she said it was, the journal of a woman traveling alone in the West. I’ll let Hattie read it. Maybe it’ll put her mind at ease a little more.

I regret my impulsive decision to bring Grace along. I expect we won’t be back at the ranch for ten days, taking the circuitous route I promised Hattie. The pain comes and goes, but the doc didn’t give me enough laudanum to last two weeks. It’ll probably last since I need to keep my wits about me so Hattie doesn’t get suspicious.

I long for home, for the comfort of my bed of a night, for the quiet companionship in front of the fire in the evening, for the feel of the cool grass between my toes, the smell of horses and hay in the cozy barn. And a couple of fingers of whisky wouldn’t go amiss, either.