I CRIED THAT night, hoping it would bring sleep. But once the tears were done, I just tossed about till finally I got up and lit a candle. I walked over to the mirror, having stayed away from it in the day. Even in the dim light I could see that my face was purple and swollen, like that of some troll in a story to scare children. And there was a hard pain in my jaw that just wouldn’t stop.
And what would happen next? Maybe Willie would be afraid for what he had done and wouldn’t tell anyone. That wasn’t likely, for one way or another, he was sure to tell. But perhaps when the truth about what had happened came to light, the folks in Meeker County would rise up in my defense, as they had when Mrs. Swisshelm was attacked. Willie would be run off or sent to jail, and I could continue on, known to be a woman but living as I wished. The comfort of that thought didn’t last long. Willie would certainly seek revenge at a time of his choosing, and how could I defend against that?
The answer to that question flitted about the cabin like a moth. Then it landed on my shoulder and told me what I already knew—there was no way I could defend against Willie’s revenge. And if I couldn’t, it meant that I had to find Willie and kill him, before he found me and killed me. It was either that or run away, and I wasn’t going to run. This land was mine—the only thing I had, and I wasn’t going to leave it behind as I had left everything else. And if it meant killing someone who deserved to die, I would do it. After all, I had shown less mercy to poor creatures in the forest that hadn’t done a thing to me.
I slowed my breathing so I could think. I felt cold inside. I would sneak over to Willie’s place, lie in wait, and put a bullet through his head. I’d bury him somewhere—dirt here was easy to dig. And who’d miss him?
I took my rifle and some cornbread and walked east in the dark. When the sky began to lighten, I could see the outline of Willie’s cabin. I crawled on my belly till I was in a place that gave me a clear shot. As morning broke, no smoke came from the chimney. Willie’s mount was not there. He was not there.
I walked back, wondering why I hadn’t killed Willie when I had the chance. I had every right. Of course, killing a man is not a natural thing, and God has told us not to do it. But that hadn’t stopped me that very morning; why had it stopped me the day before? It was then that I realized how much of me had wanted Willie out of my sight. I wanted him gone. I wanted it all to have never happened, and that would have been near impossible if he were lying dead in the yard. And maybe God had spoken to me at that moment because I had the gun in my hand and He had to speak. And maybe He had let me walk over to Willie’s place this morning because He knew Willie wasn’t there.
That afternoon I bathed again in the river, my rifle nearby. I rubbed myself with mint leaves, but the memory of his smell didn’t leave. Back at the cabin, I thought of hiding somewhere, till I healed. But where could I go? Then it came. I could go to Noah White. Hadn’t he offered his friendship if ever I needed it? It seemed the perfect answer, but I hadn’t slept at all the night before, and the journey over to Willie’s had done me in. I was far too tired to think about leaving that day.
The next morning I forced myself to look again in the mirror. It was worse as the bruises had darkened. One eye was near shut, and I didn’t want to be seen by anyone. I knew of a rough track that went south and ran into another that would take me to Noah’s. It was a little longer, but if I went that way, I wouldn’t have to go through Manannah. But I would be on the main road for a bit, so I decided to leave toward midday when fewer people would be on it.
With the morning to get ready, I found myself oddly tidying the cabin for my absence. I cooked some beans with molasses, which I put in a jar to carry with the remaining cornbread. I took ten dollars to bring with me and hid the rest of my money between the logs of the cabin. I packed a change of socks, hung my violin on the wall, and put out extra feed for the chickens. I was just finishing with this when I looked up to see a rider heading my way. I picked up my gun.
The rider came on slowly, a saddled horse in tow. I stood facing him, rifle cradled. The man pulled up a polite distance from me, a wiry fellow with a bushy mustache. I had seen him before but didn’t know where. “Hello, friend,” he said. “You’re Joseph the fiddle player, are you not?”
“I am,” I said. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Sheriff Jewett from Forest City. I seen you play at the celebration.” He glanced at my rifle and then back to my face. “What happened to you?”
“I had some trouble,” I said. “What brings you here?”
“Business,” said the sheriff. “Probably the same trouble. Two days ago Willie McAllister rode into town more dead than alive. Lost a lot of blood. Claimed that you tried to murder him.”
I wanted to yell every curse I knew, but I measured my words. “Sheriff, if I had tried to murder Willie, he’d be dead.”
“But you did stab him?”
“I did. And I presume that in Meeker County it’s the right of every man to defend himself. Did Willie say why I stabbed him?” I looked hard at the sheriff, but he was wearing his poker face.
“Willie said a lot of crazy things. He said that you tricked him, and then tried to kill him.”
“Anything else?”
The sheriff paused. “Yes. He called you a she-devil.”
That was it. My secret was gone. Part of me wanted to run, and another part of me wanted to lash out. But the sheriff knew his way around a situation, speaking slowly, evenly. “I would be obliged if you would tell me your side of things. You might begin—and I mean no disrespect—by tellin’ me exactly how I ought to address you.”
I cursed silently. “You should address me as Mrs. Slater.” I hated to hear myself speak those words. After everything, I was, once again, the wife of George Slater.
The Sheriff nodded. “What happened?”
I took a breath. “Willie found me bathing in the river. He forced himself on me, but then I got hold of his knife and drove it into his leg.” I paused for a moment, it all coming back. “I should have killed him, I truly should have. But then, of course, you might have some real business here.”
“Still do,” said the sheriff. “If what you say is true—and knowin’ Willie, I could believe it—then you have nothin’ to fear from the law. But I have a warrant for your arrest from the county attorney. I want you to give me your gun, and I don’t want any trouble.”
“Willie attacked me,” I said, in disbelief.
By then the sheriff knew that I wasn’t going to lift my gun against him. His tone became hard. “You can talk about that with the county attorney. And you can file a complaint against McAllister. But you’re coming with me. Give me your gun. Now.”
We rode slowly to Forest City, saying nothing the whole way. In town, people stared as we went by. The sheriff frowned. “I don’t have no place for you,” he said, “but I think Doc Blanchard might put you up. The county attorney will be back tonight. You’ll see him tomorrow, and you can tell him what you told me.”
The Blanchards’ house was down a side road. When we got there, I stayed with the horses while the sheriff went to the door. He knocked and a gray-haired woman answered. The sheriff spoke to her and then motioned for me to come. He introduced her as Mrs. Blanchard and me as Mrs. Slater. She gasped when she saw my face.
Dr. Blanchard appeared. He was a short, balding man with spectacles. The sheriff told him that I was there to clear up a misunderstanding. That was silly, for from the looks of those in town, everyone had heard some version of Willie’s story.
The doctor eyes ran over my wounds. “Please come into my office.”
I stepped forward, but the sheriff blocked my path. His eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat. “You are not to leave here,” he said. “Make a fool out of me, and you’ll be sorry.” I nodded, and he stepped aside.
The doctor led me into his office and looked closely at my head. “I want to put some salve on these cuts. Otherwise, there really isn’t anything to be done. Are you injured … anywhere else?”
“It’s all in the hands of God now,” I said, wondering if some small part of Willie were growing inside me.
The doctor nodded in a way to show that he understood. “That was some bad business out there, Mrs. Slater. I’m very sorry for your trouble.”
* * *
I slept a good part of the afternoon in the room the Blanchard’s had offered me. At dinner I ate silently with the doctor and Mrs. Blanchard, glad they didn’t seem to need conversation. After the meal, I said I’d wash the dishes. I was now Mrs. Slater, and that would be in keeping, though I was still in britches and had no thought of getting out of them. Mrs. Blanchard agreed, seeing I needed something to do. A little later, she came into the kitchen, a man close behind.
“This is A.C. Smith,” she said. “He’s the federal attorney at the land office.”
Before me stood Abner Comstock Smith, though I only learned his full name later, for he was called “A.C.” by everyone. He was lean and shaven and looked quite handsome in his canvas britches and calico shirt, open at the neck. I dried myself and through force of habit offered my hand. He took it, not quite sure whether to shake or not, so I helped out by shaking his. “I thought I might be of service to you,” he said. “I hope I haven’t intruded.”
“No. I would be very grateful for any help.”
Dr. Blanchard cleared his throat and nodded to his wife. “Me and the missus can go for a walk.”
“Certainly not,” I said. “Please stay and listen if you care to. I have no secrets now.”
And so I told my story. I didn’t mention Honesdale, just simply said that I had been abandoned by my husband and had left my daughter with my parents and set out to make my way in the world. When I tried to describe Willie’s attack, my voice wavered. The event spilled forth in pieces, like the remains of a teacup on a stone floor. Mrs. Blanchard covered her mouth. Mr. Smith nodded slowly—I suppose to let me know that he was listening.
When I was done, Mr. Smith said he was sorry for what had happened and would speak to the county attorney in the morning. Since the warrant was for attempted murder, he didn’t imagine there would be any trouble. He said he would help me if I wanted to file a complaint against Willie, but we could talk about that later. I thanked him and he left.
In low spirits, I went to my room. I just wanted to settle with the law, go back to my farm, and live there as a woman, if I could—if they would let me. But I wouldn’t be just any kind of woman. Not now. I would be one with the every freedom of a man, starting with what I would wear. And close upon that thought, Mrs. Blanchard entered the room and offered an old night shirt of hers. I thanked her but said I had my own, meaning the rag that had once belonged to my grandfather. I wanted something familiar next to my skin.
* * *
I expected to see Mr. Smith early the next day, but the morning was near gone when he arrived, no smile on his face. “The county attorney,” he said, “doesn’t want to let you go just yet.”
I could scarce believe it. “Am I to be put on trial for defending myself?”
“No,” said Mr. Smith. “He’s thinking about other charges.”
“What charges?”
“I don’t know. He seems to want to prosecute you for wearing pants and pretending to be a man—an offense against moral decency, whatever that is. Willie is to be left out of it.”
“How convenient,” I said, feeling myself flush.
“I’m sorry about all this,” said Mr. Smith. “I won’t lie. Richards is a difficult man. And worse, he’s got ambitions.”
“But the murder charge has been dropped?”
“Yes.”
“Then why can’t I go?”
Mr. Smith shook his head. “Richards wants you here. Now, he really doesn’t have that say-so, and we could contest it, but it wouldn’t do any good. And if you left town, people would be coming up with all kinds of ideas. By mid-afternoon, you’d be a bank robber, and by dinner something worse. We’ll sit tight. Maybe when he thinks it through, the man will see reason. I’ll find out tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve sent for my friend U.S. Wylie in St. Cloud. He’s a good lawyer and knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
I was glad Mr. Smith’s friend was a good lawyer and would keep his mouth shut, though I wasn’t sure what part of this was still a secret. And why did we need another lawyer? The only bad thing I had done was go looking for Willie, to find him and kill him. But no one knew about that.
The next morning Mr. Smith returned and said that Mr. Richards had, indeed, filed charges against me—for wearing men’s clothes and pretending to be a man. The trial was to take place in a week.
“Am I to be sent to jail?” I asked.
“They have to find you guilty first,” said Mr. Smith. “And I don’t think Judge Robson would send you to jail. And I don’t think that’s what our county attorney has in mind.”
“What then?”
“I think he wants you run out of here. If you’re found guilty, a criminal warrant can be filed at the land office. You’d be denied title to your land.”
“They’d take my land? For wearing britches? That’s not right!”
“No, it’s not right,” agreed Mr. Smith, “but if they get a guilty verdict and want to make an issue of it, they can. I’ll do my best for you, Mrs. Slater.”
It didn’t make sense to protest anymore to Mr. Smith—he was on my side. “I am grateful for your help,” I said, attempting to sound brave. I don’t know how brave I really was, but I think life had already begun to put a crust on me. I wasn’t standing there crying.
* * *
Two days before the trial, Mr. Ulysses Samuel Wylie walked into the Blanchard kitchen. I didn’t know, at first, who he was, because I had imagined Mr. Smith’s friend, the good lawyer who was coming to help me, as older—a man with large hands and a carved face. But that wasn’t Mr. Wylie. He was a young man, with a sly grin, and a shock of orange hair. We were introduced and then Mr. Wylie turned to Mr. Smith, who was seated at the table. “Is there anything new?”
My attorney shrugged. “Just legal history, Useless.”
I suppose that Mr. Smith called him that all the time, for Mr. Wylie seemed to take no notice. “What statute applies?”
“That, happily,” said Mr. Smith, “is a problem for our county attorney. I don’t think there is one.”
I couldn’t stay still. “Then why a trial?”
Mr. Smith took a breath. “Look. Out here the law is whatever Mr. Richards, Judge Robson, and the jury say it is. Mr. Richards, unfortunately, has already weighed in on the matter.”
“And the judge?”
Mr. Smith cast a glance at Mr. Wylie—there was a story here. “I suppose for a complete picture,” said Mr. Smith, looking back to me, “you should know that our judge, Charles Robson, is a man without humor. Add to that a courthouse that on Sunday is a church where Reverend Robson leads the prayers, and I’d say the slope is uphill. You may also be familiar with the recent news concerning Mrs. Swisshelm. Forward ladies are a topic of some disagreement these days. Where His Honor stands with all this, I can only guess, but I can tell you for sure that he dislikes me and Mr. Wylie.”
This was more truth than I needed to hear. “Is there any reason for hope?” I asked, a little shaken.
Mr. Smith tried to steady me with a fatherly nod. “As long as we’re able to stand up and say what we have to say, there is reason for hope. But we have to work with what we have. Now, for what it’s worth, it would seem the law is on your side, or at least not against you. Also, I think Robson dislikes Richards as much as he dislikes me and Useless. He’s got an opinion of himself, and I don’t think he’d care to preside over a farce. So Richards may be on a short rope. We’ll have to pick our moments.”
“Speaking of our good friend, Reverend Robson,” said Mr. Wylie, “what will Mrs. Slater be wearing at the trial?”
“I think what she’s wearing now will be fine,” said Mr. Smith.
“You might think that, but Robson won’t. He sees her like that, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Smith. “Robson won’t like it. But he doesn’t like us anyway, so we’re not losing much. We lose a lot more if we start acting like there’s something wrong with Mrs. Slater’s clothes.”
“I won’t wear a dress,” I said. “If they want to parade me around in a dress, they can just send me to jail.”
“Well,” said Mr. Wylie, “I’m glad we’re all agreed on that.”
Just then Doc Blanchard entered the kitchen from the back door. He didn’t look happy. “I was summoned by the judge,” he said. “I’ve been ordered to make an examination of the defendant.” He looked over to me. “I, of course, see people in their natural state all the time, but I have never been asked to examine someone’s sex. If there’s anything you wish to tell me, now would be a good time. We can forgo the examination.”
“There’s no issue of fact here,” said Mr. Wylie. “We’ll stipulate that Mrs. Slater is a woman.”
The doctor shook his head. “I think they may still ask me to testify.” He turned to me again. “You are a woman in every part of you?”
“Yes, I am a woman in every part of me,” I said, annoyed, despite the doctor’s obvious sympathies. “I have given birth and have the marks to prove it. And if you want to know what that’s like, you could swallow a pumpkin whole and wait.”
From her chair across the room, Mrs. Blanchard let out a hoot. Then everyone laughed, and we sat and had our tea.