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  According to Hank Henry, who got his nickname, Ought-Not, while riding with Spooner, they were able to disappear so easily because they had two hideouts to choose from. One was a horse ranch on the front range near Fort Collins. In an interview for the Rocky Mountain News in 1910, Henry said,

  “It was a nice little ranch, owned by an Englishman and his wife. They’d hire us on and we’d be just like regular cowboys. There was a cave up in the foothills behind the ranch where we could hide if we felt the pressure was coming down on us. Worked out just fine, but it started getting crowded over there on the front range. People started pouring down the Cheyenne—Denver rail line and, well, some posses started taking trains. Moving faster, you know? Great for targets, but not so great for escaping. We moved west a bit, hit a bank in Rock Springs, and on the run from it found this nice little box canyon out in the middle of nowhere and a booger to get to. That’s where we’d go. Till the end. That’s where it ended.”

  The end came sometime in 1877 in a blaze of glory, amid the gun smoke of a posse of Pinkertons hired by Callum Connolly to hunt Spooner down. For reasons that have never been made clear, Spooner took to targeting Connolly’s businesses almost exclusively the last two years. According to Opal Steele Driscoll, who claimed to ride with a gang of women calling themselves the Spooner Gang, a Pinkerton named Salter infiltrated Spooner’s gang, and that was how their hideout was discovered. Ought-Not Henry called Driscoll an outright liar on more than one occasion, and many other words that aren’t fit to print. However, Henry would never clarify what happened. The end result remained the same: Spooner was killed and the gang dispersed.

  11

  Margaret Parker’s Journal

  Friday, July 20, 1877

  Heresy Ranch

  Timberline, Colorado

  I have been remiss in my journaling this past month. Much as when I let my writing lapse when Thomas and I started our ranch, I’ve been too distracted with daily chores, plans, arguments, and agreements to be reflective.

  Jehu, Hattie, and Stella left a month ago with a few hired hands to round up mustangs. Grace, Joan, and I have been busy running the ranch. We hired Ought-Not, Domino, and Jack to help out. They rode out to the ranch two days after the bet, said they’d told Spooner they wouldn’t work against us, and asked to be taken on. I readily agreed, though part of me wondered if they’d been sent by Spooner to keep an eye on us and discover our plans.

  Salter decided to stay in the Hole for a while and came looking for a job, too. Since we needed fence built and I wasn’t feeling physically up to helping, I hired him, too. Grace advised against it. When I asked her why, she said she didn’t trust him.

  —Good rule to follow out here is to not trust anyone.

  —Not even you?

  —Especially not me. You shouldn’t have to interact with Spooner much, but let me know if he does something.

  —Like what?

  —Starts asking questions.

  The four men did their jobs, ate meals with us at the table under the shade of the narrow-leaf cottonwood tree on the north side of the house. Conversation tended to ranch business. They never mentioned Spooner or the bet, but they all went into town Saturday night and didn’t return until late Sunday, it being the day off. I never let my guard down, and felt bold enough to start dropping false information, and told Grace to do the same with Salter, who’d taken a shine to her. She did her best to avoid him and rarely spoke more than two words to him at a time.

  Jehu and Grace left for Rock Springs today. The plan came together quickly, as if it had been waiting in the back of my mind for four years. It is the perfect period to put on the end of our outlaw careers.

  After this, no one will be able to deny us.

  Saturday, July 21, 1877

  Hattie and I were checking our packs last night before turning in for an early start for Rock Springs when there was a knock on our door. Whoever it was had snuck up the road; no one had heard a horse’s hooves. We got our guns, which were always close by these days, and Stella unsheathed her knife. I was about to open the door when I heard something scratch down the front door and fall on the porch. A whimper followed, and I opened the door to find Newt in a haphazard heap.

  I checked for Val before putting my gun aside and helping the boy up. When I saw his face, something inside me broke. I took him in, laid him on the table, and went to retrieve my gun. Hattie caught me halfway across the yard on the way to the barn.

  —No, ma’am.

  —I’m going to kill him, Hatt.

  —Not tonight, you’re not.

  —Hattie, by God. I told Valentine. I told him clearly not to touch that boy.

  —You really thought that would matter?

  —It’ll matter when I blow his head off.

  —You do that and Luke Rhodes will arrest you.

  —He wouldn’t.

  —Why? Because you’re fucking him? Yeah, I know all about it. Give me the gun.

  She put her hand on it, and I tried to pull it away from her.

  —Don’t be a damn fool, Garet. Valentine probably beat that boy on purpose just to get you to town. Chances are he’s waiting with a gun, hoping you’ll show up. He might even be sober.

  I pushed the gun toward her and walked a little off. I inhaled deeply and raised my gaze to the sky. There was no moon, and the stars were stunning. The only light was the glow of lanterns from the house. I heard Hattie break the barrel. When I turned, she was putting the shells in her front pocket.

  —How long have you known?

  —Margaret, there’s not many women who can hide when they’ve been loved, and loved well.

  —It isn’t love.

  —Hmm-hmm. That’s what I thought, too, until you went back after what happened to Lou. Only one rule: no killing, my ass. That only applies to killing men, apparently. I’ll never forgive that bastard for not stringing Valentine up. I can’t believe that you did.

  —That’s easy to say for a woman who has someone warming her bed every night.

  —I’ve known you for a decade, Margaret, and you’ve never disappointed me more than right now.

  —You’re going to judge a dying woman for finding a little comfort in the arms of the only man around? Sorry I’m not living up to your high moral standards, Henrietta.

  —Don’t pull that dying card on me. I’m still pissed about that, too.

  —Jesus, Hattie! I can’t help that I’m dying.

  —You didn’t fucking tell me, Margaret. Me! Your best friend. How do you think that makes me feel?

  I tried to interrupt her, but she was on a roll.

  —I know you’ve known Jehu longer, and you have a special bond. I don’t care that you told him, I just wish you wouldn’t have kept it from me. You made the decision about our last job without me. You’ve always said we were partners, equals. But it was all a lie.

  —Hattie, shut up for a second. I didn’t tell Jehu. He overheard me talking with the doctor. I wouldn’t have told anyone if he hadn’t overheard. Not until I had to. And you would have been the first person I told.

  —Why didn’t you?

  —Because I love you, and I knew it would devastate you. Or at least I hoped it would.

  —Don’t joke.

  —I’m sorry. I hated watching Thomas die. I didn’t want to put you through that. I thought it was the kind thing to do. The loving thing. I didn’t mean to make you feel betrayed. When I got back, I went to Luke because dying has this way of clearing your mind. I haven’t forgiven Luke for betraying Lou’s memory. If things were different, I wouldn’t have gone to him. But what can I say? I’m a weak woman, and it’s comforting. It lets me forget for a while, makes me feel like a whole woman. I’m not going to apologize for it.

  —I’ll hate him for both of us.

  —Hate’s a strong word.

  —It fits.

  —You know how to hold a grudge.

  —I do.

  —Let me go to town, see if Luke has him in cus
tody. He might. He warned Val, too.

  —Against beating his son? Margaret. Rhodes won’t do anything about it because Valentine isn’t breaking any laws. If the boy dies … well, that bastard Rhodes still won’t do anything. He’d be laughed at by every man in the country if he did. Hell, the world.

  —Sometimes I hate men.

  —Keep that fire in your belly. We’re going to need it to win this bet.

  —Do you forgive me? For not telling you straightaway.

  —Of course I do.

  —We should probably hug. I know you aren’t keen on hugging.

  Hattie rolled her eyes and pulled me into a strong embrace. We held each other for a long time, until Hattie finally said,—Is that long enough for you?

  —I guess if you think that’s a long enough hug for a dying woman.

  Hattie sighed and said,—Good Lord, but she relaxed into the hug and squeezed me a little tighter. I felt my throat tickle with emotion.

  —OK, Hattie. That’s enough. Just because Jehu isn’t here doesn’t mean I want to hug you for hours.

  She laughed and playfully pushed me away.

  —Next thing you know you’re going to want me to cuddle with you at night.

  —I guarantee you that won’t happen, Hattie said.

  —Uh-huh. We’ll see.

  I put my arm around her shoulder as we walked into the cabin to check on Newt.

  Joan had a bowl of water and a washcloth and was cleaning the cuts and bruises on Newt’s face. Stella was feeling his arms, checking for breaks. When she squeezed his left forearm, Newt called out in pain.

  —I heard it crack when he twisted it, Newt said.

  His chin was quivering, and I could tell it was an effort for him not to cry in front of Joanie.

  —Someone needs to kill that bastard, Joanie said.

  —Spoken like a woman in love, Newt said.

  Joan laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair.—You must not be too hurt if you’re well enough to flirt with me.

  —I’ll always be well enough to flirt with a beautiful woman.

  —I notice you aren’t flirting with me, Stella said.

  —You’ve been spending too much time with Sly Jack, haven’t you? Joan asked.

  —He’s given me some pointers.

  Newt stopped Stella from touching his torso.

  —No need. I can tell a couple are broken.

  Stella’s face darkened into a dangerous expression. I understood her feelings. It was an abomination that a twelve-year-old boy should know what it felt like to have broken ribs.

  I went into my bedroom to get the laudanum. Hattie followed me.

  —We can’t leave Newt here unprotected. You know Val will figure he’s out here soon enough. The men won’t stand between him and Newt, you know they won’t. Stella and Joan won’t be enough, I said.

  —I know. That’s why we’re going to take him with us.

  —What? Now we’re adding twelve-year-old boys to our gang?

  —He’s not much of a boy anymore. He’ll be thirteen soon, and, well, you see the way he looks at Joan.

  —That’s puppy love.

  —Maybe, but he’s going to be a man soon, and the longer he stays around Val, the more likely he’ll turn into him. Do you want to inflict another Ulysses Valentine on the world?

  —No.

  —We’re going to take him to Rose and Portia. You know they’ll take him in. There’s no way anyone from here will find him there, Hattie said.

  —We can’t ask them to adopt a boy … almost a man.

  —Probably better that he is older. You know Rose will put him to work. After the job is over, we pick him up. Bring him back home. If you want to know the truth of it, he’s old enough to make his own decision. Go out on his own if he wants. Maybe that’s all he wants, a way out of the Hole.

  —We’ll let him decide. Ask him if he wants to come back to the Hole with us. Once he sees Cheyenne, he probably won’t.

  —Doubt it. When we get back, with or without Newt, Valentine will die in a freak blacksmithing accident. Maybe a horse will kick him in the head. Or he will be so drunk he’ll fall into a horse trough and drown.

  —He could do that tonight, too.

  Hattie sighed and looked up to the heavens.

  —You’re trying my patience, Garet. We’ve got to travel fast and light to beat Grace to Denver. Remember?

  She placed her hands on my shoulders.—Let me say it in a way you understand: You can either have your revenge right now and be strung up tomorrow. You’ll be forgotten by the few people who know of you, an outlaw lost to history. Or you can pull your last job and let that Yankee immortalize you.

  —Sounds like someone’s been trying to win you over. Has she done it?

  —Nope. Jehu and I still don’t want her to put us in her story. Have you told her you’re a duchess yet?

  —No. She thinks it’s a nickname.

  —Oh Lord. Wait until she finds out. The myth writes itself.

  —It’s not a myth. It’s the truth.

  —Garet. No one cares as long as they’re entertained.

  —Damn you, Hatt. You could tell me what I want to hear every once in a while. Maybe give me that gift before I die.

  Stella walked into the room.

  —When it isn’t a matter of your life and death, I will. You’ll get your revenge on Valentine, I promise. It’ll just be delayed a few months.

  —I’ll do it while you’re gone, Stella said.

  —No, you won’t. There won’t be any lynching bee in Timberline, Stella. Once a place gets lynching in their blood, it’s tough to get it out. No, we stick with the plan. Garet’ll just take a longer stop in Cheyenne on the way to Denver, Hattie said.

  Newt was clearly disappointed to be leaving Joanie, but when we explained the danger Joan and Stella would be in if he stayed, he agreed to leave.

  Newt assured us Valentine was too drunk to be moving so early in the morning, but to be safe we left well before the sun was up. I suspected Valentine wouldn’t chase us, but Newt encouraged us to keep a fast pace in case. We humored him and made good time. Thirty miles in a day through rough country. Newt is set on pulling his weight, even with a broken arm that Hattie could only splint and broken ribs. There’s only a small part of his face that isn’t bruised or bloody, and he’s having trouble breathing from his crooked nose. The first place we will go when we get to Cheyenne is the doctor I nursed for during our brief stay before we moved to Brown’s Hole. We’ll stop by the general store and kit him up. I can’t very well take him to his new home without a change or two of clothes. Besides, he’s practically grown out of his own. He’s grown like a weed since Lou died, and if Valentine even noticed, he sure isn’t the type of man to know how to solve the problem.

  Tuesday, July 31, 1877

  I met Portia Bright while nursing an old woman who was on her deathbed. Portia was the widow of a minister and had continued the practice of visiting sick people and shut-ins after he died. In the case of the woman I was nursing, she and Portia played bridge together, and Portia visited daily.

  Portia was a sweet woman, a little retiring, with a set of mesmerizing blue eyes with pupils rimmed in orange. I told her a little of my story, and she invited me and the girls to her house for dinner. She’d mentioned her roommate, Rosemond, only briefly, so we were all astonished to discover Rosemond was a beautiful, vivacious woman. She owned a sign-painting company and a portrait studio and had recently taught herself photography. There was more money in photography portraiture than painting, though she still painted half a dozen or so portraits a year. She and Portia were both welcoming and understanding. I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to take Newt in for a time, and I was correct.

  I was worried about Newt’s reaction to living in Cheyenne for nothing. As soon as he laid eyes on Rose, all thoughts of Joan flew from Newt’s mind. Rose winked at me over Newt’s head and led him to the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. Portia rolled her eyes and smiled.
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  —I’ve never known a woman who men fall in love with as often as Rosie, Portia said.

  —She is welcome to the talent.

  —Agreed.

  —Thank you for taking Newt in.

  —Of course.

  —The doc looked him over and did what he could, casting his arm, setting his nose. He’s afraid it’s never going to be completely straight. Here’s some money for his room and board.

  —That is not necessary, Margaret.

  —I know, but I feel better giving it to you. I did spring this on you last minute.

  Portia took the money and put it in her pocket.

  —We’ll take good care of him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rosie has already put him to work in the shop.

  —He’ll be a good worker for you.

  I said my goodbyes to Newt, who waved me away with barely a glance, and made the train with time enough to buy a bag of roasted peanuts for the trip. Now on to Denver, where I can put my plan in action.

  PART TWO

  THE DUCHESS

  Colorado Woman Suffrage Association

  August 1877 Meeting Minutes

  Corresponding Secretary and Referendum Committee Chair Alisha Washburn presented a report of the committee’s last meeting, and of her correspondence with American Woman Suffrage Association. Plans have been finalized for Susan B. Anthony, Lucy Stone, Henry Blackwell, and Matilda Hindman to join our own Margaret Campbell on a barnstorming trip across Colorado. Aware of our financial struggles, the AWSA will pay the expenses for their leaders, and Margaret Campbell has offered to pay her own expenses, freeing up the CWSA money to be used for the rally in downtown Denver on October 1, the day before the referendum. Though we have met with resistance from local Denver politicians, our esteemed Governor Routt stepped in and secured the approval required for us to march down Colfax Avenue to Broadway, where local and national suffrage leaders will speak on the enfranchisement of women. Grace Trumbull, a lay member of the national organization who recently immigrated to Colorado and a new CWSA member, suggested all women marchers wear the same-color dress to show the solidarity and cohesiveness or our group. The idea was enthusiastically embraced, with a great debate ensuing on what color it should be. Black was deemed too severe; white deemed inappropriate and out of the question for women still mourning the loss of loved ones in the war. Purple was settled on as a compromise, and Miss Trumbull offered to donate purple sashes embroidered with “Votes for Women” for marchers to wear, as well.