Heresy Page 7

  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.

  GHOST TOWNS OF THE OWLHOOT TRAIL

  by Thomas Henery

  Published 1935

  Chapter Twelve

  Timberline, Colorado, 1871–77 or 78

  Timberline, Colorado, was marked by tragedy from the beginning. In the spring of 1871, two wagon trains set out for Colorado, one from Independence, Missouri, the other from Austin, Texas. Only one made it. The wagon train through Texas was massacred by a band of Kiowa led by Satanta and Big Tree, leading to a violent shift away from the army’s Quaker peace policy. The Comanche and Kiowa would be driven onto the reservation within three years.

  Ironically, about the time the Plains Indians were defeated, Timberline was entering its prosperous years. Saying prosperous is being generous. Timberline was never much of a going concern, but like all new towns it had visions of grandeur. The characteristics that had drawn the land promoters to stake a claim to the area—a rich river valley surrounded by mountains teeming with wildlife, plenty of wood for construction and minerals to be mined, God willing—were shadowed by the remoteness of the location. Set in a box canyon with a narrow, treacherous pass as the only entrance, the settlers had trouble getting in and out to do business in the closest railroad town, Rock Springs, seventy miles north as the crow flies.

  Legend has it Jed Spooner came across the Hole during his flight from his ’73 robbery of the Rock Springs Bank, where he and his gang got away with $13,000. He knew immediately it would be a perfect long-term hideout and base of operations for his gang and any others willing to pay him for protection. Imagine his delight when he came across a poor excuse for a town at the southern end of the canyon, on the banks of the Green River. When Spooner and his gang rode into Timberline, the townsmen were considering pulling up stakes and moving somewhere on the rail line, where making a living might be easier. Flush with money, the outlaws spent freely on what little entertainment was to be had. Soon an agreement was made, and Jed Spooner had a hideout on the back range to complement the one he had on the front range.

  At its height Timberline boasted a general store, a saloon and whorehouse, a blacksmith, a half-built one-room schoolhouse, and a sheriff’s office occupied by Luke Rhodes, a former cattle rustler and friend of Spooner’s who decided he’d rather raise the cattle his friends rustled than steal them. When not stealing and killing, Spooner and his gang ran a horse ranch north of the town and trained getaway horses for their outlaw brethren.

  The hideout only protected him for so long. In late 1877, Pinkertons hired by Callum Connolly tracked the Spooner Gang down to his ranch, where he died in a firefight with the agents. When Spooner died, the town died with him. But Brown’s Hole’s role as a hideout for outlaws would continue; it was used by outlaws such as Butch Cassidy and his gang for twenty more years. Timberline, however, remained a ghost town.

  The names of the residents are lost to history, and Luke Rhodes disappeared after the 1870 census.

  The blacksmith’s shop is still standing, but barely, the last remnant of a cursed town. In the western Colorado backcountry, you’ll need a good compass, a good topographical map and a sure-footed mule to find it.

  CALICO QUEENS OF COLORADO 1859–1899

  by Richard Matheson

  Published 1930

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Gem Sisters

  As with most whores, no one is real sure where Ruby and Opal Steele came from and we only know where one ended up. Though we don’t know the specifics, most prostitutes’ origin story is the same: hungry and poor, with no husband, brother or father to protect or take care of them, no education or skills, they use the only possession they own completely to make their way: their body.

  Ruby and Opal Steele, the Gem Sisters, as they became known, are historically significant in that they were the preferred whores of numerous outlaw gangs in the mid-to-late 1870s. Little is known about where they came from. Opal, the only sister we know to have survived into the twentieth century, who eventually married a Welsh miner who hit it big in Leadville, told different stories about their origin. In one telling they were black sheep daughters of a Pittsburgh steel baron. In another they were poor farm girls from Missouri, orphaned young and sold off to a pimp by their grandmother. In still another they were nurses in the war who followed the Union army west and became laundresses. What all the stories had in common, I suspect, is they were outright lies. Where the sisters came from isn’t necessarily important.

  What was important was the role they played on the Outlaw Trail before it became known as such. The 1870s saw the beginning of the outlaw era in the Old West. It would reach its peak a decade later and last until the Wild Bunch disbanded and went into the wind. Ruby and Opal were whores in Timberline, Colorado, a short-lived town in Brown’s Hole, in the far northwestern corner of the state. They were brought to Timberline by Hank “Ought-Not” Henry, Jed Spooner’s lieutenant, who was half in love with Opal, the younger and the prettier of the two whores, at least according to Opal’s account. There is no formal record of Ruby Steele at all, but Ought-Not, the last survivor of the Spooner Gang, told me himself that Ruby Steele was real and was a pretty little thing for a half-breed Chinese. Spooner apparently had a soft spot for her, but he had a soft spot for whores all across the West. Ought-Not said she left the Hole about 1880 and he didn’t know what happened to her after that. I asked him if he’d read Opal’s autobiography, Gem in the Rough, and he said he had no desire to read a bunch of lies and besides his eyes were bad.

  According to Opal the two of them joined Spooner’s gang sometime in the late seventies—she was never clear on the year. The story she tells beggars belief, and since this is a historically accurate recounting of whores of the Colorado, I’m not going to reprint it here. Ought-Not said it was a bunch of lies, and that’s good enough for me. This story goes a long way toward explaining why Opal Steele Driscoll is considered one of the biggest liars from the era.

  What’s not in doubt is that Opal turned up in Leadville in 1878, married Bowen Driscoll, and became one of the most important society ladies in the area after he hit it big. Occasionally she would be coerced into bringing out her accordion and playing one of the two tunes she knew, as she used to do for her customers. When she played, a wistful expression would settle on her face and her eyes were moistened with tears that never fell.

  6

  Margaret Parker’s Journal

  Monday, June 4, 1877

  Heresy Ranch

  Timberline, Colorado

  Grace’s exhaustion at camp turned into full-fledged soroche—headache, nausea, exhaustion. Her face swelled up and her hands were straining against her gloves, but she never took them off. Staying there and letting her recuperate wasn’t an option; we had to get her down out of the mountains to counteract her sickness, and the posse would be in a full-fledged search now. We were already behind on our getaway because I’d brought Grace along. I figured the sisters were at least fifty miles closer to home, and a good thing, too. Someone had to take care of the horses. Business always picked up in the spring and summer, prime rustling season.

  We told Grace we needed to take a more circuitous route with her along—three women stood out even more than a black and a white woman traveling alone—but she begged us to get home as soon as possible, said she’d ride as hard as needed to make it happen. And she did. We rode like hell, and she kept up and kept quiet. She didn’t become a horsewo
man over those five days, but she and Rebel built a bond, which is the first step in understanding horses.

  When we got to the ranch, Grace found a bed and fell into it. She’s still there. No one begrudges her; we’ve all had a bout of the sickness and know how miserable it can be.

  I spent the first couple of days enjoying being home, getting some sleep. But I can’t wait too long for the dispensation or the town gets restless. So today, with a saddlebag full of bundles of money, I rode into Timberline.

  I suppose I should explain a little about our town to whoever will bother reading this in the future, if anyone. It’s going to be difficult to describe to you, future reader, an environment I take for granted and, frankly, don’t think about anymore. I’ve been too busy surviving and living to think about the colors of the setting sun or the carpet of wildflowers that blankets the valley. But I will venture to add a little bit of description here and there when I think of it.

  Despite its bucolic setting, Timberline, Colorado, isn’t much to look at. It’s a clutch of ramshackle buildings randomly placed along a wide, nameless street and set in a remote box canyon where the borders of Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah meet. Timberline had been on the verge of becoming one of the forgotten towns of the West, a footnote to a far-off massacre that had claimed the lives of half of its settlers, when Jed Spooner and his gang rode into town on blown horses, searching for a safe haven. Spooner, equal parts charming and cunning, saw in the dying town an opportunity. He offered them money for protection and for looking the other way and not asking questions about where the money came from. It was an easy enough deal for the five surviving families to take.

  After my husband died, and Colonel Connolly stole my ranch, Jed Spooner brought me and my family here. I’m not naive enough to think there wasn’t a strong streak of selfishness in Spooner’s action; our ranch on the front range, the Poudre River Ranch, had been a reliable hideout for him and his boys for years. We traded horses with them and hid them, gave them work in between their bank jobs. Gave them good meals and a warm hearth. Eventually I invited Spooner into my bed. Sooner than he expected, but we’d both known as soon as I buried Thomas that it would happen.

  I’d been drawn to the outlaw from the beginning. Jed Spooner was charming and fun loving, gentle with horses and children, and he treated Hattie with a respect you wouldn’t have expected from a former Confederate officer, or a man who briefly ran with the James boys. He left the gang, he said, because he didn’t see the point in fighting a war they’d lost, and he saw even less point in killing people for money. No, Spooner decided to charm people out of their money at the point of a gun. He said it was more fun, and less messy. He’d seen enough blood to last him a lifetime. Thomas, a veteran of the Crimea, admired him for it, and I wanted him because of it. Of course, you learn a lot about a man by bedding him, and by sharing a pillow after, and it didn’t take me long to wonder if Spooner’s story had been an elaborate tale to ingratiate himself with Thomas and me. There was a dark streak in Spooner, one he kept a tight rein on, but there were flashes, an edge to Spooner that both repulsed and attracted me.

  Bringing us to Timberline did two things for Spooner: It let him feel like a mighty fine man, saving us unprotected women and helping us start a new horse ranch. His boys helped build the Heresy Ranch’s cabin, barn, outbuildings, and corrals. In return we agreed to train getaway horses and give them room and board. I offered Spooner my warm bed.

  Jed didn’t know at the time that Jehu and I had robbed a bank in Denver to keep us from starving. He was impressed when I told him (I left out the part about killing Alfie Gernsbeck; only Hattie knew that part of the story), but he saw it as a onetime thing. He was there to take care of me now. Jed’s idea of taking care of me was bringing me part of his latest haul, eating my food, drinking my whisky, trading some horses, and getting a poke or two before riding off to whatever other woman he was “taking care of.”

  It really shows Jed’s ignorance that he thought I wanted to be taken care of by a man. Thomas was a fine husband, and I loved him dearly, always will, but he didn’t take care of me. Oh, he thought he did, of course. Smart women will always let a man think he has the upper hand, but Thomas wasn’t endowed with the astuteness required to succeed out west. Being a one-armed man didn’t help, either. I was intelligent enough to run the ranch, and crafty enough to let Thomas take the credit.

  My arrangement with Jed worked. He wasn’t around enough to annoy me or to boss me around. When he was around he was an enthusiastic lover, which is about all I require of a man these days.

  It has been two years since Jed rode off through Lodore Canyon, taking his patronage with him. The girls and I have been taking care of the town since. Which is why I rode into Timberline today, to pass out their part of our take.

  These ramshackle buildings I mentioned include a livery, a whorehouse/hotel/saloon, a shebang, a half-built schoolhouse, and a sheriff’s office that’s closed most of the time and has never housed a prisoner. There are four or five vacant buildings waiting to be reclaimed and put to use. They were left abandoned by original settlers who weren’t enticed by Jed’s offer, and who didn’t like the general lawlessness up and down the valley.

  I reined my horse up at the livery and dismounted. A scrawny towheaded boy met me.

  —Miss Garet, howdido?

  —Hello, Newt.

  I surveyed the boy. The black eye that had been yellowing when I left had reverted to a deep shade of purple, the white of his eye turned bloody. A few more hits to it would blind him, I suspected. Now that his mother, Lou, was dead and unable to take the brunt of his father’s anger, it all fell to this twelve-year-old boy. Newt was still young enough to be saved from his father’s violence and his own inevitable violence. I wanted to get him away from Ulysses Valentine, but I didn’t know how. I’d done more harm than good when I tried to help Lou, and the fact was Newt was as good as Valentine’s property. I would find little support from the townsmen. Timberline was one of the rare towns where women outnumbered men, but men somehow still got their way.

  Newt looked past me to the empty street behind.

  —Jehu with you?

  —No. Should be along in a couple of weeks. Wonder what he’s going to bring you this time.

  The excitement in Newt’s good eye almost broke my heart. He had to hide the little gifts Jehu brought him, usually toys, from his father, who was so drunk most of the time Newt was doing most of the work.

  I pulled a paper sack out of my saddlebag. The scent of licorice hung in the air around the bag.

  —I brought you this.

  Newt’s eyes lit up like candles, and he thanked me.

  He ripped off a chunk from the rope of licorice and offered it to me wordlessly. I told him I preferred lemon drops and asked after his pa.

  Newt’s face closed off.

  —Around back.

  I grabbed Newt’s shoulder and squeezed.

  —Newt, you know you can always come out to our place. Whenever you want. We’ve always got a job for a good hand like you.

  —Thanks, Miss Garet, but my pa needs me here.

  —I know you’re a big help. You’re becoming a good blacksmith in your own right.

  Newt flushed with pleasure. I bent down to be at his eye level.

  —We like to go on picnics on Sundays, after we get our chores done. Maybe you could join us one day. Joan will fry us up a chicken and you can try to catch a few fish for our supper.

  —I’d like that.

  —It’s a date. Now, why don’t you ride Ole Pete down to the creek, give him a drink. And enjoy your treat with a little privacy.

  Newt grinned and gathered up Ole Pete’s reins.

  —Need a heft?

  —Yes, ma’am.

  Newt put his booted foot in my cupped hands and I tossed him up the sixteen hands to Ole Pete’s back. The sorrel turned his blaze-faced muzzle back to gently nip at Newt’s boot, a sure sign of affection.

  —Don�
��t let him get away from you.

  Ole Pete snorted loudly and nudged me with his nose, as if offended by my suggestion that he’d be anything other than a gentleman with the wisp of a child on his back. I patted the old horse’s neck, and he headed off toward the creek.

  I walked through the stables, noticing the empty stalls, past the blacksmithing tools and an unfinished ax head on the anvil, and found Newt’s father sitting on a camp chair next to the back wall, a jug of whisky at his feet. The blacksmith’s rheumy eyes landed on me. Even with him sitting down, I was barely taller than Ulysses Valentine. His arms, strengthened by years of blacksmithing, were as thick as my thighs, his chest as big around as me and Hattie when we hugged. I clenched my jaw as I thought of Newt’s black eye and imagined this giant’s meaty fist connecting with that soft face.

  —I heard you were back.

  He held his hand out, palm up. No need for pleasantries. Our mutual dislike was well known, but we managed to get along professionally well enough. I needed horses shod on the regular, and he needed someone to keep him in whisky.

  I pulled his take out of my bag and dropped it in his lap. He opened the leather pouch and looked down at the gold and silver coins within. He grunted.

  —When’s Jehu get back?

  —Couple of weeks.

  He bit the leather cord and pulled it to close the pouch.

  —You know, people are starting to talk about how you’re playing both ends here.

  —Are they?

  —It’s not going unnoticed that you get back most of the money you give us when Jehu brings in supplies.

  He stood. I pulled my pouch of hashish tobacco and papers from my shirt pocket and took my time filling the blanket. I know very well that Valentine can snap me in two like a twig if he’s of a mind to. I wouldn’t even have the chance to pull my knife from my boot or my gun from its holster. He relies on the fear of his size to bully and intimidate everyone in town, man and woman alike, except Luke Rhodes.