Deep Purple (31 page)

CHAPTER 41

W
hen Jessie returned to her role as highwayman, her first two robberies were easy enough. Apparently Taro’s strength and love had renewed her. With the two-week interval the miners—and Elizabeth Godwin—must have believed she had disappeared from the area, for the wagons which Jessie watched from her perch on the bluff no longer carried the guard.

She chose a different location each time, and her method worked so well that after three weeks of her relentless attack the ore wagons, with a double guard now, left the mines only on
ce a week.

At night she lay alone in the darkened mine shaft, shivering from the cold, wishing she could build a fire. But that day she had sighted a band of men and knew they were scouring the countryside for her. Hands behind her head, she silently quest
ioned why she continued, why she did not return to the man who gave her the only peace she knew in her life.

But her love for Cristo Rey and her hatred for Elizabeth were bound together as tightly as barbed wire and fence post. She knew she would never be
able to claim the land as hers, but when Elizabeth’s gray head was bowed in defeat, then she would cease her attacks. When Cristo Rey went up on the auction block she could return forever to the haven of Taro’s arms.

With the guard now doubled, she knew sh
e had to be more resourceful, more careful. She chose the next site of her attack at a most unlikely place—clear of the canyons on the open range. It would be there the driver and guards would be most lax.

She waited at the bottom of a draw that angled nea
r the road. As she had foreseen, one of the guards had even propped his shotgun, butt down, on the wagon floorboard. The other guard had his shotgun lying carelessly across his knees.

Her plan went smoothly, the guards yielding their firearms
— and boots—and, cursing her, beginning the long walk back to the Whetstones and the mines. Disposing of the wagonload presented more of a problem this time. Though not as strong as the driver, she was able to manage the mules and maneuver them off the main road. She drove for perhaps three hours across the range. She judged that initially the wagon’s trail would be easy enough to follow. But once far enough away from the road there would be other wagon tracks crisscrossing the grass—those of the Indians who did not keep to the main road of the white man’s civilization.

By late afternoon she was whipping the four-mule team wagon into the small but wild outlaw hideout of Charleston. She joined the other ore wagons that crossed the bridge to the stamp mill. Its stacks bel
ched great plumes of gray smoke twenty-four hours a day. When it came her turn for her wagon’s ore to be dumped into the hopper, she pulled her sombrero down low and mumbled to the smelter superintendent a fictitious name.

“
The Hellhole Mining Company?” the potbellied man asked, his pencil poised over the notebook. “Never heard of it.”

“
We’ve just started up.”

“
Well,” he grunted, “give me a box number where your payment can be mailed.”

She rattled off some box number with a Tombstone destination and hurried
away. The sight draft would sit in the Tombstone post office’s dead-letter box for months, with any sort of luck.

Over the week that followed she was both triumphant and wary. Not one wagonload of ore left the mine. Once she walked close enough to view th
e mine through her field glasses. Work was still going on, but with fewer men. She would wait for the next wagon out, she decided. The loss of its ore should be enough to break Elizabeth Godwin.

For this last robbery she was most meticulous in her planning
. She dressed in her old skirt and blouse and the sombrero. The driver and the guards would not be expecting a woman. Her face she left uncovered, judging that the floppy hat would make it difficult to later identify her accurately. It should be the easiest of all her forays.

She waited just beyond the site of her first attack, her carbine hidden in the folds of her skirt. Within minutes after stationing herself on the road, the chimes of mules
’ harness bells could be heard. The wagon rumbled over the porcupine ridge into view. At once the two armed guards snapped up their shotguns into position. In spite of the fact that she was a woman, both kept the sights trained on her until they pulled alongside. The Mexican driver, a short stocky man with yellow-brown teeth, whistled, and the guards grinned when they saw the pretty face.

The guard closest to her spit a brown stream of tobacco juice into the dust and said, “
You’re on the right road, miss, if you're headed for Tombstone, but you oughtta be a sight more careful. There's a bandit working this road.”

She dimpled a smile. “
I’m visiting the McPherson ranch and somehow got lost. Can you tell me how to find my way back?” His wariness allayed, the nearest guard sat his shotgun down and pointed to the northeast. “Just keep to that dirt path veering off over them hills there, ma’am. You can't miss it.”

At that moment her carbine came up from the fold of her skirts. She smiled again. “
Thank you, gentlemen. Now, all three of you will toss your guns over the side—and your boots, too. Please.”

The trio uttered gasps at the realization that this dainty female was the bandit. Amazingly, no words were exchanged as they grunted and groaned in removing their boots. The two guards climbed down from the wagon in obvious disgust
, but the driver said, “Guess you’ve duped us,
señorita
. But one day—pronto— your pretty neck’s gonna swing at the end of a hangman’s noose. ”

She repressed a shiver. It was not what the Mexican said, but the way he said it, the certainty, that suddenly fr
ightened her.

She told herself she must not let him shake her and proceeded with her usual plan, dispatching the men on the hike back up the hilly road. When they were too far away to be of danger, she boarded the wagon, only to hear the sudden drum of hoo
ves. She whirled to see a dozen or so men descending on her in a flurry of dust. Her hand went to the shotgun on the floorboard, and a shot rang out, its whoosh sizzling past her ear.

Instantly she knew there was no hope of holding the posse off. She crouc
hed low in the wagon seat and snapped the lines over the mules. Their ears pricked up and they broke out into a trot—a slow one. hampered by the wagon’s load.

Too soon the men drew closer. She realized it was stupid to try to outrun the horses. Her shoulde
rs drew back in a surge of pride, and she tugged on the reins, pulling the mules to a halt. She drew a shuddering breath and turned to face her enemies. A dozen guns trained on her as the posse cantered up to the wagon.

Two men rode forward, one wearing th
e badge of Tombstone’s new U.S. marshal, John Slaughter—who had replaced Wyatt Earp. The other wore a brown Stetson, but she recognized him immediately. “Brig!” she breathed.

For a moment he did not say anything. His gaze moved disbelievingly over her face
. He reined in next to the wagon and lifted the hat from her head. Her wild golden curls tumbled over her shoulders. “Oh, God,” he rasped. "Why, Jessie?”

She met his tortured gaze. “
You need to ask?”

"String her up now!”
a voice in the posse shouted.

Hands
grabbed for her, yanking her down from the wagon. Her head cracked against the sideboard. Simultaneously she felt the sharp pain along with the warm blood that streamed down the side of her face.

“
Wait!” Brig's command was lost among the babble of the men. A gunshot went off, and all turned toward the marshal. “This here is no lawless vigilante committee," the sun-leathered man said.

She shook loose the hands that held her arms and looked up into Brig's face as he came to support her.

“You’re not setting her free?" a cowboy demanded heatedly. Several men stepped forward with bellicose snarls, only to face the sight of the rifle Brig trained on them.

“
No,” Slaughter said, coming to stand at the other side of her. “But she will have a fair trial.”

Her gaze sw
ung back up to Brig’s face, and she saw there the same great sadness she felt for what might have been.

Jessie sat in the courtroom, handcuffed. She stared about her at the rabid faces who had come to see her trial, all hoping to see the first hanging in the territory of a woman.

There were so many faces, yet she felt as if she knew each of them intimately after
the three days of testimony . . . damaging testimony. There was the old man on the jury who looked to be at least seventy-five and who sat whittling each day, never once looking up. Only that morning, as the testimonies reopened, she realized he was carving a hangman's gallows. There was the fat woman who brought a picnic lunch each day so that she would not miss getting a front row seat. There were the many righteous faces that became more indignant as each witness took the stand.

And there was Elizabeth G
odwin, who sat in the back, dressed all in black. Her Victorian-proper face was starched with her noble long-suffering. Beside her sat the vividly beautiful Fanny and a granite-cast Brig.

Each day as the deputy led Jessie from the jailhouse into the courtr
oom, it was Brig's face she sought. Only his face held out hope. Her eyes would meet his, and she would see a spasm of the muscle in the jaw.

This morning would bring the last of the prosecutor's witnesses. Jessie had hoped that Brig would testify in her b
ehalf, but the small, balding lawyer told her it would be out of the question— not just because Brig's own grandmother was bringing the charges against her but also because his testimony could be made damaging by only a few adroit questions from the brilliant prosecutor, brought all the way from New Orleans by Elizabeth Godwin.

Elizabeth was the first to be called to the stand this morning. “
Jessie Howard was a bastard child of my stepson's,” she said with a despairing shake of her head. “I did everything I could to give her some sort of a home. I even saw that she received an excellent education. But she was a wild sort of thing. I never knew which of our cowhands she might be . . .” Elizabeth paused and coughed discreetly.

“
We understand how difficult this is for you, Mrs. Godwin. That will be enough.”

“
Do you want to take the stand?” Jessie’s lawyer, John Pate, asked.

What would be the use? She shook her head negatively. The prosecution was doing its work well.

The prosecutor, a tall dignified gentleman with a kindly face and a shock of silver hair, next called Dan O'Rourke. For the first time Jessie was shaken. The dapper man had not changed, except perhaps he was even more slender. She marked his eyes, the distended pupils. He was caught up in the poppy's spell after all.

“
Yes," he acknowledged, “that is the woman who worked for me, except we knew her as the Primrose—Rose.”

“
Besides dealing the cards. Mr. O’Rourke, did this lady have any clientele—er—in the rooms above?”

Every head jutted forward in antici
pation. “I don’t promote that sort of—participation—in my establishment, sir.”

“
Of course, we realize that. There are two types of women, we all know. But usually a certain type of woman works in a gambling house.”

Dan glanced at her, and she caught a flic
ker of concern before the lids drooped over the pupils. “What Rose—Miss Howard— did in her spare time I could not tell you.”

“
Miss Cashman is my next witness,” the prosecutor announced smoothly.

Nellie Cashman made her way to the stand among the buzzing of
the crowd. “We understand that Miss Howard roomed at the Russ House.”

Nellie put her trumpet to her ear. “
Eh?”

“
Was Miss Howard one of your roomers?” the prosecutor repeated, louder this time;

“
Yes, yes,” she answered, nearly shouting. “And a good one, too, always paid her rent on time."

“
Just answer the question, please, Miss Cashman. Did any men come to visit her.’’

“
For the pity’s sake, no! I don't allow such goings-on at the Russ House."

“
But you’ll admit there was something unusual about her?” the prosecutor prodded.

The woman fidgeted. She looked at Jessie anxiously.

"Yes?” the prosecutor demanded, leaning against the witness stand’s wooden railing, practically atop the nervous New England woman now.

"Well, one of my boarders, old ma
n Stevens, claimed he saw her making her way to Hop Town several times."

Pate jumped to his feet. “
I object, your honor. Old Hiram is as blind as a bat, and everyone knows it!"

"Objection overruled!”

"And you think Jessie Howard was involved in the opium dens there?” the prosecutor continued, like a hound dog hot on the scent.

“
Oh my, no, I wouldn't know anything about such goings-on!”

“
But you will agree, Miss Cashman, that Jessie Howard did act strangely whenever she would return to the Russ House—like she was in a daze, maybe?”

“
Well, yes, but she did have to keep late hours.”

“
And then she just disappeared, didn't she, Miss Cashman? Never returning for her clothing or to pay the back rent."

"What's that you say?”

"Witness dismissed. The prosecution rests its case.”

The jury adjourned to an upstairs room to go into deliberation. The deputy had taken Jessie
’s arm to lead her to a room on the other side when she saw the tall Oriental standing at the back of the courtroom. “Taro,” she whispered. For the first time in all the horror of the testimonies, tears came to her eyes.

Taro threaded his way through the crowd. He said nothing but simply took her hand. Yet it was enough for her. Just his touch gave her the strength she needed. "I guess this is the karma yo
u talked about,” she said, a slight smile curving her tremulous lips.

His hand went up to cup the side of her face, but the deputy grabbed Taro
’s shirt collar and began jerking, even though the two were of even height. “Listen here, you chink, you have no business in a white man’s court. This whore may mean something to you, but as far as—”

The deputy
’s words broke off as Taro’s hand neatly clipped him on the neck. The man slumped to the floor at Jessie’s feet. Pandemonium seemed to break out. Men roughly hauled Taro out the double front door. Jessie screamed, afraid they would kill him, but she was quickly ushered into the small anteroom.

She hurried to the one window, hoping she could see Taro, but the window opened onto the courtyard . . . and a chilling
view of the hangman’s gallows with its thirteen steps.

Mr. Pate walked in, and she ran to him. “
What will happen to Taro?” she demanded.

“
The Chinaman?”

“
He’s Japanese.”

He shrugged. “
They all look the same. Marshal Slaughter is putting him behind bars for the night—for the man’s own safety. He'll be turned loose before dawn,” he reassured her. “Did you meet him in Hop Town?”

She went back to stand at the window. “
I guess you might say that. He saved my life there."

The deliberation took less than an hour
—which lent her little hope. Obviously every member of the male jury, with their wives sitting in the audience, was already decided against her. She looked at each of the solemn twelve faces as they led her back into the courtroom. One by one, as she filed past them, they turned their gazes away from her.

“
The foreman will render the verdict," the judge said.

She held her breath, feeling that when it did come, she would shatter.

The beanpole of a man rose. "We find the defendant . . . guilty."