by Stan Himes
Attitudes were different at the campsite that night, quieter, more contemplative. Clean Through heaped the plates a little higher—cornbread, beans with bacon mixed in, even apple pie—but we didn’t relish it the way we normally would have.
Prudence ate her pie first, like she just wanted something nice. Her anger at what had happened had faded into new thoughts. “That’s about as scared as I ever want to be, I’m not ashamed to say. But when I think on what might’ve happened…” The lingering heat of the day didn’t keep her from shivering.
Ernestine tore off a piece of cornbread and dipped it in her beans. “I’m done with being scared. Ain’t nobody takin’ me unawares again.” She popped the cornbread in her mouth and gulped it down. “Let ’em try and they’ll see Pearl’s not the only one here who can shoot.” She turned to Pearl, who sat near the fire, legs folded, reddish dirt on her pants. “I know I thanked you fifty times already Pearl, but it still don’t seem like enough.”
“For sure,” Prudence chimed in. “You’ll be in my prayers tonight. Every night.”
Pearl was the teary-eyed one now, though I don’t know if it was sadness from reflection on the killings or her hard life or warmth from her growing acceptance in the group. I only knew it was no time to disturb her.
Then Sally started laughing. Slow at first, then growing into one of those shaking-all-over laughs like when you remember the stupidest thing someone did as a kid or when someone fell in a puddle or something ridiculous like that. At last she got her breath long enough to spit out, “That ugly man said ‘no one needs to die’ and then, pow, there’s Pearl saying ‘not the way I see it!’” She was shaking with laughter again and it was contagious. I joined in and Ernestine howled and Clean Through cackled through his few teeth and suddenly everyone felt that Pearl gunning down three sneak-thieves was the funniest thing in the history of the world. Katie and Mary, who had been feeling bad about being removed from the action, were chuckling away. Even Pearl had a laugh and I think if Ruth hadn’t been out with the herd she wouldn’t have minded Pearl being part of the group. Well, just this once.
Maybe if Ruth knew more about Pearl, she’d have been less angry. But learning about Pearl was a chore even for me with my inquisitive nature. (“Nosy” was what my mother called it, but I always preferred “curious.”) Little by little, I learned just that—a little—about Pearl.
Pearl’s mother lived long enough to nurse her once, dying a day after what the doctor had described as a “fierce, hard childbirth.” I’ve heard of many instances where a father blamed the child for the mother’s death, but Pearl’s father took to her just fine. He sharecropped a small Georgia farm with his brother and sister, leaving Pearl in her aunt’s care most of the time. Despite the loss of her mother, Pearl had been born into love. But her life was destined for change within a few short years.
Depending on where you’re from, you either call it the War of Northern Aggression or the War of the Rebellion. However you refer to it, it was a dark time. Darker still for Pearl, who saw her father and uncle leave but never return. Her aunt took to nursing in hopes of learning about the fate of the men, and in doing so left Pearl in the care of an elderly neighbor woman.
Life with the elderly woman, known to Pearl only as Nadine, was the last stroke of good fortune in Pearl’s life. Nadine owned one book, a copy of Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth that a passing salesman had given her in exchange for a meal and a night’s lodging, and from that book she taught Pearl to read. There came a time when the aunt stopped visiting, whether from death or distance or lack of interest is unknown, and Pearl’s world consisted solely of Nadine, the book, and helping Nadine bake bread to sell.
Pearl was still but a child when a rider, a yellow-haired man with a black beard, saw her walking on a trail in the early morning light to deliver a basket of rolls. He snatched up both Pearl and the rolls and rode away. By the time they camped, Pearl’s tears had dried.
“What’d you bring me out here for?”
“Thought you were older.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Some day you will.”
“I’m hungry.”
“That’s too damn bad.”
He was just going to eat the rolls and let her starve! Even when there wasn’t much food, she and Nadine had shared it. The small meal they’d shared the night before seemed like forever ago.
Hunger leads to desperation, a theme that would rule the next decade for Pearl. When the man looked away for just an instant, Pearl charged, grabbed a roll with each hand, and rushed away in what she thought was the direction of home. The man must have been satisfied with his remaining bounty or was too tired to care. He let her run, and he had not the decency nor the inclination to holler that she was running in the wrong direction. Even if she had been going the right way, they had ridden the entire day. More than likely, she was 40, maybe 50 miles from Nadine’s. She would never see the kind-hearted woman again.
The happenings of the next few years are unclear. Pearl lived by stealing food and now and again stealing a dress as she grew. Every so often she’d be caught by a farmer’s wife and put to work to pay for what she’d stolen, but as she grew older and her pretty face topped a comely body, there wasn’t a farmer’s wife who wanted her around for long. She was never in an area long enough to make a friend, and none who caught her ever showed sympathy or took the time to drop her off with a sheriff or a preacher.
So she drifted and drifted, gaining skills in sneaking up and running off. On the outskirts of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, Pearl came upon the campsite of a couple that was heading west. She watched to see where they stored their jerky, waited until they were asleep, and then entered the camp. She hadn’t noted their dog, and the hound’s bellow woke the family, the husband catching Pearl before she could get away. Pearl’s best guess is that she was about 15 at the time, and I’d say it’s a fair bet that she was plenty developed by then. So when the wife, not bright enough or interested enough to see her husband’s lusting eyes, suggested they keep the girl to help with chores, the man was more than happy to oblige. They tied Pearl to their wagon, and the woman told her they would talk in the morning about how Pearl could come along with them, but that she’d be expected to do chores to earn her keep. Even tied up, Pearl thought it was the finest offer she’d had in years.
The man went at her that night. Weak, tired, and roped to a wagon, Pearl had no chance at all. She lacked knowledge of the ways of men—bad men, I should say to be fair—and didn’t understand at first when he set himself down beside her. As his hand clamped over her mouth and his other hand lifted her dress… well, she learned quick. Her womanhood was taken before she even knew what it was.
Adding to the horror of the situation was that the wife hadn’t minded at all. “Keepin’ him off of me is worth a plate of food” was her only comment.
Pearl, without any say in the matter, endured the situation for another week. They kept her tied up and gagged in the wagon during travel time, then kept her tied to the wagon at night, never camping within earshot of a town or homestead. The woman fed her. The man went at her. Then it was on to the next site. Her wrists and ankles chafed under the ropes and, of course, other parts of her ached from the experience.
Far worse than the pain was the shame that washed over her. Though it had been a long time since she had had any form of a moral upbringing, she was no fool. She knew what was being done to her was wrong—after all, they had to tie her up to do it, plus the woman seemed happy that it wasn’t being done to her. Pearl knew she had lost a part of herself, knew she didn’t like how she was being used, knew she hated being bound and gagged, knew the man’s smell and whiskers were repulsive, and yet the part that shamed her was that she knew how much she enjoyed having a meal brought to her, so much so that it almost seemed worth the hurt. She had scrounged and stolen for so long that a plate of food had more value than a bag of gold.
As her hunger dissipated, her
mind cleared and her strength returned. By the week’s end, her hatred of being used overcame her want of food, and she resolved to escape. That she was cleverer than both the man and woman combined was something of which she had no doubt. As night came, dinner was over, the woman bedded down and the man came at her. For the first time she didn’t fight him. Less than five minutes after she said, “I’d like it more if I could put my arms around you,” she was running free with a bag of jerky and potatoes, and the man lay woozy beside a dented skillet.
She had learned a range of lessons during that week, not the least of which was that her body could be traded for food, perhaps even money. It wasn’t something she wanted to experience again, but a full belly felt good. In her own way, in her uneducated and morally untrained mind, she had prospects. But later, after she put plenty of distance between herself and the couple, her mind began to work over what she had been through. All at once she realized that she was rocking back and forth on the ground, hugging herself and crying.
Hunger remained a powerful motivator, and over the next few years she offered herself in barter for food and coins. Frequently she was chased from town by the law, more often by other women. Her shame grew, her self-worth dwarfed, and her way of life became routine. Sometimes someone would give her enough money for a stage ride, and she would move on.
Once she became a companion to a gambler who thought she brought good luck, and for a time she had a reason to smile. He taught her to shoot, reasoning that it can be handy for a gambler to have an unsuspected gun around. But her gun was never needed—he choked to death on a tough steak and she was on her own again.
More of the same followed. Drifting. Selling herself. Living in the wrong part of town. Spurned by most women. Denounced by most men when out in the street, but craved by those same men in the alleys and back rooms. Occasional beatings. Occasional kindness. Constant loneliness.
Eventually Pearl ended up in Secluded Springs. Now she was laughing by the fire with us, once again leaving a town behind, once again hoping to leave the past behind.
As for me, I can truly say that my life changed that night by the campfire. I had mixed feelings, being mostly down on myself for what I’d perceived as cowardly hesitation and a tiny bit pleased with myself for somewhat rallying to the cause. Staring into the fire while studying my feelings had little appeal to me, so I decided it was a good time to heed my father’s wishes and write a letter. I had something exciting to tell, and I thought working up a paragraph or two would keep my mind occupied. The next thing I knew, three hours had passed and Mary was tapping my shoulder to join her on watch. I’d spilled my thoughts onto 17 pages, some about me, some about life, some about our journey and some about my friends. Writing had never interested me before, but I supposed that I hadn’t experienced much to write about until then. Anyway, it felt freeing, and as I rode out to relieve Sally I resolved that writing was something I would continue to explore. I also resolved to write my parents a real letter soon.
The night passed. For once the clanging of Clean Through’s wooden spoon against the pan was a welcome sound. Routine was returning.
One routine I didn’t care for, however, was dealing with a cow I had nicknamed Uncle Angus. It was a poor name for a female, I admit, but her lackadaisical attitude reminded me of my mother’s late brother, Angus. Much like Uncle Angus, this cow just wandered as it darn well pleased with no concern over the consequences. It was neither skilled at leading nor following. If we put her up front, she drifted and the cattle would start spreading out. If we put her in the middle or in the rear, she paid no attention to the rest of herd and moved off in any old direction. Aimless. Just like Uncle Angus.
While Uncle Angus the man had drifted his way into the wrong end of a jealous man’s pistol, Uncle Angus the cow seemed determined to drift her way into anything but the proper direction. I spent an unfortunate amount of time driving her back toward the herd. Now here I was trying to think through the events of the previous day, what I did right, the many things I did wrong, how interesting it had been to write and how I couldn’t wait to sit down and write some more, and there was Uncle Angus breaking my thoughts by roaming away like a butterfly in the wind. I circled my horse to her left and guided Uncle Angus back to the herd, but I had hardly started thinking again before Uncle Angus was drifting away toward a sinkhole. I cut her off and gave myself some peace of mind by roping her and pulling her along with my horse for awhile.
By mid-day dinner, enough time had passed that emotions were replaced by scrutiny. We wondered if the three men had stumbled upon us or had known about us in advance. It didn’t seem that they were simply lying in wait for the next herd to come by, because not only had we not yet reached the official trail, but also their intent was to take us, not our belongings. By evening supper, we were leaning toward the idea that they knew we were coming. By mid-morning the following day, we confirmed the possibility.
Pushing forward ever closer to the Canadian River and Indian Territory, we spied a covered wagon at the edge of a field. A negro family had a fire going and meat cooking. That was unexpected enough. But the real surprise was that their five children were all lined up on a bench, watching us. They smiled and waved.
With caution on her mind, Mary told Clean Through to stop the chuckwagon and keep his gun handy. Then she rode over to meet the family.
“Good day to you, ma’am,” came the welcoming voice of the husband. The wife’s smile was just as warm.
“Good morning. Wasn’t expecting to see anyone here.”
“We’re on our way from Arkansas to California, where I been promised railroad work.”
“Long trip.”
“Yes’m. We’d stopped in Wichita Falls for supplies and the storekeep said we just might be crossing paths with the women in pants.”
“The town was cacklin’ all about you,” added the wife. “And please pardon my man. My name is Hattie, my husband is John, and these are our children.”
“I’m Mary. Pleased to meet you all. You say people in Wichita Falls were talking about us?”
“Sure were,” continued Hattie. “When we got this far and hadn’t seen tracks, John thought we might be ahead of you. Then he shot that venison and it seemed like a fine idea to smoke it right here and hope you all might come along. It was a sight we wanted to see.”
“And you didn’t disappoint, no ma’am,” said John. Then he shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Women drivin’ cattle and wearin’ pants. My my. Thanks be to God that my children could be free to see such wonders!”
Mary smiled at the children, who smiled back, never stirring, never saying a word. I haven’t seen better-behaved children in my life.
“We’d be pleased if you’d join us for a visit and some venison,” said Hattie.
“You’re very kind, but we must keep moving. I hope to reach the Canadian soon.”
They were in sight for more than an hour as we walked the herd past. We likely stared at them every bit as much as they watched us. I had seen negroes during my time in St. Louis. Mary had seen them in Texarkana and it was a safe bet that Pearl had seen negroes, men at least. But it was the first time for the others and rare for all of us. Since the war, small groups had traveled into Texas and farther west, but most hadn’t come through our particular area. Katie noted that while John was very dark, Hattie was only slightly darker than the deeply tanned among us, like Jonas. Above all, what we enjoyed most were the smiling children. They never moved from that bench the entire time we were in sight.
“Didn’t they realize they’d be adding to our danger?” fumed Sally at that night’s campfire.
Concern and speculation were running rampant. We wondered who had spread the word about our trip, and we wondered if more outlaws were lying in wait for us. Remember how I said no one ever got good news in a telegram? Well now that same telegraph service was spreading news about us and the only ones around to hear it were the people we least wanted to know.
Mary changed the tone of the conversation. “Don’t matter who. All that matters is word is spreading, so we need to be as vigilant as possible. Not likely that a kind negro family is all we’ll run into.” She was confident we’d reach the river the following day and move into Oklahoma the day after. That would lower the risk of bandits, but bring its own set of concerns. “Let’s do triple watch tonight. Two-hour shifts. We’ll worry about sleep once the river’s at our backs.”
While we were staying awake and scanning for bandits, Jonas was lying awake and staring at nothing. Sleep had been difficult for him since our departure. With his limited mobility, he wasn’t doing much to tire his body out. And while his constant worrying was wearisome, his mind refused to rest.
Nighttime was the worst. Thoughts swirled without pause, wondering if Mary and Katie were safe, how the drive was going, how far they had gotten, if Ruth had shot Pearl, if buyers in Dodge would treat us fair—it was an endless parade of negativity brought on by the simple fact that the entire future of his family and his ranch was out of his control. That’s hard for a man to take.
His main solace was thinking about Mary. He thought back to that dance in Texarkana and how superior Mary had seemed compared to the other girls. Just 16, she carried herself like a woman. She didn’t pretend she was anything but what she was, which is something teenage girls often did in the hope of impressing someone. No, Mary was happy being Mary, and that impressed Jonas. He liked her looks, of course, but he’d need more than a pretty face and comely shape. He needed a woman with an inner strength to handle difficult times. Even more, he needed a woman with a mind that could envision what he envisioned, a fine ranch that would take at least a decade of work to become reality, probably longer. Mary’s eyes forecast intelligence, and her conversation proved her eyes true. By the end of the dance, Jonas was convinced that his instant attraction had depth beyond infatuation. He shared his dreams with her. She responded to them with excitement and understanding. He asked her to marry him.
