“You say that to Mr. Dance, and see what happens. Nobody calls him a sissy.”
“What do you know? You’re just a female. Good for nothing, for making babies and washing the shit out of my drawers.”
“I may be just a female, but I ain’t the one gambling away our tomorrows.” Martha clamped her lips shut. Almost, she’d told him about the poke of dust in Miz Hudson’s warming oven. The thought of it brought her head up and straightened her spine. Just a female. Who made money instead of losing it in silly games? “You ain’t getting us ahead. Your way is leading to the poorhouse.”
“Ahead! Ahead! What do you know about getting ahead? Putting on airs, like you do. You. Baking pies, slaving over a stove. Slavey.” He paused, looked around. “Where’s Dotty?”
“What do you care? You’ve done throwed away her future.”
“Where is she?” His big voice boomed out, and Martha took a step backward, was nearly tripped up in the rocker.
“At school, so she won’t be ignorant like you and me.”
“What? School? Girls don’t need to read and write. Just spread your legs and make babies. Boy babies.” His lips stretched out in a nasty grin, his yellow teeth gleamed through his beard. “’Bout time Dotty was married.”
“No! She can’t. She ain’t proper growed yet.”
“She can finish growing when she has a baby to suck. Maybe then give her some tits.” He put a hand on Martha’s breast, squeezed hard. “Ain’t done you no good, though.”
She pulled away from him, swatted his hands. “Don’t touch me!”
His lips twisted, the grin made a snarl. The dulcimer lay where she had forgotten it, and he snatched it up. She sprang to grab it, but he pushed her aside, and she fell against the table and slid to the floor. He held the instrument over her. “What you doing with this thing?”
She tried to rise, but her foot caught in her skirt. “Give it here. It’s mine.” Her mouth was dry, and her blood thundered in her ears. He couldn’t! Not that! It was soft summer nights back home, music and moonlight. He’d said it soothed his soul.
“Your’n? Your’n? You ain’t got nothing. It’s mine. Everything’s mine on account I’m the man of the house, and don’t you forget it. Women don’t need frippery music.” He flung the dulcimer onto the floor and stomped on it. “There. That’ll learn you.” He was panting like he’d run for miles.
Martha stared at the wreckage. One of the strings, still attached to its pegs, vibrated like a lost kitten mewing. He tromped past her and out the door, slammed it behind him. She had no power to move. She felt as if she had no blood in her veins, that it had all drained away, leaving her alone in this snow-covered wilderness of silence.
9: Bannack
They rode 80 miles southwest on roads cut and pounded by wagon wheels and countless hooves. Slow was an inadequate word for the pace of horses picking their way through the darkness, because the men, Dan and Fitch and Beidler, did not want to stop at the places where roughs were known to congregate. They stopped for a short while at other ranches, to rest and take care of the horses, but they were in a hurry, and any progress was better than none. When he reached Bannack, half frozen, wearier than he had thought possible and still remain upright, Dan forced his back to straighten and his legs to carry him. He would not play the weakling in front of Fitch and Beidler, who had survived the Deer Lodge trip.
Having stabled the horses, they sought out Sanders, who greeted them like messengers from Heaven and took them straightaway to his uncle Edgerton. The Chief Justice reminded Dan of an eagle in the carriage of his head, the prominent nose, the fierce eye. He doubted the word compromise was in Sidney Edgerton’s vocabulary. Having heard their report, uncle and nephew agreed at once: Convene a meeting. Sanders had talked to men in the town, but they were not convinced that enough evidence existed against any of the suspects to warrant forming a Vigilante group.
In truth, Dan thought, they were afraid.
“It adds up.” Sanders pinned each man with an implacable stare.
Seeing their reflections in the window panes of Francis Thompson’s store, Dan thought, we look for all the world like men chewing the fat around a warm stove, entertaining each other on a winter evening with tall tales. Instead we weigh men’s lives in a scale. In one pan is a life. In the other flakes of gold: witness reports, coincidences, conjectures, small facts, and Dr. Glick’s corroboration. Yeager’s list. Each of us held a flake or a nugget that meant almost nothing until we put it all in the same pan, and it sinks under the total. Armed robbery. Assault. Murder.
Guilty or not guilty?
Dan touched the notebook in his breast pocket, mentally ticked off names in it. Buck Stinson, Ned Ray, Henry Plummer. Dutch John Wagner. He crossed his legs, shifted on the hard wooden chair. A long meeting, but no longer than it deserved to be when they were preparing to hang men. Across from him, Beidler, frowning, swung his feet. Dan wished they would finish. He pinched a fold of skin on his left hand, so the pain would keep him awake.
God, that he would be party to hanging a man without trial. Yet Lincoln suspended habeas corpus in this crisis of War. And we have done the same in our crisis. His reflection stared back at him. With the knowledge of Chief Justice Sidney Edgerton. He shifted his gaze to the Justice’s hawk-nosed reflection. This is no less war than that conflict back home. This war with lawlessness unites us. Edgerton and Sanders, radical abolitionists. Myself. Beidler, who sympathized with John Brown. Fitch, who gave half an arm to his Glorious Cause. George Chrisman, who brought his slave into the Territory. Frank Thompson, moderate Republican. Chrisman and Thompson were both friends of Henry Plummer.
“It’s highly circumstantial.” Chrisman raised his chin, as if daring them to hang anyone on such evidence. Chrisman’s store housed Plummer’s office. One of Bannack’s city fathers, Chrisman. No wonder he had been terrified when he heard the Vigilantes were coming for Plummer. Enough to beg Edgerton’s protection. Though doubting the rumors, Edgerton had reassured him.
“Yes, it is,” said Sanders, “but so is most evidence that convicts criminals.”
And what is evidence, after all, Dan asked himself, except a deadly aggregate of small nuggets dropped onto a pan until it sinks into certainty?
Stinson’s guilt was not at issue. He had twice committed daylight murder in front of terrified onlookers. In Bannack he had shot Old Snag, the Indian, uncle to Bob Dempsey’s wife. In Virginia he had helped murder John Dillingham. An impartial murderer who spread it around like a whore.
Ned Ray aided the others, connived with them. A facilitator. Co-conspirator. An occasional robber. He was on Yeager’s list. No one here doubted the justice of his death, even if no one had seen him commit murder.
Joe Pizanthia, Mexican, known as the Greaser. The total on him was inconclusive, and they would talk to him later. Perhaps the man merely had the wrong friends, though a man is known by the company he keeps.
But Henry Plummer? Sheriff of Bannack? Sheriff of Virginia City? He had friends and allies around this stove. Thompson, Chrisman. If they were not convinced, Plummer would not hang, despite Yeager’s list, despite everything else.
Dan’s throat was desert-dry. The notebook named no sources, in case. In case he lost the book. In case his murderers found it on his body. “There’s Dr. Glick’s evidence,” he said. “The injuries he treated, the men who warned him that talking meant dying. Plummer did, when Glick treated his gun arm. And when the doctor treated Jack Cleveland in ’62, after Plummer shot him. Plummer threatened to kill Glick then if he repeated any of it. He enjoys reminding Glick from time to time.” Keeping the doctor frightened for his life. We can all understand why Glick said nothing.
Thompson leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, his hands dangling. He stared at the floor. “I’ve known Plummer nearly two years.” He labored to bring the words out of his mouth. “He told me something about his earlier life, and from others I learned more. The murders he committed in Nevada Territory
. California. He broke out of prison. Killed a guard. Ended up here.” He folded his hands, the joints of his fingers whitened, his nails dug into the backs of his hands. “I tried to convince Electa Bryan not to marry him, murderer that he has been, but she would have him.” His lips twisted. “I stood bridesmaid at their wedding. Her sister, Mrs. Vail, would not do it. She has never said why. There were no other white women.”
Another little mystery added to that of Mrs. Plummer’s visit home three months after her wedding. No word to Mrs.Vail about returning. Both women kept their own counsel.
“I board with the Vails,” Thompson said. “Along with Plummer. He said he would mend his ways, and for a while I think he honestly tried. But something went wrong, even before Mrs. Plummer left. He started gambling again. More of his old cronies appeared. I began some time ago to notice a disturbing consistency about his absences from Bannack. He’s always gone when someone is robbed.”
Chrisman said, “That won’t wash. He lived in the other Virginia City, in Nevada. He’s an expert on silver. He’s often asked to inspect sites for silver ore.”
“Shit,” Beidler said. “I lived in Kansas, but I know damn all about corn.”
“Even more disturbing,” said Thompson, “is that he never pursues the robbers, and he never enforces laws for public safety.”
Like Gallagher, Dan thought. “We have no laws of public safety. We have no laws at all, not even since the Ives trial.” That, too, remained to be done.
“The Legislature may already have taken care of that,” said Chrisman.
Beidler snorted. “That bunch? What do they know of conditions here, five hundred miles over the Divide? Before they act, we could all be dead.”
Dan said, “Or Plummer could be a U.S. Deputy Marshal.”
“God forbid.” Edgerton and Chrisman spoke at once, stared at each other in surprise.
Thompson unfolded his hands, his nails had scored the back of one, and a thin line of blood welled up. He wiped his thumb at it. “I’ve felt certain for some time that a gang of robbers is operating around here, and Henry might be involved, but until you brought Yeager’s list, and Dr. Glick’s evidence, I had no thought that he might be their leader.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Chrisman. “You’ll never convince me.”
Beidler said, “He don’t seem likely, for sure. Too much like a molly for roughs like Buck Stinson, or Gallagher to respect.” The little man stood up and sidled closer to the stove.
Judge Edgerton rose and waved Beidler to his chair. “I’m far too warm. Sit here.”
“Thank you,” Beidler said, as he changed places with the Chief Justice. “I don’t think I’ll ever get warm again.”
“Plummer may be effeminate,” said Dan, “but he has that pistol.”
Fitch, who had been silent, uncharacteristically for him, said, “Yes. And he’s got a mean streak a mile wide. He killed Jack Cleveland, who was supposed to be his pal.”
“That was self-defense,” said Chrisman.
Dan wanted to laugh. Self-defense made a murderer’s ploy. Lure a man into a fight, make sure he tries to shoot first, then claim self-defense.
Thompson said, “Hell, George, Cleveland’s death was a put-up job from the start.”
“But why?”
“Because Cleveland was a rival for Miss Bryant’s affections.” Thompson spat on a handkerchief and dabbed at the scratch. “He knew Henry from California, and he could have told Miss Bryant a thing or two about her love. While Cleveland was dying, Henry expressed no remorse. He just worried about what Jack might say about him.”
Chrisman’s mouth opened, but Thompson overrode him. “He persecuted Hank Crawford. He wanted to be sheriff.”
“That’s not fair!” said Chrisman. “Hank tried to murder him, shot him in the back.”
“Yeah?” Fitch’s chin jutted out at the Southerner. “If Plummer was out to murder you, you know any other way to even the odds? Hank wasn’t a good enough shot, was his problem. His tough luck he only got Plummer in his gun arm.”
“It’s what Plummer did next,” Sanders said, “that troubles me. I wasn’t here, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe he taught himself to use the pistol left-handed in order to maintain his superiority, then drove Crawford out.”
“He’s the best man with a pistol in the Territory,” Fitch said.
Dan asked himself, what would Plummer’s skill be if he could use his right hand? “Just like in Virginia City. Persuaded the sheriff at that time to resign in his favor.”
Sanders cleared his throat. “Yes. He showed me his handiwork. He took me to the recovery and bragged that most of the wounded were there by his hand.” He thought for a moment. “He was trying to deliver a suave warning. Or a threat.”
Thompson sighed. “Nobody ever said Henry lacks courage. Or charisma, or charm, or generosity, or a host of other good qualities. That’s what’s so God damn hard.”
“It is a hard thing to learn that he is such a villain,” Sanders said. “He gave us an excellent Thanksgiving dinner, with butter and a turkey he ordered especially.”
Thompson said, “I believe Red Yeager and all the rest of it. I hate believing it, you don’t know how much.”
“It won’t get any easier.” Dan wanted to end this. Listening to Plummer’s friends had not changed his mind. Balanced against Plummer’s readiness to commit murder for his own purposes, charm and charisma, even generosity, flowed off the scale like water in a sluice carried away dirt, leaving only nuggets of guilt. He began to turn over each nugget, and his mind wandered onto its own trail of thought amid the undergrowth of speculation and hearsay, and evidence, until it broke out as if on an outcrop, the conspiracy spread at his feet in a great web. “No wonder Club Foot George rode all night to fetch him to Nevada City.”
“Oh, God,” Chrisman buried his face in his hands. “It is a conspiracy. He fooled me. Utterly.” He raised his face, stricken and gaunt. “Unsavory characters visit the Sheriff. They discuss people’s travel plans. How much gold they carry. Routes, when they’re leaving. All under the cover of providing protection.”
Another nugget, Dan said to himself. Perhaps the biggest of all.
* * *
Henry Plummer had a headache.
“He hasn’t felt good all day,” Mrs. Vail stood aside, gracious, polite, her smile bewildered at so many men intruding into her parlor, their boots tracking her carpet. The Spencer’s stock bumped a gleaming lamp table. Dan caught the lamp before its oil spilled and the flower-painted shade smashed. He rubbed the bruise in the wood, ashamed; couldn’t they have caught Plummer in his own cabin? Their odors of sweat and unwashed clothes did not belong amid the gleam and scent of polish. “Why did Mrs. Edgerton cancel choir practice?” she asked Sanders. “We always practice on Sunday nights.”
“I believe something came up.” Sanders scooped up Plummer’s pistols, that he had laid on a chair. “They’ll resume next week.”
“We need you, Henry.” Thompson held Plummer’s coat.
Dan hated knowing the sorrow to come to this nice woman. Damn Plummer for his charm, his good manners, his violent ways. They should have had to walk over gunmen to seize him, not a little lady whose puzzled frown furrowed her sweet countenance. Good God, what had they come to, to invade her home? Dan wanted to put down the rifle, back away, tell her it was all a mistake, sorry to have bothered her.
“He’s not well,” Mrs. Vail said. “Why do you want him? Frank, what is the matter?”
“Don’t worry, Mary,” Thompson said. Plummer stood up, turned his back to Thompson, put his arms down into the sleeves.
As if seeing the sheriff for the first time, Dan thought we could almost be twins, we are the same age, twenty-seven, have the same rangy build and coloring, though his eyes are blue, his hair is redder, and I’m bigger and he’s better looking.
Chrisman, a Southern gentleman at his courtliest, spoke. “We have to borrow the Sheriff, Mrs. Vail. We have urgent busines
s with him.”
“Can this urgent business not wait until he’s feeling better?”
Thompson took her by the arm, drew her aside. “I’m afraid not, Mary.”
Plummer buttoned the coat. “It’s all right, Mary. I’ll be back soon.” Not until the second group had joined them at the ford with Buck Stinson, did he begin to understand danger. “What’s going on, boys?”
As they splashed across the dark water, Sanders said, “I’m afraid this is the end, Henry.”
“No! It can’t be! I’m innocent! Innocent, I tell you!”
He yelled at the top of his voice as they walked down Main Street, where lamplight streamed from windows, printed mellow rectangles on dark blue snow. Dan, ahead of Plummer, rifle under his arm, scanned the buildings, on guard against a rescue. They turned uphill on Second Street.
God's Thunderbolt: The Vigilantes of Montana Page 35
