Ophelia's War

by Alison L. McLennan

  The social reformers hadn’t changed anything on Fifth Street. Pimps and the proprietors of gambling dens ushered those in the know through narrow doorways leading to tunnels, which opened into opium and gambling dens, cribs, and illicit saloons. Most of the activities that had taken place on street level were now underground. You name it and you could find it down there. Because it was all underground, those who had formerly feared being seen in a saloon or house of ill repute could now visit in relative anonymity. I’d always known about the tunnels, although as a parlor house girl I’d been spared the seediest elements of The Street.

  Detective Sirringo confessed he’d spent so much time living undercover with outlaws that he was uncomfortable in polite society. We had that in common. But we really didn’t fit into the rough demimonde either. We were both misfits.

  We went to the bank on Fourth Street and I withdrew an ample amount of cash for his expenses. Having enough wealth to hire a man made me feel powerful. For it had always been the other way around. Yet the cynical side of me feared I would never see him again. What recourse would I have if he took off with the money? I hoped the promise of the ruby necklace would keep him honest.

  On the walk back to the house, Charlie told me that although he’d never worked for a woman, he was honored to be on my case. My cynicism melted, and I believed he sincerely wanted to help me. In some respects he seemed as lonely and as lost as I was.

  That evening I ate dinner in the kitchen rather than in the dining room with Charlie. I did not want to seem rude, but I feared we were becoming too familiar. When I was going up to my room in the attic to retire for the night, we nearly collided in the hallway. He looked from me to the narrow attic stairs puzzled. “Where are you going?”

  “My private chambers are in the attic.”

  He gestured to the many empty bedrooms on the second floor. “You have so many spacious rooms here. Why do you live in the attic?”

  I looked at the doors to the bedrooms. I didn’t want to remember what had happened in those rooms. I smiled tightly and was careful with my words. “Yes, well, I’m just a creature of habit, I suppose. Sleep well, Mr. Sirringo.” In reality, Pearl and the ghosts of the customers haunted the house.

  “Sweet dreams, Ophelia.”

  As I climbed the stairs to the attic, I sensed his gaze and the small smile hiding under his mustache. I could not sleep that night. I had no use for lustful feelings toward him, and yet I couldn’t seem to keep them at bay. Perhaps it was my nature, caused by red hair and a misshapen cranium.

  THIRTY-ONE

  On May 2, 1883, Detective Sirringo took the Utah Central to Salt Lake where he would take the Southern train to the end of the line at Frisco. Before he left, he told me about his childhood on a cattle ranch in southwest Texas. When he was twelve, his parents were killed in a minor Civil War skirmish. At the time of his parents’ death, he was already roping and breaking mustangs, so he became an apprentice drover. He was as comfortable in the saddle and sleeping on the ground as he was riding in coaches and staying in hotels. He considered himself a cowboy detective, not like the flat-footed eastern greenhorns he loved to ridicule.

  An eternity of two and a half weeks passed before I received a telegram from him. My hands shook as I held the envelope, which he had sent via the Wells Fargo telegraph office in Silver Reef. The telegraph said:

  Complications arise. I believe I have found your brother. He is armed and dangerous. If I approach, I’m afraid only one of us will be left standing. It’s possible I have been recognized and he believes I’m a Pinkerton. Please advise.

  “What! Oh, no. Wait!” I yelled at the telegram delivery boy. He was in the street and already had one leg over his early-model safety bicycle. He stopped and looked at me.

  “Stay right there!” I grabbed my money purse and ran down the front path toward him.

  “This is urgent. I need a ride to the telegraph office.”

  “Uh, sorry, miss, I don’t think I should do that.”

  “A dollar and I’ll jump off before anyone sees me. I don’t weigh that much.”

  “A dollar! Okay, sure, jump on.”

  I hopped on the front of his bicycle and held on for dear life. It was a wobbly five-minute ride. But the boy was pleased to earn a dollar. I ran into the telegraph office and began to fill out a form. How could I be so close to finding my brother only to lose him? What was wrong with Detective Sirringo? Why couldn’t he approach a man without killing him? It was a good thing that telegrams charge by the letter, or I would have unleashed a windy diatribe.

  Leave S.R. at once. I will board next train to Frisco. Meet me there with a horse. Will bring my own saddle. From Frisco will travel to S.R. where I will approach Z. Quite certain he won’t shoot me.

  Zeke had never been a dangerous man, and I had never been a dangerous woman. Our lives had made us that way. To the annoyance of the telegraph operator, I paced the telegraph office for one hour and ten minutes until I received a telegram back from the detective:

  I will depart S.R. today and ride through the night. Disembark train at Milford NOT Frisco. Will wait at station for you with horse.

  I began walking at a fast clip back home. The delivery boy rode up and offered me a lift at no extra charge. Sweet thing, he said that he didn’t want to take advantage of me, and a dollar was worth a round trip.

  Nell stared at me as I pulled out a trunk from Pearl’s room and started looking through her old wardrobe for a travel dress. I threw several items into the trunk before I abandoned it for a medium-sized carpet bag.

  “Where you going, Miss Peach?”

  The catatonic vulnerability in her voice reminded me that she’d be on her own, and although she was as tough as rubber boots, she depended on me.

  I continued to pack as I spoke. “Just a short trip by rail and horse.” I stopped and looked at her. “I will be back. Mr. Greene is our only boarder. He’s a nice gentleman with simple needs and he’s settled in here. See to his needs. But if anyone else inquires about a room, just tell them we’re full.”

  “We’ve got rooms.”

  I let out a heavy sigh and put my hands on my hips. “I know that, Nell, but tell them we’re full. Make things easy for yourself while I’m away.”

  She nodded. I felt guilty for being short with her, but I was in such a frantic state. I finally settled on a cornflower blue traveling dress and my riding habit. I searched for my boots and came across the boots of Red Farrell. I picked up one of the boots and stared at it. The leather was soft now, even though they’d scarcely been worn. Trying to remember when I’d worn them over the years, I wondered how they could possibly look so worn. They seemed to have a life of their own. They would be far more practical, yet much less fashionable, than the ladies boots I planned to wear. Without thinking I slipped them on just to see how they felt. I grabbed a few other necessities, only what would fit in the carpet bag. Forgetting about the boots, I went downstairs, unlocked the sideboard drawer, took out the ruby necklace, and called Nell to help me.

  We stood in front of the hall mirror. I held up my hair while she fumbled with the clasp of the necklace. I looked at Old Nell, and myself, and the rubies. In time I’d be old and haggard like Nell. But the rubies would never age. They reminded me of everyone and everything I’d lost. Finally I would be rid of them. I’d give them to the detective and get Ezekiel in return. I was transfixed with the image of the three of us in the mirror. The rubies were more than just jewels to me. After Nell fastened the clasp, I tucked them out of sight under the collar of my dress where I thought they would be safe. And so I would begin the journey to find Ezekiel, laden with my past: the cursed rubies, and Red Farrell’s boots.

  I waited for my train on the platform at Union Station. I’d been in such a rush to get there that I forgot to take off Red Farrell’s boots. I looked down and noticed them just as the ground began shaking and the air rumbling from the approaching train. My heart raced. I looked like a fool. But it was too late
to do anything about it. Tension from longing, fear, and excitement filled my body, and I could hardly wait to board the train and take my seat. The steam engine’s eerie whistle pierced the rumbling and filled me with a sudden dread because it sounded like a lamentation. For almost a decade, I had heard the whistle cry over and over with its high notes of promise and low tones of loss. My train finally arrived and I climbed the stairs to begin another journey.

  The Utah Central took me from Ogden to Salt Lake City. Then I took the Utah Southern to Milford, which was the last stop before the end of the line in Frisco. During all my years earning money from trysts with railroad passengers who passed through Ogden, I had only been a passenger on a railcar twice. Both times I had only traveled as far as Salt Lake City. When Pearl went to the great metropolis of New York City, I had wanted so badly to accompany her. Then I could say I’d truly been somewhere.

  Detective Sirringo had told me of his travels all over the western frontier. He had also been to most of the big eastern cities. He’d even once taken a ship around the tip of South America and up to San Francisco. I looked out the train window at the rushing meadows and remembered traveling the roads before the march of progress had trampled the fields and replaced them with railroad tracks. I remembered traveling with my family to Grafton all full of purpose and a higher calling. We had believed we were blessed by the Heavenly Father. Looking back on all that had happened to us, it seemed a presumptuous and naïve belief.

  I tried to compose what I would say to Detective Sirringo. I’d been rattled and irritated by his telegram insinuating that he might have to kill my brother. Although I appreciated that he’d found Zeke and was willing to accompany me on the one-hundred-mile trip from Milford to Silver Reef, I didn’t understand why things had taken a violent turn.

  At Milford I disembarked to a small desolate depot with more cattle and sheep than people. The train continued southwest to Frisco. I wondered why Charlie told me to get off at Milord instead of Frisco. It took me a few minutes to spot him amongst the stockmen herding cattle onto railcars. Dressed in the getup of a Texas stockman, he blended with the rest of them. In Ogden, he had donned city clothes and blended in as a gentleman traveler. With his stockman’s hat and boots, he seemed taller than his five foot, eight inches. As the son of an Irish mother and an Italian father, he’d had a pleasant complexion that was neither dark nor pale. But exposure to sun on his journey had darkened his skin, and the sides of his mustache had grown long, drooping past his mouth, making it difficult to recognize him as the man I’d met in Ogden.

  I had the impression that he was chewing tobacco, but as I approached I saw it was the end of his mustache. I later found out he had chewed tobacco for a long time and had managed to kick that habit only to replace it with the embarrassing habit of chewing on his own mustache. He averted his eyes as he relieved me of my bag and saddle.

  “I apologize.” He stared at me intently. “My telegram must have startled you.”

  “Detective Sirringo, I hired you to find my brother, not kill him.”

  “Yes. I believe I have found your brother. Although I could not confirm it because if I had approached the man in question, it most likely would have resulted in a gunfight.”

  “I see. Well, you did the right thing to back down and send a telegram. Thank you for your discretion.”

  At the words back down, he straightened. “I’m not known to be a man who backs down. In the past, I’ve had the authority to arrest and apprehend. Or I’d call in the local authorities. I’ve never hunted a man so I could bear him good news. I did not realize it would be so difficult.”

  “Well, I’m here now. Just lead me to Ezekiel. As soon as he sees me, he’ll recognize me and there will be no problems.”

  A worried look crossed his face. He changed the subject. “No coach for you, just a horse! You’re my kind of gal. I had forgotten you were a pioneer, Miss Oatman.” He looked around for other luggage. “Is this all you have?”

  “No sense weighing down the horses with anything I don’t need. A true pioneer where I’m from would have walked. Perhaps we can purchase a hand-cart and pull it to Silver Reef just for fun. What do you say, Detective?”

  He laughed at my joke. “I’m sure glad you wanted to ride horseback rather than coach. Gilmer and Salisbury run a daily between Milford and Silver Reef, but they’re targets for road agents and thieves. Anyway, wait till you see your mount.”

  She was a perfectly civilized white pony. Detective Sirringo had secured himself a rather uncivilized bronco. It seemed the challenge of riding a brute took his mind off the long monotonous stretches of sand and sage. He said he’d never traveled the country with a lady in tow. I rolled my eyes and reminded him of my youth, the days before I became a painted lady outfitted with fancy dresses and fashionable boots and bonnets. Secretly, I worried. I’d lived in comfort for so long, I’d turned green.

  He asked me if I wanted to get a good night’s sleep and a square meal before we hit the trail. I told him that I wanted to get going as soon as possible.

  “That is good,” he said. “My identity may be known, and if Ezekiel thinks a Pinkerton is trailing him, there’s a chance he’ll skip town.”

  “What? You mean after being so close, we could lose him?”

  He looked to the horizon and sighed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. There’s a possibility it’s not even him.” He spread a small blanket over my pony’s back, hoisted the saddle onto her, and began fastening it.

  “Is he a wanted man? Why would he run?”

  “I don’t know. But he seems to have a guilty conscience.”

  I wanted to get going so we could arrive in Silver Reef before the man who might be Zeke left. Unfortunately, we had to stop at the mercantile and purchase additional supplies. I needed two canteens and a bedroll. We also bought dried elk, hard tack, beans, and Johnny cakes, all kinds of things I hadn’t eaten since I was a kid. I urged him to hurry. But he took his sweet time and meticulously packed our saddlebags. I paced back and forth with all the dignity of a child who needs to use the privy.

  “I’m not trying to dawdle or irritate you, Miss Oatman. Trust me, we will pay later if we don’t take the time to pack correctly now.”

  I grabbed my carpet bag. “Don’t watch me. I’m going to change my clothes over there.” I pointed to a thicket of sage and pinon pine. He looked at me, surprised, went back to packing, and failed to suppress a smirk. Barely concealed by the pinion pines, I stripped off my cornflower blue traveling dress and took out my riding clothes; a chemise and jacket, and a custom tailored split-riding skirt so I could ride astride. There was freedom in not having a reputation to defend. When I returned he looked at my boots and smirked.

  “I took these off the body of Red Farrell after I shot him.”

  He raised his brows, nodded, and continued readying our mounts.

  “I suppose I am a dangerous woman. I’ve never claimed to be a lady. I certainly have no intention of riding sidesaddle for one hundred miles. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me or my boots.”

  He looked at me and smiled. “Truth be told, I’ve never had much use or patience for ladies.”

  He had packed all our supplies in the saddlebags and strapped a shotgun across the back of my saddle. A rifle lay across the back of his saddle, and he wore two colts on his person. We began riding.

  He looked at me sideways. “Did you know they arrested a woman in Montana for riding into town sidesaddle? That is a shameful waste of a lawman’s time.” He shook his head in disgust.

  On the trail, he told me story after story of his days as a cowboy: breaking broncos, and going undercover trying to infiltrate outlaw gangs and break up anarchists. Riding on the open range brought out the storyteller in him. From his stories, he sounded like a hero in a dime novel. He’d narrowly escaped death several times, including a mine explosion, which blew the hands and face off a man standing next to him. I didn’t know if he was vain, or if he was trying to impress
me, or both. His head seemed as big as Texas. I supposed he’d earned his reputation as a crack shot. If his legend was as big as he made out, no wonder why they’d recognized him in Silver Reef.

  I had worked for over a decade as a painted lady in one of the territory’s roughest towns, so I had a few stories of my own to tell. But I held my tongue. Most of my stories were lewd, and although I tried to get over my shame, I didn’t want to wave my petticoat flag and continually remind Detective Sirringo of what I’d been. He might get it into his mind that I was up for that business again.

  After riding for fifteen miles over relatively flat land, we reached the small town of Minersville. He said since it was the last outpost until Cedar City, we had to stop. We filled our canteens and had an early supper. After Minersville, we rode another grueling thirty miles. As the twilight disappeared and darkness descended, the road became increasingly rough. I was scared and saddle sore. He said we could continue riding in the dark because he knew where to water the horses and make camp.

  “I know exactly where we’re going,” he assured me.

  “That’s good,” I said. “Because I sure don’t. I’ve never known where I was going.”

  A sliver of moon finally came out, but it wasn’t enough to see by. It was late night by the time we stopped riding. Luckily his word was true. We came upon the exact spot he had slept the previous night. The ground was still flattened from his bedroll. We saw to the horses but were too exhausted to do anything else. We collapsed onto our bedrolls and fell into deep sleep.

  When I awoke the next morning a coffee pot already sat percolating over a small fire. I helped him tend the horses. We drank our coffee and ate bacon and Johnny cakes in relative silence. I braided my hair and decided to keep it that way for the rest of our journey. As the day wore on, he began to talk more and more. We rode across a range, then through a valley into Cedar City. We restocked and revived. Charlie asked if I wanted to find lodging, but I insisted we press on.