It got harder every day to listen to the chatter in the dining room. Because I didn’t hear people sorry about what happened. I heard people make fun of it.
‘“Did you hear how they snookered the Chinks? All of them that ran away were rounded up by the railroad and put in a boxcar and sent out of town and those heathens thought they were going to San Francisco. They were gone a week. But the railroad just ran them in a circle and brought them back to Rock Springs.” Then that man almost bust a gut laughing at what the railroad had done.
“The railroad needs them to work, don’t you know!” He said it like that excused everything.
The Cheyenne Leader told the rest of the gruesome story, and I couldn’t believe anyone could be so cruel. The survivors returned to find everything they owned had been burned to the ground, not only their homes, but all their clothes and possessions, and most importantly, all their savings that were left behind as they escaped. But that wasn’t the worst of it. A full week after the massacre, nobody had had the decency to bury the twenty-eight dead men, so the survivors came home to find their fathers and sons and brothers and cousins still lying where they were killed. Their bodies were mangled, bloated, and decaying.
I had to put down the paper in horror when I read they saw some of the bodies being eaten by dogs and hogs.
What kind of place had I come to that would tolerate such things?
But to the men in the dining room, those dead men had brought this on themselves. Because they came here to work. And nobody ever said they weren’t good workers, either. Still, I heard lots of curses that they shouldn’t be allowed in this country in the first place and they should all be deported.
I heard very few words criticizing the railroads, but then, it was already clear to me that next to big cattlemen, there was no one more important in W.T. than the railroads, so it wouldn’t do to bad-mouth them. But it was safe to say bad things about a Chinese person.
The stories coming out of Rock Springs made me so sad. Those men were strangers to this land and would never fit in.
I was a stranger here too. Would I ever fit in?
I kept those thoughts to myself, of course, since nobody wanted to hear what a woman had to say anyway.
I was used to being invisible to my customers, useful only when they wanted a refill or a feel, so I felt very strange when I noticed a scar-faced man staring at me. A thick scar ran down his cheek and I wondered where he’d met the knife that marked him. But I wondered more why he would ever notice me, and I wished he hadn’t. I was relieved when his stay was over, but a month later, he was back, and he stared all the more.
The man made me nervous and a little clumsy. It was a Thursday when I was serving dinner and dropped a knife. As it bounced on to the floor, I forgot myself and said out loud, “As my Ma would say, if a knife falls, a man’s coming to visit.” The scar-faced man jumped in, “My Ma used to say that too. And if a fork falls, a woman’s coming to call.” It seemed strange that we would have something in common, and I just turned around and left the dining room.
After dinner, I was taking the garbage out to the alley when someone grabbed me from behind and put a gloved hand over my mouth. I couldn’t see my attacker, but I just knew it was the scar-faced man. I struggled to free myself from his grip, but he was far stronger and taller. I cried out when he ripped my dress and even through his glove, you could hear it.
Oh my God, please don’t let him rape me. Give me strength, I prayed.
I tried tripping him by shoving my left leg back, like my brothers liked to do when they wrestled. But I was off balance and couldn’t. I tried throwing myself to the side to pull him off, but he was too centered to fall.
I’m going to be raped right here in this dirty alley. And then that ugly man is going to kill me.
That big scar on his face came into my mind and I could just see him plunging the knife that made that scar into my chest.
I’m going to bleed to death in this alley and my Ma will weep over my grave. Our Father, who art in heaven…and that’s when his hold gave away.
I fell to the ground, gasping for air, and saw four legs wrestling in the dirt. Smack. Smack. I heard fists hitting flesh and howls of pain. I crawled as fast as I could backwards to get out of the way, and it was only when I backed up to the coal bin that I saw what was happening in front of me. The scar-faced man was fighting with that nice, well-tailored man who just came in a couple days ago—the one who always said, “Thank you very much,” when I served him. They were on the ground and the scar-faced man was on top. He kept hitting until the gentleman stopped moving.
I scrambled to my feet and grabbed a lump of coal as the only weapon I could find. I started to raise my arm when the scar-faced man stood up and asked me, “Are you alright, ma’am?”
But by then, I’d let loose and the piece of coal hit him in the chest.
“Hey. Slow down, Bessie. It’s over.” He held up his hands in surrender, and then said in a gentle voice, “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
I just looked at him, trying to comprehend what was going on, and in the time it took me to realize the difference between my attacker and my savior, I learned a valuable life lesson.
“Go in and tell your landlady to send for the police,” the scar-faced man told me as he kicked the unconscious man aside so I could freely move past them.
My hands were still shaking when the policeman took away my attacker. The scar-faced man had to tell the whole story because I was too upset to speak. My nice housekeeper kept a protective arm around my shoulders as the tale was told and more than once said, “Thank the Lord you were there, Mr. Shaw. Thank the Lord.”
I finally got my wits about me. “Sir, thank you very much for saving me.” I held out my hand to shake his.
“You’re very welcome, ma’am,” he said, and he noticed I was having a hard time not staring at his scar.
“I got this saving another young lady from an Indian attack,” he said, as he ran his hand over his face. “It was my sister, Mary, and darned if you aren’t the spittin’ image of her.”
He smiled at me like a sister and I saw that, except for that scar, he had a nice face. He didn’t linger once the policeman left. I sat there a moment, too ashamed of myself for all the bad things I’d thought about him.
That night in bed, I had a heart-to-heart talk with myself. I had suspected for some time now that a city like Cheyenne was no place for a woman like me, but now I knew for sure. I couldn’t stay here. I needed to move on to a smaller place, a kinder place, a place where men didn’t try to rape you in dirty alleys, a place closer to the land.
At that moment, I wasn’t sure where that place was. I knew it wasn’t Salt Lake City, because I’m not Mormon. I knew it wasn’t San Francisco, because I didn’t have the money to travel that far. I only knew it was farther west. And as far west as my money would take me was the county seat of Carbon County. It was the growing town of Rawlins, Wyoming Territory.
Chapter Seven—The Man I Love
I don’t even remember noticing James at first—he says he’d been having dinners at Rawlins House for three days before I ever paid him any mind.
I suppose there are lots of reasons he went overlooked. Men who get my attention are at least six feet so my five feet eight can look up, but Jim wasn’t like that. He cleared my bosom, but not my nose. Men I notice have a weight to them, not fat, but sturdy. They’re men who can handle a horse and a cow and a hammer, like I can. I have a weight to me, too, but if I have to say it myself, my one hundred seventy pounds are nicely distributed. Jim wasn’t that kind of man. I bet I had twenty-five pounds on him. But mostly I didn’t notice him because at that point, I was still lookin’ out for men. I sure wasn’t lookin’ for one.
So I didn’t pay any attention to this man who kept coming in for dinner and seemed particularly taken with my pies.
Mrs. Ha
yes hired me the second day I was in town when I used an old trick my Ma taught me back in Kansas. I arrived at her doorstep tellin’ her I was a clean, hardworking woman and my Ma was Irish, too—I knew that would get me points because the first thing anyone ever told me about Mrs. Hayes was that she was as Irish as a pig in Dublin. The second thing I’d been told was that she was strict, but fair. She and her husband were among the first real business folks in Rawlins and her boardinghouse and restaurant were the pride of the town.
I knew I could tell her I’d worked for nearly seven months at a boardinghouse in Cheyenne, but I wasn’t sure if that would help or not, so I used Ma’s trick to make me more valuable. I told Mrs. Hayes I made the best pie you ever tasted and if she just let me use her kitchen, I brought along some canned apples and I would prove it. She smiled at my pluck and called to Brenda, who already was in her employ, that they were about to get a free apple pie. Well, I wasn’t lyin’ and she knew it from the first bite and hired me on the spot and I thanked my Ma for helpin’ me get in the door.
“Ella, I have strict rules for the girls who work for me and if you think you can’t handle them, you tell me right now so neither of us wastes our time,” she told me. “I won’t tolerate you messin’ with the customers. I don’t allow men in your room upstairs, and I don’t want to hear any talk on the street that you’re not a decent girl. I don’t demand you go to services, but until we get a church built, if you want to attend I’ll tell you where we’re gathering each Sunday. No matter to me which group you go with. Myself, of course, is Catholic and we’d be glad to have you come with us, but I’m not like some of them that turn down their nose at somebody else’s religion. Standin’ in a church doesn’t make you any more a Christian than standin’ in a barn makes you a horse. As long as you believe in the Lord, you’re all right in my book.”
I promised I could follow the rules and thanked her for the offer of worship services and told her my Ma would be particularly happy to know the people of Rawlins didn’t need a church to hold to their religions. I never mentioned that even with three churches to choose from around Lebanon, my Pa could not muster up the will to get to any of them on Sunday. Nor did I mention that my Ma didn’t go off to a Catholic church as Mrs. Hayes presumed.
I have to tell this story because it always makes me smile, but when I started at Rawlins House in October of 1885, they were selling pieces from four pies a day. That’s what Mrs. Hayes said I’d be makin’, along with helping cook and serve dinner. I was already used to all that. But by the second week, after folks tasted the fine pies I made, we were selling eight pies a day and Mrs. Hayes joked she could make her rent just from the 15 cents apiece from my pies.
Besides apple, I used whatever fruit was put up or available and when that got skimpy, I even sold pieces of vinegar pie, although Mrs. Hayes said that was a pie of last resort when there was nothing else and she didn’t think anyone would pay good money for it. But they did.
The first time I really noticed Jim was in January when he ordered his second piece of pie after a full dinner and was the only one left in the dining room. I remember wondering where a little guy like that put it all.
And then the next night he did it again. I wondered if this man had a tapeworm he needed to feed. There he was, the only one left in the dining room with only crumbs left on his plate and while I was still wonderin’ about his queer appetite, he politely said, “Ma’am, excuse me, but this is the most delicious pie I have ever eaten and I believe you’re responsible.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, pleased with myself. “I’m glad you’re enjoyin’ it and you seem to enjoy it more than most.” Then I gave a little laugh and he laughed back.
“I’m making a pig of myself, aren’t I?” he asked with a smile, and I noticed for the first time he had a pretty handsome face. Blue-green eyes, neat mustache, nice smile. “Well, it’s worth it,” he added to put a fine point on it.
Then he stood up and extended his hand and said, “I’m James Averell, but my friends call me Jimmy, and I’m glad to meet you.”
I had a coffeepot in one hand and used that as the excuse not to reach back—and for a second I contemplated what a good weapon it would be if I needed it—and he withdrew his hand and said, “Of course, I’m being too forward. Give my regards to Mrs. Hayes. Tell her Jimmy Averell was in and really loves your pies.”
He picked up his hat and laid a silver dollar on the table and nodded as he walked out the door. I looked at the dollar and realized he’d left two-bits too much to cover the dinner and the pies, and it took me a minute to realize the rest was a tip. I had never had such a tip before—most men left a penny or two, maybe a nickel, if they left anything at all—and I suspected then that he must be a rich man.
“I wouldn’t call him rich, but he is a hard worker, that Jimmy Averell,” Mrs. Hayes said the next day when I delivered the message. “He just opened a roadhouse out on the road to Casper, put it right where the roads cross so he gets the traffic from both ways, and I think he’s doing okay for himself. He’s a widower, you know.”
The next night he was back and quietly said, “Good evening,” when I brought him a plate of chicken and string beans and cornbread. “Good evening, Mr. Averell,” I said, and retreated to the kitchen.
Mrs. Hayes went into the dining room and the two of them had a laugh over something and she called me out. “Ella, I want to introduce you to James Averell,” she said, and then told him my name and he smiled and said it was nice to meet me.
It was no surprise when he ordered a piece of the rhubarb pie we had that night. But instead of ordering a second, he just ate the first one real slow, and I filled his coffee cup twice over that pie and he still ended up the only one in the dining room.
By now, Brenda’s shift was over and Mrs. Hayes was long gone and it was my job to finish up, so I was glad to clear his plate and put an end to my long day. I’ll never forget exactly what happened next.
“Miss Watson, I was wondering if I could walk you home tonight, after you finish?” Jim said, with all the politeness in the world.
“Sir, I just live upstairs, and I think I can get myself home, but thank you.”
“Then I guess it would be short walk home,” he persisted, and I laughed a little at that because most men would have been so embarrassed they’d have just turned and walked away. But he didn’t. He stood there, looking determined to walk me home, even if it was just a few steps, and I let the thought creep into my head that this was a sweet thing for a man to do.
“You know, Mrs. Hayes doesn’t like us getting friendly with the customers.”
He jumped right in, “Mrs. Hayes knows I have only the most honorable of intentions. Otherwise she wouldn’t have introduced us.”
I’m not used to a man with such a quick tongue, but I liked what he said and how he said it and I thought his logic was right, so I’d take a chance. “Mr. Averell, if you wait outside while I finish cleaning up, I’d be happy to let you walk me home.”
I felt a little flushed when I got back to the kitchen. I was wearing my kitchen dress, covered with a white apron and even when you took the apron off, it was still just a kitchen dress. Not a nice button or piece of lace on it—a working dress that seemed way too plain to be walked home in, even if it was just around the corner of the building. My one good broach was upstairs in its velvet box and my hair comb was on the dresser, and after fretting about all this a minute or two I realized this man had never seen me in anything but my kitchen dress and white apron, and he still asked to walk me home.
I messed a little with my hair to be sure it was neat and any flying strands were tucked in and I went out to meet him. He was sitting on the bench by the front windows and he stood up the minute he saw me.
“Perhaps you could sit for a moment,” he suggested. That helped prove his honorable intentions because there we were, on Main Street in Rawlins, Wyoming Territory, and
anybody who wanted to walk by or drive by or hitch their horse to the rail would see us big as day, and if you were intending something else, that’s not where you’d be.
So I sat down and had the most pleasant conversation I’d ever had with a man.
I’m not saying my Jimmy bragged that first night, but he was intent on letting me know he was an upstanding man and not some roustabout.
“I fought in the Indian Wars in the U.S. Army. Thankfully, I never had any horrible battles, but I came close a couple times. But mainly, I learned the trade of surveying from the first man who surveyed Wyoming back when it was still part of Dakota Territory.”
I imagined Jimmy in a uniform, even more handsome than now.
“We surveyed land out in the Sweetwater Valley and I found this land along Horse Creek. I told Billy—that was his name, Billy Owen—I told him that when these Indian Wars were over, I was coming back here. He said that would be a fine decision, and I always valued his counsel. And that’s what I did. I filed a claim along Horse Creek and started a roadhouse sixty miles out of town by the old Oregon Trail.”
I found all this acceptable, and it showed the man had gumption and drive.
He then worked backwards, explaining his wife died in childbirth, and his son didn’t survive, either. I offered my condolences. He thanked me and pushed forward, saying he came from a good family of Scottish heritage and was born in Canada and wanted to become a citizen of the United States of America. It was right then that my interest got most peaked because I, too, had been born in Canada and like him, had a Scottish heritage.
“Excuse me, but do you know where Bruce County is in Ontario?” I asked.
He smiled with the assurance that he had the right answer. “Of course, I do. It’s not far from where I was born in Renfrew County. How do you know Bruce County?”
“Because that’s where I was born,” I told him, and we both laughed.
“You’re Canadian, too?” he asked me, like this was the best coincidence he ever heard.
Cattle Kate Page 10
