By all accounts, Miss Place is a young woman of the lowest character and breeding, and it was well known that she had come to Grand Junction as a Harvey Girl (as such waitresses are called) to gain the trust of local real estate interests so as to initiate the building of a brothel. Prostitution, it is rumored, had been her profession in the East.
According to his father, Mr. Francis Xavier “Fitz” Dixon, Jr., proprietor of the Clean Strike silver mine and publisher of this newspaper, his son had been the object of months of unwanted advances on the part of Place.
“She thought because of her good looks she could snare my son into an arrangement or even marriage,” said the elder Dixon. “Many women have tried to do this because of our good fortune and social standing in this community. He resisted them all. Apparently, this waitress would not take no for an answer. And now my boy is dead.”
Eyewitnesses say that about dawn of the morning in question, Miss Place stole a horse belonging to Mr. Roderick L. Kurwood from the Poe and Peters Livery, which stands directly across the back alley from the Harvey restaurant. She rode up to Mr. Dixon and, as in the past, made such advances as were alleged by the father of the dead man, even going so far as to partially undress herself to gain the young man's attention. Receiving yet again an unsatisfactory reply, Miss Place produced a powerful Winchester rifle from the horse's saddle and, in a rage, proceeded to shoot at young Dixon. Although practically dead on his feet, Mr. Dixon managed to get off six shots from his revolver, but in his distress succeeded only in killing the stolen beast, which Place had cruelly used for cover.
The woman is now being held in the new James C. Denforth City Jail, charged with murder in the first degree, possession of an instrument of crime, horse theft, animal cruelty, and creating a public disturbance. She is due to be arraigned today and will remain in custody without bail until the circuit judge arrives in two weeks' time.
Etta Place is believed to be the first woman ever to be charged with murder in the history of our city.
hester Braithwaite, Jr., was never happy about having a woman prisoner. Not for this long, especially.
There had been others in the past, of course: prostitutes, drunks, hell-raisers of various kinds. He could even remember one evening when Calamity Jane herself had been his guest.
She had spent the night drunken and howling and awakened the next afternoon in a pool of her own spew. A well-dressed dude with a glass eye had paid her fine and bundled her into the caravan of a medicine show, but not before she had twice fallen in the dusty street. As the wagon pulled away, Braithwaite could see a large painting on its side depicting a vigorous Jane astride a proud palomino, training a rifle on a terrified buffalo. DR. OMAR PIERCE'S NUMBER 17 SOLUTION, it read, THE PANACEA THAT CURED CALAMITY JANE.
Like Jane, most of his ladies stayed only a night or two, just long enough to make their bail or dry out sufficiently. And then they returned to their boyfriends or outraged fathers or procurers. Etta Place, however, had been the county's guest nearly a month, occupying cell number three from the time of her arrest throughout the whole of her trial and the construction of the gallows. These formalities dispensed with, she had only two days left until her execution, and as far as Braithwaite was concerned it couldn't come soon enough.
Not that Braithwaite was eager to see such a beautiful young woman wasted by a rope. Throughout her ordeal, Miss Etta had remained calm and composed. She was unfailingly polite to him and never seemed to take his role of jailer as any personal affront. She was respectful, too, always referring to him as Deputy Braithwaite, a term no one else in town ever used, even on the most formal occasions. Accordingly she received his respect in return. They played eights and checkers, talked of his family (though never hers), and established the kind of rapport he rarely enjoyed with anyone similarly condemned.
Still, having a female inmate in his charge for thirty days had made him excessively nervous; and he was often embarrassed by the tasks required to accommodate the needs of her sex. Twice a day, it was necessary to erect a makeshift screen before her cell so that she might change her clothing in privacy. An additional organdy shade also had to be placed over her rear cell window to discourage the gaggle of Peeping Toms who appeared day and night, standing on produce boxes or hay bales to get a glimpse of the infamous beauty, hopefully in some stage of undress.
But far worse than this were the mobs.
On every night save Sunday, hordes of townspeople would gather before the tiny prison demanding that justice be served upon the trollop within. They chanted in unison and sang hymns of the old-time religion. The slogans on their placards were clearly visible in the light of their torches. HANG HER stated one sign. JUSTICE FOR DIXON another proclaimed. Every day there was another editorial in the Citizens News demanding swift justice for the innocent scion of the paper's founder, its relentless drumbeat whipping the populace into a self-righteous lather. It had taken all of Braithwaite's courage plus that of Sheriff Becker and ten federal marshals to keep the crowd from storming the little building and dragging the prisoner away.
Happily for Chester, what nightly resolved this situation was the fact that Grand Junction was a rural community. Everyone rose early to their business, and the ranchers and miners and cowboys often beat first light to breakfast. The hardworking's need for slumber being what it was, most nights Braithwaite could expect the crowd to disperse at a reasonable hour. In fact, the only thing that would have kept the majority awake past 9 P.M. was actually seeing the figure of Etta Place decorating the nearest oak. Barring that, even the most vociferous rabble-rousers could be counted upon to leave the jail's courtyard no later than ten and be in their beds by eleven.
Ben Kilpatrick, Laura Bullion's tall lover, had taken note of this too, as he had all the comings and goings in Grand Junction. It was fine for a dime-novel outlaw to shoot his way out of a bank or defy the red faces of a lynch mob, but this was God's own life Ben was living, and to put himself at any more risk than necessary would be, at the least, ungrateful. His months of careful surveillance in the little town had produced a body of intelligence perfect for the jobs at hand. Walking the streets in the evening, he noted when the locks were locked and the relative strength of each one; he knew the hour the sheriff went home to his wife and the seven children who ran him ragged; and he knew just when the federal detail would change guards, leaving only Chester Braithwaite Junior between Laura Bullion and Etta Place—and his father, Chester Braithwaite Senior, between Ben himself and the contents of the First Grand Junction Bank and Trust Company.
Ben knew the time for action would be short, less than one hour between four and five in the morning. But he deemed it sufficient to carry out both the robbery and the rescue without waking decent people still abed and dreaming.
In the event, the first of the tasks proved as simple as expected. At such an early time of the morning, the only guard on duty at the bank was, in fact, Chester Braithwaite Senior, father of the man who had so long stood guard over Etta. Braithwaite Senior had made a career of keeping his eye on things: night watchman, security guard, and, like his son after him, deputy sheriff. He had passed on his skills (such as they were) to his boy who had also spent his working life standing between what someone had and what someone else wanted. This night, however, such long experience would do neither of them any good.
As she made for the rear jailhouse door, Laura Bullion could see the face of her friend shadowed in moonlight by the bars of her window. It was the work of seconds to disable Chester Junior; she merely approached him in the partial darkness, placed a gun barrel to his temple, and spoke with her usual economy.
“Cell. Keys. Dead. Alive. Choose.”
Braithwaite obeyed. He handed the keys to Laura Bullion, who threw them to Etta.
As Etta put those keys to the lock and her erstwhile roommate bound and gagged the astonished deputy the Tall Texan arrived at his destination less than three hundred feet away. Using the jagged tip of a pocketknife, he opene
d the lock to the home of First Grand Junction president Bainbridge Kenilworth and silently climbed the back stairs. He entered the master bedroom and whispered its occupant awake.
“Mr. Kenilworth,” he intoned in his slow drawl, “I would first like you to know that I have never in my life killed a man.”
Kenilworth was unable to reply, as the tip of an Army Colt was pressing on his tonsils.
“Please know, sir, that this is an unpleasant task for me, and were you a married man I probably would not carry it out for fear of alarming your wife. But as you are a bachelor, and the only keeper of your banks keys and combinations, I must ask you to please turn them over to me pronto, or I may have to spoil my spotless record and spend your money with a guilty conscience.”
Kilpatrick removed the gun from the banker's mouth long enough for Kenilworth to recite the combinations. Ben calmly wrote each one down, several times politely asking his captive to repeat a number or the direction of a twist. The banker then unlocked the top drawer of his desk and produced his set of master keys, each one neatly labeled with the location of its corresponding lock. With a thank-you, the Tall Texan quickly hog-tied the president and then gagged him with a convenient doily. This is the way things should be done, Ben thought. No dynamite, no fisticuffs—just a few simple threats, a big gun down the gullet, and several feet of rope. It's regrettable that people must be frightened, but it's worth it if no one is harmed. The bank may not like it, but in the end the First Grand will still be rich, and now, Lord be praised, so will I.
Kilpatrick looked at Kenilworth one more time. “On the bright side, sir, an incident like this may get you to thinking about marriage. Forgive me for saying it, but a man of your age and position in this community without a bride? It's, well… unseemly.”
Ben gave a small salute of parting to Mr. Kenilworth and then made his way back down the stairs and around to the rear door of the bank. He glanced at his gold watch: quarter past four.
Kilpatrick knocked on the back door as if it were his own home. When Chester Braithwaite Senior opened it, his eyes peered out into a night full of stars provided first by nature and then by the butt of the Colt. Ben filled Senior's mouth with his bandanna and secured his wrists with the old man's handcuffs.
Using the president's keys, the Texan unlocked the bank's inner door and then did the same for all of the cash drawers and the smaller of the two safes. No sense being greedy. Too much money meant too much weight. Too much weight meant a slow getaway.
He filled a large duck bag with all it would hold, fastened it shut, and then walked out of the bank, into the alley, and four buildings down, entering through the front door of the jail just in time to see a freed Etta Place sighting down the barrel of a taxpayer-funded Winchester. Laura Bullion stood motionless in the center of the room, her gun still affixed to the deputy's temple.
Ben frowned when he saw the state of Chester Braithwaite Junior. The poor man was sweating and trembling. He gently pushed Laura's iron away from the deputy's head. Hadn't he told her time and again that instilling such terror in a subject was unnecessary?
“Woman,” he said, “don't tell me you haven't informed this gentleman about the terms of his confinement.”
Laura Bullion looked at him. “Did.”
“No, I don't mean saying ‘Unlock it. The cell. Or I shoot.’ I know that's a dictionary for you, but you needed to tell Mr. Braithwaite here that if he cooperates he will not be harmed. Did you tell him that?”
“Didn't.”
“Did you inform him that all we desire is freedom for our friend and not his blood. Did you tell him that?”
Laura Bullion simply glared at her lover, apparently having used up that evening's quota of words.
“Do you understand our intentions, Mr. Braithwaite?”
Chester Junior nodded eagerly through his gag, visibly calmed by the Texan's reassurance.
“All right, then,” he said. “Thank you for your cooperation.” Turning to Etta, he tipped his hat. “Can you ride?” he asked.
At first she gave no answer, and then a grin of the most complete happiness spread across her face. Ben nodded back, picked up the canvas bag, and made for the street, the two women close behind.
As they gained the horses, Etta put a gentle hand on her friend's sleeve. “You and Mr. Kilpatrick could have so easily been captured. Why did you risk so much to rescue me?”
Laura Bullion swung into the saddle and smiled. “'Cause you shut up, Pretty. Let me love all I wanted. Could've rat me out. Better for you. Worse for me.”
She paused as Etta sat her mount. Before their gallop began, Laura grabbed Etta's bridle in one gloved hand and fixed her partner in crime with those black eyes.
“Did … what friends do.”
ater, when questioned by his superiors, Chester Braithwaite Junior would state that through the cell's front window, he could see but a single horse. He recounted that Etta Place flew into its saddle, for an instant seeming to hang suspended in midair, silver in the moonlight, like a beautiful earring on a fine woman. Then, as the mount reared up, she leaned in tight, pressed her face to its mane, and was gone.
From the
JOURNAL OF ETTA PLACE
2 July 1899
Wyoming Territory
Diary,
It has been many hard days I have spent on the hidden trails of two states, and I have finally reached my destination (such as it is).
Hole-in-the-Wall, Wyoming territory. Somewhere between the beginning of nowhere and the end of nothing.
Even in such a place as this, freedom is sweet. I sleep at night in a canvas tent. My toilette in the morning is performed by a frigid stream. Dust is my face powder and rouge. At night the coyotes sing to chill the heart, and the stillness through which their voices cut is quiet as a crypt. But preferable to jail? Most assuredly.
I suppose I should be afraid of these rough characters, but not a soul among these godforsaken canyons has yet crossed the line to lewdness or filth as was so common in the train stations of Chicago and the streets of Grand Junction, to say nothing of the half-elegant confines of Mr. Harvey's dining room.
And regardless of my short time here, I have never been treated as anything but a respected member of “society.” Perhaps this stemmed from being recommended by longtime inductees of the group. At first, this struck me as funny: something akin to being recommended to the Union League by a high churchman or a pompous banker.
I can imagine the official certificate:
Know All Ye by These Proceedings that
ETTA PLACE
having met the requirements of leadership and
community standards … and also being wanted for
FUGITIVE MURDER
is hereby accepted as a member in good standing of
THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL GANG
and as such is entitled to all rights and privileges
pertaining thereto.
Signed,
Benjamin Kilpatrick Laura C. Bullion
President and General Manager General Secretary
It is also strange that here it feels somehow natural to be referred to by my new name. Back in the world, I seemed never totally able to accept Uncle Rodman's humorous rechristening. Whenever a fellow Harvey Girl or chef called “Etta,” my first impulse was always to turn round to see if she was standing behind me. Perhaps being cut off from all comforts and rules encourages one to new birth. Or maybe it is just something that accompanies administering a bullet to another's brain.
Of course, I am not alone here in having an alias. Only a few of the members seem to go by their Christian names: Ben Kilpatrick is one, Will Carver another. But Laura Bullion is known to friends and the hated Pinkertons as Della Rose. It sounds like something out of a dime novel, but so far I haven't been able to determine which is the real name and which the fake. And with Laura's (or Della's) sparing method of communication as much in practice here as it was in Grand Junction, I'm unlikely ever to find out.
Still, not all the men here are high in spirits and sweet in nature. Some are simply dangerous misfits, the flotsam and jetsam of the western criminal element. Many are drunken and silent, sprawled for days in stupor or engaged in fistfighting or gunplay over the smallest of slights.
And, hidden among the drunks and degenerates are a few men who possess the kind of nobility that would shame our blue-blooded Easterners. The living example of this is the acknowledged leader of the group, a jocular and charming Irish towhead who upon our first meeting grandly introduced himself (with courtly bow) as Robert Leroy Parker. But I had seen enough Wanted posters since coming west to know I was being addressed by the notorious Butch Cassidy
He stands three or four inches shorter than I, with a wide and florid face and a grin that proudly proclaims a complete set of teeth, a rarity hereabouts. He is, like all of them, rough and ready, but his sweetness of manner and innate respect for womanhood have made me think of him as a sort of brother-in-arms. Since my arrival in this rugged land there has never been a moment when Mr. Cassidy, bless him, has not done all he could to make me feel a confident and comfortable member of the band.
In camp, he strolls the landscape like a local politician seeking votes. He slaps backs, inquires after children, and nods with sympathy at tales of illness and injury. But even such grace cannot mask the resolve required to rein in this unruly horde. Cassidy's strength may be quiet, but it is strength indeed; there can be no doubt that it is Butch who sets policy for this gang and Butch who enforces it.
Etta: A Novel Page 6
