Parker quickly surveyed the studio and the damage to both camera and ceiling. He reached calmly into his pocket and produced the largest roll of cash the photographer had ever seen. “It seems it will be necessary to replace your device and its lens,” he said. “It also seems that the tin of your ceiling will want repair. Tell me, John, how long will it take before a new camera—even a better one—can be sent here from wherever such exotic instruments come?”
“Well, Butch,” Swartz said, his eyes widening, “the camera must be sent from Germany to the distributor in New York. From there, it must be shipped overland freight to my studio here.”
“And how long will this take?”
“I expect that the studio will do no business for the next five weeks or so.”
Parker nodded. “If you will then do me the great honor of computing a sum that will include the price of your new camera, five weeks of business, repair of the ceiling, and, of course, the cost of today's session, then I and my fellows will do what good Christians must surely do: offer you complete restitution.”
“But Mr. Parker—”
“Butch.”
“But… Butch … this is a great sum. We are a highly successful studio. I daresay, one of the most successful this far north. These cameras are quite dear. I'm not sure that even the amount you hold in your hand could cover so much damage and lost revenue.”
“An estimate is all I require, brother. God will provide.”
“Well… Butch … such a camera runs about twelve hundred dollars with its lens. Our average weekly take here is between one and two hundred dollars. Averaging that to say, one hundred fifty, at five weeks that's another seven hundred and fifty. All told, that seems to come to nineteen hundred and fifty dollars.”
Butch nodded, reached into his vest pocket, and pulled out another roll, larger than the first. “Let's make it an even two thousand, John … for all your trouble and allowing for any delays that may occur in shipping and so on. I ask only that you not mention this incident and transaction to anyone, as I would wish to spare Mr. Curry's wife and seven children any potential embarrassment. Lord knows, we need not add to the burden they will surely carry as we pray for him to recover from the illness brought on by his ordeal with the savages. OK, brother?”
Butch peeled off twenty one-hundred-dollar bills from the two rolls and placed them in the photographer's hand. With a smile and a tip of his bowler, he turned on his heel and left the shop. Swartz stood at the door and watched as he strode easily down Main Street. At the second corner he could see Mr. Parker rejoin his fellows and engage in what appeared to be some relaxed conversation. Swartz was amazed to see such good fellowship punctuated by Parker's boot engaging Mr. Curry's groin. The little fellow doubled over and Mr. Parker smashed his left hand across his chin. Mr. Curry fell to the ground and rolled into a pile of fresh horse manure. As he lay insensible in the dung, Parker leaned over his body, reached into Curry's vest pocket, and pulled out what appeared to be another roll of bills. Led by Mr. Harry Place, the four men then picked up their moaning companion and dragged him down the street and out of sight.
Swartz would have spent a few moments pondering just what kind of Christian sect engaged in such violence, but he had his camera to see to. It was true that the bullet had shattered the lens and lens board but, as luck would have it, the slug had curved up and lodged in the box behind it. The cherrywood cabinet and bellows were untouched, as was the negative holder at its rear. Upon further inspection, the photographer discovered that the glass plate containing the image of the five most notorious members of the Wild Bunch was completely intact.
Two days after the session, Swartz sent word to Field's Hotel. His note read:
Dear Mr. Parker,
I hope this message finds you well. You will doubtless be glad to learn that, in the incident of Saturday, the damage done to my camera was far less than estimated. Therefore, you are due a great refund, as it will be necessary for me only to order some replacement parts for the camera instead of an entirely new device itself.
I also have the happy news that the photograph of you and your companions was in no way damaged by the event and that a suitable proof print is now available for your inspection.
I also hope that your friend Mr. Curry is fully recovered from his illness of the other day. He will remain in mine and Mrs. Swartz's prayers.
Very truly yours, John Swartz
Swartz Photographic Studio
705 Main Street, Fort Worth, Texas
Swartz gave the letter to his page and then placed a large framed print of the picture in the studio's front window. He did this partly as a pleasant surprise for Mr. Robert Parker but even more as an advertisement for the type of first-class portraiture available within.
To his great disappointment, Swartz's messenger returned within half an hour and told the photographer that Mr. Parker and his fellows, in an apparent hurry, had checked themselves out of Field's Hotel early the preceding morning.
As events ultimately unfolded, Robert Parker and the other Christian gentlemen would have no use for the picture.
Charlie Siringo would.
hey were the only two souls on the platform that morning, but that was two more than the locals were used to in Yellow Jacket, Colorado. Most days, the stop was good only for taking on water or mail or the occasional group of workers arriving from or returning to Mexico.
The man was dressed for this rugged land. His outfit was that of a cowhand: worn Stetson, vest and chaps of leather, and trousers of heavy denim. The woman, however, was enough out of place to appear an apparition, a page from The Delineator or Godey's magazine. The high velvet collar of her three-quarter-length traveling coat framed a face designed by God for angels: the sort of face that women in these parts lost early to wind and sun and care. Her long skirt was of the same fabric: alternating horizontal stripes in light and deep green velvet, the whole trimmed in black and set off by mint silk lapels sweeping nearly to the shoulder. Her blouse was fastened by ivory studs in a barrel shape, kept in place by four chevrons of a rich rust brocade. She was crowned by a broad black hat; its brim rising high, the right side a mass of green moire ribbon and a matching ostrich plume.
Beside her on the platform lay four large trunks with shining bronze locks, exactly the gear one would expect to accompany someone who would bother to wear such a costume where the only audience was buzzards and prairie dogs. In the dry chill of early fall, she fell against her cowboy, seeking shelter from the uncertainties before them.
By now, John Swartz's group portrait had been distributed to Pinker-ton agents from Texas to Montana and from Idaho to Missouri. Although the Bunch had never seen it, the photograph hadn't escaped the notice of Fairhill P Dolan, a middle-level detective in Pinkerton's Fort Worth office. He had run into both Butch and Harry on more than one occasion, and Logan had once smashed a beer mug against his head in a little town near Odessa.
Charlie Siringo had personally negotiated the contract with Swartz that allowed the company to buy the rights to the heads of the outlaws. A photographic bust of each man was isolated from the group and enlarged, providing as much detail as a sheriff or bounty hunter could ask. The photographs were then printed on cards and Wanted posters and mailed to law enforcement across the West. By the time Etta and her friends had crossed the border into Oklahoma, a small army had joined in their pursuit. There were U.S. marshals from as far away as San Antonio, farm boys with rusted shotguns seeking reward and reputation, regulators, eastern reporters, and the scum of the Texas earth. It was only Butchs knowledge of horseflesh that saved them. He always knew where a fresh mount could be bought or stolen, and he never failed to choose the animal that could run a fraction faster than those giving chase.
Butch knew no one could find them once they disappeared into Hole-in-the-Wall. And even if someone did, the place was so isolated by rock and cliff it could be defended against the Grand Army of the Republic by two men with rifles and someone to cook.
But what good would it do them to hide, sitting on the fortune they had accumulated? There could be no significant gambling on the floor of a cavern, no drinking and carousing inside a tent. No, if ever they were to enjoy their profits, the money had to be moved to a place where it was spendable. And considering the degree of heat that had been generated by the Swartz session, that task could only be accomplished by someone with a face not in wide circulation.
Once the decision was made, Butchs first order of business was to sucker-punch Kid Curry into unconsciousness and then bind him hand and foot inside one of the caves. He allowed later that he could have gotten the little man drunk and unconscious, but given Curry's hollow leg, it would have taken too much time. The faster Etta was sent to New York with the money, the faster they could follow it east and indulge in what it bought.
That money now lay within the largest of the fashionable trunks piled beside the man and woman standing on the platform in Yellow Jacket: eighty thousand dollars, some in banknotes, some in gold. Even as she wept against Harry's collar, Etta remembered how amazed she was that money enough to keep a family in home and food for a lifetime could fit into a space small enough to water a foal.
Harry didn't know whether to hold her tight or lightly. The night before in their small hotel he had been as desperate for her as she for him. To lie naked beside such a woman as this, even once in a man's life, was an honor; to be loved by her, a miracle. And now, in tribute to all that had been given him, he chose to hold her sweet rather than strong. His time had come to be remembered, and he wished to be remembered as gentle.
Across the north wind they could hear a long whistle. She nearly laughed aloud as she recognized it as the sound of the Prarie Zephyr, a train they had robbed twice.
“Have you got everything?” he asked her. “Is there anything you have forgotten?”
Etta laughed. “Well there is the little matter of about sixty thousand dollars buried near Estes Park.”
Harry was unamused. “That's your money. You earned it banking for those wastrels.”
“Anything I have is yours. And if it was up to me, it too would be headed for your little bank in Brooklyn right now.”
“I've told you before. Outlaw's insurance. Now, please. I ask you again. Is there anything you've not remembered?”
The lace along the edge of her handkerchief scratched at her nose. “No, Harry,” she said. “And before you ask, I am suitably armed for the journey. Derringer in sleeve, revolver in handbag, stiletto inside jacket pocket. You packed the money, so you know it is here. I am heading toward safety. But even more than the Pinkertons, my worry is Curry. He fairly foams at the mouth with insanity. And I fear every day that he will seek vengeance upon you and our dear Butch.”
“It's no never mind,” Harry said, taking her face in his hands. “We have been handling Logan for years and we'll handle him still. There's no reason for you to worry. We are full-grown outlaws and used to caring for ourselves. My only trouble now is that a cruel and careless woman has worn me out with love and ruined me for the services of skilled professionals. Until this awful woman returns to me, I'm doomed to solitude and the company of dog-ugly men.”
He kissed Etta full on the mouth and could taste her tears at its corners.
“I'll be in New York before you can whistle,” Harry said. “All the arrangements have been made with your landlady by telegram. But please be careful. I hear that Chinamen capture girls to be white slave whores. A woman like you could make someone's fortune.”
Etta laughed. “You are dear and ridiculous, my love. Have you forgotten that I too am a dangerous outlaw and used to caring for myself? No, I am far more concerned about how you will cotton to a city so big and bright. You who once lived a short ride from Philadelphia and never visited.”
As the locomotive gained the water tower, they embraced once more. Harry could not hide the tears of parting and so made no effort. He turned to tip the black porter as he hefted the four trunks. When he turned back, Etta was gone.
The sun was now high behind the third car, and for a moment he was blinded. Then, as if from a sunburst within his eyes, he saw her through the window. He made to raise his hand in a grand salute of farewell but thought better of it. This was not a gesture one made toward Miss Lorinda Reese Jameson of Philadelphia. And so his hand rose only to the level of his shoulder and he contented himself with a single wave.
From the
JOURNAL OF ETTA PLACE
20 September 1901
New York City
Diary,
New York is very much as I remember. Everything is too: The buildings are too high, the clothing too fashionable, the women too beautiful, the rich too rich, and the poor far too poor. Is it any wonder that, living as I do a life of extremes, I should so love a city that often seems all one way or all another?
The trip here was also too something: it was too damn long!
Luckily, as I am now a lady of some means, I traveled in the most comfortable of circumstances. I took a private compartment and had my meals served therein. I suppose I should have enjoyed my journey, as it will be the last chance I have for any degree of luxury for some time. Here in New York, I must live modestly and quietly, so as not to call attention to myself from any inhospitable sources, most notably the Pinkertons.
Of course, it is natural that I was chosen for the honor of accompanying our treasure far from the deserts of the West. Although I am now myself a wanted person, no one doubts that the so-called law will be concentrating its efforts on the menfolk of our group. Perhaps most significant to my mission, there are no Pinks who have seen me at close range. And thanks to the artistry of Mr. Swartz, I am now the only one of whom the police have no picture.
As to our money it currently resides in a safety deposit box in a bank deep in the city of Brooklyn. We have placed it there rather than in Manhattan to minimize the chance of encounters with any old employees or friends of Father. Too, there is also always the question of the Philadelphia villains. As Uncle Rodman once observed, their reach is long, and my dear hometown is a mere ninety miles away.
As I am alone, my landlady, Mrs. Taylor, has become my greatest friend. She is, like so many who keep boarders, a widow, her husband having died in the same influenza epidemic that took their seventeen-year-old son. She has allowed me to stay in her establishment, rather than have me seek shelter at a ladies' hotel, because of what she believes is the imminent arrival of my husband, the respectable Mr. Harry Place.
I wish I was as sure of that arrival as she seems to be. Harry and Butch are now over a week past our date of rendezvous, and as I have had no word of either of them I am more than a little concerned. I do not expect a letter, as it is probable that any area in which they may currently be found is without convenient post. A telegram is even less likely, as in the country where they are riding the only wire is likely to be barbed.
But more than loneliness, it seems my chief tormentor these days is tedium. Now that I have been here over a week, filling my time has become a major preoccupation. At first, it was enough just to watch from my window the ever-changing parade of types: the tradesmen and the shopgirls; the Negroes carrying out their thankless tasks; the Jews with their tall hats and beards and long locks of hair; the handsome and mysterious Italian boys. Everyone is selling something to everyone else in a different language, and yet business is transacted. For one who has only recently shaken the dust of the plains, it is quite a human exhibit.
But these entertainments last only so long. I can safely say, Diary that I have never been bored in my life, but staying in my little room amid chintz and linen is beginning to drive me to distraction. And as I am supposed to be the wife of a prosperous western businessman (I had the bad taste to tell Mrs. Taylor that my husband was involved “in the railroad business”), finding paying work is out of the question. Even here, among the bohemians of Greenwich Village, there is a limit to the number of times a woman can be seen wandering about unescorted wit
hout some specific destination in her eyes. As Della would say in her inimitable way, “I'd give my left tit” to be useful again. Whenever I see a streetcar go by, it has been only with the greatest difficulty that I have avoided the temptation to board it in one leap, take the conductor prisoner, and collect every purse.
n her career as an outlaw, Etta Place had learned to abide many privations without complaint. During those times when Hole-in-the-Wall was on the run, she did without the most basic of women's needs: a clean blouse, a horsehair brush, even the proper mainstays needed during those days when her body insisted on asserting its feminity. But whenever the gang got close to civilization, Etta would take any opportunity, even risk capture, for the chance to be clean: to immerse herself in anything that could wash away the filth of the trail and the weight on the heart. Even in the backroom of a barbershop, with the boiling kettle fired for a twenty-five-cent bath, she would instantaneously become the most spoiled of rich girls, laying claim to hot water and soap as if they were a God-given right.
Never had she forgotten those life-restoring few hours in Chicago when she and her new Harvey colleagues had discovered what the Russian girls called their “bania.” If Chicago had such a magnificent palace of cleanliness and health, didn't it stand to reason that New York must surpass it? As soon as she arrived in Manhattan, Etta had sought out the finest bathhouse in the district. The Alhambra exceeded all her hopes and expectations.
Etta: A Novel Page 11
