he carcass of Tap Duncan stank to high heaven. Even Randall Brinks and Coky Ford had trouble enduring the smell, and that was saying something. In Kenton, Ohio, it was a truism that—as long as they could turn the money into a drink—Randall and Coky would do most anything, from delivering piglets to emptying the chamber pots and slops from the hotel. Once, when Billy Tracey's mule pulled up lame, Coky had even pulled a milk wagon all day for seventy-five cents. And because their drunkenness sometimes caused personal biological accidents, often their own odor was so offensive that only the most desperate would hire them, and then only for work to be done while decent people were asleep.
Still, this was no time for delicacy and work was work. When Sheriff Herbert Brownell received the telegram from the Pinkerton office in Columbus, he had asked Brinks and Ford to go out to the farm where that hermit lived and pick up the body the Pyle boy had found that morning. When they arrived, they paid no mind to the fresh grave that lay within a few feet of the body, even when the Pyle boy drew their attention to it. They were being paid to place a dead man in a box and drive it to the cemetery, not to be real estate inspectors. For their suffering they would receive one dollar each: a king's ransom, representing, as it did, whiskey for an entire afternoon.
By the time J. P. McParland and Lowell Spence arrived, Randall and Coky had transported Tap's husk from the crumbling farm to the Ken-ton graveyard. The word had spread quickly that this Duncan was in reality a famous western outlaw, and citizens had come from miles around for a good look and a small party. By late afternoon, the pie and beer and lemonade hawkers had figured out where to stand so as to be upwind of the stiff. They located their businesses accordingly.
As the two Pinkertons walked through the cemetery gate, the crowd applauded politely. Spence stared straight ahead. McParland lightly doffed his hat as Sheriff Brownell acknowledged the voters by clasping his hands above his head. “I need the truth of what happened here,” McParland said.
“Truths pretty much in front of you, mister,” Brownell said. “Don't see why you needed no additional identification. I mean, we read over him and everything. We figure from how much he's rotted and some of the bites the critters took out of him, he's been lying out there a good few days.”
“And who owns this farm, sheriff?”
“Fellow by the name of O'Toole. But I only know that from the county records. Man only came into town a few days a year. Didn't mix with any of us. Couldn't figure how he made his living, as he didn't much bother with trade or crops, neither. When we rounded up his horses a few miles from here, come to find out they was all stolen. Guess that's how he was making his way. And now you tell me he could be this Tap Duncan out of someplace in Wyoming.”
Lowell Spence came as close to the body as the stench would allow and gazed upon it for a moment. He nodded silently to his partner.
McParland walked back through the cemetery gate. Rounding the corner, he crossed the muddy main street and stepped into the telegraph office.
WESTERN UNION
TELEGRAM
TO: MR. CHARLES A. SIRINGO MARCH 4, 1902
PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY
405 W. 43RD ST.
NEW YORK, NY
HAVE POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED BODY IN KENTON, OHIO. NOT DUNCAN AS REPORTED PREVIOUS. DUNCAN USED ALIAS OTOOLE. WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN. BOTH SPENCE AND ME AGREE DECEASED IS HARVEY LOGAN AKA KID CURRY. SINGLE SHOT, CHEST. WILL ARRANGE FOR PICTURES BY LOCAL PHOTOG AND SEND SEPARATE. NO REPORT OF CASSIDY, LONGBAUGH OR WOMAN OF ANY DESCRIPTION. WILL PERSEVERE.
MCPARLAND
Almost before the wire could be sent and paid for, the news began to spread that the bandit in question was even more notorious than first declared. A killer, they said. With thirty bodies on his gun. When the lawmen departed, Elihu Craft—his card read the only camera for fifty miles—set up his equipment to document the scene. With a flourish, Craft produced a flask of firewater from his kit bag and a dollar from his purse and prevailed upon Randall and Coky to forestall the body's interment for the overall good of the town's commerce. As the pair passed the bottle between them, Craft propped the box up against the wagon so that Curry was in a near-standing position. Then, for fifty cents, local citizens high and low queued up to record themselves with the famous outlaw. Most held their breath or their noses or pretended their fingers were six-guns drawn on the infamous thief and murderer. After an hour, Sheriff Brownell had had enough. He banished Craft and his camera from the street and ordered Brinks and Ford to permanently entomb the madman of the Wild Bunch.
It took nearly forty years for the last of those photographs to disappear from the shop windows of Kenton. Once World War II came, it seemed somehow frivolous to display an image of a jug-eared boy making “devil's ears” behind the head of a corpse whose name no one could remember. Sometime in 1942 the last of the yellowed portraits (Garrett Smith, the long-deceased town butcher, pretending to be very frightened) was tied with twine, placed in a wheelbarrow, and hauled away in the third Victory Paper Drive.
he snow had just stopped falling as Eleanor Roosevelt stood upon the stairs of the great house. Her only outer garment was a crocheted shawl, but cold, in its many forms, was something she had long become used to.
As she looked out upon the vast property, the blanket of white reflected the full moon, each crystal throwing off a tiny particle of light until it seemed she could see for miles. It was not the first night Eleanor had stood here. On her previous visits the portico had become her refuge, her place of escape from the old mansion's gloom and the suffocating presence of Sara Delano Roosevelt.
Within the boundaries of acceptable convention, her fiancé's mother had made clear her disapproval of her son's choice. When Franklin had announced that he intended to marry her, Sara had been horrified. Like the rest of the family, she saw Eleanor as something of a poor relation: the product of a silly girl and a sad drunk, an ugly waif shifted from home to home in grudging efforts at a relative's keep, the carrier of an alcoholic germ and a weak chin.
Eleanor did not have to be told outright what Sara thought. Nor did she need to hear the cruel words to feel them like blows to the stomach. It was all very fine to marry a distant cousin; it had been done many times within the clan. In this manner, the bloodline was kept clean, and so far the unions had produced no apparent imbeciles. But Elliott's daughter? This gawky, homely girl, shy and fearful, afraid even to inform the help of the week's menus? A bleeding heart who spent countless hours among immigrant trash? Sara had been told she labored not only amid the Irish (who were at least of the white race and could speak a form of English), but among violent Italians and scheming Jews. How could her handsome son even consider such a match, when all the young women of their society clamored for his charm and gaiety—to say nothing of his allowance.
Ever since the betrothal, Sara had made these objections clear to their subject in ways both blunt and subtle. And so, on each of the year's visits, Eleanor had silently withdrawn to the great portico to breathe in whatever comfort the current season could offer. In spring it had been the perfume of the flower blossoms; in fall, the musty smoke of burning leaves.
Now, in winter, it was the freezing embrace of the cold, but something more: the satisfaction of knowing that over the next three nights she would steal her future mother-in-law's home in the name of a noble purpose. In Sara's absence, two criminals would be sheltered. The food Sara so zealously guarded would become their food. A man and woman not man and wife would share a bed beneath her roof and—if Eleanor was an accurate judge of her expected guests—fornicate in a bed paid for by the Roosevelt fortune.
On any other night, Eleanor would have heard the sleigh before she saw it, the cheerful jingle of its bells cutting clearly through the cold night. But its owner, Clyde Dowling, was a man to be trusted, and she knew he would follow Eleanor's instructions: no noise.
“Your passengers are political refugees under my protection,” she had told him. “They will be traveling incognito. The
ir train is due at five in the evening, and I have described you and your sleigh to them. Therefore, you shall have no need to ask their names. You will also please remove your bells and anything else that may call attention to your mission. Neither Mrs. Roosevelt nor my fiancé are to be informed of their arrival. And of course, Clyde, you will be compensated for your additional trouble.”
Clyde Dowling's sleigh now turned at the carriage circle that led to the front door. From the steps, Eleanor could see the figure of a woman bundled against the cold, her hands hidden inside a fur muff, her face covered to the eyes by a scarf of purple wool. Beside her sat a man who seemed tall even sitting down. His beaver fur hat was of the kind usually worn by plainsmen, and his black mustache hung with icicles. Dowling called to his big dray to whoa up, and the two dark figures clambered from the sleigh, the woman not waiting for the man to offer her assistance.
“Welcome, Etta,” Eleanor said. “And you, Mr. Longbaugh. Welcome to Hyde Park.”
Etta and Eleanor embraced. Harry Longbaugh bowed toward his hostess and then excused himself to retrieve the couple's two large carpet traveling bags.
“I must apologize that there is no one here to take your luggage. But I have determined that your visit's need for secrecy justifies trusting as few people as possible with knowledge of your presence. Luckily, my sainted future mother-in-law is on a shopping trip in France and my future husband is pursuing his business in Albany. There are no neighbors close enough to see our lights, so there will only be two actual witnesses to your presence here.”
“Two?” said Etta. “We've only met that lovely Mr. Dowling.”
“Well, my darling, we must eat,” Eleanor said, leading the pair inside. “Therefore I have engaged a very capable young cook who speaks only the language of her native Spain. Even if she should some fine day be questioned by the police or your Mr. Siringo, she will not have understood a word of what has been said here. And by that time you should be safely at sea, en route to South America and what one hopes is a happy future.”
“But the risk, Nell,” Etta said. “This is not even your house. If Franklin and his mother should ever discover that you have been here without their permission—how would you even begin to explain it?”
Eleanor laughed lightly as she led them before the fire in the gloomy living room. “All my life, dear one, I have—what is it the French say?— played the game by the rules. Well, now, for your sake, I must break them. After all, why should you be the only rich girl to turn outlaw? Don't I get a turn to whisk the wallet and rob the train? Now that I've transgressed a little, I can see why you have loved it so much. To finally take what you want. To risk all—life, love, reputation—to achieve what is vital to you and only you. To finally say, Damn all convention—”
Eleanor stopped speaking for a moment and turned to Harry.
“—and to do all this to aid a beloved friend and the one who is beloved of her—is that not worth some small risk?”
For the first time since they arrived, a slight smile crossed Harry Longbaughs face. “Much obliged, ma'am,” he said, as he gently took her hand and bowed again. “We are most beholden to you.”
As dramatic as the circumstances were, dinner passed in remarkably polite conversation: the quality of the rice, the year of the wine, the relative culinary abilities of Señorita Maria Elena Guerro. In a few instances, the Spanish Harry had learned from his times among the putas y banditos of the Southwest proved useful, even if only as a source of kind praise for the shy young cook. In either language, Eleanor found Harry difficult to engage in conversation, but he brightened when she asked about his plans for South America.
“What we envision, ma'am,” Harry said, “is what my good comrades call a commune. It's where we gather together the locals that's been oppressed and tell them the truth about capital and labor and how they can control the means of production. Grow their own vegetables, slaughter their own beef. I reckon there's plenty of poor folks down in Argentina that need informing as to how they can be free without falling beneath the heel of the rich man. I'd rather do it in this country, but in the current situation it don't look as if that's possible, what with the misunderstandings about our past career and all.”
Eleanor took a bite of her meal, swallowed, and then held him in her blue gaze. “It does sound ideal, Mr. Longbaugh,” she said. “But I wonder if it is truly possible for one man to liberate another solely through knowledge … without violence or revolution or an educated ruling class leading that liberation. And I also must ask if such fine sentiments can ever bring redemption to a common highwayman bloodied by past misdeeds?”
Etta froze. She knew that, had Eleanor been a man, such an assault upon Harry's honor would not have been tolerated. In their world, the issue would be settled by fists or iron. But Harry's glance became only slightly more piercing as he laid his napkin in his lap.
“I reckon I don't know the answers to either of those questions, Miss Eleanor,” he said, “but it don't seem much different from what you do with those poor foreign girls Etta's told me of. You're only one woman. A fortunate one, sure, but how much power do you really have against the sweatshop owners and factory bosses? You've got to have a hill of faith to think that a few dance lessons and some translation will bring them a better life. Truth be told, we might both be fools for trying. As for redemption—well, I was once told the book of life was a long one and if you wanted a better ending you could write some new pages. I pray the Lord is watching me, looking right over the shoulder of Karl Marx. But then I guess I'm luckier than many.”
“And how is that, Mr. Longbaugh?” Eleanor asked.
Etta saw Harry fix her in his sights more deeply than he had done all evening. Fix her as if she were the rear window in a mail car. Fix her as if to fire a fatal shot.
“I've got Etta.”
The silence that followed was short, and for an instant tears came to Eleanor's eyes. Etta felt great pity for Nell but was also proud that Harry had calmly and justly defended himself against the rudeness of her friend.
The Sundance Kid rose from the table. “If you two ladies will excuse me, it has been a very long day. With your kind permission, I'll take my rest. Miss Eleanor, I thank you for your kind hospitality and the chance you've taken in hiding us out. I look forward to spending more time with someone who Etta loves so much. Besides, I'm sure there is much you ladies would like to jaw about without the interruption of a rough fellow such as myself. Please do not bother to show me the way, ma'am. I am an old tracker and can certainly locate so large a thing as a bed.”
Harry bowed once again and headed for the stairs. Eleanor wiped the grief from her eyes with her napkin as she watched him ascend the stairs. “Well,” she said, “he certainly is cheeky.”
“Yes,” said Etta. “Cheeky. But what he said to you, you well deserved. And make no mistake, my love. Had your name been Evan or Evander Roosevelt, you might very well be picking a bullet out of your forehead around now.”
Eleanor nodded. “Besides his rather astounding beauty, I can see why you like him so much.”
“I love him, Nell. To say I merely like him would be like saying I merely like you—or that you merely like Mr. Roosevelt.”
For the first time that evening, Etta saw Eleanor's horse-toothed grin. “Then, my dear, I must love him too. May I apologize to you for my silly jealousy?”
Etta laughed, relieved, and nodded yes.
Eleanor slowly rose from her chair and walked to a large cherrywood sideboard. She opened the top drawer and reached inside, retrieving a wide oak-tag folder tied in pale blue ribbon. She unknotted the bow, laid the folder upon the table, and sat down beside it.
“Mr. Yardley has made all the arrangements for your passage. You sail from New York three days hence on the S.S. Soldier Prince. It is by no means luxurious but should be sufficiently comfortable for the journey. Your tickets and transfer documents are in this green envelope. You will be traveling under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Hardy.
First names are Donald and Georgina. A telegram in your name has been sent to Mrs. Taylor, informing her of your intent to stay the night with her before the sailing. The wire has been acknowledged and she writes that she looks forward to seeing you both. In short, all is ready.”
“And the legal progress of Laura Bullion?”
“Mr. Solis-Cohen believes that her release can be arranged in as little as a year, two at the most. It may sound like a long time, Etta, but it is nothing compared with what would be required to release Mr. O'Day Mr. Lant, and the rest of your companions. Mr. Solis-Cohen says only God could secure their release, and his connections only go up as high as the governor.”
“Then I shall be patient. Laura must be as well, though I admit I am getting worried about her. The other day I received a letter from her that ran to over one hundred words. I can only take such verbosity as a sign of anxiety.”
The two women rose from the table.
“I did wonder something, Nell, if you don't mind a quite personal question?”
Now it was Eleanor's turn to laugh. “What, at this point in our history, could possibly be too personal?”
“I certainly do regret that I shall not have the opportunity to meet your Mr. Roosevelt. From all I have read in the columns, he is the most charming of men and kind besides. Could you tell me if such gossip is true? And does he make you as happy as you have now seen my Harry makes me?”
Eleanor sighed and walked over to a tall window. It had begun to snow again. “Yes, it is all true. He is handsome and he is charming and for my life I cannot understand why he chose me. His mother is nearly purple with rage over our engagement. She believes he can do far better, and how right she is. When he walks into a room, all the men want to shake his hand and all the women want to be his wife. And I know for a fact that a few of the young ladies of our set have already played that role for him in the bedroom. Of course, when we walk into a room together, the reaction is even stronger. The men still want to shake his hand, the women still want to be his lover, and then their eyes settle on me. I am not blind. I see the puzzled looks on their faces, all asking the same question: What on earth is he doing with her?”
Etta: A Novel Page 24
