Hantaywee began to giggle and soon broke into a dance. She danced until she became a blur of hair and fringe. Then she dashed for a nearby rock wall and reached into a crevice between two enormous boulders. One by one she began to drag out the four duck bags I had placed there so long ago. As she produced each bag, she laughed a little louder, and when the last one was extracted she turned to me, beaming with pride.
I stood before her, mouth agape. All she had had to guide her was a letter I had sent to her husband, written in a language she could not read, and a hastily drawn map. When I had stopped dancing with her long enough to finally ask how she had found my hiding place, her answer was so simple it made me feel a great fool.
“I looked,” she said, “and I found.”
Before long we had loaded the duffels onto my little horse: eighty thousand dollars in bank and railroad currency. There would be no long goodbyes as there was not enough language between us for small talk, and Hantaywee soon made it clear that she must return to El Paso and her cooking. As we embraced again, I ran my hand one more time over her belly. She mounted her pony in one smooth motion.
I tightened the cinches on my saddle and gazed after my Sioux daughter. She rode toward the summit of a small hill, first at a canter and then a full gallop. Across the wind I could hear an excited series of yips and cries, the proud sounds of the warrior, sounds that assured me she was now equal to any challenge in the world.
Gaining the hilltop, Hantaywee whirled to face me. She lifted her rifle high above her head, and with a final cry she was gone.
I mounted my little horse and made for town. With luck, I would reach the train before it stopped to take on water. Riding through the sandy rocks, I began to realize that, although my mourning was far from over, I must regain myself as Hantaywee had; and that the only way to achieve this was to make my Robin Hood live in the fat faces and full bellies of the children of want. And if I am never to know love again, then I must be content with its memory.
I spurred my pony to a canter, then a gallop, and yipped and cried and whooped to the top of the hill.
s she sat across from him at Luchows, Lorinda Reese Jameson realized that Ralph Worthington Carr met her most basic criterion for friendship: Butch Cassidy would have liked him.
Even those who had worked their hardest to see Butch hanged often remarked upon his good nature and his willingness to see the best qualities in even the most callous and degraded of reprobates. Therefore, Etta thought, it stood to reason that if Butch Cassidy didn't like you, there must be reasons aplenty. But in the end, one failing stood above all, and for those thus disdained he reserved his most withering comment. “That fellow,” Butch would say, “has no sense of humor. And people without a sense of humor are the most dangerous folks in the world.”
It was this singular trait that had made Butch Cassidy fear Charles A. Siringo. In no encounter had he ever heard anyone, law or outlaw, remark that the detective had smiled or joked with a prisoner. If a murderer was declared innocent or guilty in a court of law, no observer ever detected either triumph or disgust on Siringo's face. Lorinda could only imagine the detective's sourness at his recently forced retirement.
Ralph Worthington Carr was everything men like Siringo were not. Lorinda had met him through her association with Alfred Stieglitz. In her first social foray, two years after Harry's death, Etta had chanced upon Stieglitz at his Gallery 291, the avant-garde bastion that was at that time featuring the work of his partner, a Mr. Edward Steichen. Although she was still pale and thin from illness and a long period of mourning, the photographer had recognized her immediately as half of the handsome couple who had sat for him at DeYoung's studio. Pointedly ignoring Etta's grief, he had immediately initiated an enthusiastic and ultimately unsuccessful romantic pursuit.
But even if much of her association with Stieglitz consisted of fending off his advances, in his company Lorinda managed to learn much about the new movements in art, photography, and film. In the salons of the day she listened to intense discussions and arguments about the direction of the world's culture and politics. The creativity the artists poured into their work seemed to nourish her. Their conversations revealed new worlds to Lorinda, and their camaraderie was like a tonic to her soul.
On the night Lorinda met Ralph Carr, she had been invited to a soirée at the studio of a Hungarian named Kertész. After it had been determined that no one else in the room spoke French, Lorinda was asked to serve as translator for the famous Monsieur Valpain, a visiting painter. The discussion began amiably enough, but within a matter of minutes it devolved into a thunderous argument between the artist and a non-French-speaking critic for the New York World, all over someone named Picasso. As the painter screamed at his opponent en français, Lorinda dutifully screamed back at the critic in English. When the critic became sarcastic, Lorinda raised her eyebrows and shrugged in scorn. Merde became shit, idiot became imbécile, every word pronounced in what the artist later told Lorinda was a perfect accent gallique.
As the audience respectfully watched the absurd bilingual tableau, a tall man stood at the rear of the room, grinning broadly. Several times he clapped his hand over his mouth so that his laughter would not give offense to either the visitor, the critic, or the charming translator.
Apart from his height and the flaming red of his hair and mustache, it seemed the man was doing his best not to be noticed. His suit was as black as a funeral and, although of a good gabardine, nothing like the bespoke garments worn by many of the rich aesthetes in attendance. His shirtfront and collar were plain and his tie a subtle stripe. He might have been a successful salesman or a respected young professor. The blue eyes smiling over the top of his hand gave him an impishness odd in one so large. When the three-way confrontation was at last over, the tall man made his way across the crowded parlor and straight for Lorinda.
“You will please excuse me, miss,” he said, “but I felt that I had to congratulate you, not only on your excellent French but on the manner in which you played your role. Honestly, I was not certain who was the angrier, Monsieur Valpain or yourself.”
Lorinda looked at the stranger for a moment. The only pair of eyes she had ever seen that were bluer or more beautiful belonged to Eleanor, and there was something so humorous about him that for the first time in months she wanted to laugh. She settled for a wide smile.
“Thank you, sir—I think,” she said. “We've not been introduced, but as you may have noticed we are a rather informal bunch. My name is Lorinda Jameson.”
“Hello. I am Ralph Carr, Chappie to my friends, and I've heard about you.”
“Really, Mr. Carr. Important information or just idle gossip?”
“Hopefully, a little of both. You're the girl who doesn't like men with money.”
Lorinda crimsoned to be so addressed by someone she had barely met. At Hole-in-the-Wall, any man who displayed such insolence this early would soon have been called upon to back it up with fist or iron. Still, Lorinda found that her smile remained.
“Well, then,” she said, “judging by the looks of your suit, I think we should get along spendidly”
Ralph Worthington Carr stared at her for a moment and then burst into deep, full-bellied laughter. It seemed to fill the room and wash over Lorinda like a healing balm. It was, she thought, the sound of something she hadn't heard since she first left Philadelphia for Colorado: the joyful noise of a clear conscience.
“Well, Miss Jameson, I do hate to disappoint you, but I am, unfortunately, very rich indeed. I can only hope you will permit me to show you what can be achieved when a spoiled brat decides to share the wealth. As for the suit…”—he paused and raised his eyebrows like a born comedian—“I won it playing poker with a priest.”
Now Lorinda began to laugh too. And as she did, a corner of her shroud of mourning seemed to fall away.
Over the next few months, Ralph Worthington Carr helped Lorinda regain the mirth nearly lost to sadness. For Chappie, no effort to amuse her
was too foolish or embarrassing. He told awful jokes, danced the buck-and-wing in public, tried to sell a nonexistent insurance policy to a mounted policeman. Sometimes his antics would produce no reaction from her, other times only a wan grin or pitiable groan. There would even be days when Lorinda would banish him from her presence, unable to tolerate such silliness when the man she loved was dead. But as their association continued, Chappie began to awaken places of joy within her until, in spite of herself, he was laughing her in and out of hansom cabs, laughing with her over dinners, even doing his best to make her laugh in the dignified silence of museums and galleries.
But as much as he loved to laugh, Chappie Carr loved to sing even more. This was probably the reason why Lorinda now found herself in Luchow's for the third time in as many weeks. The restaurant had long been a bastion of good German food and beer, the kind of place where no one looked over your shoulder to see if more socially prominent personages were coming through the door. A place so fond of gluttony that no one batted an eyelash if a lady was undainty enough to order two portions of their famous Swedish meatballs and indelicate enough to finish them all. In Luchow's, Lorinda could eat like an outlaw, like someone who had learned to delight in the food before her, ever aware there might be times when there was none. No small trencherman himself, Chappie marveled at just how much of the heavy fare this slender woman could dispatch in a sitting, but he simply added it to the increasing list of traits and mysteries that formed his fascination.
At Luchow's, the patrons would rise every half hour or so, raise their foaming steins, and launch into Trinkenlieder. Chappie neither spoke nor understood a single syllable of Deutsch, but he sang as loudly and happily as the waiters and their immigrant clientele. Those songs he hadn't learned by heart he would simply improvise, making fine guttural noises in his throat, trailing along two notes behind the melody. This would never fail to leave Lorinda weak with laughter as Chappie waved his arms and sang louder and louder.
When she had finally caught her breath, Chappie buttered a slice of Bauernbrot, tore it down the middle, and handed half to her. “You see?” he said. “We rich fellows aren't so bad.”
She accepted the dark bread from him and set it to the side of her plate. “Yes, you are,” she said. “Most rich men aren't worth the powder to blow their brains out. I associate with you, Mr. Carr, not because you are rich but because you are crazy. I estimate that at the rate you are giving your money away, you should be stony broke straightaway and therefore much more in keeping with my usual taste in friends. Your gifts to Rivington Street alone are enough to make Mrs. Roosevelt suspect you have had your way with me.”
“Would that she were correct. Actually, my dear, at my current pace of philanthropy, I will be officially flat on January the first of nineteen seventy-five, when I shall be happily pushing ninety-nine. And I daresay if I can continue to eat this good food and sing these happy songs in the company of a certain redhead, I shall reach that age easily and with pleasure.”
“Your father must be fit to have your head. The scion of the Carr Burton Brokerage a class traitor!”
“Please”—Chappie laughed—“you'll turn my head. As to Father, I do believe he's given up. On the day I received my own income, I resolved that any capitalism I engaged in would never again be transacted from a desk on Wall Street. Meanwhile, my investments have beat the old man's at every turn. Is it my fault that he chooses to pile his money up while I use mine to help people? I think it's fun. Anyway, I've made so much money for his friends, he's afraid to take my name off the door. And every one of those commissions goes toward having more and more fun.”
Lorinda had begun to laugh again when she saw Ralph Worthington Carr leap from his chair and tackle a swarthy and muscular man in a dark coat and slouch hat. The two crashed to the restaurant's tiled floor, bringing with them a tablecloth and several platters of sauerbraten. As the man attempted to rise, Chappie grabbed him by the belt of his trousers and smashed his fist into the stranger's chin, causing him to fall once more to the floor. Lorinda sprang from her seat to aid Chappie and saw the tiny bottle in the man's hand. It was as clear as water and bore no label, only a plain cork. Cursing, the man tried to bring his arm back to throw the vial, but Lorinda brought her boot up toward his wrist and kicked.
The women in the crowd began to shriek as the dark man spit an oath in a strangled Italian. “Puttana!”
Lorinda kicked him a second time, and the bottle went flying toward a damask wall hung with heavy velvet curtains. As it shattered against the fabric, she heard a sickening hiss. The splatter of vitriol began eating through the material almost immediately. By the time the police arrived, the damask would be eaten to the plaster and the curtain riddled with dozens of jagged holes. The smoking pattern of destruction was as plain as a signature. The mark of the Hand.
With one final shove, the man in the slouch hat scrambled to his feet and managed to push Chappie over the table. Free of restraint, the man leaped over a giant planter and knocked down the two waiters who attempted to stop him. The last Lorinda saw, he was racing past the restaurant's window onto 14th Street and into the Manhattan night.
When the overturned tables had been righted and the proper authorities called, Carr took Lorinda into his arms.
“Please, Chappie,” she said, “we must leave. Now. Before the police arrive and start asking questions.”
He nodded and bundled Lorinda into her coat. Under the entrance canopy, he commanded the doorman to hail a hansom. Inside the cab, Lorinda was quiet. Chappie held her close.
“That was quite a performance, my dear. I hope you never kick me like that. If I didn't know better, I could have sworn that bottle of acid was meant for you. I suppose I acted as if it was.”
Lorinda was thoughtful for a long moment and then smiled into those beautiful blue eyes. “My darling,” she said, “it is time for a talk. There are a few things you should know about me.”
THE W. B. CONKEY COMPANY
MANUFACTURING PUBLISHERS
Hammond, Indiana
January 23, 1910
Mr. Charles A. Siringo
Siringo Ranch
General Delivery
Santa Fe, New Mexico
Dear Mr. Siringo,
I very much hope retirement finds you well and that you do not find yourself at loose ends after living such an adventurous and active life. I certainly envy you your well-deserved leisure and hope you will find the writing of your book for us a relaxing diversion from the hard work required on a ranch.
In your letter, you asked me how to go about organizing the material and what—and what not—to include. I suggest that you simply begin at the beginning, from your first year with Pinkerton in 1886 through this, the year of your retirement. In the main, it is not necessary to be overly concerned with grammar, spelling, syntax, or the general structure of the book. All we at Conkey are concerned about is that you tell your story as best you can, in your own way and in your own words. You may confidently leave the technical work to us.
As to what should be included, I can frankly state that what our readers enjoy most is action and more action. Therefore, I hope that you will include your many exploits amongst the well-known heroes and lawmen of the day: Buffalo Bill, Heck Thomas, Wyatt Earp, Chris Madsen, Bill Tilghman, et al., as well as your successful pursuits of such desperadoes as Ben Kilpatrick and Laura Bullion, O. C. Hanks, Will Carver, Harvey Logan, etc. I was especially taken by what you related to us about your putting the so-called Wild Bunch out of business. You have landed scores of outlaws either in jail or in the ground, and I beg you not to be bashful concerning these incidents.
Finally, we are firm in our conviction that you be neither reticent nor apprehensive about reporting the shabby treatment by the Pinkerton Agency that forced your resignation. We are among the largest printers and publishers in this country and maintain our own staff of skilled attorneys for the purpose of our authors' protection. Rest assured that your right of free
speech shall be upheld at all times and that Conkey will not allow you or any of our other authors to be muzzled.
Please note the enclosed side letter that outlines your schedule for delivery of chapters. We believe that yours is a reasonable deadline, but if you should come upon any difficulties, please feel free to write or wire me at any convenient time. I look forward to reading of all your stimulating activities.
Very truly yours, I remain,
R. D. Olson
R. Dudley Olson
Editor-in-Chief
The W B. Conkey Company
n the large office of Don Vittorio Cascio Ferro, Lorinda began to wonder if the color of evil was not black, as the legends had always said—but gold.
True, some of it was artificial. The base of the Tiffany lamp upon the mahogany desk was mere paint, while the statue of a leaping greyhound on the sideboard was probably bronze. But much of the room's gold was real. The ornate gilt frame surrounding the baroque portrait of the don was clearly authentic, as were all the metal parts of the telephone. Every drawer handle and particle of inlay was genuine.
Ferro himself fairly radiated with golden accoutrements. Tie clasp, stickpin, watch fob, buttons on vest and jacket—all shone through the gloom with a glaring authenticity.
As she sat before him, Lorinda sorted her thoughts. How difficult will it be, she asked herself, to try and save one's life while asking this modern Croesus to part with treasure he believes has been duly earned and to forgive a debt owed for more than a decade?
His courtly manner belied all that the dailies had reported about him. At forty-seven, he was the most powerful foreign-born criminal in the country. The papers said he had been personally responsible for the particularly brutal dispatch of one Signore Benedetto Madonia, an alleged counterfeiter who dared attempt to practice his trade in New York City without permission. This was a clear violation of what the Sicilians called pizzu, the paying of tribute to the ruler of a territory, in this case Ferro himself. It had been reported that Don Vittorio had stabbed Madonia numerous times, cut his body into pieces, and deposited them in a barrel to be found by his confederates. The newspapers did not explain the significance of such a grisly death, and the authorities could make no case against the Black Hand chieftain, as there were no eyewitnesses. On the day the police conducted their canvass, there was not a single person in the neighborhood who was not at work, out of town, or visiting relatives in the old land.
Etta: A Novel Page 27
