“Oh, I didn’t realize you felt that strongly about it, Betsy. You stay here. I’ll go find a preacher to marry us. Will that be all right?”
“Oh yes, Vic,” she said, relieved. “That’s all I ask.”
Betsy reached out to hug and kiss him warmly; then he turned and left the room, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
She took off her hat and walked nervously around the room. It was difficult to conquer the fear that kept rising in her; she was in a strange town, in a strange room, with a man she didn’t know very well. “But I do know Vic,” she reassured herself, “and I love him. He just didn’t understand about sharing the room. Men are so different from women.”
For the next hour and a half, she waited nervously. When the doorknob turned she jumped to her feet and stood defensively with her back to the wall. Perrago entered, leading another man, and said, “Honey, this is Reverend Leo Patterson. He’s come to marry us.”
Patterson, a heavy man with gold rings on three of his fingers, nodded and smiled. “Glad to meet you, miss. Let me congratulate you on your wedding.”
“Thank you,” Betsy said. She looked questioningly at Vic. “Doesn’t there have to be a witness?”
“Not in this state,” Perrago reassured her. “All we need is the Reverend, and he’s even volunteered to take care of the legal work for us—registering the license and all that.”
“Of course I will. Mighty proud to,” Patterson agreed heartily. He had a huge stomach and patted it constantly as if it were an old friend. His face was round and red, and his eyes were a muddy brown color.
“Well, Reverend, let’s get this over with. Tell us what to do,” Vic ordered cheerfully.
Patterson said, “You stand right there, and, young lady, you stand beside him, take his hand there. Have you got a ring?”
Vic snapped his fingers. “No! I forgot a ring!” He looked at Betsy and asked, “Do you want to postpone this until tomorrow?”
“Oh no. You’ve gone to all the trouble of getting Reverend Patterson. We can get a ring later.” Betsy was disappointed at the arrangements. She had always dreamed of a fine wedding in a church, with her mother there and her father giving her away, Reverend Simms leading the ceremony. Once again a feeling of guilt washed over her, but she forced herself to ignore it. “A ring isn’t a marriage, is it, Vic?”
“That’s right true, honey. I’m glad you see it like that. Tomorrow I’ll get you the best ring in this whole town!”
“Well, then, we’ll go right on.” Patterson had been holding a black book in his hand. “Now, let’s get on with it.”
Betsy stood, listening to the large man as he mumbled a few phrases. She was too frightened, really, to hear anything but the blood pounding in her temples. The preacher’s voice sounded far away; his words didn’t sound like those she had heard in other weddings. Vic was holding her hand, and finally Patterson said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Vic turned her around and gave her a resounding kiss.
Then he reached into his pocket, handed Patterson two bills, and said, “So you’ll take care of the license and all that, will you, Reverend Patterson?”
“Oh yes. I have your address, and I’ll send them right to you as soon as they go through the court. Takes a few weeks, you understand.”
“Well, goodbye and thanks a lot. Here’s an extra something to put in the offering plate next Sunday.” Perrago handed him another bill, and a wide smile parted Patterson’s thick lips.
“Lord bless you, sir!” He turned, put his hand out, and Betsy took it. She cringed at the thick, sweaty, and grimy hand, and was glad when he released hers. “And bless you, little lady! This man will make you a good husband, and you’ll make him a good little wife! Well, I’ll be going now,” he finished, then left, his heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Vic walked over and turned the key in the lock. The clicking of the key struck Betsy like a blow. There was something so final about it. She had gone down a road from which there was no return. Suddenly she remembered climbing a tree when she had been a young girl. She had gone too far up and had slipped. She remembered hanging by a branch, knowing that once she let go there would be no way to stop her fall. Slowly her fingers slipped, and finally she had fallen and sprained her ankle badly. The clicking of the key reminded her of that time; and she realized that in these last moments she had turned loose of everything she prized in her life. She had been an unhappy girl in many ways, envious of her sister, Lanie, discontented with her appearance. But now that she was here, there was no more entrance for her at her parents’ home, and a sense of loneliness cloaked her. When Vic came close to her, she threw herself into his arms and said, “Oh, Vic! I’m afraid!” She buried her face in his chest, holding on tightly, as if she were a little girl.
Perrago looked down at her and smiled. He swept her up in his arms, moved over to the bed, and laid her on it. “Don’t worry, Betsy,” he grinned. “You’re going to love being married to me!”
****
Ordinarily Betsy would have enjoyed the last stage of the train ride. They were going, she discovered, to Fort Smith, Arkansas. She had never heard of the town, but Vic told her he had a little business to do there before they could go on to the ranch.
She was sitting beside him in the narrow coach, gazing at the gold band on her left hand. It was a simple ring, but Vic had told her he would get her something nicer when he had more cash. A gusty wind boiled against the car’s sides. Out in the bleak landscape a band of antelope rushed up from a copse, then scudded away into the darkness. A window behind Betsy squalled open, and the man sitting there pumped seven quick shots from a rifle—fruitlessly—and slammed the window down again.
The shots startled Betsy and she jumped as the rifle went off. Perrago put his arm around her, laughing at her expression. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I know things like that don’t happen much in Chicago, but you’ll get used to it.”
“I hope so, Vic,” Betsy said quietly. Her brief married life had been a disillusionment. Perhaps she had read too many romance novels. But the one thing she had come to expect from a husband was tenderness, gentleness. She would have no other complaint had she received this; but as fine as Vic’s manners were, he was demanding, in a physical sense, not asking what her preferences were, making Betsy feel used and unfulfilled.
Betsy was not totally uninstructed. Her mother had given her the basic details of what it was to be a wife. But somehow what her mother had told her seemed very different from what had happened between her and Vic. After Vic was asleep, she buried her face in her pillow, choking back the sobs. That morning she put it behind her—at least outwardly. It’ll be different when we get home, she comforted herself. He’ll be more gentle then.
Fingers of cold crept through the car as the train steamed along at forty miles an hour. They had been traveling most of the day, and it seemed very long to Betsy. As the train made its way around a sharp curve, the steel wheels of the car chattered. “Won’t be long now,” Vic said with satisfaction, staring out of the window. Down the tracks, the lights of the Fort Smith station were coming into view, making a yellow glow in the gathering gloom of the late afternoon. “Are you anxious to see Indian Territory?” He grinned at Betsy.
“What is that, anyway?” she asked curiously. She wanted him to talk, and held his hand as he explained.
“Well, the Osage went into the Territory first; there were some other tribes as well, but mostly Osage in the beginning. Then more tribes started coming in from the Southeast. Later they were removed by the government, who wanted them out of the Deep South. These were called the Five Civilized Tribes.” Vic seemed to enjoy explaining this to her, stroking her hand as he spoke. “They were herded into the territory west of where the Poteau and the Arkansas Rivers flow together—and that’s Fort Smith. There’s five of them: the Choctaw, Chickasaw, Seminole, Creek, and Cherokee.”
“And Indians are the only ones who live there?”
An undiscerni
ble smiled etched itself on Perrago’s lips. Shifting back in his seat, he crossed his arms and glanced out the window. “We’re almost there, station’s just ahead.” Then he answered her question. “It’s supposed to be just for the Indians, but there are quite a few white men out there now. Some of them are on government business.”
He didn’t explain further. The conductor stuck his head into the car and called out, “Fort Smith! Fort Smith! Everybody out!”
Betsy and Vic joined the crowd piling off the train—most of the passengers men. It was completely dark as they started down the street. “This is Garrison Street,” Vic informed her. “We’ll stay here tonight before we leave for the ranch.”
“All right, Vic,” Betsy agreed meekly.
Betsy felt easier that night. Vic was charming; he took her all around the city by lantern light, finally showing her the famous gallows. “Lots of men been hanged there,” Vic said, looking up at the platform. He rubbed his neck. “Must be pretty unpleasant. Hangman’s name is George Maledon.” The sight of the gallows seemed to fascinate him as he stared upward. “You know, they put the ‘hangman’s knot’ in the rope. Has thirteen loops around it. When they put the noose around you, the knot goes right behind your left ear. That way, when you fall, it breaks your neck. You don’t strangle to death.” He shivered a little. “Once, I saw a man hanged—a little fellow, no more than a hundred pounds—when the drop didn’t break his neck. He hung there for thirty minutes, it seemed like, his hands tied, kicking and squirming while he strangled to death.”
“Don’t tell me things like that!” Betsy said in a frightened voice. “Let’s go, Vic, I don’t like this place!”
Perrago laughed. “Me neither, honey! C’mon, let’s go get something to eat!” He led her to a hotel called “Betty’s Place,” which was somewhat of a disappointment to Betsy. There were a lot of women there—loud and wearing a lot of paint on their faces. Several of them drifted by and started to speak to Perrago, but he waved them off, saying, “Don’t bother me, girls, I’m on my honeymoon!” He put his arm around Betsy, and the hard-looking women laughed raucously, then went about their business.
After they ate, a tall, painted, gaunt-looking woman came over to them. “Do you want a room for the night, Vic?”
“Sure, Betty! This is my wife, Betsy. Betsy, this is Betty, an old friend of mine.”
“I’m glad to know you, Betty.”
The woman looked at Betsy with a strange expression, and a caustic smile turned the corners of her painted lips upward. “I wish you many happy years of marriage,” she said formally to Betsy. Then she glanced at Perrago. “I’ll send you up a bottle for a wedding present, Vic.”
Perrago seemed to find this amusing and laughed. “That’s fine, Betty, we’ll drink a toast to you. Come along, Betsy, we’ve got a long trip tomorrow.” He led Betsy upstairs to a small room. It was sparsely furnished, with only a bed and one small table. A long time after they went to bed, they could hear the tinny piano and its raucous tunes downstairs and the voices of men and women going up and down the corridors.
Once in the middle of the night there was a gunshot, then the sound of running feet. Betsy jolted upright and Perrago mumbled, half awake, “Huh, what is it?” Then he rolled over, saying, “Oh, don’t pay any attention to that, honey. Always stuff like that at Betty’s place.” His head dropped on the pillow and he was fast asleep again.
The next morning Betsy was exhausted from lack of sleep, and her nerves were drawn as tight as a wire. Nothing seemed to be going as she had imagined it. She had pictured herself going to a fine ranch, being introduced as the wife of Victor Perrago—the crew lined up to take their hats off, mumbling her name worshipfully. Then she saw herself moving into a big house with high ceilings, fine western furniture, a horse of her own.
But that morning she sat alone, looking around the un-lovely room. Vic had risen early, saying, “I’ll get us geared up and we’ll be leaving.” She stared with distaste at the leprous-looking floor, the faded wallpaper, the shabby, beaten-up bedside table. It’ll be better when we get to the ranch, she told herself for the umpteenth time.
An hour or two later Vic finally came back and handed her a package. “I picked you up something to wear. You can’t wear a dress where we’re going, on horseback.” He insisted on watching her put it on, and she flushed, still embarrassed by the intimacies of marriage. He laughed at her discomfort. “You’ll get over that soon enough, honey. I want to see that outfit on you.”
Betsy slipped into it as quickly as she could. It was a fawn-colored riding outfit with a divided skirt, a pale blue cotton shirt, and a jacket of the same material as the skirt. The jacket had silver dollars for buttons. There was a flat-crowned hat and a pair of riding boots to complete her outfit. When she had finished, he laughed and said, “Now you look like a real western girl!”
“Oh, Vic, thank you! It’s lovely! I’m so glad to be off that train, and I can hardly wait to be riding again!”
“You’ll get plenty of riding,” Vic said dryly. “Let’s go. I want to get an early start.”
He had bought two horses, a big roan stallion for himself and a brown mare for her. “Oh, she’s beautiful!” Betsy said breathlessly. “What’s her name?”
“Anything you want to call her.”
“I think I’ll call her Dolly,” she decided, ecstatic over the small trim mare.
Vic had also bought two pack mules, which were heavily loaded. “What’s all that for, Vic?” Betsy asked interestedly.
“Just taking some supplies to some friends of mine,” he said. “You ready?”
“Yes!”
The two rode out, the pack animals trailing behind on a tether tied to Vic’s saddle horn. They rode all morning along the banks of the Arkansas River. It was hot, but Betsy was so glad to be off the train and out of hotel rooms that the ride was a delight to her.
They camped that night on the bank of the river, rolling into their blankets just after dark. They rose at daybreak the next morning and rode all day again, crossing another river.
When she asked its name, Vic said, “This is the Verdigris. I don’t know what that means.” It ran alongside a set of rail-road tracks for a while, and he told her that was the Arkansas Valley Railroad. He turned and smiled at her. “I’ve made a lot of money on that railroad.”
“You have railroad stock?” Betsy asked in surprise.
“Oh, I have sort of an interest in it,” he said idly, gazing off into the distance. “Once in a while I rake off a little of the profit.” He laughed as if he had made a joke, then said, “I’m not really a railroad man, though.”
They crossed the railroad tracks, and at noon entered into a set of low foothills that began to rise steeply as they headed farther north. The sun beat down on them and once Vic asked, “This too hot for you? I know it’s pretty rough on a northern girl.”
“No, it’s fine, Vic,” Betsy said quickly. Her tender skin had blistered, and she congratulated herself on having bought some lotion to coat the backs of her hands and her neck. Still, her fair complexion was pink and rosy. “How much farther is it?”
“Oh, we’ll be there by dark,” he said.
They rode steadily all afternoon, the low hills breaking up into sharper ones. Finally a bunch of “razorback hills,” as Vic called them, broke the horizon in front of them. Up ahead there were long draws like fingers going back into the hills. He nodded toward them, saying, “Sometimes cattle get up into those. Have to be rousted out by the Indians who keep them. Sometimes they never get found.”
“What kind of Indians?”
“Cherokees here,” he said shortly. “Don’t like to get cross-ways with them if I can help it.”
His words made Betsy nervous, and she said no more but rode close to him. The little mare was a delight to her; although Betsy was not accustomed to such long rides, the mare was an easy mount so she fared well.
It was late in the afternoon when Vic suddenly drew up and said, “W
e’ll meet my friends right over that rise, I think. At least, that’s where they told me they’d be.”
They passed through a group of scrub trees. Beyond the trees was a small, dilapidated farmhouse, the eaves drooping like rumpled covers from the corners of an unmade bed. Along with a few outbuildings, it sat in the midst of cleared ground. The sun was setting as they drew close. Betsy saw that it was a rough place, with a clutter of trash scattered about the yard. A few chickens were still pecking about at the debris. She heard a rooster crow, and a dog came out, barking menacingly.
“Hold it!” A voice ordered. A man stepped from behind one of the outbuildings with a rifle, which he leveled at the two. Betsy grew frightened.
“That you, Mateo?” Vic called out.
The man peered toward them and lowered his rifle. “Vic,” he called out.
“It’s us!”
Perrago turned to Betsy and said, “This is Mateo Río. Mateo, this is my wife, Betsy.”
The man came forward. He was, Betsy saw, Spanish or Mexican. He was tall, with an olive-colored face, a thin mustache over an equally thin mouth, and the blackest hair she had ever seen. His eyes were like black coals as he frowned at Vic. “You didn’t say nothin’ about this, Vic.”
“Didn’t know it, Mateo,” Vic said cheerfully. “When a man falls in love, not anything to be done about it. Everybody else here?”
“No. Honey, Jack, and Grat ain’t here.”
“Well, we’re hungry; we’re going to go in and get something to eat. Take care of the horses and mules, will you, Mateo?”
The Mexican took the reins of the animals, closely inspecting the pack animals. “You bring the stuff?” he asked.
“Sure,” Vic nodded. “Come on, honey, let’s go inside.” He led Betsy to the house, which was an ugly shack that had never known paint. Many of the boards were warping off, and the boards that were still intact were held in place by nails that looked as if they could pop loose at any moment. The shack had been fried and baked by the sun, washed by the rains, and frozen by the snow, and its dilapidated look reflected the effects of years of harsh weather. Vic opened the door and stepped inside, saying, “Hey! Anybody here?”
The Gallant Outlaw Page 4
