Bandit Queen

by Jane Candia Coleman

  Home! It was the memory of home that kept me going. I promised myself that, if I ever got back to my mother’s house, I’d never leave. I’d become the dutiful daughter, the good mother, the lady I’d been brought up to be.

  My feet were blistered, my body ached, I itched from a thousand insect bites, but I went on. Not talking. It took all my strength to move. Long after dark we rode into a clearing and found the empty house. It looked like a haven—four walls, a roof, a place to lie down and rest.

  “Let’s stop.” I was whispering as if there were ears to hear, men crouched in the brush, hidden by darkness.

  Joe looked around. Listened. We heard nothing but the fluting call of nighthawks, the shrilling of crickets. He helped me dismount and kept one arm around me while I staggered to the door, my feet and legs too numb to support me or even feel pain.

  “Wait,” he cautioned. “This is just the place for a rattler or two to hole up.”

  He went inside and struck a match. It made a tiny glow against the dark before it went out and left the night blacker than before. He struck another. I could see him moving around, checking the rafters, the corners. At last he said: “Come on in.”

  I sat down with a groan. “How far to Benson?”

  “Maybe ten miles.” He was standing in the door-way, his body black against the starlight.

  “We can get there tomorrow, then.”

  “Yep.” He turned and looked out the way we’d come. “This time tomorrow night you’ll be on that train. Right now, you get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  It was the last thing I heard. I lay down on the hard dirt floor and closed my eyes. I don’t know what woke me, maybe a horseshoe ringing on stone, or the nicker of the mare, but I was wide awake in a split second and watching the open door.

  Beside me, Joe lay snoring. Keeping watch, indeed! I thought. I was reaching for the pistol that lay by his side when Sheriff Bill Truman’s body blocked the pale light that shone in the door.

  “Stop right there and you won’t get hurt,” he said.

  My hopes, my fears exploded into rage, and I went for him like a wildcat, fingers and teeth and a kick aimed at his groin. Ten miles! Ten lousy miles were all that lay between me and my dream, and Joe asleep like the dead. I was screaming, incoherent, fighting, but for all of that I might have been a fly. Truman caught me, pinned my hands, and let his posse members take care of Joe who sat, blinking and useless as tits on a boar.

  They dragged me outside still kicking, or trying to, and handcuffed me, and, when I tried to run for the brush, one of the men caught me around my knees and brought me down. I lay there in the sand and rocks, tasting blood from a split lip, along with tears of frustration. It was like being with Frank all over again—me, helpless against male strength, the power of pure muscle over my own wanting.

  It had all been for nothing, those torturous days with hope, dangling like a jewel, ahead. I’d forfeited the chance to see my children by trusting Joe to get me through, to keep watch. The thought was bitter as salt. I don’t know who I hated more—the sheriff and his men, or Joe, or myself, Pearl Hart, who’d always done the wrong thing, taken the wrong road, sure that the taking was right. I didn’t say a word during the long trip back. It seemed there wasn’t anything left to say.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  In the Florence jail, they stripped me, gave me a bath, and produced a hideous dress with purple stripes that was too large. The final blow was a hat that looked like a pie plate. “Get that thing out of here!” I sailed the hat through the bars of my cell straight at the jailer.

  He was unmoved. “There’s folks want to see you. Best put it on. Act like a lady. Maybe you’ll get off easy.”

  “Go away,” I shrieked. “Go away. I don’t want to see anybody.”

  The little jail had no provisions for women, so I was at the end of a row of cells that held men, with Joe on the opposite end. Everybody but Joe cheered and whistled at my show of spirit, but I turned on them next.

  “Why don’t you all shut up? I’m not in here for your amusement.”

  “You’ll do till something better comes along, honey,” one of them said, grinning.

  “Our little Pearl,” another called. “Our Pearl beyond price.”

  At that they all hooted, and I lost my temper. I rattled the bars and called for Bill Truman at the top of my lungs.

  He came running, worried about a riot in his two-bit prison.

  “You get me out of here,” I told him. “It’s not right, me in here with these animals.”

  They all roared at that, and started pounding on the bars.

  “See? You see? Now you get me out!” I stamped my foot and winced from the pain of a festering blister. “And please, I’m begging you, find out what happened to my babies.”

  Truman looked down his long nose at me. “It makes a good story, Pearl,” he said. “Too good, if you get my meaning. But you’re being moved to Tucson tomorrow. Best pack your things.” He gave a wry grin at his last words, turned, and spoke to the others. “No more racket in here. Any more and it’ll go hard on you.” Then he left, slamming the heavy door behind him.

  They took me to Tucson under guard. I don’t know how they moved Joe. We were kept apart, probably because everyone was afraid we’d plan an escape. And I was thinking about escape, about how I was going to get home. They didn’t believe my story, so I was left in ignorance about the fate of my children, my imagination painting a thousand scenes of agony and death until I wanted to scream.

  A few days in prison had taught me all I ever wanted to know about that life. Someone watched every move I made, like I was a dangerous animal or a crazy woman set on killing myself. I thought about that, too, about hanging myself from the rafters, or slicing my wrists. But there was still life in my veins. I was too young to die, especially by my own hand.

  But if I were free, if I, somehow, made it back to Toledo and buried myself among those pale urns who were family friends, who would know? Who would connect Mrs. Pearl Hart with the rag-tag female, dressed in men’s clothes, who had stuck up a stage-coach in faraway Globe? The answer, as I saw it, was no one. So I set my mind to it. The rest was easy.

  In Tucson I had my own cell. I could dress and undress, relieve myself without the eyes of a bunch of prisoners following every move. Even better, I had a certain amount of freedom. Overnight I had become a celebrity. Newspapermen wanted to interview me. Journalists from popular magazines waited in line outside the jail just for the purpose of talking to me, Pearl Hart, the Bandit Queen. Did it hurt, being branded a criminal? Of course. I was ashamed. I almost hoped my mother had died so that she would be spared the horrors of my actions. So, though I told those men all kinds of stories that they believed and printed, I was also careful to tell them the truth in hope of garnering sympathy for myself. I told them about Frank and the beatings I’d endured, and about my children. I watched them scribbling away on their tablets, and, when they had gotten the first part right, I made up the second. They believed my lies. How could they not? They had been raised on yellow journalism and tales of the wildest of Wests.

  They made me pose for photographs with carefully unloaded pistols and the clothes I’d worn. They made me a heroine, although I could have told them otherwise. They hauled me in and out of my cell and never noticed that the old adobe wall was caving in and that even a blind man could’ve worked his way out during the night hours. I kept my knowledge to myself while I spun my yarns and tried to look sinister, holding pistols and even a shotgun at the urging of photographers.

  You learn a lot in a prison cell. How to rely on yourself, and not give any secrets away. How to pass the time making plans while smiling at the jailers. How not to trust anyone else with your life. Once before I’d congratulated myself on being a quick learner. This time I was going to make sure of it.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Damn it! Damn it!” I wanted to pound my fists into the dirt, but they were trapped under me as I lay, hal
f in and half out of the hole I’d gouged in the wall. I could see stars, hear laughter and music from a saloon down the block. What a shock I’d give some passing drunk with my head sticking out like a gopher. In spite of my predicament, I laughed, and with the laughter felt the adobe crumble the littlest bit. There was hope for me, after all.

  “Easy,” I said to myself. “You’ll make it.” And inched forward again.

  Slowly, terrified that the jailer would discover me and drag me back into prison by my heels, I hauled my way out—the longest minutes I’ve ever spent. When, at last, I crawled to my feet, I was dizzy, and stood, taking deep breaths of the sweet desert air.

  And then I was running through the narrow streets, dodging past darkened houses where people slept in innocence and safety, keeping in the shadows, like a streetwise tomcat, and always looking back over my shoulder for signs of pursuit. I was Pete again, dressed in the clothes I’d posed in for the photographers. It seemed I’d never be rid of that identity, that I’d spend the rest of my life as a vagabond youth, running, always running from someone or something that threatened my existence.

  This time, though, I was on my own, and glad of it. This time there was no Joe Boot to guide me, for whatever that was worth. Alone, I found the railroad yard, stood watching, listening, hunted, all senses sharpened, my body tense, more animal than woman, more shadow than substance.

  A pair of railroad dicks came down the tracks, carrying lanterns. The yellow lights looked mysterious in the darkness, like will-o’-the-wisps, or goblin lamps as we used to call them when I was a child. With the memory of childhood came sorrow. So long ago, it all seemed as if it had belonged to some other girl, one I didn’t know and couldn’t recognize, a wraith who believed that life was glorious. Abruptly I squared my shoulders. Feeling sorry for myself was a waste of time, and dangerous as well. I watched the men inspect the cars and move off slowly down the tracks. When they had gone, I jumped into a freight car. It felt like home.

  The train headed east, back through Benson, the train I would have taken had I not trusted in Joe and allowed us to be caught. Joe! I spat at the thought. From here on, I vowed that I’d place my trust only in myself and never in a man.

  Through the partially open door of the car I watched the country move past: dry country, drought-stricken and desolate, ringed by bare mountains that looked like waves of the sea captured and frozen in time. The land was parched, and so was I. This trip I had no provisions, no water, and my tongue felt like a wad of cotton in the cave of my mouth.

  Still, I refrained from getting off when the train stopped in Benson. It was too close to Tucson, and by now they’d be looking for me. Where the next stop was, I didn’t know, but I figured I could make it that far. Had to. Otherwise my escape was in vain.

  On and on—the earth shriveled, the mountains, gray and dun, turning purple when an infrequent cloud formed in that unforgiving sky. I could see buzzards, their black wings stretched out in a glide as they searched for food. Creatures of death, they were, scavengers, ripping the meat from the bones of the dead.

  I slept, or perhaps fainted, from heat, from thirst that scoured me from the inside out, and I only woke when the train racketed to a stop somewhere in the midst of that awful plain. I peered out, saw houses, a few trees, a hedge of oleanders bright with blossoms. Water! There had to be some. Even a horse trough would be welcome. I jumped out of the freight car and stood a minute, steadying myself, watching for trouble. Seeing no one, I went off down a street. In the backyard of a house I found a pump, stuck my head under, and let the blessed water cool me. Then I drank. And drank some more, wishing I had a canteen to fill.

  Next came the problem of food. I’d have to steal it. Well, I’d stolen before. Pinching something to eat out of the store of an unwary grocer would be easier than sticking up a stagecoach. The little tiendita was dim and cool. Inside, a woman with a small child lingered by a basket of melons. The proprietor ignored me, probably because I looked like I couldn’t afford so much as a loaf of bread. When he turned to speak to the child, I grabbed some apples—withered things, but beggars can’t be choosers—and on the way out I took a handful of limes, grateful that my boy’s trousers had deep pockets. Made careless by success, I headed back to the train.

  How it happened, I never did know. One minute I was sauntering up the dusty street. The next, my arms were pinned from behind in a grip so tight I thought they were broken. I couldn’t move, but I had the use of my tongue and burst out in a storm of words. Bad words. All the ones I’d ever heard, and I’d heard plenty in the saloons and gambling dens. I hollered and yelled, standing in that little street in Deming, and it did me no good at all. I’d been caught again, and this time I knew in my bones I’d not get free.

  “Shut up, Pearl,” came the advice from the man whose marshal’s badge caught the sun and reflected it into my eyes. “Anything you say’ll be held against you.”

  “I know that, cocksucker,” I said, then fell silent in shame.

  Later, George Scarborough told the press I was the foulest-mouthed female he’d ever met. In his case that was probably true, but where I was headed, I met many worse.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Joe Boot got thirty years for his part in the holdup. Thirty years! If they gave me the same, I’d be old when I got out—old and unable to help myself. Thirty years in a cell, looking out at the living, and for nothing. We hadn’t injured anyone. The money had been returned, and I was glad about that for Gilbert’s sake. As I thought about my predicament, it seemed that we were being used, made an example, but only because we couldn’t help ourselves. Joe had said nothing in his own defense, which was understandable. He wasn’t a talker or much of a thinker, accepting life as it came.

  I was cut from different cloth, and, besides, I was terrified at the thought of being locked away. The terror, however, turned to fury. How dare they do this to me? How dare they keep me from finding out what had happened at home? I’d spent my life doing time of one kind or another. When had I ever had a chance to live without having to fight for every cent, every belief, every breath? My anger was so fierce it almost consumed me before I fought it down. Control in such circumstances is hard, but I managed, and by doing so found eloquence.

  I was standing in front of the all-male jury, wearing once again that hideous dress of purple stripes, and all the anger and frustration I’d ever felt poured out.

  “You men…none of you know what it’s like being a woman. Helpless. Trying to make do on your own. Cut off from your family. You only think you know.

  “I didn’t want this trial,” I told them. “I didn’t want to be judged by a court full of men, according to laws made by men. The law says, ‘a jury of one’s peers,’ but you’re not my peers. You’re men, and you rule by the laws you make without even thinking about women. I was married once. To a man who beat and nearly killed me.” At the memory, which seemed as fresh as yesterday, I had to fight off tears. “That’s right,” I went on. “He beat me. For everything. For nothing. That’s why I’m here today, being judged. Because I ran away to save myself and got lost in the trying. Because I gave up my babies. But I’m a mother, and I want to know how they are. No one will tell me or even try to find out. I’ve been treated like a criminal because all I wanted to do was go home to them. And now I ask you to help.”

  I stared at each of them in turn, bearded, dour creatures who stared back at me with unreadable faces. “You wouldn’t be here today without women. You were all born of a woman, nurtured, taught, loved by a woman.”

  I paced up and down in front of them, wanting to tear out my hair, but knowing that only logic would sway their decision. “Think about your mothers before you condemn me. Think about me, separated from my children. Think about the fairness of your laws. Women sent to jail for adultery while the men go free. Women blamed for the fact that their husbands beat them. Women who abandon their children because they can’t care for them. This is justice?”

  I lau
ghed cynically into those solemn faces. “No, gentlemen, it is not justice. There won’t be any justice until women are given a say in the making of laws to protect themselves. What I am asking you for is your compassion. Your help.”

  Then I sat down to wait for the verdict. The minutes ticked past, and I closed my eyes so as not to have to watch the clock. If I was set free, I promised myself, I’d never do anything foolish again. Never. The jury reentered the room and read the verdict.

  Not guilty!

  Free! I was free to go!

  I hurried out of the courtroom, pushing through the crowd that had gathered, smiling at the newspaper reporters who had applauded my speech. I’d barely gone fifty yards when the sheriff caught up with me.

  “Not so fast, Pearl,” he said.

  “Now what?” I was finished with that town and the men in it.

  “You’re under arrest.” He took my arm.

  I tried to pull away. My heart said: Run! My feet wouldn’t move. What law had I broken? What crime had I committed by simply walking into the sunlight? “Didn’t you hear?” My voice was shrill. “I’m free. I’m not guilty.”

  “And the judge wasn’t pleased with your act. He figured you influenced the jury, so he issued another warrant for the theft of Henry Bacon’s pistol.”

  “Who’s Bacon? I never stole any pistol.”

  “Yeah, you did. Bacon was driving that stage. He says you took his pistol, and there were witnesses who agree with him.” He gave a tug at my arm.

  “There’s a mistake.” I was babbling. So this was where my plea had gotten me! This was what happened to a woman simply trying to save herself! “I can’t be tried again. It’s against the law. The law you men made.”