Cattle Kate (24 page)

But the limb held.

***

And all the while, I could hear Bothwell's ridiculous laugh. I prayed it would so sicken the others, they'd rush over to rescue us. Cut the rope. Shoot it free. Take control.

But they turned away, like they didn't want to see what was happening. Like they weren't witnesses to their own crime. Like they couldn't be as guilty if they hung back and didn't join Bothwell's pushes. Like it had to be his sin alone, and not theirs, too. They stayed in the background, cowards until the very end. And I hope they never slept another night of their lives without seeing what they had done. Because they knew they were just as guilty as the monsters who actually pushed us off that rock.

But how will they explain to everyone in the Sweetwater Valley—and probably everyone in W.T.—that they went so low as to hang a woman? There's nothing to compare this to. Nobody hangs a woman in W.T. I've never heard of them hanging a woman anywhere—oh, that woman who they say helped the killers of Lincoln, but other than her, women don't end up on a vigilante's rope. What's the old saying, ‘women and children get saved first'? That sounds good, even if it's a phony chivalry. They pretend they've got this respect for women and put us on a “pedestal,” but really, they've put us under their thumb. Except for drunkards like my first husband, most stop short of physical harm. So women play along because we learned long ago that when you've got so little, you cling to whatever you got.

I didn't even get the benefit of fake chivalry to save me from the noose.

These men strung us up like we were a side of beef. They have some powerful answering to do for that. Justice can't abide that kind of vigilante lawlessness and belly-draggin' sin.

The only thing justice can really do is tit for tat. It can string up each and every one of these horrible men, just like they did us. Let them dangle with their toes not quite touching and slowly strangle to death, just like they killed us. But their execution wouldn't be done out in a private gully, where no one but God could see. Theirs would be done in broad daylight in the middle of town. I'd stage it on the front lawn of that new prison they're building in Rawlins. The whole town can come out and see that men who murder innocents are the worst men there are.

***

No, I won't die like that. Until the very last second—the very, very last second, before it is mercifully over—I won't believe this is my death.

Not at the end of a plain rope, like you find on any saddle in the territory.

Rope I have at home by my corral. Rope tied to the water pail when I go down to the creek. Just a simple rope.

But it isn't a simple rope when it's thrown over your head and settles on your neck. It's so rough and so strong. It makes you think of a snake strangling you, and since I hate snakes so much, that makes the terror even worse. This is silly, but I am thankful the good dress I'm finishing has a high neck, so nobody at the summer dance will see the rope burns.

See, I still hope I'll be dancing at the summer fandango. My Jimmy will be doing his best jig, and all my good neighbors will share a night that nobody wants to end. I've dreamed about this night for so long, I refuse to give it up.

So I keep twisting and kicking, hoping to get a toehold on the rock.

Just got it! I'm standing on the rock! I steal a breath. I'm balancing and…My foot slips off.

Jimmy has his hands above his head, holding the rope and trying to pull himself up, but I can't reach up that far. Oh my Jimmy—seeing him like that breaks my heart, but crushes my soul. That good man, that good, decent man. I love him so. Is this the last time I ever touch the man I love, when we bang into each other in our ugly death jig?

Jimmy. Jimmy. Ma. Oh Ma. Pa. Gene. God help me.

***

When that rope tightens, it cuts off any air getting to my lungs, so I last as long as the last breath I have. As that seeps out, it feels like my chest is on fire. I'll just start burning up, that's how hot it gets.

My eyes seem to blow up, like they're looking for their own air out there, outside my body.

My nose starts bleeding into my throat because there's this putrid taste in my mouth.

Most of all it hurts. It hurts so bad I can't believe a vicious pain like this exists.

It hurts so much it makes me blind, so the blackness comes first.

Then it closes my ears.

All I can hear is the sound of my heart beating like a whole bunch of Indians were banging on a drum, really hard and really fast.

Then they stop.

And that is the last beat my heart sings.

***

I want to tell that Jimmy and I didn't die so rich cattlemen could have our land and water.

I want to tell that justice stepped up, like any decent citizen would demand.

I want to tell that our friends saw these men convicted of first-degree murder.

I want to tell that Pa and Ma got some peace, knowing justice was done.

I want to tell that our loved ones watched these men hanged by the neck until dead.

I want to tell all that.

But I can't.

Because none of that happened.

Part Two: What Happened Next

Chapter Fifteen—“Cattle Kate” is Born

Edwin Archibald Slack had a busy Sunday ahead of him that hot July 21st of 1889.

The publisher and editor of the
Cheyenne Sun
planned to accompany his family to the Presbyterian Church to hear the famous visiting contralto Madame D'Arona Dawson. Capitalizing on his one free day—the Sunday paper was already on the streets and there was no Monday paper—he intended to spend the afternoon at the baseball game at the fairgrounds where the Cheyenne Capitals would face off against the Sandens of Denver. To top off the day, he was taking his family to dinner at the Normandy, the restaurant his newspaper declared the “finest in the city.”

But Slack did none of those things on that Sunday. He missed out on obligation and fun alike because he'd have had more important things to do. Stock Detective George Henderson showed up at the Slack residence and impatiently knocked on the front door.

“What the…” Slack muttered, as he hefted his six foot one, two hundred thirty-pound frame from the breakfast table. The minute he saw it was Henderson, he knew something big was up. It took only the whispered words “double fuckin' lynching” to tell him just how big.

Wyoming Territory was home to dozens of newspapers, but the only ones that really counted were the Cheyenne dailies. The rest were weekly publications in rural towns. What they said might matter at home, but they carried no weight in the capital city, or anywhere else in the nation.

In the capital city of the Territory of Wyoming, the pecking order started with Ed Slack and his
Sun.
His Republican daily was the most prominent and important western voice outside Denver.

Slack believed a frontier newspaper's role was to “boom the town,” and he was an unapologetic booster. His paper bragged about Cheyenne's rapid growth and prosperity. He highlighted the cultural offerings that proved the town was “civilized.” He touted new businesses and the natural resources of the territory. It goes without saying that he was the best friend of the cattle industry that dominated the entire economic picture of W.T. He'd championed them in the bonanza days when there were 100 times more cows than people in the territory. He hung with them now that the bonanza was waning and the cattle industry was just holding on.

He wasn't the only editor who understood that, like the Indian and buffalo, cattle could go away, too.

Slack's attitude made him a wealthy and prominent man. He bragged that the
Sun
had “the largest city and territorial circulation.”

But Ed Slack didn't get all his prominence from his newspaper. He got some from his famous mother. Esther Hobart Morris had twice distinguished herself as a groundbreaking woman. First, she was instrumental in 1869 in convincing Wyoming Territory to defy every other government in the nation by giving women full voting rights. One year later, she became the first woman in the nation to hold a judicial position, serving as a justice of the peace. Slack's newspaper spread the word about this remarkable woman that Wyoming would always revere. He crowned her “the mother of woman suffrage in Wyoming.”

Yes, Ed Slack had it good. His voice was strong. His word meant something.

Slack seldom looked over his shoulder, but when he did, it was to watch his biggest competitor and political opposite, the Democratic
Cheyenne Daily Leader,
whose own bragging rights were “the oldest daily in the territory.”

For the rest of America, the only news ever telegraphed out of the territory came from one of these dailies. Their voice was the voice of the West for readers in New York and Boston and Chicago and Omaha. Slack had never been more aware of that than on Sunday, July 21, 1889.

He instantly knew this would be a national story. It was paramount to put the lynching in the right light. He hurriedly dressed and headed off to his newspaper office in the center of Cheyenne. On the way, he took note that the cattlemen's Cheyenne Club on Seventeenth Street—normally dead as a doornail on Sunday morning after a busy Saturday night—already showed signs of life.

“Archy” Slack had spent many a fine evening enjoying the Mums champagne and Roquefort cheese imported for this exclusive club some called “little Wall Street.” He counted its members in the Wyoming Stock Growers Association as not only his friends, but his benefactors and major advertisers. If you asked him which side of the bread his butter was on, he'd tell you it was the side with the fine cattlemen of Wyoming Territory.

Knowing some of those fine cattlemen were involved in a double-fucking-lynching in the Sweetwater Valley made Ed Slack's heart race.

George Henderson knew it would. He knew hearts all over Cheyenne were beating at stroke level, ever since Durbin's telegram last night laid out the basics. The wire ended with four words that were often the marching orders for George Henderson: “Take care of it.”

Henderson hadn't become the territory's richest stock detective by being unimaginative. His name didn't inspire fear or disgust because he was timid. He could read these cattlemen like a book, and no matter where the storyline wandered, the important part was that it ended up on their side.

Henderson couldn't count the nights he'd downed Bothwell's whiskey while listening to his wails about that “fucking Watson woman” and her “fucking partner, Averell.” How many times had he eaten one of Durbin's steaks while the man preached his gospel of never being run out by settlers again? How many times had he ridden by the Watson claim on Horse Creek and wished he could burn down her stupid log cabin and tear out her silly corral?

Oh, he well knew the men who'd done the dirty deed last night—Sun's involvement was the only surprise—but he knew their victims, too. And that was the problem.

Averell was about the most prominent and respected settler in the Sweetwater—postmaster, J.P., all of it—and Ella Watson, well, if George Henderson were called to testify about that good-looking woman, the first words out of his mouth would be, “She makes the best pie I've ever tasted.”

But he wouldn't tell Ed Slack any of those things. No siree. Not when he had to spread the word that they'd been hanged. That would never do. They couldn't be upstanding citizens. They
had
to be despicable lowlife rustlers. They couldn't be helpful neighbors who could be counted on in a pinch. They
had
to be ruthless criminals who'd terrorized the good cattle-raising families of the Sweetwater Valley. They couldn't be lynched in a lawless act. They
had
to be receiving their just rewards in a clear case of rangeland justice.

And there had to be something extra special for the woman—
they hanged a fucking woman!
She couldn't have a shred of decency, or the old code would kick in. It wasn't only the rule of the sea that women and children were saved above all others. It was the rule of the West, too. Only a coward or a cur would not step in front of a bullet or an arrow to protect women and children.

The only way to get everyone to forget chivalry, was to make the Watson woman contemptible. She
had
to be a female of the lowest order. She
had
to be doing the things no decent woman would do—living the life that women and men alike would turn their backs on. She
had
to be a filthy whore.

Nobody had to spell out this story to Henderson—his years of working for the stock growers had primed him. Now he needed to get the Cheyenne editors to see it his way. Either he did that, or he'd better hightail it out of the territory, because this wasn't an assignment that allowed for failure.

This assignment demanded Henderson at his best, and at his best—the man was proud of this—he could not only lead horses to water, he could made them drink.

“Ed, you know how bad the rustlin's been out there—the courts are worthless. They won't convict a rustler for anything, and these two were the leaders of the pack. You just could hear 'em laughin' at the cattlemen that they could steal all they wanted and nobody would do a fuckin' thing. I saw it myself plenty of times. And I did what I could to stop it—you know that—and these two were the worst. On top of that, they were such lowlifes. The Averell guy had a string of prostitutes at his place. She was one of 'em—his madam, if I'm not mistaken.” Henderson's speech did not fall on deaf ears.

“So he ran a hog ranch?” Slack tsked, using the favorite slang for a house of prostitution. “How low can a man go?” Slack started scribbling notes as he sat behind his big oak desk in the
Sun
office. Henderson sat across from him, filling in any blanks.

“You know, those names sound familiar,” Slack mused, and Henderson worried that maybe the
Sun
had reported on Averell's prestigious appointments. Boy, that could pose some real problems. He was already concocting a counter story—a face of respectability hiding a tawdry whorehouse—when Slack continued: “Averell. Averell. Wasn't he that Harvard man who came out here?”

Henderson had never heard of any Harvard in Averell's past—was quite certain no Ivy League college had ever seen him—but he didn't correct the publisher. He could see right away where Slack was going—from fine schools to a filthy end. It was exactly the kind of story they were looking for.

“And Ella Watson,” Slack said slowly, letting the name slide off his tongue as he tried to remember. “Oh right. We've had her in the paper before. A bad character, I tell you.”

Henderson had no idea why Ella Watson had ever been mentioned in the
Cheyenne Sun
before, but he didn't care. A “bad character” was all he had to hear. Whatever story Slack was thinking about, it was about a bad woman and that was perfect. It was imperative the Watson woman be mentioned in nothing but the worst possible light.

Slack was on a roll. “Nobody's gonna cry for her. She wasn't a decent woman. She was the kind of woman we don't want in W.T. So was he. We've got to get rid of these lowlifes. Once decent folks see they were bad rubbish, they're going to see how this happened. Now, who were the ranchmen that were driven to desperation?”

Henderson carefully unveiled the powerful names of the men who had been in attendance. Slack whistled through his lips as he stared at the stock detective.

“You can't be serious. This isn't even possible. Henderson, are you sure?”

Henderson nodded with certainty.

“I know these men,” Slack said quietly, as the story sunk in. “My God, Bothwell and Sun are on the executive committee of the stock growers! Cap'n Galbraith represents that county in the legislature—isn't he running again? And Durbin. His family practically built W.T.”

Slack sat quietly, doodling on his notepad. Henderson got nervous. Should he let the man develop his thoughts or should he push some more? Henderson decided to hold his tongue. You had to be careful with these newspapermen. They liked to think they were the ones who saw the truth in a story. They liked to think they were the smartest men in the room. Pushing now might insult him. Henderson's armpits were sweating through his shirt when Archy Slack finally made his pronouncement.

“Nobody's going to believe those good men would do something that wasn't justified.”

Henderson was the happiest stock detective on Earth when he heard the words out of Slack's mouth:
Bad character. Lowlifes. Hog ranch. Good men. Justified.
Henderson could already taste the fine whiskey he'd be able to afford with the hefty bonus for this Sunday's work. He left the
Sun
's office for the Cheyenne Club, anxious to report this was going even better than expected.

Of all the things Edwin Archibald Slack had planned for this Sunday, creating a western myth had not been on the agenda. But he started writing a story that would do just that—create an Old West legend that would last, unchallenged, for nearly a century.

Slack's words erased Ella Watson—homesteader, secret wife, foster mom, wannabe citizen—and replaced her with Cattle Kate—rustler and whore.

If he ever learned what really happened in the Sweetwater Valley that fateful Saturday, he didn't bother to print it.