Cattle Kate (13 page)

That sounded peculiar to me because nothing sounded lucky about fighting Indians, but when Jimmy told me his story, I understood.

He just missed being in two of the biggest battles. As he was being discharged in 1876, his regiment in Wyoming got orders for Montana to join Custer. And we all know how Custer was wiped out at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Then three days before he reenlisted, Chief Washakie of the Wyoming Shoshones saved General Crook and his men from an ambush by Crazy Horse. They called it the Battle of the Rosebud.

It made me feel really good that a man would see me as the luckiest thing to happen to him since he almost got himself killed by Indians.

There was only one thing standing between us. Jimmy wanted to go off and get married right away. I kept putting him off. For one month. For two. I never explained and he never pushed. I was biding my time.

And then the letter came. Fales handed me the official-looking envelope when he came back with supplies from town one day, and I stuffed it into my apron pocket. I couldn't wait to get away and hurried outside, away from the ice house, beyond the garden, and under a tree far away from the roadhouse. I wanted to read this letter without anyone else around.

“Oh God, please let this say what I need it to say.” I hadn't prayed that hard since the night I thought I was going to get raped. I tore it open quickly, and burst into tears the second I saw the fancy lettering on top of the stamped and sealed paper: “Dissolution of Marriage.” There it was. That horrible William Pickell had finally agreed to the divorce and this paper from the courthouse said it was final. I wept into my apron, tears of joy and relief. That ugly part of my life was finally over. “Thank you, God. Thank you!” Now I could explain it all to Jim.

“Oh, please let him understand. Don't let this ruin things. Please let him understand.”

That night after the supper dishes were done, I brought him a fresh cup of coffee. “Jim, I have something important to discuss with you.” I sounded so serious he looked up, a little startled.

I held my cup so tight I feared it would break, but I finally told him the secret I'd carried all this time, saying it all in one burst so I would finally get it out in the open.

“Jimmy, I made a terrible mistake back in Kansas and that's one reason I came out here. I married a man I thought was like my Pa, but he wasn't. He was mean and he cheated on me and he hit me. I left him and I divorced him. At least I filed the papers for divorce. But the divorce wasn't final when I left Kansas. I couldn't sit around waiting, but he wouldn't answer the court summons and so I finally just left. But today I got this letter from the court and the divorce is finally done. He says I deserted him, but I don't care what he says. I just care that this paper says I'm a free woman and I can now marry you. I'm sorry I kept this from you, but everything is all right now.”

Jim sat there looking at me like he had been hit by a stick.

“Why didn't you tell me before?” Oh, I dreaded that question. Would he resent that I cheated him, not owning up to a first marriage? Would he think I was damaged goods now? Would he still want me?

“I was afraid. I couldn't tell you I was married without telling you I was divorced, and I couldn't tell you I was divorced because I wasn't legally. I was free in my mind and my heart but not by the law. I was afraid this would queer you on me and I'd lose out on the man I love. I prayed that eventually this day would come and the court would say I was free and by then, you'd love me enough to excuse me for keeping this secret. It's been terrible keeping this from you, but I didn't want….”

Jim lowered his head and held up his hand to end my speech and my heart dropped. This was the conclusion I always feared. I just knew the next words out of his mouth would be ‘get outta here.' I heard myself give out a little cry, and that brought Jim's head up. But his eyes weren't mean and hurt. They were kind and gentle.

“Ella, stop. I can't…I have to…please sit down because…please, sit…I have something I have to tell you, too.”

And that's when Jimmy told me about how he had killed Charley Johnson.

It wasn't cold-blooded murder, like the indictment said; it was really self-defense, but that had never been resolved because there'd never been a trial. He said all that up front so I wouldn't spend any time believing the worst, and then he told me his side of the story.

Charley Johnson was a big bully who had been threatening Jim for months over some slight he couldn't even remember. Jim was in the army then and had gone to his commander to alert him to the threat and was advised to stay out of the man's way. Which, Jim stressed, he had done every time he came into Buffalo, but one day in May of 1880, Johnson cornered him in a saloon and came at him, demanding a fistfight. Jim knew he was too small to survive hand-to-hand combat with this large man. It happened so fast, it wasn't until it was all over that he realized he had shot three times as Johnson advanced on him—the first shot went into the ceiling, the second into Johnson's leg “and that spun him around and the third went into his back.”

Jim emphasized that several witnesses were ready to speak on his behalf, “and there was only one man who took Johnson's side.” Even so, he was indicted for murder and sent away, ending up in the Rawlins Jail.

“Some prominent friends posted my bail and I was very grateful to be out of there. The court finally dismissed the case, saying it should be handled in a military court. Of course, there never was a military court because everyone knew this man was out to get me and I had no choice.”

When he was done, I took his hand and told him, “Jim, you had to protect yourself. Of course I understand. There's no reason you couldn't have told me this. This was unfortunate, but you didn't do anything wrong.”

Jim started a smile. “That's exactly what I want to say to you. You made a mistake, but you corrected it by leaving that horrible man. I'm proud of you for that. I understand why you didn't tell me. But now I know. And you know what this means? It means you have no excuse not to run off with me and get married.”

Jimmy and I had shared small kisses since we met. But tonight, when Jim took me in his arms, we kissed for a very long time.

***

Within a month of the happy letter and the secret-sharing, we were bundled up in Jim's buggy on our way to Lander to get married.

Lander was 105 miles from the roadhouse and it took us five long days. We started out along the Oregon Trail that had been the highway for so many wagon trains over the years, and Jim told me stories about the immigrants.

The one that broke my heart was about the Mormon handcarts.

“You know, I'm not Mormon and I'm not like some who can't stand them, but even people who hate Mormons cry when they hear about the handcart disaster,” Jimmy began, and he had that tone that let me know this was such a sad story, I'd probably cry, too. And I did, thinking about all those converts trying to get to the promised land in Salt Lake City, who froze to death in Wyoming instead.

“They say a thousand people started out and over two hundred died. They never even counted how many fingers or toes or limbs the frostbite took. Brigham Young tried to save them, but he didn't even know they were out there until it was too late.”

I was quiet for a long time, trying to wrap my mind around the idea of putting everything I owned in a small handcart and then pushing it a thousand miles.

“Would you have done it?” I finally asked Jim.

He answered with a statement I adopted as my own thinking on the subject. “I've never believed in anything that much.”

We rode along in silence for awhile, and I think it convinced Jimmy that funny stories were more appropriate for a long trip like this.

So he told me all about Big Nose George Parrott, the most notorious outlaw W.T. ever knew.

“Now you can imagine how Big Nose George got his name and I'm here to tell you, it was completely earned. I have never seen a proboscis like that on another human being in my entire life.” Jim started out on a roll and never let up until the entire story was told. “I met him when they threw me in the Rawlins Jail for that mess in Buffalo, and you didn't have to say three words to him to know he was nobody you wanted to know.

“Big Nose robbed stagecoaches for fun and killed people for sport, and now he was in the hoosegow charged with killing two Carbon County deputy sheriffs back in '78. They took three days to try him and sentenced him to hang. They had him shackled, but all day, you could hear him working those shackles. We thought he was just wasting his time, but darned if he didn't hack right through the bolt with a pocketknife. We didn't know that then, not until we heard the commotion. Big Nose got out of his cell and hid in the water closet. Sheriff Rankin's younger brother, Bob, and his wife both worked at the jail—she cooked some delicious meals, by the way. Anyway, Bob Rankin came in and Big Nose beat him over the head and tried to get out of jail. But Rosa, that's Bob's wife, she slammed the outer door shut and the rest of us grabbed for Big Nose and kept him still. I felt terrible for Bob. There was so much blood I thought he was dead at first, but he wasn't. He just never was quite right in the head after that.

“When word got out that Big Nose had almost escaped, the men in town turned mean and formed a mob and attacked the jail. For a minute there, we were afraid they'd take everybody out, but they just came for Big Nose and they hung him from a post on Main Street. Nobody ever was charged with anything in Big Nose's lynching. If anybody ever had it coming, he did. Saved the county the cost of hanging him.

“The County Commissioners gave Rosa a gold watch to thank her for her bravery in stopping the escape. We never got anything, but then, nobody else in that jail was proud to be there in the first place, so it was just as well we didn't get any notice for what we did. I did hear that when the official execution day arrived, the sheriff informed the court that Big Nose could not be found in all of Carbon County. He had been six feet under for two months by then!”

By now, this outrageous story had wiped away my sadness and had me giggling.

“But that isn't the end of the story,” Jimmy pushed on. “Big Nose was so hated that before they buried him, they cut off his head and they skinned him.” I shuddered.

“No really. They skinned him and you know what happened to that skin? When Dr. John Osborne became governor, he wore shoes made from Big Nose's skin to his inauguration. Even bragged about it. And somebody still has the skull in a closet somewhere.”

I slipped my arm under Jim's and cuddled closer. “Didn't know I had such a hero for a husband-to-be.” He got a kick out of that.

The trip went fast as Jim told me stories like that. He promised that one day, we'd go even farther north and visit Yellowstone Park and watch the geysers. Jim was proud that W.T. had the first national park, and it flummoxed him that others saw it as foolish. Some said it would mean far more money to W.T. if developers could build up that pretty land, but Jimmy disagreed.

“There are just some things you have to protect for the good of everyone.”

We stayed at the Rongis Stage Station one night, camped out the others, finally followed the Rawlins-Fort Washakie stage road into Lander on the Shoshone Reservation. I'd never been on an Indian reservation before, but while the surroundings were strange, I never felt any trepidation. I'd only seen pictures of teepees in books, but here they were along the road, and I couldn't help but stare.

One had a pile of brush in front of the opening flap and Jim explained that meant the owner was away for awhile but would return.

“So that's like their front door key?”

Jim had to admit, that was about it. He took a short detour off the main road to show me a grave. It was a mound of earth with stones covering the top.

“Why is there a washboard by those stones?”

Jim explained this was a woman's grave and that was her prized possession. “But couldn't somebody else use it?” My practical side. Jim said that's not how the Shoshones saw it.

“You know a band comes through by us now and then. They like the creek,” he told me, and I hadn't known. Now that I did, I wasn't sure how I felt about a band of Indians in my backyard.

But I did know how I felt about this man next to me in the buggy. I felt safe with him. I felt sure with him. I could ride around an Indian reservation and not feel any fear. A soon-to-be new wife couldn't ask for much more.

Jim said it was necessary to go so far—and into the next county—so our marriage records wouldn't be detected. I totally agreed. Our plan from the start was to secretly marry so we could file a couple claims each. Our marriage wouldn't have been much of a secret if we'd just rode into Rawlins to get hitched. No, the long ride was necessary, even though my sore backside protested now and then.

I wore my Sunday dress and a hat to fill out our official marriage application. It was May 17, 1886. At the last minute, I decided not to use my given name, in case anyone ever checked if an Ella Watson had gotten married and was cheating the Homestead Act. Jimmy agreed it was smart to be cagey.

“After all, if this was ever discovered, it would be your claims at stake,” he told me. I already knew that. So I used my first and second names, but made up a last name to cover my tracks. I signed “Ellen Liddy Andrews.”

I carefully rolled up the piece of parchment and smiled at myself at what a good story this would be someday for our children. I tucked it away.

“I'm going to have this framed and we'll put it on the wall of the big cabin we'll build after we get all our claims. What a good story it will be for our children.” Jim agreed that was a great plan.

John Fales was the only one who knew the truth. He'd hold our secret safe. He'd held down the fort while we were gone and his Ma had come over to cook the meals. But he took me aside to give a secret report: