Cattle Kate (28 page)

A piece of rope was lying on the ground, and he could see how the limb had been rubbed clean from the lariat's scrapping. He sat there on Goldie for a very long time, and he never knew before that moment how broken a man's heart could be.

But Pa Watson wasn't in W.T. just to cry; he was here to settle Ella's estate and he acted as Durant's assistant at the auction on August 31.

Durant was an efficient and diligent executor for the estates. He had already held a chattel mortgage auction in Rawlins to settle Jim's big debts—and it turned out, the man who was supposed to be such a large-scale rustler was over his head in debt. On the courthouse steps in town—the courthouse that Durbin had helped build with his generosity—he sold off Jim's major property to repay $430.90 to Rawlins' leading merchant, J.W. Hugus and $323.80 to saloonkeeper J.C. Dyer. The debts were covered by selling the roadhouse site, the Bain Wagon, a breaking plow, furniture, two bedsteads, and one thousand pounds of oats. Joe Sharp bought Jim's Regulator clock, which forever would hang in his family's home.

Now auctions were scheduled at Ella's homestead and the roadhouse to sell off everything else. A dozen folks showed up to the auction and only a few realized who Tom Watson was. Among the bidders who didn't know were the two editors of the
Sweetwater Chief.

Durant's secretary was on hand to write out the sale. His notes showed that Fetz bought her “bed stead” for $3.50 and her wool mattress for $2.00, while Speer spent $3.00 for six chairs, 50 cents for a clock, 25 cents for a rug, and $21.50 for a cookstove. There also were some cows and a horse for sale, as well as furniture. In all, Ella's belongings brought $241.10.

Then they moved up to the roadhouse to sell off Jim's last things, making another $174.50.

From those sales, Durant paid the taxes: $6.76 for Ella; $18.68 for Jim. After he took out his fees and some court costs, he gave Tom Watson just over a hundred dollars as Ella's next of kin. Pa Watson gave Durant half of it back to go into the legal defense fund.

The only things that weren't for sale were the few things Thomas Watson took home with him—Ella's sewing machine, one breast pin and earrings, two finger rings, one chain, one pair of bracelets. He thought of taking home the few documents he found—her claim certificate, the application for citizenship, the marriage application—but decided against it.

“Do you need these?” he asked Durant. The attorney saw no need for them, so Pa Watson tore them up and threw them away.

He didn't recognize the pretty ivory hair comb inlaid with mother of pearl, so he let it go at the auction. He was surprised when a big German man bid the item up to twenty cents and took the ribbing of his neighbors: “Rudolph, isn't that a little fancy for your bald head,” one yelled. He blushed a little as he took the joke. “You know this is for my Willetta,” he said through his grin, and everyone agreed it would look nice on his missus.

Pa Watson came away from his visit and the auction with a special message for his family. “Our Ellen lived around people who killed her, but she lived around right decent folks, too.”

He took home to his family the stories people told about what really happened, why Ella really died. He took home kind remembrances of his first child.

“See!” Annie insisted. “Those people wouldn't be so generous and donate to a defense fund if she was the bad woman they say.”

Tom Watson agreed. The thought gave Frances Watson some comfort.

That made Pa Watson's pronouncement all the more startling.

“We're never going to speak of Ellen again,” he said in his most authoritative voice. “I want you to burn all her letters, Mother. And nobody in this family will ever discuss this again. I never want to hear another word about Wyoming or lynching or Ellen. She's gone and that's the end of it.”

His children were befuddled. “But Pa, you know those men murdered her and she wasn't guilty of anything,” Franny argued.

“Please Pa, you know she was a good girl,” Andrew said with certainty.

“Papa, you can't believe she'd ever do those things,” Mary wailed.

“You can't erase Ellen, Pa. You can't expect us to forget her.” John was beside himself.

But Pa Watson held firm. “Not one more word,” he scolded, and stomped out of the house.

The only one who ever knew the reason was Ma Watson, who heard the chilling story in their bed late at night.

“He said they'd kill us all if we ever made a fuss,” Pa Watson told her, and it was clear from his tone that the confrontation had been terrifying. “This big stock detective cornered me one day. He told me to go home and forget I ever had a homesteading daughter in Wyoming Territory. If I didn't, he said I'd be sorry. He said there was nowhere in the country our family could hide. He said they'd kill one child after another and make us watch. I believe him, Mother. I believe them.”

At that moment, Ma Watson felt the first real terror of her life. She agreed that threatening her living family with questions about her dead daughter was too dangerous. So she upheld her husband's secret and seconded his demand that Ella be forgotten. If nobody talked about her, if nobody asked questions, then they'd be safe.

To prove her support, Ma Watson burned the last letter that had been so dear. But she hid the picture that had come with it. She had only two images of the first child she'd brought into the world—the wedding picture with Pickell that Ella thought had been torn up, and the picture of Ella on Goldie that everyone thought had been burned.

Chapter Nineteen—A Man with Guts

George Durant felt sickly the September day he took Thomas Watson to the railroad station for his return to Kansas.

The lawyer had developed a real liking for this broken man whose daughter had been murdered and then slandered to cover it up. He was moved by the generous donation to the legal fund—he knew the man could have well used that money, and that made the gift all the more precious. He was so grateful the people of Rawlins had stepped up to share the truth and give the father some comfort. But all that can wear on a man, and Durant was feeling sickly.

That afternoon, instead of going back to the office he shared with George Smith, he went home and slumped into his armchair. He couldn't get the last few days out of his mind. Remembering Ella's pitiful belongings made him feel even more sickly.

George Durant had looked over the auction items and seen Ella Watson for exactly what she was—a homesteader and homemaker who had a new dress underway and an ordinary cabin. One table and six chairs. One lamp. A washbowl and pitcher. Three flat irons. A mismatched set of dishes. Fifteen chickens. Eight head of cattle.

He couldn't think of the auction without thinking of John Fales.

Fales spent most of the auction wiping his dripping nose on his sleeve, pretending it was a cold. Fales bought the dress that was nearly done, saying his Ma would finish it. But it was after the bidding, when he took Durant aside, that he branded himself on the man's mind forever.

Fales handed the attorney the LU branding iron. “I used this to brand forty-one of Ella's cattle,” he said, with the sound of truth in his voice. “Bothwell and Durbin stole 'em. Ran them out of here after the lynching and put them on a train to Cheyenne the next day. I hear they rebranded them along the way. You want to know the real rustlers here? It's Bothwell and Durbin. Those were Ella's cattle. She never rustled. I was with her when she bought them. Saw her sign the receipt. Those cows were in this corral all winter and Bothwell could see them from his front porch. You're the man in charge of her estate now. What you gonna do about that?”

Durant couldn't get Fales' scraggly face out of his mind. He couldn't stop the man's words from replaying in his head. He sat there in his armchair, so saddened by all that had happened, and knew exactly why he was feeling sickly. By the end of that afternoon, George Durant determined not to let his conscience make him sick anymore.

He couldn't let all this go as though the truth didn't count. As though Ella Watson never counted.

But taking on Bothwell and Durbin? Two men still waiting to face the grand jury over the lynching?

How do you challenge the most powerful men in the Sweetwater Valley? Local icons? Territory leaders? Cattlemen with credentials?

How do you turn around and tell the world the very cattle they claimed were rustled legally belonged to Ella Watson? How do you announce the real rustlers in this story were these prominent men? How do you declare any alibi of rangeland justice was a bold-faced lie?

How do you buck the tide and the power of the Stock Growers Association?

George Durant sat there all afternoon, as the sun went down and a lamp was needed. By the end of the day, when his growling stomach finally told him it was past dinnertime, he didn't feel sickly anymore.

He made the most important decision of his life. He wouldn't ignore his conscience anymore.

He got up and selected leftovers from the icebox, and as he sat at the kitchen table, he mapped out one of the most courageous actions any attorney in Wyoming Territory would ever take.

On September 12, 1889, George Durant filed suit on behalf of Ellen L. Watson against A.J. Bothwell and John Durbin. He charged the prominent men “forcefully took possession” of forty-one head of cattle that were legally branded with her LU brand. He contended they drove the cattle from her corral and rebranded them—all against the laws of the Territory of Wyoming. The suit demanded repayment of $1,100. The total included $600 to cover the cost of the cattle, $250 for damages for the rebranding, and $250 for costs.

The lawsuit raised an uproar. The
Carbon County Journal
in Rawlins
announced the suit with fanfare, driving home the central point: “It will be remembered that at the time of the lynching there were forty-one head of cattle in the Watson woman's corral. The coroner claims that he ought to have been allowed to take charge of these, but they were driven away by Bothwell and Durbin and sold as mavericks in this city in the name of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association and subsequently shipped to Cheyenne. It is to recover these cattle, which bear Ella Watson's brand, that the suit has been brought.”

All over W.T., people shook their heads. “George Durant is either the bravest man in the territory or the most foolish,” people said.

“He's got to have proof that those were her cows,” everyone agreed.

“She had a legal brand?” many said in astonishment—wondering how she ever got that past the association.

Who would dare make such a charge without physical proof?

Proving she had a legal brand was easy. He had the actual branding iron from Fales, and it was in the Carbon County Courthouse that he found the records that she'd duly recorded her LU brand. He could foresee the day in a courtroom when he'd hold that branding iron over his head and get justice for Ella Watson.

But proving she bought the cattle was something else. He had Fales as an eyewitness to the purchase and found another man to back him up. But where was that dirty piece of paper that attested to the sale?

“I searched her cabin to find it right after the lynching,” Fales told him. “Damn, I couldn't find it.”

Durant knew Mr. Watson hadn't found it among the other documents she kept at home. He thought it was strange such an important piece of paper would go missing, but this one had.

Attorney Durant had no idea Ella herself had offered the proof to her lynchers, begging them to take her to Rawlins so she could show them the bill of sale in her safe deposit box at the bank. It never occurred to him that a woman with such a paltry estate—who kept important documents in her cabin—would also have a safe deposit box. So he never went looking for one.

But there were six others in the Sweetwater Valley who well remembered her constant pleas to go get the proof. And every single one of them was convinced she hadn't been bluffing. Every single one feared Durant had discovered the bill of sale in a safe deposit box at the bank in Rawlins.

Most convinced of all were the two men named in the suit. A.J. Bothwell and John Durbin both made frantic trips to the bank when they learned of the suit. That was the second thing they both did. The first thing was swear and pace like caged tigers.

Both inquired about a safe deposit box under the name of Ellen or Ella Watson. Although both were large depositors at this very bank, they were told that such items were confidential and couldn't be disclosed.

“Maybe there isn't a safe deposit box at all,” Durbin offered, as a helpful suggestion to the bank president he'd known for years. “I have one, but I also have more than $50,000 in deposits here. It makes sense for me. It didn't much sense for a woman like her, who had so little.”

“Nobody would ever know if there was a box or not, being as how these things are confidential,” Bothwell offered as his own solution. “And I appreciate how careful you are about that. I know my $60,000 in deposits are safe in a bank with integrity like yours.”

The banker—how many steaks had he eaten at Bothwell's? How much of Durbin's whiskey had he swilled?—thanked his wealthy depositors and told them not to worry themselves.

But worry they did. The stock growers gave them the best attorneys in the territory to fight the suit, and John W. Lacey proved himself a pit bull. His firm was already gearing up for the upcoming grand jury hearing on the lynching charges, but now he had to deal with this outrageous suit. What did that Durant guy think he was doing? Well, he'd show him.

It took months before he even got around to replying that the suit was too ridiculous to even answer. He simply refused a response.

The court said, no, you need to respond.

He took his own sweet time again. Then again said, no, this was stupid and he wouldn't dignify it with an answer.

Courts didn't work with any speed in those days—never would. It wasn't until March of 1891—seventeen months after the suit was filed—that the court gave Lacey a deadline, demanding an answer.

He now filed a flat denial of everything, claiming the suit was nothing but a “false clamor.”

By then, George Durant was gone. After waiting a year to get a reply to his suit, an “opportunity in Salt Lake City” prompted him to move. He left town in January, 1891. Most knew his days in Rawlins were numbered anyway. Durant left the case in the hands of his associate, George Smith. He gave Smith twenty-five dollars to cover his legal fees to see the suit through.

“Good luck with this,” he told his partner. They both knew this was a real long shot. But Smith agreed it was worth the effort to at least get some stab at justice.

On May 13, 1891, the court made its first decision in the case of
Ella Watson vs. A.J. Bothwell and John Durbin
. It granted Lacey's request to continue the case until the next term.

On October 12, 1891, the court again continued the case, thanks to Mr. Lacey.

On May 11, 1892, Lacey needed yet another delay and the court obliged.

Lacy was making good on his promise to his clients that they would never have to worry about a thing, because he could delay this suit forever.

On May 15, 1893, it was George Smith requesting a continuance.

Finally, on October 24, 1893, Smith gave up. He asked the court to dismiss the case.

It was dismissed without prejudice, meaning it could be refiled again later.

The court charged George Smith $12.80 to cover court costs.

Ella had already been in her grave fifty-one months by then.

And the wheels of justice had long ago fallen off.

***

The writing was on the wall hours after Ella died.

Frank Buchanan didn't need telling twice that he was in the rifle sights of some vicious men, and if he'd had his way, he'd have rode out with the posse to safety. But what's a man to do, with little Gene so distraught, he wet the bed and wouldn't stop crying. Or with John pumping himself up like he was going to single-handedly avenge Ella and Jim. Or with Ralph destroyed at the loss of his uncle and haunted by his duty—“Oh, God, how am I going to tell Mother?”

Frank thought Fales would step up, but John Fales was reduced to a weeping old lady over this—Frank had never realized how close the handyman got to the couple. How much he loved them.

So for the first day after the posse left—after they'd buried his friends, after he'd told all at the inquest held over the grave, after he'd named names—Frank Buchanan did what he always did when he had some thinking to do. He sat on the porch and he whittled.

In all the Sweetwater Valley, there was hardly a better whittler. Frank could do magic with a piece of wood and the pocketknife he always carried, and he decided today would be a proper day to do his magic and make a cross for the grave. So he let the boys grieve—what could he possibly say to ease their pain?—and he started whittling.

The events of Saturday night replayed in his mind so vividly, it was like watching one scene after another all over again. He would never know of movies or television, but if he had, he'd have recognized them from his mind's movie of the hangings. Jim had struggled with more strength than he thought the man possessed, and Ella had refused to go easily. Did he remember it or was he imagining that her last words were a prayer? Some members of the posse had tried to console him, telling him he'd done all he could, but in his mind, if he'd done all he could, Ella and Jim would still be here, so there was no comfort.

Frank knew someday he'd forget some of the details of the lynching—the sounds and smells and how the breeze was so gentle. But he knew he'd never forget his final look at Ella as she hung from that rope. He'd never forget the taste of the vomit.

It wasn't until he nicked his finger that Frank Buchanan realized he had not whittled the wood into a cross, but had whittled it into nothing but a heap of shavings. That was when he understood just how devastated he was. And how scared.

He had almost convinced himself to walk into the roadhouse and tell the boys they were on their own when John Fales rode up and planted himself on the porch.

“You did all you could,” Fales began in a strong voice, proving he had regained his composure. “All you could. More than most men would have done. More. I still can't believe they hanged them. Just can't believe it.” There was a long silence as the men shared their grief and disbelief.

Then John Fales voiced the final verdict: “You know, it's your eyewitness account that's gonna convict those men. And they'll call the boys to back you up on who was there. Your lives ain't worth a plugged nickel in these parts. You gotta get out of here.”

Buchanan left within the hour. Gene and John weren't far behind.

***

There are many stories about what happened to Frank Buchanan in the three months before the grand jury convened to hear the case against the six lynchers. Some say he went to Cheyenne, but most think that would have been foolhardy—into the lion's den! Some say he took a train out of town, although he probably couldn't afford the fare. Some say he was paid off by the cattlemen and took his money to someplace more conducive to his health.

But most think he was murdered. Most think it was George Henderson who put a bullet in his back. Most think it was Bothwell's cowboys who buried him. Of course, what most think and what happened isn't always accurate. But this time, it probably is. That's what everyone said several years later when bones were found. The skeleton was about the right height for Frank. A bright bandanna around the neck—especially the way it was knotted—convinced everyone that good man had long ago gone to his last reward. And not because he wanted to.