The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (24 page)

Satisfying myself that the babe was a girl and alive, I quickly wrapped her in a flannel cloth and set her beside me, for I was hemorrhaging and had to attend to myself. I believed that to be the prudent course, for if I continued to bleed, I should become senseless, useless to either of my babies. But, O, that I had neglected myself to hold that tiny body.

“Look, Johnnie, a sister,” I said after I had staunched the bleeding. Unwrapping the little bundle, I held up the baby for Johnnie’s inspection. But as I did so, she made a pitiful cry, gasped for breath, and was still. Frantic to restore her, I put my finger into her mouth to remove a blockage. Finding none, I held her upside down, slapping her to open the tiny lungs. Then I put her wee mouth to my own as if my breath would sustain her. “Breathe, breathe for Mama, Sallie,” I cried, believing God would not take from me one who already had a Christian name.

Luke and Mr. Bondurant found us there a few minutes later, Johnnie crouching in his bed in terror, Self leaning over Sallie, beseeching God to save her. Mr. Bondurant took the little body and examined her, then shook his head. “She’s too small. She ain’t got lungs,” he explained, placing Sallie on the bed, but I snatched her up and refused to relinquish her, even to Luke, for she should not grow cold without her mother’s arms around her.

“I named her Sallie,” I said, and Luke, who was overcome with emotion of his own, nodded his approval.

Too weak to stand, I sat in the rocking chair and sang a lullaby to Sallie, stroking the yellow down on her head. I called Johnnie to me. He crawled into my lap and placed his hand next to mine on Sallie’s head, laughing at the touch. The tears scalded my face, knowing this little playmate had been cruelly snatched away from him.

Luke put his arms around the two of us and held us close, without speaking. Then he and Mr. Bondurant went to the barn to make a coffin. When they had finished, Luke returned to the house and asked for his daughter. With tears in his eyes, he held Sallie to his face and kissed her, then laid her gently on a pillow.

“Where shall we bury her?” he asked.

“Under a tree.”

Luke nodded and helped me to my feet, but I could not stand and so I crumbled onto the floor. He picked me up and set me on the bed, then held me close a moment. “Stay here, Mattie. I’ll see to it.”

“Wait,” I said. “My wedding dress.”

Not understanding, Luke removed the dress from the trunk, nonetheless, and brought it to me. Summoning all my strength, I ripped the silk skirt from the bodice and tore off a length of it. “Wrap her in this. It is the best I have.”

Luke tenderly folded the precious lump of flesh in the blue silk, then said, “Come, Son. We must bury Sister.” He put coat and shoes on Johnnie. Then hand in hand, those two mourners, accompanied by Mr. Bondurant, went on their sorrowful mission.

October 21, 1867. Prairie Home.

Yesterday, Luke took me for my first visit to Sallie’s grave. He has fashioned a cross and scratched upon it her full name, Sallie Susannah (for my mother) Spenser. Someday, I shall plant a yellow rose next to the marker. The little plot was decorated with an arrangement of dried weeds and bright leaves. We do not know who left them, but we think they are the work of Tom. Despite my vow to keep tears to myself when around Luke, I could not stop the flow. Luke, I know, grieves over his daughter’s death in his own way. For him, it was a double blow, as he never held Sallie whilst she lived.

I am recovering better than can be expected after such a loss of blood, but I am very tired. I feel greatly the need of a woman’s comfort, not having seen one of my own sex since before Sallie was born, but who would I want for a visitor? Certainly not Missus or Mrs. Osterwald. There is no one here in whom I can confide except for Tom and Mr. Bondurant, and I find them wanting, for they are men.

Luke took Johnnie to Mingo today. Poor little fellow. This is a sad place.

November 2, 1867. Prairie Home.

Tom, who tries to take our minds off our sorrows by bringing interesting news, called yesterday to tell us about the beeves that are now being herded from Texas to the new town of Abilene in Kansas, thence shipped to eastern markets. It is all the talk among the cowboys that our section of Colorado Territory will be cattle country one day. I asked how many cows could be grazed on a 160-acre homestead with sparse grass and little water, but men do not always care for logic, particularly when it comes from a woman, and neither Tom nor Luke replied.

I continue to improve. Luke helps me when he can, but with little enthusiasm. He has drawn inward, denying both of us the comfort of our mutual sorrow. O, that Carrie were here to put her arms around me!

December 27, 1867. Prairie Home.

We endeavored to make this a memorable Christmas for Johnnie’s sake, and I believe that we succeeded. The three of us entertained Tom and Mr. Bondurant at Christmas Eve supper, even though those two stalwarts were forced to ride through snow as high as their horses’ bellies to get here. Tom said it was not necessary for Secretary of State William Seward to spend $7 million on the purchase of frozen Alaska, as the country already has more than enough snow in Colorado.

I served a fat sage hen, our traditional Christmas bird, and the spiced oysters that I had purchased for the occasion in Denver. Tom contributed a can of peaches and brought me a cookie cutter in the shape of a heart, which he fashioned from tin. Mr. Bondurant presented me with a small spice cupboard with a cunning drawer. He had requested a dried apple pie for dessert and declared my offering “the best these grinders ever chewed, by ginger”—even after I told him that my supply of dried fruit was gone and the “apples” were nothing more than broken crackers soaked in water, which all thought was a clever trick. That inspired Tom to teach us a song he had learned in the army, a spoof sung to the tune of “Hard Times Come Again No More.” It is called “Hard Crackers Come Again No More.” We have declared it part of our repertoire of Christmas music.

We were swept up in our traditions, this being our third Christmas in Colorado, and gathered around the “Christmas bush,” about which were placed many favors of the season, including the lovely Berlin work calling card case from Carrie.

Boykins was much pleased with the wagon made by his papa, the harmonica from our guests, and the tin soldier purchased in Denver by his mama. He held it high, shouting, “Pret’ lade,” whilst Luke passed round the cigars I had bought for special occasions. Husband pronounced himself as pleased as punch with the tintype of Wife and Son (though I hope the mother has not changed as much as the babe since it was taken last spring), as well as the pocketknife from Tom, who had ordered it from Moses in Denver.

I am the proud possessor of a new butter paddle, which Luke made. It is as fine a paddle as I ever used. Luke joked that he would have presented me with a lilac bonnet, but the one he saw in Denver was snatched away before he could purchase it. I replied, in the same manner, that a bonnet would have been more practical but that I should try to find a use for his gift. Then, securing a piece of string, I tied the paddle to the top of my head. It was our first joke in a long time, and I hope it means we both are healing.

December 30, 1867. Prairie Home.

I cannot close the old year without recording my joy over Carrie’s news, which Luke brought home from Mingo today. I hope she will recover quickly from the birth of her precious daughter. My dear friend does me great honor in naming her little one Mattie Rose. Can there be anything but happiness in the year ahead for all of us?

January 28, 1868. Prairie Home.

Luke is much withdrawn of late, one minute finding fault, the next becoming oversolicitous. His emotions are due to Sallie’s death, I believe, and I try to help him deal with the loss as much as I can. Last week, thinking to show my love for him, I initiated the marriage act, the first time I have done so. I placed my hand on Luke, causing him to stiffen, then drew myself to him. I trembled at my boldness, but my desire to give Luke pleasure was greater than my fear that he would find me wanton. He has not mentioned my action, of course, and I do not know if it gave him surcease.

It is clear that Johnnie lifts his spirits. Luke took Baby to Mingo today. I do not like it, fearing they will be caught in a blizzard, but said nothing, for both enjoy it, and I know Luke will take every measure to protect his son. I no longer find pleasure in solitude, as I once did, for my time alone causes me to brood over my little girl. When the weather warmed at noon today, I walked to Sallie’s grave, the first visit since Christmas. The little mound is covered with snow, but Luke’s cross stands firm. The dear marker fits this place better than any lamb or cherub carved from marble.

February 16, 1868. Prairie Home.

At dark three days ago, Mr. Bondurant knocked and asked Luke to step outside, which was cause for curiosity, as there is little he says that is not suitable for my ears, too. When the two returned to the house, Luke took down the pistol and told me not to expect his return until morning.

“Indians?” I asked.

Luke shook his head, and Mr. Bondurant reassured me. “Winter time, them’s too busy keeping warm for making mischief.”

“Then what is the matter?”

The two men regarded each other, and Luke replied for both, “There’s nothing for you to fear. Bolt the door. Don’t open it to anyone but me or Ben or Tom. No other man, no matter who he is. This is important, Mattie. Do you understand?”

Knowing further inquiry was useless, I nodded and quickly turned our supper into sandwiches, wrapping them in a napkin for the men. As the two went to the barn for Luke’s horse, Mr. Bondurant called over his shoulder, “Don’t worry none, Mrs. Spenser. We got business. That’s all.”

Of course, I did worry, for having no hint of the matter, I feared a great many things—prairie fire, tornado, epidemic, Rebel marauders, crazed animals, even the outlaw brothers James from Missouri, whose criminal activity excites many in Colorado Territory. Still, as I could do nothing, I went to bed.

The men did not return until sunup. Both were tired, but so agitated that they did not want to sleep. So I mixed biscuits and fried side meat, keeping my curiosity to myself and waiting until such time as an explanation would be voluntered.

Both watched me without comment until at last, Mr. Bondurant said, “She’ll hear about it. ’Twould be best to tell her the truth and have done with it.” As I turned to them, Mr. Bondurant glanced at Luke, for he would not confide in me without permission from Husband. “She’s got the right. Mrs. Osterwald was her friend.”

This intelligence changed the situation considerably, and, believing the events of the night were now my business, I asked if Lucinda were all right.

Before replying, Luke went to the door and opened it a crack to look off into the distance, turning something over in his mind. He returned to the table, blowing on his hands, for it was bitterly cold without. His nose was still red from hours in the snow, and I feared he would take ill. I added more wood to the cookstove to build up the heat in the room so he would not suffer.

“You know about Lucinda Osterwald, the state in which she lives,” Luke began. “Lived, that is.”

My knees weakened. I dropped the cooking fork and slid into a chair, for fear I would fall. “Is she dead?”

“Yes,” said Luke, reaching for the fork and placing it upon the table.

“Perhaps it is best. Hers was a bitter life. Was it another ‘fall’?”

The two men looked at each other before Mr. Bondurant muttered, “Murder. Plain and simple. You bet.”

“Lordy, it was at that,” I said hotly. “Mr. Osterwald is as cruel a man as ever was. There should be a law that prevents a man from striking his wife, but I suppose he’ll not be punished for it.”

“She tried to run away,” Luke said. “She made it as far as Wheelers’. Not knowing how things stood with her, Wheeler only thought she was queer and had wandered off. So he rode to the Osterwalds’ to alert them of her whereabouts. Osterwald and Brownie followed him home and dragged the woman out of bed.”

“Wheeler said the men were so mad, they stunk, but the woman belonged to them, and it weren’t the Wheelers’ place to stop ’em. Wheeler, the durn fool, said he would have if Mrs. Osterwald had put up a fuss, but she prob’ly knowed it only meant a worse beating if she done it. She didn’t say a word, and he’d be hanged if he’d interfere in his neighbors’ business. Maybe she reckoned her time had come,” Mr. Bondurant added.

I had forgotten the meat, which began to burn, and I jumped up from my chair to pull it off the fire. Then I removed the biscuits from the oven and placed all upon the table with just two plates, for the news had quite taken away my appetite. I waited for the coffee to boil and settle, then poured it into three cups before returning to my chair.

“That was five days ago. The situation didn’t set well with the Wheelers, ‘though they didn’t tell a soul till Tom stopped by yesterday. Tom was alarmed, of course, and went for Ben, and the two of them rode to the Osterwalds’.” Luke stopped talking to bite into a biscuit, but he didn’t chew it. He nodded to Mr. Bondurant to continue.

“We thought we’d just make a sociable call and in the bargain check to see was she all right. We wouldn’t have saw her if we hadn’t come in cross the field instead of by the road. Tom’s idea that was, to sneak up on ’em, without they saw us. She was out back by that draw. They’d tied her up.”

“The animals!” I exclaimed. “As if she’d have the courage to run away again!”

“They tied her up,” Mr. Bondurant repeated softly. “Outside. To a fence post. Naked. She was froze solid.”

“O! How beastly!” I cried, clenching my fists until the nails broke through the skin and drew blood. The coffee in my stomach sent up a sour taste.

“They’d strapped her. We saw where the blood was froze on her. A blacksnake whip was throwed in the snow beside her, like they was going to go back and beat her again. Tom said he’d whip both of ’em with it, but just then old Osterwald poked a rifle out the door, and I knowed he’d shoot us both if we got closer. So I told Tom we’d ride on by and settle with ’em later.”

“That’s when Ben came for me, and we rode for Amidon and Wheeler. Tom collected the others,” Luke said.

“We rendezvoused at Tom’s to figure what to do.”

“Vigilantes,” I observed.

Luke, thinking I was critical of the action, explained, “When there isn’t any law between here and Denver, we have to abide by the law of God as we understand it.”

I nodded, for rather than disapproving, I quite agreed. The two men ate silently for a few minutes, neither willing to go on.

“Was it Brownie or Mr. Osterwald or both of them who tied her up?” I asked, swallowing hard to keep the coffee from boiling up into my throat.

“Each blamed the other,” Luke said. “We’ll never know for sure. They were as evil as any men I ever came across.” He was still a minute, as if deciding whether to tell me something, and when he spoke, he was too distraught to look me in the face. “Brownie was the father of Lucinda Osterwald’s last child. When the thing was born, Osterwald smothered it. That must have been why they came west, for fear someone would discover what they’d done. Mrs. Smith found out when she took care of Mrs. Osterwald last winter. The poor woman blurted it out during her delirium. When Mrs. Smith asked for the truth of it later, Mrs. Osterwald begged her to keep the secret. Mrs. Smith agreed, for what reason, I don’t know, because she is a terrible gossip and likes nothing better than shocking others. Perhaps she hoped to extract something from Mrs. Osterwald later on. She told no one but her husband, threatening him if he didn’t keep silent. He did as ordered until last night, and that decided us upon our course of action.”

I put my hands over my face to block out the horror and discovered tears there, which I was not aware of having shed. I wiped them with my fingers, mingling the tears with the blood on my nails.

“When we got there, Brownie and Mr. Osterwald denied everything. They claimed she’d run off again. Of course, knowing Tom and Ben were likely to return, they’d cut the poor woman from the post, but we saw strips of flesh frozen to the wood. The body was laid out like cordwood, hidden under a stack of kindling. I never saw …” Luke swallowed a few times, then got up and went outside.

“Brownie’s always been off his feed,” Mr. Bondurant said. “I guess Osterwald went stark mad when his wife took off like she done. After we found the body, Osterwald said the wife deserved what she got for shaming him, said what was between man and wife weren’t none of our affair.”

I did not reply until Luke returned and sat down, his head in his hands. “Thank God you apprehended them. I believe they will hang. A jury would never set them free,” I said.

Luke glanced up at Mr. Bondurant, then turned to me, and, pronouncing each word slowly and distinctly so’s I would not misunderstand, he said, “We are farmers, not peace officers, and there are occasions when we must deal out justice with our own hands. We have neither the time nor the means to take those two to Denver for trial. I think no man will take issue with what we did. We gave Mrs. Osterwald a Christian burial. I myself said the words over her. The Osterwald men … well, they’re gone. No one need ever fear them again.”

“Then—”

“It’s done. You mustn’t repeat any of this. The Osterwalds are gone, and their place is burnt to a cinder. We shall mention the name only when necessary,” Luke said. After he finished speaking, Husband looked very tired, so weary, in fact, that I thought he might fall asleep at the table.

“You must lie down,” I said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. I invited Mr. Bondurant to rest, too, but he refused, saying he would go home. I think he was not in need of sleep so much as whiskey.

As Mr. Bondurant put on his coat, Johnnie awoke, and, seeing father and friend, he demanded to be held. I told him he must be quiet, but both men rallied and insisted on playing with Boykins, teasing him and tossing him into the air. I think that innocent child did a little to erase the monstrous events at the Osterwalds’ for both men, but not for me. I am heartsick over the death of one more innocent woman in this place and cannot help but wonder who will be the next.

February 23, 1868. Prairie Home.

All in the neighborhood attended Sabbath service and were much subdued, although not one word was spoken about the Osterwalds. Someone must have told the lady homesteaders, because they were quite as melancholy as the rest. When Miss Hested noted that there were none of her favorite pasties on the table, following the service, Miss Figg whispered a quick word, and Miss Hested was quiet. Pasties were always Mrs. Osterwald’s contribution.

February 25, 1868. Prairie Home.

Luke to Mingo again yesterday. He goes ’most every week now. I am glad to have him away, for his moods are blacker than ever. At times, he stares at me with such intensity that I am quite unnerved, but when I inquire the reason, he only scowls. I believe he broods over the Osterwald situation. Nor has he forgotten our little Sallie. The past few months have been hard on him.

Tom stopped by, the first time except for Sabbath service that I have seen him since the Osterwald farm burned down—which is the way we put it. He did not enlighten me on the events of that night. In response to my vague inquiries, he replied something about moral laws, adding that the Osterwalds are better forgotten.

He was more anxious to talk of Jessie and Moses, who are spending the winter in Denver again but will go to the Swan River, high in the mountains, as soon as spring arrives. The area is one of the older diggings, but Moses has intelligence that it may be “hot” again. In the meantime, Moses writes, they do very well in Denver, by which I conclude that Jessie does well, for she is the one with the income. Tom does not appear to know what business she is in, and I, of course, have not informed him.

Then we fell to talking about poor President Andrew Johnson, whose certain impeachment will mean lack of confidence in the greenback, and, in turn, a harder time attracting capital to our corner of the country. I am of the opinion that the President is self-willed, obstinate, and unfit for office. But such faults are not cause for casting him aside, said I, for if they were, who amongst us could be President? Tom, however, believes the President will be gotten rid of, for Mr. Johnson is an obstructionist and proved himself a true copperhead by denying statehood for Colorado. I replied I was not sure the Southerners thought so well of him, remembering Sallie Garfield calling Mr. Johnson a “renegade, a demagogue, and a drunkard.”

“All three in one man? Even General Grant did not rate such a compliment from the Rebels,” said Tom, and we had a good laugh. We are in agreement that General Grant, who is Tom’s own hero, not only for his brilliant military battles but because he lives near Tom’s old home in Jo Daviess County, will be our next President.

Our discussion was so lively that we forgot the time, until we heard the return of the wagon. Tom stayed to supper so he could elicit Luke’s opinion on our President, but, to his disappointment, Husband was deep in his own thoughts and not much for politics.

March 7, 1868. Prairie Home.

I am put out with Luke for taking Johnnie to Mingo today. There appears to be no danger of snow, but the weather is bitter cold, and I thought it wrong to expose so small a child. Luke disagreed, saying that if he is to be a Colorado boy, growing up with the country, Johnnie must be tough. Indeed, Husband accused me of coddling our son, saying I had tied him too tightly to Mama’s apron strings. Luke has found fault with me in every way in recent days, so I said no more.