The Gentleman Outlaw and Me-Eli (15 page)

Finally Papa told Calvin to be quiet. And the deputy too, for he was running his mouth as well, going on and on about how he knew it the minute he saw me.

"Tarnation, Elliot," Papa said. "I
know
the child looks like me, but I left a
daughter
in Kansas, not a son. How can I be sure this isn't some elaborate hoax dreamed up by Featherbone?"

"Don't lay the blame on me for that perfidious child!" Calvin said, as hot under the collar as an Independence Day firecracker. "I came here to avenge my father, not to engage in asinine games."

Calvin kept on yelling, but neither Papa nor the deputy paid the slightest attention to him.

'You know what I'd do, Alf?" said Elliot.

"Not having been blessed with mind-reading skills, I have no idea what you'd do, Elliot," Papa snapped.

Elliot reached into his pocket for his tobacco. Stuffing a big wad into his cheek, he said, "I'd take the child to Miss Jenny for a bath, which it could surely use as it's contaminating the air."

Papa nodded and took my arm. Turning to the deputy, he said, "Lock up Featherbone, Elliot. I'll leave it to Miss Jenny to be the judge of who or what this child is."

"No, Papa," I cried. "Don't put Calvin in jail. If it hadn't been for him, I'd never have gotten here."

I tried to run to Calvin, but Elliot swatted me aside as if I were no more than an irksome mosquito. As Papa dragged me away, I heard the cell door clang shut. "Traitor!" Calvin yelled after me.

"Step lively," Papa said, pulling me behind him like I was a stubborn donkey. "I have important business to attend to."

I looked back at the jailhouse, but it was all blurry through my tears. First Caesar, now Calvin—I'd lost everybody I cared about just to find a mean-hearted man who still didn't believe I was his daughter. My one wish had been to find my father. It was a mighty cruel world if I had to pay such a terrible price for getting it.

O
UTSIDE THE JAILHOUSE, THE CROWD HAD
vanished except for a few layabouts sitting here and there on railings or loitering by saloons, spitting tobacco and watching Papa quick-march me past. I suppose they wondered what a child my age had done to deserve such treatment. I must confess I wondered myself.

Despite its big hotels and fancy opera house, Tinville seemed no different from every other mining town Calvin and I had gone through on our long journey from Kansas. A little bigger than some, a little smaller than others, but the same old dogs slept in the shade, the same old chickens pecked in the dust, and the same old saloons and stores and livery stables lined the streets. I swear I'd never felt so glum and dispirited in my whole twelve years. It was all I could do not to throw myself down on the ground and cry.

By the time we reached the depot, I was stumbling along, half-blind with tears. Papa hadn't said one word since we'd left the jailhouse. Nor had he let go of my wrist.

Suddenly something caught my eye. I came to a stop and stared down the railroad tracks. Head hanging low, sniffing here and there like he was trying to catch a scent, a dog was limping slowly toward me—a shaggy brown dog I'd thought never to see again.

"Caesar," I hollered, "Caesar!" Breaking away from Papa, I ran to meet my dog, so happy I couldn't do a thing but hug him tight and slobber all over him. "Praise be, you're not dead after all!"

When I finally straightened up, I caught Papa looking at me. It seemed his eyes had gotten a bit softer, but he didn't smile. "I reckon this miserable fleahound is your dog," he said sort of grufflike.

"Yes, sir, he most certainly is. A better dog you'll never find."

Caesar held out his paw to Papa. I reckon he would have showed off every trick he knew if I'd asked him to, but it was pleasing enough to see my father solemnly shake Caesar's paw.

"That villain Roscoe kicked him off the train," I said. "I thought he was dead for sure."

Papa touched my shoulder for just a second. "Come along, you and the dog both. I want you to meet Miss Jenny."

Caesar and I followed Papa up a steep side street to a tidy little house made of wood and painted blue.
A sign in the window said Miss
JENNY HAUSMANN, PHOTOGRAPHER.

Papa knocked on the door, and a lady with a no-nonsense look about her opened it. She had brown hair pulled up in an untidy knot on top of her head, and although she was wiping her hands on an apron, there was nothing of the housewife about her. In the sitting room behind her, I caught a glimpse of a big camera on a tripod.

Miss Jenny's smile turned to puzzlement when she saw me. "Why, Alfred, who's this little fellow?"

"Believe it or not, he claims to be my daughter, Eliza," Papa said in a passably humorous way. "I'm turning the rascal over to you. Whichever he is—boy or girl—the child is in desperate need of a bath. When he's clean, tell me what you think of him—or her, as the case may be."

With that, Papa walked away. He had the stiffest back I ever saw.

I turned to Miss Jenny. "No matter what he thinks, he
is
my pa," I said, "but I wish he wasn't. He's got my friend Calvin locked up in jail and he thinks I'm a liar. Which I'm not."

Miss Jenny took my hand. "Whether he's right or wrong to suspect you, Sheriff Yates is most certainly right about one thing," she said in a good-humored voice. 'You're in need of a good scrubbing. Once the dirt's gone, I reckon it will be a sight easier to discern your true identity."

I began to object, but Miss Jenny insisted in such
a nice way I ended up following her to the kitchen. Caesar pitter-pattered behind us, still limping a bit. I wanted to tend to him, but Miss Jenny said she knew a lot about dogs. "I'll get to work on him after I finish with you," she promised.

While the water for my bath heated on the stove, Miss Jenny fixed me a nice meal of eggs mixed with potatoes and onions and green peppers. She made sure I had all the bread I wanted and plenty of milk, and she found some treats for Caesar. By the time the bath water was hot, I was full of good food and feeling a tad better about my future.

Which didn't mean I'd forgotten Calvin, who was lodged in my thoughts like a worrisome splinter. I hoped Papa had fed him and talked nice to him and made a friend of him. Surely he'd pardon the Gentleman Outlaw for his crimes, which I knew consisted of no more than stealing a cheap watch and three broken-down horses—unless you counted cheating at cards and lying and being a vagrant.

As for Calvin's hatred of Papa, I imagined it came from some sort of misunderstanding that I'd soon get to the bottom of. Surely a sheriff wouldn't kill a man like Mr. Featherbone, Senior, in cold blood.

Miss Jenny poured hot water into a tin tub and turned her back while I peeled off my dirty clothes. As soon as I was chin deep and decently hid under soapsuds, she commenced to scrub me.

When it felt like she'd just about flayed the skin
off me, Miss Jenny said, "You're crawling with lice, Eliza, and your hair is full of nits."

The way she said my name told me she'd seen enough of me to know for sure I was a girl. Closing my eyes, I let her douse my head with kerosene to exterminate the vermin I'd been harboring for weeks.

"Well," she said, yanking a comb through my hair one last time, "I believe that takes care of the little critters. Lord knows, lice are nothing to be ashamed of. Seems like you can't ride the train these days without catching them."

After I dried off, I followed Miss Jenny into her bedroom. She went through her wardrobe, searching for a dress that might fit me, and came up with a calico she'd shrunk in the wash by accident. It was nicer than anything I'd ever owned, but it felt stiff and tight and I couldn't fasten it without help. What fool thought of putting buttons on the backs of girls' clothes anyway?

When she finished gussying me up, she stood me in front of the mirror. "There," she said, smiling at my reflection. "You look a sight better, Eliza."

I pulled a face. Even though my hair was short, I was most definitely a girl again. In fact, it seemed to me I was more of a girl than I'd been before, if you know what I mean. Elijah was gone—and so were my adventures, sorry as they sometimes were.

Next I'd be washing dishes and sweeping floors
and polishing the furniture. Lord, I might even have to take up embroidery. Begging in saloons and sleeping in caves seemed preferable to spending the rest of my life in petticoats and ruffles.

"Don't worry," Miss Jenny said, thinking to comfort me but guessing at the wrong cause. "When your hair grows back, you'll be the prettiest little gal this side of the Mississippi."

I flung myself on the bed. "Don't want to be pretty," I muttered. "Don't want to be a girl, either."

Miss Jenny sighed and sat down beside me. I expect she thought something was wrong with me. No doubt there was. What kind of girl doesn't want to be a girl? I hid my face, sure Miss Jenny was about to give me a tongue lashing that would no doubt include words from the Bible and threats of hellfire.

She took a deep breath, but before she had a chance to speak her mind, someone commenced knocking on the back door. The noise set Caesar to barking.

While I hushed my dog, Miss Jenny welcomed Papa into her little kitchen. Waving one hand at me, she said, "Whether or not she's your daughter I can't say, but the child's a girl beyond all doubt."

Papa studied me hard. Suddenly his eyes filled with tears. "Eliza's mine all right," he said. "Now she's dressed proper I see her mother in every feature except her hair. She got that from me, right down to the last curl."

He took me in his arms, as shy as a stranger, and gave me a hug and kiss. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Eliza," he whispered.

According to Miss Jenny, it was a right touching scene. She said later if she'd seen it on stage, she'd have wept for a week. Even the hardest-hearted man would have broken down and sobbed, she claimed. It was that moving to see a father and daughter reunited at last.

When Papa could speak, he explained why—aside from my appearance—he'd doubted me. "I just mailed your allowance to Mabel and Homer. Why didn't they tell me you were coming?"

I stared at Papa, amazed. "You've been sending me money?"

It was Papa's turn to stare. "Of course I have. What sort of man do you take me for? I've been wiring ten dollars every month since I got word of your mother's death."

"That's the first I ever heard about any money," I said, astonished by the news. "Aunt Mabel and Uncle Homer told me you'd disappeared and were most likely dead or in jail."

"I don't understand," said Papa, his face awash with confusion. "Didn't they give you my letters?"

I shook my head.

"But there was a message from you in every letter they sent me."

"Well, it surely wasn't me that wrote it."

Papa was flummoxed. He sputtered and hemmed and hawed and got red in the face. "I trusted Homer and Mabel to take care of you. They said you were like a daughter to them."

"More like a slave," I muttered, remembering beatings and whippings and going without dinner and being locked in the fruit cellar to repent my sins. There was no sense telling Papa about all the grief I'd endured from those kindly souls, so I contented myself with saying, "They lied to us both, Papa. And cheated us too. Just take a look at this."

I reached into my dress pocket and pulled out the newspaper clipping I'd been saving since I left Miss Pearl's house in Kansas. "Aunt Mabel and Uncle Homer think I'm dead—yet they're still taking your money!"

Papa read the story of my murder slowly and carefully. When he finished, he gazed at me sadly. "I made a terrible mistake, Eliza. I hope you'll forgive me for trusting your well-being to those heartless scoundrels."

Although I don't think of myself as a calculating individual out to take advantage of other folks' guilt, I must admit Papa's words gave me an idea. Edging closer to him, I peered into his eyes, hoping shamelessly to melt his heart like Millicent would have. "Of course I forgive you, Papa, but..." Here I paused to toy with the gold star pinned to his coat.

"But what?" Papa asked in a tender way.

"Well," I said, "I hope you'll remember all Calvin did to get me here safely. It seems to me he deserves a reward, but instead, he's locked up in jail."

Papa sighed. "Life's a mixture, Eliza. It was good Calvin brought you here, but the way he did it was bad. Stealing horses is a crime. You can't ignore the law. If everyone did as he pleased, what would happen to civilization?"

Sometimes I thought we'd be better off without so much civilization, but I knew better than to say that to Papa. "Well," I said, "how about shooting unarmed men in the back? Do you call that civilized?"

Papa looked puzzled. "What has shooting a man in the back got to do with Calvin's being in jail?"

"It's why Calvin hates you, Papa." I stared him straight in the eye, daring him to lie. "He claims that's what you did to his father. Killed him in cold blood."

"Calvin told you that?" Papa spoke as if he could scarcely believe his ears. "The truth is Featherbone was a desperado, Eliza—a cheat, a thief, and a killer. Why, he was wanted in every town in the West. It was he who started the shooting, not me. By the time I got to the Emerald Saloon, he'd already killed two gamblers and wounded three others—all because they'd caught him cheating and had the temerity to say so."

I stared at Papa, my head whirling with confu
sion. "Calvin says
you
cheated
him
and then shot him down in the street. Left him to die in the dirt. It's all in a letter he showed me. I read it myself, Papa."

"The Lord only knows who wrote him such a passel of lies," Papa said. "I shot Featherbone in self-defense. Elliot was there, he can testify to it."

"Your father's telling the truth," Miss Jenny said. "Featherbone's death was written up in the paper. Why, I even photographed his body. The bullet hit him in the chest, not in the back."

'You'd better tell Calvin that," I said. "Knowing him, it will take a sight of fancy talk to persuade him it's true."

"Most likely it will," Papa said, "but I'm right good at speechifying when I put my mind to it."