Authors: John Jakes
But where was the woman who’d written to Boston? Julia had clearly stated her day and time of arrival in a letter sent weeks ago. She was beginning to feel this part of her tour was hexed.
Colorado Charlie lifted the front flap of the big tent. He put Julia’s valise inside and bid her good day. A stout, gray-haired woman with a mole-dotted face stood behind a lobby counter consisting of a plank laid across two barrels. The woman eyed Julia with an expression close to dread.
Trying to act unconcerned about the decidedly strange reception, Julia walked past a shaky-looking stair to the second level. The gray-haired woman began twisting her apron. Though it was still daylight, the tent’s interior was dim, and it took proximity to the counter and a lantern hanging from the low wooden ceiling to finally show Julia there were tears in the woman’s eyes. Instantly, she curbed her annoyance.
“Mrs. Oates?”
Oh—oh, yes, ma’am, I’m Myrtle Oates. And I know you’re Miss Sedgwick. I heard the coach pull in. I was too ashamed to meet it. Your lecture’s got to be canceled.”
“Canceled?”
As kindly as she could, she went on. “I’ve come a hundred and fifty miles out of my way to speak here. Why in the world would you want to cancel the moment I arrive? Don’t you expect anyone to show up?”
“Oh, yes, we’d have an audience.” Mrs. Oates nodded. “Six or seven—uh—ordinary ladies, and a bunch more of the chippies.”
“That’s all right with me,” Julia said, struggling to keep a snappish tone out of her voice. Something was frightening the gray-haired woman. “The Association doesn’t draw moral distinctions between its various sisters. Others may, but not—”
“You don’t understand. I found out there’ll be men showin’ up.”
“That isn’t a problem.”
“Men showin’ up to cause a muss!”
Courtleigh’s name flashed into her mind. She laughed silently at the reaction. It was preposterous; his reach wasn’t that long, nor his interest in her that consuming these days.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Oates. It happens frequently. I’ve been mobbed, punched, showered with rotten fruit, had an audience of eight hundred stampeded by firecrackers, another one panicked by chemical smoke—if a possible disruption is all you’re fretting about, we must certainly go ahead. I won’t be offended if there’s trouble, and I’m sure I can deal with a few rowdy miners.”
The woman lowered her head, whispered, “One of them’s liable to be worse than rowdy.”
“Who is that?”
“A terrible, vile-tempered man named Lute Sims.” Julia recalled hearing the name shouted just after the stage stopped. “Back in Ohio his wife got hold of a pamphlet by one of the leaders of your movement. I don’t rightly know which lady. But after Lute’s wife read it, she ran off and I guess that affected him pretty bad. In his head, I mean.”
The tired, red-knuckled woman looked close to breaking down. “What I’m trying to tell you, Miss Sedgwick—while I apologize to you in the humblest way I know—is that I’m scared to death for you to speak in Deadwood City. For three days Lute Sims has been going up and down the Gulch telling everyone he’ll cause trouble if you show your face. Real trouble. He’s been saying he’ll hurt you. We’ve no law here yet. And Lute’s the type who doesn’t just jaw. He’ll do what he says. He’s a crazy man.”
Julia shivered. It might be wise to heed the warning and—
No. That would make the entire side trip to the Bad Lands a waste of time and the Association’s money. It would be cowardly to boot. She’d be hanged if she’d retreat.
She tried to reassure Mrs. Oates with a smile.
“I’ll bet this Sims won’t even appear. He’s probably nothing more than a braggart.”
“Miss Sedgwick, you don’t know—” The woman’s attempted protest was feeble.
“We’ll conduct the meeting even if he does attend. Even if he shows up armed to the teeth.”
“Miss Sedgwick!”
“I am going to conduct the meeting, Mrs. Oates. I can deal with troublemakers. Nothing will happen—to me or anyone else.”
But her stomach suddenly hurt as she said it.
T
HE MEETING WENT
far better than Julia expected—at least for the first half hour.
Myrtle Oates’ husband had moved the tables out of the dining tent and rearranged the benches auditorium style. Then he’d rolled up the tent’s canvas sides and tied them, so the audience could enjoy the spring breeze blowing along the Gulch. Oates was a huge, docile man who dutifully posted himself outside the tent to check on each new arrival. The one he was waiting to intercept, Sims, hadn’t shown up by the time Julia rose and began her lecture. She’d wanted Mrs. Oates to introduce her but the older woman was too nervous.
Julia’s audience consisted of fifteen women and the same number of men. Oates had relieved one of the miners of a quart of forty rod, and his wife had shushed two of the prostitutes who wouldn’t quiet down voluntarily; there were nine such women present, all young, all homely, and all dressed in their best gowns. Neither the girls nor the miner caused any serious trouble. Julia spoke from behind one of the dining tables, on the side of the tent nearest the stream. Four lanterns lit the airy enclosure. And although the men smirked at her, and nudged one another, they paid attention.
As usual, she began with a brief history of the movement in the United States. She spent a few moments on the careers of Margaret Fuller and Fanny Wright, then moved on to the first woman’s rights convention in Seneca Falls, New York, in 1848. She came eventually to the work of Susan Anthony, Elizabeth Stanton and Lucy Stone.
Her eyes sparkled as she launched into the story of Lucy’s birth. She was always nervous at the start of a lecture, and had been tonight. But the feared interruption by Mr. Sims hadn’t materialized, and she was beginning to feel increasingly sure of herself because she had attentive listeners. The women genuinely wanted to hear her message. The men were content to scoff in silence while they gazed at a fancified Eastern woman. On her trips west, Julia had learned that it paid for her to lecture in her best dress and a fancy hairdo. It helped keep the men distracted.
“—and from that time forward,” she said as she finished the story about Lucy, “the lady who has been called the morning star of the women’s movement has dedicated her life to the fight to free the one class in this country still truly enslaved.”
“Oh, jeez, come on,” one of the miners groaned. Some of the ladies shushed him but he paid no attention. “My old woman don’t feel she’s enslaved, Miz Sedgwick.”
Julia smiled. “Is she here to verify that statement?”
“No, she’s back home in Missouri, waitin’ for me to hit the pay dirt.”
“Maybe she’s never told you how she feels. Have you bothered to ask?”
“Ain’t necessary. I already know she’s content to do woman’s work. Care for the cabin. Plow our acreage. Raise our eight boys—I know
that
satisfies her.”
“It does?” Julia seized the unexpected opportunity to use one of Elizabeth Stanton’s best rejoinders. “What a pity. I never met a man worth repeating eight times.”
Loud laughter—from all except the miner who’d interrupted. But even he had a grudging smile after a moment. Julia was about to resume when she heard boots plopping in the mud on the far side of the tent.
Standing guard back there, Mr. Oates turned toward the noise. Myrtle Oates, seated on one of the front benches, craned to see. Julia drew a tense breath. Was Sims showing up at last?
She was startled when the new arrival came strolling out of the dark. It was Jason Kane.
He was hatless, freshly barbered, and wearing clean gray trousers, a bottle green frock coat, a linen shirt and flowing cravat. A bulge under the coat showed he’d brought at least one revolver.
He saluted her with a small wave, and smiled a rather bleary smile. He headed for a seat at the back but stumbled over the bench before sitting down. Evidently he’d gotten over his pique about not being recognized; perhaps spirits had helped him.
She smiled to acknowledge his presence, but she wasn’t sure he saw, because his eyes closed briefly. When they came open, it seemed to take him a moment to focus them.
She continued her presentation with some comments on antiquated state laws which permitted husbands to assume virtually complete legal dominance over their wives. She described the difficulties women faced in obtaining divorces from brutal spouses. “The situation is only slightly better in New York State, where certain amendments to—”
She stopped. Heads were turning to the left. A yellow-haired chippy in an orange silk dress tugged her companion’s arm. The second girl’s rouged mouth rounded into a startled O. All at once Julia saw the cause of the concerned expressions.
Outside the tent, a man had planted himself at the edge of the lamplight. A short, thin, undernourished miner in a stained gray work shirt and jeans pants stippled with mud. He had thin brown hair lying close to a balding scalp, bad teeth, and needed a shave. He held a shotgun in hands that were none too steady.
Myrtle Oates’ husband jumped to his feet at the back of the tent. The miner pivoted to glare. Julia’s palms turned cold.
Like everyone else, Oates saw that the new arrival was seething. After a moment’s hesitation, he tried to do something about it, though his voice was none too strong.
“Lute, you’re not welcome here when you’re in such a state. Point that scattergun at the ground before it goes off. Then go home.”
Sims ignored him. He gave Julia a venomous stare. “This meeting’s over.”
He was about fifty, she judged. A worn-out man. She felt sorry for him. Yet she couldn’t permit him to take control.
She glanced at the shotgun. How much resistance did she dare offer? No way to tell. And she wasn’t the only person who could be hurt if he started shooting. She didn’t want to be responsible for a massacre.
She was uncomfortably aware of heads turning back her way to see what she would do.
A moment later Julia addressed Lute Sims in a firm but polite voice.
“No, the meeting is not over. You’re welcome to find a seat and listen to the rest of it.”
The man’s stubbled face wrenched with rage. He swept the audience with the shotgun, jerking it from left to right in a menacing arc. One of the chippies shrieked softly and clutched her ears.
“Lute, for God’s sake put that thing down!” Oates pleaded. “If your finger gets a mite nervous, someone could be mortally injured.”
Again the embittered, rheum-filled eyes sought Julia. “That’s exactly what’ll happen unless this sinful affair’s brought to a halt.” A couple of miners ducked when Sims brandished the shotgun again. “Go back to the hotel, woman. Go back to the East with your wicked, deceiving gospel.”
A fanatic, Julia thought. He angered her unreasonably, as fanatical men always did. Despite the risks of the situation, she spoke out.
“Nonsense, Mr. Sims. I’ve heard about you. I don’t intend to let your threats stop me from talking to these ladies and gentlemen. I’ve never liked boors or bullies, and you’re both. Now sit down or leave!”
Sims’ tired, ugly eyes reflected the flame of a lamp. “Hell, I will. If you know about me, I guess you know what happened to my missus back in Ohio. She read one of your damn sermonettes—”
“Not mine, sir. I don’t write pamphlets.”
“Then it was written by one of your scarlet sisters—you’re all the same. My Carrie read it, and it gave her crazy ideas. Damn shame her pa permitted her to learn readin’ at all. She took every sinful, blasphemous word to heart and one night just up and ran away.”
“I can certainly understand why.”
Several people’ snickered. Julia instantly regretted the sally. Sims’ glower became even more ferocious.
“You shut up!” Spittle flew from his lips. “You’re through talking here tonight. It’s because of the notions of people like you that my Carrie ran off. She thought she had to be free. Thought she had to be equal to a
man,
for Lord’s sake. Even thought she should have the right to vote for presidents, can you believe that?”
She’d seldom been so infuriated by an antagonist. She shot back, “I not only believe it—I agree.”
The miners applauded and whistled, enjoying themselves at Sims’ expense. Julia knew she should walk out of the tent to prevent the situation from getting worse. Before she could, Sims screamed at her.
“You’re just spoutin’ a lot of damn godless
shit!”
Silence.
The breeze snapped a piece of tent canvas back and forth. The respectable women looked ready to faint. Oates took a step forward, eyes on the shotgun. Julia was growing frightened. Hoping to force Sims to strain to hear her, and thereby distract him, she pitched her voice very low.
“Mr. Sims, I don’t believe further argument would serve any purpose.”
Where was Kane? Evidently he’d slipped out of the tent some time ago, unnoticed. Perhaps he’d been bored. She wished he were still there. Her knees trembled under her petticoats as she continued in a near-whisper.
“I don’t think I can change your mind about—”
“Anything!” he cried. “The Bible says a woman’s supposed to submit to her husband!”
“Yes, I’m familiar with that shopworn—that argument.”
Restraint did no good. Sims fulminated at the audience.
“Why are you listening to her? Can’t you tell what she is? She’s one of that free love crowd.” He jabbed the gun in her direction. The violent motion made her start. “Isn’t that right? Don’t you believe in free love too?”
“Mr. Sims,” she said, “the Bible states that the essence of God is love—” She tried to signal Oates with her eyes, to urge him to get behind the miner and attempt to disarm him while she kept his attention diverted. Oates was too upset to understand the signal. His eye remained on Sims’ trigger hand.
“And I don’t believe in a woman giving herself away like a piece of cheap yard goods. But if two people love one another, I see no reason why they require a piece of paper contrived not in heaven but on earth just to sanction—”
“You’re a whore!” Sims screamed, triumphant. Myrtle Oates lowered her head and sobbed into her hands.
“A whore preaching a whore’s doctrine!”