“I’m knowing it,” he said.
“Well then, I’ll finish telling it and be done,” she said.
After breakfast she went down to the landing with the ferrymen
and waited for a wagon which might carry her to Fort Worth. But
only horsemen, solo or in bunches, presented themselves for crossing
all that morning and into the afternoon. The sun was midway down
the sky when there came a wagon driven by a graybeard acquaintance of the ferrymen. He was taking a load of hardware supplies to
Sherman and was armed as heavily as a bushwhacker. Sherman was
as far as he was going, but he knew some dependable transport men
in that town who delivered to Fort Worth and would be glad to take
her there. She said all right and climbed aboard.
The old man was glad of her company and didn’t mind sharing
his food with her if she’d do the cooking that night. She had thought
she’d have to strike a special deal with him too, but his only interests
in her were as cook and auditor. He chattered happily about his days
in Sam Houston’s army and the great fight at San Jacinto and didn’t
seem to mind that she only half-listened and didn’t say much herself.
At one point he jutted his chin at her, his eyes on her lip, and said,
“Met with a mean fella, did you?” She wasn’t up to explanations
and only shrugged. She studied the Red River country they passed
through and she thought she would like to live in it.
At sundown they were still about eight miles from Sherman, and
so they put down for the night in a pasture hard by a wide swift
creek. She helped the teamster unharness the mules and tether them
in the creekside grass, then borrowed a shirt and pants from him and
went upstream into the thicker brush and washed her clothes and
bathed herself by the light of the early moon. While they ate supper,
her clothes dried on a fireside log.
Her sleep that night was restless, troubled by one bad dream
after another, all of them of Ned, though she couldn’t recall any
details each time she’d wake up except that he rode a white horse
and his face was unearthly pale. As they set out the next morning,
she quite suddenly knew she would not find him in Fort Worth,
knew it without knowing how, but knew it in her bones.
They were still a few miles from town when she glimpsed a portion of chimney through the trees on a rise about a quarter-mile into
the woods. A short way farther on, nailed to a tree at the head of a
narrow lane branching off the road, a hand-painted sign read
CABIN
FOR SALE
—
GARP REALTY
and had an arrow pointing down the lane.
The thought of owning a little house all of her own tightened her
chest with longing—and all in a moment she knew what she wanted
to do and thought she might know how to do it.
Then they were rolling down the main street of Sherman and she
liked what she saw. The old man knew the town and drove directly
to the back street warehouse receiving his delivery. He drew up the
team and said he’d see about getting her a ride to Fort Worth, but she
said never mind, she’d decided to stay in Sherman. The teamster gave
her a puzzled look, then shrugged and wished her well.
Her first stop was at the Hastings & Son jewelry store, where she
presented the diamond for appraisal. The elder Hastings arched a
brow at her outsized getup, but he was impeccably polite. He studied
the ring carefully for a minute and then tendered an offer. She didn’t
know if he was being fair or had sensed her desperation and was
playing on it, but it was more money than she’d ever had of her own,
and she didn’t know what else to do, so she accepted it.
She next went into Regina’s Dress Shoppe, and when she
emerged she was a vision in a blue dress with hat and parasol to
match. She had no trouble finding the office of Garp’s Realty. She
described the location of the cabin whose chimney she’d spotted
from the road, and Mr. Garp said, “Oh yes, that property.” The man
who’d built it had suddenly taken a notion to go to California, and
Garp had bought the place at a bargain price, but freely admitted he
was sorry he had. The place had stood unoccupied for the last eight
months. It was too small for a family, too far from town for anyone
whose trade was in Sherman, too close to Sherman for anyone wanting nothing to do with a town. “Which is why,” he said, “you can
get it for a real bargain yourself, little lady.”
He drove her out to the place in his buggy. She admired its excellent construction, its well-chinked walls and solid plank floor, its
stone fireplace with an ample hearth, its few but sufficient pieces of
rude furniture. She strolled a portion of the grounds—the entire
property covered nearly fifty densely wooded acres and included a
portion of creek—and she knew it was the home she’d longed for. He
said he was tired of holding on to it and was ready to let it go for
hardly more than he’d paid himself. He quoted a price. She countered with an offer of half that amount. He grimaced. He said he
would come down fifteen percent. She repeated her offer of half the
original price and asked who else would buy the house, considering
all the drawbacks he himself had pointed out. He said he’d go down
twenty percent, even though he wouldn’t make enough on the deal to
cover the cost of the ink on the deed. She held to the half. He sighed
in huge exasperation and said he would come down by twenty-five
percent and that was it, take it or damn well leave it.
They settled on a price thirty percent below his original quote.
The money she’d made from the sale of the diamond—excluding
what she’d spent on clothes and the portion she’d set aside to buy a
horse and buggy—was short by about a third, so when they got back
to Garp’s office they worked out a one-year mortgage plan to pay off
the balance. Then went together to the bank and secured the loan,
the property itself serving as collateral, and the deal was done.
“I’d hoped to have enough to buy the place outright,” she tells
Bill, “but I guess I already knew what I’d have to do if I came up
short.”
At the livery where she purchased a fair horse and an adequate
buggy, she made a discreet inquiry of the liveryboy, who looked a
year or two younger than herself but old enough to know the information she sought. After a moment’s stunned gawk, he gave her the
street directions she wanted—and with a grin said he’d be sure to
pay her a visit. She winked at him and felt a blush that was probably
as bright as his.
On the next block, a street lined with saloons and gaming halls,
she found the Purple Moon, where she asked a thin-eyed bartender if
she might have a word with Mrs. Preston. A half-hour later they’d
made an arrangement whereby she could use an upstairs room every
evening for the cost of two dollars plus thirty percent of her night’s
take. In addition to the room, she would have the protection of both
Mr. Preston and the Purple Moon’s rulesman, a burly fellow whose
specific duty was to deal with troublesome customers.
“Not much chance of some fella doing you here like that one
did,” Mrs. Preston said, gesturing at Bush’s lip. She suggested that
Bush rent living quarters in the place, but Bush told her she had a
home, thank you—and the truth of it filled her with pride. She had
anyhow told herself she’d live in a packing crate in an alleyway
before she’d live in a whorehouse. To her mind, it was one thing to
earn your way as a whore, another to actually live like one, and
however narrow that distinction, she was determined not to lose
sight of it.
Her four months at the Purple Moon have been more profitable
than she’d hoped. She has made double payments on the mortgage
from the start, and only a third of the bank loan remains outstanding.
She rises from the table, retrieves the coffeepot and refills their
cups. If she’s concerned about how she will finish paying the loan,
now she has renounced her trade, she makes no mention of it. Bill
cannot get enough of looking at her, of breathing her scent. She
returns the pot to the hearth, then laughs as he catches her arm and
pulls her onto his lap. They cannot keep from grinning even as they
kiss and run hands over each other. Bill carries her to the bed and
their clothes sail through the room.
She’s never stopped fretting about her brother, of course, has not
passed a day without wondering where he might be. When she heard
that Quantrill’s company had made its winter camp at Mineral
Creek, her first thought was that maybe Ned was with them. She
questioned every bushwhacker she serviced at the Purple Moon. The
first few said they’d never heard of Ned Smith, but there were a lot
more guerrilla bands other than Quantrill’s, they told her, with winter camps all over Arkansas and Texas, and maybe he was with one
of them.
Then about two weeks ago a young bushwhacker with a ruined
thumb he said had been made that way by Quantrill’s horse said sure
he knew Ned Smith, a real good fighter for a boy naught but sixteen
years old. They’d ridden together with Andy Blunt, one of
Quantrill’s captains. Blunt had stayed in Missouri this winter to be
near his sweetheart and protect her family and neighbors from
Unionist raiders, and about half of his boys, including Ned Smith,
had chosen to stay with him.
She was greatly relieved to know her brother was alive—but for
two weeks now has been frantic to think he might be killed any day
by Federals or the militia.
She tells this to Bill in the aftermath of their lovemaking on this
first morning together in the cabin. He strokes her hair and says,
“Blunt’s sweetie lives on the Blackwater, in Johnson County, and he’s
got camps all around there. Shouldn’t be hard to find him. Suppose I
send somebody up there to fetch young Ned?”
She hugs his neck so hard he affects to be strangling.
Nuptial notice
That afternoon he rode out to the Mineral Creek camp. Most of the
men were gathered around high crackling fires, talking and joking,
playing cards on blankets spread on the ground. He was greeted with
japery and winks and questions of where he’d been keeping himself
and what her name might be. He sat his horse and looked around at
them, smiling wryly and nodding at their jibes—and he had a
moment’s clear realization of how dearly he held these rough comrades. He scanned the camp but did not see Quantrill anywhere.
“Muster round, boys,” Bill said, “I have a notice for you.”
Speaking loudly, wanting to be heard by all the men in camp, not
only the closely gathered of his own command, he announced that he
and Miss Bush Smith would be getting married in Sherman tomorrow, in the office of the justice of the peace.
The joking and laughter fell off to murmurs and scattered uncertain chucklings. The men were looking at him with ready grins, as if
expecting the rest of a half-told joke. Bill smiled around at them and
said if anyone was wondering if the Miss Bush Smith he would wed
was the same Bush Smith some of them had been entertained by on
the second floor of the Purple Moon, the answer was yes. But Miss
Smith was now retired from the profession and his gain was their
loss.
The assembly had hushed but for the low-voiced questions
snaking through it. He say
marry
? The one with that scar on her
mouth,
that
one?
“I’m serious as a preacher, boys,” Bill said. “I love the woman
and will marry her tomorrow. I’m saying it to every man of you so
there’s no misunderstanding. So nobody can say he didn’t know. So
nobody will ever make an unkind remark about it without intending
to. I would hate to kill somebody, especially a friend, for an unkind
remark about it that he did not intend.”
In the sudden silence he saw his brother in the crowd, face ajar,
saw Butch Berry looking at him as if he wasn’t quite sure who he
was, saw Cole Younger leaning against a barrack wall and smiling,
pausing in his whittling to tip his hat to him, and Frank James too,
smiling wide.
And then Sock Johnson hollered, “Well, goddam, Bill, that’s just
A remonstration
grand
!”
“Congratulations, Bill!” Ike Berry shouted. At the outer edge of
the encircling company, Dick Yeager raised a fist in salute.
Then somebody was shouting, “Hip, hip,
hooray
!”—and every
man in the company joined in:
“Hip
,
hip HOORAY!”
Bill raised his hands to quiet them and said the ceremony itself
would be a private affair in the JP’s office attended by only his
brother and the Berry boys, but they were all invited to be at the celebration in the Purple Moon directly following the nuptials, and the
drinks were on him. There was a chorus of happy approval and then
somebody began bellowing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” and the
others quickly took up the song.
W. J. Gregg pushed his way through the crowd and yelled, “Unass that horse, Anderson!” Bill slid off Edgar Allan and Gregg
clasped him in a hearty bearhug as others pressed around them and
slapped Bill’s back and shoulders and punched him in the arms and
called him a sly sonofabitch and a goddam rascal and a good old
boy. Arch Clement, redfaced and beaming, took Bill’s hand in both
of his and pumped it hard. It was the only time he would ever see
Archie look touched by tender emotion, and he grinned at the boy
and patted his shoulder in thanks.
Then Jim was gripping his hand and saying, “I’m damn glad for
you, Billy.”
“Well, I’m damn glad you’re damn glad, Jimbo,” Bill said.
Jugs began making the rounds and a fiddler struck up “Pretty
Polly.” A jug came to Bill and he hoisted it high and bellowed, “To
all you fine sons of bitches!” Big-bearded Dave Pool held his own jug
aloft and shouted, “To
you,
Bloody Bill—and your darling bride!”
Now George Todd was at Bill’s side with an arm around his
shoulders, offering his own toast: “Here’s to a dozen sons brave as
their daddy!” Bill asked him where Quantrill was, and Todd
shrugged and said, “Off on one of his rides and mooning about the
Kate girl, I guess. The only reason he didn’t bring her down here, you
know, was he would’ve had to let other fellas bring