The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (23 page)

A voice inside me said that I shouldn’t buy a horse that might be stolen. But that voice wasn’t very loud, and this may be a measure of how I had changed. Honesty wasn’t dead on the frontier. It was just something you owed mostly to people you knew. Out here, men with advertised Christian virtue could forget the Lord’s precepts when it came to those with dark skin, witness the very land we were on. And beyond that, people were taking liberties every which way with the homesteading law. I had been on the frontier long enough to know that if you busted and had no food or money, people wouldn’t treat you any better if you’d never taken a shortcut—you’d just be out of luck.

Each week during the spring, I went into Manannah to pick up my
St. Cloud Visitor
. Mrs. Swisshelm’s battle with General Lowry had gone on all winter, having moved beyond slavery to charges regarding public money—misspent or just plain missing.

Then one week, Mrs. Swisshelm’s paper didn’t come. What came instead was the
St. Paul Times
carrying the headline: “DISGRACEFUL OUTRAGE IN ST. CLOUD! PRESS DESTROYED!” The story said that the office of the
Visitor
had been entered in the night, the press demolished, and the type thrown into the river.

“So high-handed an outrage has never before disgraced our Territory!” said the
Times
. It then printed the contents of a note left by the intruders:

Editor of the
Visitor
: The citizens of St. Cloud have determined to abate your nuisance. They have decided that your newspaper is fit only for the inmates of brothels. You will not repeat the offence in this town without paying a more serious penalty than you do now. The Committee of Vigilance.

I felt empty. Mrs. Swisshelm’s experiment as a free woman had come to an end. She had gone out among them, and they had ruined her.

* * *

While setting posts in the near meadow I looked up to see a rider approach. It was Willie.

“Howdy, neighbor,” he said when he got near. “I see you survived the winter.”

“I did,” I replied. “Now it’s time to work.”

Willie nodded then looked at the posts. “Heard you were building a fence—thought you might want some horses.”

“I might,” I said, trying not to sound too interested.

“Well, I have some nice ones. I’d give you a good deal.”

“You’d have to,” I said with a laugh, “because I don’t hardly have any money.”

Willie shrugged. “Who does nowadays? Truth is, it would help me to move ’em on. I’d take scrip for part of it.”

A satisfied feeling came over me. I was happy to see Willie, because now I could explain to my better self that I hadn’t gone looking for him. “Tell you what,” I said, clapping the dirt off my britches. “When I get done here in a week or so, I’ll come by.”

Willie gave me a gap-toothed smile, while I looked back and imagined him and me standing side by side on a gallows in Missouri.

* * *

The next week brought the news that Minnesota had been declared the thirty-second state of the Union, the lines drawn all the way to Pembina, just as Tom Flynn had said. We were now genuine members of the best nation on earth, and a celebration was being planned for Forest City. That Sunday, five Indians with just bows and arrows could have walked away with all of Manannah.

At the celebration I ran into Otis and James. James was with his wife, Alice, recently arrived from Indiana. Otis was beaming. Mary had given birth to a boy named Isaiah. They would come out in the fall. I was happy for Otis and glad to hear that Mary had spoken true, though the thought of seeing her didn’t warm me.

The other big news was that the
St. Cloud Visitor
would be publishing again. The story of Mrs. Swisshelm’s troubles had been told all across the land, every newspaper feeling the duty to report the outrage. Money had been donated and a new press sent from Chicago. Mrs. Swisshelm was going to fight back.

Speeches were given that day, and the men who gave them had likely spent hours choosing the right things to say—wasted effort, because people were off laughing and drinking and didn’t want to listen to pretty words. The men drank hard, and by late afternoon, their hoots and howls were a common sound. With that as a background, I played the violin and called a few dances, and people did dance. The finale was provided by some Manannah men who had brought the little cannon purchased during the Indian scare. They hovered and fussed and, with more trouble than I should have liked under hostile circumstances, made it belch fire and noise.

* * *

I finished the corral one morning in June and decided to take the afternoon and go over to Willie’s place—maybe buy some horses. The day was warm, and I thought to first cool myself in the river.

The path to the Crow ran through a thicket, coming down to a bend in the river where the current had left an arm of sand. I took off my clothes and jumped in. Out where it was deep, I bobbed and floated. Then I went under and opened my eyes—above me the sun danced on the water. I went down deep and came up fast, breaking the surface like a fish chasing a fly.

Feeling refreshed, I swam over to where I had come in. My feet found the sand, and I rose from the water. I was reaching for my clothes when I sensed that I was not alone. I looked up to see someone standing on the high bank, not twenty steps away. The sun was behind him, and my eyes still stung with the water.

“Well, I’ll be whipped.” It was Willie. I could see him now, hands on his hips.

“Get off my land!” I shouted.

“Why, I don’t see I have to go nowhere,” he said. “You’re the one who best git going.”

“You leave me be, Willie, I swear.”

He started toward me. “Ain’t nobody gonna hear nothin’.”

I waited till he was almost on me then ducked past him and ran up the bank. I was quicker than he was, but my bare foot hit a stone and my ankle turned. I got up, but by then, Willie was coming fast. He caught me as I reached the clearing, not far from the cabin. “I think you need some learnin’ as to what’s what,” he said, turning me by the shoulder. Next thing, I was on the ground with a screaming pain in my jaw. Willie was on top of me, his filthy hands between my legs. He stank.

I tried to push him off, but he lifted his fist and brought it down. Everything went white with the pain. Then it went red, as blood poured from my nose. I lay there spitting blood and gasping while Willie tried to undo himself. His britches were stiff as leather, what with all the dirt and dried sweat—he needed both hands to get them down. Then I saw the knife hanging from his belt.

Willie fell on me again. I tried to bring my knee up, but that just made him crazy. “Goddamned sow!” he yelled, hitting me again. When my senses came back, Willie was inside me, grunting like a pig. I closed my eyes so as not to have to see him, but all the while I was reaching.

Willie jerked and the foul air went out of his lungs as the knife went deep into his leg—I stabbed him there because that’s where I could, that’s where my arm was. I pulled the knife out to strike again, but Willie reached for his leg and rolled to his side. I kicked free.

“Sonofabitch!” Willie screamed as he saw the blood flowing from his leg. He couldn’t get up—I had driven the blade deep. He started pulling himself along the dirt, swearing and cursing. Wearing nothing but blood, I ran past him and grabbed the rifle hanging from his saddle. Willie kept swearing and taking the Lord’s name in vain. My head hurt something bad, and I couldn’t think with all those curse words flying around.

“You shut up,” I shouted, showing him the bloody knife, “or I’ll fix it so you never bother another woman.”

That shut him up. But what sense did it make to tell him to be quiet when I was going to shoot him dead? It didn’t make sense. Nothing did. Pain, fear, and anger all had their own ideas. And while one part of me was going to kill Willie, another part wanted him to go away. To disappear. And my wanting him to go wasn’t even a thought. I just wanted him gone. I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to wash myself. I needed to breathe.

For some moments I just stood there trying to catch my breath. With my one open eye, I watched as Willie crawled to the post his horse was tied to. I watched as he pulled himself up, hitched his pants, and yanked himself over the saddle, groaning with the pain. Willie then grabbed the horn with both hands, steadied himself, and threw a quick look. “See you in hell,” he hissed.

That’s what I needed to hear. I raised the gun to send him there. Even with one blurry eye, it was an easy shot. I aimed for his body, because I didn’t want the chickens running around and pecking at his brains. And I’ll give Willie this—he was outlaw enough to know that he’d get his when the time came, and he didn’t seem to care when that was. My finger felt the cool, unfamiliar trigger. Pulling it required almost nothing, still I asked the Lord for strength, and that was a mistake. It was a mistake, because what I heard in return was His commandment. I heard the commandment and didn’t shoot.

Willie rode away slow, leaning forward, his arms wrapped around the horse’s neck, because his legs couldn’t hold. I threw down the rifle and ran into the cabin. I grabbed the vinegar and hurried back to the river where I washed myself inside and out. I couldn’t get his smell off me.

I
CRIED THAT night, hoping it would bring sleep. But once the tears were done, I just tossed about till finally I got up and lit a candle. I walked over to the mirror, having stayed away from it in the day. Even in the dim light I could see that my face was purple and swollen, like that of some troll in a story to scare children. And there was a hard pain in my jaw that just wouldn’t stop.

And what would happen next? Maybe Willie would be afraid for what he had done and wouldn’t tell anyone. That wasn’t likely, for one way or another, he was sure to tell. But perhaps when the truth about what had happened came to light, the folks in Meeker County would rise up in my defense, as they had when Mrs. Swisshelm was attacked. Willie would be run off or sent to jail, and I could continue on, known to be a woman but living as I wished. The comfort of that thought didn’t last long. Willie would certainly seek revenge at a time of his choosing, and how could I defend against that?

The answer to that question flitted about the cabin like a moth. Then it landed on my shoulder and told me what I already knew—there was no way I could defend against Willie’s revenge. And if I couldn’t, it meant that I had to find Willie and kill him, before he found me and killed me. It was either that or run away, and I wasn’t going to run. This land was mine—the only thing I had, and I wasn’t going to leave it behind as I had left everything else. And if it meant killing someone who deserved to die, I would do it. After all, I had shown less mercy to poor creatures in the forest that hadn’t done a thing to me.

I slowed my breathing so I could think. I felt cold inside. I would sneak over to Willie’s place, lie in wait, and put a bullet through his head. I’d bury him somewhere—dirt here was easy to dig. And who’d miss him?

I took my rifle and some cornbread and walked east in the dark. When the sky began to lighten, I could see the outline of Willie’s cabin. I crawled on my belly till I was in a place that gave me a clear shot. As morning broke, no smoke came from the chimney. Willie’s mount was not there. He was not there.

I walked back, wondering why I hadn’t killed Willie when I had the chance. I had every right. Of course, killing a man is not a natural thing, and God has told us not to do it. But that hadn’t stopped me that very morning; why had it stopped me the day before? It was then that I realized how much of me had wanted Willie out of my sight. I wanted him gone. I wanted it all to have never happened, and that would have been near impossible if he were lying dead in the yard. And maybe God had spoken to me at that moment because I had the gun in my hand and He had to speak. And maybe He had let me walk over to Willie’s place this morning because He knew Willie wasn’t there.

That afternoon I bathed again in the river, my rifle nearby. I rubbed myself with mint leaves, but the memory of his smell didn’t leave. Back at the cabin, I thought of hiding somewhere, till I healed. But where could I go? Then it came. I could go to Noah White. Hadn’t he offered his friendship if ever I needed it? It seemed the perfect answer, but I hadn’t slept at all the night before, and the journey over to Willie’s had done me in. I was far too tired to think about leaving that day.

The next morning I forced myself to look again in the mirror. It was worse as the bruises had darkened. One eye was near shut, and I didn’t want to be seen by anyone. I knew of a rough track that went south and ran into another that would take me to Noah’s. It was a little longer, but if I went that way, I wouldn’t have to go through Manannah. But I would be on the main road for a bit, so I decided to leave toward midday when fewer people would be on it.

With the morning to get ready, I found myself oddly tidying the cabin for my absence. I cooked some beans with molasses, which I put in a jar to carry with the remaining cornbread. I took ten dollars to bring with me and hid the rest of my money between the logs of the cabin. I packed a change of socks, hung my violin on the wall, and put out extra feed for the chickens. I was just finishing with this when I looked up to see a rider heading my way. I picked up my gun.

The rider came on slowly, a saddled horse in tow. I stood facing him, rifle cradled. The man pulled up a polite distance from me, a wiry fellow with a bushy mustache. I had seen him before but didn’t know where. “Hello, friend,” he said. “You’re Joseph the fiddle player, are you not?”

“I am,” I said. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Sheriff Jewett from Forest City. I seen you play at the celebration.” He glanced at my rifle and then back to my face. “What happened to you?”

“I had some trouble,” I said. “What brings you here?”

“Business,” said the sheriff. “Probably the same trouble. Two days ago Willie McAllister rode into town more dead than alive. Lost a lot of blood. Claimed that you tried to murder him.”