Wyoming Slaughter (18 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
“Them two? Running for office? It sure does. First women I've ever seen running for office.” He turned to his boy. “You ever seen the like, Cash?”
“Blamed if I've ever seen one do it,” Cash said.
“Well, they've violating the law right and left, disturbing the peace every which way, Lem.”
“I haven't got it all read up yet, Cotton, but if you say so, I'll go nip them.”
“Nip 'em both and throw them in the jug for a while, and then let them post two-dollar bail, Lemuel. Them gals are sure disturbing the peace around here.”
“We'll do that, Cotton, and thanks for the tip. We got to keep the streets peaceful.”
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HAPTER
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WENTY-NINE
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T
WENTY-NINE
The envelope arrived by private messenger early in the morning, just when me, Rusty, and Cernix were sitting around, sipping java and waiting for Sally to finish making breakfast. Cernix answered the door, took the envelope, and watched the boy scurry off.
“It's addressed to Messrs Cernix von Stromberger, Cotton Pickens, and Rusty Irons,” he said. “Shall I read it?”
“I think maybe so,” I said, relieved to escape that chore.
The count unfolded some fancy paper from the blue-tinted envelope, while Sally threw more stove wood into the firebox, fried eggs, boiled oatmeal, set the table, started more coffee, laid out strips of side pork on the grille, scrubbed and wiped last evening's dinner plates, sliced and cooked toast, put out some butter, put out some marmalade, and refilled the salt shaker.
Cernix examined the sheet and cleared his throat. “It's from the Women's Temperance Union of Puma County, and it's signed by Eve Grosbeak, president. I'll just read along here, and see what it's about.”
“Probably complaining about us being unfair,” I said.
“No, that's not it. It says, âGentlemen, The Women's Temperance Union will sponsor a series of debates among the candidates for the office of county superintendent. The purpose of the debates is to acquaint voters and other citizens with the views of the candidates so they may make informed choices at the polls. The first of these will be May 1, on the Courthouse Square, weather permitting, or in the courtroom if the weather is not clement. Each debate will discuss issues of interest to citizens of Puma County. One is Woman Suffrage, the second is Prohibition of Spirits, the third is the suppression of vice and houses of ill repute in the county, and the fourth is for each candidate to express his or her plans for the future of Puma County.
“âWe have arranged the debates in this fashion. On May 1, at ten in the morning, the candidates Mr. Cotton Pickens, Mr. Amos Grosbeak, and Mrs. Eve Grosbeak, will debate. On May 7, at ten, candidates Count Cernix von Stromberger, Mr. Lester Twining, and Mrs. Manilla Twining will debate. On May 14, also at ten, Mr. Rusty Irons, Mr. Reggie Thimble, and Mrs. Gladys Thimble shall exchange views. Mr. Hubert Sanders, of the Puma Stockmen's Bank, will moderate. We look forward to seeing you.'”
“Yoicks!” said I.
“It's nothing. We shall defeat them handily,” said Cernix.
Sally was muttering something as she dished out eggs and bacon, loaded bowls with oatmeal, slapped toast on the table, clapped a plate of butter next to the toast, and started more eggs because I always wanted five.
But I couldn't eat. I stared dumbfounded at the steaming food, paralyzed. I eyed the other two candidates, who were toying with their breakfasts. I finally set my fork down and stared helplessly at the window.
“Well?” asked Sally, whose forehead glistened with the morning's labor.
“Maybe I should quit. I never wanted to be a supervisor anyway.”
“You're worrying about the debate? It's easy. Just talk about whatever comes to mind,” said the count. “Just enjoy yourself, and be aware they haven't brains enough to put in a shoebox.”
“Who hasn't?” asked Sally.
“The whole collective lot except for us.”
“I can't just get up there and jabber away. That's worse than getting executed by a firing squad,” I said.
“Nah, it's fine. Just remember words are bullets, and you got to fire them faster than the rest,” said Rusty.
But I wasn't buying it. “I'll get cremated,” I said.
“Where's your spine, Cotton Pickens?” Sally asked. “I thought you were a real man, but now I'm not so sure.”
That did it. “All right, but it's like someone pinned a bull's-eye on my chest,” I said. “And I don't want to be a supervisor that bad. I don't speak ideas so hot.”
“Sure you do,” Cernix said. “What you need to do is talk about your dreams. Just ignore what the rest are jawing about, and talk about your dreams. Don't even say what you'll do in office. Talk about a county where friends can gather in a saloon and have a good time being friendly, and a cowboy can come to town and enjoy the bright lights instead of being stuck out on some ranch with nothing but cows for pals. Talk about that. Talk about a county where everyone's free to do what he wants, without all these rules they're thinking up. You want to persuade people? Talk about freedom. You want to be free to do whatever you feel like doing, and you want the same for everyone else. That's what I'm going to say. I'll be glad to debate Mrs. Twining. I'll drive her back into her gopher hole.”
I dabbled with my eggs, ate the bread except for the crusts, and scorned the marmalade because it was for sissies.
Rusty, he was just wolfing down chow and grinning. But he was red-haired, and that meant he was spoiling for a fight, and it didn't matter whether it was female dragons or county commissioners. He'd step right in, all right, and leave a few bloody noses. And there was something else about Rusty. He'd spray out a few compliments, charm the ladies, smile at his opponents, and walk away with a victory. I envied him. But my ma always said redheads were the lucky ones.
But the very thought of getting up there on the courthouse steps and addressing all them people on the square, it just made me faint. I'd rather be at my own hanging.
It just sort of hung over me after that. I walked over to the Courthouse Square and eyed it. Now it looked different, like it was enemy turf, or maybe they'd be building a big scaffold for me there, with a noose and a trapdoor, and were all just waiting for me to show up and start jabbering while I stood on the trapdoor. It was like if I failed to carry the day, they'd just spring the trapdoor, and I'd be history.
All I could do was sweat a little, try to greet people, avoid Lem Clegg or his boys, who were looking for excuses to nab me, and hope I'd survive. I wasn't very sure of it. But one thing was clear. I had no choice. If I wanted to win the election, I'd have to debate the Grosbeaks.
Over the next few days, I couldn't eat and lost five pounds, and tried to think up what I would say, but my mind would simply start buzzing, like a saw cutting a log, and then I'd give up and think that me and Critter could just blow town and let the rest take care of itself.
And then it got worse. I wasn't sure I was right anymore. Maybe women should vote. Maybe all the saloons should be shut down. Maybe all the cathouses should be sealed up forever. Maybe I wasn't thinking straight now. So doubts began to gnaw at me along with all the rest. I got no help from Sally or Cernix or Rusty. I was getting so tense I spent twenty minutes in the outhouse each day, instead of three. I wondered why I didn't just collect Critter and ride out and never return.
Nonetheless, May 1 rolled around, and it was going to be a pleasant spring day, and the debate would be in the square, with the speakers on the courthouse steps. I studied the arrangement, looking for an excuse to escape, but I couldn't think of anything. At Barney's Beanery they cheered me along: “Just like a hanging party, Cotton. You'll be fine but for a busted neck.”
“Thanks,” I said, checking it to make sure.
I remembered what the Temperance women were saying about my clothing, and managed to get my union suit washed, along with my stockings, and even got some grease rubbed into my scruffy boots so they didn't look too bad. By ten o'clock I was resigned to my doom and met with the others on the platform. A goodly crowd had collected. No one in Doubtful had ever heard a debate before, and that sure excited some interest. It wasn't so much a debate as letting each candidate have his speak, but that was okay, too. I'd let the lawyers do the arguing.
I looked pretty clean, but I wasn't up to Amos Grosbeak, who wore a dark three-piece suit, with a cravat and a gold watch fob. Shiny shoes completed his ensemble. And I wasn't up to Eve Grosbeak, either, who wore a dark suit that buttoned clear up to her neck, with a wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off. I wished I hadn't worn my stained old hat, battered and friendly and just right for a warm sunny day, but it was too late.
The moderator, the banker Hubert Sanders, looked sporty in a brown tweed suit and a polka-dot bow tie. He had fine sideburns and a little jutting Vandyke beard, along with fine mustachios, which make him look formidable when he was turning down a loan application.
I was glad there was a spring breeze, which kept black circles from growing under my armpits. I peered out upon the sea of faces and saw nothing but good cheer. Lots of women out there. Not many children, thank heaven. Over yonder was Sheriff Clegg and his boy deputies, keeping order for this amazing event. There was a little speaking stand set up there, and someone told me it was called a lectern, and a fellow could get behind it, feel safe, hammer a fist into it, and read from notes. But I had no notes. I'd just try to tell it the way I saw it.
At a minute or two after ten, Sanders studied his gold pocket watch, tucked it back in, and rapped for attention.
“Good morning, good morning,” he said. “What a fine day for a debate. I'm so glad you good folks have come forth to listen to our candidates talk about Puma County, and the issues now before us.”
I finally saw Cernix and Rusty at the back of the crowd, but Sally was nowhere in sight, which may have been a wise move. Sanders talked a minute about the Women's Temperance Union and how it sponsored this public-spirited event, and then he got down to business.
“Now, I've decided to conduct our debate in this fashion. Ladies first. And then Age before Beauty. That means we'll hear from the lovely Eve Grosbeak first, and then her fine husband Amos, the incumbent, and lastly, our fine former sheriff and protector, Mr. Cotton Pickens.”
I desperately needed to take a leak and pondered a way to get to the outhouses behind the courthouse, but it was too late. I'd stand cross-legged and hope the others weren't too windy. Maybe I could unload some coffee from behind that lectern if it got real bad. There might be a puddle, but no one would figure it out.
“Now, our first topic this golden morning will be women's suffrage, and we're including it because it is an issue in the supervisor campaign. One of the candidates wishes to repeal the vote for women, at least in Puma County, as I understand it, and if I err here, he will clarify his view in due course. Now, without further ado, I am honored to present Eve Grosbeak, candidate for the office of Puma County supervisor.”
Eve stepped right up, looking pert and snappy, and there was a lot of polite applause scattered through the crowd. Truth to tell, no one had ever seen a female candidate for any public office before, and it was sort of scary. There had been Cleopatra back in Egypt somewheres, but that was ancient history, and since then you couldn't find anyone anywhere, except maybe Queen Elizabeth or some of them other royals. But in the good old US of A, she was pure strangeness. She drew some papers from her handbag, placed some pince-nez on her nose, smiled, and plunged in.
“I'm sure I'm a great oddity to you, my dear people, but you'll see that I am truly the wave of the future not just in Wyoming, but clear across our fair and beautiful republic,” she said.
It seemed to me that she had already captured the entire crowd, even before she got cranked up, and she wouldn't even need to launch a stem-winder of a talk to walk away with the whole shebang. Women had all the advantages. All they had to do was smile, like she was, and they'd get whatever they wanted. I vowed I wouldn't smile a bit when I talked, and I'd show them what a stern and unsmiling man meant to Doubtful, Wyoming.
C
HAPTER
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HIRTY
HAPTER
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HIRTY
But Eve Grosbeak wasn't smiling. Instead, she surveyed all those faces, caught the attention of all those people who had come to see something unheard of: a woman running for office. She turned quietly to me.
“I will talk about woman suffrage,” she began, “because it was made an issue in this campaign. One of the candidates wishes to repeal the right for women to vote granted in the Wyoming constitution, or at least nullify it in Puma County. He is a fine man, and was a fine sheriff.
“But I am puzzled, Mr. Pickens. In what ways do you feel we are unequal to men, and unqualified to vote for candidates? I hope you will tell us. Do you feel we are less intelligent? If so, explain how that is the case. Do you think we have less spine and resolution than males? If so, please explain. Do you feel we are too sheltered, that the world is too harsh and cruel for our tender eyes to behold? Do tell us if this is your view. Is it simply because you are a traditionalist and want nothing new, and shy from progress? Tell that to us, too. Do you suppose we are less moral or ethical, and this counts against us? Give us your opinion of that. I know that every man, woman, and child before us wishes to know.”
Then, surprisingly, she abandoned the podium. I was digging in for a long-winded diatribe. What woman didn't talk twice too much? But there she was, smiling gently and settling in her seat.
“Well, now, that was short and sweet,” said the banker. “Next is Mr. Amos Grosbeak, the incumbent.”
Eve's husband proceeded gently to the podium, looking uncomfortable in his best suit, best cravat, starched white shirt, polished high-top shoes, and new shave gotten at Brubaker's Tonsorial Parlor.
“Well now, esteemed citizens, dear wife, cherished friends, esteemed colleagues, admired voters, honored guests, and thoughtful listeners. I won't spend much time here. Mostly I wish to stand on my record, for progress, but measured progress, avoiding extremes, making each step forward sound and financially responsible. My opponents are saying, privately, that I have succumbed to the pressures of my active and political mate, but I will flatly deny that. I am no more henpecked than a bull moose. I listen to what she says, but draw my own conclusions in the bosom of my soul. And since I am standing on my record, there is no more to say, and I surrender this podium to the next esteemed candidate.”
“Well, well, the Grosbeaks have scarcely consumed five minutes,” Hubert Sanders said. “And without further ado, may I give you Mr. Cotton Pickens.”
I would rather have ridden a bucking bronc, but I was stuck, and at least I had one or two allies out there to clap.
I got behind that thing they called a lectern and studied the bunch, discovering a few flea-bitten smiles, which heartened me. It sure was a fine May day, with puffball clouds sailing merrily through the blue heavens.
I knew what I wanted to say, but the words came slow and poorly, so I couldn't get my thoughts together very well.
“Well, thanks a heap,” I said to all those swells in their fancy duds.
“I guess I've got some questions to answer. Truth to tell, the ladies are fine with me, and a lot smarter than I'll ever be. My ma, she was right smart, and there wasn't nothing in the world she didn't know about. That's not my problem with this at all.”
Some of that crowd were grinning, as if waiting for me to make a damned fool of myself. “Here's what happens when the women get the vote,” I said. “Freedom disappears. That's the long and short of it. Everything in the world is fine until they start telling us it ain't fine anymore. A man's got a right to do anything he wants, including ruin himself, if he chooses. He's got a right to walk into a saloon and order a drink and enjoy his friends. He's got a right to get into a fight and bust bottles over the heads of the rest, and they've got a right to bust his nose and bloody him up.
“If a man's got an itch, he's got a right to go get it scratched. If a man's got the need, he has a right to go fix his need wherever there are gals eager to fix him up. It's getting so a man can't breathe anymore. A man's almost got to have permission to walk through town. A man can't even lay a gob on the walkways. A man's getting more and more hog-tied and bound up and muffled and cuffed. A man can't even yell, or hoot, or tree a town. A man, well, you got the idea. This all happened after the women got the vote. They call it reform, but all it is, it's oppressing men and keeping men from being free. Any man wanting to do just what he pleases in life, any man wanting to prove he's a man, he's gonna oppose suffrage because that's where it all starts. Let them vote and the next thing they've got a Temperance society and they're shutting down the saloons and shutting everything else down, and life sure gets boring. They come on and on and on, thinking of what next to control, and pretty soon we'll all be their slaves. They got men hog-tied and henpecked and pussy-whipped and lassoed. It's like a man getting his beard shaved off even when he wants to keep it and grow it and make it the biggest beard in the county. So that's my platform. A man needs to be a man.”
There was a scatter of applause, but not much. I sat down, waiting to see what came next. I thought it was a pretty good talk I had given, and it got right to the heart of the matter. A man needed some spitting room.
“Well, young feller, that was eloquent. But I confess I don't feel hog-tied and lassoed,” said the moderator, Hubert Sanders. “Maybe I'm missing something.”
The next round involved the enactment of prohibition in Puma County, and once again, Eve Grosbeak was the first to speak.
“When there is evil in a community, we seek to cut it out. Where there is desperation and darkness, we seek to bring hope and light,” she said. “We sought to bring hope to the drunkard's family, to spare children and wives the beatings of men made into brutes by spirits. We sought to put food on the tables of families and keep drunks from spending in saloons what was needed by women and children.
“We sought to keep men who imbibed too much from killing or maiming one another, or shooting up the town, or wounding innocents. We sought to return the drunkard to the bosom of society, where he might again be welcomed by his loved ones and his colleagues. We sought by shutting down the gin mills to reduce the arrests and fines and trials and jailings of men made mad by spirits.
“We sought to subdue men who become monsters when imbibing, causing all manner of hurts on others. We sought to end the fears permeating Doubtful whenever liquored-up cowboys from the ranches go on a rampage, threatening the lives and honor of the gentlefolk here. We sought to end the exploitation of cowboys by card sharks operating in the saloons, cleaning liquored-up ranch men of every cent they earned.
“We sought to throw out of the county the conniving, scheming, cruel operators of dives and hellholes, whose only purpose is to extract everything they can get from cowboys, including their saddles, horses, and anything else they might in their stupor leave unguarded.
“My dear friends, here in Doubtful, we have peace and safety. We have comfort. Liquor and guns don't mix, and now we have a small paradise where we all can live without violence or tragedy . . . Let me tell you from the bottom of my soul, dear friends, prohibition is the best gift that Puma County ever received.”
She settled quietly in her seat. I sensed that there were some, all male, who would like to object, but knew they were outsmarted.
“Well, Mrs. Grosbeak, that was eloquent and moving,” said the moderator. “Now we'll hear from the incumbent, Amos Grosbeak.”
Amos got up, adjusted his cravat, and eyed the crowd. “Why, I'll stand on my record. Crimes of violence have declined, the town is safer, and all is quiet in Doubtful. While I yearn for a little sip once in a while, I think it is wise public policy to keep Doubtful dry. That's all I need to say.”
“Now, then, Mr. Pickens, it's your turn,” said the moderator.
“Oh, I can see how this here is running,” I said. “Mostly all that bad stuff, it's an exaggeration. Men just like a nice saloon to get together and chew the fat and enjoy life. Trouble with a dry county is there's nothing to do. I'm for freedom. A man should be free to do what he pleases. A man should be free to run the sort of shop he wants. That's all there is to it. You either have freedom or you start oppressing folks. And I'm for letting people have their way. That's all that needs saying.”
This time I got a fine round of applause, but I sure didn't see any women clapping.
Hubert Sanders began clearing his throat and acting nervous. He finally collected himself and began the next phase of the debate.
“Now, I've got to confess that I've never seen a public discussion of this little item, and it's something I'd rather not see, but here it is, and these brave women sponsoring this event have got it here for the candidates to talk about. I guess you all know what I'm talking about. But we'll proceed, but if this gets out of hand, why I'll ask the candidates to cease. And of course, all you sweet mothers, and fathers, too, you may wish to steer your children away. Little ears can be big funnels, and of course we honor innocence in children for as long as possible. So, without further ado, I'll turn your attention to Eve Grosbeak, and we'll just see how this goes.”
Eve paused at the lectern, gazing serenely at the crowd. No one left, and everyone was curious about how this would play out.
“I'm not going to talk about good and evil. I'm not going to talk about morals. I'm not going to refer to religion. I'm going to talk about something entirely different, the suffering and degradation and torment of those who have been forced into a brutal business, one that exploits its victims and sends them to an early grave in a pauper's corner of a cemetery.
“I'm not talking about wicked women and men, but victims. I'm talking about the poor women who are driven from their childhood homes by abusive fathers and have nowhere to go but this bleak life. I'm talking about women fleeing mean husbands, cruel families, or places with exaggerated ideas of right and wrong. I'm talking about desperate girls, who would not otherwise enter the life of an inmate of a bawdy house but for the sheer cruelty of circumstance.
“They are victims, made sick, made melancholy, made suicidal, made hopeless, made addicted, by the life they have fallen into. We, the Temperance women of Doubtful, are all proud that we have talked the supervisors into ending this awful, bleak slavery, this misery, in our fair county. We have closed these grim places. We have sent the exploiters who made money from this misery away from Puma County forever.
“We have eradicated evil in our midst, simply by enacting laws prohibiting it. What more is there to say? Along with closing the saloons, closing the houses of ill repute is our proudest achievement. I'm running on that achievement. There is work yet to do to make Doubtful a sanctuary of good marriage, the peaceful relationship of the sexes, and an island of respect for man or woman that we all can enjoy. Let us continue to fight vice and misery, which leads only to an early grave. I stand proudly before you, knowing that we have brought sunshine into the lives of many women and men, too, in our county.”
She smiled gently and returned to her seat. The crowd was very silent. More puffball clouds raced across the firmament. I sure didn't know what to say. I thought a lot of those girls liked the trade, but how could I even mention it? There were some gals, wild as March winds, who'd sure hate to give up the life. And they should be free to do so.
As expected, old Amos Grosbeak seconded his wife and said he was running on his record, and thought the world was better because there were real sweet ladies in it.
“And now we'll hear from Mr. Pickens,” said Hubert Sanders. “Where do you stand, sir?”
“This here's a private matter, and the county's got no business poking its nose in. I think it's none of anyone's business. My motto is,
âIf there's an itch, there needs to be someone to scratch it.'”
âIf there's an itch, there needs to be someone to scratch it.'”
Well, that was all that needed saying, so I returned to my seat.
Old Sanders, he thanked the crowd and said to come next week to hear the next debates, and pretty soon the crowd drifted off. No one came to me with a handshake or a slap on the back, but there sure were a mess of people smiling and shaking old Grosbeak's paw, and a mess more, mostly womenfolk, who'd gathered around Eve Grosbeak, and the women were all chattering away so fast it was plain unlikely anyone heard anyone else.
I slid out of there, entirely alone, and no one even noticed my passage. So that's how it was to run for office, I thought.
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