Etta: A Novel Page 16

  In the wooded area around the Lyon Creek, they stopped to regroup.

  “That was brave, what you done,” Butch told Dave Atkins. “Figure to come with us back to the Hole?”

  “No,” Dave Atkins said. “The missus and me are fed up with the life. She only agreed to help because it was Harry, and then only because, to her, Harry means Etta. No offense, but you and Ben are just a bonus. Anyways we figure, with the way the bread went over with them jail-house screws, we might as well try selling it someplace else legit.”

  Butch laughed. “No doubt it was the best thing about this particular pokey. Think you'll make a go of it?”

  “Hell, yes,” Dave said, with a grin. “Last time I had this much money, we turned a mail car to kindling. What about you, Harry?”

  Harry Longbaugh shook his head. “Business. Back east.”

  Ben picked the rifle from his saddle sleeve and began to load it. “I'll meet you in Philadelphia soon as you need me,” he said, “but I better stick here a little longer. Maybe figure some way to spring Laura. Who knows? I might even get two words in gratitude.”

  The bandits shook hands all around. Hantaywee formed a sign in the air that the white men figured meant goodbye. With a whoop of triumph, Dave Atkins and his bride headed south for the long panhandle of Oklahoma. Ben Kilpatrick searched the flat horizon for a place to hide, then spurred his horse through a thicket and was gone.

  With a silent salute, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid spun their mounts in a circle, making for the East and Etta Place.

  From the

  PHILADELPHIA MIRROR

  December 26, 1901

  LOCAL VILLAIN MURDERED IN HORRIBLE CHRISTMAS MASSACRE!

  MAN IS SUSPECTED MEMBER OF

  LOCAL “BLACK HAND”!

  FOUND BOUND AND CRUELLY STABBED!

  POLICE HAVE NO CLUES!

  MAN SEEN RUNNING AWAY!

  In the predawn hours of one of our holiest days, a man suspected of membership in the City's Sicilian “Black Hand” organization was found bound with wire and stabbed once directly through the heart. The victim, an immigrant believed to be involved in crimes ranging from kidnapping to murder, was discovered in a meat locker at 1061 South Ninth Street in the heart of Italian Town.

  The grisly scene was reported by Vincenzo A. Ianucci, the proprietor of Sorrentino Home Meat and Grocery of the above address. The Sicilian said he did not know the dead man and had no idea who would have committed such a sickening act of murder, but that he did see a dark man running from the ghastly scene.

  The victim was identified as Dante G. Cichetti of 830 Snyder Avenue. Police told the Mirror that Ianucci, far from being unfamiliar with the deceased, was Cichetti's employer and often engaged him to carry out various nefarious deeds. Cichetti was well known to South Philadelphia policemen as a member of the infamous Hand, an organized group of no-goods and street arabs who are involved here in crimes of all descriptions, most of them victimizing their own countrymen.

  Reached at his home by telephone, third district police captain Roland V. Dunkenfield told the Mirror that he was unsurprised by such heinous goings-on and that, as long as our nation continued to make the mistake of allowing the most lowborn of immigrants onto our shores, such horrors would continue unabated.

  “These people not only perpetrate these gruesome horrors,” he said, “but they are also known for their treasonous participation in socialism and anarchism. The Italian race is particularly prone to such violence.”

  From the description of the suspect, it is likely that he too is of Italianate stock. Police are searching for a tall man with dark hair, eyes, and mustache and with a pronounced brown birthmark above his lip. He was described as being “elegantly dressed in the manner of a gentleman” and, incongruously, wearing the kind of high-heeled, pointed boots usually associated only with those in the western cattle trade.

  or Etta, the most difficult of the trick shots had been the one called About Face, which obliged one to grip a rifle backward on one shoulder and obliterate a target reflected in a mirror. But with a few days' practice and some advice from Colonel Cody himself, she was able to carry it out, along with the rest of Annie Oakley's repertoire.

  Still, she couldn't imagine that anybody would be fooled by the deception. After all, “Little Sure Shot” was world famous and had performed, as the posters proclaimed, “before the crowned heads of Europe.”

  “Sure, kings and queens have gotten a good look at her,” Buffalo Bill said, “but the rubes in Fayetteville, North Carolina, will believe their own eyes and what we tell 'em. Just like when we tell 'em that a bunch of plowboys from Arkansas are Russian-goddamn-Cossacks. They'll believe us because it's in their interest to believe us. They paid their hard-earned money for you to be Annie Oakley, and by God, as long as you don't screw up, you'd be Annie Oakley to them even if you was two heads taller than her, 'stead of just one, and them two heads was side by side. Besides, a tall and pretty Annie Oakley adds value to the price of the ducat.”

  Etta had laughed at the image of a two-headed girl shooting at both heads on a Jack of diamonds as the crowd applauded, but Cody seemed to know what he was doing, and so far no member of the cast had expressed doubt of any kind that she could pull off the charade.

  “But just to be on the safe side,” Cody had said, “we'll get you an extra-big horse—make you look smaller. I guarantee they'll love you more than they ever did the original.”

  Cody was as good as his word, and wherever they traveled, Etta's act was greeted with delight, no questions asked. Now, as she waited behind a purple curtain for her opening music, Etta no longer feared discovery. All would be well, Cody had said, as long as they kept “Miss Oakley” away from reporters and dumb-shit local politicians who might have met her before or wanted their picture taken with the phenom.

  Far more difficult than learning the trick shot over the shoulder, Etta mused, had been leaving her “Little Nell.” She had made certain that, despite the incident of the kiss, her relationship with Eleanor remained unchanged. She knew, if she did not maintain their usual schedule of work, luncheons, and walks, that her sensitive friend would read such a change as displeasure, even disgust. And so they saw each other as often as always, and Etta never hesitated to tell Nell how much she reveled in the pleasure of her company.

  Together they dedicated themselves to the Rivington Street Settlement, dealing every day with the beaten and scorned women of the slums and sweatshops. Eleanor continued to teach dancing and champion Rivington to her wealthy friends. Etta taught the intricacies of English and, when necessary, handled a broom or mop with the aplomb she had once applied to a Winchester rifle or Army Colt. And several times a week the two repaired to the Alhambra, where, amid steam and privacy, they sought to dissolve the cares of loneliness. With the passage of time, Etta had even resumed speaking to Nell of her “husband” and how their long separation tore at her heart.

  But even the sweet repair of such a valuable association could not forever stave off the evil of the outside world.

  When word of Rodman Larabee's murder finally reached her, Etta had been filled with remorse. Were it not for her and her troubles, the kind old lawyer would still be alive. Along with her guilt came fear. Such a gentle old soul could not have been expected to keep silent under torture, so she assumed her secrets were now exposed to the Sicilians: Her false name, her job, her last-known whereabouts—all were now theirs to exploit. Joining Cody's Wild West had begun as a way to earn a living without raiding the Brooklyn treasure. Now it became Etta's refuge, providing both an escape from the Black Hand's long reach and an identity so big it allowed her to hide in plain sight.

  But staying in New York was out of the question, even as Annie Oakley. If the Hand should somehow discover her charade they would surely have no compunction about torturing the truth from those whom Etta held closest. They had already done so with Rodman Larabee. It required no genius to deduce that the next poor target could be Eleanor her
self.

  Nor was confessing the truth an option. If the mob could find her, so could the Pinkertons, who in their own way were just as ruthless. Would Nell's status as the president's niece stop them from exposing Etta and destroying her friend's reputation? Would the Pinks travel to the prison where Harry and her friends lay captive and use the methods of interrogation of which every good outlaw had heard and to which so many had been bloodily subjected?

  No. She had known she must lie once again. And the lie she would create for Eleanor must be a fine one, simple and easy to believe. A falsehood equal to an outlaw of her stature.

  The deception had begun with a short note, the kind the two women exchanged almost daily:

  My Dearest Nell,

  Good morning!

  Dearest, it is urgent that I see you. There has been a very important development in my life … and I fear it must now affect yours as well.

  I beg that you reply posthaste, as the events surrounding me are by no means patient. Will you come and see me at Mrs. Taylor's, two o'clock tomorrow?

  Through all, my Little Nell, I remain your faithful

  Etta

  The next day, Eleanor had arrived at the appointed hour. Etta had reserved the small sitting room for the hour and ordered tea and cakes. They greeted as always, kissing each cheek in the European manner. They sat side by side, their hands entwined, and traded the sort of pleasantries that the highborn have always been instructed to exchange, even in the most dire of situations. The river of civilization, they had been warned, did not cease just because one's emotions were in danger of flood.

  Etta had looked into those huge hooded blue eyes. She noted the twist of the mouth that had trained itself to remain closed lest its teeth become evident and reveal their owner as imperfect. But all of Nell was beautiful to her now: the golden hair, the prominent nose, even the chin that often seemed as if it wished to hide from the remainder of the face.

  “Dearest,” she began, “I would not for all the earth injure you or disappoint you in any way. You have been my salvation in this cruel city. You have brought me work and laughter and friendship and love. I tell you right out that I have not asked you here to renounce that love, as I could not, even if I tried.

  “But I now do tell you that I must go away for a time, away from my precious Nell. As we always knew would happen, Mr. Place has at last sent for me. His business in the West is now completed but his plans have changed. Instead of coming here to New York, he has wired me to join him in Virginia, where he will be making a series of calls in the near future. Therefore, I must leave for Washington this Tuesday and, I am afraid, be gone many months.

  “But oh, my dear, please believe that my excitement at seeing my husband again is matched by the sorrow of leaving you, my only Nell. You who have been left to loneliness so many times.”

  For a moment Eleanor had sat still, as if failing to comprehend her friend's words. Then she bowed her head like a mourner and wept noiselessly. Etta, too, began to grieve in a manner she could only liken to the tears of parting that fell on that train platform in Yellow Jacket, what now seemed a lifetime ago.

  “I implore you, Nell, to have courage … because if you do not then surely I too must fall to fragments. And I promise you that wherever I am, small town or big city, I shall write every day, even if is only to remind you that your friend has not forgotten you, that you are ever in my thoughts. Even if it is only to remind you never to forget me.”

  Eleanor's head snapped up. A tendril of blond hair had fallen from her perfect coiffure and onto her forehead. The immense eyes seemed stricken with a kind of panic but then dissolved into a misery total and immeasurable.

  “Oh, no. No, dearest,” Eleanor said, “that can never happen! As if I could ever forget one moment of our time. As if I could ever forget the kindness you have shown to an ugly girl by bestowing some of your beauty on me.”

  Etta had grabbed Eleanor in her long arms and held her tightly. The girl had struggled for a moment and then collapsed in a flood of hot tears against the shoulder of her friend.

  “Too ugly” she had murmured. “Always … too ugly…”

  And then, with a blast of trumpets, Etta's reverie was shattered.

  The orchestra began playing her into the arena as the roar of the citizens of Paducah, Kentucky, welcomed Annie Oakley to the center of the great tent. The crowd, swollen by Christmas celebration, was larger even than the one in Charleston.

  As Etta steadied her giant horse, she bowed to the throng, a buffalo gun held high above her head. Then she began to shoot: the cigarette from Peg Leg's mouth, the clay Indians from thin air, the five bull's-eyes reflected in the mirror. And at this performance, at least, every blast seemed to strike a target deep inside her own heart.

  LETTER TO JOSIAH LONGBAUGH

  12 State St., Phoenixville, Pa.

  26 December 1901

  Dear Father,

  On the day of His birth, I have committed a grievous crime against Him that died for us. And yet I know that had the life I ended lasted longer it could have destroyed her whom I prize so much that I would risk my soul's eternity.

  Yes, I killed a man. I do not know if his widow or children cry that his life was cut short. But, Father, this was a ruthless man. A Italian of no conscience that kills cold and greedy. And he would have got my girl on but one show of her face.

  Once I got to Philadelphia it did not take long to find out where the Black Hand made camp or who their soldiers were. For two dollars, a pair of street arabs told me all about the kid who was going around local taverns, telling tales of the Wild West and the beautiful woman he would kill sure as daybreak. After that, it was all tracking and patience.

  I am writing this letter to you from a Papist church in that City of Brotherly Love, inside which I have sat this long hour, looking into the face of His mother, Mary, her that the Catholics worship just as much as Jesus Himself. I have waited here this long time for the remorse to overwhelm me or to take their confession or to tell my crime to one of their black sisters, but all I can feel is the chill of the icebox in which the deed was done. The coldness around my shoulders makes me shiver.

  No matter. In cold blood or hot, he is kilt and my love is safe. And if they do not take my warning, then woe to them they send to finish his work.

  By the time you read this I will have gone where my love is. The Pinks have done all they can to keep our escape quiet, and I fear she does not know I am now back in the world. I must find her quickly, as every hour she believes me in a cage must be, for her, the devil's own worry.

  I think it is only through the warmth of my Etta that I will ever shake this chill. If I should never find her, then when other sinners ask me if there is a Hell for what I have done, I will tell them yes. It is here on Earth. And cold.

  My best to you and for your health, Father.

  Affectionately, your son,

  Harry Longbaugh

  4

  he young woman pouring his coffee was as plain as the surface of a milk pail, one of those people who, all of their lives, seem doomed to be a single color, all contrast eliminated from crown to collar: pale hair and pale eyes matched with pale skin and lips. Looking at such a washed-out wretch, Detective Charles A. Siringo tried to imagine what it must have been like for a traveling drummer to sit at this very table after an endless train ride and be served by the vision that was Etta Place.

  The white-on-white girl took his order and placed a copy of the Grand Junction Citizens News beside his steaming cup. He had read these same stories in every little town on the frontier. Read them more than once.

  There was the attempt to form this committee or that (today it was a committee to provide a library). There was also the requisite small-town theft (today's story recounted the theft of a butter churn from the porch of a Mr. C. E. Buckley and family). He wasn't expecting to read about anything as sensational as a murder, let alone the murder of one of his own thugs.

  It had been two day
s since he had received a wire from Weston Sims, Pinkerton's man in Philadelphia. Siringo had assumed that the Hand would eventually deal with Dante Cichetti. After all, no criminal organization could abide providing the Pinks with information. He had expected to hear in time that Dante was found hanging from a meat hook or discovered washed up alongside the Delaware, dollar bill in mouth, but his end had been far less dramatic. Cichetti had been simply and unceremoniously shot in the head. The telegram had included no evidence as to the identity of the culprit.

  As morbidly interesting as all this was, Siringo had little time to muse over the demise of another guttersnipe. Kid Curry was now his competitor in locating Etta Place, and the little man's trail was getting cold. He knew Curry hated the girl, and what Curry hated he killed.

  Siringo also knew that if Curry caught up to their quarry first, he would certainly bury her where she would never be found; even if he did not, Curry was unlikely to leave enough of her pretty face behind to identify. This would never do. As much as her capture, Siringo's mission was Etta's positive identification. It was all that stood between Fred Harvey and the lawsuit of a lifetime.

  “I want her alive,” Harvey had said. “More important, they want her alive. Those Dixon bastards and their lawyers have made it clear that only a rope will make it nice and legal.”

  The newspaper was four pages as they always were: one large sheet folded carefully in half. Siringo knew that if he turned past the third page there was apt to be some news from a place other than Grand Junction, and he was right. At the top of page four, in a larger font than usual, he read the words:

  PHILA. VILLAIN MURDERED IN HORRIBLE

  CHRISTMAS MASSACRE!

  At first he was amazed that, in this isolated place, he should read a piece of wire-service copy from a big eastern city about the very man he had recently interrogated. Exactly as Sims had stated, the gunsel's death had come swiftly. Perhaps a rival faction of Philadelphia's criminals had begun cleaning house in a bid to consolidate power or territory or, as was often the case, to take revenge. But the Pinkerton man's theory of the crime was instantly altered as he read the description of the suspect: of Italianate stock… a tall man with dark hair, eyes, and mustache… brown birthmark above his lip.