Searching for Silverheels (24 page)

Mrs. Carlisle let out a heavy sigh. “I'm sorry. My girls were always competitive, I'm afraid.”

“Mae got the best of everything,” Marjorie muttered.

“Now that's not true, dear. You got the high school education while Mae dropped out to marry. And you went to the Fourth of July barn dance with that boy you both liked. What was his name?”

“Thomas. And as you may recall, I went to the barn dance with him, but Mae
left
the barn dance with him.”

Mrs. Carlisle looked at us with a tired smile. “Whatever you say, dear. I'm sure these children aren't here to hear about all that.”

“No, ma'am,” Frank said. “We also learned about Mr. Lee, who grew up in Buckskin Joe, and I've talked to him about what he remembers.”

“And now you want to talk to me, too,” said Mrs. Carlisle with a pleased smile. “What can I tell you? My mind's like a steel trap, even at my age.”

“We wanted to know what you remember about Silverheels.”

“Oh, she was long gone by the time I can remember,” Mrs. Carlisle said dismissively. “But Silverheels wasn't the only important person in Buckskin Joe. Horace Tabor had a store there with his first wife, Augusta, before he made his
fortune in Leadville and left her for that hussy Baby Doe.” She shook her head. “Always the way with rich men, a good, hard-working woman like that abandoned for a pretty face.”

Frank glanced at me, his eyes begging for my help.

“Mrs. Carlisle, your daughter lent me this picture. I was wondering if you could tell me what you remember about it—or about any of these people.”

I held the old tintype out to her. She put a pair of spectacles on and examined it, running her finger along from person to person as she did.

“Lordy be! I haven't seen this picture in years. That's me there, and that's Tom Lee.” She gave a little chuckle. “Look at him, love struck as always for Emma Clark. Who could have blamed him—she was a pretty little thing, wasn't she.”

By now we were all gazing at the girl with the bow and the ringlets, the same girl the ten-year-old Tom was admiring in the image.

“I don't recall you ever talking about an Emma Clark, Mother,” Marjorie said. “Did she stay on in Buckskin Joe?”

“For a time. I suppose I never much talked about her because I was jealous, along with every other girl in town. Every boy who cast eyes on Emma had no eyes for any of the rest of us, and you know how that is. Nothing blinds a girl like jealousy. Just look at my two daughters, both thinking the other had it better than them.”

“Mae did have it better than me,” Marjorie said. “She was always everyone's favorite.”

Mrs. Carlisle looked back down at the picture. “Poor Tom. He was smitten.”

“What happened to Emma Clark?” Marjorie asked. “Did Tom marry her?”

“She married a farmer who came up from Kentucky. They claimed homesteads in South Park, side by side so they could put them together as one. Once they proved up on those, they claimed a few more. Eventually had one of the finest spreads in Park County. When his pa died back in Kentucky, they pulled up stakes and headed back down south. As I recall, Tom bought their spread. I think he was still secretly in love with Emma, though she had a husband and child by then. He couldn't have her, so he bought up her ranch to remember her by.”

Frank's brow was all scrunched up by now. She stopped and looked at him.

“Something the matter, son?” she asked.

“Not exactly. It's just that Mr. Lee said that it was Silverheels who had that ranch and who left for Kentucky and sold it to him.”

Mrs. Carlisle laughed. “Tom Lee's gotten mighty confused in his old age. In those days there was a big Fourth of July pageant down in Fairplay every summer, and we kids from Buckskin Joe put on a little play about Silverheels. And every time, pretty little Emma, with her blond curls, got the part of Silverheels, while the rest of us girls had to be dying miners, all covered with ugly pox. Poor Tom was so in love with her
he probably came to think of her as the real Silverheels.”

I didn't realize I was smiling until I looked at Frank and saw him smiling back. I turned to Mrs. Carlisle.

“Well, if Mr. Lee didn't know the real Silverheels, was there anyone in Buckskin Joe in your day who did?”

“A couple of old miners,” she said. “One fellow whose face was all scarred with pockmarks would sit outside the saloon and tell his story to anyone who'd buy him whiskey. The poor old drunk.” She shook her head sadly and looked back down at the old tintype. Then her face lit up with surprise.

“Oh, there was her!” she said, jabbing her finger at the woman holding the child.

“The school mistress?” I asked.

“I'd forgotten about her. She wasn't really a school mistress. The year this picture was taken we didn't have a teacher. She was the oldest girl in the school, so she taught the little ones their letters and did what she could for us older ones. Mostly, we read the books left behind by the previous teacher.”

“And she knew Silverheels?”

“She never talked about it, but apparently her pa died in the epidemic, when she was about twelve, and she was orphaned.”

“What about her mother?” Frank asked.

“Her ma was an Indian, but I don't really know what happened to her. Some folks said she ran off with her tribe and never came back. Some folks said the child was so homely not even her own mother wanted her. You know how vicious rumors can be. Folks said Silverheels had been the child's only
true friend in town and she was heartbroke when the dancer disappeared. She went up into the mountains with a search party, looking for Silverheels, but they got caught in a blizzard, nearly froze to death. She lost all her toes on one foot to frostbite. Never did walk quite right, even when I knew her.”

I was staring at Mrs. Carlisle, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“What was her name?” Frank asked.

“Good heavens, I haven't thought of her in years. Let me see, what was her name?” Mrs. Carlisle pursed her lips and thought. “It was something Spanish or French as I recall.”

“Sefa?” I asked.

Mrs. Carlisle looked at me, her eyebrows popping up in surprise. “Why, yes, that's it. Sefa Weldon. It was short for Josephine, but since there were several Joes in town, folks called her Sefa, to keep them straight. She left Buckskin Joe not long after this photograph was taken, I think. After we got a real teacher. I wonder what ever became of her.”

I said nothing in reply, but I was pretty sure I knew—or would by the end of her hearing that afternoon.

H
ow did you know her name, Pearl?” Frank demanded as soon as we left Mrs. Carlisle's house and headed back toward the courthouse. He sounded annoyed, and I couldn't blame him. After all, we had both promised to share whatever we learned with each other, and now he thought I had been holding back. But I hadn't. I hadn't known Sefa was real, hadn't known Josie had ever been in South Park before she took over the Como newspaper office twenty years before.

“I didn't know,” I said.

“Yes, you did.”

“Josie told me—but I thought she made it up.”

“Josie told you?” Then the shock of recognition swept over his face and he froze on the sidewalk.

“Good heavens! You don't mean—Josephine? Josie?!”

“And she says Silverheels was a cheat and a thief and a liar!” I said, walking faster. I didn't want to talk about it or even think about it.

Frank scrambled to catch up to me again. “So she's bitter—no wonder, if she felt abandoned by Silverheels. It's another
lead we should follow. We have to talk to her and get the whole story from her.”

“I don't want the whole story. I just want to go home,” I said.

“Pearl, I don't understand. Why are you so angry? Please, talk to me!”

I heard the hurt in his voice, and the anger and humiliation ran out of me. Frank did not deserve my anger. I apologized, and once we were back on the streetcar, headed downtown, I held his hand once again. As we rode, I told him everything about Sefa—her unrequited love for Buck, her helplessness when he died, and how she nursed the dying without thanks while Silverheels stole their hearts and their gold.

Frank shook his head when I finished. “No wonder she's such a bitter old woman. No wonder she hates Silverheels so much.”

I nodded. “It's like Russell says. You can't know someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes. I guess if it had been me, I'd hate everybody too.”

“She doesn't hate everybody,” Frank said.

I surprised us both by snorting like a donkey. I guess that's what bitterness does to a person.

“She doesn't,” Frank insisted. “She just—I don't know. Wants to be right more than she wants to be liked, I think.”

I was quiet then, thinking about that. It was what the whole exchange between us had been about. She had wanted to win. Maybe she hadn't been laughing at me the whole time. Maybe
she just wanted to be right. To be heard. To be vindicated.

Frank smiled to himself. “At least we know now who's been fixing up Buck Wilson's grave.”

I nodded. “I guess we do.”

*    *    *

The courthouse was a busy place when we arrived. Lawyers and judges were scurrying around with stacks of paper and books under their arms. Families, friends, and enemies were sitting in the hallways on benches or filing in and out of courtrooms.

We found Russell on a bench outside a tiny courtroom on the second floor of the courthouse. He was dressed in a suit and tie and his hair was neatly slicked down, but unlike Josie who cleaned up real slick, Russell still looked like a hayseed, as Josie had called us. I'm sure I did too.

“It's a fairly simple hearing,” he explained when he saw us. “She's waived her right to a lawyer—says she'd rather speak for herself.”

“I wish she had taken a lawyer,” I said, and Russell and Frank nodded.

“You know how Josie is,” Russell said. “I just hope she doesn't get herself into worse trouble. There's no jury. It's just her and the judge and the policeman who arrested her. I doubt we'll really have a chance to do or say anything to help her, but we can at least sit in there and let her know folks are pulling for her.”

Frank and I nodded. It wasn't much, but it was something.

An hour later, Josie, escorted by a policeman, approached down the hallway. I looked hard at her, harder than I had ever looked before. I guess I was searching for some sign of the brokenhearted, rejected little girl, or the aching loss that would bring her back to clean Buck Wilson's grave nearly sixty years later. She did look a little worse for wear after several days in jail, but otherwise she was the same Josie I'd always known. Tough, cranky, outspoken Josie, ready to take on anybody for her cause. Josie who was proud to have never taken a husband, who refused to be beholden to anyone.

We followed her into the courtroom. The judge entered and took his place at the bench. He read the charges—obstructing traffic, creating a public nuisance, and resisting arrest. I was relieved to hear no mention of sedition. He asked Josie for her plea.

She said clearly, “Not guilty.” My relief evaporated.

The judge cleared his throat. “Miss Gilbert. Allow me to clarify your position. Four other women were cited for obstructing traffic and creating a public nuisance along with you. Those ladies pled guilty to the charges, paid their fines, and have gone home to their husbands where they belong. Their acceptance of the charge will be used as evidence against you should you deny guilt.

“These are not serious charges, and if you are willing to pay the fine and return home to”—he consulted the paper in front of him—“to Como, we are willing to drop the resisting arrest charge, which is more serious.”

“I will not!” Josie said, her back straightening. “We have a constitutional right to assembly and to free speech. There was no obstruction of anything but justice.”

“And the charge of resisting arrest, madam? We have a police officer here with some mighty big bruises on his shins that I am willing to admit as evidence. Plenty of witnesses were on hand. I'd say the state has a clear case against you.”

“I was resisting false imprisonment on false charges. Your police force does not have the authority to ride roughshod over my constitutional rights just because the exercise of my free speech is an embarrassment to them,” Josie said.

I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. She was doing exactly what I had feared she would—arguing and insisting she was right against something that was too big for her. Fighting a battle she couldn't win just because it was the right thing to do. But there was no point to it. She couldn't win this war from inside a prison cell. She'd be locked up and forgotten. No one would even know she was there, sacrificing her freedom.

The judge cleared his throat and shuffled his papers again. “Miss Gilbert, I don't think you fully understand the gravity of your situation. Should this go to trial, the prosecution's case against you will be watertight. When you are convicted of resisting arrest and of assaulting a police officer in the process, you will find the consequences severe—a steep fine and quite probably a lengthy stay in jail.”

“Are you saying you've found me guilty already, without due process, Judge Gifford?” Josie said. “I don't believe that's legal either.”

The judge's eyes narrowed. “Due process will not be denied you, Miss Gilbert. I am simply trying to advise you of the folly of your current course of action. You have elected to dispense with legal representation, so I want you to clearly understand. As far as I can tell from the facts of this case, there is ample evidence against you and very little that supports your claim of innocence. The state, in bringing this case forward, has admissions of guilt from your associates, witnesses, the physical evidence of injury to the police officer and his possessions. They even have here a letter from a concerned citizen in Como, recounting a similar assault made by you on railroad personnel there, and the public danger of your ongoing seditious activities. It is, madam, a solid case against you. The court is willing, however, to let you off with a lesser fine and a warning, should you elect to plead guilty.”