Telegraph Days: A Novel Read online

  If you’re interested in finding out quick how impatient the human race is, just apprentice yourself to a telegraph operator sometime. The old lady who had been first in line wanted to order pincushions and paperweights and she wanted them ordered from a store in Cincinnati. The cowboy who was hard on bull snakes wanted seventeen cattle cars waiting in Dodge City for noon departure to Kansas City. Preacher Milton was in dire need of extra hymnbooks, the pack rats having chewed up most of the available supply. Leo Oliphant was running low on palatable brown ale—he wanted twenty cases of the best sent out at once. Doc Siblee was out of tongue depressors, and the light twine he used for stitches was nearly all used up.

  I really wanted this job, and I hadn’t been officially hired yet, so I was as patient as a pet possum, although some requests purely stumped me.

  Two stout gray-haired ladies who looked like sisters wanted me to send off a wire to Buffalo Bill—they wanted him to send each of them an autographed picture.

  “Get him to send one of him scalping an Indian, if he has one,” the bossier of the two sisters requested.

  “Now that’s a fine thing to ask of a first-time telegrapher on her first day of work,” I told them, keeping my tone light and cheery. “I have no way of knowing where Buffalo Bill might be, much less whether he has photographs to spare.”

  The ladies were unimpressed by my claim of inexperience. They wanted what they had stood in line for, and so far I wasn’t providing it. If I ever stood for election in Rita Blanca I had a feeling I might not get their votes.

  “Use your wits, young lady,” one of them said sharply. “Everybody knows that his wife, Lulu Cody, lives in Rochester, New York. You just send off a wire to Lulu quick. Tell her that we want two pictures, and we want them signed by Buffalo Bill Cody himself.”

  I was trying to phrase a diplomatic reply to that question when help came from an unexpected source—namely the Skivvy Kid, who happened to be in line right behind the ladies. He wore brown long johns with a cheap gray vest over them. The vest could have used mending. He had a gun stuck in his belt, though not a very big gun. Far from looking like a hardened killer, he looked like a choirboy who had just got separated from his choir.

  “It would be a waste of time sending a wire all the way to Rochester,” he said. “Mr. Cody’s over in Leavenworth at the moment, organizing a buffalo hunt for some rich men.”

  The two women—by name the McClendon sisters—were loath to credit this information, even though it had come from the famous Skivvy Kid.

  “There aren’t any rich men in Leavenworth,” one of them told him. “We ought to know—our sister Mabel lives there.”

  “No ma’am, the rich men are coming from Chicago in a special train. If you’ll excuse me it’s my baby sister’s birthday—I’d like to send her a token of esteem.”

  He coolly stepped around the McClendon sisters—I expected this to bring a challenge, but the Skivvy Kid’s information had thrown the sisters into confusion; they abandoned the line for the moment and wandered off to discuss this new development.

  The Skivvy Kid had a wide gentle mouth and dreamy eyes—just the sort of eyes I’ve always been a sucker for. But I was at work and I intended to be as professional as possible. The Kid took a telegraph blank and stared at it for a time, with a sense of strain. I don’t think he knew what he wanted to say. Endearments may not have come easy to a man who seemed to live his life in his underwear.

  “What’s your sister’s name?” I asked, in an effort to be helpful.

  “Her name’s Jesse but we call her Little Peach,” he said, the sign of hard effort in his face.

  I took the pen and wrote a simple message: “Dear Little Peach stop I bet you’re so grown up I wouldn’t recognize you stop you’ll get a bear hug next time we meet stop love from—”

  Then I realized I didn’t know his real name.

  “Oh,” he said, seeing my dilemma. “I’m Andrew … just put Andy.”

  “Let’s do a little better than that, since it’s her birthday,” I suggested.

  The Skivvy Kid looked blank. The young fellow was genial, but he wasn’t exactly full of talk.

  “Love and kisses Andy,” I wrote on the telegraph form, and I showed it to him.

  “Will that do?” I asked.

  “That’ll do,” he said.

  13

  BEFORE I LET the Skivvy Kid, whose real name was Andy Jessup, escape my office I invited him to take supper with me and my brother, Jackson, at Mrs. Karoo’s boardinghouse. He didn’t argue the matter—usually, as I came to know, the Skivvy Kid was all agreement.

  “I rode a far piece to get to this telegraph office in time to wire my baby sister on her birthday,” he told me. “I’m tired. I believe I’ll crawl under a wagon somewhere and have myself a snooze.”

  “All right, but come running when you hear the dinner bell,” I warned him. “Vittles don’t last long at Mrs. Karoo’s.”

  I saw no need to mention this invitation to either Jackson or Teddy, both of whom were helping the blacksmith cool off horseshoes by dunking them in a bucket of water. I suppose the blacksmith foresaw a big demand, because he was making plenty of horseshoes.

  About two o’clock in the afternoon the little ladies who wanted to send off for pincushions or the like began to thin out, making way for the professions of the town—it was the professionals who had suffered most from Zeke Ryan’s defection.

  Aurel Imlah got there first, with a list of needs that was organized to the penny. He needed bullet molds and skinning knives and a grindstone you would turn with a pedal, in case all his knives needed sharpening at once. He also wanted plenty of gunpowder and some lead ingots. The last thing on his list was flea powder—fifty pounds of flea powder. I suppose there were fleas by the millions in those hides.

  “I’ve had a talk with a few of the deacons,” he informed me. “They all think we’re lucky to have you. The pay would be twenty-five dollars a month, with lodging thrown in.”

  “No, that’s way low,” I told him bluntly. “Look at my log—I’ve sent sixty-eight telegrams since I opened up this morning. Fifty dollars a month would be more like it—and forget about the lodging. I prefer to pay for my own lodging. I’m not rich but neither am I destitute and I won’t be stampeded into accepting a low offer.”

  Aurel Imlah’s jaw dropped. He looked plenty startled by my bold demand.

  “Stampeded? Why, Miss Courtright,” he said, and then he stopped. His face, what I could see of it above his beard, turned red briefly; but he soon regained his poise.

  “I expect I can talk them into the fifty,” he said. “But I’m curious. Why wouldn’t you want the town to pay your rent?”

  “I’m a newcomer to Rita Blanca,” I told him. “I don’t know who I can trust and who I can’t. I’d rather keep control of the door key until I’ve figured it out.”

  He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t leave, either.

  “Do you mind if I call you Aurel?” I asked him. “I grew up in a formal family—well, you know that. But I’m not very formal myself. You’re the one person I feel I can trust in this dusty town. I would value your friendship, and I hope you’ll value mine.”

  He looked at me long and hard, as he had that day when he informed me of Georgie Custer’s end. That was the day when he told me I was smart.

  “Aurel it is,” he said, and he chuckled. “Does that mean I can call you Nellie?”

  “I’d prefer that,” I told him. “After all, Nellie’s my name.”

  14

  SUPPER STARTED OUT to be a fine occasion. Mrs. Karoo had persuaded Aurel to fight the Poles off a nice mess of buffalo liver, which turned out to be as good as advertised. Josh, the old mail runner, taught us how to season it with just a drop of bile from the creature’s spleen. Andy Jessup had allowed me to mend his vest—he even borrowed some trousers, so as not to appear a fool in Mrs. Karoo’s eyes. We were a jolly company, stuffing ourselves with liver and sauerkraut and fresh snap p
eas until two fools wandered in and interrupted our fun.

  The fools were Teddy Bunsen and Jackson Courtright, who were rude and late. Both of them hung their hats on the hat rack and slipped into their seats, mumbling apologies to Mrs. Karoo for their tardiness. Then they happened to look up at the same moment and it came to their attention that Andy Jessup, the famous Skivvy Kid, was right there at the table, helping himself to a second helping of buffalo liver. Ted Bunsen made a fool of himself first and worst. He sprang up as if jabbed with a needle and the next thing we all knew he was pointing a six-shooter at Andy, who was just salting his dish.

  “Hands up, you’re under arrest—go put the handcuffs on him, Deputy,” Teddy said.

  “Now, Sheriff, firearms don’t belong at the table,” Aurel Imlah said. “Mr. Jessup is our guest. If I’m not mistaken you’ve scared Preacher Milton so bad that he’s fainted.”

  The preacher did seem to have passed into a dead faint. He slid out of his chair and sprawled on the floor.

  I saw my brother stand up and start to do as ordered, but before he could clear his chair I pointed a firm sisterly finger at him.

  “You sit down and mind your own business, Jackson,” I told him. “It’s bad table manners to handcuff a person who is merely trying to eat a meal.”

  “But, Sis, I’m a deputy now,” Jackson said. “Arresting hostile outlaws is my business.”

  “Right! It’s your business and you’ve been long enough about it!” Teddy said, in his most grating voice.

  “But I’m not hostile and I’m not an outlaw, either,” Andy Jessup protested.

  Despite my warning, Jackson walked around the table and stood right behind us—naturally I had put Andy next to myself. I was about ready to stand up and whack Jackson, but Andy just smiled, as if to say leave us boys be.

  In fact it proved to be an embarrassing moment for my little brother, because the pair of handcuffs he took off his belt would not open. Both were locked, but not around any outlaw’s wrist.

  “Uh-oh, Sheriff,” Jackson said. His face turned as red as a flannel sock.

  “Uh-oh, what?” Ted asked, still using his ugly lawman’s tone.

  “I guess I picked up a pair of handcuffs that we ain’t got a key to,” Jackson admitted, his face still very red.

  “If that’s the case you’ve made a serious mistake, Deputy,” Ted said. “Come back over here and take mine.”

  Then a thought struck him as he reached for his handcuffs—the thought was that he’d left his handcuffs in the jail.

  A long silence followed. Jackson couldn’t open his handcuffs and the sheriff had none to offer.

  “Miss Courtright, would you have a hairpin?” Andy asked.

  Jackson got even more red in the face.

  “How dare you ask my sister a question like that, you scoundrel!” Jackson hollered.

  I handed Andy a hairpin and he turned to Jackson and quickly opened the handcuffs—it took about as much time as it takes you to blink. Then he handed me back my hairpin and asked if someone would please pass the okra.

  “Sheriff, if you’re really planning to arrest Mr. Jessup, then do it, so the rest of us can resume our meal,” Aurel said.

  “I second the motion,” Doc Siblee said. “Nobody wants to eat a hearty meal like this with a hog leg pointed at them.”

  “But he’s the Skivvy Kid,” Teddy said. “And the Skivvy Kid is a well-known outlaw. Some of you ought to be helping me arrest him, but I’d guess you’d all rather feed your faces than see justice done.”

  Jackson, I believe, realized that the plan to arrest Andy was a lost cause. My little brother was a good deal more sensitive to public sentiment than Teddy Bunsen.

  “The Skivvy Kid’s just a nickname my grandmother gave me because of my resistance to woolen garments,” Andy mentioned. “I’d like to meet the gent who accused me of being an outlaw—I might introduce him to the sport of fisticuffs.”

  Though not really convinced, Teddy Bunsen at least uncocked his gun.

  “Mighty good food, Mrs. Karoo,” Hungry Billy said—he wiped his mouth nervously and bolted. As he was leaving I remembered that he had been the first to list the Skivvy Kid among the famous outlaws of the region.

  “But, Billy, you haven’t had your pie,” Mrs. Karoo protested.

  “Two funerals tomorrow, I need to practice my hymns,” Hungry Billy said, and then he was gone.

  Andy Jessup seemed to be an easygoing fellow. I doubt he would have pummeled Hungry Billy much—at the moment he seemed more interested in mixing his okra in with his snap peas.

  “It was that train wreck over by Abilene that got people to thinking I was an outlaw,” Andy admitted. “A bunch of horses got killed. I was just trailing some of the survivors back to town and some fool decided I’d stolen them.”

  My little brother, Jackson, was a fair judge of people. I think he soon figured out for himself that Andy was no outlaw. He went back to his seat and busied himself with his vittles. I was beginning to work up a little indignation myself—here I was flirting for dear life with Andy Jessup and the poor boy was having all he could do to stay awake. Probably he was just worn out from having ridden all that way to get the telegram off to his baby sister. Still, no woman likes to waste her flirting, whatever the gent’s excuse.

  When Andy took himself off to sleep under the wagon I turned my attention to Teddy Bunsen, who had behaved all wrong, upbraiding my brother over the matter of the handcuffs and generally making an ass of himself.

  Teddy looked at me as if I was the worst nuisance in the land. He went over to Preacher Milton and tried to bring him out of his faint. The preacher had a big chunk of corn bread clutched in his fist and just as big a chunk lodged in his throat. The minute Teddy turned him over we saw that Preacher Milton hadn’t fainted—Preacher Milton was dead as doom.

  15

  ONE THING I noticed on my hard journey west is that death is apt to come in clusters. The day before we went to Rita Blanca, Father suicided himself. Then, the day after we arrived, in the midst of a nice dinner, Preacher Milton choked on a piece of corn bread.

  The next death, and in some ways the worst for me, came over the telegraph. The morning after Preacher Milton choked I was just easing into the telegraph office, and just easing out the one remaining bull snake, when a message began to come in. I took it down half asleep until I came to the name Hickok, and then I got the stark news: James Butler Hickok, better known as Wild Bill, was dead of a gunshot wound to the head incurred in the town of Deadwood, South Dakota, where he had gone to gamble.

  “Oh Billy!” I said, and then I shrieked so loud that it woke up all the dogs in town, who started howling. Andy Jessup, who had walked over to the Cimarron for an early morning dip, said to me later that the chill of that shriek would be in his memory until the day he died. Teddy Bunsen and my brother, Jackson, came running out of the jail with no shirts on, all because of my grief at the death of Billy Hickok.

  I don’t know how many times I shrieked, but I do know that by the time I stopped pretty much everyone in Rita Blanca was involved in trying to quiet me down. Aurel Imlah came running from his hide yard, the blacksmith from his forge, and Beau Wheless from his general store.

  Jackson later asked me why I took it so hard—but then he hadn’t really known Billy. When Bill came to visit us at our hotel in St. Louis he came to see me, not Jackson. Once on our riverboat trip he had even held my hand for a while, after a dance; I suppose I was in love with him by the time he let it go. He went no farther that night, but the shy way he looked at me convinced me he might wish to go farther, someday. And he had promised to come visit us soon in No Man’s Land. Most people didn’t realize how shortsighted Billy was. He could hardly see across a card table, another thing that touched me. In my lonely times on the Black Mesa Ranch I managed to keep Billy’s memory fresh, and I continued to hope that one day he would show up and hold my hand again, and this time, perhaps even on purpose. Our courtship, if that’s what it
had been, was not lengthy, but in frontier times, with life so chancy, young people had to jump quick if they hoped to have sweethearts, much less wives and husbands.

  And now Bill was dead! No wonder I shrieked to high heaven when I heard the news.

  When I had calmed a little Jackson tried to persuade me to take the day off from the telegraph office but I wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Hike on back to the jail and mind your own business,” I told him. I had just been the telegraph lady of Rita Blanca for one day—how would it look to the citizens of the town if I deserted my post just because an old sweetheart had got himself killed in South Dakota?

  If my brother had looked about him and given it a moment’s thought, he would have realized that there were very few frail reeds in Rita Blanca. The frail reeds were pushing up grass burrs in the cemetery—itself just a vague stretch of acreage a hundred yards or so back of the general store. There Beau Wheless and his boy planted the poor souls who just hadn’t been strong enough for the place they had been brought to.

  The survivors, long denied the chance to get on the telegraph and order things they didn’t need because Zeke Ryan had run off with an Indian maiden, were hardly likely to sit home and knit just because I was upset about a dead boyfriend, even if the boyfriend was Wild Bill Hickok.

  Within an hour a line had formed again, headed by the redoubtable McClendon sisters, who had pestered me so about autographed pictures of Buffalo Bill. This time they had brought their poultry as reinforcements, two hens with puffed-out breasts just like the sisters. A brown dog trotted over and looked as if he might go for the hens, but they clucked a blue streak and managed to face him down.

  What the McClendon sisters wanted was the same thing they had wanted the day before.

  “Buffalo Bill is the most famous man in the West,” Bertha McClendon reminded me. “If you can’t even find the most famous man in the West, then what good are you?” she asked.