that I am not.”
“How, then, do you account for the fact that Lucy Angel: Rattlesnake Slayer of the Lone Prairie is the same story you shared with us this morning?”
Lucinda’s lips parted in surprise. “I’m afraid I do not know. The only time I ever used the name was wh—” She interrupted herself, looked from Halsted to her own attorney.
Gerber nodded slightly.
Halsted seized the lifeline. “When, Mrs. Messenger? Who knew you as Lucy Angel?”
“I had traveled to San Francisco,” she said, “where the only acceptable work I could find was in a café too near the docks. I was walking home one night when a drunk accosted me. I wounded him with my derringer, and was taken to the jailhouse. There, I spent several hours answering questions for an officer who said he needed as many facts as possible for his report.
“I recall now, he commented more than once on the fascinating account of my life. I told him there was nothing fascinating about it, that I was only trying to survive.
“But,” she concluded, “surely the character in those books isn’t me.”
“Surely, it is.” To the judge, Halsted said, “Nothing further at this time.”
Another fork in the road, Gerber thought. His strategy included plans to reveal the story behind the Lucy Angel of novel lore, even though he had not let his client in on the particulars of that strategy. Halsted had beat him to the punch, but Gerber felt confident he could turn it to their advantage. “Mrs. Messenger, were you aware of your reputation as a female gunslinger before we began preparing your defense?”
“No, and frankly, I am still a bit stunned by it all.”
“Why, then, did you change your name when you moved?”
“At first, I was frightened, alone. After I left the homestead, I thought about the name Messenger. That led to Gabriel, the archangel who delivered a message. I had delivered the message that a barbarian posing as a man should not physically, mentally, verbally, and emotionally abuse the helpmeet God had blessed him with. And, I vowed to God that if I ever found another female being treated that way, I would help her.
“By the time I arrived in Texas, I was going by the name Lucy Gabriel.”
“When you were sworn in, I couldn’t help but notice your reaction to the Bible.”
“Not to the Bible. Rather, to its abuse.”
“So”—Gerber reached for the court’s Bible—“this particular book did not cause your distress?”
“No.” Lucinda watched her lawyer raise the Book. She stiffened. She knew how difficult it would be to tell the story, yet she must. If people weren’t made aware of sin, how could they possibly prevent it in the future?
“What did, then?”
She spoke, and as she did, she thought her words sounded distant, muffled, as if uttered through an oppressive haze of southern heat….
The boardinghouse was run by a retired school marm named Ruth Porterfield, who welcomed Lucinda with open arms. The two women bonded quickly, as is the way of women. Ruth helped Lucinda find work as a housekeeper at the town’s largest hotel, and it didn’t take long for the newcomer to settle into the pace of the bustling Texas community. After a few weeks, she had her new life nicely tacked down.
One afternoon, Lucinda returned to the house early from work and found Mrs. Porterfield seated at the kitchen table, crying. A newspaper was spread open before her.
“Ruth?” Lucinda touched the woman’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, dear.” She blotted her face with her apron. “I cry when I get angry. Always have. It’s an irritating trait.”
“I think it shows compassion. Now, tell me, what has you in such a state?”
Ruth stood, and jabbed her index finger into the paper, smudging the ink. “Them.”
Lucinda skimmed the article about an evangelist coming to town to lead a tent revival.
“The nerve of the townsfolk, allowing him to come back here.”
“You mean The Reverend Malachi Thompson? I don’t understand.”
Ruth told Lucinda about questionable events surrounding the reverend’s visit the year before. She had witnessed signs of a vile relationship between the man and his young granddaughter who traveled with him.
“Did you attend his services last year?”
“Two or three, before I reported him. No one believed me. They now think I’m a crazy old woman. Before he preaches, the little girl sings. Did I tell you? Prettiest voice I’ve ever heard. I would like to hear that again.” Ruth stared out the window, her expression wistful for a moment. “Damn him,” she shouted as she slammed her palm against the table. “Damn him to hell.”
Lucinda had never heard a woman curse before. She promised Ruth that she would be on the alert.
What Lucinda observed of the reverend and his granddaughter over the next few days could easily have been seen as benign affection—if she hadn’t had those depraved thoughts planted in her head by Ruth.
On the third day, Lucinda realized that she had not transferred the linens from the supply closet on the hotel’s fourth floor to the one on the second. The manager in turn had warned employees not to disturb the reverend in the afternoon when he was preparing his evening sermon. Lucinda decided to retrieve the linens while the reverend and his granddaughter were in the restaurant.
She was in the closet directly across from their room when she heard their voices. She decided to wait. Once they were in their room, she would descend the back staircase in plenty of time to finish her tasks.
The reverend said, “Claire, you were a good girl in the restaurant, very respectable to the others.”
“Thank you, Grandfather.”
Lucinda smiled, questioned whether Ruth’s imagination had run away with itself.
The reverend unlocked their door and stepped aside for the girl to enter.
Lucinda held her breath, listening for the door to close. Just before she heard the latch click, though, she heard the reverend say, “Claire, honey, I think it’s time you earned yourself a new bonnet.”
The man’s insinuating tone struck Lucinda and she sank to the floor. She thought she was going to be sick.
At length, she rose and smoothed her apron. She had not survived her own ordeal to turn her back on this child. She had found strength, and she must use that strength for those who were weak.
She was astounded at how quickly the answer came to her. She left the linens, silently descended the back staircase, and walked briskly to the boardinghouse.
“I knew it,” exclaimed Ruth when Lucinda confirmed her fears. “What should we do?”
Lucinda said, “I have a solution. In order to protect you, though, I will not share it. Swear you will tell no one.”
“I solemnly swear. You can trust me.”
“I must move fast. Is your rifle any good?”
“The best, why?”
“No questions. Where’s the tent set up?”
Ruth told her.
“I need your buggy.”
“Done. Joe over at the livery will fix you up, just like he did for our picnic last month.”
The tent’s canvas looked stark, almost ghostly, as it waited in the afternoon heat for the hope-filled attendees who would begin arriving at dusk. The sides were rolled up and tied in order to take advantage of the evening breeze.