Summary: Virginia City is in the middle of a trial for a woman charged with bank robbery, kidnapping and murder. There are two factors whipping the town into a frenzy of activity: If convicted, Jessica Hardy could be the first woman sentenced to hang in the United States. The second part that has left the community in turmoil is that the person she’s accused of kidnapping and murdering, is Adam Cartwright.  The story is told from her perspective as she tries to convince the people on the jury that Adam was not the man they thought him to be; a man so tired and hateful of his family that he would use unthinkable methods to get away from them.

Rating: G  but with adult themes

Word Count: 12,600

The Trial of Jessica Hardy Series:

The Trial of Jessica Hardy
Buried Alive
The Empty Casket

The Trial of Jessica Hardy

One

When I stand on the lumpy cot inside my cell and stretch to my toes, I can see the crowd of people loitering at the front of the Virginia City jail. Most of them are male—some of them with nothing better to do—but overwhelmingly, they are writers and newspapermen trying to get a sensational story to leverage into byline or a dime novel.

All this attention is enough to make a girl like me, Miss Jessica Hardy, blush! But then again, I never blush unless the scene calls for it.

They’re all here kicking up dirt and ill-will, fighting for front row positions to capture some morsel of salacious information to pepper their stories about my trial on charges of bank robbery, kidnapping and murder.

There are two circumstances adding to the frenzy. The first is that the person I’m accused of kidnapping and murdering, is Adam Cartwright, a highly thought of man from a wealthy, respected family—near royalty in these parts.

The second point is that the judge presiding over my case is known as Hang ‘em High Horatio: an old curmudgeon who has no patience for the impenitent criminal. The anticipation runs high for a guilty verdict, followed by Horatio’s decree that I “Hang by the neck until dead,” which would make me the first woman in the United States to die for my crimes. You’d think this possibility would create a somber atmosphere, but instead, it’s become a festival, with people hoping to witness a woman swinging at the end a rope like a ghoulish pinata.

My trial began yesterday with the State’s case against me. I see the prosecutor as a gnat who deserves no more attention than the occasional swat to flick him away. I haven’t even bothered remembering his name. This … nameless blowhard … started by questioning the teller, manager and guard from the Virginia City Bank, establishing that I entered their establishment a month ago; held Mr. Cartwright at gunpoint; demanded five-thousand dollars, and then shielded myself with him as we exited. My final threat that day, was to promise that I’d kill Mr. Cartwright if they didn’t give us an hour before alerting the sheriff.

That’s an accurate description of exactly what happened, but I played the role of a stoic innocent throughout the testimonies, dropping my eyes to my hands and twisting my hanky into knots, with the occasional doe-eyed look upwards to unnerve the witness.

Members of the posse that caught me at an abandoned farm northwest of Virginia City, were sworn next, and solemnly reported that there’d been no trace of my hostage at the house.

Well, there was ample “trace” of him, as would be revealed next: just no body.

The monotonous repetition of the initial witnesses, had set the jury and onlookers to fidgeting. Their boredom changed instantly to attention when the Mr. Blowhard, as I shall refer to the prosecutor, had said, “I call Doctor Paul Martin to the stand,” and the handsome, middle-aged physician came forward to take his oath.

“Please tell us what you saw at that farmhouse, Doctor Martin,” Blowhard had asked in a somber voice. The seriousness of this question was evidenced in his lips arcing downward in such a deep frown, the wrinkle it produced spilled clear off the end of his chin.

Martin’s voice and manner swore to his intelligence, as surely as he’d sworn to tell the truth. A quick glance to my right confirmed that each person on that jury was leaning forward, preparing to catch every word the doctor threw at them.

“I found a yellow coat on the floor that I recognized as belonging to Adam Cartwright. It was stiff with dried blood. A mattress and the wood flooring were also soaked so thoroughly with blood, they were still damp.”

The frown had flipped over to a constrained smile as Mr. Blowhard anticipated the next answer. “What professional conclusion can you draw from this?”

“The amount of blood needed to permeate all those objects, indicates a loss so severe as to expect exsanguination had occurred.” I looked down and rolled my eyes when a jury member raised his hand and asked what that word meant. Jury of my peers, my eye. These men possess the vocabulary skills of second-graders.

Silence enveloped the room. The shifting and coughing had stopped as onlookers pictured what the doctor had described, and a quiet rolling murmur began after the prosecutor said, “Based on Doctor Martin’s testimony, I will now change how I refer to Mr. Cartwright from hostage, to victim.”

Amid the breathy reaction of the crowd following the dramatic pronouncement, I heard a soft, mournful groan directly behind me. A quick glance back confirmed it had come from the “victim’s” father. It struck me as odd, since I’d noted the familiarity between Dr. Martin and three members of the Cartwright family as they’d spoken before the trial was called to order. Surely Ben Cartwright had known what would be revealed. The reaction still puzzles me. Had hearing it said aloud in this forum torn a fresh wound, or was this done for the jury’s benefit—just as I would have scripted it? The only way I’ve stayed out of trouble so long in the life I’ve been leading, was to become an expert in understanding human reactions. This skill allows me to manipulate people for my benefit. In this case, I believe his reaction was real. Whatever the case, I issued a silent, “bravo,” for the effect.

Sheriff Coffee, my jailer for the last four weeks, was the final witness. He’s been accommodating and sweet in a doddering way, making sure there’s a woman on hand to tend to my needs, and boarding male “guests of the city” at a different location. My expertise in reading others, tells me that his simple ways cover the fact that he is a very astute lawman. I’ll give him another a nod of admiration for being able to keep his job separate from his close ties to the Cartwright family … and the victim.

I suspect the sheriff’s turn to speak had to follow the doctor’s confirmation of a body, since he spoke to finding no evidence of Adam being alive, and consequently, the posse’s search for a grave.

Blowhard knows that having no corpse weakens his case, and was forced to say, “I know this would be speculation, but you have been a lawman for a long time, and should be allowed an opinion as to why you haven’t found Mr. Cartwright’s body at the place you apprehended Miss Hardy.”

The wizened sheriff nodded and pursed his lips. “We followed them tracks Adam made leavin’ town, over hill and valley. We lost them in gravel and grass, but one’a them wheels on the Ponderosa buggy has a nick that helped us locate them again. It took til the second day before we picked them up on the main road towards Goat Springs, and we finally caught her early the next mornin’, giving the defendant ample time to put the … body …”

The old fool became thick with emotion, forcing him to stop speaking before he blubbered. He set his jaw like rock, and finally said, “He could be anywhere in that nowhere west of here. Finding Adam will take more luck than skill.”

Without giving any hint as to what I’ll say when I take the stand today, my attorney did his best to rebut each witness, and laid groundwork for an alternative story behind these same facts. I hired Jeffrey Manheim, a slick lawyer out of San Francisco, who takes unwinnable cases, as soon as I got stuck in this cell. He’s been decent to work with and treats me like a queen, as he should for the amount of money I’m paying.

In his cross examination of the bank teller who’d handled our “transaction,” Jeffrey asked him to describe how Mr. Cartwright acted during the holdup. The kid had said, “He sort of reared back a little when she pulled his gun on him, but then he smiled and said to do as she’d requested. I was confused and asked if he wanted me to take the money from his account. He said that would be fine, but that woman said no, she wasn’t robbing Mr. Cartwright; she was robbing the bank.”

“Did Mr. Cartwright seem nervous or anxious?” Jeffrey had asked.

“No.” The kid sent a forlorn look towards the victim’s family as he’d spoken that one damning word.

“So, despite being held at gunpoint, he seemed comfortable with the situation?” Jeffrey had withdrawn his question at the immediate objection, and said he was done.

The prosecutor had stood quickly to redirect. “Do you know Mr. Cartwright well, Henry?” Blowhard asked.

“Well enough, I guess.”

“Have you ever witnessed him nervous or anxious in any situation?”

“Never. That man is … was … as steady as they come. I once made a mistake on his tally: a big mistake, and he caught it. He laughed it off and showed me where I’d made the error; taught me a better way to do sums with decimals, and waited while I made the correction. He even thanked me for my help before leaving.”

“So, from you own experience, might Adam have smiled to allay your fears rather than it indicating he was comfortable at being taken as a hostage or robbing you?”

A quick nod. “Now that I think more, I saw him grimace more than once when that lady shoved the gun in his ribs to make a point. It must have hurt, but he kept smiling the best he could.”

Jeffrey hadn’t let that redirect fluster him, waiting for the doctor’s cross examination to make his biggest impact.

“Did you take care of Mr. Cartwright as his physician?” Jeffrey had asked after the response to the “victim” designation had died down.

“Yes.”

“Then please tell us about his height and weight.”

“He was six-feet tall; around 180 pounds.”

I’m still glowing from what happened next.

Jeffrey had asked me to stand, and then said, “Even without examining her, you can see that Miss Hardy is around five-foot-three, and her weight is a mere fraction of his. Is it likely a woman her size could toss a man of sturdy build over her shoulder and carry him out to a grave, dug so deep and left so well-disguised that no one has found it?”

That produced a good amount of laughter, and Jeffrey didn’t wait for an answer. “She might have dragged a body that size. Were there streaks of blood across the floor, displacement of dirt or traces of blood in the yard to indicated something that size had been pulled along?”

I am impressed with the forthrightness of the people in this town. Doctor Martin could have downplayed this, but he’d said, “There was no evidence of that.”

“Can you speculate on how a small person like Miss Hardy might have disposed of Mr. Cartwright?”

“I’d assume she had him move when he still had enough strength to walk, with his death following shortly after the relocation”

“But there’s no proof of that either, is there, Doctor? No boot prints. No blood outside?”

Jeffrey’s questions produced another, “No.”

The final assault on the State’s case was unleashed on Sheriff Coffee who’d admitted that without a body, there was no way to prove how … or even if … Adam had been killed.

“Did you find Mr. Cartwright’s pistol?” Jeffrey asked.

“No.”

“So, there’s no proof of how Mr. Cartwright came to his unfortunate demise. With no body and no weapon, how can everyone assume that Mr. Cartwright was killed. Is it likely a woman of Miss Hardy’s stature could take on Mr. Cartwright in a deadly knifing or a beating?”

Jeffery hadn’t waited for a response, and released the witness.

Once Sheriff Coffee left the stand, the judge called an end to the day, and ordered that the gallery remain seated until the Cartwright family left. The somber father and his two sons made their way out with cheeks pale and faces set in stone: if stone could be fashioned into a representation of a silent scream of agony.

There is something about the entire Cartwright family I cannot comprehend. How is it possible for a family to love so deeply that the loss of one member leaves a wound so profound, the rest of them can’t heal?  However, these emotions don’t move me or cause me any chagrin over how things worked out. In fact; I’m looking forward to pulling off any scab that may have formed on these soul-deep wounds overnight, when I take the stand. I’ll leave them raw and aching again. They deserve it for being so damnably righteous.

Playing a part for so many hours yesterday did wilt my starch. I slept well, although my mind continues to contemplate this impenetrable family. The three remaining members stopped by the jail nearly every day in the month since Adam’s disappearance. I’ve no doubt they’d have appealed to my human compassion for information about Adam. But my attorney won’t permit any contact, and I lack human compassion.

What I’ve seen, gazing through my steel-barred portal, is that the father’s face sags like an aging basset hound when he arrives. Amid this tedious sadness, I did find a moment of comedic relief. As the trial neared, the frenzy outside increased, with reporters swarming over the Cartwrights like vultures, employing their pencils like talons, trying to pick away some bit of copy-worthy flesh to feed their headline.

One of those Cartwright boys is as big as a house, and when the reporters refused to move out of their way a few days back, he grabbed the first man within reach, and tossed him into the crowd, knocking a few others down like dominoes. His menacing look and verbal threat to continue “moving” them, cleared the path.

This family’s love, protectiveness and fidelity are things with which I have no experience, and never will.

Two

The sheriff just told me the trial will start up in an hour, and asked kindly whether I needed anything. I’m ready.

Before leaving me last evening, Jeffrey explained that he was certain he’d created enough for the jury to find my story a plausible alternative.

My testimony will mark the first time I tell anyone “my” version of the events. It’s all lies: half-truths at best in some things. I’m a good actress, but an even better liar. Jeffrey must know I’m lying, yet he proceeds as though I’m a virgin being offered in sacrificial appeasement to an angry god.

Jeffrey Manheim doesn’t win his cases because his clients are innocent. He wins because he is a director worthy of staging a play in a great theater. We’ve collaborated in rehearsing my every word and gesture. Even my clothing is a carefully chosen costume to further the illusion of my innocence. If all goes well, my one-woman recitation will lull the jury into a generous frame of mind where they can’t believe a waif like me is capable of such a heinous crime.

Everyone in that courtroom would gasp if they knew what I was “capable” of doing. Lucky for me, my past crimes, of which there are many, were carefully planned and executed. I’ve never been arrested or even scrutinized. That makes what happened here an aberration. Should I get out of this, I will never let lust overcome my sensibilities again!

Three

“I call Jessica Hardy to the stand.”

My lawyer looks handsome and confident as he assists me from my chair and walks me forward.

I’m not nervous: just mindful of my performance.

The first words out of my mouth, given with visibly trembling hands and a promise to be truthful, are lies. No lightning strikes me from heaven, so I smile at the judge, and position myself towards the front edge of the chair: my back straight and shoulders square. I finish setting the opening scene by arranging the pleats of my calico skirt in a perfect fan, before placing my gloved-hands together on my lap. A nod, first towards the jury, and then to Jeffrey indicates I’m ready.

“Miss Hardy, yesterday we heard the prosecution’s theory of the events beginning at the Bank of Virginia City, and ending when you were discovered at that abandoned farm. You were painted as a hardened criminal who thought nothing of threatening bank employees, using Mr. Cartwright as your hostage, and finally causing his death. Yet they established no motive; they can’t say with certainty that anyone was actually killed, and they offer no plausible method of disposing of the body that you’d be capable of doing.” Jeffrey swings around to the crowd, soliciting their agreement of his summation.

“Today, you finally have the opportunity to tell what actually happened. Why don’t you begin by telling us about yourself?”

My script requires a thoughtful pause, as though considering what I should share.

“I was born and raised in St. Louis: an only child with a lovely life until my parents died three years ago in a flu outbreak. I felt alone; had no other relatives, and since I inherited well, I began traveling west where I’d heard about opportunities to start a new life. Not knowing just where to go, I relied on the stage drivers to suggest nice towns along their routes.”

This tale rolls easily off my tongue because it’s the same one I’ve told at each of those places I stopped. Some parts of it are actually true. I was born in Missouri: an only child in a family of means. My parents are still alive; they however, have declared me dead to them.

Lying is something I’ve done from the time I could talk. No punishment, religious training or pure love could change me. The fact that I lied about everything produced an unsavory side-effect. Our neighbors realized I was short on truthfulness, and so they accused me of everything that went wrong. A beloved pet found dead: blame that lying girl. Items stolen from homes; windows broken; a bad case of gout … were all ascribed to me. I became the designated scapegoat, even though they never had proof of my involvement. The funniest part, was that the one thing I didn’t lie about was my innocence. I wasn’t a criminal … then.

My family was shunned, and still I lied. When I was thirteen, my folks enrolled me at a “Female Academy,” located on the opposite side of the state, in Carthage Missouri. According to the brochure, the school offered a highly regimented curriculum, meant to turn young women into fine, intelligent companions. My parents still held hope that I could be trained to act normally.

The day they dropped me at school, my father took me aside, advising me that they’d paid for four years of year-round boarding and tuition. If I stayed the course to graduate, I could claim a large sum of cash being held for me at a bank in Carthage. My mother kissed my cheek and told me to make the best of this. They’d tried everything to help me, but they were done. I wasn’t to return home … ever. You’d think I would have been bereft, but I’d never felt affection for them. The trust money proved a suitable incentive to complete school, and I truly enjoyed most of my time there.

I’ve been careful in not revealing anything about myself since being apprehended. Jessica Hardy is an alias in a long list of them I’ve used. Even so, had I given any bit of information beyond my name, the law, and those reporters, would have gone after it like a dog sniffing out a dead skunk. The backstory I’m using for the trial, couldn’t have been verified, and that would have raised eyebrows and questions. Even revealing this bit of falsehood now has sent some of the reporters running for the telegraph office. I weighed allowing this question from Jeffrey with his assurance that the trial wouldn’t last more than two days. There simply isn’t enough time for anyone to find anything to confirm or refute my identity.

Jeffrey has laid his hand on the railing in front of me to get my attention.

“How did you end up in Virginia City?”

“My stops at smaller towns made me realize I needed the excitement of a bigger city, so I continued on to San Francisco. I liked it there, but I kept hearing about how Virginia City is becoming the San Francisco of Nevada, and is booming with opportunity.” I laugh inwardly. In my case, that opportunity was to rob my first large bank.

“And this appealed to you?”

“Yes. People spoke of this city as still having small town values, like kindness and generosity.” My expression darkens with a deep frown: right on cue. “I thought that was true when I first met Mr. Cartwright.”

The rehearsed words are exiting my mouth as planned, but my mind is wandering again. I did enjoy the travel and the small towns I visited; but not for the reason I’m citing. The truth Is far more … complicated.

I found a friend at the Carthage Female Academy. Myra Maybeline Shirley,¹ or May—her preferred name—was my age, and while she didn’t lie as much as I did, it didn’t bother her that I did. An interesting thing happened. Finding a friend who didn’t judge me, let me be truthful with her. We were drawn together like kindling to flame, with neither of us having an affinity for the ingénues surrounding us there.

May’s father had helped establish the school, so in return for being a model student, she had a private room, and a lot more freedom to do as she pleased. She truly hated the place, but I taught her how to say and do what was needed to get by. We pretended to be like the others during the day, while learning manners, grooming, grammar and how to be pleasant. Along with being groomed to find wealthy husbands, we did receive a good secondary education.

For all the teeth gritting and tongue biting it took to act like everyone else, the lessons have served me well. May and I kept our sanity amid the drivel by shedding our costumes of respectability in the privacy of the room she invited me to share. It was there we spoke freely of our desire for a darker form of education.

My future vocation was incubated in that room, and honed later with May’s other friends.

With nowhere to go to after graduating, and the first salvos of north verse south in Missouri, I accompanied May’s family to Texas. A few Interesting friends of the Shirley’s headed south as well. The most important to us were two sets brothers from the James and Younger families. They were teens like us, itching for excitement … just as we were … and intrigued by females who enjoyed the thought of creating mayhem, and excelling in lessons for gun handling and riding.

May, Jesse and the Youngers wanted to form gangs to carry out their plans, but I was uncomfortable leaving my fate up to others, and decided to go off on my own.

What I’ve read about May since our parting is that she’s taken to crime like a duck to water. Calling herself Belle Star, she’s described as riding side-saddle on a large black horse, demurely attired in a feathered hat and a black velvet dress—the bodice crisscrossed with gun and ammunition belts: accessories she is skilled at using. Magnificent!

My entry into that dark world we’d dreamed of at school, was most assisted by my one interest at Carthage Academy: acting. I was good at it, and the ability to create a scene and play a role became my greatest love. I’d worked out a perfect plan before robbing my first bank in West Texas. It went well, and I perfected my one-woman show in towns along the stage lines from there to Arizona.

My targets were small-town banks. Not so small there’d be no money on hand, but not so large to have a guard. Smaller towns also meant part-time lawmen who weren’t anxious to chase after a female thief who’d taken a piddling amount.

Once I’d settled on a town, I’d begin my performance with the first step off the stage. I portrayed a wide-eyed, talkative young woman who told everyone I met that I was looking for a new home where the memory of my parents didn’t hang over me like a pall. Within an hour of arriving, I’d assessed how easily I could acclimate into the community.  If it felt welcoming, I’d get a room at a boarding house and proceed. If not; I’d choose the next town, and leave.

My innocent enthusiasm made people protective of me. They were disarmed by my chattiness, and told me everything I needed to plan the robbery. With everything in place, I’d come downstairs that morning in my robe, with skillfully applied rouge on my cheeks, nose and forehead to look sufficiently fevered. The matron of the house would shoo me back to bed with orders to rest.

With my alibi established, I’d don a disguise kept in a secret compartment of my traveling trunk; sneak out to commit the crime, and return unseen. My transformation included wearing a wig, and shoes with internal lifts to increase my height a few inches. My most effective device was a padded camisole that created twenty-pounds of girth on my midsection. Experience in applying stage makeup at the academy allowed me to create the illusion of age or even illness. The outfit was completed by a hat with a fine net covering my face.

The disguises were complemented with physical distractions, like hunching forward or limping, speaking with a heavy accent or at least in a pitch and cadence that bore no resemblance to my own voice.

My costuming and affectations were visual lies amid the verbal ones, and I had such fun. The “Law” rode off looking for a heavy blonde with a slight limp and a southern accent. Meanwhile, I’d ditch the disguise in a dark corner I’d found earlier, and sneak back to the boarding house, where I’d emerge from my sickbed hours later, “unaware and shocked” when told of the brazen robbery.

I didn’t need the money. I needed excitement. The small amounts I harvested, weren’t even worth offering a bounty to recover. The most common outcome was that the bank manager decided a woman would have been in dire straits to do such a thing, and he’d replace the stolen funds from a discretionary account, and balance the books by calling it a charitable donation—a solution I’d always promote to the good folks of the town, as they wondered what to do.

After things settled down, I’d tearily report that I wasn’t as ready as I thought to leave my old life behind, and needed to return home. The final thing I’d do, was throw myself a going-away party using the money from the robbery, essentially returning the money to those I’d taken it from.

“Please tell the jury how you met Mr. Cartwright,” Jeffrey says loudly to get me out of my memories. Mr. Manheim’s eyes are narrowing dangerously and his lips are set in an angry thin line at my lull.

“My stage arrived in Virginia City around one. With the midday glare, I didn’t see the step leading to the boardwalk. Mr. Cartwright happened to be passing by when I tripped, and he kept me from falling on my face.”

“What happened next?”

“I offered to buy him a cup of coffee as a reward. He refused, as he was late for an appointment, but then asked where I would be staying. Since I hadn’t reserved a room, he recommended the International House, before hurrying away.” I smile shyly, and then resume. “In his haste, we didn’t exchange names. But the stage driver told me I’d been talking to ‘Mr. Cartwright,’ and not to worry, because if Mr. Cartwright wanted to see me again, he’d find me.”

“What was your initial impression of Mr. Cartwright,”

“He was handsome and kind, possessing a surety about himself. I was hopeful that I would see him again.”

“Did he find you?”

“He came to the hotel my second morning in town. We had coffee and talked for nearly an hour.”

“Did this meeting produce plans for another?” Jeffrey asks to set up the next scene.

“I showed Mr. Cartwright a sale notice for a vacant property I’d seen advertised in the Territorial Express. It was near a place called Goat Springs. He knew of the place but couldn’t tell me if it was good land. He offered to take me there.”

“Did you go that day?”

“Mr. Cartwright was in a hurry again, but promised we’d go two days later.”

Jeffrey is strutting like a peacock: this despite his own warning that I’ll soon be asking this town to believe an entirely different version of the man they all know.

“What did you do until that meeting?”

“I found my way around Virginia City.” I send a beaming smile towards the jury. “I purchased a new dress and hat, and talked with people. Everyone was pleasant.”

What I actually did was case the town, deciding that the Bank of Virginia City, with its corner location and access to the backstreets leading out of town, was the best target. As I’d stopped at each bank along the main street—each with at least two staff members and a guard—I also confirmed that I could no longer work solo.

Yet, the small robberies no longer provided excitement. The near ecstasy of watching the fear in the tellers’ eyes when they realized I was dead serious, had become ho-hum. Duping the townsfolks had become routine, and preparation for these jobs was too tedious for the small lift they still gave me. It was time for something … bigger.

But a bigger thrill could only come from hitting a bigger bank in a bigger city, with bigger cash deposits. It also meant bigger danger. The thought of it made my heart beat wildly … in a good way.

I’d come to town thinking I could cut my teeth here, where things were still less formal inside the banks. My intent was to enlist a saddle bum or one of lowlifes in town to “act” as my hostage: men no one cared about. Men who could disappear afterwards without anyone caring.

But when my stage arrived, I saw Adan Cartwright, and everything changed.

Jeffrey’s narrowing eyes, makes me refocus again. “The day Mr. Cartwright returned, is when the … misunderstanding … we’re discussing, took place?”

“That’s exactly right Mr. Manheim!” My response is loud, filled with tempered outrage and the shakiness of gathering tears. “It’s all a huge misunderstanding!

“Please take a moment to compose yourself, Miss Hardy, and then explain what actually happened.”

Jeffery’s prompt allows my dramatic pause to convince the onlookers of how bereft I am over the false charges I’m facing. I dab at my eyes with the handkerchief pulled daintily from my sleeve, and take a long, shuddering breath.

“Adam,” I say his first name now to imply developing intimacy. “Arrived midmorning in a buggy.” My cheeks take on a rosy glow as I hold my breath enough to induce a blush, and then I smile, as though recalling happier memories.

“He’d brought a picnic from home, and I’d arranged for one with the hotel. We took both, since he assured me that he had a healthy appetite. We were a block from the hotel when Adam slowed and turned at the corner, explaining that he needed to make a withdrawal for the ranch, and feared we might return after the bank closed.”

“Did you find that odd?”

“No. I did wonder why he pulled to the back of the building, but it was there that he laid out what he called, ‘a little joke,’ he wanted me to help him play on the teller.” My eyes widen and I rear back to show my astonishment at the memory of what I’d been told.

Jeffrey allows the pause. “What did he say, Miss Hardy?”

“He asked me to go along inside, approach the teller’s window with him, and then slip the gun from his holster and point it at him while demanding five-thousand dollars.” My cheeks dampen as I open a sluicegate to my tear ducts. “He said I’d have to threaten to blow a hole in his side to make it sound legitimate.” The hanky I’ve been wringing, now becomes a cheek-mop while I groan miserably.

“And you agreed to this?” Jeffrey turns towards the jury and shrugs.

“Adam assured me that the teller was a friend who’d know to take the money from the Cartwright account like always, but I was supposed to say that I was robbing the bank; not him. It was all good fun: a game of holdup that he and this teller frequently played.”

“Was this true?”

I shake my head while burying my face in my hands. I look up when the judge tells me to speak my answer. “No, but I didn’t know it at the time! I played along, expecting we’d all have a good laugh. I felt uneasy when I noticed the teller looking genuinely frightened. He nearly ran to the safe to get the cash, and while he was away, Adam whispered that I should keep the gun stuck in his ribcage once we had the money, and begin backstepping towards the rear entrance.”

“And you complied?” Jeffrey asks. “Even though you now suspected something was wrong?”

“Adam grabbed my wrist when he spoke to me, and applied so much pressure, I became frightened. I did as he asked. He had me say that thing about killing him if they got help too soon, just before we walked out.”

“Are you sure you didn’t know this was a robbery?”

I mouth a silent “O” as I exhale, and breathe in deeply. “Of course not. In fact, I begged Adam to go back in and apologize because his joke had gone too far.”

The crowd is laughing! It’s not the reaction I expected, and a quick scan of their expression affords me no further information. Does the laughter stem from my story being too unbelievable or does something ring true about what lengths Adam might go for a little fun? I’ve always read people easily; it’s what makes me a good thief. But I read Adam Cartwright completely wrong from the moment I met him, and now I can’t even get a good sense of what others think of him!

There are three expressions I spy that are clear as a mountain stream. The Cartwrights are seated directly in front of me, and their undisguised agony, mixed with outrage at what I’m saying, could make a lesser woman beg for forgiveness. Not me. Laughter be damned; I’ll sell this story or die for it.

The judge bangs his gavel to control the room. As the chuckling subsides, Jeffrey gives me a crooked half-smile as he returns to our script.

“What was Mr. Cartwright’s response?”

“He laughed, and then said we had to ‘make our escape’ to finish the ruse. He drove out of town like a madman, and continued a zigzagging course across bumpy fields and over roads that were no more than wheel ruts, until we ended up at the farm we’d intended to tour. My nerves were on fire, expecting that we’d be apprehended, but when that didn’t happen, I relaxed. I decided that Adam simply possessed a dark sense of humor.”

“The bank witnesses testified that a robbery did occur; were they lying?”

“No. But I’m not lying either. The only liar, was Adam.”

“Let’s clear up something up. It took the sheriff and posse two days before they tracked you to that farm. But you told us that this was your destination all along: agreed on two days earlier. I’m sure everyone here thinks the Cartwrights are an extremely close family, and they’re wondering why he wouldn’t have told them where he was going that day?”

I laugh. My sour expression gives evidence that I’m privy to some damning information. “Adam Cartwright is not as close to his family as people think. The rest of my story will make that clear.”

“Then I’ll ask that you pick up where you left off.”

“Adam suggested we have our picnic, and his behavior returned to the sweet man I’d spoken to over coffee. I even suspected he’d planned the morning’s escapade to show off a little.” A quick look towards the jury box convinces me they aren’t buying this. Yet, amid the smirking faces, there is one older man who’s leaning forward: his face set in a frown while he listens carefully. I’m betting he’s heard things about Adam Cartwright that allow some skepticism. He’s weighing my story with the gossip.

I shift in my seat and play with the top buttons of my modest dress as I find the “strength” to tell the next part. Clearing my throat and sighing, I collapse into myself and wrap my arms around my body like a shawl. Jeffrey shoots me another stern look to get moving.

“The afternoon flew by, and I finally suggested we head back to town. I was astounded when his eyes took on a menacing set, changing to nearly black in color. His easy smile became a sneer as he told me that we wouldn’t be welcome in Virginia City.”

“Why was that?”

I enlist the hanky again, but I turn my head enough so the jury can’t see that I’m wiping nonexistent tears. “He said he’d thought about robbing a bank for a long time. It wasn’t about the money; he’d just tired of living up to expectations that he be good all the time, and he wanted some excitement. When I seemed overly friendly towards him—a man I didn’t know—he decided I’d be a good candidate to enlist for his plans.”

“This is a preposterous story, Miss Hardy,” Jeffrey says as he slaps his hand on the defendant’s table. “You expect these people to believe Mr. Cartwright did this for mere excitement?”

“He said that being a Cartwright is looked at as the finest thing imaginable—by others—who see only wealth and power. But he was sick of upholding the family name; doing only what his father allowed; being treated like a child, and having a life sentence of confinement to that ranch with people he’d tired of ….”

None of what I just said is true. Adam spoke well of his father and brothers at our meeting over coffee, and I suspect he was thinking of them at the end. But I also trust that upright people make lots of enemies, and there are some watching this trial—maybe even that one man on the jury—who are willing to believe the worst.

“And this was his solution to feeling that way?”

“Adam wanted a clean break with his family. There was only one way to do that: make them think he was dead, and have a little fun doing it. When I asked again why he thought I’d support this, he reminded me that all I’d talked about since meeting him, was wanting a new life. He was offering that.”

“Let’s abbreviate this. Tell us how you ended up taking the blame for the robbery, as well as kidnapping and murder.”

Jeffrey has noticed that my audience remains skeptical of this story, so I’ll take my hardest punch.

“Adam had planned this carefully. He hadn’t told anyone where we were supposedly going that day, and his crazy trip out there assured a posse would lose our tracks so often it would take days to find us. That gave us time to set the scene they’d finally discover. With that done, we’d head to Los Angeles where no one knew him. He’d already set up a bank account under a false name that he could access down there. There’d be ample money to book passage somewhere exotic and he’d never have to clear a decision with his father or brothers again. He’d be free for the first time in his life.”

“Did you consider going with him?”

“I did not! I begged him to go back with me and tell the truth. I promised to confirm his story that he thought others would think it a prank. He refused. Then he grinned and said it might be even better if I didn’t come along. No one would believe my version of what happened, and he wouldn’t have to provide for two people.”

“What happened next?”

“He knew the posse would stop the night, and thought it best that he rest too, and leave at first light.” I visibly shudder and wrap my arms tighter around me. “Then he tied my hands, tossed me to the mattress, and said that my decision not to accompany him, didn’t mean we couldn’t have a  … um … fun before parting ways.”

Jeffrey directs his gaze downwards so the jury can’t see the grin produces by my choice of words. But they were specifically chosen to indicate my sexual innocence. Another lie. “Were those his actual words, Miss Hardy?”

“No,” I say softly, examining the checked pattern on my skirt with intense interest. “I just can’t … He was vulgar and …”

Jeffrey breaks in. “I know this is uncomfortable, but you must be specific.”

I make eye-contact with my attorney and say, “He said he would mount me like a stallion servicing a mare in heat.”

The courtroom erupts in raucous laughter and knee slapping, except for the stone-faced father and brothers. I’d considered what crass thing Adam might say, and again, I must have chosen unwisely. I hope someone believes he’d say this, maybe in sarcasm if not as a proposition.

A sideways glance allows me to see that same juror not looking amused. Perhaps he believes Adam Cartwright is capable of brutality. But I can’t dwell on this, and nod my head towards Jeffrey to get moving.

“Did he follow through on his intentions?”

“No. I begged him not to make things worse. I even promised to go with him to speak honestly to his family about his need to get away. He laughed at me, but it did seem to take the wind from his sails.”

“These folks must find your description of Mr. Cartwright’s behavior, out of character, Miss Hardy. But if they’d have listened carefully, they’d see that you’ve described two different people. Did you ever figure out which one was the real Adam Cartwright?”

I nod. “He was every bit the good man these people knew, but what I saw that evening when he let his guard down, was a sad, lonely man who’d pushed his own needs and hurt aside for so long that he was being torn apart by it. He leaned against the door frame then, looking like he was shouldering a burden so heavy, he couldn’t stand upright. He said he didn’t want to hurt anyone, but the expectations placed on him as a Cartwright had become so oppressive that he had to leave. Letting his family believe he was dead, seemed far kinder than them knowing he hated them.”

What a recovery! You can hear a pin drop now!

“Move on now to your capture.”

“He gave me a final chance to accompany him in the morning. He left when I refused; I heard a couple gunshots, and he returned some time later carrying two pails we’d found in the barn while looking around. He gloated that he’d added water to the blood of the animals he’d shot, to produce the evidence needed to declare him dead, and dumped it on his jacket, the floor and that mattress.”

“Is that when he left … on foot … since the buggy was found on the farm?”

“Yes. The buggy’s presence was meant to support his death. I assumed he knew the area well enough to get a horse and supplies where he wouldn’t be recognized.”

“Why didn’t you go to town yourself at that point instead of waiting to be found?”

“I don’t know how to drive a buggy and I didn’t know the way. Adam had taken so many back roads I wasn’t sure where Virginia City was. So, I stayed put and was considering going out the main road to see if there were any nearby places to ask for help. That’s when the posse rode in.”

Jeffrey stares at me, and points towards the jury. “To recap your testimony; you’re asking these men to believe that Adam Cartwright would go to these ends to … escape … a family as good as the Cartwrights?”

I look directly at the family, and push my dagger deep into Ben Cartwright’s heart. “Only the Cartwrights know the truth of that. But it is what Adam told me.”

Jeffrey walks to where I’m sitting. “Do you swear that this testimony is the truth?”

“It is.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“People beg me to tell them where I buried Adam Cartwright. I can’t because he isn’t buried anywhere. He walked away, leaving his family to believe he’s dead, and me to hang for his murder.”

“Thank you, Miss Hardy.” Jeffrey approaches the prosecution’s table. “Your witness.”

The lawyer for the state rises and locks me in a steely stare. He turns next to the jury and finally back towards the Cartwright family. “You all know Adam Cartwright,” he begins in a booming voice. “So, you also know Miss Hardy’s story is a complete concoction.”

Jeffrey jumps up. “If you have no real questions, then sit down and allow me to call my next witness.”

“That seems the proper step, Mr. Manheim. I have no intention of letting Miss Hardy lie any further. Call your witness.”

I leave the witness stand, as Jeffrey calls Hoss Cartwright forward. This causes a surprised gasp from the crowd, but it doesn’t surprise the Cartwrights. Hoss was notified of Jeffrey’s intent, without giving him any suggestion as to why he was being called. From my front-row seat, I take a good look at the big man being sworn in. As he removes his hand from attesting his oath, he runs a finger under the tight collar of his shirt, and wipes his sleeve across his forehead.

When my attorney told me of his plan to call Hoss, he’d said he was “playing a hunch.” I can see a spark in Jeffrey’s eyes now, and a subtle upturn of his lips. He’s going fishing, and has determined that this more earthy … less polished … Cartwright, will be the easiest one to hook. Me … I’m not as sure. I picture Hoss tossing those reporters aside, and wonder if Jeffrey has underestimated his opponent.

Jeffrey addresses the judge in a serious voice. “I’ll be treating Hoss Cartwright as a hostile witness, your honor, since he will be reluctant to reveal information that might uphold Miss Hardy’s testimony.”

Horatio nods to Hoss. “You’ll need to honor the oath you just made, Hoss.”

“Yessir, I will.” He seems to have calmed down. The sweating has stopped and he no longer sits like a trussed-up turkey awaiting the oven.  “But I got no clue what I can say to support the passel of lies that lady just told.” His answer brings a round of laughter and a few approving shouts.

Jeffrey laughs too. I see his hands clench before he shoves them into his pockets. “Miss Hardy claims that Adam robbed a bank and feigned his death to cut family ties.” He twists toward the crowd and then looks back at the big guy. “These people find it hard to believe that anyone would walk away from the prosperity, respect and power that being a Cartwright provides. Yet, I’d bet you weren’t quite as surprised by what Miss Hardy said. Did your brother ever talk to you about leaving?”

The question makes the big ox start sweating again, and his face pinches like he’s been gut punched. Jeffrey was right! He’s snagged a lunker. He allows time for the guy to think, and then tightens the line to set the hook. “Mr. Cartwright. Was there ever a time when Adam confided in you that he felt compelled to leave home?”

Hoss looks at his father. I assume he’s seeking permission or absolution. Adjusting my position, I catch the old man’s nod to his son. This family amazes me. Ben Cartwright could have shut his son up like a clam with a shake of his head rather than a nod. Maybe Hoss wouldn’t lie, but he wouldn’t have to tell the whole truth either.  Given the choice, this family has chosen honesty. It doesn’t surprise me. Adam was exactly like his family. It’s a trait they’re all paying for dearly today.

“There were a couple’a times when he talked about goin’ away. But he’d never do it like this, leaving Pa thinkin’ he’s dead.” Hoss can no longer look at his father, staring down at his lap instead.

“Please explain.” Jeffrey is biting his cheeks to keep from looking too smug.

“A while back, Adam left when there was a bad disagreement between him and Little Joe.”

“Did he discuss his intentions with your father before going?”

“Things started fallin’ apart so fast there weren’t time to do nothin’ but go. He thought Little Joe would leave if he didn’t, and Adam didn’t want that to happen.”

Jeffrey pounces. “How much time elapsed before saying he would leave, and actually leaving?”

I notice a mournful look directed quickly towards his father and brother. “He sort’a told Pa on his way out the door.

“To be clear: in this instance, Adam left without any warning.”

Hoss squirms in his chair. “But Adam didn’t really leave. He rode the Ponderosa for a few days, waiting to see if Pa might sort things out with Joe.”

Jeffrey turns towards the jury. “Sounds to me like Adam doubted his value in your family. Imagine having to ride around in circles, hoping you might be asked back, if your younger brother could be convinced to allow it.”

The prosecution objects, but Jeffreys’ already moving on. “Were there other instances where Adam either spoke of leaving or actually rode off, thinking he had no importance in his family?’”

I swear Hoss is going to wear a hole clear through the seat of the witness chair if he doesn’t stop fidgeting.

“Our younger brother got hurt real bad once in a shootin’ accident while Pa was away. Adam tried everything to help, but it all went bad, and Joe just kept getting’ worse. It made Adam get to feelin’ so miserable, guilty and helpless, he said he’d go back back East as soon as Pa got home. See, Adam went to school in Boston and still has a Granddaddy there, so there was some good reason to his thinking. Yet I don’t think he would’a felt the way he did, ‘ceptin’ there was a young woman helpin’ us out. She poked at Adam havin’ to endure the shortcomings of such an uncivilized place as this, and pointin’ out all the things he was missin’ by staying here.”

“This sounds like a case of Adam using a bad situation and the prodding of someone who recognized his dissatisfaction with his homelife, as an excuse. It’s beginning to sound like Adam truly didn’t feel like he fit in. Is that true Mr. Cartwright?”

“That weren’t It at all ….”

I can see Jeffrey stiffen as he cuts Hoss off. “Thank you. You have established that your brother previously considered abandoning your family, just as he proposed to Miss Hardy. Perhaps these other … failures to get away … made him realize he’d need a more permanent solution. In fact, he might have felt it was the only way out, just as Miss Hardy said. I have no further questions.”

Jeffry’s fish managed to dislodge the hook, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Blowhard is about to make him wish he’d never gone fishing.

The prosecutor rises from his chair, turning towards Jeffrey with a smile like a cat who’s just caught a mouse by the tail, and intends to play with it a bit before snapping its neck.

“Go ahead, Hoss. Finish what you were saying.”

The big guy sighs in relief. “What I wanted to tell you all, was that Adam always felt things deep. He’s smarter than most of us put together. He’s the best rider, roper and horse breaker on the ranch, next to our younger brother. He can explain most anything; speaks at least three languages, and reads books written in Latin! But he couldn’t never talk about how he felt when he was hurtin’. I know that side of him better than just about anyone—even Pa—’cuz we only had each other for friends for a long time. So, I know those times Adam talked about leavin’ …. wasn’t because he felt left out.  He wanted to do what was best for us, not him. That’s love, not hate.”

“Mr. Manheim wants the jury to believe that Adam brooded over every small family incident where he might not have been the center of attention. Did you ever witness behavior indicating he’d be capable committing a bank robbery, imposing upon an innocent woman to help him, threatening to take advantage of her physically, creating a situation where you all think he’s dead, and finally, leaving this woman to face hanging for his murder?”

Hoss scrubs his hand across his face while shaking his head. “Adam respected people and the law. He gave people second chances they mighten not deserved, and always held to the truth, even when it weren’t an easy road. Every person in this city knows that he faced ridicule and even death a couple’a times for holdin’ to the truth of a matter. I know my brother like I know myself, and he’d never do what this woman said. Never!”

“One last question, Hoss. Where do you think Adam is right now?”

Well played by the prosecution! Everyone in the room is watching as this big oaf tries to hold back his tears. Yet I lean forward just like the rest of the observers, awaiting his answer.

“Our pa was happy that us brothers stayed on the ranch as we got older. But he’s always been clear that there is no obligation to stay. Adam knew that. He didn’t have to run away or pretend to be dead. I’d give my own life if it meant things was different, but things bein’ as they are, there’s only one place he can be. We just got to find him so’s we can bring him home and bury him proper.”

Three

The trial is over. The jury is having lunch as they begin to deliberate, and I’m back in my cell until a verdict is reached.

Jeffrey ended my defense by recalling witnesses from yesterday to garner their reluctant agreement that my story could apply just as easily as the prosecution’s theory about the circumstances they’d seen.

I kept my eyes on the jury. Their demeanor at the final gavel does not encourage me. My conclusion is that Hoss Cartwright’s words prevailed over mine, and left everyone thinking about the missing, beloved Cartwright son moldering in an unmarked grave.

Jeffrey’s mistake in thinking he could outwit Hoss, has undoubtedly started the gallows builders to gathering their equipment. He tried to overcome his error by giving an animated closing statement, pointing out that I was a young, naïve, orphan taken in by a wiser, older man with many secrets. Jeffrey also pointed out that in the absence of any reason why I’d have done this, they had to believe Adam Cartwright had a darker side that had been provoked into action by an oppressive homelife.

The prosecutor made an equally impassioned argument. He agreed that my motive was not obvious, but reason would say it is buried in the heap of lies I told. His most sobering statement wondered why, if things had happened as I said, did I wait a month to give my account? Had I revealed this the day I’d been apprehended, they could have alerted nearby towns, making it likely he would have been found and apprehended. The reason I waited, was because I knew there’d be no evidence of him going anywhere other than to the grave I’d put him in.

His final plea, left the biggest impact. “Let me remind the jury that when confronted by completely different versions of the same circumstances, you have to choose the one that best fits what you know of those involved. You all knew Adam Cartwright. He could be hard-headed and he never backed down. But you also knew he never lied; he loved his family and could never had done what has been claimed. In light of his absence; it’s up to you to ensure the justice he cannot find for himself.”

I’m angry that Jeffrey left Hoss to paint a sympathetic picture of his brother, but I’m angrier that I got into this pickle in the first place. How could I have misread Adam Cartwright so fully? What I saw as darkness, was actually a deep, abiding goodness that clothed every decision. I realized my error at the farmhouse, and it made me sad to know what I’d have to do.

The only encouragement Jeffrey offered was that he’d never hoped for an acquittal. He still held out hope that one person on the jury disliked the Cartwrights enough to force a mistrial.  I pin all hope on that one man who wasn’t moved to tears by Hoss. A mistrial would mean bail, and they’d never find me for a retrial.

I hear a key scraping inside the metal lock, and the cellblock door opens, allowing the smell of fresh bread to waft from the tray being carried by the girl from the café. She sets her load on the stool outside my “room,” and shoots me a dirty look before turning to leave. Talk of the trial must be spreading fast, and she’s just given me her verdict.

For once, the aroma of whatever’s hidden under that blue-checkered cloth smells edible, making my stomach growl. Might as well eat.

Four

The honorable Hang-em-high Horatio has sent word to the sheriff that a verdict has been reached and we’re all to appear at 3 P.M. for the reading.

Jeffrey sent word that he’ll arrive to walk me to court. Judging by the speed in the deliberations, there’s no possibility of a hung jury. He’s coming to prepare me for the worst.

***

I don’t need divining skills to know the verdict before it’s pronounced. The eight jury members walked in and sat down, each intently examining their footwear, rather than facing me. The only uncertainty now is whether I’ll hang, and how soon it will happen.

I’m called to rise, and Jeffrey slips his arm around my shoulders in his feeble attempt to show solidarity. No matter what becomes of me, Jeffrey Manheim, attorney at law, will return to San Francisco and resume his profitable profession. It leaves me thinking that attorneys should face the same sentence as their clients.

The jury foreman stands when prompted. It’s the man I’d been counting on to hang the jury, rather than me. My small hope that he has provided one vote against conviction, is dashed as soon as he speaks.

“We find Jessica Hardy guilty of all charges.”

Instead of sitting, he asks to speak. “We come up with this verdict because of what the prosecutor said. We all knew Adam. We know he got himself into scrapes time-to-time, but it weren’t never because he was doing something unlawful. His trouble came from trying to help people who didn’t take kindly to him expecting they’d change or do what was right. We figure the same thing happened with this woman. We also figure he didn’t think a purdy little woman like her, was capable of doing him in. The most bothersome things for us, was that if things had’a happened like she said, she would have hollered about it right away, ‘stead of waiting a month. We got some good trackers around here, including Hoss and Little Joe Cartwright. If Adam had left out on foot, they surely could have caught up to him.”

The guy sighs and swallows hard.  “The only explanation is that Adam is dead. Still, since you ain’t found his body, we don’t feel right hanging her.”

I wonder if Horatio will be moved by this request? He’s banging his gavel to stop the crowd’s reaction. “Having been found guilty, Miss Hardy, I hereby sentence you to twenty-years for armed robbery, with the addition of a life sentence for kidnapping and murder, to be served at the Nevada State Prison in Carson City.”

I’m not sure whether I’m happy to stay alive or not, but Jeffrey leans over, whispering that the sentence does not disallow parole, and that’s a big win. He also promises to begin appeals immediately.

I’m ready to say amen, and go lick my wounds. But the judge has told everyone to sit still and begins shuffling through papers inside a brown folder.

“I want to thank the jury for not believing a story that blamed the victim. And now that this is over, I can share some information you’ll all find interesting.”

I’m experiencing something I’m not used to. There’s a fluttering in my stomach, and an iciness spreading to my fingertips that feels like frostbite setting in. I can’t imagine what he’s going to reveal.

“We’ve all wondered why Miss Hardy kept silent in the month since she was apprehended. I believe she thought this would keep us from discovering anything about who she might really be. She was wrong about that. We don’t have everything in place yet, so the information couldn’t be used in this trial. But I’ll share it now.”

The judge nods towards the Cartwrights, who’ve been joined by Sheriff Coffee. “The absence of telling her side of the story seemed most odd, and left Sheriff Coffee and the Cartwrights suspecting she had more to lose by speaking up. They both believed she’d done just as she was accused of doing, but they also doubted that she’d come to town and suddenly decide to become a bank robber. The event was too well-planned, and efficiently staged to have been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Their assumption made them curious enough to search through wanted posters for similar crimes, and found one from Arizona. It was a small bank and committed by a lone woman, but it spurred them on.”

I feel myself sliding lower into my chair without intending to do so. All the time I’d been feeling sure of myself, I was being outfoxed by the Cartwrights and that tricky sheriff. I set my stare on the judge, willing him to stop talking. It doesn’t work.

“They couldn’t mount an investigation on their own, so Ben hired the Pinkerton Agency. Their detectives blanketed towns along stage routes from the Mississippi River to California with telegrams, asking about any robberies committed by a woman. Replies flooded in. Reports of the thief were dissimilar: done by blonds, brunettes, older and younger women, and ones with physical deformities. But they all had a commonality; the thief vanished into thin air afterwards. The agency took a closer look at what Miss Hardy had done here, and then sent further inquiries to the respondents, asking whether a young woman had come to town prior to the robberies, ingratiating herself with the townsfolk. Every last place reported a newcomer. The names were different, but she told the same story of losing her parents to illness, and needing a fresh start. She was a waif of a woman, with manners so innocent and needful, they’d taken her into their hearts and communities. Her tears and apologies over being homesick came sometime after the robberies, with everyone sending her on her way with their best wishes.”

This information starts a swell of whispers as the crowd makes the connection to my earlier testimony. I’m left wondering how I managed to find the only town in the West with a family that would see through every move I made. And how did I manage to set my sights on one member of that family as soon as I arrived? It almost seems providential that my time as a thief was meant to end here.

Jeffrey’s complexion pales with this new information, and he’s now leaning as far away as he can without falling off his chair.

My heart is pounding wildly—in a bad way—as the judge focuses me with a deadly stare.

“You could save us a lot of trouble by acknowledging that this is you, Miss Hardy.”

I remain mute, and in that, confess. But they don’t know “everything,” and I refuse to make it any easier. Without my actual name, they’ll chase their tails in frustration.

“That’s fine, Miss Hardy. I didn’t expect you’d start telling the truth now. The Pinkertons have given their findings to federal agents, and they’ve already sent your image out on a wanted poster. Once we know the full scope of your exploits, further charges will be drawn.”

Five

It is obvious that I was never going to leave Virginia City a free woman. A prison wagon was waiting when I exited the courthouse, already loaded with my trunk and things from the jail. Had this jury found me innocent, the Pinkerton’s had already gathered enough evidence that I’d be held for these new allegations.

There were a few moments allowed for me to attend to personal matters before being handcuffed and loaded into the coach. The smell of sweat and desperation is so thick in here, it makes my stomach turn.

The driver undoubtedly thought he was giving me a bit of cud to chew on, when I’d climbed aboard. He said most of the road between here and Carson City cuts through the massive Ponderosa ranch owned by the Cartwrights. The intent was to make me squirm, but I find it ironically satisfying—like the final jab to this family.

We left some time ago, and no apparition of Adam has come to accompany me past his home. Still, I’d rather think about him instead of the conditions I’ll face at the state penitentiary.

This isn’t a “women’s prison.” Such places don’t exist.  The two men transporting me, said this prison is quite new, and it does have a separate dormitory for women. Most places with women just keep them in separate cells.² Separate or together: I’ve no illusions that women remain unmolested in these conditions. I wonder if I’d have done better to hang. But I’m resilient.

While rumbling across the Cartwright land, my mind strays back to the final moments at the courthouse. Despite the verdict, the three Cartwrights displayed no joy or satisfaction. There was no backslapping or thanks given the prosecutor when the final gavel sounded. Adam’s father and brothers left while those in attendance remained quiet and seated, allowing the family to exit in silence. The rest of the crowd followed suit.

I hate the Cartwrights. I hate their dignity amid horrible circumstances. I hate their dogged pursuit of truth. I hate Adam most. If he’d have been the man I thought, we’d be together as partners and lovers.

Yet, I think back to the day my stage pulled into Virginia City, allowing my heart to soften, as my mind leaves the confines of this stinking coach.

I saw a man dressed in black, taking long, powerful strides down the boardwalk as the stage slowed towards the Overland depot. He was truly the most handsome man I’d ever seen.

I could tell he was tall, and his wide shoulders flowed past a strong, well-defined chest to a slimmer waist. The top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a dark swatch that left me longing to tangle my fingers among those curls while engaging in behavior unbecoming a graduate of the Carthage Female Academy.

Silver studs on his hatband glistened in the bright sun like stars against the black sky of his low-set Stetson, whenever he nodded and smiled at those who passed by. The story I told at trial was true up to the point of failing to mention how I’d elbowed past the other passengers to get out in time to feign a fall, just as he’d walked by.

The next memories make me moan with unfulfilled desire for him. He was as perfect close-up as he’d seemed from afar. I first noticed his long, slender fingers wrapped around my outstretched arms when he reached out to steady me; his palms sending warmth through the fabric of my green velvet jacket.

His hands created an immediate dichotomy: a fact that should have made me wary. They bore scars and callouses, indicating manual work. Yet his nails were filed and clean, rather than chewed off and filthy, as I’d expect of a man doing the physical labor to account for his physique.

I allowed my eyes to drift upwards, finding tanned, bare, muscular forearms extending from the perfectly rolled sleeves of his shirt. I’d found myself breathless then, just as I am now, imagining those hands caressing my bare flesh, and those strong arms pulling me ever closer, until no space remained between us. The lack of oxygen had made me sway that day, forcing him to hold me tighter. I grabbed his upper arms for support, and felt well-defined muscles stretching against the fabric with his efforts to keep us both upright on the narrow steps.

After he lifted me to the boardwalk, I allowed my eyes to drift downwards, finding that his body from the waist to his black boots, was as interesting as everything else I’d observed. I’d wished those slacks had been closer fitting, but I had no problem seeing that they hid a well-shaped bottom and long, lean, strong legs. He was perfectly put together, and I claimed continued wooziness to keep him from leaving.

The dessert of this lusty visual meal came when I examined his facial features. His lips formed a perfect bow, and his smile revealed nicely aligned, white, healthy teeth. That grin produced a deep dimple on his left cheek, with the hint of another on his right. His dark eyes held flecks of gold in a background color I’d never seen before. My heart fluttered each time his long lashes softly kissed his cheeks whenever he blinked!

I was besotted: drunk with the indulgence of taking in every inch of him. What I ignored was that his eyes revealed his ability to see straight through my theatrics. Yet there was no judgment, and his steady smile spoke to him enjoying it. The expression that settled on his face when I finally stood without support, was appreciative of my attention, without encouraging me further.

I have mentally kicked myself every day since that exchange. In my “affected” state, I missed the fact that while he was seeing clearly into my thoughts, I saw in him only what he allowed.

The strangest part, now as I think back, was that he wasn’t perfect at all. He had a drooping eyelid and eyebrows nearly too thick and dark. There was a scar over his lip and a dark-whiskered shadow indicating a constant battle between blade and beard. None of it detracted from his handsomeness. In fact, the imperfections made him even better.

Remembering the unrequited opportunity to know Adam physically in every way, is too powerful to continue, so I recall my trial. Of the two stories presented; the prosecution was dead-on target.

Despite the verdict, I know the Cartwrights will continue to grieve. That suits me fine. Adam was raised in this righteous family to become so unbendingly honest that I stood no chance of corrupting him. I truly tried to lure him to a more exciting life with me, but he wouldn’t be swayed. It left me no option but to rid the world of him, and offer a different version of the facts: if I got caught. But as everything else went with these Cartwrights; in my haste to get Adam “disposed” of, I’d left the bank money at the farm and went back for it. It was another error on top of all the others I’d made in Virginia City, and it was my final undoing when the posse rode in before I could leave again.

The truth is, when it comes to the Cartwrights, it seems nearly impossible to outwit them. Even if I’d run when I had the chance, Ben Cartwright would have pursued me to the ends of the earth. My one peace in this fiasco is knowing that I created a situation where he will never have peace.

I can see outlines of buildings in the distance, and a shadow surrounding it that must be the fencing for the prison. Time has passed quickly with my musings. I should feel sick with worry, but I don’t. Prison is simply another stage where I’ll play whatever role is demanded until I find a way out.

As the coach passes through the gates into the prison yard, I get the feeling of a coffin lid closing over me, burying me alive. There’s sweet irony in this, so it doesn’t bring terror. See, I buried Adam alive too, and I witnessed the realization of his fate in those perfect eyes when he saw his coffin lid being lowered.

A “perfect” ending, to a perfectly frustrating man.

The End       (The sequel to this story will post next week.)

^1I May Shirley in a real character who became a well-known criminal going by the name Belle Starr. Carthage Female Academy was an actual school developed by her father. The Shirleys moved to Scyene, Texas, and the Missouri-born James and Younger brothers did live nearby in Texas for a bit, and were known by the Shirleys. Belle was fashionable just as described here. A crack shot, she participated in stage robberies, and was convicted of horse theft. She was ambushed in 1889 and killed with her own rifle. Her murder was never solved. (The timeline for Belle Star is a little off for my story, but close enough to use with a wink.)

²The prison description given here is accurate. Separate facilities didn’t become common until later in the 19^th century. The justice system gave female criminality a wide berth, incarcerating only the worst offenders. Conditions for these women were miserable.