The Sheriff's Wife: Tangled in Montana's Violent Past

By Pat Pfeiffer

In 1862, historical figure Electa Bryan comes to a remote Indian Agency in what is now Western Montana to teach native children. Instead she finds deprivation and lonelinessuntil she meets suave, handsome Henry Plummer and falls hopelessly in love. Rejecting her sisters warning, she marries this stranger and moves to Bannack City.
There, they pursue their vision of turning a primitive territory filled with greed, murder and mayhem into a civilized state, with Henry as governor. As sheriff, he is away from home most of the time enforcing the law, searching for a mysterious silver lode, or in the saloons. Electa is neglected and regimented, but blindly ignores the signs he is not all he seems, devotedly believing all he says. Until she meets Pearl.

At Electas death in 1912, her son, Vernon Maxwell, inherits an eagle feather and a fortune. He sets out to learn why she left her husband so precipitously and why Henry was hanged for supposedly heading a gang of road agents who were killing innocent people and robbing gold shipment. What is the password he must know to secure his inheritanceHenrys stolen gold? More importantly, can he discover his mothers hidden past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 5, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469751160

Pat Pfeiffer

Pat Pfeiffer is a novelist and writing consultant. She teaches workshops and gives endless hours helping beginning writers improve. She has four published novels and two more in preparation. She and her husband live in Eastern Washington. Her interests include geology, history and heritage roses.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I cried my final tears at my mother’s bedside three days ago as she lay dying. We were always close. The emptiness overwhelmed me when I realized I would never see her again.

Now, May 23, 1912, at her burial, I stood beside my mother’s grave. Tulips and irises hid the rectangle of disturbed brown earth. A slight breeze sighed through the elms, mirroring my sorrow. I said a final farewell, unaware that an hour later I would discover she had lived a life I never dreamed of—and I would find her again.

Last to leave the grave, I finally heeded my father’s urging and sprang up the step of the buggy and sat down beside him. Although nearing 34 years old, I was still a bachelor living with my parents. My brother Clarence and older half-sisters, Sophronia and Ida, and their families were behind us. My father flicked the reins and led the line of vehicles toward our two-story, white frame house on Sixth Street. He didn’t speak all the way home. I assumed he was thinking of my mother, his wife for 38 years, now dead of complications from a broken hip, of all things.

Friends broke off from the procession as we drove through town. Ladies in their long tight skirts and leghorn hats stopped as we passed and men held their hats over their hearts. Only close friends and family came for the funeral dinner.

Once inside the front door, my father addressed them. You’ll be going on in. The good ladies of the church are waiting for you. There is something my children will be needing to hear. T’will not take us long. A rotund Irishman with a mop of white hair, his usual rosy cheeks were pale today as he stepped aside so all could enter the dining room. My nephews and nieces obediently followed the adults. Familiar odors of baked ham and beans, chocolate, and fresh bread almost turned my stomach.

Papa held the door to the parlor open for us. My sisters hesitated, no doubt thinking the dinner couldn’t proceed without them, then followed him in with Clarence and myself behind him into the seldom-used room. Without Mam, it seemed desolate, almost as though it were empty, in spite of our being there. Her wicker sewing basket lay beside her rosewood rocker, like a waiting friend. I remembered her fingering the red bead handle and looking off into space.

Papa slumped into a chair and leaned his head against the back, his arms stretched out along the rests. The faint odor of mothballs from black bombazine funeral dresses overrode the fragrance of Mam’s crystal bowl of rose petals, saved from last summer. Ida shut the door softly. None of us voiced our thoughts. What did Papa wish to say? Read a will? Doubtful. Mam had nothing to leave us except her love and a few dresses too tight for my half-sisters.

Father watched Clarence put a log on the fire and kick it into place. Then with a sigh as though putting off something unpleasant, my father took an envelope from his frock coat pocket.

I have a letter from your mother. We waited, throats tight with heldback tears. I have a letter, to be read upon her... Papa swallowed and continued, .her death. He opened the envelope and took from it a single sheet of paper. I could see Mam’s neat Spencerian penmanship, straight across the paper, edges squared, precise and neat as she always was.

The Last Will and Testament of Electa Bryan Maxwell Father read, dated this first day of January 1912. Dear Children, his voice was stronger now. I have very little to leave you except my love, and you always had that. To Sophronia, I leave my china tea set.

Our eyes turned to the bow-fronted china cabinet and the paper-thin English tea set Mam’s brother Dan gave her for a wedding present, used only on rare social occasions. Sophronia’s eyes lighted. She had wanted that tea set since I could remember and once said she didn’t know why Mam didn’t give it to her, because she would use it. My father looked back at the letter.

To Ida, I leave my diamond earrings. You will make up stories about them, but in your wildest imagination you will never come near the truth

She never wore them. Leave it to practical Sophronia.

Ida’s eyes were dreamy. Did you give them to her, Papa?

No, my dear. His eyes twitched at the corners, almost in a smile had they not been so full of sadness. Her first husband gave them to her.

He could have set a match to the house and not startled us more.

Always thought there was something she wasn’t telling anyone, Clarence’s lips primmed with self-righteousness.

I had a notion to tell him he always knew something after it happened, but didn’t. I was too intent on the chasm of wonder my father’s words had opened up. Mam had a life we knew nothing about, a life before the years of taking care of us! Diamond earrings she never wore. A husband.

To Clarence, I leave a gold nugget from Montana.

Where’d she get that, for pity sakes? Clarence sputtered, a little spit coming with each word, as though there were something sinful about Mam having a gold nugget.

My father lowered the paper and looked over his glasses at us all. I promised Electa I’d never tell, and her story will go with me to the grave. He lifted the sheet closer to his eyes again.

To Vernon, I leave everything else in my red casket, because he will know what to do with them.

My eyebrows frowned a question at him, but he only said, Beats me; I never saw inside that box of hers. He reached into an inner pocket of his black satin vest, bulging a little over his stomach, and drew out a tiny key on a gold chain. She never took this off as long as I knew her. He rose from his chair, pushing himself up by the arms, and walked into the bedroom.

I imagined him taking that little oblong casket from the bureau. I’d always admired it as a child. The box was of faded red velvet with a miniature lock and rather ornate brass corners held in place by little round-headed nails. One was always coming loose and I’d push it in with a finger. I would ask if I could hold it, pulling on her hands. There weren’t soft lady’s hands.

Can I see inside, Mam? Will you let me look inside?

Yes, Vernon, someday you can see inside and solve the mystery that’s hidden there. She smiled. There will not be many clues, but with your long inquisitive nose, you will search it out. She looked out the window, as though seeing something far away. The smile faded. But by then it won’t matter. I thought for a minute she would cry, but Mam never cried. I ran off to play, hugging the secret. Someday I’ll get to see inside. Only me. She didn’t say the others could look.

Father returned to the parlor, handed me the casket and sat down again as though just that short trip to the bedroom had taken all his strength, as though Electa had taken his life with her.

My sisters leaned toward me. Open it Vernie. Only Sophie called me that, me a respectable banker. Ida sighed, ever the romantic, just as Mam knew.

I opened the lock slowly, just to tantalize Sophie and Clarence, and lifted the lid. The casket contained a gold nugget, a pair of diamond earrings at least a quarter-carat each in rich gold settings and on the bottom two envelopes. I handed the earrings to Ida.

She sighed, her eyes all starry. I don’t think I’ll ever wear them, not until I know their story.

You’ll die of old age then, Clarence said, as I handed him the gold nugget. It was the size of a dime, an unbelievable specimen, smooth and round. He rubbed it between his fingers, a narrow foxy expression in his eyes.

"And she left you letters. Sophronia’s mouth twitched in what amounted to a smile for her. You’ll get a kick out of reading them.

You’re always so curious about everyone else’s business, since you’ve so little of your own."

No, Ida shot at her sister. Vernon will read them because he cares about people and he’ll see between the lines and he’ll learn about the Electa Maxwell we never knew—or cared about, she added wistfully.

T’will be a revelation, that it will, my father said with a little humph of his shoulders.

I lifted the letters from the casket. Under them lay an eagle feather. Because I knew I’d have no peace if I didn’t tell the others something, I stared at the postmarks as though they were hard to make out, tantalizing my now-rich siblings. They are both from Uncle Dan, I finally said. I’ll read them later. I can’t say I didn’t feel a stab of disappointment, but on further thought, I knew my mother would have given me something. It would be revealed in those letters, no doubt. I held up the eagle feather.

Sophronia frowned. Why ever would she keep a feather? Probably has mites.

With that, the girls and Clarence went into the dining room to share their treasures with the others. I could just hear Sophronia’s oldest saying, You all got something valuable and Uncle Vernon only got letters. How sad.

Finally, after effusive goodbyes all the guests were gone, including Clarence and my sisters and their families, and Father and I were left alone, the house echoing with memories. The sun was setting a pale apricot through apple green leaves. Peggy, our hired girl—if I could call someone in her 70’s a girl, rattled dishes in the kitchen, then stuck her head into the room where we sat before the fire.

You’ll be eating?

Later, Peggy. Father went past her toward the bedroom. I think I’ll just lie down a bit. You can go home if you want. Vernon can get us something later, maybe just whatever the ladies sent over, if you leave it on the back of the stove.

Thank you, Mr. Maxwell. I’m just so sorry. You’ll be knowing that. I never met a better lady than your wife. I remember the day she came. Peggy went on talking to me because Father had closed the bedroom door. She rubbed her hands down well-padded hipbones. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Vernon, but I was watching out the kitchen curtain the day she came, because I knew your pa advertised for a housekeeper. You could have floored me with a dustpan when I saw that pole-thin girl standing there with that battered velvet valise in her hand. Of course, I learned later she wasn’t so young, past thirty. I was surprised as tarnation when your Pa took her on. I expected him to give her a quick shift. She didn’t look strong enough to raise two step-children. Peggy sighed from deep in her ample bosom. White hair was coming loose from her tightly pulled-back bun.

I lamely tried to head her off, but nothing stopped Peggy O’Brian when in full spate. She was always goodness itself to those children, and then she married your pa. They made a strange couple, her being a good four inches taller than he. She sniffed and went on. Only one queer thing about her. She never got any letters, except once or twice a year from her brother—your Uncle Dan. Came from Ohio.

Yes, I answered. Her family came from there and she did say once she grew up there, when she was priming me for a geography test. Thinking about that, a few of my mother’s words came back to me from those lessons. She knew a lot about Montana, too; she said it was the coldest place this side of the North Pole. Which reminded me I wanted to get at those letters.

Thank you, Peggy, you’ve been more than helpful these last days.

Least I could do, she said and bustled back into the kitchen.

I sat down in my father’s chair by the fire and opened the casket again, first pushing in the protruding nail. The top letter was from Uncle Dan and dated one week before mother died. The one below it was dated 1882 and open. I would read it later. I slit along the top of the envelope with my penknife. Inside was a short note, saying goodbye and that he was sorry he and Aunt Minnie couldn’t come so far to see her.

The letter went on. I’ve never told a soul about these letters you get each December. Mr. Maxwell had better write the bank and have them come directly to him from now on. Enclosed was another letter. Being a banker, I read with amazement the heading. The Deseret Bank of Salt Lake City—then jerked alert, little chills running up and down my backbone as I read.

Dear Madam,

It is my pleasure, since Mr. Carruthers retired, to care for your financial needs, as he did during the 50 years since your husband left his gold with us in your maiden name. We trust that the investments which we made have been to your satisfaction. If I may be so personal, I have wondered why you never drew any except the $3,000 you took in 1882, and now advise you to do so. Your balance as of December 31,1911, is $180,000. You will, of course, give the password to your beneficiaries. Without it, no funds can be withdrawn. Yours truly, Hiram Smith

A fortune—and she thought I would know what to do with it. Bug-eyed, I shook my head, replaced the two letters and locked the casket, putting the key deep in my vest pocket. I would read the other letter later. I had too much to think about for the moment.

My stomach growled reminding me it had not been fed since breakfast. I went into the kitchen thinking Mother was right—my long inquisitive nose was twitching.

* * *

The clock ticked away the minutes in the night, trying to hypnotize me into sleep. Mosquitoes waged war against the outside window screen, while questions bombarded me. I decided to lay out the facts on a mental balance sheet and see if doing so would put me to sleep. I’d make my mind work in an orderly fashion, as a banker’s should. First, which facts were debits and which were credits?

Electa Bryan grew up in Ohio. She was married previous to my father. How did I know that? My father said so and the bank statement was addressed to her. She must have been a widow—or divorced—because she married my father. Electa Bryan lived in Montana—per-haps Utah, but did I know this for certain? The gold nugget, and the bank account in Salt Lake City?

One thing I did know for certain. She bequeathed only a tea set, a nugget, earrings, an eagle feather and two letters, the one from the bank and the one from Uncle Dan, the one I hadn’t opened. And my father knew something he would not tell.

The credits far outweighed the debits. Why and when did she leave Ohio? How young was she? Did she have brothers and sisters—my aunts and uncles, except Uncle Dan, of course. What was her married name? Who was he and where were they married? What happened to him? Where did she spend the years before she came to us? And why did she come here to Iowa? And the biggest question: Where did so much gold come from? Why had she worked for us when she was wealthy? Was there something scandalous? What about that $3,000 taken out in 1882? No evidence she spent it here. At least none I knew about.

Not as important, but what was the story behind the nugget and earrings? And an eagle feather, of all things? What did she mean when she said I would know what to do with the contents of the casket? Well, she had taken care of the gold nugget and earrings. But what did she expect me to do with an eagle feather? And what was I to do with the money?

I fruitlessly swatted at a mosquito buzzing around outside my head while unanswered questions continued to nag inside it.

More importantly, did she want me to learn her secrets? By then it won’t matter, she had said. If so, why did she leave me this riddle to solve? Of all the letters she must have received in over 60 years, why had she kept only two? There was so little on the positive side. My mother had given me a mystery and she expected me to solve it. Why me? Answers might lie in the other letter.

I got out of bed, lighted the lamp and fished the key out of my coat pocket. Shivering, I climbed back between the sheets, wrapped an afghan around my shoulders and reached for the casket. With all the trepidation I’d have felt as a child, I slowly unlocked it, fearful of what the letters might say. I lifted the oldest envelope to the light. Uncle Dan’s address was on the return and I could make out, June something, 1882 on the postmark. I took out the letter and unfolded it. The ink was readable, spidery, running uphill on the page, and going clear to the edges, sign of a thrifty writer. I glanced to the end before beginning. Aunt Minnie had written it.

My Dearest Electa,

I put wild roses on Reene’s grave this morning. You always said put wild roses on it because they were the only flowers from out there that grow here, too. The tombstone looked so little and lonely. REENE, BELOVED DAUGHTER, April 1864 to December 1870, SIX YEARS, THREE MONTHS, THREE DAYS. I know your heart is here with her. Imagine my surprise when I got back from the cemetery to find Martha Jane’s boy had arrived on the Great Northern. James Henry, for that is his name you will remember, is a handsome lad of 19 with eyes that simply melt ones heart, especially when he smiles, if I may sound like a Gothic novel. He is tall, at least six feet, with brownish hair and wears a pencil mustache which he lets droop down each side of his mouth. He is very thin; don’t people in Montana have much to eat? I suppose not in that uncivilized country. He says his father is suffering from consumption. They live in some jump-up town, east of Last Chance Gulch. Imagine? He says people are moving away from the mining area of town, since those men are so rough. He did not mention the women, but I suppose they are there as well. You would know about that. He says his mother is fine and busy with good works. He plans to go to college here and become a criminal lawyer and return to Helena, for that is the new name of that impossible Last Chance Gulch. He made mention that his mother thought you might help with his expenses. I don’t know why you should? He says there is a great future in law and room for advancing into politics. Why he should choose to deal with those uncouth criminals is more than I can understand.

As you requested, I have not told him that you live in Iowa and—may the good Lord forgive me one small lie—if he sees a letter from you, I’ll say it is from a cousin. I wish you could see him, for I know you would admire him. With all our love,

Aunt Minnie and Uncle Dan

I laid the letter down. Who was Martha Jane? How would my mother know about soiled doves? Much to add to my balance sheet, but not on the side I needed for an acceptable bottom line. I put the letter back in the casket, blew out the lamp and tried to sleep again, but questions still flew at me. So Electa had a sister and a brother-in-law and they had a son, my cousin. Why had she never mentioned them?

I had more questions to answer. Why should Electa refuse any contact with her sister or her nephew? Who was Reene? Why should she mean so much to Electa? There was only one thing I could do. See Uncle Dan and Aunt Minnie in Ohio. I’d get leave from the bank, or—the thought struck like a sudden gripe in my innards—I need never work again. But I didn’t think my mother meant that when she said I would know what to do with the money. I’d take an absence and go to Montana, in the spring when the roads would be open. But where in all that empty state should I go?

A dampening thought struck. Would Uncle Dan tell me anything? And where was this James Henry now? I did a little calculating; he would be 49 years old. But I didn’t even know his last name.

Maybe Uncle Dan could set me on the trail.

CHAPTER 2

I had never been out of Iowa, so the train trip to Ohio kept me looking out the window all the way to Arcadia, where Uncle Dan was born and where my mother had lived as a child. From the train depot, I took a hansom cab and arrived at their elm-shaded house hedged with fat pink roses about four o’clock. Aunt Minnie welcomed me with little cries of delight, hugging me in as tightly as if I were a long lost son. Her silvery hair, worn in tight braid wound twice around her head, must have reached her hips when loosened. Her gentle voice reminded me of a quiet brook, her girlish giggle like an unexpected eddy.

Well, don’t you look just like your mother. She looked me up and down. Haven’t got her height, but you’ve got that auburn hair and gray eyes of hers and the set to your jaw.

Uncle Dan, tall, thin and leaning on a diamond willow cane, was more circumspect. He shook my hand with a strong grip. Welcome, Vernon my boy, welcome, he said.

Aunt Minnie led the way into the dining room, twittering that I should make myself at home, it was so good to have someone from the family visiting, that she would have dinner on the table in a minute, and directing Uncle Dan to seat me so the western sun wouldn’t be in my eyes. She bustled into the kitchen and returned with a dinner that I complimented by eating everything she set before me, fried chicken with all the fixins.

Afterwards, we sat sipping tea from cups like those given to Sophronia. We were in the tiny parlor kept for special company. She and I sat on red velvet padded chairs, while Uncle Dan leaned back in a black leather rocker. I commiserated with them about not being able to attend the funeral. I mentioned my mother’s casket and the other mementos—and my inheritance. I had come for answers, so I waded right in.

Uncle Dan, I have some questions and I need answers to solve the problem my mother left me. I think my father knows the answers, but he promised Mam he would never tell. If you know about her life, will you tell me?

Depends, was his cryptic response. You know your mother better than I. You were with her 34 years and we only had her with us for short periods. But, knowing a little about her childhood shouldn’t hurt. Might help. He leaned forward in the rocker, his gnarly old hands folded on his cane. There were eight of us children when my mother died and Father took in a housekeeper. Aunt Minnie primmed her mouth, telling me there was more to that story. Dan didn’t notice or chose not to and went on talking. I was oldest and married, so we took Electa to be with us for a few years. Her next older sister, Martha Jane, soon married James Vail, so she was taken care of. When Electa was 19, James got this foolish notion....

Dan, Minnie broke in, reproach in her voice, it was a vision. You know he said it was a vision like in the Bible.

Well, whatever it was, Dan said, frowning, he decided to take Martha and their two little children out to some God-forsaken place and civilize the Injuns.

It was the Blackfeet Tribe, Dan, Minnie corrected in her quiet voice, and he went to lead them to Christ. You know very well they could not be civilized until they became Christians. But Dan is right in one thing, James always had more vision than common sense.

I interrupted. Then Martha is my mother’s sister. I didn’t know she had one. She never spoke of any siblings except you, Uncle Dan.

He stopped rocking and said in an off-hand tone as if it didn’t matter, Well, she and Martha Jane had a little falling out. Aunt Minnie sniffed. Dan, rubbing a forefinger along the top of his narrow nose, continued as if he hadn’t heard. Martha didn’t want to go with him to the far edge of Dakota Territory, dug in her heels like a mule, said she didn’t want to leave her comforts, take her little ones out to be scalped. James pooh poohed that, saying Injuns weren’t scalping any more in 1862. He decided to go and that was that.

How does my mother come into all this? I asked.

Oh, she was as bad as James, Dan said, "got this notion in her head that she would go out and teach the Injuns children to read and write. Nothing we could do would change her mind, and of course, Martha had to go along with her husband, whether she wanted to or not. I