bowed elaborately. “No one deserves a break more than you do, my dear.”
The second round of laughter was tamped down by the judge’s gavel. “Mrs. Messenger, please take the stand. I remind you that you are still under oath. Gerber, proceed.”
“Your Honor?” Halsted said.
“Prosecutor?”
“If it please the court, I would like to question the defendant regarding her statements prior to lunch.”
“Granted.”
Halsted grabbed his own set of the dime novels—many more than those exhibited earlier by Mr. Gerber—and eagerly approached the witness. He indicated the cover of the one on top. “Mrs. Messenger, do you recognize these weapons?”
Lucinda studied the image. “I know that the long-barreled ones are rifles, and—”
“Madam, are these images of your weapons?”
“No, they are not.”
“Do you carry a weapon?”
“Only the tiniest of derringers in my reticule. A lady alone cannot be too careful in the wilds of the West.”
“Mrs. Messenger, do you deny that you are indeed Lucy Angel?”
“I have used that name.”
“I mean to say, are you the Lucy Angel portrayed in these books?” He shook the stack in her face.
“Step back, Counselor,” the judge said.
When Halsted retreated, Lucinda said, “Since I have not read them, and since I have not to my knowledge been interviewed by”—she leaned forward to get a better look at the cover—“J. B. Pendleton, I would have to say that I am not.”
“How, then, do you account for the fact that Lucy Angel: Rattlesnake Slayer of the Lone Prairie is the same story you shared with us this morning?”
Lucinda’s lips parted in surprise. “I’m afraid I do not know. The only time I ever used the name was wh—” She interrupted herself, looked from Halsted to her own attorney.
Gerber nodded slightly.
Halsted seized the lifeline. “When, Mrs. Messenger? Who knew you as Lucy Angel?”
“I had traveled to San Francisco,” she said, “where the only acceptable work I could find was in a café too near the docks. I was walking home one night when a drunk accosted me. I wounded him with my derringer, and was taken to the jailhouse. There, I spent several hours answering questions for an officer who said he needed as many facts as possible for his report.
“I recall now, he commented more than once on the fascinating account of my life. I told him there was nothing fascinating about it, that I was only trying to survive.
“But,” she concluded, “surely the character in those books isn’t me.”
“Surely, it is.” To the judge, Halsted said, “Nothing further at this time.”
Another fork in the road, Gerber thought. His strategy included plans to reveal the story behind the Lucy Angel of novel lore, even though he had not let his client in on the particulars of that strategy. Halsted had beat him to the punch, but Gerber felt confident he could turn it to their advantage. “Mrs. Messenger, were you aware of your reputation as a female gunslinger before we began preparing your defense?”
“No, and frankly, I am still a bit stunned by it all.”
“Why, then, did you change your name when you moved?”
“At first, I was frightened, alone. After I left the homestead, I thought about the name Messenger. That led to Gabriel, the archangel who delivered a message. I had delivered the message that a barbarian posing as a man should not physically, mentally, verbally, and emotionally abuse the helpmeet God had blessed him with. And, I vowed to God that if I ever found another female being treated that way, I would help her.
“By the time I arrived in Texas, I was going by the name Lucy Gabriel.”
“When you were sworn in, I couldn’t help but notice your reaction to the Bible.”
“Not to the Bible. Rather, to its abuse.”
“So”—Gerber reached for the court’s Bible—“this particular book did not cause your distress?”
“No.” Lucinda watched her lawyer raise the Book. She stiffened. She knew how difficult it would be to tell the story, yet she must. If people weren’t made aware of sin, how could they possibly prevent it in the future?
“What did, then?”
She spoke, and as she did, she thought her words sounded distant, muffled, as if uttered through an oppressive haze of southern heat….
The boardinghouse was run by a retired school marm named Ruth Porterfield, who welcomed Lucinda with open arms. The two women bonded quickly, as is the way of women. Ruth helped Lucinda find work as a housekeeper at the town’s largest hotel, and it didn’t take long for the newcomer to settle into the pace of the bustling Texas community. After a few weeks, she had her new life nicely tacked down.
One afternoon, Lucinda returned to the house early from work and found Mrs. Porterfield seated at the kitchen table, crying. A newspaper was spread open before her.
“Ruth?” Lucinda touched the woman’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, dear.” She blotted her face with her apron. “I cry when I get angry. Always have. It’s an irritating trait.”
“I think it shows compassion. Now, tell me, what has you in such a state?”
Ruth stood, and jabbed her index finger into the paper, smudging the ink. “Them.”
Lucinda skimmed the article about an evangelist coming to town to lead a tent revival.
“The nerve of the townsfolk, allowing him to come back here.”
“You mean The Reverend Malachi Thompson? I don’t understand.”
Ruth told Lucinda about questionable events surrounding the reverend’s visit the year before. She had witnessed signs of a vile relationship between the man and his young granddaughter who traveled with him.
“Did you attend his services last year?”
“Two or three, before I reported him. No one believed me. They now think I’m a crazy old woman. Before he preaches, the little girl sings. Did I tell you? Prettiest voice I’ve ever heard. I would like to hear that again.” Ruth stared out the window, her expression wistful for a moment. “Damn him,” she shouted as she slammed her palm against the table. “Damn him to hell.”
Lucinda had never heard a woman curse before. She promised Ruth that she would be on the alert.
What Lucinda observed of the reverend and his granddaughter over the next few days could
