Wall Street Desires
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The next day the house was full of visitors. There were several ladies from other houses, as well as a few men who had been invited to look in on Mrs. Baird’s new establishment.
They came and looked over her books and accounts, which she gave them with great pride and confidence; they inspected the merchandise for sale; they asked many questions about the business, but no one seemed to understand it all.
She explained that this was because they didn’t know enough about the different kinds of goods sold at auction. But when a woman brought some lace to sell, or an old hatchet, or any such thing, there wasn’t a man among those present who could tell what kind of value it might have if bought by a dealer.
When a gentleman from another town showed interest in buying a horse he said: “I will buy it from you,” but he added quickly: “If I can get it cheap.” He couldn’t be satisfied until he found out whether his purchase would prove profitable.
The ladies were much more willing to pay fair prices than the gentlemen. A young girl told how she had purchased two beautiful dresses and paid only $5 each for them. One lady said that she wouldn’t believe it unless she saw it herself; others expressed their desire to see the shop. Finally, after lunch, Mrs. Baird called all of us together. She wanted to talk with us alone.
“There are so many things that need explaining,” she began, looking around at us with a troubled expression. “Some people say we’re stealing from our husbands, and others say that we don’t work hard enough.” Then she turned away. It made me very sad to hear her speak like this.
She did not seem to realize how foolish she sounded. And yet I knew it must be true. Why else should everyone come here? We certainly weren’t being accused of doing something wrong—we were simply suspected of doing something right.
I tried to comfort myself with the thought that we would soon have everything settled and that then we would return to normal life again. I hoped we would find out sooner rather than later just what it is that makes us special.
What is it that sets us apart? Is it our beauty or our brains? Or both? I wished I understood why we were given such strange powers. Surely we could do nothing good with these abilities. No one would ever thank God for giving women such extraordinary gifts.
That’s probably why none of us had ever used our power before now. Not even Mrs. Baird. Now we were beginning to use them, and it seemed to me that we should never stop using them. It was too terrible to think that we may have already done irreparable harm to ourselves.
Mrs. Baird went on talking without answering my question. She said: “We’ll make a list of everything we want to discuss and decide how best to deal with it. Right now we have to concentrate on selling our goods.”
Then she turned to the window and began counting money into the cash register. As soon as we left the room she locked the door. I felt sorry for her. She seemed so troubled. Maybe we really were doing something wrong, although I still didn’t know what it was.
Perhaps that was part of the reason why we had to keep our activities secret. If people found out, we’d be persecuted. People would accuse us of witchcraft or worse.
She worked late into the night preparing catalogs for the following week’s auctions. Each catalog listed the items to be offered and their estimated values. After we closed the store every evening, she took up pen and ink and wrote descriptions of the items, and put the names of the bidders on each sheet.
She had always kept records of sales, purchases, receipts, payments, and expenses since her husband died. She had kept meticulous ledgers. With a little help from the girls, she entered the information in a ledger book.
I helped her write the names of the consignors, and I also filled in the dates when the merchandise arrived and when it was sold. By the time she finished writing down the transactions for the day, I was worn out. I fell asleep on top of the table where I was working. At midnight, Mrs. Baird woke me and sent me home. She needed my assistance during the busy hours ahead.
When the first customers came through the front door that morning, I felt excited and anxious. It was going to be a very important day for us. For the last three days, I had been helping Mrs. Baird prepare for the opening of the shop.
My mind was full of thoughts about the future. All sorts of possibilities rushed through my head. I pictured us returning to a regular way of life. But instead of feeling elated, I worried that we hadn’t planned things well enough.
I wondered what we should do about the fact that we had no place to live except Mrs. Baird’s house. We might have to rent a small cottage somewhere nearby. Should we ask some of our friends to join us? I didn’t feel like discussing this problem with anyone. Instead, I spent most of my time watching Mrs. Baird.
She was busier than I had ever seen her. When she wasn’t dealing with customers she was arranging the merchandise on display shelves. Sometimes she stood behind the counter taking orders for horses and saddles and bridles and tack.
Other times she sat at the desk reading letters that arrived by mail and telegraph. The rest of us watched over her shoulder while she read the letters. Often we laughed because they contained humorous jokes and puns.
There were lots of letters from men who wanted to buy the ranch next door or build houses there. Most of those letters ended up in the trash can. They were obviously written by land grabbers or schemers. But sometimes she looked at one letter and sighed heavily.
Some of the other letters she threw aside without reading. One letter caught my eye. I held it up for all to see. It was addressed to us personally and signed by a man named John Witherspoon. He was an attorney in Kansas City.
His office was located on Main Street near the railroad station. A lawyer! Was he trying to tell us something? Did he suspect that we had stolen his client’s horse? Had we taken it to auction and sold it without telling him? Were we guilty of fraud?
How would we explain ourselves if he confronted us? Could we possibly lie our way out of trouble? What if he demanded that we return the money? That wouldn’t be hard to do. We’d simply pay back what we made. But then we’d never get away from him. He could send another threatening letter demanding payment of the entire purchase price.
I handed the letter to Mrs. Baird and asked her to read it aloud. As she did, the others gathered around and listened intently. She started reading slowly but picked up speed until she was shouting: “Dear Misses Bannister and Haggard—” Then she stopped and stared at me.
I thought she was angry; however, after a few seconds, she resumed reading and said: “The matter is not so simple. You must come to my office immediately and meet with me.” She folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.
“It seems that Mr. Witherspoon wants to talk to us,” she said. “He has hired an investigator to follow you and find out exactly what happened to the horse. Don’t worry. This man isn’t dangerous. He’s just curious. I’ll call him later today.”
“What will happen?” I asked nervously. “Will we be arrested? Will we go to jail?”
Mrs. Baird smiled and shook her head. “We won’t be charged with any crime. And we won’t go to jail. Our only concern is getting rid of the horse. If we can’t sell it before the trial date arrives, we’ll probably have to give it to someone as part of the bail bond.”
“But how are we going to explain this?” I cried. “How will we ever convince a jury that we didn’t steal the animal? The owner is wealthy. He’ll hire lawyers and witnesses to testify against us. He’ll make sure everyone believes we stole his property.”
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Baird said calmly. “Mr. Witherspoon has already agreed to take care of the situation. He has offered to help us. He has even suggested that we hire a new attorney. So don’t fret. Everything is going to work out fine. By the end of the week we’ll be home again—and safe.”
As soon as the store opened that day, Mrs. Baird turned control of the business over to me. She stepped outside to attend to the duties of being a public official. Her main responsibility now was to serve on the board of supervisors.
She also served as county clerk when needed. In addition, she managed the town’s finances. While she was gone, I took over the reins. With the exception of one customer, I kept the store quiet that afternoon.
The rest of the customers left quickly once they realized we had nothing to offer them. After Mrs. Baird returned to the shop, I went upstairs to change clothes. I found her sitting on the bed staring at the wall. “Where is this investigator?” I asked. “Why haven’t we heard anything yet?”
“You’re right,” she said. “There’s been no word from him.”
She stood up and walked toward the window. I followed her and saw that she was looking at the pasture where the mare grazed. “Do you think the horse is happy here?” I asked softly.
“Yes, she looks content. However, I doubt she likes the confinement.”
“Couldn’t we free her and let her run wild?”
“That might prove difficult. First, we’d need a large paddock. Second, we’d need to feed her every day. Third, we’d have to fence off the area to keep people from riding her. Fourth, we’d need to clean up after her. Fifth, there’d be more expenses than we anticipated. Finally, if anyone got hurt while riding her, we’d have to pay damages.”
“So much for freeing her,” I said. “Maybe we should try to find her a good home. Maybe we could sell her.”
“No,” Mrs. Baird replied firmly. “I’m sorry. I know how much you want to ride again. But we’ve spent enough money buying her. Besides, we can’t afford to lose any more cash. We’ll wait and see what happens.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed and watched her face. It looked pale and tired. She seemed distracted and preoccupied. I wasn’t surprised. We were still in danger of being caught by the sheriff. Not only did we have a horse thief on our hands; but we also faced a murder charge. All we had to do was sit back and watch as the evidence piled up against us.
“I wish I knew who killed Mr. Witherspoon,” I said. “If we knew who he was working for, maybe we wouldn’t be in so much trouble.”
Mrs. Baird sighed and nodded. “It would certainly simplify matters if we had some idea about what was happening around here. Then we’d know which direction to turn first. Unfortunately, we don’t. And since the police are keeping mum, it doesn’t look like we’re going to get an answer anytime soon. Unless…”
Her voice trailed off and then came back stronger. “Unless what?”
“Unless we start asking questions ourselves.”
***
The next morning Mrs. Baird went into the courtroom with me. A small crowd of spectators filled the benches. Most of them were ranch owners and their families. They all wore hats and jackets and carried briefcases. Some of the men sported mustaches and cigars.
Their wives dressed conservatively. One woman wore a gray hat, and another wore a black hat. Both hats matched her dark jacket. They both looked very serious as they listened to the proceedings.
As I studied each person in the audience, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kill such a nice man as Mr. Witherspoon. He always greeted people warmly whenever he met them. I felt terrible that he was dead.
He hadn’t deserved to die the way he did. Why hadn’t someone come forward before now to clear my name? Was it because he worked alone? Had no one else known of his plans to rob the bank? Or perhaps they simply weren’t interested in helping him.
If I had been the one to kill him, I would have done everything possible to cover my tracks. Still, I couldn’t believe that I was innocent. What other explanation was there for his death?
While Mrs. Baird waited for me inside the courtroom, I stepped out onto the gallery to greet the judge. He was wearing a black robe and wig. His eyes twinkled brightly beneath bushy eyebrows. He held a gavel in one hand.
When I reached the top row of wooden seats, the bailiff tapped me on the shoulder. The judge motioned me closer to his bench and smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Cameron. How are you today?”
“Fine,” I answered.
He pointed to a seat beside him. “Please take a seat. You may stay until the end of the hearing unless I tell you otherwise. Of course, you won’t be allowed to speak during the trial or hear anything that’s said.”
I glanced at Mrs. Baird. Her lips were pressed together tightly. She shook her head slightly as if trying to convey disapproval. I didn’t care what she thought. This was a chance for me to learn something new. “Thank you, your honor.” I took my place next to Mrs. Baird and waited quietly for the court to convene.
After the jury was sworn in and seated, the district attorney called the defendant to the witness stand. The defendant turned and gave a nervous smile to the jurors as he approached the table.
“You’re charged with robbing the Bank of the San Juans,” the prosecutor began. “What is your occupation?”
“A cowboy,” he replied. “That’s all.”
“Do you own a horse named Silver?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you buy her?”
“In Denver.”
“Did you purchase the horse to help you escape from jail?”
“No.”
“How did you come across the horse?”
“Someone left her tied up outside the saloon where I work.”
“Who was this person?”
“One of the girls at the bar.”
“Why did she leave the horse behind?”
“Because I told her not to.”
“Was this girl pretty?”
“She had beautiful brown eyes and long blond hair.”
“And how did she treat you?”
“Very well.”
“What did she give you?”
“Money.”
“Would you please show us what she gave you?”
The defendant removed his wallet from his pocket and opened it. On top of the bills lay several pieces of paper folded into squares. “Here are the money orders,” he explained. “They totaled $5,000.”
The prosecutor asked the defendant to describe the money order. The defendant unfolded the square sheet of paper. It showed a picture of the bank president. Underneath the photo, in bold block letters, read: “To be cashed upon presentation.”
“So these money orders could only be used at the bank itself?”
“That’s correct.”
The prosecutor handed the money order to the defense counsel. “This money order belonged to the victim?”
“It did.”
“How did you come by it?”
“I found it while searching through the bank vault.”
“Searching?”
“There wasn’t much to search through since most of the money had already been counted.”
“Are you certain the money order belongs to the victim?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t some of the money have been stolen by someone else after the money orders were issued?”
“Not likely. We made sure every transaction was recorded. There was no reason to steal any of it.”
“But then why would you need to rob the bank?”
“We needed the money to pay off our gambling debts.”
“Gambling debts!”
“That’s right.”
“Then who lent you so much money?”
“Everyone.”
“But you don’t know their names?”
“No.”
“Did you ever gamble with the mayor?”
“I never gambled with anyone.”
“Have you ever met the sheriff?”
“Once.”
“On whose ranch did you meet him?”
“His neighbor’s.”
“What kind of man was this sheriff?”
“Kind.”
“Did he arrest you?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“He knew we weren’t guilty.”
“But you robbed the bank anyway.”
“I didn’t rob the bank, sir.”
“Yet you stole its money. What did you do with the loot?”
“We bought a horse.”
“Just one horse?”
“Yes, just one.”
“Where did you get the money to buy the horse? Did you rob another bank?”
“No, sir.”
“So you still owe people money.”
“Yes.”
“What will you use to repay them?”
“The money orders.”
“How many more of these money orders are there?”
“None.”
“Were they all cashed?”
“All but two.”
“Two out of five thousand dollars?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you tell us which ones remain unclaimed?”
“No.”
“Then how can you possibly repay the victims?”
“By working hard on their ranches until the debt is paid.”
“Your Honor, I object to this line of questioning.” The judge raised his hand to silence the prosecutor.
“Objection overruled,” Judge Kinsley said. He looked at the defense lawyer. “Please continue.”
“As I mentioned earlier, my client is charged with robbery. Why did you want to rob the bank?”
“For fun.”
“Fun?”
“That’s right.”
“When did you decide to commit such an atrocious crime?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did you plan this for months or even years ahead?”
“Years. That’s why I took the time to build a bomb that would blow the entire bank up if I set it off.”
“Explain.”
“We needed an excuse to rob the bank. A fire would work, too.”
“An explosion?”
“A controlled blast.”
“And your plan worked, didn’t it?”
“It did.”
“You’re lucky nobody died.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Judge Kinsley returned his attention to the prosecution. “Mr. Smith, do you wish to cross-examine?”
“No, Your Honor. Thank you.”
The defense attorney turned to the witness box. “Well?” he demanded.
“My name is Rufus Cade.”
“Is that the name on the money order?”
“That’s correct.”
“Do you recall seeing any other money orders?”
“Only those belonging to the victim.”
“Why were you looking through the bank vault?”
“I wanted to see what the money orders looked like.”
“Did you find anything else besides the money orders?”
“Yes, I found some jewelry.”
“Jewelry?”
“Some earrings and bracelets.”
“Which items belong to whom?”
“They belonged to the victim.”
“Was that all you found in the bank?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you take the money order from the victim’s body?”
“To prove we really did rob the bank.”
“Who told you about the money order?”
“Nobody.”
“How could you be sure of that?”
“Because I saw her open it before she left town.”
“What did you do when you got home yesterday?”
“I showed my wife the money order. She thought it was funny.”
“She laughed?”
“Of course, she did.”
“Why did you think it was funny?”
“Because she’d been crying over the money order.”
“And because she wasn’t the one who killed the bank manager.”
“Right, Your Honor. You have to admit that’s funny.”
The End