I, Pearl Hart

A fictionalized autobiography of Arizona's "Bandit Queen" describes the life of a woman who fled her abusive spouse to seek the anonymity and comparative safety of the Arizona Territory, only to wind up the first woman sent to the Yuma Penitentiary. Reprint.

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Chapter One

Chicago, 1893

The pain from my cracked ribs snaked around, coiled, struck again and again until it was all I could do not to scream. I was lying half in and half out of an empty freight car, waiting for the pain to recede so I could pull myself in, find a dark corner where I could take care of my wounds, and where Frank couldn't find me.

Frank! I choked at the thought of him -- his hands, passionate one minute, brutal the next, the thud of his polished boots against my body. I choked, and blood streamed out of my nose -- it, too, was probably broken. I prayed I hadn't left a trail, like bright red flowers for him to follow. But no, he'd been passed out drunk after he'd beaten me, battered his ugly way into me.

I should have killed him, taken the big kitchen knife, and stabbed and stabbed, but to murder required strength, and I had only enough to save myself, wrapping my ribs in a strip of blanket and then, with the cunning of the soon-to-be hunted, dressing in Frank's old clothes. With the knife I hacked off my hair, that dark rope that had reached to my waist. In minutes I became a boy, a youth in search of adventure.

Who, looking for Pearl, would bother with a skinny runaway? I took the knife and the money I'd earned singing for Dan Sandeman, packed a loaf of bread and some tins of tomatoes and sardines in a sack, plus what was left of the precious laudanum I'd come to depend on. That would have to do. If I died of starvation, or cold, or loneliness somewhere out on the western prairie, well, at least I'd be free with no one to answer to, no hands to snap my bones like twigs.

I didn't run. It was all I could do to walk toward the station yard, bent over against the pain, against the damned wind off the lake that struck through my clothes. I kept going, wiping my bleeding nose on my sleeve and promising myself, if I got out of Chicago, I'd never be cold again, never let a man lay hands on me again, not if I lived a hundred years.

I circled around the station house and into the train yard. Somewhere ahead an engine breathed in and out, like the sound of my heart. Stumbling across the tracks, I saw the car looming ahead, its door open, and I summoned what strength was left to crawl in, hoping I'd not done more damage to myself.

As it was, I nearly fainted, but after a moment I dragged myself into a corner. Then the voice came out of nowhere.

"What're you doing in here?"

I couldn't speak over my fright. When I did, my voice came out cracked, like a kid's. "Going West," I said, and waited, straining my eyes, my ears, to locate the speaker in the darkness.

"This car's taken." No willingness to share in those words.

"Can't leave. My ribs are busted."

A rustle as the speaker came closer. "On the lam?"

I shook my head, then realized I was invisible. "Nope." I thought fast with the accuracy of desperation. "My stepfather beat me. I'm getting out before he kills me."

Another rustle. I could feel the warmth of a body, smell stale breath.

"Got any food?"

"Bread. Tomatoes and sardines." Best not to mention the money -- or the knife. I put my hand in my pocket and touched the cold steel. "You're welcome to some," I said, and prayed. If he saw through my disguise, came at me, touched me, I'd use it on him.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Pete," I said. "What's yours?"

"Joe. Where you hiding those tomatoes?"

I reached into my sack and found the can, held it out, and jumped when a powerful hand caught my wrist.

"Damn' puny. How old are you?"

"Nineteen," I lied, and tried to pull away. This was almost worse than Frank's beatings. At least there I knew what the end would be, who my attacker was.

"Get your hand off me," I said.

Surprisingly he did, taking the can with him. "Just trying to see in the dark," he explained. "When we get moving, I got a lantern I can light. For now, we got to stay quiet and out of sight, or those railroad dicks'll throw us out. Maybe bust a few more ribs."

I let out my breath and felt the stab in my side. "Just leave me alone."

He scuffled around. Shortly I felt the tickle of straw. "Lots of this in here," he said. "Keeps you warm. You'll need it when we start moving and that wind cuts through the cracks. I'm shutting the door now. It'll be as dark as the inside of Jonah's whale."

"I don't care."

I didn't, either. I wanted to sleep and figured, if he came too close, I'd wake up and do whatever I had to do.

"Good thing." He got up, and I saw him silhouetted against the night sky -- gaunt as a scarecrow, but strong, with dark whiskers.

"What are you doing in here?" I asked.

He turned. "Mind your own business."

The whites of his eyes flickered before he shut the door, and we were closed in together.

The train shuddered down its length, rocked, backed up, then began to move, and in that moment I knew I was safe, that I'd get wherever it was I was going, and that Frank wouldn't find me.

The whistle blew. It sounded like a scream, like the sound of my past -- the tears, the wounds, my own foolishness. For better or worse, I was on my way.

Even with a swallow of laudanum it was a bad night. The rocking of the train slammed my ribs, and Joe's dim lantern light quivered through the dusty car and shone on my face.

He ate half the tomatoes, using his fingers, then drinking the juice that stained his beard red. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then held out the can.

"Here, kid. Best eat something. A good wind'll blow you away."

I didn't want to eat or put my mouth where his had been, but hunger won. I emptied the can and put it down. He was watching me.

"Something wrong?" I asked, trying my best to sound tough.

"You ain't no beauty. Not with those black eyes."

Startled, I put my hands to my face.

He nodded. "Busted your nose, I reckon. Big fella, was he?"

"I couldn't lick him."

"Huh." He stretched out, propping his head in his hand. "Nobody's licked me since I was twelve. I been on my own ever since. Seen lots of country."

In spite of my pain, I was interested. "What do you do?"

"Anything that needs doing. I'm headed for the mines. Hard work, but I figure sooner or later I'll get lucky."

"What kind of mines? Where?"

"Arizona Territory. Lots of mines ... copper, silver, gold. They say up in Globe they found a piece of silver so big it weighed damn' near a ton. Called it Munson's Chunk after the guy who found it. Must be there's more where that came from, and, besides, it's warm. Not like this damned country. Turn you to stone, that wind out there, and that's a fact."

"How do you get there? To Arizona?"

"Find a train headed that way."

"Are we on one?"

I hoped we were. Oh, I hoped! His answer dashed that.

"Nope. Got to hop another in K.C."

I wrapped my arms around myself to steady my aching ribs. "Can I go with you?"

"I travel alone," he said. "Can't be nursemaidin' young 'uns."

"I can cook."

He grinned. "You see a stove in here?"

It was a ridiculous notion. I'd known it from the start. "Never mind," I said. "I'll get there by myself." I closed my eyes and huddled into the straw.

I thought I would sleep, but scenes from the past kept chasing themselves across the darkness behind my eyes.