The Legend of Billy English

By Margaret L. Sullivan

Amy Bartlett hated the Old Olmstead Place. The unpromising homestead seemed another step in the downward spiral of her life. Raised by her maternal Irish immigrant relatives in St. Louis after her mother died in childbirth, Amy barely knew her father and three older brothers who lived on a homestead in western Iowa. When, after she graduated from high school, her father sent for her, she thought it her filial duty.

 

Feeling out of place on the frontier and detesting her stepmother, Amy marries Jim Bartlett as a means of escape. That escape turns into a nightmare as Jim grows increasingly abusive as they almost starve while homesteading in the Dakotas. When Jim acquires a deed to the Old Olmstead Place in southeastern Oregon's high desert where farmers struggled with the climate and cattle barons, Amy knows her life isn't going to be any better.

 

Amy stuggles with her conservative Catholic sense of duty and her desire to flee. She hates Southeastern Oregon as much as she hated the Dakotas, Iowa, and her husband. Then a cowboy rides into the Old Olmstead Place to help her chop firewood. Suddenly, Amy's struggle with her conscience becomes even more difficult.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pandemic Creations, LLC
• Release date: Nov 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215475232

Margaret L. Sullivan

Margaret L. Sullivan is a retired teacher who once studied western history at the University of Oregon. She began writing novels when the Pandemic cut off much of her world. When she found a decades old rough draft she barely remembered, she took it as a sign to finish this novel. While the background is factual, the characters and their actions are purely figments of her imagination. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri near her children and grandchildren.

Book preview

Prologue

A buckboard carried the mismatched pair to the burial plot, no more than ten feet square on a small outcrop of water-resistant rock above a windswept valley. No flowers graced the grave, only mute grasses that in warmer weather grew indiscriminately on both sides of the low fence with peeling paint. The hardiest vegetation barely took root in this harsh land where scrawny trees clung tenaciously to water courses certain to dry before the summer’s end. Scattered rocks and thistle-like stubble mottled the light powdering of snow, casting eerie shadows along the long slope of the fault-block mountain that dominated the landscape in every direction. A singular softness, two puddle-like lakes barely visible on the far horizon, seemed illusory. Only his name was visible, starkly chiseled in gray granite:

William H. English

1848-1883

Visitors were rare, which made the lean vaquero and elegant woman so exceptional. Cowboys working the herds below shunned the place. They preferred to speak of the man around their campfires and in their saloons, undisturbed by the obvious signs of his mortality. Even in death his name whistled across the land like the sudden rush of water in the desert. He was the cowboy par excellence, a man who mastered the virgin range and turned its tough grasses into cattle gold. Both his temper and generosity were famous, creating a paradox of love and hate in equal quantity and intensity. He was a man who never heard of ancient Greeks and yet lay as restless as Achilles in his grave, a seeker of fame seemingly defeated by death and yet made whole by it. The man had become a legend in his own time.

The tough, wiry man leaped from the buckboard, his deeply colored skin and high cheekbones merging with the desert’s gray. His denim pants, woolen shirt, and thick jacket added bulk to his frame, matching the tiredness in his eyes and the unruly moustache on his lip. He placed his wide brimmed, high crowned hat in the back of the wagon as he helped the woman down.

She was tall, her height almost reaching his, her shoulders wide and her chest deep. Her powder-blue coat tapered to a small waist and then swept the alien ground. A tiny hat of matching blue sat primly atop her neatly pinned blond hair and was reflected in the color of her eyes. Her face was as delicately pink as an eastern rose as she plucked unsoiled white gloves from her hands. They stood by the wagon and stared at the grave.

I’m sorry it is in such disrepair, the man spoke. I should have painted the fence before the roundup but there never seems the time. His sister came not long after we buried him and wanted the stone. She left what little she could and the rest of us ordered the marker from San Francisco.

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she swallowed hard in a fruitless effort to kill her pain. I should have told him to kill Jim, she whispered.

They never came. None of them from San Francisco ever came.

Oh, Primo, her voice grew loud and anguished. Why did I stop him from doing what he should have done? Why didn’t I stop that bullet? Why didn’t I die too?

The man looked at her uncomfortably. Life is a gift. You should not wish to die. He would have wanted you to live. You have his son, a fine boy. We keep his memory alive. The others tell stories I don’t recognize, but we knew him. Perhaps we were the only ones who ever loved him.

No longer able to speak, the woman stepped forward hesitantly. The grave was her confrontation with a past too painful to remember yet too sweet to forget. It was a past that haunted her and sustained her, a past that wrenched her soul with a longing to return to the unreturnable.

Billy, Billy, oh Billy! her spirit cried as she kneeled by the grave. It was too bitter, too powerful—as cold and desolate as the ground and just as unforgiving. Billy, Billy… Her lips formed the words, as dry as the wind that stirred the snow around her.

Billy. The name came out in constricted chokes and sobs. Billy. The agony overwhelmed her as she fell to the ground. Billy. The snow-wet dirt penetrated her mouth and caked her lips as she lost control of herself, saying his name over and over again. Billy, Billy, Billy. If only it could be done again. If only the past could be rewritten…if only…if only…

PART ONE

Amy

June 1877 – August 1878

Chapter One

The Old Olmstead Place

Waking was a nightmare. For a moment she thought she was at home on her down mattress, caressed by crisp sheets, safe on Aunt Honor’s farm. But she was alone in the cramped, stifling wagon. Breathing deeply, she sat up in the constrictive space, pulled the pins from her already disheveled hair, and loosened the buttons on her dress until her chemise peered through the worn blue calico. Scooting toward the back of the wagon, she cursed silently as her elbow caught the edge of a wooden crate, sending a sudden shaft of unbearable pain down her arm. They had pulled into this new town, this new El Dorado, another end of the elusive rainbow, at sundown. Like so many other collections of wooden shacks and shanties that dotted the endless plains, it was dirty, dusty and above all, just plain ugly. She hated it, just as she’d hated Iowa, the Dakotas, and Nebraska. In this endless search for a new life she never wanted, she had only found squalor, hunger, and loneliness.

The well-watered green of Illinois had become a memory. Here, green only existed in the high mountains or appeared on the spring prairies before the disparate grays overtook the bland browns. She longed for the dark pungent soils, neat fields, tangled woodlands, ever-flowing rivers, and living close to her kin.

Where was her husband? A saloon? A whorehouse? She didn’t care. As the shock of her two-year marriage subsided, she had become accustomed to him disappearing for hours, days, and even weeks. He told her to wait in the wagon parked on a side street while he inquired about his claim and promised her a restaurant dinner and a hotel bed for the night. This wasn’t the first time he hadn’t returned, leaving her a hungry fugitive in the wagon. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered anymore.

Sticking her head out of the back of the wagon, she strained her eyes in the direction of the lights and voices coming from the main street. Painfully aware of the dryness in her throat and the grime on her face, she spied a water pump barely visible against the glow of a lantern from a nearby window.

Giving up the search for her shoes, she unlatched the back of the wagon and lowered it carefully, fearful the slightest lurching would shatter the silence. Pulling her skirts around her, she jumped down, shook her hair out, and hugged the darkness of the buildings while moving silently toward the pump. At the corner of the main thoroughfare, she stopped. Two saloons replete with the harsh glare of lantern light, rough voices, and the din of a badly played piano were at the other end of town. Closer to her, soft lights and feminine voices came from a structure set apart. Several figures moved across the wide porch, creating shifting silhouettes against the windows.

Reaching the pump, she was startled by the rusty gasping as it pulled fresh water from the well below. Overwhelmed by the cool torrent cleansing her face and soothing her throat, she was unprepared for the rough hand grasping her shoulder. Swinging around, she faced two shadowy figures.

Wha’cher doin’ out here in the middle of the night? The voice coming from the short, squat figure, suggestive of unseen hairiness, matched the rasping pump. Surprise turned to fear as she stumbled backward, feeling the hard side of the trough against the backs of her calves. One short, one tall, both were dressed in smelly shirts, work pants, and high boots. As a long, boney hand reached out for her cheek, she envisioned ragged, filth-packed nails.

Nothing. Just going home, she replied, trying to regain her composure.

Goin’ home? What kind of home you be going to at this hour of the night, missy? The high thin voice matched the slender man.

Please, I’m just looking for my husband.

She’s a runaway all right, the higher voice agreed. Let’s take her down by the livery stable and have us some fun.

Livery stable, hell. She’s got to be one of them new gals Ollie’s got. Maybe we’d collect a finder’s fee. Ollie ought to give a bounty for this one.

Amy bolted, not knowing where she was or where she was going. Choking hands yanked her neck, pulling her back against the sinewy figure of the tall man. Digging his fingers into her forearm, he flung her around. Instinctively, she lowered her head and bit the flesh of his hand. He yelped but only tightened his grip as his other hand grabbed at her hair, pulling her head painfully backward.

Not here, the rasping voice intervened. Let’s go back to Ollie’s where we can have a drink before and after. She dug her bare feet into the hard-packed earth, but they half dragged, half pushed her toward the lighted house. She let out a wild cry, but the taller man’s hand cut it short.

Jesus Christ! a voice boomed from the porch. What in the hell are you two doing?

As an even taller figure descended the stairs, her captors relaxed their grip and their once menacing voices faltered. Found this woman runnin’ away, Boss. Thought she might belong to Miss Ollie. We was just havin’ a little fun.

The newcomer turned back toward the porch. Ollie, you missing anyone?

No, came the laughing reply, but we could always use volunteers.

The commanding figure moved toward Amy as her tormentors stepped backward. Who are you? Where do you come from?

My name is Amy Bartlett, she struggled to calm her own voice. My husband and I only arrived here this evening. I just wanted a drink of fresh water.

Where is your husband?

Her answer was barely audible. I don’t know. Probably in a saloon or… She was suddenly aware of her bare feet and unfastened dress.

The man addressed her captors. Maybe it was all in fun, boys, but I think you made a little mistake. Ollie will take care of you.

He raised his firm voice once again. Ollie, give these boys a little entertainment on me.

The men muttered their thanks as the stranger lightly touched Amy’s arm, guiding her away from the house. Where are you staying and what brought you out on the street?

In a wagon parked around the corner.

Do you mean your husband left you alone in a wagon? In a strange town?

She fought the overwhelming embarrassment of being abandoned.

What kind of man… he started but decided not to finish.

As they turned the corner, she stumbled as a sharp rock ripped her instep. He caught her as she burst into tears. He picked her up, carried her the short distance to the wagon, let her feet slide toward the ground and pressed her head against his broad chest. There, there, he whispered as he stroked her hair. You’re safe now.

She became acutely aware of his arms around her, the tear-soak linen and broadcloth next to her face, the hard press of a watch and chain, and an abiding sense of security. As he lowered his head, she turned away so his lips only grazed her cheek.

Not even a kiss for having saved you? He sounded amused.

I thought that’s what you saved me from. As she pushed away, her foot throbbed.

Not exactly. He felt her wince. Did you hurt your foot?

I think it’s bleeding.

He lifted her up on the back of the wagon and struck a match against the wheel. He knelt to inspect her foot. Cut all right, but not too deep. Do you have any liniment or whiskey? Some sort of bandage?

Amy searched out the liniment Jim kept beneath the farm tools and tore a piece of cotton from a tattered petticoat. The liquid seared but he bandaged it gently.

Do you want me to find your husband, he asked as he rose.

No. He’d be angry with me.

He doesn’t sound like a very agreeable fellow. Amy didn’t answer. There is a small hotel down the street. It isn’t much but I can assure you that you’ll be left alone.

No, please. You’re very kind but he should be back soon.

Are you just passing through?

My husband has a claim to a farm near here. We hope to settle.

Farm? His voice lost its softness. If you want to farm keep going west across the mountains. There’s no way a farmer can make a living here.

The man who gave him the claim said it was good land, near two lakes and a river. He said there are many farms in the vicinity.

Is it the Old Olmstead Place?

I think that was his name. Do you know him?

I knew him. Troublemaker. Damn, the place would have been up for taxes in a week or so. Maybe you won’t want to pay the taxes after you see the place. There are lakes all right, but they’re salt water, no outlet. The river only flows regularly in the spring. If you have any influence with your man—

If I had any influence, I wouldn’t be here alone, she interrupted him before regretting her admission.

How did your husband get the place?

He won it in a poker game in the Dakotas. It sounded so nice with a lake and all. We’ve been traveling for weeks, first by train and then by wagon.

Too bad you made the trip.

Do you live around here? She found his presence comforting.

I work one of the ranches near here.

Is there any way I can thank you? If I had any money, I’d gladly give it to you.

He laughed. I don’t want your money. You seem a nice lady who deserves better than you have.

He leaned forward and lightly kissed her forehead. She pulled back, catching a hint of amusement in his voice. You’re either as virtuous as an angel or as cold as the devil. Either way, you’re a rarity in this country. Will you be all right? Do you want me to stay with you?

No, I’m fine. She dreaded the thought of his leaving but feared Jim’s return. My husband should be returning soon.

Get back into the wagon so I can latch it. And whatever you do, don’t leave here again.

She watched him walk down the side street, pause at the corner, and turn back to the house from which he had come. Suddenly aware of the stars illuminating the cool, high-desert night, she pulled a thin blanket over her. She had not even asked his name. He was like a knight in some romantic novel, come to save a lady in distress. She reached into her belongings for her rosary. Clutching it, she neglected her prayer to recount every moment and word they had shared. She whispered a prayer to the Mother of God thanking her for sending him and asking her to bless him. Then she fell asleep.

*     *     *

The Old Olmstead Place was the final disappointment in an uneven day. Cross and uncommunicative, Jim tried to make amends with breakfast at the town’s hotel. Feeling tired and dirty, Amy would have preferred a bath and a bit of rest from the wagon.

The town that seemed forbidding by night appeared laughingly feeble by day. As they turned the corner by the pump, the dusty main street stretched before them. Now strangely silent, the two-storied, freshly painted house of ill repute marked the town’s western limits. The rest of the buildings, an odd lot of wooden square and elongated boxes, sat astride some unimaginable building line, completely distorting any sense of organization. At the eastern edge of the town, a little distance into the sagebrush waste, the frame of a large, half-completed structure showed some sign of civic progress.

Yet the town vibrated with life. Horses pulled restlessly at hitching rails while wagons rumbled along the street. A dozen men, many of whom tipped their hats to Amy and nodded to Jim, walked briskly past or talked boisterously in doorways. Garishly painted signs of greens, reds, and browns announced the presence of a livery stable, blacksmith, dry good emporium, two general stores, slumbering saloons, a cooper turned wagon maker, and a freighter ready for hire. Amy glanced at the lone church, whose sign pronounced it Methodist, and then spotted the hotel and café. Their bare, unpainted condition and grimy windows made her more content with her evening in the wagon and less eager for her promised breakfast.

Amy’s eyes darted everywhere looking for the stranger, wondering if she would recognize him in the light and how she could explain his existence to Jim. Her search continued through a breakfast of tough fried steak, hard cooked eggs, lumpy biscuits, half-cooked gravy, and bitter coffee.

As they headed south along a barely trickling steam, she caught her first sight of the lakes. She thought their smooth murky waters and surrounding thick blanket of grasses strangely out of place in the desert. Yet the rapidly drying fields signaled what was to come. Crude soddies and even cruder lean-tos clustered north of the water. Thin, barefooted children and calico-clad women, old long before their time, watched them pass.

Jim turned the wagon westward along the lakeshore until they came to a natural sand bridge that split the lakes and carried them to the south side. Amy noticed the wilting grasses edging the line of aridity closer to the shore, while the shallowness of the water explained their dull color and placid repose. To the south, cattle dotted a brown grassland that gradually rose in the distance. A fault-block mountain dominated the horizon.

The main trail headed straight south, past a building with a small corral, but they turned westward. A small rise blocked Amy’s view of the unexpected moisture. Jim stopped the wagon, looked around and headed away from the faint, secondary trail toward their final destination, the Old Olmstead Place.

Amy wondered briefly how anyone could have been so thoughtless as to have hidden even a poor cabin from the lake’s serenity. She raced up the knoll, avoiding the structure. The mirage-like lakes were still there, glistening in the late afternoon sun and entertaining their flocks of birds.

Goddamn woman, ain’t you even gonna help? If you ain’t the laziest fool I ever met, with all your big city learnin’. Get down here and give me a hand.

Jim’s voice forced her to confront the homestead. The house, if it could be called that, was of stone, no more than twelve foot by fourteen with a decaying thatch roof and rotting mortar in its walls. The only door hung half off its hinges. Juniper fence posts, some still stuck in the ground, others prone, suggested abandoned fields while the shattered head of a windmill—a poignant reminder of the desperate need for fresh water—lay some fifty yards from the lake’s salty shore.

The cabin’s interior bore the marks of long desertion. The filth on the single table and two bluntly square chairs hid their true color while a single touch of the mattress resting on a crude frame sent black squiggly creatures sliding from beneath the threadbare ticking. Patterned sunlight, strained by the hole-ridden roof, led her eye toward a battered cupboard crushed against the dirt floor. Afraid to move for fear of vermin, she stared a little gratefully at the sturdy cast iron stove that filled the open space above the hearth.

Jim read her disgust. What did you expect, some fancy hotel? It’s not much, not for a fine lady like you, but it’s mine and I’m going to make it work this time. Get out the lye soap and pull these things out so I can start on the roof.

The harsh lye burned her hands, sweat streaked her grimy face, and the afternoon heat was already oppressive as a farm wagon lumbered into the yard. Amy looked down anxiously at her stained dress and raw hands, wondering what visitors would think of her. A large woman bounced awkwardly down from the wagon. Her flat, round face and blue eyes smiled broadly as she held out her hand. The wide-brimmed, sun-faded bonnet contrasted oddly with the brightly colored gold and green flowered calico that added bulk to her already generous girth.

Welcome to Harvest County, she fairly bellowed, heard you came through the settlement day before yesterday. This country needs more good young people like yourselves. It’s a wonderful country, God meant it for the plow. You’re going to love it here. I just know you will. I’m Addie Richards and this is my husband, Cy.

Cy was a thin man whose thick white hair and drooping moustache contrasted with his burnt, leathery skin. His deeply set brown eyes and narrow face lacked his wife’s zest. He edged toward Jim.

I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Richards, Amy forced a smile. Let me brew some fresh coffee and find some chairs.

No need. Call me Addie. We’re one big happy family here and we’re sure glad you’re joining us. She stepped back, squinted, and appraised Amy’s figure. Mighty pretty wife, you have here, Bartlett. Better keep her close to home or you’ll have Billy English sniffin’ around.

Anybody sticks his head around here and it’ll get blown clean off his shoulders, Jim replied in a show of braggadocio.

Who’s Billy English? Amy asked.

Addie looked at her incredulously. He’s the devil incarnate, pure devil, especially where women are concerned. Claims everything as far as the eye can see. Might say he stole everything from the lakes to the yonder mountain.

As Amy scanned the impressive distance to the crest of Glenn Mountain, the two men stepped away, leaving the women alone. Addie’s voice continued, Got more land than God and the United States Government meant for any man to have. Stole it, that’s what he did. Claims this valley and the flatland over there, and two valleys over that far ridge. Why, in the spring, water purely plummets off that mountain turning this into the greenest garden you ever did see. Main ranch is up yonder, she gestured toward Glenn Mountain. Lives in a fancy house up there all by himself. His wife won’t even stay with him, can’t say that I blame her. Lives on the bounty God meant for us poor settlers.

Addie paused to let Amy ponder the injustice of it all. Devils, that’s what they are, the woman’s voice droned on. Him and John Devlin, two of a kind, only English is worse, meaner. Devlin lives at the White Deer on the other side of the mountain but claims everything north of the lakes, the settlement you passed through yesterday. Good farming country.

Amy’s mind reeled at the thought of the dry fields being good farming country. Claims all that land under an act of the United States Government giving swampland to the state and the state giving it over to the almighty Mr. Devlin. Bribed both representatives of the state and federal government to sign false affidavits saying it was swamp when any fool can see it ain’t. Now we’ve filed on it as dry land and he’s taking us to court, wants to put us off our God-given land, almost fifty families in all. Just a lot of meanness, making us hire an expensive lawyer to keep what is rightfully ours.

Mr. English? a bewildered Amy asked.

No honey, Mr. Devlin. Billy English claims this side of the lakes, the south side. Johnny Devlin is the one that wants the north side, the land between the lakes and the town of Bountiful.

Then this land is included? Amy hoped they would leave.

No, Addie smiled, Olmstead had a good claim to it. Would have made a go of it if he wasn’t drunk all the time. Billy English wants this land. It’s a real thorn in his side.

Why?

Two reasons. One, he doesn’t like anyone crossin’ over to his side of the lakes. Two, you can see where it is located. He runs cattle over there on the flat. She pointed westward where bleakness stretched out toward the distant horizon. Now, as you can plainly see you’re sittin’ here in the flat spot between this little knoll and Jackass Mountain behind you. They turned toward the mesa that narrowed this part of the valley. It’s a gap between the west flat and Thunder Valley. Billy English either has to drive his cattle through this gap or clear around Jackass Mountain, which runs a good thirty miles south. You’re in his way.

Why didn’t he just buy Mr. Olmstead’s claim?

Pure stubborn mean man. He hated Olmstead just like Olmstead hated him. He wouldn’t buy just like John Devlin won’t pay any of us for our claims.

The situation struck Amy as less important than finding chairs and getting out of the sun. She retrieved them from the south side of the house and looked around nervously for Jim, who was locked in animated conversation with Cy Richards. Now that Addie was properly seated, Amy waited for another barrage of conversation.

You’ll be needing a little social life. Too bad you didn’t settle among the rest of us on the other side of the lakes, but you’re close enough. We have a quilting bee once a week, except during planting or harvest. The ladies of the Methodist Church have little get-togethers every once in a while. We’re ’specially keen on the Fourth of July and harvest festivals. You’ll have to come to the Fourth, that’s a picnic from noon to well after sundown. Even some of the ranching folks come to our harvest festivals. Once Billy English and John Devlin came, but not anymore. And there’s church services every Sunday so you can kind of see your neighbors. Most everybody with family belongs. So, you won’t feel lonely.

Thank you, Amy muttered politely.

There’s lots of young people for you to meet, only most of them have little ones keeping them more at home. Cy tells me you have none. How long have you been married?

Two years. Last year we took up land in the Dakotas, but Jim…um…bought this place from Olmstead.

Addie smiled. I remember being a new wife in new country, but it all turns out just fine. We met as youngins in Ohio and moved on to Iowa when I was about your age. I know the house doesn’t look like much now but once you sew some curtains, get a pretty cloth for your table, and light a warm fire, it will all be different.

Addie barely paused. We came here with Cy’s brothers, Alva and Jedidiah, and their families about four or five years ago. We were on our way to the Willamette Valley but stopped at Bountiful. Wasn’t much of a town then but we seen the possibilities. Talked to a fella about how expensive things was getting on the other side of the Cascades and decided just to settle down.

Why did you leave Iowa? Amy asked innocently.

Addie squirmed. Was getting too crowded with the wrong kind of people, if you know what I mean. Foreigners who can’t speak English or spoke funny was coming in and buying up railroad land. Crime how the government gives them big companies all that land and lets them sell it to foreigners. Got so we couldn’t hardly keep up with the bank notes. She sighed, Much better land here. You’ll come to like it.

Do you have children?

"A passel. Most of them are gone now. My two oldest girls are in Iowa still although their husbands