Dust of Lies

Chapter Five - Bessie

    Elizabeth’s home was not hard to find in the small Texas town. It was a once-grand mansion reminiscent of a southern plantation. The white siding had turned slightly gray with age, and a stately portico sagged with the heavy hand of time. The bones of the beauty were still good but you really had to squint to blur the destructive forces of the harsh Texas sun and wind.  Elizabeth met us at the door with the graciousness of a southern belle. Her gray hair was tightly curled and framed her face like a soft bonnet. Two distinct yet subtle circles of rouge and pale pink lipstick complemented her fair complexion perfectly. She had prepared for company.


      “I hope you don’t mind, but I made some sandwiches for our lunch. It’s much easier than going out, and that way we can visit more.”


I felt a little uneasy; the house gave me the creeps. It was as if I had traveled back to the turn of the century, and not the most recent one at that. Viva, on the other hand, appeared not to notice.


      .The sense of time travel didn’t end at the front door. Tall windows were sheathed in heavy damask drapes that threw dark shadows across an already-dim parlor. Victorian furniture, well worn from years of use, filled the living space.


Elizabeth and Viva had moved on to the dining area that was on the other side of the front parlor. I hastened to join them so as not to appear rude.


    Elizabeth had prepared a platter of small triangular sandwiches without crusts; and each table setting was complete and proper, including crystal goblets filled with iced tea. I joined the ladies as the lunch and conversation began.


Viva took a sip of iced tea before speaking. “How delicious! Elizabeth, I can’t thank you enough for inviting us into your—“


    “Please,” Elizabeth said. “Call me Bessie. Everyone does. And before you say anything else, you must know that it is my pleasure. I love to reminisce about the past, and most everyone I know is already bored with the stories. So just tell me where to begin and I will see what I can do to help.”


    Viva smiled. “We’re really here to find out about Emma Anders. Do you know anything about her or her family?”


    The other woman nodded.


    “Yes, I do. That’s one of my favorite stories. James Hammett Anders, Emma’s daddy, is where my story begins. It’s a long story, so bear with me. It can get confusing,” she said with a chuckle.


    I nibbled at my sandwich and wished I had thought to bring my notebook in from the car.


    “James Hammett Anders was associated with a man named Willis Lang in Mississippi. I think Papa told me that he was the overseer of the Lang’s land. Anyway, things weren’t good for Willis in Mississippi on account of proper rainfall, so he sold his land and bought hundreds of acres on the Brazos Bottoms. That’s the name folks around here call the land along the Brazos River,” she added quickly, making sure we were following the story. “I expect it’s the best farm ground in the county I believe that it was about 1854 when James brought seventy-five Lang slaves from Mississippi to Falls County by ox wagon. Falls County was only four years old and Marlin was just a village at the time. Willis bought a complete outfit for opening up a new plantation: mechanics, farm implements, mule teams….” Bessie’s voice trailed off and she reached for her glass of tea.


    I was loving listening to the whispery soft voice with its slight southern accent. Bessie drank, then put the glass down.


    “It was a very excitin’ time, Papa said,” she resumed. “He said that it was as if the deep roots of our southern plantations had been plucked up and replanted in the rich soil of Texas. Folks came by the wagonloads to Falls County, and Marlin was becoming more than a village.”           


    There was more than a little pride in her voice. “No one was more successful at running a plantation than Willis and James. But…” She paused, drawing out the last word to create drama. It worked.


    “What?” Viva and I exclaimed in unison.


    Bessie smiled. “The more the plantation prospered, the less interested Willis was in running it. He pretty much left the plantation to James while he went on scouting trips with a company of rangers out of Waco.”


    I struggled to show the appropriate amount of dismay at Willis Lang’s obvious neglect of duty but it must have satisfied Bessie’s need for validation. She drank again and then continued.


      “When Governor Houston had put out a call to all Texans to—“ and here she indicated with her fingers where there were quotation marks in her narrative—“pursue, repel and punish marauding Indians that were plaguing our settlements, Willis was among the first to volunteer. I don’t believe he ever really saw any Indians, but I’m told he didn’t seem to mind. I think he thought it was a great buffalo hunt.”


“It sounds like the sort of thing men do to amuse themselves,” Viva said drily, and I looked at her, amused, and wondered for the first time what her husband had been like.


    Bessie shrugged. “That’s as may be,” she said. “Willis never married.”


    There was a pause, as though we all were contemplating the man who seemed to take life a little less seriously than womenfolk would have wanted.


    “But James was more fortunate,” Bessie continued. “He married Miss Pauline Yarbrough from over in Smith County. Their families had known each other in Mississippi, and it was obvious that he had been taken with her for quite some time. Mama said that she was small-boned and petite. Almost like a china doll, with cornflower-blue eyes and silky blonde hair and that every man in the county was somewhat smitten with her.”


    She painted a vivid picture. I took another sandwich, admiring back through the years the porcelain beauty of Miss Pauline Yarbrough.


    “Some say that Willis never married because he, too, was in love with Pauline,” Bessie said, then added, as though trying to be fair, “I don’t know that to be a fact. But I do know that when little Ida was born, you would have thought it was Willis’ child and not James’. He spoiled baby Ida to the point of shamefulness and he lavished plenty of attention on Pauline, too. James never appeared to be jealous, but it sure makes one wonder.”


    The ticking of the mantel clock marked the passing of the afternoon like a metronome, keeping a slow and steady pace. The sound was comforting, like the rhythm of a heartbeat, a backdrop to Bessie’s story. I wanted to get to the part about Emma, but I was afraid to push Bessie too hard.


    “Does this mean that you think Willis was Ida and Emma’s father?” I realized how silly the words were as soon as I’d spoken them.


    “Oh! Lord, no!” Bessie exclaimed. “Willis was dead before Emma was born. Now, Ida, that’s a different story. Let me show you a letter that  Papa kept in his personal papers."


    She went straight to a large rolltop desk in the far corner and with little effort produced a yellowed letter written by hand and signed by none other than Willis himself.


    “Read it aloud, dear,” Bessie commanded.





Z. Bartlett


Cecera, New Mexico


Dear Sir:


Feb. 27, 1862





We met the enemy near Fort Craigg and gained a signal battle. Our victory was complete. The enemy were 3,000 strong with 7 pieces of artillery. The loss on their side was very great, full 300 killed and about 60 wounded. We took all their artillery. The charge upon the artillery was terrible, and what is astonishing, but few fell -- the greatest loss was on our little company, -- 9 were killed, to wit Isaac Marlin … 11 wounded …. None were severely wounded but Mr. Bass, whose left arm is so completely fractured and shot to pieces that he was obliged to have it amputated this morning. He received 7 shots in all, and Jack Davis was also severely wounded. My own wound is dangerous. Those who are called to shed a tear over the fate of their relative or friend may have the consolation that it was not over a coward. The conduct of the company will elicit applause from friend and foe. Please send copies of this letter throughout the country that the friends may know who have fallen and who have been injured. Send one to James Anders; and tell him to kiss Ida a thousand times. I may not live to do so again.


Respectively yours,


Willis L. Lang








    “You see, even in battle, Willis’ thoughts were never far from little Ida,” Bessie said.


    His spelling could use a little work, I thought, but didn’t say it. Instead, I asked, “Did Willis live to kiss little Ida again?”


    “No” she replied. “Willis had terrible wounds and was put in a hospital in Socorro, New Mexico. He is listed as a casualty of the battle of Val Verde—but the truth is, he really took his own life. He had his body servant bring him his revolver and he shot himself. I guess he was in intense pain and felt there was no hope of recovery.”


    “So how did Emma come into this picture?” I asked. “The story appears to end with Willis’ death.” It was a lovely story, but the afternoon was growing short and still no mention of Emma.


    “I told you that Emma’s story is long and complicated, dear. If I don’t tell you the whole story, the pieces will make no sense. Now as I was saying…” Bessie held out her glass and I poured in some more iced tea. “Thank you, dear. Willis left little Ida a sum of $20,000 in his will and he left the plantation on the Brazos Bottoms to his cousin named Billingsley. I don’t need to tell you how rich that made little Ida. She was only three years old and had more money than most anyone in the county.”


    I wouldn’t mind it myself, I thought ruefully. “That was a large sum of money to bequeath to a small girl,”


      I said. “I would have predicted that any inheritance from the Lang estate would have been to James. Did he fight, too?”


    “No, dear. James stayed home and managed the plantation for Willis.” Bessie heaved a sigh. “It seems as if every waking thought and action was solely for the benefit of Willis. When Willis died, in March of 1862, a part of James died with him, I’m sure of that. James was independent and not much in favor of the war, but there was no doubt of his deep loyalty to his lifetime friend. Pauline was especially distraught with the death of Willis. As I said before, Pauline was a delicate young woman. No stamina. She was pregnant at the time of Willis’ death and insisted on naming her newborn son after Willis Lang. As much as James loved Willis, Papa said that he was stung by Pauline’s determination to honor his fallen friend by choosing to name his firstborn after him.”


    “It does seem less than delicate, don’t you know,” said Viva.


    Bessie ignored her. “Little Willis was the spittin’ image of Pauline,” she said. “Willis was as frail as his mother, too. As a matter of fact, Pauline never did recover after his birth. Some said it was the loss of Willis that robbed her health. Others believe she was not strong enough for childbirth.”


    “It was more difficult back then,” I murmured, aware that I was voicing a platitude; but it was better than shaking her and crying, Get on with the story!


    “Either way,” said Bessie, “her health declined, so James sent for Pauline’s sister to help her and the children. She arrived a few months after little Willis was born and cared for Pauline until her death. By this time James was totally lifeless; but he did manage one task for the sake of his children. He married her sister the very next year.”


    This appeared to be a common occurrence in this place and time, I thought: marriage for convenience. I had married later in life and solely for love. These people seem to be applying for jobs. I glanced at Viva. She had listened quietly throughout the afternoon. She commented very little, but would bob her head ever so slightly on occasion, encouraging Bessie to continue her tale of Mr. Anders. I wouldn’t say I was getting bored, but… Where was Emma?


    “That’s where Emma comes in,” Bessie added, as though reading my mind. “Pauline’s sister was Emma’s mother.”


    I straightened up, eager now.


    “Pauline’s sister was nothing like Pauline,” Bessie said. “James had lost his precious wife, and to be honest, her sister brought him no comfort. Yet she tried to be a good mother to his children.”


    Bessie sighed. “Hot this afternoon,” she commented. “And we’re out of iced tea. I’ll get some water.”


    When Bessie shuffled off to the kitchen, Viva leaned over and whispered,


      “Listen closely to the next part, Kay. Emma is key to Cowboy’s mystery.” Before I could respond, Bessie returned with a pitcher of ice water and three more glasses.


    “Okay ladies. I’m ready. Now where were we? Oh, yes. Little Emma. Emma was born in August of 1867. She was the only child that James and Pauline’s sister were to have. Ida never warmed up to her as her mother. She always called her ‘Aunt’ even though she was only six years old when she became her stepmother. She was even less fond of Emma. It’s not that she was jealous of the baby; it had more to do with the fact that James had built his life around Ida and Willis.  Pauline’s sister and Emma weren’t part of their world.”Bessie looked at her hands folded neatly in her lap and exhaled with a barely audible sigh. Clearly she felt the vacuum that engulfed this sister and her child. “When little Willis died two years later, the problem worsened. It was like two separate families were living under one roof. One rich, and one poor.” She glanced up at us. “Ida was included in all the Marlin social circles, and Emma was not. James made excuses saying that Emma was too young or that her mother did not possess the social skills that Pauline had. Whatever the reason was, it created a great divide.”


    “I can’t imagine,” I said sympathetically.


    “The irony,” she continued, “is that Ida looked more like her aunt, with her big boned frame, and Emma was petite and blonde like Pauline. When Emma blossomed in her early teens, Ida was terribly jealous of her. Her aunt maintained an indifferent attitude, but Emma rebelled.”


    “How on earth could these people endure under these circumstances?” I asked. Death, indifference and jealousy seemed to torment this family.


    “People endure far worse,” said Viva.


    “She returned home before completing her senior year to marry a man named Lysis Chilton,” said Bessie. “All was well with Ida. She’d married a very socially acceptable man, but that rebellious streak in Emma couldn’t be contained. She took up with a man by the name of Redmond. He was a nice-looking man, with an easy joking manner that Emma couldn’t resist.” She sighed. “He was gone after a few short weeks, but he left Emma with child. I guess that some things never change.”


    Again, her disappointment in the male species was shining through. I couldn’t say that I blamed her. “Ladies, let’s leave it at that for the evening,” Bessie said. She was clearly tired; and, glancing at Viva, I saw that she was, too.


    The ride back to the motel was short and silent. When we got to our room, Viva pulled a small box of papers from her suitcase and placed it on the bed. She gently removed an old document, brittle with age, from her stash, and held it squarely in front of my face.


      “Here. Read this.”





The State of Texas }{


County of Houston }{


                             Affidavit


BEFORE ME, the undersigned authority, a Notary Public is and for Houston County, Texas, personally appeared Mary M. James, of Houston County, Texas, known to me to be a reputable person over 21 years of age of sound mind and body who deposes and states that, My name is Mary M. James, widow of William Martin James, deceased. My husband passed away during the month of August, 1947. My father was Joe Christi, he married Mary Louise Pate (my mother) and I was born not far from where I live now on January 3, 1867, I married Wm. M. James.


When I was about 10 years old a man calling himself Jesse Redmond came to our house and stayed. He was hunting a place to rest up and hide out for a while. While with us a few weeks he helped us pick cotton and do other work about the place which was on the Neches River. I had many opportunities to get a good look at this man who wore long hair which was more or less wavy, he had blue eyes, fair complexion. I recollect then that he had left us a steel bullet proof jacket on the cotton wagon when my brother carried him to Lufkin, Texas, We found an identification card in the jacket naming him as Jesse James. My brother carried him to on to Lufkin and he sent a gallon of whiskey back by my brother for may father. I do not recall seeing him any more until the week of April 8, 1948 at which time this same man came for a week’s visit with my son and his wife. My son’s name is Jesse Cole James. I would be willing to swear that this man going the name of J. Frank Dalton is the same man we knew years ago as Jesse James alias Jesse Redmond.


                                       Signed:__________________________


                                                 Mary M. James





    There it was. Right before my eyes. An affidavit proclaiming a man named Jesse Redmond was in fact the legendary Jesse James!


My mind leapt back to Bessie’s story of Redmond. It had to be the same man! Coincidence could not dovetail the affidavit from Houston county, Texas and Cowboy’s story from Barber, Arkansas to the exact same place and time in history. It was a small step, but a step indeed in the journey to prove that Jesse Cole James was the illegitimate son of Jesse Woodson James.


I was pleased with the find, but also a little put out with Viva; why hadn’t she shared this with me before? I was a blank canvas as I listened to Bessie’s words. Viva, on the other hand, was like flypaper, poised to trap any nuances that flew her way. If we were going to be partners in the quest, she had to give over.


    “Viva, this is an important clue…. But what else do you have in your brain—or box—that I need to know?”


    “I’m sorry, Kay. I should have shared with you sooner, but …”


    “But what?”


    “But—well—I told you that Cowboy talked in riddles. The clues are in riddles. Almost nonsense to some. Nobody wants to entertain a twist in history that upsets their applecart, and I am here to tell you this story will do just that.” She smiled gently. “I wanted you to believe in the story enough to continue and not toss it aside as a crazy man’s rantings. But remember, Kay, truth is the truth even if no one believes it. Are you there yet?”


    I wasn’t sure that I was “there yet,” but in any case, here I was, hundreds of miles away from home, in the middle of the Texas prairie with a ninety-year-old woman. ”Yes,” I said, not sure what I was agreeing to.


    Relief spread across Viva’s face.


    “Okay, I’m going to tell you what Cowboy said about his life before he came to Sugar Grove. He told Ora he was born in Plainview, Texas, and that he grew up near west Texas. He always said he’d gone  to the monkey rhyme school, played with Joe Robles, and he had a redheaded sister named Mary. He told the family that he had ten siblings, but that he was the youngest and the only one to keep the James name.”


    Okay, I thought. Cowboy said he was born in Plainview, Texas. I found Plainview in Houston County. Mary M. James provided her affidavit in Houston County. The Neches River she refers to is the northeast border between Houston and Cherokee counties. This was all still a fit. “What do you think about the west Texas statement Cowboy made?” I asked. If Cowboy was referring to the Plainview that was in west Texas, my theory would unravel.


    “It’s not what I think, dear—it’s what I know. Cowboy wasn’t referring to a region of Texas. West is a small town just north of Waco. We passed it coming in from Dallas to Marlin.” She smiled. “It’s just a wide spot in the road.”


    So West, Texas, is a town. I can accept that—but the monkey rhyme school would be tough. I told Viva I was tired, but in truth, I needed to let my brain percolate. We made quick work of getting ready for bed, but once there I found I couldn’t sleep. I had believed that my research on Emma Anders led us to Marlin, but Viva had already known about West, Texas. I’m not sure if I led her here, or if she agreed to come because she knew that this area was the crucible of Cowboy’s origin.