Wanton West: Madams, Money, Murder, and the Wild Women of Montana's Frontier

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Morgan, Lael.

Wanton West : madams, money, murder, and the wild women of Montana’s frontier / Lael Morgan.

    p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-56976-338-4 (hardcover)

1. Frontier and pioneer life—Montana. 2. Women pioneers—Montana—History. 3. Women—Montana—History. 4. Prostitution—Montana—History. 5. Women pioneers—Montana—Biography. 6. Prostitutes—Montana—Biography. 7. Montana—History—19th century. 8. Montana—History—20th century. 9. Montana—Social conditions. 10. Montana—Biography. I. Title.

F731.M77 2011

978.6’02—dc22

2010053911

Interior design: Jonathan Hahn

© 2011 by Lael Morgan

All rights reserved

Published by Chicago Review Press, Incorporated

814 North Franklin Street

Chicago, Illinois 60610

ISBN 978-1-56976-338-4

Printed in the United States of America

5 4 3 2 1

TO MADELEINE, OUR SISTERS IN SIN, AND GOOD

WOMEN EVERYWHERE WHO PUSHED THE ENVELOPE.

AND TO THE MEN, GOOD AND BAD,

WHO MADE WAY FOR US.

… there is not a respectable woman in the territory! Charles Otis, superintendent of the Overland Stage Line, New York City, exclaimed on hearing that Methodist preacher ?. M. Hough planned to move with his wife, Anna, to Montana Territory in the summer of 1864.

If there is not a respectable woman in the territory of 15,000 or 20,000 inhabitants, it is time there was one, Mrs. Hough responded. And off they went.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION Sinful Cities, 1863–1919

Prologue Madeleine: A Self-Made Woman, 1894

1 The Summer Women of Helena, 1867

2 Butte, the Black Heart of Montana, 1877

3 Miles City and the Wild West, 1880

4 Last of the Silver Years, 1887

5 The Celestial Sex Trade, 1900

6 Respectable Purple Paths, 1900

7 Reflection, 1900

8 The Beginning of the End, 1911

9 New Options, 1916

Epilogue The Wages of Sin

MAJOR PLAYERS The Women and Men Who Made the Most of a Wild Frontier

TIME LINE From the Brothels to the Congress

NOTES

INDEX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Jacq Siracusa, an off-duty anthropologist, and I drove into Butte, Montana, in 1998 pretty much as a lark. She planned to visit a friend. My only agenda was to tour America’s longest-operating whorehouse, long since closed. Yet the trip spawned a book that was fascinating to research, and I thank Siracusa for suggesting it.

My appreciation also extends to Norma Jean Almodovar, founder and president of the International Sex Worker Foundation for Art, Culture and Education, and Rudy Giecek, still the owner of the old Dumas brothel. I am indebted to writers Paula Petrik of George Washington University and the late Michael Malone, a prolific historian who also served as president of Montana State University in Bozeman, whose careful research provided the foundation of this work. Author Ellen Baumler, coordinator of Montana’s National Register of Historic Places; Amorette Allison, historic preservation officer of Miles City; Ellen Crain of the Butte–Silver Bow Public Archives; and author Mary Murphy, a down-to-earth historian who teaches at Montana State University in Bozeman, helped keep me grounded.

I am indebted to James L. Lopach and Jean Luckowski, University of Montana at Missoula; Diane Sands, a gifted researcher from Missoula; Joan Hoff, Montana State University of Bozeman; and author/journalist Kevin Giles for their insights on Jeannette Rankin. Roy Millegan, founder and curator of the Jefferson Valley Museum in Whitehall, also helped fill an important gap in Rankin’s history. Professors Pat Gordon and the late George Proctor, my teaching colleagues at University of Texas at Arlington, encouraged me when long-distance research seemed most foreboding.

The efforts of researcher Cindy Shaw and Father Robert Maloney, who documented Celestine Healy Bottego and her family, were vital. Nancy Silliman of the Kohrs Memorial in Deer Lodge unearthed new material on Anna Eugenia LaChapelle. Robin Gerber, history instructor at Miles Community College; Bob Barthelmess of the Range Riders Museum; Mark Browning of the Custer County Art Center; and Jean Nielsen, Miles City Public Library, contributed excellent material. Jay Moynahan, retired from Eastern Washington University, whose field is criminal justice with a focus on prostitution, proved an excellent sounding board.

For new thinking on Madeleine Blair I thank Canadians Bill Hillen of the Galt Historic Railway Park; Lindsey McMaster, Department of English Studies, Nipissing University; and book dealer David Ewens of Ontario.

Peggy Pascoe, History Department, University of Oregon, generously shared notes from her research on Relations of Rescue: The Search for Female Moral Authority in the American West, 1874–1939, after I discovered the archives from which she took them had closed.

My gratitude to the staff of the Montana Historical Society Research Center in Helena, most especially Brian Shovers and former director Charlene Porsild, whose suggestions were invaluable. Rosalie L’Ecuyer of Fairbanks, Alaska, and Marilyn Talmage, originally from Havre, not only traveled many Montana miles with me but helped rehabilitate a very rough, rough draft. Sally Pomeroy Backus, a special education teacher from Burnhan, Maine, deserves congratulations for her editing insights.

Last, but certainly not least, my thanks to Mable Deane of Three Forks, Montana, whose determination to locate the origins of babies sold by Gertrude Pitkanen inspired this book as surely as did the Dumas brothel.

INTRODUCTION

SINFUL CITIES, 1863–1919

Having researched and written about sin in America for several decades, I assumed I fully understood the economic and emotional cost of being female in the long, bleak era before governments began to grant women rights. During this period, prostitution was generally a woman’s most lucrative job option and sometimes her only viable strategy for survival. Raised with a stout set of New England values, I understood the dangerous downside of that career choice early on. In the first book I read on the subject, the English classic Moll Flanders, the heroine finds herself on a bumpy road that is mostly downhill, and other classics tell a similar story. So I was later startled to learn that a good number of women had apparently prospered at the trade—especially in the American West.

It wasn’t until a visit to Montana in 1998, however, that I witnessed a compact example of how good and how bad that career option would have been. Norma Jean Almodovar, a strikingly beautiful Los Angeles policewoman who quit to become a call girl, had just founded the International Sex Worker Foundation for Art, Culture and Education. ? friend of a friend, she suggested that I tour the historic Dumas brothel she was hoping to purchase in Butte to serve as a museum for her trade. Rudy Giecek, then (and still) owner of the establishment, who had been running it as an antiques mall, welcomed me.

Considering the Dumas was built in 1890 and is the last of Butte’s famous parlor houses still standing, it was in remarkable shape. We started on the second floor, where the dark wainscoting gleamed in the morning sunshine that poured down through the skylights. Large, airy bedrooms ringed a spacious open balcony around an elegant staircase leading to the first floor with its many parlors, fancy dining room, and grand ballroom.

The three or four women who worked here would have been among the most beautiful in Montana—elegant, well spoken, with class and style. When things went well, a Dumas girl could earn more in a single night than the average schoolteacher did in a month. Her chance of landing a rich husband was excellent, and, if prudent, she wouldn’t have to stay in the trade too long to tuck away a good retirement.

But an evil alternative lay just below, waiting for the unwary. Beyond the doors of the Dumas’s restaurant-sized basement kitchen lay a dank, dark tunnel, part of Butte’s subterranean street system by which customers could access the red-light district from respectable addresses away from the eyes of the staring public. There, cut into the tunnel’s earthen walls, were shallow caves just big enough to hold a small metal bed, where down-and-out prostitutes too ill, old, or ugly to ply their trade aboveground sold themselves to low bidders.

Norma Jean Almodovar’s attempt to turn this unusual establishment into a museum was not welcomed by the town of Butte. Ultimately her purchase of the Dumas fell through, and Rudy Giecek no longer opens it for tours, which may be just as well, for I found myself haunted by my exposure to the Dumas. The unexpected shock of walking from the sunlit second floor to those awful caves just two flights down jolted me into taking a second look at this era, most particularly in Butte but also in Montana in general, which in some ways remains a world unto itself.

America’s Western frontier was launched from hundreds of boomtowns, most of which featured instant millionaires, laissez-faire law enforcement, and women of beguilingly ill repute. But rare was the boomtown—no matter how wild—that couldn’t be tamed in a decade. Butte, Montana, the Richest Hill on Earth, beat the odds for nearly a century, running red hot and wide open in the face of half a dozen regional and national purity crusades, not to mention Prohibition. To some extent Helena, Butte’s neighbor and genesis, also qualified for some time as a renegade, embracing convention only after it became the seat of state government in 1898. And dozens of small, isolated Montana towns enjoyed similar traditions.

The Montana story is fascinating because nowhere else in America was open prostitution a given for so long. Because of the extraordinary independence of its women, not only those from the demimonde but those who escaped it, and because open cities apparently worked for the majority of Montana citizens without leaving visible scars, the legacy of Madeleine Blair, Chicago Joe Airey, Lizzie Hall, and their sisters is worthy of attention.

LAEL MORGAN

Saco, Maine

WANTON

WEST

PROLOGUE

MADELEINE:

A SELF-MADE WOMAN

1894

Bertie Simpson spotted her as soon as she walked into the grand lobby of the staid Butte Hotel, and he chuckled to himself. Though young—just over twenty, he guessed—Madeleine Blair carried herself like a duchess. Her simple but smartly tailored blue traveling suit complemented her elegantly arranged auburn curls, which were topped by a pert little hat. She wore no makeup and she was no beauty, but it was subtly obvious that, beneath her demure dress and the encumbrance of a fashionable hourglass corset, she possessed a stunning figure.

Her clean-cut features brightened with her dimpled smile when she spotted him, and Bertie Simpson knew that luck had gone his way. Few, if any, would guess Madeleine was a whore, but Bertie, who had recently purchased her services in Chicago, had not only enjoyed her erotic talents; he found her charming. How she had come by her cultured East Coast accent she would not say. But she was well read, intellectually curious, and a delightful companion.

Simpson, although a confirmed bachelor with solid banking credentials, had made less of an impression on Madeleine. ? stray tomcat, she thought. But since she knew no one else in the town where she had arrived that morning, she greeted him like a long-lost friend.

What in the world are you doing in Butte? he asked. But pardon me, are you here with someone?

I came out to see the wild and wooly West, and I am alone, she said.

Good! he answered. I have to go to Missoula tomorrow, but I can show you the elephant tonight.

I think I have seen him this afternoon, she murmured with a grimace.

Depressed after the death of her young son and a subsequent miscarriage, which had been carefully engineered, Madeleine had traveled from Chicago to Butte on a whim, hoping to find her longtime lover, Paul Martin, with whom she had recently quarreled. Anxious because she had failed to warn Martin that she was coming, as she checked into the busy hotel she paid little attention to the town perched precariously almost a mile above sea level on the side of a monstrous barren hill. She was further distracted to learn her lover was working in a remote section of the state and would not return for several weeks.

Overcome with gloom and finding herself unable to breathe in the thin atmosphere, she rushed to open the window of her hotel room, only to close it hastily when smothered by the sulfur-laden air.

As I stood looking through the window at the hurrying throng in the street, I wondered if I had not lost a day somewhere, she later told Simpson. I had thought it was Sunday, but surely I was mistaken, for men who wore the garb of labor hurried through the streets, carrying dinner-pails in their hands, and Chinamen with laundry baskets on their heads mingled with the crowd of alert-looking business men, debonair gamblers, pasty-faced pimps, overdressed shop-girls, and painted, gaudily garbed harlots.

As she stood at the hotel window, she recalled having overheard a well-dressed man in her Pullman car describe Butte to a party of women from the East as the greatest mining camp on earth. She wasn’t sure what that involved beyond ore in the ground and perhaps savage Indians, but, rattled from her self-absorption, she put on her hat and went into the street for a better view.

It was Sunday! The street was named Broadway. But beyond that, nothing looked familiar. Unlike those in Chicago on a Sunday, most of Butte’s 212 licensed drinking establishments were open, and some never closed as demonstrated by the fact that they had no locks on their doors. Scantily dressed women strolled the sidewalks in broad daylight, explaining graphically the sexual services they were prepared to render. Men in working clothes mobbed the city’s sixteen licensed gambling halls. Private games for higher stakes were equally busy, but with a better-dressed crowd. The red-light district also ran three shifts.

The Denver Sun had just admitted on page one that Butte was the liveliest town in the United States, and the local paper boasted Butte had produced $300 million in mineral wealth since 1864. Montana led the nation in the percentage of men employed, and Butte, of course, led Montana.

The most notorious joint for trouble was Clipper Shades, a bar, dance hall, and brothel where clients were likely to be rolled if drunk or welcomed with mail if they were old customers and used the place as a forwarding address. The Atlantic claimed to have the longest bar in the world, employing fifteen bartenders at a time. The Casino, a dance hall, saloon, prizefight arena, theater, and brothel where gunfights were no surprise, hired a couple hundred girls around the clock. The Comique featured nationally known vaudeville stars and local talent in the form of pretty waiter girls and supplied boxes from which wealthy patrons could view the show with their mistresses discreetly hidden behind a screen. Clothing, dry goods, and grocery stores were also open.

Outraged at the blasphemy, even though she never kept the Sabbath herself, Madeleine walked the neighborhood feeling no temptation to enter the gaudy establishments.

Commentary on horse races bellowed from the bookie joints. They’re off at Hawthorne! someone yelled, relaying the news from a telegraph. Wildfire in the lead! Rubicon against the field! It’s a hundred-to-one shot you can’t win. You’re crazy with the heat. They’re off at Oakland.

The noise, with the foul air, made her head swim, and soon Madeleine retired to a side street to get her bearings. But there, from an open window, she overhead a clear voice announcing, She is seventeen, gentlemen, and a black one.

Certain she’d heard the auction of a black woman, she hurried back toward her hotel, encountering Bertie Simpson on the way, and she soon unburdened her fears to him. Much amused, he assured her there was no cause for alarm. Seventeen and a black one was simply the number that had won on a roulette wheel, he said.

Later that evening with her Chicago patron, Madeleine toured a couple of fancy parlor houses and got her first look at Butte’s filth-ridden back alleys full of cribs—tiny rooms fronting the walkways where her sisters in sin casually displayed themselves in open windows and doorways. Hundreds of flimsy little buildings stood so crowded together that stairways led to precariously built second tiers. Who owned them was a mystery, she learned. And, miserable as they were, the girls paid a stiff rate to work there.

The sight fascinated even while it repelled me, she later wrote, resorting to the purple prose of her Victorian era. It gripped me by the throat and forced me to examine it, even though I was sickened and faint at the horror of it. I drew my skirts back from contact with the poor creatures who represented this seamy side of prostitution; I could not help it. I wanted to take them by the hand and tell them that I was one of them, but I could not touch them. I could barely touch my lips to the glasses of beer they served.

She felt particular pity for a forty-year-old prostitute from whom she bought many drinks when Simpson refused, simply so the old girl could show a good profit at the end of the night. And when the woman cursed her on leaving, calling her a stuck-up parlor-house tart, Madeleine told Bertie that she didn’t blame her.

A few doors down, she was surprised to see a girl dressed in little more than a wrapper beckoning from a flimsy crib, and she recognized Norma, with whom she’d worked two years earlier at Lizzie Allen’s palatial brothel in Chicago. Once Allen’s star boarder and one of the most beautiful women in Chicago, the girl seemed to have aged ten years. Sobbing, she clutched Madeleine’s hand, pathetically eager to talk with someone who had known her in better days.

Norma had moved to Denver after leaving Allen’s and had fallen for a gambler who took her out of the business and lavished money on her for several months, she explained. They’d come to Butte a year ago for its famous horse-racing season, where her lover planned on making a killing. Although Butte and the track at neighboring Anaconda were regularly listed nationwide in the racing news, and some considered them the best in the West, he figured the odds would be easier to beat than those of long-established East Coast establishments. So when he lost, Norma pawned her furs and jewels to give him a new start, which also failed. Then she had gone into one of two first-class houses in town.

"But no girl can meet the expenses in a big parlor-house and keep a man at the same time, even if the landladies would stand for a macque [pimp] in the house, which they won’t, Norma insisted. The girls in the big houses are all hundreds of dollars in debt, with no chance to get out. Board is not high, because they pay twenty-five dollars a week straight. All the rest they make is theirs, which would be fine if they cleared anything over their board. But they don’t, and the cost of clothes, and laundry, and cleaners’ bills, and toilet articles—in fact, everything we use—is double the price it would be in Chicago."

I do not see why business is not good, if there are only two big houses, Madeleine countered. I never saw so many people on the streets and in the places of amusement; and at the hotel I saw so many well-dressed, prosperous-looking men that I concluded that any girl who was in business in Butte would have a gold-mine of her own.

Forget it, Norma said with an air of disgust. If you stay in Butte a while you will discover that Montana liberality runs by buying booze and playing the races and ‘stacking them up’ on the high card, never giving women a good price for their services.

Norma went on to explain she now made her profit mostly in selling drinks and occasionally rolling a drunk or two if she thought she could get away with it. This disgusted Madeleine’s escort, who insisted they move on.

As an afterthought, Madeleine ran back to make an appointment to see Norma later, only to find her friend eagerly talking to a big, dirty laborer so drunk that he swayed from side to side, although he tried to steady himself on the window casement. Norma appeared embarrassed, and Bertie had to rescue Madeleine when the would-be customer lurched to grab her.

Later, over supper before they bedded, Simpson questioned Madeleine closely. It struck me in Chicago that night that you were a haughty dame and a darned poor mixer. Or, as one of the other girls in the party said, you were not a good fellow, he recalled. Yet here you pick up a low crib woman who by her own voluntary confession is a thief, and you invite her to break bread with you. I’m wondering why you did it?

I thought I knew all the horrors of prostitution, but I have learned tonight that I know very little about them. She considered. I have learned that there is a sheltered class, and that I belong to it, yet I would have laughed yesterday had any one spoken of ‘sheltered prostitutes.’

But you can’t do anything for this girl. Why do you harrow your own soul by association with her?

It may be a premonition of what is coming to me that makes me want to be kind, she replied. It is something I have never felt before.

Madeleine, it is a premonitory birth-pang of the social consciousness, he said.

What is the social consciousness? she asked. I never heard of it. It’s summed up in the question you are now asking yourself. ‘Am I my sister’s keeper?’

In Butte, Norma had worked for Lou Harpell, who had been Lizzie Allen’s rival in Chicago before retrenching in Montana under the patronage of one of the state’s most influential mining magnates. Madeleine did not know Harpell’s background, but she was impressed by the opulence of her Butte bordello and by the straight-talking madam herself. Who better to help rescue Norma? And Madeleine had picked the right time to enlist Harpell’s help.

It was the morning after a busy night that had been hard to manage. Bertha, one of Lou’s girls, had sprained her ankle while horseback riding with a patron that afternoon. The sprain wasn’t bad, but weekends were busy, and at the last minute Lou had been forced to find a stand-in for her.

Stand-in was a ridiculous term for the replacement of a whorehouse inmate, Lou realized, and it was high time she recruited to fill Bertha’s position. The girl had come there with the express goal of finding a rich husband. Her solicitous riding companion—who had spent the evening at her bedside (not in it), paying well for the privilege—was the perfect candidate. And Lou’s customers would welcome a new face.

Another potential problem was a minor war. Lola and Suzette were lovers who usually worked in tandem, but last night they’d had a monstrous fight. Lou had temporarily kept things under control by refereeing them into separate parlors, where they vied to outdo each other for high-tipping customers. For one night, at least, it had worked: in competition, they sold twenty-eight bottles of champagne, which Lou had priced with an intoxicating markup. Not bad for the nightly receipts, she realized as she reconciled her account books. If business kept improving, she’d soon be able to leave this forsaken hole for a new life as a rich widow in her native Germany.

Sam Jung, the butler, interrupted to present a silver tray bearing a rectangle of heavy bond finely engraved with the name madeleine blair. Although startled at receiving a formal visiting card, the madam managed to place her. A day earlier, Lou had noticed Bertie Simpson, a frequent visitor from Chicago, entering her parlor with a young woman she assumed was a young society matron, which was not unusual. Tours of the red-light district’s high end were considered daring, and Bertie, with his impeccable manners, was an ideal escort. Lou’s orchestra was the best in town, and Bertie had taken to the dance floor with his charge, displaying his usual dash and skill.

It wasn’t until about two hours later, when the crowd had thinned, that Lou had a chance to meet the newcomer. Unhesitatingly, Bertie introduced her as a working girl from Lizzie Allen’s house in Chicago, and Lou, who was seldom wrong in judging appearances, was surprised. Assuming that the girl had come today to seek work, she pushed aside her books, more than willing to hire away an employee of her former rival.

She was disappointed to learn Blair was on a rescue mission for Norma, now for sale with the lowest of the low in Lou’s back alley. The madam snorted. She had four girls of her own to look after, and they all had problems. Besides, she’d fired Norma because the girl had became addicted to drugs, and the madam was reluctant to break that news to her friend. Madeleine appeared sincerely appalled at what she described as the general squalor of the district. She spoke harshly against unscrupulous landlords and the gruesome fate of Butte’s crib girls.

You’ve got to help her, she pleaded. No working girl can survive in Butte for long. The town is brutal.

Perhaps you’re just not used to the frontier, Lou suggested tactfully. But Madeleine, who readily conceded that most of her five years in the trade had been spent in high-rent districts, had recently worked six months in the raw boomtown of Winnipeg, Canada. She’d enjoyed it and returned with bundles of money.

You’re doing well here, she said accusingly. Perhaps you don’t see how different Butte is.

Having worked Chicago for a decade, few were more aware than Lou Harpell of Butte’s abnormities, but she held her tongue, if for no other reason than her fondness for Bertie Simpson and not wanting to offend his young friend, even one with the misplaced zeal of a Salvation Army worker.

I’m to meet Norma at two o’clock at the Chaquamegon, Madeleine said. What do you think? Can we get her out of that awful place?

Lou sighed. We can try, I guess, she said reluctantly. But many women do make good money in this town, even if it’s not as rarefied as some you are used to. I had to let your friend go because she had other problems beyond the usual expenses.

The private meeting with Norma did not prove successful. It became obvious her drug habit was serious. The fallen beauty had no intention of leaving her gambling man, who apparently had no intention of supporting himself. And Madeleine soon had so many problems of her own that she gave up the rescue attempt.

Poor little fool that I was, she would later write. I could not even heal myself.

Madeleine Blair had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, only to have it taken from her. Her well-educated father had turned to drink, losing his fortune and leaving his wife and children destined for the poorhouse. When their fine home was repossessed by the bank, he dismissed their servants and moved the family to a slum occupied by prostitutes working under such respectable guises as laundresses and seamstresses. The old man disappeared for months at a time, leaving his wife, pregnant with their sixth child, to cope alone, with no source of income. Pulled from school for want of money, Madeleine had spent much time with her notorious neighbors despite her mother’s forbidding it. At sixteen she had experimented with sex out of curiosity and had gotten pregnant by a family friend from whom she sought no help.

Madeleine did not claim rape, and she showed no self-pity. Leaving home unaware she was pregnant, she had worked briefly as a factory girl and had done well as a department store clerk. But when she learned she was pregnant and her mother was without resources, prostitution seemed an obvious option.

Her entry into that profession was anything but smooth. She acquired a venereal disease from her second customer because she had no idea diseases could be transmitted through intercourse. The cure, which kept her in the hospital for some time, was brutal but effective. The man, ten years her senior, had not only been supportive but was, in fact, her current lover, Paul Martin. Despite his consideration, she entered a house in Kansas City’s red-light district at age seventeen and then moved up to one of the most famous and fashionable bordellos in Chicago.

Her first pregnancy resulted in the death of that unwanted child shortly after she became a prostitute, and her doctor, who told her she could never get pregnant again because of her earlier infection, was wrong. The death of her second child, a five-year-old son whom she’d raised against considerable odds, left her devastated. On the verge of a nervous breakdown, she’d treated her lover harshly and then abruptly dismissed him.

To compound the problem, Madeleine had recently been disowned by her father, who had finally sobered up enough to discover how she had been supporting her mother and siblings. Hurt, too distracted to return to Allen’s, and rudderless, she had fled to her lover in Butte only to learn that Paul Martin was away on business. She was overjoyed, however, when he finally learned she was in Montana and invited her to the pretty little town of Bannack, about sixty miles southwest of Butte, where he was overseeing a gold-mining operation for the summer. He proved delighted to resume their relationship, which had always been passionate, and he installed her in a room at his hotel and appeared quite openly with her.

I was an object of much curiosity to the natives, both as to my social status and my occupation, she later wrote. They were not long in discovering that I was Paul Martin’s girl, and they soon concluded that I must be an Eastern school-teacher, for no one else could possibly be so eager for information.

As the site of Montana’s first major gold discovery, Bannack had a rich history of highwaymen and the vigilantes who hung them, and while Paul attended to his mining business, Madeleine pestered longtime residents for stories of the early days. Worst of the outlaws, they told her, was a handsome man named Henry Plummer, who led a double life as sheriff while murdering anyone who got in his way, including women and children. It took the vigilantes some time to discover his duplicity, for he appeared to be a good lawman and was charming to boot. Before they finally hung him, he had begged for his life.

Oh, God! I’m too wicked to die, he had cried.

Why, if he believed in hell, had Plummer been so wicked? Madeleine pondered this, considering her own double life. Although she’d long since put religion behind her, at certain moments she felt the hand of God in Montana’s wild panoramas. She reveled in Bannack’s mountains and woods, exploring on horseback from Road-agents’ Rock to Hangman’s Gulch and the still-wild outback. Delighted to be free from the pawing of endless clients, she dared hope that, unlike the highwayman, she could still escape her past and a grim fate like that of Norma.

Of course, her reasons for staying with her profession remained sound. When things went well, prostitution was an easy way to make money—more than any other trade a woman could enter—and Madeleine enjoyed the power over men that it gave her. Taking their money. Making them jump through hoops, even when they thought they were in charge. This was not the case in marriage, where women lost the rights to their earnings, their children, and their very lives. No! Madeleine Blair had no regrets about the life she’d chosen because, for