All you needed to see him was his own electricity,
he glowed from afar. That’s what they said
about Frank Johnson back then, all those years ago.
Rumor had it he was nearby.
The reward was $3,000, a small fortune,
but Judge R.S. Barr was bored
and doubled the amount, thinking to make a game of it.
Everyone in South Pass City had a gun,
a cause for chaos in the best of times.
Every stranger had potential and possibility.
Though bright red hair was his defining feature,
the wanted poster was in black and white, the ginger in the description
and not everyone could read.
They must have thought that horse thief didn’t stand a chance.
He killed a constable in Lusk making his escape
and they were happy to make an end to him.
But they underestimated the difficulties
of such a contest, conducted over two nations,
Indian and settler, one inside the other.
When word got out, people flocked to town.
The judge put someone on every corner
and cautioned them to be careful. It did no good.
Shootouts abounded. Charlie Rowe shot his own damn brother.
He lived, but they never spoke again.
It was a wonder no one was killed.
The women put an end to it.
It was impossible to ignore the stupidity,
but they still had to deal with resistance,
convince the men they were hazardous, both to themselves
and to the town. It wasn’t good for business.
They were outnumbered but adamant and sure.
That dry, rocky landscape had altered them,
made them flinty, pragmatic and patient
and smart enough to hold discussions behind closed doors.
What must have life been like for them?
Pulled away by circumstance from all they knew
to come to this outpost along the western crossing?
Dealing with miners, speculators, bounders,
brawlers, pettifoggers, riff-raff and drunks,
outnumbered three to one
and now in fear of getting shot?
How hard it must have been in that made-up place,
A one-street pop-up town of dust,
but with the undeniable pull of the land,
high plains and desert, cacti and scrub,
the marvelous overarching infinite blue,
and the unspoken hope for the future,
the mind’s deep embossment.
They couldn’t have done it by themselves.
Some had empathetic partners, and they had allies,
among them the Mormons passing through.
Their leader was Esther Hobart Morris, who radiated no-nonsense confidence
and didn’t suffer fools. Her voice and face
were marked with tiny cracks, severe and sere.
Word was she once had her own husband jailed.
But the townspeople were drawn to her, the men too.
Judge Barr was the exception.
He hated to have his game abridged by women,
whom he considered not worth the suffrage coming their way.
When he resigned in anger, Mrs Morris would take his place.
The men largely put their guns aside.
But it didn’t matter.
If Frank Johnson was nearby, he went around.
And the town dried up when the gold was gone.
