The Favorite Left Leg

You’d think simply being among the Donner Party’s survivors would be enough to inspire a person to find a quiet little farmhouse in a small community with fertile soil where nothing much happens and a person could put down roots.

Not so for Martha who was 8-years-old when her family and others experienced now infamous hardships, tragedy and cannibalism in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The echoes from passed-down visions of untapped opportunity and unlimited adventure that inspired their family to set forth on that fateful journey have never left her head.

The logical and sensible path for women in the mid 1800s has been to settle down and start a family. Perhaps experience a little freedom while earning a respectable income as a teacher or nanny. Folks who spent any time with Martha will assure you in no uncertain terms, that one is neither logical nor sensible. She lives like she’s got demons hot on her tail. One day she’s likely to outrun them straight into an unmarked grave.

Martha is a natural beauty with tanned skin from spending so much time outdoors, dark blonde hair almost always tied up in a bun with wisps poking out all about her face that form a halo if the sun’s to her back. She doesn’t put much thought into the latest fashion trends or maintaining a proper image – nor is she vulgar or loose as some of these rare free-spirited women are wont to be.

She has sailed around the horn of South America from New England returning to California, guided several wagon trains across North America, trapped beaver, bedded native men and ball-room danced with a president. 

Martha is 40-something now. While it’s rude to discuss a lady’s age, she’s showing no signs of slowing, or settling down. Compared to her more timid counterparts she’s lookin’ mighty fine even as I sit here on this wooden chair at her bedside while she’s on the mend from her leg amputation. I’ve been here for days listening to her life’s antics. The sort of happenings that most have only romanticized while reading the short publications about life in the Wild West. The Doctors expect her to be out of here in a couple days so long as infection doesn’t set in.

I have had the honor, as a mostly-first-hand witness, to the events leading up to how a woman came about needing her left leg amputated.

As Martha tells it, she was figurin’ on having too much to drink last Saturday night which is why she had her Stanhope parked out front rather than her usual sidesaddle. She says she’s getting too old to have a few drinks and stay atop a horse. Falling takes too long to heal, and one of these days she’ll not get back on her feet again.

I’m watching her facial expressions as she’s attempting to explain her decision-making that led up to the incident and there’s no indication she caught the irony of her words.

There she was, in the saloon playing the piano and singing off-key. She’s aware she doesn’t have a singing voice. “Not being good at something never stopped me from doing a thing anyway,” she explains as though she’s repeated this concept more than a dozen times to dull layabouts.

Charlotte, another woman who can also occasionally be found in a saloon having herself one helluva time had shown up during the song. She wears pants more often than is considered ladylike and refuses to sit side-saddle. She sauntered over to the piano with two shots in hand and passed one over to Martha with a wildly big grin. Charlotte has an oversized mouth with unfortunately large spacing between her teeth. She’s a burly sort of woman. The playful kind who some say has single-handedly tamed a grizzly.

“I see you’ve done away with that proper saddle of yours and moved on to a grandmother’s carriage,” She said to Martha with a twinkle in her eyes and deep crows feet that tell of her general good nature. They downed their shots.

The two women made their way through the saloon that was beginning to fill up and sat at my table giving me an excellent opportunity to know first hand how these two got into their mischief. It started with two more shots and a beer upon sitting down.

“It’s a funny thing for the only actual grandmother to be ribbing me about my perfectly suitable mode of transportation.” Martha said as she brought a beer to her lips. 

“Oh Hell Martha! I brought mine tonight, too!” and they both had a laugh and waved for another round as they chatted about the merits of their carriages.

“How fast you suppose you can get yours goin’?” asked Charlotte.

As she exaggeratedly leaned over to look at Charlotte’s rump in her seat, Martha said, “A damn sight faster’n yours havin’ to haul that.”

The two women had a good laugh again and ordered yet another shot. The first two or three seemed to be kicking in at this point.

The ruckus in the saloon had turned up a few notches as the card games got heated, ladies of the night showed up to “sell their wares” and general drunkenness made their conversation difficult for me to hear when Martha abruptly with a playful manner slammed a fist on the table and shouted, “Let’s have a race, then!” Anyone within ear-shot tossed up their drink hand and shouted in agreement.

“Down Main Street, past the mill, one turn around the graveyard and first one back sitting in a stool at the bar wins?” proposed Charlotte. Martha raised her next shot in ascent and the two ladies headed for the door.

I couldn’t not watch these two race each other; as best I could in the moonlight, that is. That would be almost as mad as a carriage race in the dark to begin with.

They got their small carriages turned facing the correct direction and set upon their seats. By now a small crowd of a dozen or so, mostly men, had gathered on the saloon stoop to bear witness to the ill-advised impromptu spectacle.

They asked for a count and a starting-shot – some fella on the stoop obliges. With the POP of a revolver and the crack of a couple whips two drunken women were off on their wild moonlit carriage race.

Somebody else amongst the revelers somewhat came to his senses and announced, “Aw Hell! Somebody’s gotta watch them two kill theyselfs,” and trotted over to his own saddled horse and set off in hot pursuit.

Now, I didn’t get to see what actually happened out there, but I’ve heard the story in mostly the same version more than 100 times since last weekend.

Both women were neck and neck coming up to the cemetery that has a bit of a hairpin turn to start the return trip. Heading into the turn, Martha had the inside track when something happened in the dark causing her carriage to flip onto Charlotte’s. In a moonlit mess of tangled up scared horses, dresses and carriage parts; bodies along with bits and pieces of this and that were tossed about and trampled on.

The rider who had caught up to their slower carriages says as soon as the dust settled one of those ladies said, “Well, fuck me.” As calm as if she just dropped a plate.

He headed back to the saloon to retrieve some help and when a few of us came back upon them not 10 minutes later, Martha was leaning with back against a tombstone and Charlotte was just pulling the trigger to put down her own horse. Martha’s horse had freed itself from the carriage wreckage and bolted into the night.

Martha never wailed nor wept. When I came up and asked her if she was hurt she simply replied, “Well. I might’a done it this time” and lifted her skirt up above her knee to reveal in the light of the moon the worst broken leg I’ve ever seen. Every man there whistled, swore or apologized. Charlotte threw out a joke that she should be happy she isn’t a horse which garnered her a good-natured chuckle from Martha.

That bone was sticking out of her thigh at least as far as my hand is long.

We got her and Charlotte, who was banged up and a bit bloody, loaded up and rode em back doubles to The Doc’s place. As our group slowly made our way through town, some cowboy still standing out on the stoop lifted his drink in salute and hollered, “Hey Martha! You damned wild woman! You’ll never be content!”

The Doc drugged Martha up pretty good as soon as we got in the door. He tended to Charlotte and then said he couldn’t do a thing about that leg until morning and advised us to leave Martha there. The following day, Martha said goodbye to her left leg, her favorite leg, she said. Never had another left one like it and a dozen or so off-color jokes to make light of the serious situation.

Today, she says she’s hobbling over to the saloon as soon as she’s let out of here. I’ve been made privy that she can expect Charlotte sitting on a stool, shots lined up – ready to congratulate her friend on a race well-run and lost.