By: Vincent Maranto

On the old stage road between Bozeman and Helena, Montana, as it crosses the Crow Creek Divide, there lies a small, square fence enclosing a grass-covered mound. The surrounding country is rugged, like much of the mountainous terrain of the West. A limestone ridge rises abruptly to the west, while a quartzite reef slopes gently eastward toward the Missouri River, two miles away.

The fence is weathered but intact. Rough-edged boulders lie scattered across the ground, and down the slope, a trickle of mountain water winds its way toward the river.

Locals pass the site murmuring, “Charity’s Grave.” Strangers, hearing the name, ask why such a lonely place holds a marked resting place. The answer lies in the history of a woman whose story evokes both sorrow and reverence.

Though the fence is old, the site remains untouched by graffiti. There is a sanctity surrounding it—a reverent silence. The tale that placed this grave among the annals of pioneer life is a deeply human one: that of a female hermit, a woman whose life embodied both love and loss. As with all acts of kindness that never truly die, and mistakes of the heart redeemed by virtue, so it is with Charity: “Her honor rooted in dishonor stands, and faith unfaithful keeps her falsely true.”

Bill Garbut was a husky Southern soldier, spared by shot and shell only to be taken prisoner in 1863. Paroled on the battlefield, he saw little future in the war’s outcome and resolved to head for the unexplored Northwest. Jolly, energetic, and resourceful, Bill soon organized a party that departed St. Joseph, Missouri, in the spring of 1864.

Elected captain, Bill led thirteen men, four covered wagons drawn by oxen, saddle horses, domestic supplies, and provisions for a long, dangerous journey. When the thirteenth man joined, Bill joked that he wanted to tempt fate, claiming his bad luck had surely reached its limit. Still, inwardly he hoped to change the party’s number.

The journey’s first two weeks were a litany of accidents and delays that stretched Bill’s nerves. He regretted the number thirteen and prayed for a way to change it.

That opportunity came on April 2, according to a mark notched into a wagon tongue. The party had stopped for their midday meal—crisp bacon, hard biscuits, and black coffee. After days of rain, the sun finally pierced the clouds, offering brief cheer to the weary travelers.

Bill rose and walked to a small hill to survey the land. He spotted a horse and rider approaching. Waving his hat, he called back to camp, “Here comes our fourteenth man!”

He was wrong. The rider was not a man.

A girl, no more than eighteen, poorly clad and pale, rode into camp. Her shoes were worn through, and her face pinched with fatigue and desperation. Bill removed his hat as she neared, waiting for her to speak.

“Can I go with you?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Y-yes—no—that is—Miss, we’re thirteen men. No women. And every one of us unlucky.”

“I might bring you luck,” she said, “I’ve never had any myself.”

“You don’t understand what this journey is,” Bill replied. “We’re going through deserts, swamps, rivers, and hostile territory. There’s a good chance we won’t survive.”

But the girl was already dismounting. She unsaddled her pony and turned to him with an imploring look. “I’m poor, friendless, and alone. My father and brother were killed in the war. My mother has since died. And my lover abandoned me. If I go with you, I might die. But if I don’t, I surely will.”

Bill saw her desperation. He recognized the burden her presence might bring, but human decency prevailed. He invited her into camp and made arrangements for her privacy. The others accepted her, and by unanimous agreement, they called her Charity.

The journey continued for five grueling months. Many close calls for the entire party occurred. Incidents of interest, that would make a volume, were they related. One however, must be told for it wrought a revolution in a human soul. Charity gave birth to a child. It lived only a day and was buried in the sands of Wyoming.

From her convalescence, the girl became a hardened woman—angry, broken, yet full of empathy. She rejected the pretenses of social life. Her life henceforth was an open book, written full of hopeless anguish and unutterable grief. The contemplation of her wrong had made a fearful wound in her heart, which healed, leaving a frightful scar. Yet, contradictory as the unscientific mind always is, she became the apotheosis of human kindness. Nursing the sick, rendering aid in all condition of the journey, learning to shoot and recklessly ride. When the Placer mine on Indian Creek, now in Broadwater County, Montana, were reached, she proven her heir-ship to the name of “Charity.”

The settlement at Indian Creek, dubbed Hogum by the miners, consisted of about forty rugged men. These were no ordinary settlers. They were reckless yet honest, daring yet loyal. Justice was swift, and kindness was expected. No social caste existed—except against theft and murder.

Hogum’s population was enjoying its Sunday, August—1864 in the usual diversified manner. Some were washing: some were in the saloon, playing stud poker, while others lounged lazily in the pleasant sunshine. A sudden awakening to a matter of new interest occurred, as Garbut’s party drove slowly into camp.  

Five months on the road had exhausted the supplies, worn out the wagons, and forced the cattle to a last stage of decline. The party; however, were in excellent spirits, and by unanimous consent determined to disband here. The goods and chattels were divided up, Garbut selecting a share for “Charity.”

Soon, new rumors of richer diggings drew most of the camp westward. Bill left with them. Charity never saw him again.

About this time the varied phases of Charity’s character began to be known. She was the doctor, the nurse, the tailor, and washer-woman of the camp. Often times she prevented serious quarrels by an interference that no man dare resist. Ever ready to assist the unfortunate, kindness was her chief virtue and work her religion.

In the months that followed, Charity became Hogum’s nurse, doctor, tailor, and peacekeeper. The miners built her a cabin along the stage road. It became a refuge for travelers and a hospital for the sick. As years passed, her reputation for kindness and courage spread. In living for others, she became beloved by all who knew her.

And then came the final act.

A saloon fight, one day left a stranger gravely wounded. He was taken to Charity’s cabin, where she nursed him with the same tireless care she gave all others. His name was George Stanhope—handsome, impulsive, and dangerously charming. As he regained strength, he found himself drawn to his mysterious nurse.

When the time came for him to leave, he stood before this imperious, stone-cut featured woman and said, “Charity, you saved my life. I owe you everything. I offer you my love, my life—my all.”

But as he spoke, a transformation overtook her. Her eyes burned with fire, anguish, and fury.

“George,” she said, “you are a coward. A base, contemptible cur. A disgrace to manhood. Your name is known to me. You betrayed me once—stole my love, shattered my life, crushed my dreams. And now, by God’s strange justice, you’ve returned to me. If remorse could operate there is no conscience, you would die a slow suicide.”

She snatched the pistol from his belt and held it steady. But instead of aiming at him, she slowly turned it on herself. With a final look of unutterable sorrow, she fired.

Her death was instantaneous.

George Stanhope picked up the smoking pistol, saddled his horse, and rode to Hogum’s only saloon. He gathered everyone and slammed his wallet on the bar.

“Drinks are on me,” he said. “I was born in Missouri. I’ve been a villain and a coward. I betrayed the woman you knew as Charity. She’s up there, dead. My atonement is this—”

He drew his gun and shot himself.

The miners buried Charity on the hill above Hogum. Her grave remains, a silent testament to her pain and her grace. The turbulence of her life is mirrored in the storm that breaks to reveal sunlight, in the lightning that strikes stone, and in the snow that gently covers the land—softening its edges, bearing its scars.

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The author is 75-year-old widower, with four children and four grandchildren. He is also a Veteran, who served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He was born and raised on a farm in Louisiana, attended Nicholl’s State University and Louisiana State University where he majored in History-Pre Law. He started writing in high school; poetry, fiction and non-fiction. He once wrote a story about his dog that was published in the local newspaper and based on the evidence of that story has described himself as a writer since. And though it may have seemed laughable at the time, it nevertheless changed his way of looking at the world.