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  Unless you’re a woman.

  In my experience, watchin’ a woman’s eyes and mouth means nothin’. I never know if they’re truthful or lyin’, which is one of the reasons I travel with a witchy twenty-year-old gal named Rose. Tiny as she is, Rose can drive a wagon and put a camp together good as any man. She also does curious things that can’t be explained, like climbin’ tall trees with wide trunks that have no low branches. And talkin’ to horses. And smellin’ tubers and medicine roots below the ground, and sniffin’ truth above it. Rose could hear the first words of a story like this from a woman like Jenny and know if it’s true, partly true, or untrue. But Rose was in Springfield with the wagons, and I was on my own with Jenny’s story. I had no reason to doubt it, and she seemed honest. But the whole money under the bed part stuck in my craw.

  “How’d you come by this odd sum?” I said.

  “Sophie and I saved it from our jobs.”

  “What type of work you do?”

  “Sophie works in her father’s general store, and I work at Miss Patty’s. That’s how I learned you were in town.”

  “You met Phoebe at Miss Patty’s?”

  “Yes, and she announced you were taking her to Newton. Are you?”

  I nodded.

  “In that case, will you consider making a short detour to Mr. Ellsworth’s ranch, south of Grand Junction? Though dusty, the trails are flat and easy to follow.”

  I knew that to be mostly true.

  “You saved sixty-eight dollars since April?” I asked.

  “The amount includes a small weekly stipend I get from my father, and birthday money, and the sale of the gold watch Sophie’s father left her.”

  “You girls have worked up a mighty big rage to want the man killed.”

  “I fear for the next poor girl who answers his advertisement. She may fare worse.”

  We saw the waiter making his way across the room with my platter of steak. Jenny stood.

  “What say you to my offer, Mr. Love?”

  “I’ll think on it,” I said. “But keep your envelope.”

  “Consider it expense money.”

  I handed her the envelope, then signaled the waiter to stay where he was, so we could have a moment of privacy. When he did, I looked Jenny in the eye and lowered my voice.

  “I don’t take money to kill people,” I said. “If a man needs killin’, I’ll oblige him. But money don’t enter into it.”

  She nodded.

  “How much did Roy Ellsworth steal from you and Sophie?”

  “Sixty-eight dollars.”

  “Now there’s a coincidence,” I said.

  10.

  Phoebe wasn’t thrilled about travelin’ the woods and plains with a pack of whores, but she was—what’s the word Rose says? Philisofgul? If that’s the word, Phoebe was that. About it.

  “They have as much right to go west as I do,” she said.

  “They do,” I agreed.

  “I don’t know much about soiled doves,” Phoebe said, “but I feel for their plight.”

  “What plight is that?”

  “Living the way they do.”

  I wondered what she could possibly know about how whores live. She caught my look of curiosity, and said, “Do they not live in fear of disease? And danger?”

  “They do. And loneliness.”

  The look in her face told me she hadn’t thought about that part.

  “One thing about whores of a proper age,” I said. “They know what they’re gettin’ into.”

  “On the other hand,” Phoebe said, “I’ve heard dreadful stories about minors being forced into prostitution.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. In my experience, miners love whores even more than cowboys do! Only politicians love ’em more—”

  “Not miners, you dolt. Minors.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Girls as young as twelve.”

  “Oh. Well, twelve ain’t a problem out west.”

  “What?” She seemed shocked.

  “Twelve is legal marryin’ age for girls,” I said. “Though them that are forced to marry a grown man at twelve are often treated worse than whores.”

  “Well, that’s appalling.”

  “Out west the age of consent is ten.”

  “Ten? Are you serious?”

  “Sheriffs don’t get involved ’less a girl’s under ten. ’Less she’s been beaten.”

  “How can a ten year old girl be expected to provide consent?”

  “I can’t explain the why’s and wherefores. I’m just sayin’ how it works out west.”

  “These women I’ll be traveling with,” Phoebe said. “Are they dangerous?”

  I thought about sayin’ all women were dangerous, but I knew what she meant. So I said, “Never steal from a whore, or accuse one of stealin’.”

  She looked amused. “If you’re giving me a list, why would you think to put that first?”

  “’Cause whores don’t steal. They’re the most honest people on earth.”

  “I’ve never heard that, and frankly, I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, I don’t know about the whores back East,” I said. “But out west, miners give nuggets and gold dust to their favorite whores for safekeepin’.”

  “What if another—ah guest—enters her room and steals it?”

  “Well, that’d come under the headin’ of never steal from a whore. That man’s a goner.”

  “Mr. Love, a moment ago you informed me that some of these prostitutes are ten years old. How shall I expect to believe they could kill a grown man?”

  “Whores know a hundred ways to kill a man. Poison’s common, but so are knives, guns, customers, and other whores. Not sayin’ it’s impossible to rob a whore and live, but if a man does, he’ll always be lookin’ over his shoulder, even if he moves away.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause whores move too, from camp to camp and town to town. Their customers are mostly miners and cowboys, so everyone moves in the same circles. You steal from a whore in Laramie, she’ll find you in Medicine Bow, or Bitter Creek.”

  “It appears you know quite a lot about these sorts of women.”

  I shook my head. “Ma’am, I don’t know a lot about any sorts of women.”

  She enjoyed a short laugh. Then said, “Apart from stealing, is there anything else I should know?”

  “Whores’ dresses have pockets that work from the inside. They keep daggers and derringers and vials of poison in ’em. You don’t want to strike a whore, because some are ill-tempered, and all are tougher than they look.”

  Phoebe seemed amused. “Anything else?”

  “They fight dirty.”

  She laughed again. “I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever find myself in a boxing match with a prostitute.”

  I nodded. “In general, it ain’t wise to mess with whores.”

  “I can assure you I won’t ‘mess’ with them, as you put it. My interest is strictly peaceful coexistence for the duration of the trip.”

  I stared at her blankly.

  She said, “I want us all to get along.”

  “We’ll get along when we have to,” I said.

  “Well, why wouldn’t we?”

  “They can be a sharp-tongued lot.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You don’t cotton to cussin’.”

  “I make no secret of my stance on profanity.”

  “Well ma’am, whores can cuss to make me blush.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. And you’ll be wise to pretend you can’t hear ’em.”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “If they know it bothers you, they’ll do it twice as much.”

  Phoebe frowned. “They sound like an antagonistic lot.”

  “Don’t know what that means,” I said. “But it ain’t always good to mix whores with proper women.”

  “Why not?”

  I struggled to put my thoughts into words. “There are
certain types of behavior you consider improper and unladylike.”

  “Of course. What of it?”

  “Well, them things don’t affect whores the same way.”

  Phoebe looked uneasy, but spoke no more on the subject.

  11.

  I had to produce my gun in a quick fashion to the livery man for sellin’ Gentry a lame horse.

  “That were a legal transaction,” he said. “You can’t just come in here and threaten to shoot me!”

  Gentry stood slightly behind me, holdin’ her new horse by the lead attached to its halter. I cocked the hammer on my Colt.

  “You wouldn’t!” he said.

  “I never pull my weapon,” I said. “Less I intend to use it.”

  “What about the Sheriff?”

  “Hollis’ll shoot you too, if I happen to miss.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t sell a lame horse to a lady,” I said. “Specially one that’s travelin’ the Ozarks.”

  “A lady?” He relaxed a bit, pointed at Gentry. “She ain’t no lady, Mr. Love. Why, that’s little Gentry from Shingles. She’s a whore.”

  I’d had enough. “Defend yourself or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  He tensed up again. “There’s witnesses,” he said.

  He meant his wife and the kid who stacks his hay. They were standin’ frozen where they’d stood when I first entered the livery. Neither had spoken. I figured the boy hoped I wouldn’t shoot his boss and the wife hoped I would.

  “Your choice,” I said, evenly.

  He looked at his wife and hay stacker. “I’ll give her a different horse.”

  “And five dollars extra.”

  His face turned red.

  “It’s all right, Emmett,” Gentry said. “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “She’s a whore!” he said, spittin’ the word at me.

  I cuffed him with the back of my gloved hand, and the rawhide ridges on it sliced his cheek. A line of blood formed. He touched it with his palm and stared at it.

  “You got no right,” he said.

  “Five dollars,” I repeated. “And a true horse. And an apology.”

  He was mad as a hornet, but he replaced her horse and gave Gentry the five dollars. I didn’t move, nor holster my gun. It took him a minute to realize what I was waitin’ for.

  Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Love.”

  “The apology ain’t for me,” I said. “It’s for Gentry.”

  “I ain’t apologizin’ to no whore,” he said. “Go ahead and shoot me, and fuck you both!”

  “You will apologize, or Gentry and your missus’ll have a little chat about you right here and now.”

  He glared at Gentry like his eyes were deadly weapons.

  “I apologize, Miss,” he said.

  Gentry walked over to him. The look on her face said she was sorry for what she’d put him through. But then she kicked his nuts with her steel-toed boot, and he crumpled to his knees in agony. I thought she might kick him again, but he vomited, and she backed off. Gentry looked at his wife, and said, “If that’ll keep him off you a week, I reckon’ I done you a favor.”

  The wife spit the ground in Gentry’s direction, and we left with the new horse.

  12.

  We slipped out of town at four a.m., after remindin’ everyone we’d be leavin’ six hours later. That way the livery man and his friends—and Billy Shingles and his friends—wouldn’t be waitin’ outside of town to ambush us.

  We rode single file with me in front, Phoebe second. Six of the whores shared the next three horses, followed by Scarlett, who rode a mule. Bringin’ up the rear was Ira Glass, the tall, lanky kid who tried to keep me from enterin’ Shingles Dance Hall a few nights earlier.

  The women wore buckskin breeches, and cotton shirts with leather jackets in different shades of brown. Scarlett wore a vest under her coat to help flatten her chest. We all had on cowboy hats, except Ira, who sported a bowler with a dome crown, leather sweatband, and ribbon trim. To Phoebe I muttered, “That type a’hat would look good on a chief’s lodge pole.”

  The six mile point of our journey put us a short distance from a bend of the Gasconade, where I expected to find five stones by the side of the trail. But there were only four, which gave me pause until I figured what was up.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’ll stop here and rest the horses a mite.”

  “Can we eat now?” Emma said.

  “Sit tight. I’ll fetch somethin’.”

  “What should I do?” Ira said.

  “Build us a fire and keep an eye on the ladies. I’ll be back directly.”

  As the women dismounted, I steered Major through a thicket toward the place Shrug and I like to fish. This part of the river has so many twists and turns, it takes fourteen miles by water to cover three miles by land. When I got there, I found ten perch hangin’ from a tree branch.

  I stopped and waited.

  When the rock exploded against a tree three feet from my head I didn’t even flinch.

  “Hey, Shrug,” I said.

  He popped out from behind a tree, scamperin’ low and crablike, pointin’ and grinnin’ at me. Then he pointed at Major.

  “We’re both used to the rocks,” I said.

  Shrug nodded.

  I dismounted, and tied Major’s rein to a low bush so he could graze. Shrug moved toward Major, lifted one of his back legs, and removed a pebble from his hoof. Then he gave me a look that said I should a’ known about the pebble.

  “Kiss my ass,” I said. Then added, “Thanks.”

  He looked at my saddle bags.

  “Left side,” I said.

  He grinned like a kid with candy and reached into the saddle bag. When he found the bottle of bourbon his smile got bigger.

  “That’s genuine Kentucky bourbon,” I said. “All the way from Louisville.”

  Shrug cocked his head.

  I said, “The Mountain View Hotel gets it shipped by rail twice a month.”

  He nodded approvingly.

  “Hell of an age we live in, ain’t it?”

  He shrugged.

  It’s yours,” I said. “Enjoy.”

  Shrug worked the cork out and took a pull. He smiled broadly, fell on his back, and kicked his legs in the air. Shrug loves his whiskey. He came up grinnin’ and took another pull.

  “Go easy, friend,” I said. “It’s smooth goin’ down, but it will flat kick your ass.”

  He took another pull and pointed at the fish.

  “That’s ten perch,” I said. “You’re not joinin’ us for breakfast?”

  He shook his head and kissed his bottle of bourbon.

  I pointed at the saddle bags.

  “There’s a leather pouch in there, with matches in a wax rag, and a couple blocks of salt. Got some salt pork, too, and chitlins.”

  His eyes grew big.

  “Yup, chitlins. Can you believe it?”

  Shrug pretended to swoon. He pulled the saddle bag off Major and dug out his prizes. Shrug don’t have much use for money, but I’d put a few gold and silver coins in his pouch anyway.

  “Anythin’ else I can do for you?” I said.

  He sniffed the air.

  I laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He made a curvy motion with his hands. Then closed his eyes and kissed the air.

  “Monique. She’s French.”

  He gave me a questionin’ look. I said, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Shrug pretended to pout. I laughed.

  “Maybe Scarlett,” I said.

  He cocked his head.

  “Big gal in the back. She’s got a good heart.”

  He put his hands out in front of him and grinned.

  “Yeah, they’re huge all right!”

  His expression turned sad. He circled his hand in front of his face.

  “Gentry,” I said. “I’m partial to her.”

  He cocked his head again.

  I
said, “Her face don’t bother me. She’s got grit. I like that in a woman.”

  Shrug raised his eyebrows.

  “It’ll be up to her,” I said. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  He put the saddle bags back on Major, then picked up his new pouch, tied it to his belt, grabbed his bottle, and scampered off into the bushes. When I got back to camp with the fish, only Phoebe had a clue as to how I’d come by ’em, and she kept it to herself. Ira, in particular, was mystified.

  “What kind a’ bait did you use?”

  “Words.”

  “What?”

  “I talked ’em out of the river and told ’em to lay still on the bank while I strung ’em up.”

  Gentry giggled. Mary rolled her eyes.

  “No one can talk to fish,” Ira said.

  “My friend Rose can speak to all species of fish,” I said, while filletin’ Shrug’s catch. “But I only speak perch and catfish.”

  After breakfast we followed the stones to Limestone Pass, where the ridin’ turned slow and treacherous. The women in the middle had to alternate ridin’ and walkin’ down the steep trail that took us to the base of Skull Mountain. Along the way, I pointed out a row of caves to Phoebe.

  “See them caves?” I said. “There’s more than fifteen hundred of ’em in this county, and half belong to bears. You were damn lucky to find an empty one.”

  She raised an eyebrow at my curse, but let it slide.

  At the base of Skull Mountain, we found a stream to water our horses and fill our canteens. With that done, I said, “Ladies, this is a good place to relieve yourselves. Pair up and find a bush if you want, but don’t go more than fifty feet in any direction.”

  Ira and I pissed on the far side of our horses, so as not to offend Phoebe, but the whores shucked their drawers, squatted, and pissed right where they stood. I could tell Phoebe was workin’ hard to keep the emotions off her face. Scarlett saw it, too. After pissin’, she moved slowly toward Phoebe.

  “I’ll go with you to the bushes, Ma’am, if you care to.”

  Phoebe hesitated a moment, then said, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”