'Well…' The proprietor measured a gown against his own squatty body; shook his head dubiously. 'I dunno about the rags, but the luggage ain't bad. Call it thirty?'
'Call it forty.'
'Call me Santy Claus,' said the proprietor, and he counted out the forty.
And, meanwhile, in a stall of the women's restroom, Emma Allerton, alias Anne Anderson, stood naked from the waist up. Her shoulders thrown back, her abundant bosom rising and falling with the unaccustomed pleasure of deep breathing.
Christ, what a relief! What a relief to get out of that harness for a while and straighten up!
She stretched luxuriously, sucking her stomach in and out, pulling her chin in for a critical glance at her nakedness. _Bet I know what you'd like to have, she told it. And her groin prickled at the thought._ Then, her gaze fell on her right breast, at the rough furrow of teeth marks where once had been the nipple. And she cursed in silent fury.
The horny old bastard! Every time she saw that bub she got mad all over. Goddamn him! Goddamn her sister!
It was really Sis's fault, the overbearing slut! Sis should have given the guy the hatchet long before. But she'd been having too much fun in the next room, so Emma-Annie had got her tit chomped.
A hell of a sister, Sis was. But she'd paid for it, by Jesus. Oh, but she'd paid for it! Rather, Little Sis had paid herself, and just in time, too, from what she'd heard. The news hadn't hit the papers yet, but the grapevine had it that the law had either grabbed Sis or was just about to do it.
Anne patted the thick money belt which cinched her waist, eyes bright with malice as she thought of her sister. Absently, she allowed a hand to stray over the mutilated breast, and in her mind it became another's hand, and her expression softened dreamily.
Damn, it would be nice after all these weeks. Six weeks of running, crossing and crisscrossing the Midwest and Southwest, leaving a trail that was no trail, and then finally swinging down into the Territory. Six weeks of going around with her head ducked and her chest caved in, and looking like something the cat dug up.
No sport in all that time. And none that was really worth having before then. Sis had always taken on the good-looking guys, and forced the clodhoppers on her. Not once had she ever gotten a crack at a guy even half as cute and handsome as Captain Crittenden.
He remained in her mind as she reluctantly regarbed herself. Thinking what a damned shame it was that things were as bad as they were.
If she hadn't claimed to be married, practically a new bride –
If he hadn't just lost his wife –
With a regretful little shake of her head, she finished dressing. She started to leave the stall, then sat down on the stool and crossed one leg over the other. Her shoes were high-topped and laced, in the style of the day. With a sharp twist of her hand, she removed the heel of one of them.
It was hollow, and a tiny Derringer nestled within it. Reassured, she replaced the heel, smoothed out her skirt and left the stall. And once again her mind moved from business to pleasure.
Captain Crittenden.
Was it really as unthinkable as it seemed?
He was kind of dumb, in a cute way, and he would be vain like all men. So why shouldn't he suddenly find himself in the saddle, and why shouldn't she suddenly find herself playing horsie, without either of them – heaven forbid! – ever, ever meaning for it to happen?
Smiling, he came swiftly toward her as she emerged from the restroom. Guiding her out of the station, he complimented her on her appearance, giving her various little pats and squeezes – amiably innocent actions which unerringly detected the money belt. With the same ostensible inadvertence, she nudged him with a breast and rubbed a buttock against his thigh.
Arm in arm, Anne-Emma, professional murderess, and Critch-Captain Crittenden, arch scoundrel, moved companionably toward their date with destiny.
____________________
*Chapter Three*
In their bedroom at the King's Junction Hotel (which was also the King ranchhouse) Old Ike's oldest son, Boz, grabbed the firm round breast of his Apache wife, Joshie – old Tepaha's grand-daughter – and twisted it cruelly. Twisting it harder and harder, gritting threats to rip it off of her. And the girl still remained coldly stoical. Silent, motionless; refusing to recognize the torture of her husband's presence by even the smallest moan or movement.
At last, he desisted, shifting from brutality to a kind of argumentative pleading. Making a feeble attempt at caressing her in the pre-dawn darkness.
'Aah, c'm on now, Joshie. Why'nt you admit it, huh? You warned him, didn't you? You told ol' Arlie that I was trying to get him.'
'Hah!' the girl spat out the word. 'I your squaw. You think I tell on sonabitch husband?'
'Well, how did he find out then, huh? How'd he figger it out if you didn't tell him?'