“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.