“A nigger trick!” someone howled.

  The fight was on. Bull-mad, Harry made to draw his Bowie knife. But Jake fell on him, aiming high and wide. It was savagery, pure and simple. Harry was throwing bottles, furniture, crockery, just to get away from him. The shocked cries rose and fell like waves, but the blood was dripping, dripping.

  “You’re missin’ it,” said Billie excitedly. “Get your face out of your skirts!”

  I couldn’t see Jake’s face. When the knife thrust up to gut him, Jake was already several steps away. He was holding his side. Once more the razor flew out, taking Harry in the ear. The big man’s cries became a whine. Jake fell back to circle him.

  “He’ll kill him,” said Billie.

  Harry, his face a mask of red, the carved lines criss-crossing his cheeks and throat, panted like a cornered animal.

  “Where’s my money?” Jake roared.

  At that moment the Sheriff broke in, the Red Rooster’s owner cringing behind him. He fired into the air.

  The apocalyptic sound rattled our bones. Jake was distracted; Dick Harry charged, the knife underhand and ready to plunge. But Shortie was faster. He brought the chair crashing over Harry’s back. The Sheriff fired again. Harry on the ground, Jake bent quickly and began to go through his pockets.

  The Sheriff pushed the crowd aside and walked, duck-footed, into the room.

  “What the blue sam hell is goin’ on here?”

  Jake was stuffing money into his trousers. Shortie stepped in front of him, his hands raised towards the Sheriff.

  “Dick Harry swung first,” Shortie said.

  Like seagulls the room took up the cry. “He did! He swung on the man!”

  Jake had stuffed the last of the money and some change into his pocket. Now I was on my feet, edging my way towards him.

  “Jake McCoy,” the Sheriff growled. “I told you what I’d do if you started trouble in my town again.”

  “No trouble, Sir,” said Jake. “I didn’t even kill him.”

  The Sheriff stamped over to Harry. He nudged the massive man’s ribs with his boot. Harry moaned like a beached whale, turning over. The Sheriff cringed.

  “You carved his fuckin’ face up.”

  “Harry started it,” the cowboys put in. The miners were silent. They didn’t like Harry, but he was still their bully, and Jake a foreigner.

  “Somebody get him up,” ordered the Sheriff. Hands came to lift the enormous Harry into a chair. Someone went for the pharmacist.

  The Sheriff paced the room. His eye fell quizzically on me, but he turned back to Jake.

  “So let’s get this straight,” the Sheriff said. “Harry swung first?”

  “He sure did,” said the indignant cowboys.

  “That the way of it, McCoy? Why’d he swing at you?”

  “ ‘Cause he’s a greasy son of a bitch,” said Jake, drawing nervous laughter from the room.

  Jake was gripping his waist with one hand, bracing himself up on the counter with the other. Blood flowered between his fingers where he clutched his shirt. But he was breathing calmly. The bloody razor lay open on the bar counter.

  “He stole the boy’s money,” the old man put in.

  “Stole?”

  “When I was drunk,” spat Jake. “Ask anybody here.”

  The room was frozen. I could see the miners warring with their urge to protect Harry and save themselves from future torture, and to see Harry put in his place once and for all. The Sheriff stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at Jake. His mouth worked.

  “Step outside with me, McCoy.”

  Jake staggered outside. The rest of the bar began to slowly move into life. A few minutes later the pharmacist arrived to tend to Harry. Billie and the other whores picked up the battered furniture.

  “Everybody clear out,” said the shaken owner. “Help clean this blood up or clear off.”

  The miners tramped off, along with most of the cowboys, to find somewhere else to drink and talk about the fight. The owner brought out a bucket of turpentine and water. The girls set to scrubbing Harry’s blood off the floor and tables. I took my chance and slipped upstairs.

  The window of Jake’s room opened out to the street. If I looked down and across I could see him arguing with the Sheriff. A bribe was exchanged. Then the Sheriff tipped his hat and swung off down the road. Jake leaned back against the front of the building for a moment. His hat covered his eyes. The stain in his shirt, like a blooming rose, had grown larger.

  “Jake,” I called.

  He looked up, tipping back his hat. I motioned to him.

  Slowly, he dragged himself inside. A minute later I heard his steps on the stair, and he came into the room.

  He hung his hat up, set the razor down, collapsed in the chair, and tilted his chin back.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. But there was laughter in his voice.

  I was up and fluttering around him. “Did he get you bad? Are you hurt?”

  “Nicked me, is all. That fuckin’ Sheriff. Greedy bastard wanted half my fucking money.”

  Lightly, I said, “You use that language in front of a woman?”

  “Pardon,” he drawled sarcastically.

  I hovered back. He looked like he was in some pain, and trying not to let it on. That wouldn’t do.

  “Let me see where you’re hurt.”

  “I said it ain’t that bad. Leave me be.”

  He fished in his pockets. Bills and coins spilled out, rolling across the floor. I hurried to pick them up.

  “Will you count that for me?”

  Aloud I counted twenty dollars.

  “He had that much on him?” I marvelled. “Holy smokes.”

  “Even when she cusses,” Jake muttered. “Twenty dollars. I could do a lot with twenty dollars.”

  I thought of Papa in jail, and swallowed. If only I had a thousand more of that.

  “How much did he take off of you in the first place?” I asked.

  “Five dollars, I think.”

  “You picked a fight for five dollars?!”

  “Guess I should have just let him run off with my money, huh? And be stuck here in the ass end of nowhere for the next five months.”

  Groaning, he straightened up. The blood on his shirt became darker. There was quite a lot of it now. It had run into his trousers.

  If Jake thought he could just bleed to death and leave me trapped here, he was sore mistaken. I stepped forward and unhooked the shirt buttons under his chin. He didn’t stop me. Carefully I moved down, down, exposing his heaving chest.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You’re gonna bleed to death,” I snapped. “How you plan on ridin’ a horse like that?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Stand up let me get this off you.”

  “We better get goin’,” he said. “Harry’s got friends about as mean as he is.”

  “You can’t sit a horse with a hole in your side.”

  “I’ll have to.”

  “Shortie can wait.”

  “No, he can’t. He’s got a bag of mail bringing down from Arizona. Folks will be expectin’ the letters.”

  He was awfully pale. I thanked God for the light still coming in through the window, though it was nearing five. Jake let me peel the shirt of his chest. Blood poured from the hole, though he was right- it was really just a nick. A man could survive that.

  “I need to dress it.”

  “Don’t come at me with no needle,” he warned.

  I wadded his shirt and pushed it into the wound. He hissed through his teeth.

  “Stay here,” I ordered. “You stubborn fool.”

  My aunt had a medicine kit at her house that she used to drain my uncle’s leg when it got gouty. She had bandages, wash, little packets of herbs. I knew exactly where she kept it and exactly what I would need. But how to get there?

  No, I couldn’t go back. I’d just have to make do with what was available.

  Needle and thread. Liquor.

  I left the room and called for Billie. Somehow she got exactly what I needed. When I took it back to the room she followed me and took a seat on the mattress to watch. I cleaned up the hole and the scratches on Jake’s face, dabbed some ointment on his bruise, and wound a bandage around the hurt parts. Jake stayed perfectly still. I thought, if he’d had much blood left in him, he’d be blushing the whole time.

  “I ain’t a circus act,” he finally snapped at Billie.

  Giggling, she kicked up off the bed. “Alright, I’m gone. But don’t get no more blood on the floor. It’ll cost you.”

  She switched out the room.

  “Does she own the place?” I wondered.

  “No idea,” grunted Jake. “Rumor is she’s the owner’s wife, but she’s so ugly he won’t admit it. Sakes, I feel like a pincushion.”

  He made to stand, and sat right back down with a grunt. Thought I hadn’t noticed.

  “You’re sweating,” I observed.

  “It’s hot as the devil in here.”

  He tried to stand again. This time I got him under his elbow and helped him. He staggered the last three steps to the bed, and collapsed in it.

  “I’m fine,” he mumbled. “I just tend to bleed a lot. Stop fussin’.”

  “I’m not.”

  He pulled his hat down over his eyes. His breathing labored in bursts; he was trying to control it. He didn’t offer me a thank you. Oh well. He still had his boots on, and I took them off. His socks needed darning. And washing, too.

  I turned the heavy boot over in my hand. Blood was crusted on the heel and had made patterns in the leather. Memories of the fight were already fading, though it had happened only an hour ago. I remembered a man had fainted at the sight of the blood.

  Strangely, it it didn’t bother me. Quite the opposite. I found it disgustingly fascinating, as I had the hole in Jake’s side, and the way the skin puckered together when I sewed it back up. I recalled Mama saying I would have made a great nurse. A pity I hadn’t had the guts to go after it.

  Jake McCoy had more guts than was good for him.

  He had fought like a cat. Ferocious, quick, evasive. And he’d won. Where had he learned to do that? As far as I knew Papa didn’t encourage fighting among his men. Papa himself didn’t know a thing about razor-fighting, either.

  There was a lot I didn’t know about Jake McCoy.

  There was a lot I didn’t know about everything.

  I fell asleep in the chair. Late into the night, before the hours of dawn, a loud knocking woke us both. It rattled the whole room.

  I jolted upright. Somehow, though the room was dark, I sensed Jake awake too.

  Jake whispered, “Don’t answer it, Minnie.”

  “It’s Harry,” I whispered back, horrified. “What do we do?”

  “My gunbelt. Go to the wall, where it’s hangin’.”

  I felt my way across the room. The knocking stopped. My fingers touched on cool leather. I brought the belt across to Jake.

  “Can you load it?” I asked fearfully.

  Sounds from outside; irritated whispers; then a loud exclamation and Billie cussing. The footsteps pounded away. We waited for long minutes in the dark, but the silence stayed behind.

  “Who was that?” I squeaked.

  “Could be anybody,” Jake grunted. “Christ, I’m thirsty. There any water left in there?”

  I fumbled for the little washstand. The pitcher was empty.

  “No,” I said.

  A pause. Jake said, his voice hoarse and dry, “Well, can you go get some?”

  There was no one in the hallway but Billie. I think the woman never slept. She was smoking still, and picking a sore on her knee.

  “What you want?” she grumbled.

  “Who was that at our door?”

  She shrugged. “Said his name was Miller.”

  I felt for the banister. Gripped it hard. “What did he want?”

  She winked at me. “What they all want. A whore.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “I got rid of him.”

  I hurried outside. Pumped the water hard into the pitcher. When I returned Billie was still there, scratching her knee.

  “You two better get a move on,” she said. “Harry won’t wait long to make him pay.”

  I looked at her, tired and old and shriveled, like a fruit about to drop off the vine. She coughed into a fist. Her cigarette made a little fire in the dark hallway. I thought of a cowboy’s flame across a mile of night-washed prairie. Lonely. If I didn’t get home soon, if I didn’t save Jake, I might have to do what she did. I’d end up with the same look in my eye.

  “We won’t,” I said, suddenly terrified of her.

  “Take this.”

  She thrust a jug of beer into my hands.

  I hurried back to the room.

  “Minnie?” Jake called. The relief in his voice was plain.

  “I’m here.”

  I set the beer down and poured him some water, and held up his head while he drank.

  “More,” he said hoarsely.

  “You feelin’ alright?”

  “Like death warmed over. It’s so cold.”

  Cold? I was sweating through my dress. As I set down the pitcher Jake reached for my arm.

  “You slept in the chair.”

  I said, “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “To hell with that,” he murmured. “I’m cold and you got to warm me. Get in.”

  My eyes fell on the jug of beer still sitting on the nightstand. I walked over, poured myself a sloshing glass, and drained it.

  “You’ll get drunk off that,” said Jake. “That ain’t no piss-water.”

  But he was drunk too, wasn’t he? He threw back the thin sheet. I hesitated.

  “I won’t force myself on you,” he said. “Can hardly lift my head. Hurry up. And take that damn dress off.”

  I remembered how hot his skin had been, that night in the barn. The smoothness of his collarbone interrupted by a nest of curly hair in the center of his chest, spreading out across his nipples, weaving down to his navel. To press myself against it. Oh God.

  Without thinking I whispered, “I’m a good girl.”

  “Who cares?” Jake grumbled.

  I fumbled with the stays. The heavy skirts tumbled down to my ankles. Cool night air swept over me, riffling the thin shift. The feeling was shockingly intense. I propped the window open.

  Then I peeled back the sheet and crawled in. The smell of Jake’s sweat, surprisingly, was faint but rather nice. He grunted and raised his arm; my head came to pillow naturally on his bare chest.

  “Are you feelin’ alright?” I whispered nervously. I could pretend this was just clinical, me trying to help a sick patient, and not something more. The heat in my face, breasts, and belly called me a liar for that.

  “I’m fine now,” said Jake. He rolled over on his good side with a grunt. “He didn’t stick me too bad. It bled a little I think, but it’s fine. It’s just a bad ache.”

  He was wrapped around me. Taking in my warmth. He’d been cold, it was natural. I had to help him get better. His nose nuzzled the skin at my throat. Was that natural, too?

  “You’re a good girl?” he whispered.

  “I am. I am.”

  “Minnie Sampson.” His breath was cool against my ear. “Too smart for her own good. Scared of her own shadow. Temptin’ as the devil but doesn’t even know it.”

  The hot, secret place between my thighs seemed to clench. Jake’s hands bunched the fabric of my shift, but didn’t lift it. If he did I didn’t know what I would do. Fight him? Slap him? Or give in, and find out if all I imagined was true?

  “You were a virgin last time we touched,” he said. “Are you still?”

  “Yes.”

  His hand began to bunch up my skirts. Cool air met the bare flesh of my buttocks, now ground against his groin. He molded the shape of them in his hand. I could feel his cock- that was what Billie had called it- hard against me. Now I knew what he could do with it.