him.
The woman got off the train in the morning carrying a big carpetbag, and walked slowly up the main street and into Café Paris, where Cole and I were having breakfast. I’d never been to Paris, but I’d read about it, and I was pretty sure there were no cafés there like this one. One of the Chinamen who cooked there kept some chickens, so now and then they had some eggs on the menu. But today, like a lot of days, we were eating pinto beans and fried salt pork along with coffee and some sourdough biscuits. The biscuits were pretty tasty. The woman sat at a table near us and looked at the menu for a long time and finally ordered coffee and a biscuit.
“No sell,” the Chinaboy said.
“But they’re on the menu,” she said.
“With breakfast.”
“But all I want is a biscuit.”
“No sell.”
Cole was wiping his plate with half a biscuit.
Without looking up, he said, “Chin, sell her a biscuit.”
The Chinaboy looked at Cole for a moment, outraged at the impropriety of it.
“Boss say…”
“Sell her a biscuit,” Cole said again and looked up from his plate. The Chinaboy looked quickly away from Cole and went and brought the woman coffee and two biscuits on a plate. He added a pitcher of sorghum, to show that there was no ill will. The woman gave him twenty-five cents and looked across at Cole.
“Thank you,” she said.
Cole smiled at her.
“It was my pleasure,” he said.
She was a little travel-worn, but still good-looking, with a strong young body that her dress didn’t hide. I could see her looking at the star on Cole’s chest.
“Are you the sheriff here?” she said.
“City marshal,” Cole said. “Virgil Cole. Big blond fella here is my deputy, Everett Hitch.”
“How do you do,” she said. “Could you direct me to a clean, inexpensive hotel?”
“We only got one,” Cole said.
“Is it expensive?”
“Probably more than it should be, there being no other choices.”
“I only have a dollar,” she said.
Cole nodded.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Mrs. French,” she said. “Allison French.”
“You have a husband, Mrs. French.”
“He died.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Cole said. “You do any kind of work.”
“I play the organ,” she said. “And the piano.”
“You’re not a whore.”
“Don’t be crude,” she said. “No, I am not what you said.”
“No need fluffing your feathers about it,” Cole said. “Don’t see a lot of single women here that ain’t whores.”
“Well, I’m one.”
“Sprightly thing,” Cole said to me.
I nodded. Cole was always improving himself, reading books, making lists of words, which he usually misused slightly.
“Will the hotel let me stay for a dollar?” Mrs. French said.
Cole grinned.
“For as long as you’d like, Mrs. French.”
She frowned.
“How can that be?” she said.
“Might hire you to play the piano, too,” Cole said. “You think so, Everett?”
“I do,” I said.
“When you finish your breakfast,” Cole said, “Everett here will escort you down and help you get settled.”
“Be my pleasure,” I said.
She finished her biscuit and slipped the other one into her carpetbag. Then she smiled and stood.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Cole, for your kindness.”
“No trouble at all, Mrs. French,” he said. “Everett, you will speak with Mr. Raines.”
“I will.”
Cole stood. Like all his movements, he seemed to go from sitting to standing without effort.
“Good,” Cole said. “I hope to see you again, Mrs. French.”
“Yes, Mr. Cole, that would be nice.”
I picked up her carpetbag, and we walked down Main Street toward the hotel.
“You have freckles,” Mrs. French said. “Sandy hair and freckles.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I think that’s so cute in a man.”
“Me, too,” I said.
I was more aware than I had been of the way her body moved under her skirts.
“How can Mr. Cole be so sure that they will give me a room,” she said as we walked along the plank sidewalk.
I smiled. “Because I’m going to tell the man who owns the place that Mr. Cole wants them to.”
“Does Mr. Cole always get what he wants?” she said.
“Pretty much,” I said.
Mrs. French played the piano very badly, but she played loud, and she was pretty and she smiled nice and wore dresses with a low neck and generated considerable heat and mostly nobody noticed. During her break she came over and sat at a table with me. I was drinking coffee.
I said, “Care for a drink, Mrs. French?”
“No, but I’ll have some coffee with you,” she said. “And, please, call me Allie.”
I nodded at Tilda and she came over with coffee for Allie, and a second cup for me.
“Have you known Mr. Cole for long, Mr. Hitch?”
“Call me Everett, and I’m pretty sure you should call Mr. Cole Virgil.”
She smiled and looked down. The gesture looked practiced. Probably was.
“Have you known Virgil long, Everett?” she said.
“Yes.”
“And have you and he always been marshals here?”
“No. We just arrived couple weeks ago,” I said.
“Where were you before?”
