She packed one spare blouse, a comb, and $6 into a worn leather bag. Outside, the Kansas wind drove dust between the buildings. Clara tried the prairie house first. Mrs. Bell opened the door only wide enough to show half her face.
We have no rooms. The sign says three. It has not been changed. The door closed. At the church boarding rooms, Reverend Hail studied Clara's bag, then the dark saloon behind her.
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his Bible. Perhaps Wichita would suit you better. Clara nodded once and walked away before his wife pulled the curtain. At sunset, she sat beside the freight office with her bag between her boots. The final westbound wagon had already gone.
Frost would come before morning. She had no horse, no bed, and no person left willing to speak her name in daylight. Across the street, Silas Boon watched her through the jail window. He raised one finger and slowly drew it across his throat. Clara stood, but there was nowhere to walk that did not leave her alone.
A steady tread sounded along the boardwalk. Caleb stopped several feet away. In the fading light, a fresh cut crossed his cheek. He looked at her bag, then toward the jail window. Boon had already stepped back into darkness.
"You cannot stay here tonight," Caleb said. I noticed my house has a spare room. Her chin lifted. "And what price comes with it? " His jaw shifted once. He did not step closer.
"No price. " "There is always one. " "Then keep your door locked. " He turned toward the north road, took three steps, and stopped. "Come home and eat supper, Clara. Tomorrow can argue for itself. " She stared at his back. Inside her dress, the hidden paper scratched against her ankle. Across the street, movement returned behind the jail window.
Clara picked up her bag. Before she could reach Caleb, a rifle cracked from the rooftop above them. The bullet tore through the freight office post where Clara's head had been. Caleb struck her sideways, taking them both behind a rain barrel. Wood splinters fell across his shoulders.
He drew his revolver before his knees touched the ground and fired toward the roof. A dark figure vanished behind the chimney. "Are you hit? " he asked. Clara touched her ribs. Her throat, then shook her head.
Caleb's left hand was bleeding. A splinter had cut across his palm, but he barely looked at it. His eyes moved to the jail. Silas Boon was gone from the window. They crossed the street under cover of a wagon.