XI. These things we cannot change.
[ Life is short, but sweet for certain...]
The door to her apartment slammed shut behind her.
She had run home the instant she was clear of the throng, hurrying to gather her things.
Rust-colored leather saddlebags were yanked free from the bottom of her wardrobe and thrown on her bed. She pooled her effects together beside them, in her rush to gather everything together.
She was kneeling on the floor beside her bed, retrieving from underneath the bag she had used to carry all she had left in the world on her exodus from Green Lake, when she heard footsteps down the hall.
She went still.
Muffled voices joined the cacophony.
Abandoning her current project, she leaped to her feet and hurried for her front door, pressing her ear to the knotty wood.
"...she in?"
"Land...says up one floor...she..."
(Footfalls, climbing stairs.)
"Shit."
She quickly turned the locks on her door and ran back for her bedroom.
That bag was still laying empty on the floor, halfway under her bed. Her wardrobe full. Dresser drawers untouched. A pile of books and letters and heirlooms and treasures laying next to those saddlebags on her bed.
She wasn't going to make it out in time. Not with everything.
(She could hear banging on her neighbor's door.)
She grabbed her brass makeup kit and stuffed it into a saddlebag. Then she took that portrait of her mother and father-her family-and threw it to the floor. The glass shattered, and, tossing the fine frame aside, she retrieved the photo and folded it, stuffing it into the bag as well.
(Now they were banging on her door.)
"Shit!"
She threw the bags over her shoulder and grabbed the leather journal Doc had given her. She kept her most precious things inside the worn pages, including what little money she had. Running to her wardrobe, she reached an arm between the old piece of furniture and the wall, and retrieved the '73 Winchester rifle that had belonged to her father.
She hurried into the living room.
BAM
"Katherine!"
BAM BAM
"Come on out, now!"
She dropped everything on the floor and unlatched her window. Opening it, she stuck her head outside and peered out onto the street below.
She didn't see a soul.
CRACK
She gasped as wood splintered and moaned from across the room. The door held true, but it wouldn't hold much longer.
She picked up the saddlebags, and then reached for the journal. Her money, and that Polaroid picture of Doc and Ben, fell out from among the pages as she lifted it, and the breeze from the open window scattered them across the floor.
She cursed again, frantically reaching for a wad of cash-
CRACK
She stuffed the book and the Polaroid and a few small bills inside her bags, and abandoned the rest.
Climbing out the window, she set her feet down on the rickety fire escape. Her heart was turning cartwheels in her chest. She grabbed her rifle, and then made her way down the rusted iron steps.
When she reached the bottom, she ran for the stables behind the boardinghouse.
(Distantly, she could hear voices shouting from what was her third floor apartment.)
She didn't bother with a saddle, or reins, or any of the expensive bits of tack she had brought with her. She climbed onto Beaut bareback, proper skirts ripping at the seams, and clutched Beaut's mane with her free hand. She knew the horse wouldn't throw her, or hesitate.
"YAH!"
With a loud whinny, Beaut leaped into motion, riding hard out of town.
_____________________________
She wouldn't stop for the hail of bullets that ushered her out of Refugio. Neither would she pause when she passed dry food stores or tanners or tailors. She left with what was on her back, Colt on her thigh and Winchester in her hand.
It was nearly dusk when she stopped at a crumbling old mission out in the middle of nowhere, letting Beaut graze on sage and scrub in the brittle old desert. She had no leads or ties, but Kate trusted her. She wouldn't wander far.
Kate spent the night in the old adobe building, alternately kneeling at the altar and watching the fire-pocked blanket of blue night sky beyond the open roof, lord only knows how many years gone missing.
'Most things get worse before they get better.
'But.. You endure.'
She found flint and wick, and lit a single, solitary candle.
(But it, too, was not for the souls of the two men whose lives she had hours earlier snuffed out.)
When dawn broke, pink and lilac and robin's egg blue, she hauled herself up from the wooden pew she had used for a bed. It was without a wink of sleep, or the hint of a meal, that she left the mission that morning and soldiered on.
It was a week before she rode into Blanconia.
Both horse and rider looked weathered-old-and just as much dirt as poor. Kate had wandered, lost, for days before she found the road leading into town. She hadn't eaten more than what roots she could find along the way, though once she tagged herself a rabbit only to realize she had no way of cooking it.
They had lingered a few days at Blanco Creek, where Beaut could graze a little and Kate could wash her hands.
(They always felt dirty.)
But now, riding through town, she saw a mast general store. She dismounted and led Beaut to a rail, which was routine enough that she felt confident the horse would stay put without a lead to tie up. She dug her money out of the saddlebags and stepped up onto the boardwalk.
Next to the general store was a tailors, and peering inside the picture windows she saw a pair of fine, brushed twill lady's britches, and a silken abigail vest. She smoothed her hands over her spoiled dress, and caught her reflection in the glass.
Her clothes were dirty, and ripped at the hem. Her neck was caked with dust from the trail. Her hair disheveled, and her once characteristically bright, bottomless blue eyes dull and guarded. She was hungry, and tired, and uncomfortable from head to toe.
She ran her bony hands through her dirty hair a time or two in an effort to put it in some kind of order, rearranging her hair pins until she was satisfied. She rubbed her face to clear away the dirt and bring a little color to her sunken cheeks. There was nothing she could do for her ensemble, however, so it was with embarrassment that she finally turned away, and entered the general store.
Inside, she counted her money and discovered she had only enough to either buy feed for Beaut, or to buy food for herself.
She chose to feed Beaut.
She left the store feeling desperate and depressed, unsure of what to do. Her starved belly ached for food, and her horse was tired and undernourished. It would take time to earn enough to afford decent supplies, clean clothes, and food. She didn't have that luxury. At every passing man or woman, she drew back and hid her face, for fear she might be recognized.
Making her way back to her mount, she glanced across the street and noticed next to the post office stood a bank.
And it was in the reckless, devil-may-care catacombs of her desperate mind, that she formed an idea.
Kate tore open the bag of feed and held it out for Beaut, letting the horse eat half of the bag before storing the other half in one of the saddlebags. It would get Beaut through the morning, if nothing else. She pulled her brass makeup kit from the opposite end, and applied fresh powder to her cheeks, and red lipstick to her lips. She kept her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, to hide the nasty brown and green marks left on her neck from her grapple with that Pinkerton. Despite looking a little skinny, and a little awkward in her torn skirts, she was still beautiful.
She entered the tailor's shop, waiting until she had the middle-aged gentleman's attention, and then she graced him with a winning smile.
"Why hi there," she murmured, voice soft and lilting. "I was wonderin' if maybe you could help me out?"
'Call it prurience, if you must name it.
'It's always nice to tease the boys a little.'
She gave the shopkeeper a skin and bones retelling of her misfortunes without luggage or money, but in this version her stagecoach had been robbed while she was on her way to meet her husband in Albuquerque.
It took little effort to charm him into fitting those twill pants for her, along with a cotton blouse and a soft leather abigail vest-she only had to smile just so, or brush her hand across his knuckles, or bat those blue eyes at him while biting her lower lip. He asked about her husband, and she told him that he was an old boor who couldn't satisfy all of her womanly needs. His ears were crimson as he took her measurements and hemmed her new britches up, an unabashed smile permanently affixed to his face.
When her new outfit was finished, several hours later, she leaned against the counter and purred:
"Now, would you be an absolute dear and allow me to wander across the street, so's I can see about gettin' you your well-deserved money? Promise I won't wander far."
She drew an 'X' over her heart.
"Y'can even watch me out that window there, should you like."
"No ma'am," he said, swallowing hard and reaching for his handkerchief. He used it to dab at the sweat that had begun to glisten from his balding head. "You just go on ahead. I'll be right here."
"Aren't you just the sweetest thing."
It worried her, deep down, just how easy it was to lie and use this man the way that she was. It went against her breeding entirely.
But then, she was never going to be the woman her father always hoped she would be.
She brought her spoiled skirts to her horse, slipping her small gun out from between the folds of fabric. She quietly and quickly stuffed it inside her vest, and then strutted across the street.
She walked up to the teller, and grinned.
"Howdy, Sugar."
"Afternoon, ma'am," he politely replied, smiling and nodding his head.
"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to empty all ya'll's drawers back there," she said, her voice gentle and calm as she withdrew her pistol, "and give me all of your money."
It was with a great deal of calm and politeness that she robbed the Blanconia Savings Bank that evening, with three tellers, three customers, and the bank owner as witnesses thereof. She had accrued three-hundred and forty-seven dollars in a nondescript canvas sack in a matter of minutes, and she thought to herself that, just maybe, she could get used to returns such as these.
"Now, I expect ya'll to keep to our agreement," she said to the room at large, once the teller handed off the sack and joined the rest against the far wall.
She was sweet as honeycomb and patient with the terrified, but there was a cold-steel edge to her gaze that warned of poison in her bite. A fact, sadly, picked up on only after she was forced to pop the owner in the face with the butt of her gun.
"I want a five-minute head start before I see any of ya'll walkin' out of this here building, so's we can agree that 'long as you ain't makin' trouble for me, I won't make any more trouble for you. Now, I'm just gonna be right there across the street 'til I ride on out on my peaceful way, so don't be thinking no heroical thoughts. I see you step outside, and I'm gonna have to shoot you."
She cocked her gun for emphasis, startling the two women captives enough to make them gasp in alarm.
Once she was sure everyone was on the same page, she took out enough bills to pay the tailor, and left the bank.
Her gait was quick, but not overly rushed. She took the time to tie the sack to her saddlebags, and then stepped inside the tailor's and plunked down his money.
"Thank you, sweetheart," she beamed, looking and sounding just as sweet as pie. "Oh, and one more thing?"
She leaned forward and ran a finger along the back of his hand.
"How much for that hat of yours over there?"
'Calamity Jane has a hat. You should have one too, darlin'.'
.
The door to her apartment slammed shut behind her.
She had run home the instant she was clear of the throng, hurrying to gather her things.
Rust-colored leather saddlebags were yanked free from the bottom of her wardrobe and thrown on her bed. She pooled her effects together beside them, in her rush to gather everything together.
She was kneeling on the floor beside her bed, retrieving from underneath the bag she had used to carry all she had left in the world on her exodus from Green Lake, when she heard footsteps down the hall.
She went still.
Muffled voices joined the cacophony.
Abandoning her current project, she leaped to her feet and hurried for her front door, pressing her ear to the knotty wood.
"...she in?"
"Land...says up one floor...she..."
(Footfalls, climbing stairs.)
"Shit."
She quickly turned the locks on her door and ran back for her bedroom.
That bag was still laying empty on the floor, halfway under her bed. Her wardrobe full. Dresser drawers untouched. A pile of books and letters and heirlooms and treasures laying next to those saddlebags on her bed.
She wasn't going to make it out in time. Not with everything.
(She could hear banging on her neighbor's door.)
She grabbed her brass makeup kit and stuffed it into a saddlebag. Then she took that portrait of her mother and father-her family-and threw it to the floor. The glass shattered, and, tossing the fine frame aside, she retrieved the photo and folded it, stuffing it into the bag as well.
(Now they were banging on her door.)
"Shit!"
She threw the bags over her shoulder and grabbed the leather journal Doc had given her. She kept her most precious things inside the worn pages, including what little money she had. Running to her wardrobe, she reached an arm between the old piece of furniture and the wall, and retrieved the '73 Winchester rifle that had belonged to her father.
She hurried into the living room.
BAM
"Katherine!"
BAM BAM
"Come on out, now!"
She dropped everything on the floor and unlatched her window. Opening it, she stuck her head outside and peered out onto the street below.
She didn't see a soul.
CRACK
She gasped as wood splintered and moaned from across the room. The door held true, but it wouldn't hold much longer.
She picked up the saddlebags, and then reached for the journal. Her money, and that Polaroid picture of Doc and Ben, fell out from among the pages as she lifted it, and the breeze from the open window scattered them across the floor.
She cursed again, frantically reaching for a wad of cash-
CRACK
She stuffed the book and the Polaroid and a few small bills inside her bags, and abandoned the rest.
Climbing out the window, she set her feet down on the rickety fire escape. Her heart was turning cartwheels in her chest. She grabbed her rifle, and then made her way down the rusted iron steps.
When she reached the bottom, she ran for the stables behind the boardinghouse.
(Distantly, she could hear voices shouting from what was her third floor apartment.)
She didn't bother with a saddle, or reins, or any of the expensive bits of tack she had brought with her. She climbed onto Beaut bareback, proper skirts ripping at the seams, and clutched Beaut's mane with her free hand. She knew the horse wouldn't throw her, or hesitate.
"YAH!"
With a loud whinny, Beaut leaped into motion, riding hard out of town.
_____________________________
She wouldn't stop for the hail of bullets that ushered her out of Refugio. Neither would she pause when she passed dry food stores or tanners or tailors. She left with what was on her back, Colt on her thigh and Winchester in her hand.
It was nearly dusk when she stopped at a crumbling old mission out in the middle of nowhere, letting Beaut graze on sage and scrub in the brittle old desert. She had no leads or ties, but Kate trusted her. She wouldn't wander far.
Kate spent the night in the old adobe building, alternately kneeling at the altar and watching the fire-pocked blanket of blue night sky beyond the open roof, lord only knows how many years gone missing.
'Most things get worse before they get better.
'But.. You endure.'
She found flint and wick, and lit a single, solitary candle.
(But it, too, was not for the souls of the two men whose lives she had hours earlier snuffed out.)
When dawn broke, pink and lilac and robin's egg blue, she hauled herself up from the wooden pew she had used for a bed. It was without a wink of sleep, or the hint of a meal, that she left the mission that morning and soldiered on.
It was a week before she rode into Blanconia.
Both horse and rider looked weathered-old-and just as much dirt as poor. Kate had wandered, lost, for days before she found the road leading into town. She hadn't eaten more than what roots she could find along the way, though once she tagged herself a rabbit only to realize she had no way of cooking it.
They had lingered a few days at Blanco Creek, where Beaut could graze a little and Kate could wash her hands.
(They always felt dirty.)
But now, riding through town, she saw a mast general store. She dismounted and led Beaut to a rail, which was routine enough that she felt confident the horse would stay put without a lead to tie up. She dug her money out of the saddlebags and stepped up onto the boardwalk.
Next to the general store was a tailors, and peering inside the picture windows she saw a pair of fine, brushed twill lady's britches, and a silken abigail vest. She smoothed her hands over her spoiled dress, and caught her reflection in the glass.
Her clothes were dirty, and ripped at the hem. Her neck was caked with dust from the trail. Her hair disheveled, and her once characteristically bright, bottomless blue eyes dull and guarded. She was hungry, and tired, and uncomfortable from head to toe.
She ran her bony hands through her dirty hair a time or two in an effort to put it in some kind of order, rearranging her hair pins until she was satisfied. She rubbed her face to clear away the dirt and bring a little color to her sunken cheeks. There was nothing she could do for her ensemble, however, so it was with embarrassment that she finally turned away, and entered the general store.
Inside, she counted her money and discovered she had only enough to either buy feed for Beaut, or to buy food for herself.
She chose to feed Beaut.
She left the store feeling desperate and depressed, unsure of what to do. Her starved belly ached for food, and her horse was tired and undernourished. It would take time to earn enough to afford decent supplies, clean clothes, and food. She didn't have that luxury. At every passing man or woman, she drew back and hid her face, for fear she might be recognized.
Making her way back to her mount, she glanced across the street and noticed next to the post office stood a bank.
And it was in the reckless, devil-may-care catacombs of her desperate mind, that she formed an idea.
Kate tore open the bag of feed and held it out for Beaut, letting the horse eat half of the bag before storing the other half in one of the saddlebags. It would get Beaut through the morning, if nothing else. She pulled her brass makeup kit from the opposite end, and applied fresh powder to her cheeks, and red lipstick to her lips. She kept her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, to hide the nasty brown and green marks left on her neck from her grapple with that Pinkerton. Despite looking a little skinny, and a little awkward in her torn skirts, she was still beautiful.
She entered the tailor's shop, waiting until she had the middle-aged gentleman's attention, and then she graced him with a winning smile.
"Why hi there," she murmured, voice soft and lilting. "I was wonderin' if maybe you could help me out?"
'Call it prurience, if you must name it.
'It's always nice to tease the boys a little.'
She gave the shopkeeper a skin and bones retelling of her misfortunes without luggage or money, but in this version her stagecoach had been robbed while she was on her way to meet her husband in Albuquerque.
It took little effort to charm him into fitting those twill pants for her, along with a cotton blouse and a soft leather abigail vest-she only had to smile just so, or brush her hand across his knuckles, or bat those blue eyes at him while biting her lower lip. He asked about her husband, and she told him that he was an old boor who couldn't satisfy all of her womanly needs. His ears were crimson as he took her measurements and hemmed her new britches up, an unabashed smile permanently affixed to his face.
When her new outfit was finished, several hours later, she leaned against the counter and purred:
"Now, would you be an absolute dear and allow me to wander across the street, so's I can see about gettin' you your well-deserved money? Promise I won't wander far."
She drew an 'X' over her heart.
"Y'can even watch me out that window there, should you like."
"No ma'am," he said, swallowing hard and reaching for his handkerchief. He used it to dab at the sweat that had begun to glisten from his balding head. "You just go on ahead. I'll be right here."
"Aren't you just the sweetest thing."
It worried her, deep down, just how easy it was to lie and use this man the way that she was. It went against her breeding entirely.
But then, she was never going to be the woman her father always hoped she would be.
She brought her spoiled skirts to her horse, slipping her small gun out from between the folds of fabric. She quietly and quickly stuffed it inside her vest, and then strutted across the street.
She walked up to the teller, and grinned.
"Howdy, Sugar."
"Afternoon, ma'am," he politely replied, smiling and nodding his head.
"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to empty all ya'll's drawers back there," she said, her voice gentle and calm as she withdrew her pistol, "and give me all of your money."
It was with a great deal of calm and politeness that she robbed the Blanconia Savings Bank that evening, with three tellers, three customers, and the bank owner as witnesses thereof. She had accrued three-hundred and forty-seven dollars in a nondescript canvas sack in a matter of minutes, and she thought to herself that, just maybe, she could get used to returns such as these.
"Now, I expect ya'll to keep to our agreement," she said to the room at large, once the teller handed off the sack and joined the rest against the far wall.
She was sweet as honeycomb and patient with the terrified, but there was a cold-steel edge to her gaze that warned of poison in her bite. A fact, sadly, picked up on only after she was forced to pop the owner in the face with the butt of her gun.
"I want a five-minute head start before I see any of ya'll walkin' out of this here building, so's we can agree that 'long as you ain't makin' trouble for me, I won't make any more trouble for you. Now, I'm just gonna be right there across the street 'til I ride on out on my peaceful way, so don't be thinking no heroical thoughts. I see you step outside, and I'm gonna have to shoot you."
She cocked her gun for emphasis, startling the two women captives enough to make them gasp in alarm.
Once she was sure everyone was on the same page, she took out enough bills to pay the tailor, and left the bank.
Her gait was quick, but not overly rushed. She took the time to tie the sack to her saddlebags, and then stepped inside the tailor's and plunked down his money.
"Thank you, sweetheart," she beamed, looking and sounding just as sweet as pie. "Oh, and one more thing?"
She leaned forward and ran a finger along the back of his hand.
"How much for that hat of yours over there?"
'Calamity Jane has a hat. You should have one too, darlin'.'
.