deep ruts in the dirt.
She lifted the hem of her skirt and walked onward, her eyes misting with tears as she remembered the last time she had been inside a church . . . to attend the funeral services for her husband.
It had been his church, for he had been a Methodist minister in Kansas City, admired by everyone. One stray bullet had claimed his life.
That bullet had left Jessie totally alone. Both her father and mother had been gunned down on the streets of Kansas City a few years earlier.
Before Jessie was born, her father had been a notorious outlaw, called Two Guns Pete. When his wife had announced that she was pregnant, he had hung his holstered pistols on a peg on the wall and had not taken them down again.
The law had never caught up with him. No one recognizedTwo Guns Pete in that peace-loving man who came to Kansas City with a pregnant wife.
But all that changed one fateful day when his daughter Jessie had been seventeen. He was spotted by Bulldog Jones, an outlaw he’d double-crossed when they rode together in the same outlaw gang.
This man had apparently searched high and low and finally found his old rival buddy. It had taken only two bullets to take him and Jessie’s mother away from her, leaving her orphaned and penniless.
Although her father had been a loving and doting father, as well as a devoted husband, he had squandered his money away, gambling.
The young Reverend Steven Pilson had taken Jessie under his wing. Eventually he had married her.
She had learned to adore this soft-spoken man, but had never loved him with passion. It was an easy, sweet love.
As she continued walking down the middle of the street, still clutching her beaded purse to her side, Jessie noticed the false-fronted buildings on each side, among them saloons, gambling halls, and whorehouses.
Through the doors of the saloons she could hear the rumble of voices, poker chips rattling, and dealers calling the cards while presiding over games of poker, faro, and monte.
She could smell the strong, offensive odor of whiskey.
It was obvious to her that this was a wicked city, one that did not close down even for God’s special day.
Suddenly Jessie saw a crowd of men in front of a rowof small square buildings. In each one, sparsely clothed young women were standing in the front window.
Among them was a very pretty Chinese girl who seemed no older than fifteen. Her eyes met Jessie’s with a mixture of emotions in them—shame, pleading, sadness . . . fear!
Jessie was stunned to see such a young girl there, for she knew very well what went on inside. Jessie had seen the same shameful buildings in Kansas City.
They were called “cribs,” where prostitutes practiced their trade.
But none had ever been on the main street of the city like these were, in Tombstone. She was beginning to believe that this town was far more wicked than Kansas City had ever been.
She made herself look away from the pretty Chinese girl and focus on what lay ahead of her. Surely her life here would be a decent, comfortable one. Her cousin had found a mountain of silver, as he had described it. He must have all the comforts anyone would ever want.
Finally reaching the lovely church, she slowly climbed the steps, then went inside.
The pews were filled with people.
She smiled as two women scooted over, giving her a place to sit. After getting settled in among the people in the back row, Jessie stared straight ahead, at the man who stood behind the pulpit, then softly gasped.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
Her cousin was at the pulpit. He was reading verses from the Bible as the Methodist minister stood aside.
Reginald’s reddish brown hair, which at one time hadbeen so thick, was now thin, yet hung long to his white collar. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and narrow tie.
He seemed even tinier than Jessie remembered. In fact, he seemed almost shrunken, his shoulders slouching, as though they carried a heavy weight.
When Reginald was finished,
She lifted the hem of her skirt and walked onward, her eyes misting with tears as she remembered the last time she had been inside a church . . . to attend the funeral services for her husband.
It had been his church, for he had been a Methodist minister in Kansas City, admired by everyone. One stray bullet had claimed his life.
That bullet had left Jessie totally alone. Both her father and mother had been gunned down on the streets of Kansas City a few years earlier.
Before Jessie was born, her father had been a notorious outlaw, called Two Guns Pete. When his wife had announced that she was pregnant, he had hung his holstered pistols on a peg on the wall and had not taken them down again.
The law had never caught up with him. No one recognizedTwo Guns Pete in that peace-loving man who came to Kansas City with a pregnant wife.
But all that changed one fateful day when his daughter Jessie had been seventeen. He was spotted by Bulldog Jones, an outlaw he’d double-crossed when they rode together in the same outlaw gang.
This man had apparently searched high and low and finally found his old rival buddy. It had taken only two bullets to take him and Jessie’s mother away from her, leaving her orphaned and penniless.
Although her father had been a loving and doting father, as well as a devoted husband, he had squandered his money away, gambling.
The young Reverend Steven Pilson had taken Jessie under his wing. Eventually he had married her.
She had learned to adore this soft-spoken man, but had never loved him with passion. It was an easy, sweet love.
As she continued walking down the middle of the street, still clutching her beaded purse to her side, Jessie noticed the false-fronted buildings on each side, among them saloons, gambling halls, and whorehouses.
Through the doors of the saloons she could hear the rumble of voices, poker chips rattling, and dealers calling the cards while presiding over games of poker, faro, and monte.
She could smell the strong, offensive odor of whiskey.
It was obvious to her that this was a wicked city, one that did not close down even for God’s special day.
Suddenly Jessie saw a crowd of men in front of a rowof small square buildings. In each one, sparsely clothed young women were standing in the front window.
Among them was a very pretty Chinese girl who seemed no older than fifteen. Her eyes met Jessie’s with a mixture of emotions in them—shame, pleading, sadness . . . fear!
Jessie was stunned to see such a young girl there, for she knew very well what went on inside. Jessie had seen the same shameful buildings in Kansas City.
They were called “cribs,” where prostitutes practiced their trade.
But none had ever been on the main street of the city like these were, in Tombstone. She was beginning to believe that this town was far more wicked than Kansas City had ever been.
She made herself look away from the pretty Chinese girl and focus on what lay ahead of her. Surely her life here would be a decent, comfortable one. Her cousin had found a mountain of silver, as he had described it. He must have all the comforts anyone would ever want.
Finally reaching the lovely church, she slowly climbed the steps, then went inside.
The pews were filled with people.
She smiled as two women scooted over, giving her a place to sit. After getting settled in among the people in the back row, Jessie stared straight ahead, at the man who stood behind the pulpit, then softly gasped.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
Her cousin was at the pulpit. He was reading verses from the Bible as the Methodist minister stood aside.
Reginald’s reddish brown hair, which at one time hadbeen so thick, was now thin, yet hung long to his white collar. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and narrow tie.
He seemed even tinier than Jessie remembered. In fact, he seemed almost shrunken, his shoulders slouching, as though they carried a heavy weight.
When Reginald was finished,
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