Page 16 of My Darling Clementine

“Twenty minutes ago, and alone, you say?” A man leaned on the counter, chatting with the clerk. “How pretty again?”

“Prettier than any woman I’ve ever seen, although you couldn’t tell by her clothes. Those are plain enough for a church mouse.”

Clem knew which woman they were speaking about. She overheard the parting with her mother, and helped the distraught young woman with her bag, giving her a hand up once the train was moving. She was an extraordinary beauty, and the sentimentality and genuine emotion of the scene pulled at her author’s heart, enough so she interfered when stepping into the corridor outside her compartment to see her hurrying away from a man with clear intent in his eye. It took only one punch to convince him to leave the girl alone. “She is most remarkable,” she offered with a grin.

The clerk, interrupted in his conversation, turned to her. “Yes, sir? Checking in?”

“I wired a reservation three weeks ago. Clem Dennison, for five days.”

The clerk’s face rearranged into a welcoming smile. “Of course, Mr. Dennison, we’ve been expecting you, sir.” He nodded in deference. “Your attorney wired the payment.” He pulled a piece of paper and a room key from a drawer behind the counter. “Here’s your receipt, and your room is at the end of the hall to your right. Your trunk is already there.” He whipped the registration book around on its swivel base. “If you’ll sign-in, please.”

Clem picked up the pen and wrote name, date, and time on the next open line, noting the one above, Keziah Walker. No Miss or Mrs. in her signature. Only her name.

“You saw the girl, Mr., uh,” the man leaning on the counter peered over her shoulder at the book, “Dennison?”

When she looked over at him, the glint of a badge caught her eye. She readjusted her attitude. “I saw the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen, despite her drab attire,” she leaned just as close to the lawman as he’d leaned into her, examining his badge, “Sheriff Boorman.” She stood up straight and also leaned on the desk, leaving the clerk and registration book between them. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason, in particular,” said the sheriff, looking Clem over. “A woman registering alone, pretty as you both say she is…” He left the suggestion open.

“And we don’t allow no whores to work out of our hotel,” agreed the clerk, nodding his head as if he knew without a doubt that’s who she was and planned to do.

An odd defensiveness settled over Clem.

“Oh, then we’re thinking of different women,” she said, with a dismissive shake of her head. “The woman I saw was a lady, born and bred. Perhaps she’s dressed in sensible traveling clothing, I wouldn’t know.” She grinned at the Sheriff, brushing the fine material of the business suit she wore. “I’m not married myself, but my mother always complains about the dust.”

The clerk bobbed his head. “Uh huh, my mom too. You must be right, sir.” He looked at the sheriff and shrugged.

“Did she pay?” asked the much less interested lawman.

“Today and tomorrow. She said she’d decide by then if she’s staying or not.” He nodded at Clem. “That’s what got me suspicious.”

“It did?” asked Clem, standing up in preparation to climb the stairs. “Seems quite reasonable to me, especially if, through some misfortune, she must travel alone. Poor thing.” She threw the sheriff a knowing glance, hoisted her suitcase with ease, and took the stairs two at a time.

“Next time send for me when there’s an actual crime, and don’t waste my time.” Sheriff Boorman’s voice followed Clem up the stairs as she entered her room. She locked the door, pocketed the key, and draped her hat over the handle.

After locking the door and placing both keys in her pocket, Kizzy paced the floor. Confused, she tried reasoning things out.

She knew she hadn’t provoked the men’s reactions. Mama and the church ladies had always enforced modesty and body shame; Kizzy didn’t wear revealing dresses, and kept herself neat and clean. She hadn’t been ‘safe’ in the presence of Rocheport men so much as it was the community’s respect for her parents that sheltered her.

Now that she’d left home, she didn’t have that. She needed to either create her own respectability, or…

Or what? Recreating herself as a proper woman living on her own wasn’t something she wanted to spend years doing. Kizzy had an itch to find gold, and it needed scratching. She threw herself into the room’s only chair.

I know what I want to do. She’d head for California to get some of the yellow stuff for herself. She couldn’t be the only woman doing it. There must be other women out west. But they’ll be few and far between the prospectors.

Her mind drifted to the stories of nuggets lying around waiting to be picked up. Anyone can do that, even women. Kizzy believed women could do anything a man could do if they put their minds to it.

So I’ll put my mind to it.

But then she thought about the prostitutes mentioned in the stories, women servicing prospectors. Did they go to California looking for gold and end up as whores? Could it happen to her? What if she couldn’t make it as a woman prospector? What if it was too hard?

Her head was spinning with too many thoughts. Doubts raced through her, worries wound her stomach into knots. She unfastened her braid, finger-combing it loose to lie around her shoulders. It eased her headache, but the heavy weight of it felt hot and oppressive.

I should just cut it off. Things would be much easier if I were a man.

After several more minutes of moping, she rose to stand at the window in her room. Letting her eyes wander over the street below, she watched the citizens of Independence go about their daily business. Women dressed like her mother walked by either in pairs with baskets over their arms, herding small children, or walking with a husband. Not one woman walked alone.

So that’s why they stared at me.