Page 61 of My Darling Clementine

They spent the rest of an hour enjoying their fishing, catching more than they lost, until their pail was full. As they put their socks and boots back on, the sound of shouting, splashing, and laughter came from the direction they’d come.

“I figured it wouldn’t be long,” said Clem with a mischievous grin. “Some of the men are bathing in the lake.” She laughed. “They don’t know there’s a woman out here, so they’re all stark naked, swimming if they know how, splashing around if they don’t. You want to peek at them?”

“I’ve never seen a naked man.” Kizzy felt herself coloring from her toes to the roots of her hair. “Besides you,” she amended, glancing around for listening ears, reminding herself never to let her guard down.

Clem gave her a smile Kizzy had started to crave, accompanied by a twinkle in her eye that promised intimacy to come. “But would you like to, my dear? Isn’t your inner artist curious?” She gave Kizzy a hand to stand, and a hug that lifted her off her feet. The hand on her back dropped to pat her bottom. “Feel like being a little naughty?”

Curiosity warred with decorum. Kizzy looked up at Clem, considering. “Yes,” she said with a decisive nod of her head. “Given the same chance, they’d sure as hell peek at me, so yes, let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”

Moving with stealth through the trees, they returned to where the creek emptied into the lake. Crawling into and through thick brush that grew right to the water’s edge, Clem parted it enough for them to look through without being seen.

A dozen men were already in the water, washing hair and beards, scrubbing pits and privates, serene in their male enclave. A few more scooted around in varying stages of undress, piles of dirty clothes dotting the bank, before running into the water like boys on holiday, whooping and hollering.

“Ew,” Kizzy said, staring with fascination as one man dropped his pants before remembering to remove his boots, dancing around from foot to foot, freeing himself. “What’d you call it? Their johnsons are small and pale.”

“They live shriveled up in pants all day, but rage red and huge once released.” Clem laughed. “Or so they tell each other.”

Kizzy gulped. “Have you looked at naked men’s bodies before?”

“Better.” Clem smirked. “Two weeks ago in Boston, I bought a bathing costume and wore it at the men’s end of the beach, where half wore suits and the other half didn’t. No one was any wiser. I wore a smaller johnson, careful it angled down, and it looked much the same as the other men’s swimming outfits.”

“That seems very bold,” said Kizzy, impressed. “What if they’d discovered you were a woman?”

“Short of ripping off my one-piece swimwear, how could they know? I built muscle working in the gold fields, and had more than some of them. I bound my breasts flat, and wore my johnson.” She turned and nodded toward the men. “I wanted to see the shape of their bellies, thighs, butts, and hips, compare them to mine.” Turning back to Kizzy, her eyes danced. “Every now and again I meet a man who’s good looking, but I’d rather look at you any day. Your body arouses me, their bodies do not.”

“Me, either,” Kizzy agreed, watching a youth toss his long hair back and forth after washing it. With the soft bloom of youth, coupled with the grace of a lithe body, he might pass for a woman in the proper clothing. If he turned and bent his face to the water, she might believe him a woman. Kizzy shook off the notion. Why would any man pass for a woman when he didn’t need to?

She looked at Clem’s excited profile, studying the swimming men using broad overhead strokes and full kicks, and had her answer. Because he wants to.

After a few minutes, Clem backed out of the brush. “Come on. After we eat, we can come back and find someplace private to take our own bath.”

“I’ll make a tasty dinner with these fish,” Kizzy grinned. “Wait.” She clapped her hands. “I saw some spinach and wild onions growing down where we were fishing. I’ll go back and pick some.”

Clem looked concerned. “Out here by yourself?”

She lifted the hem of her skirt to mid-thigh, showing her pistol secured in a short holster buckled around her waist and tied to her thigh. “I wear it every day now.”

Clem nodded and lifted the pail full of fish. “Then I’ll meet you at the wagon after I clean these and bury the leavings.” She started away but stopped, put the pail of fish on the ground, and pulled Kizzy into her arms, holding her close. Kissing the top of her hair, Clem murmured, “You’re a beautiful woman, and there’s a type of man who thinks they have a right to use you because they are aroused by you. They will hurt you if given the chance.”

Kizzy peered up into her concerned face. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“That’s my girl,” said Clem, nibbling her earlobe, raising a chill along her spine. “My very,” the tip of her tongue teased Kizzy’s smile, “good,” their lips grazed as they stared into each other’s eyes, “girl.” She deepened the kiss, running possessive hands up and down Kizzy’s body. “Go gather your greens, little woman.” Clem released her with a playful slap on her bottom, then picked up the fish and started into the trees toward camp.

Kizzy watched her tall lover stride away. She turned back to the lake, avoiding the bathers, retracing their steps to the fallen log. Ten minutes later, arms full of greens and onions, she headed back for camp, but hesitated when she reached the spot where they’d spied on the men.

One more peek? When would she ever get the chance again? She laughed at herself, but pushed into the sheltering brush down to the waterline to peer at the frolicking men.

More were in the water now, splashing and jumping on each other. Several stood up to their knees in the lake, swishing, rinsing, and wringing out clothing after weeks of travel. With avid curiosity, Kizzy examined one man’s privates after another, comparing them, her artist’s eye noting similarities and differences. It struck her that men’s chests were breasts, only small and flat.

After looking her fill, she hurried back to their wagon. Clem had already lowered the chuck box, brought down the cast-iron skillet, and set their three-legged cauldron in the center of a fire ring, ready to light. She was so thoughtful.

Kizzy fetched the water for her. Taking their bucket to the stream above the camp, she started filling the cauldron, then lit the fire and tended it until it caught. It would be an hour before the large vessel would heat the water to boiling. After another four trips, crossing on stones out to where the swift water ran, taking care not to fall in, she managed to half fill the cauldron.

Whenever they had a source of clean water, they used up what was in their cistern, either on themselves, the mules, or laundry, then refilled it after the boiled water cooled. Clem warned her they’d run into dry times when the trail veered from the rivers; they’d need to ration what they carried and take extra precautions. “But until then we should enjoy the luxury of plenty.”

Kizzy sliced a piece of pork belly in the heavy cast iron pan. While it rendered, she chopped the spinach, wild onion, and lemongrass, mixing them in with the bits of crumbled bacon until they wilted. By the time Clem and the fish arrived, the water was steaming, and she was ready to dredge the filets through seasoned cornmeal and pop them in hot grease to fry. She made coffee and served the fish on top of week-old cornbread to use the last of it.

“I saw Mr. Cushing, gave him a couple of fish, and asked him to take a look at Molly when he can,” Clem said, sitting down to their meal. “He says we’re camping here through tomorrow to give the fellow with the broken shoulder a day of rest and, since it’s a Sunday, he’s holding a prayer meeting at sunrise if you want to attend. I said I’d tell you, but he already knows I won’t.”