“Sell her a biscuit,” Cole said again and looked up from his plate. The Chinaboy looked quickly away from Cole and went and brought the woman coffee and two biscuits on a plate. He added a pitcher of sorghum, to show that there was no ill will. The woman gave him twenty-five cents and looked across at Cole.

“Thank you,” she said.

Cole smiled at her.

“It was my pleasure,” he said.

She was a little travel-worn, but still good-looking, with a strong young body that her dress didn’t hide. I could see her looking at the star on Cole’s chest.

“Are you the sheriff here?” she said.

“City marshal,” Cole said. “Virgil Cole. Big blond fella here is my deputy, Everett Hitch.”

“How do you do,” she said. “Could you direct me to a clean, inexpensive hotel?”

“We only got one,” Cole said.

“Is it expensive?”

“Probably more than it should be, there being no other choices.”

“I only have a dollar,” she said.

Cole nodded.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Mrs. French,” she said. “Allison French.”

“You have a husband, Mrs. French.”

“He died.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Cole said. “You do any kind of work.”

“I play the organ,” she said. “And the piano.”

“You’re not a whore.”

“Don’t be crude,” she said. “No, I am not what you said.”

“No need fluffing your feathers about it,” Cole said. “Don’t see a lot of single women here that ain’t whores.”

“Well, I’m one.”

“Sprightly thing,” Cole said to me.

I nodded. Cole was always improving himself, reading books, making lists of words, which he usually misused slightly.

“Will the hotel let me stay for a dollar?” Mrs. French said.

Cole grinned.

“For as long as you’d like, Mrs. French.”

She frowned.

“How can that be?” she said.

“Might hire you to play the piano, too,” Cole said. “You think so, Everett?”