of his hand, and with the same hand points at Muddy Boots, still bent over his bowl as if intent on ignoring him.
‘And that there is John Thomas. Not much on manners, but…well, not much on anything.’
‘Damn you, Limpy,’ says Muddy Boots, his mouth full of food.
Alex can feel the big man’s breath down her neck. He pulls a gold pouch from his pocket, holds it like an egg in the palm of his hand.
‘And you are…?’ Limpy asks.
The curve of Emaline’s brow, the curl of her lips, tells Alex these men know very well the name she gave.
‘A simple question, son,’ says Limpy. ‘Name?’
Men lean forward, listening, and names and faces swim as mismatched pairs through Alex’s mind. She pulls her head into her neck, says as deeply as she can manage:
‘Alex.’
‘Hah!’ says Limpy, his paw slamming down again, this time square on her back, forcing all the air from her chest. ‘Eighteen, my ass. Who said eighteen? John Thomas, trying to hide? Alex what?’
‘Shee-it,’ says Micah, thumping a small pouch of gold on the table and giving Alex a close look at the concave indention of skin where his left eye should be.
‘Why thank you, Micah. Alex what?’ Limpy asks again. Outside, a scrub jay screams the sun down.
‘Ford?’ Alex says, hearing the doubt in her own voice. Emaline’s arms cross before her and her eyes narrow to slits, but Limpy doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Alex Ford,’ he says. ‘Solid name. No more than sixteen, if that. Pay up.’ Leather pouches thump on the table. ‘Pay up, John Thomas,’ says Limpy.
‘Now just hold on a goddamn minute,’ John Thomas says, his fair skin turning the red of Micah’s empty eye socket. ‘I’ll pay you later.’
‘My ass.’
‘Hell yes, your ass—you calling me a liar?’
‘Both of you better sit yourselfs right back down,’ says Emaline, barely raising her voice. ‘Y’all know I don’t permit no gambling at the dinner table. And you, Alex—’ the serving spoon again jabs her direction—‘finish up so I can get to getting done with dinner.’
With the plank tables separated, the room feels smaller, cluttered. The ramshackle bar at the far end of the room now dominates, the counter lined with tin cups and a few glass canning jars, and now the elbows of Limpy and the one-eyed Micah. Bloated whisky jugs on shelves behind the bar are blurred in the orange lamplight and look, to Alex, like a row of rotund women. Several card games are already in progress when Alex eases her way up the stairs.
‘Hey,’ says Emaline, pushing through the kitchen door. She thumps a stool down next to her own. ‘Stick a while.’
And something, the weight of her filling that doorway, or the calm authority in her voice, triggers an old habit of obedience. Alex sits, but remains above on the stairwell with her chin tucked into her knees. She hadn’t liked the suspicious glances the woman had been casting through dinner. She prays the woman’s eyes are as poor as they seem.
‘Whatever suits you,’ says Emaline, dismissing her with a wave of the hand.
‘’Scuse me, gents, Emaline…’ Limpy’s voice and body rise as one from the bar and the saloon goes silent. ‘A toast. To Alex and his gentle way with mules. May his way with women be less costly, but just as exciting!’
He tips his glass, leads a collective swallow, motions to Jed to fill his cup again. ‘Now don’t you dare smile there, Alex, don’t.’ Alex does not feel like smiling, makes no attempt to smile. Six coins left, she thinks. She’d felt so rich with twelve.
‘And speaking of costly,’ says Limpy, downing the next glass, ‘how ‘bout it Emaline? Nearly hit it today. Sho’ ‘nough pay dirt. Pay you double price. I say I’ll pay you double, tomorrow—’
‘Now hold on there, Limp. You know the woman doesn’t take credit, and I’m a hell of a lot prettier than you anyway—and richer,’ says Micah, winking his one eye.
‘The hell—’
‘And I can hold my liquor.’
Alex is only vaguely aware of what they’re saying. The rest of their banter is lost beneath the groan of the accordion in the corner—a tune that just might be ‘The Old Oaken Bucket’ or ‘Clementine’, or a wobbly combination of the two—and as if called by this racket, miners begin to trickle into the saloon. No less than thirty, if she had a head to count, and she doubts whether some of those mud-stained canvas pants and holey flannels had ever been, or would ever be washed. It would certainly ease the competing stench of rotting canvas, stale tobacco, whisky. The men lean on the bar and against the walls and against each other. They swear and laugh with their mouths wide open, chew plugs of tobacco, smoke cob pipes, and soon the air is thick and yellow. Their hands stroke leather pouches of gold dust, arrange and rearrange dog-eared playing cards, fiddle with the worn visors of discoloured hats and punctuate speech with herky-jerky movements in the air. To Alex they are a collection of parts, of hands, feet and hats, interchangeable with a few exceptions: John Thomas; the big man, Limpy; the black man, Jed; one-eyed Micah; the moustache man, David, whose broad-angled shoulders give him a stocky compact appearance next to Limpy, even as he tops Micah by inches.
And there, sitting apart from the rest by the kitchen door, is Emaline. In her lap, a pair of trousers, needle, thread. Her fingers are busy, but she glances down only so often at her work.
Her weight is not so much the round softness of other women Alex has known, or the wire sinew of her gran. Emaline is solid, with wide, square shoulders and thick veintracked forearms. A fringe of dark hair feathers her upper lip. Her only softness appears to be her generous bosom that strains the front of her dress like mounds of rising sourdough. Emaline’s hands work the cloth. Deft, confident movements, and Alex finds her fingers moving of their own accord, with life and memory of their own.
She forces her hands to fists, stuffs them in her pockets. Gran, too, could sew by feel alone, her fingers unconscious of themselves and of the bent-wire body to which they were attached. Gran was never so patient with Alex as she was with cloth. ‘After three boys,’ she liked to say, ‘three foolish, foolish boys, God at least could have given me a proper granddaughter.’
Proper, Alex thinks. What would Gran think of her now, after all she’s seen? After what she’s done? She rises unnoticed, climbs the stairs. Thigh muscles catch and pull with every step. She slips across the hallway and closes the door of the dark little room behind her.
Mountain lion, Emaline thinks, and close by. She curses and grabs the shotgun by the bed. It won’t be the first time she’s been roused in the middle of the night to protect those damn chickens. Bothersome old biddies, scratching through the leaves all day, dining on leftovers. Women should be valued so much and paid so well for their monthly cycles. A dozen eggs brought her five dollars on Tuesday, more than that bigmouthed Limpy and his cousin David made together digging in the mud all day.
She hears the scream again—high-pitched, like a woman—and hurries out of her bedroom door. The hall is morning dark, but Emaline has memorized the irregularities in the floorboards like the lines of her mother’s face. She
