The Tale of Avenging Annie

By Carmenica Diaz

The magical transgender story of Andrew Parker who, through a series of events is forced to masquerade as Annie Parker in the Old West.
People and events appear to conspire to keep him as Annie but then, something extraordinary happens.
Guns, outlaws, Indians and magic in a classic story of discovery, transformation and love.
Inspired by the song by Andy Pratt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244150174

Book preview

The Tale of Avenging Annie

Carmenica Diaz

Copyright © 2019 Lulu Press

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-244-15017-4

Transgender & Body Swap Fantasy Romances by Carmenica Diaz

The Alchemy Series

Royal Alchemy

Alchemy Discovered

Alchemy Abroad

Alchemy Return

Aswin

Tales of Aswin &

Return to Aswin

Body Double

Both Sides Now

Catherine Lawrence

Dreamsome

Elizabeth Grey

Hearts Desire

Inside Girl

Madeline Ryan

Other Shoes

Searchers

Second Chance

Searching for Jim

Shuffle

The Tale of Avenging Annie

Notes on the 2019 Revision

After more than 10 years, I decided to revise and correct the story of Avenging Annie.

There are a number of changes from the 2006 edition, but it remains true to the original storyline.

The title has been amended slightly to avoid confusion with the original version which could still available on the web.

This story was inspired by the song "Avenging Annie" by Andy Pratt. The chapter titles are actual lines from the song.

Back in 2006, I had not heard of the artist but every time I heard the song, it seemed to hint at a TG story. I have reproduced the lyrics at the end of this volume.

The place names in the story are mostly figments of my imagination.

And a reminder that any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, or real events is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

Hamilton Jones looked at the old man distastefully. Discreetly, he held his spotted handkerchief to his nose. The thick smoke, from the battered pipe the old man insisted on smoking, was making the journalists eyes water and his weak sinuses ache.

As soon as he had walked in the room, the old man had lit the pipe, endured a long coughing fit and then stubbornly sucked on the pipe again.

I have to get this over with as soon as I can, Hamilton thought, I can’t bear this smoke!

The last place Hamilton wanted to be that day, was in this hospital to interview a relic from the last century!

His editor, Thomas Greeley, however, had been adamant. ‘It’ll be a good yarn, Jones,’ Greeley had boomed. ‘A lot of folks are interested in tales of the old west. It’s not that long ago, you know. Why, I remember when outlaws ran wild over this territory! Bullets Baldwin was one of them so, if this fellah is really Baldwin, he’ll be able to spin some real yarns!’

‘But we live in a modern world, Mister Greeley,’ Jones had protested. ‘We should look to the future. I could write a piece on the mechanical benefits of our modern world. We have electricity now; a new modern world is …’

‘I know all that! With change happening so darn fast, Jones, folk like to remember gentler times.’

Hamilton Jones had snorted at that. ‘Hardly gentler, Mister Greeley. If this man is Bullets Baldwin, he was nothing but a common criminal …’

‘A bank robber, Jones! He ran with the legendary Avenging Annie and she was our version of Robin Hood! Why, people still talk about what she did! Folks round these parts remember the tales of her and the gang. Bullets Baldwin was part of that gang and part of history. Our history!’ Greeley stared out the window for a moment. Then, he poked his thumbs into his belt. ‘Times have changed so darn fast,’ he muttered. ‘Lord, we’re in a new century! The old west is gone and soon will be nothing more than a memory. You young folks will know nothing of those great characters.’ Hamilton sat patiently while the editor stared into the past. ‘The Younger boys, James gang, Butch and the Hole in the Wall gang and, of course Avenging Annie! All gone, all vanished!’ There was sadness in the editor’s eyes as he murmured, ‘Soon, there won’t be anybody left to remember them.’

The young reporter had to appear respectful. Greeley was renowned for his reporting of the famous gunfights and range wars of the last century. It was well known Greeley had also been shot once or twice while covering events! As well, of course, the old story about how Greeley once met Avenging Annie. ‘If you say so, sir,’ Hamilton murmured.

Greeley didn’t hear him. ‘Bullets Baldwin,’ Greeley said softly. ‘The last member of Avenging Annie’s gang. Folks round here will eat up stories about that gang. Did I tell you, Jones, that I travelled with her once?’

‘Yes, sir …,’ Jones sighed, ‘… you did.’ Please, not that story again! Hamilton was convinced the editor was a little loose with the truth on that story!

‘What a journey that was,’ Thomas Greeley said softly. ‘I’ll never forget how brave she was and how …well, that’s another time.’ Greeley turned and pointed a finger at Jones. ‘You get on down there across the border, get into that old folks home! You talk to him; make sure he really is Bullets Baldwin!’

Jones nervously played with his hat. ‘How will I know, sir, that he is whom he claims to be?’

‘You’re from back east, a smart young fellah,’ Greeley said with a broad grin. ‘Or so you keep telling me! You’ll figure something out.’ Greeley had turned back to the window with his memories and Jones had reluctantly begun his journey across the state and into the next.

In the home, Jones sat in a rickety old chair and watched an old man puff on his pipe. ‘Mister Baldwin …,’ Hamilton asked with a tinge of nervousness, ‘… you claim to be Horace Baldwin, better known as Bullets Baldwin who was a bank robber in the no-man’s land in 18 …’

‘No claims about it, young fellah,’ Baldwin said, rocking gently in his chair. Even though he was plainly old, his eyes were bright, carefully attentive. ‘It’s a fact.’

‘But, how …’

Baldwin turned to look at Jones, his eyes flat and cold in that grey bearded face. ‘Do you think I don’t know my own name?’

Jones looked away and pulled some papers from his carpetbag. ‘I’d like to check a few details …’

‘Details?’ Baldwin said in a level voice and Jones suddenly saw the old man’s eyes were strangely dead. They were, Jones immediately recognised, the eyes of a killer! ‘You calling me a liar, son?’

Although the words were said quietly, Jones suddenly felt very afraid. ‘No … no,’ he stuttered. ‘But there are many impostors that have, in the past, claimed to be historical figures … such as … you … sir …’

Baldwin chuckled. ‘Well, I ain’t no impostor or whatever you calls it.’

‘I’d like to ask some questions, sir, if I may.’ Baldwin shrugged, blowing pungent grey smoke into the air. ‘Where were you born?’

‘New York City, the same as Annie. I found out later we lived a few blocks away from each other in Brooklyn. Course I’m probably fifteen years or thereabouts older than her.’

‘Horace Frederick Baldwin is your full name?’

‘Yep. Now you can see why I preferred Bullets!’ He laughed in that brittle voice which suddenly dissolved into a hacking and deep cough. As he spluttered into a stained rag, Jones turned his head away when he saw blood. Baldwin recovered and wrapping his threadbare dignity around himself, smiled crookedly at the young man. ‘I expect you got a lot of questions, son?’

‘Yes sir.’

Hamilton asked all the usual questions – date of birth, first bank the Avenging Annie gang robbed – and Baldwin knew them all.

However, Jones needed to be sure, so he set a test for the old man. He rummaged through his papers and asked his subtle question. ‘Were you there the day Annie was shot? It was when the gang robbed the Farmers Home Bank at Hope …’

The old man gave Jones a hard look and firmly shook his head. ‘Never robbed any bank in Hope, young fellah and Annie was shot at Salvation Wells.’ He sighed and sucked on the pipe. ‘That was a darn mess. We should never have tried it. Was never the same without Floyd and Jesse. We were forced into it and that Riggs fellah was a low down …’ He stopped and smiled. ‘Is that the right answer to your trick question, son?’

Hamilton blinked and took out his notepad. ‘Well … yes, it is. Well, I have to say you appear to be who you claim to be, Mister Baldwin.’

‘Ain’t that a relief,’ Baldwin chuckled, eyes now twinkling. ‘Thought I might find out I wasn’t me!’

Hamilton ignored the gibe and said primly, ‘You can tell me your story.’

‘Am I getting my money for this?’ Baldwin locked eyes with the young reporter. ‘I need the money for a headstone, son,’ he explained. ‘I seemed to have made a habit of giving my money away. I don’t want to be buried in no paupers’ grave!’

‘You’ll get your money, Mister Baldwin, Mister Greeley has authorised the payment.’

‘And you’ll take care of the burial?’

Jones sighed. ‘Yes, Mister Baldwin that will be catered for …’

‘And the headstone as I want? I wrote it down, but you’ll have to fix the spelling and stuff.’

Jones nodded. ‘It’ll be done.’

‘Give me your word, son,’ Bullets asked in a soft voice.

Jones looked into those old eyes, swallowed and said softly, ‘You have my word.’

Baldwin nodded and stared vacantly at the wall for a moment, remembering a time long gone. Then he began. ‘I was hightailing it through the Creek Nation after a little misunderstanding about a horse. These sodbusters claimed I stole it but that’s another story. A hot summer was in the offering and I fell in with John Henry. That was a mistake but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Annie …’

Thomas Greeley finished reading and put the papers down. His feet were on the desk and he relit a fat cigar, the match spluttering against his cowboy boots. ‘Good writing, son; it took me right back,’ he said a little wistfully. ‘The folks will like that yarn. God darn it, that Annie Parker was a hell of a woman!’ He pulled his feet off the desk and fixed Jones with his good eye. ‘You sure this fellah is Bullets Baldwin?’

‘He knew all the historical facts, sir.’

Greeley nodded. ‘It has the ring of truth about it, that’s a fact but there is a bit of that dime store novel Tales of Avenging Annie.’

‘There is an element of that, sir, but I guessed the readers will enjoy it.’

‘Yes, that’s a fact.’ Greeley stood and looked down at Jones who was perched on the visitor’s chair. ‘You don’t mention that Annie Parker was killed at Salvation Wells,’ Greeley pointed out. ‘There have always been stories that she didn’t go down in that gunfight, even though J. C. Holliday reported that he had killed her. It would be good to lay all that to rest. Did Baldwin confirm that Avenging Annie was killed in Salvation Wells?’

‘Ah, no … not really.’ Jones fidgeted with his notes, avoiding the other man’s eyes.

Greeley watched him for a moment. Then, he smiled. ‘I’ve been a newspaper man for a long time, son. I’ve had people of all shapes and sizes try to lie to me. Right now, my nose tells me you are holding out.’

Jones sighed. ‘Baldwin spun some tall tales, sir, and I only reported facts that could be verified.’

Greeley leaned over the desk and stared at the nervous young reporter. ‘Tall tales? He told you about the gunfight, though? You didn’t make this up?’ Greeley picked the papers up and shook them once.

‘I certainly did not make anything up,’ Jones said indignantly. ‘But I reported only the facts.’

‘But you don’t give a clear picture. God darn it, Jones! Did Bullets Baldwin tell you what happened to Avenging Annie?’

‘Well …,’ Jones said as he loosened his stiff collar. ‘He kind of did … but it’s unverified …’

Exasperated, Greeley cut in. ‘Did he see her get shot?’

‘Yes sir, he did. I put that in the story as some of the townsfolk saw it as well and it was reported in the Tulsa Bugle …’

‘I know that, son! I know the official record!’ Greeley was becoming cross and pointed a finger at Jones. It was his favourite gesture and he liked to think it was like holding a six-shooter on the young man. ‘Did he see Annie Parker die?’

‘No, sir, he did not.’

Greeley sighed and sat down heavily. ‘I thought we’d have some corroboration of her death at last.’

Jones sat with his head down while Greeley put his boots back on the desk and studied them.

‘What did he see?’ Greeley asked after a moment and Jones shifted uncomfortably.

‘Well …’

‘Spit it out, god darn it!’

‘He claims he saw her ride off.’

Greeley sat bolt upright, feet coming off the desk with a bang! ‘He saw what?’

‘That’s what he said, sir, he said that Annie Parker was shot but managed to stay on her horse and rode off.’

‘Well, I’ll be …’ Greeley smiled at Jones. ‘That’s a good yarn, why didn’t you put that in the story? Folks will like to think she got away. I know it’s unverified as you keep saying but folks would like a small piece of hope. Hope is a little hard to find these days.’

‘Ah, because … Baldwin claimed … um …’

‘Claimed what? God darn it, Jones, it’s like drawing blood from a cactus! What did he say?’

Jones took a deep breath. ‘Bullets Baldwin claimed that Annie Parker is still alive.’ Greeley spun around in his chair, his face white. ‘And …,’ Jones continued, ‘… he knows where she is.’

The small ranch was on the top of the hill and the horse harnessed to the buggy, plodded steadily up the slope. As Jones approached the small house, he saw a woman standing on the porch, holding her grey hair in the wind while watching him approach. The wind was in the trees and a flock of birds passed overhead. Clouds, tinged with grey and blue, rolled and tumbled in the late afternoon sky.

Jones tied the horse’s reins at the water trough, removed his hat and walked hesitantly forward, feeling the old woman’s eyes on him. She was old by Jones’s standards, there was no doubt about that, but, she still stood straight and watched him carefully. The simple dress fluttered against her legs and her hands were deep in the pockets of the rough coat buttoned against the rising wind.

‘Evening, ma’am,’ Jones called. ‘Are you Mrs Caldwell?’ The woman said nothing, just watched him with those big dark eyes. Jones tried again. ‘I’m Hamilton Jones, I’m a reporter for the …’

‘Reporter? What’s that?’ Her voice was slow and soft but the wind carried it to Jones.

‘I write for the newspaper,’ Jones said proudly, stepping closer.

She looked at him keenly and he stopped still, pinned by those dark eyes. ‘You carrying a gun, Mister Jones?’

Jones was shocked. ‘A gun? Me? Goodness no! This is the dawn of the twentieth century, ma’am, we are entering a time of peace and prosperity …’

‘Sure we are,’ she said dryly. ‘Come on in, I expect I know why you’re here.’

Jones followed her into the sparsely furnished farmhouse and looked around. The house was neat and tidy, a grandfather clock stood in the hallway softly ticking and the walls were covered with photographs of children and families.

‘Come into the kitchen.’ The kitchen was warm and smelled of fresh cooking. An aura of warmth and friendliness, the sense of a home, struck Jones as he looked around. A gun belt and holster hung from an old bureau and the woman shocked Jones by removing a pistol from her pocket and slipping it back into the holster. Seeing his shocked expression, she winked and said softly, ‘You never know when some varmint is going come along to steal your peace and prosperity!’ She laughed softly at his shocked expression and nodded at the old coffee pot on the fuel stove. ‘Coffee, mister? What was your name again?’

‘Hamilton Jones. Well, yes, coffee would be ... nice.’

As she poured the coffee, Hamilton studied the woman. Her hair was completely grey and extended to the middle of her back. Two small plaited threads hung on either side of her face as was the Indian custom. The rest of that thick grey mane was simply brushed back and covered her shoulders, down her back.

She would have been, Jones thought, a handsome woman once, probably beautiful. It was, he concluded, the eyes that entranced you, so dark and magnetic.

There were no records of the birth of Annie Parker so Jones had no way of calculating her age, but, he guessed she was maybe as old as fifty. Jones was only twenty-two so anyone over forty seemed old to him. Baldwin had appeared positively ancient!

The coffee was thick and black. Jones sipped it as the woman cut him a piece of pie and slid it over the table. She had thin gold wedding ring on her finger and beaded Indian bracelets around each of her wrists.

‘You look a little scrawny,’ she said with a hint of kindness. ‘Have some pie.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He munched the pie and sipped the coffee.

She watched him carefully. ‘What you after, son?’ she said after a moment.

‘Are you, Mrs Caldwell?’

‘And if I am?’

‘I was told that you perhaps had another name,’ Jones said slowly. ‘That you were Annie Parker.’

She sighed softly, moved away and stoked the fire. ‘Gets chilly when the sun starts to go. Maybe I feel it more in my bones now.’ She carefully hung the poker next to the fuel stove and sat at the table across from Jones. ‘Who told you that I was Annie Parker?’

‘Horace Baldwin. He was known as …’

‘Bullets,’ she finished quietly, staring at the rough tabletop. ‘Horace,’ she said with a smile. ‘He hated that name. How is he?’

‘I’m afraid he’s dying, ma’am. He’s got something wrong with his lungs …’

‘He used to smoke that foul tobacco, probably caused it,’ she said with a wistful smile.

‘Still smokes it, ma’am,’ Jones volunteered.

The woman chuckled for a moment until her face grew serious with a tinge of sadness. ‘Old Bullets dying. Then there’s nobody left.’

‘Except you,’ Jones said quietly.

She stared at the holstered gun and Jones was surprised to see her pull a thin handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dab at her eyes. ‘Bullets. What a fine man, a great man,’ she whispered.

They sat in a long silence as she stared at the wall. It was plain to Jones that she was somewhere else; perhaps lost in memories of another time, another place. Intuitively, he kept quiet. He didn’t want to break the spell.

After a time, she gathered herself and smiled at Jones. ‘I am Mrs Ann Caldwell, son.’

‘And were you also known as…’ Jones jumped in eagerly.

‘Yes,’ she sighed softly, ‘I was known as Annie Parker – Avenging Annie. Darn, I hated that nickname! I expect you want me to tell you that story?’

Jones rapidly pulled his notebook from his pocket. ‘Please, ma’am’ he stuttered. Was this really Avenging Annie Parker?

‘I’ll tell you, son,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll tell you the story of Avenging Annie but, you won’t believe it, no one will.’ Annie stood, walked over to the bureau and removed an old shawl and wrapped around her shoulders. Sitting, she stared at the gun belt looped over the mirror stand on the bureau. ‘You won’t believe it,’ Annie whispered again, to herself. ‘No one will and no newspaper will print it.’

‘I’m sure Mister Greeley will print it …’

‘Who?’ Annie asked swiftly.

‘My editor, Thomas Greeley. You were a folk hero … are a folk hero …’

‘Tommy Greeley? Well, well,’ she said with a small smile. ‘He’d be old now, wouldn’t he?’

Not as old as you, Jones felt like saying but realised it wouldn’t exactly be polite. Besides, he’d come all this way for a story and he was going to get it! ‘He’s getting on,’ Jones said diplomatically. ‘But he admires you. I expect he’ll want to print what you tell me.’

‘Admiration can be a dangerous emotion,’ Annie said quietly. ‘And I doubt he’ll want to print it.’ Annie shook her head slowly and pointed at his notepad. ‘But I’ll give you the chance. Might as well tell the true story before I shuffle off. You just write down everything I tell you, no questions until the end, agreed?’

Jones nodded.

They sat in silence for a long moment and then Annie took a deep breath and began.

I spend my whole life tellin’ lies

I was born Andrew Parker in New York and spent my early years in the harsh world of a Brooklyn orphanage.

At first, I had a natural curiosity and wondered what happened to my parents but, nobody seemed to know or even care what the truth was. It was a plain fact that whoever they were, my parents decided I wasn’t good enough for them. Just took off. Left me to look out for myself. That’s how I saw it, anyways. When pressed, the nuns reluctantly gave me the theories that my mother was a lady of the night who just left me as she had no use for me. Or, maybe, she died having me and my father was some drifter.

Either way, it really didn’t matter to me. You make do with the hand you’re dealt. I learned very quickly that only the tough and the ruthless survive in this world. And you should be quick-witted.

The world I was born into, kicking and screaming, and tried to make my way in, didn’t appear to be so darn good. Maybe it was a fine place long ago before folk started meddling and taking what they wanted. People fiddled with everything. The greedy started plundering while the strong destroyed the weak and the powerless. Sometimes I wonder what we’ve done with this gift the universe gave us, what we’ve done with this here world. Politicians full of greed and lies have twisted everything for their own short-term glory!

One night, I got to talking to one of the old men sleeping in the street outside the orphanage wall. He seemed to be full of book learning and he said politicians lie to everyone, even themselves. That was a new one to me so I asked what he meant. He said the politicians think because they’re Governor or President, they’re think they’re important. Fact is, people will forget them soon as they’re buried!  ‘In the grand scheme of things, they’re no more important than an ant, a tree or is probably more important than us!’ he said.

Whatever it was, those politicians strut around in their fine clothes, spouting all kind of fairy tales while this world of ours just goes down the gutter! I guess there ain’t no point worrying about things I can’t fix but it seems we just keep repeating mistakes, that we never learn.

People are supposed to be smart, the smartest around. I can’t see it. The way I see it folks fool themselves about that. In fact, we’re all pretty dumb!

Folk think we can control everything, but I’ve come to realise that things are not what they seem. No, they ain’t and that’s a fact! There are things around us that we’re just too blind to see. And too dumb to believe in.

Anyway, back to my tale.

The orphanage was hell! A desperate hole with bullies and fools preying on the weak! I wasn’t strong enough to fight back, so after my first three or four beatings, I figured I had to outsmart my enemies. I sure wasn’t going to be able to outfight them!

You see, I was small for my age and thin with a young face. Either I had boys wanting to beat me or do things to me, I thought, at the time, were unnatural.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew a little about the birds and the bees. I wasn’t completely innocent. But, I didn’t want to play unnatural games with some of the bigger boys who controlled the upper dormitories.

At fourteen, I broke out of the orphanage and took off as fast as my feet could take me. It was easy to get out. I think the nuns hoped that some of us would leave. Make it easier for them. Must have been God’s plan to let me slip through a window and over the wall.

It wasn’t easy to survive outside, but as I was small, I didn’t attract much attention. I managed to scrounge food and pick a few pockets for cash. I even tried a little begging but the police didn’t take kindly to that. They used to beat up any beggars they found. Luckily, I could run pretty fast!

I survived on those cold streets of New York for a while, but I couldn’t see me lasting. There had to be something better! At least, I hoped there was. One night, while I was fixing to pick pockets, I overheard some gentlemen talking about the opportunities out west. It seemed fortunes were being made every day! He said some of the streets were paved with gold!

After hearing that, I thought I should go west! I had a hankering to see a street paved with gold. I also heard another say everybody got a fresh start out west. Everybody could own a piece of land. Folk were all talking of a better world out west and I was all for a better world! The one I was in was closer to Hell and nothing no Indian or wild animal could throw at me would even come close to that!

So, I thought I’d try this fresh start everyone was talking about, see if it would work for me. I didn’t know then just how fresh my new start was going to be!

So, I headed west. For the next year or so, I drifted west through one city after another. I was making do begging and picking pockets. One day, on the banks of the Mississippi River, I tried to pick the wrong pocket. Maybe, because of how things turned out, it was the right pocket!

Hungry, I spied a man standing at the river boat wharf. He stood out because he was wearing a smart suit and silver waistcoat. He had money and I wanted to get me some of that!  I made my move and accidentally bumped into him! Quick as a flash, I slipped my small hand into his waistcoat pocket searching for his watch but just as quick he seized my wrist with a grip like a vice.

‘What have we got here?’ said the man. He hoisted me up by my hand and dangled me like I was a fish he had just caught! ‘We’ve got ourselves a little pickpocket artist,’ he boomed. I tried to squirm free but, he held fast, looking down at me with twinkling eyes.

‘Let me go!’ I cried. I tried to kick his leg and he just laughed, spinning me around by my hand, casually gripping my wrist so tightly, it hurt!

The woman with him, twirling her parasol, looked bored. ‘Earl …,’ she said, ‘… give the little pest to the sheriff and let’s go. The riverboat is boarding!’ As if to underline her words, there was a hoot from the riverboat as thick smoke burst from its twin funnels. A black man in uniform was ringing a hand bell and yelling for passengers to board.

‘Just wait, Dolly, this little pickpocket has my interest. Where you from?’ My captor asked as he peered down at me. ‘You a boy or a girl?’

‘Go fuck yourself!’ I hissed and tried to pry my hand loose.

He laughed at that, really laughed! With effortless strength, he lifted me up higher, placing me on the upper level of the wharf. Desperately, I looked around as he let my hand go, ready to run, but his next words chilled me. ‘Take a step, and I’ll drop you dead before you can move. Boy or girl, it don’t matter to me.’

I didn’t move. It wasn’t the words; it was the way he said it! Flat, cold and completely without any feeling at all! He was just stating a fact, like folk would say, The sky is blue.

I looked down and saw a small pistol, those small sleeve jobs gamblers like, peeking from his lace cuff. I knew this riverboat gambler would kill me without a thought. I stayed put, rubbing my wrist where he had grabbed me.

‘Earl!’ the woman whined. ‘Can we go? I want to get out of these stays! My feet are killing me as well!’

‘Shut it, Dolly,’ he said without taking his eyes from me and she closed her mouth with a short sigh. ‘I think I asked you a question,’ he said, those pale blue eyes chilling me. ‘Where you from?’

‘Brooklyn,’ I said softly.

He smiled at that. ‘That’s better, young ‘un. You pick pockets for a pimp or you on your own?’

‘My own,’ I said sullenly.

‘You got family?’

I shook my head. ‘Orphan.’

His eyes softened at that and he grinned. ‘There’s a coincidence! The world’s an oyster for orphans, young ‘un, we don’t carry baggage or scruples.’ He winked and the pistol nose vanished up his sleeve. ‘I have a proposition for a smart whippersnapper such as yourself.’

He had my attention despite my natural urge to run. ‘What’s a proposition?’

He chuckled at that. ‘It’s a deal you and I will come to. I can give you a roof over your head, good food and I’ll even spring for some clothes.’

‘What for?’ I demanded suspiciously. ‘I ain’t interested in doing unnatural things, mister…’

He laughed loudly at that and then calmly cuffed me around the ears. ‘It’s aren’t, not ain’t!’ He leaned down and conspiratorially whispered, ‘The only things I like doing, young un’ are with grown women! And that isn’t unnatural! Earl straightened up as Dolly shifted from foot to foot and glowered sulkily at him. ‘You interested, young ‘un?’ Earl asked.

‘What do I have to do?’

‘I’ll teach you, but it involves cards not naked skin! Are you on, young ‘un?’

What did I have to lose? I had no way out of the town and nowhere to stay. And I’d never been on a riverboat. I made my mind up. ‘All right,’ I said, softly.

He hoisted me down onto the lower level, slipped his arm around Dolly while propelling me forward. He handed tickets with a flourish to the dour crewmember at the gangplank and then slipped him some notes to pay for his ‘young ‘un’.

‘Why’d you bring that?’ Dolly demanded the moment we were in the cabin, gesturing at me, her eyes narrowed. ‘We don’t need no pest bothering us!’

‘Now, Dolly,’ he soothed, putting his arms around her, kissing her throat. ‘You know me, always planning. The other players might be suspicious of a young beautiful woman such as yourself looking at their cards but not a child.’ Dolly preened at that and smiled coquettishly.

‘I ain’t no child!’ I said defiantly. ‘I’m nearly sixteen.’

‘So you say. Tell me, Dolly,’ Earl said without taking his eyes from me, ‘Do you think our friend here is a boy or a girl?’

Dolly looked me up and down. ‘Could be either,’ she shrugged. ‘Either a she or a pretty boy. I’d say a girl.’

‘I’m a boy!’ I protested, wondering what the hell they were rambling on about.

‘Prove it!’

‘What? I stuttered.

‘Drop your britches and let’s see,’ Earl said with a laugh. Even Dolly smirked at that.

I pointed at Dolly. ‘In front of her?’

That made Earl laugh even harder. ‘She’s seen a man’s working goods before, though you’re hardly a man. But I take your point,’ he said grandly. ‘Folk can’t drop their britches if they haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Earl Waterston and this is the famous singer, Dolly Jardine!’

Dolly bobbed and said, with a grin, ‘Charmed I’m sure.’

‘Now that the pleasantries are over, drop them,’ Earl said in a voice that was suddenly loaded with menace.

‘We don’t want some whiney little bitch messing our hand, Earl,’ Dolly said suddenly, watching.

‘You just don’t want competition,’ Earl said with a grin, watching me as I undid my belt.

My face was red as I dropped my trousers and Earl whistled softly. ‘What do you know; a boy after all.’

Dolly shrugged. ‘A small pretty boy,’ she said. She now sounded bored again. I figured out later she didn’t see me as competition.

‘Pull your britches up, son,’ Earl said. ‘We’re going to make money, you mark my words.’

Well, I watched him make a lot of money. In fact, I helped him make it! I sat in the corner, looking dull and stupid while Earl Waterston played poker.

Of course, he positioned me where I could watch the reflection in the engraved glass of the cabin door. I saw enough to be able to scratch my right ear if there was a pair of aces or more in a hand, left ear for the flush and so on.

Nobody suspected me. My stomach was full every day. I wore smart clothes bought by Waterston at one of the stops downriver and I had a bed every night. Earl taught me cards and some of the sly tricks he used to make sure he always won.

‘You have promise,’ he said one day. ‘It’s a pity you’re not a girl because you could charm the rubes while you fleeced them. It’s easier to relieve a starry-eyed rube of their poke.’

Even Dolly put up with me. However, she insisted I was always kicked out of the cabin when Earl wanted to partake of her womanly virtues. Well, that’s the way Earl said it. That meant I spent most nights wandering the decks of the riverboat until Earl was snoring with a satisfied smile on his big face and Dolly was staring at the ceiling.

We travelled up and down the Mississippi for nearly a year and everything was fine, until I saw Earl kill a man. There was liquor involved, of course. Earl always pretended to drink but never did, though. The sour faced man with his grey hair in a single long plait was drunk and called Earl a cheat! Everyone backed away! Things happened quickly. In fact, it was a blur! The man drew but he wasn’t fast enough and Earl shot him through the heart.

It was the first time I saw a man die. I’d seen dead people before. Many people died of hunger in the streets of New York, or, of cold in the winter, but this was the first time I saw life leave a man. The fact it was just over a game of cards made me sick. Earl, however, just sat back down and casually asked what the last call was and who had the deal.

That made me even sicker. But it also made me realise my life would probably be short around Earl! I suddenly knew Earl would grow tired of me one day. Maybe see me as competition or start to worry about how much I knew about what he was doing. He also had a temper and I knew that one day that temper would get the better of him. Then, I would be history. It didn’t matter what it was but Early would come to the notion I had to go. Then, he’d kill me without a thought.

Once I began to think that way, I began to feel jumpy around Earl. I couldn’t take him standing behind me.  I decided it was time to move on.

I ran away one night when the riverboat stopped to pull on supplies. I left with nothing, but the clothes Earl had bought me, a bag with some clothes and some money I light fingered from Earl’s belongings. There were no goodbyes. I didn’t think Earl would welcome me clearing out on him like that, especially since I had some of his poke.

I headed north and got by for a few months without trouble, until I had my bag stolen one night. The rascals chased me through the streets but, I was too fast and hid in a small carriage. They ran past but they got my darn bag!

It didn’t matter to me. There had been times when I had nothing at all so, I knew I would survive.

I found a family that was moving west to join up with a wagon train. After making sad eyes at the mother, telling her I was an orphan, they took pity on me. The mother, Mrs Hallstead, kept telling me I was too thin and too slight, that I wouldn’t survive unless I put some meat on my bones. She went on and on but I didn’t say nothing. Just nodded and kept eating.

I can tell you, she was a fine cook and nice enough person. Before then, I hadn’t struck anyone that did things just to be kind. It seemed strange to me and I tried to figure it out. Mrs Halstead was pure kind to me and didn’t seem to want anything from me. It seemed she enjoyed looking after me. Hell, let her, I thought at the time, if she wants to be a fool.

Mrs Hallstead used to look at me oddly sometimes. Whenever I saw that look, I wondered if she was about to say something. However, she never did. I didn’t pay much mind to it but later, I understood what had been going through her mind.

We arrived at the gathering place for the wagon train. I had never seen anything like it! All the wagons spread over the meadow with everyone excited and preparing for the big trek.

I had no idea where the wagon train was going. I hoped it was going to California. I didn’t really care. All I wanted was to get a long way from New York! And especially, a long way from the Mississippi and Earl. I knew if Earl ever saw me again, he’d kill me on the spot! It was strange when he did see me next, he didn’t even recognise me. That’s a long way down the path of this here story!

All the wagons were heavily laden and there was no room for anyone except the driver. Everyone else had to walk beside the wagons. I tended to walk with the women folk as the men made it clear that they had no time for me. They didn’t like me being with them as I was not big enough to help them. Some unkindly men referred to me as the runt. Some were downright rude while others seemed uncomfortable when I was around.

I didn’t bother to try to figure out what bee these yokels had in their bonnets! If they didn’t want me to walk with them, that was fine by me! I didn’t mind being with the women though. At least they treated me kindly. They called me Andy instead of the names some of the men used. They were also happy to talk to me. They seemed to chat about everything and anything. With the men, I was lucky to get a grunt and spit of chewing tobacco. They also eyed me up and down. It was like they didn’t like what they saw.

One evening, I was wandering through the wagons after supper and I came on a man sitting on the ground. He was tall and leaned against a wagon wheel while oiling his pistol. He looked up and nodded to me, his eyes running over me. I was wearing different clothes from the others. I was still wearing the shirt and pants I had when I ran away from Earl. They were once smart but now, not as sparkling and fresh as they were back on the riverboats.  Earl always bought clothes a little too big for me. He said he didn’t want me to grow out of them too quickly. So the shirt and pants were baggy and big, The hat sat right down on my head but I didn’t mind too much because I could tuck my hair right up inside it. Like a lot of menfolk, I wore my hair long as, if I got money, I’d rather spend it on food than some fool barber.

Warily, I nodded hello in return.to him

‘I’ve seen you,’ he said, gently rubbing the shining pistol with a cloth, ‘Walking with the women.’

I didn’t like the way he said that, like he was inferring something. I said defiantly, ‘I walk, that’s all, like all folk.’

He grinned. ‘Yes sir, and that’s a fact.’ I watched him unhurriedly load the pistol, taking the bullets from the worn leather gun belt. ‘Where you heading?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Is that your folks you with?’

‘Nope.’

‘Just hitching a ride, eh?’ I nodded. He slipped the pistol into his holster and stood up. ‘You running from something?’

Was I running? I suppose I was, from New York and from Earl Waterston, from everything. ‘Yep,’ I answered, surprising myself by telling the truth.

‘I suppose we all are. I’m Wyatt.’

For a moment, I hesitated, wondering if I should give him a false name but decided to tell the truth again. While I thought it through, he watched me. ‘Andy,’ I said at last.

‘Took a while to think of that,’ he said with a grin. ‘But that’ll do.’

And so, Wyatt and I used to spend a little time together as the wagon train slowly crossed the territory. Sometimes, Wyatt would pull me up onto his horse and we’d ride out where he’d practise with his six shooters. He blazed away at targets and then asked me if I wanted to learn.

Of course, I nodded excitedly. Maybe, I