A Lady Like Sarah

by Margaret Brownley

  In the distance, a dog barked. Music drifted out of one of the many saloons that dotted the town.

  An Indian dressed in buckskin pants and fringed shirt loaded crates filled with goods onto the back of a government issued wagon. A Mexican youth wearing loose cotton pants, shirt, and sombrero chased a squawking hen down the middle of the street. A lanky boy spun a ring with a stick. The scabless spots on his skin revealed a recent bout with measles.

  Inside the hotel lobby, a clerk stood behind a high counter. He looked up as she approached, his brass-framed spectacles making his eyes appear larger than normal. His mustache twitched as she approached the desk.

  "I'm looking for someone by the name of Cooper," she said. It was the name George used when checking into hotels.

  The myopic clerk lowered his head until his beaklike nose practically touched the registration book. "No one by that name has checked in."

  Surprised, she wondered if he could see enough to read the names even up close, but not wanting to offend him, she accepted his word. She wasn't all that anxious to deal with her brothers and was perfectly willing to wait till after she'd had a good night's sleep to do so.

  She paid for a room and bath and signed herself in as Sarah Cooper. She dragged herself up the narrow stairway and found her room at the end of the hall.

  A young Mexican chambermaid with long black hair and a shy smile brought her a tin bathtub and filled it with cold water. She handed Sarah a threadbare towel and a half bar of lye soap.

  "Gracias," Sarah said.

  The maid gave a quick smile and left.

  Sarah scrubbed herself from head to toe, washing away every last bit of road dust until her skin was rosy pink. Then she washed out her clothes and arranged them over the windowsill to dry. Afterward, she threw herself on the bed and, despite the paper-thin mattress and rowdy noise rising from the street below, slept all night.

  The next morning, she stopped at the desk to inquire about her brothers.

  "No other Cooper has checked in," the clerk said, nose parked on the registration book.

  Yesterday, she hadn't given the matter much thought, but in the light of day, their absence worried her. Following George's orders to lay low, she started for the stairs, but she was hungry and the thought of waiting in the stifling hot room for her brothers was more than she could bear.

  She turned and headed back to the desk. "Where's the best place to eat?"

  "Maude West's place is the best, but the whole building has been quarantined due to measles. You might try Mrs. Berry's Inn. It's right next door to the First National Bank."

  Leaving the hotel, she walked to Garrison Street. Without boardwalks, it was all she could do to keep from being run over by the many carriages, shays, and buckboards that vied for space.

  Dressed in baggy pants and shirt, her hat pulled low and hair tucked out of sight, she doubted that anyone would know she was a woman. Still, she wasn't about to get careless and her eyes were in constant motion. Some businesses were closed, the black wreaths in the window indicating recent deaths in the family. Other shops had a sign on the door that read Quarantined.

  On several occasions she thought she saw Justin, only to discover upon closer observation that each man in question looked nothing like him. By the time she reached the inn, she was shaking. She kept her identity as a woman hidden by pointing to the menu, but when her order came, she found she had little appetite.

  Sitting by the wavy paned window, she watched a pale young woman walk by pushing an empty baby pram. Black ribbons fluttered from the handlebars and Sarah's heart ached. Thank God, Justin insisted upon keeping Elizabeth away from this town.

  She saw a man lovingly helping a woman into the stagecoach, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears.

  Her spirits low, she started back toward the hotel. Hearing church bells, she thought of Justin. On impulse, she followed the musical chimes to the Lost and Found Church.

  The double doors were unlocked, so she peered inside. The church was empty except for a cat that ran between her legs and disappeared in nearby bushes when she opened the door.

  On impulse, she entered the church. She hadn't been inside a place of worship since her mama's funeral. The church was similar to the one she remembered from her childhood. Surprised to find that the stained-glass windows and rigid pews seemed less intimidating to her now that she was an adult, she walked down the middle aisle.

  A voice from behind startled her. "You know you're not supposed to be outside." She spun around to face the owner of the voice, an elderly man dressed in black, talking to a gray cat in his arms. Blue eyes regarded her from a wrinkled but kind face.

  "I let the cat out," she said. "I'm sorry—"

  "It's not your fault. The fool cat doesn't know what's good for him. If he stayed in church, he would be safe. But he keeps wandering away, just like some people I know. Almost got run over by a wagon last week." He set the cat on the floor. "By the way, my name is Reverend Hotchkins," he said. "And you are?"

  "Sarah . . . C-cooper," she stammered. Thinking there might be a rule about lying in church, she glanced up to make sure the ceiling and walls were still intact and not about to fall on her.

  If the kindly preacher noticed her hesitation or suspected she was lying about her name, he kept it to himself.

  "When a young woman comes to church between Sundays, it usually means one of two things. Either she wants to book the church for her wedding, or she's in a whole peck of trouble." He studied her. "I guess the latter. Am I right?"

  She nodded.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "I can't," she said.

  "That bad, eh?"

  "God and me . . . we ain't always been on friendly terms."

  "Just because you wandered away from church is no reason to think God's not looking out for you. Isn't that right, Jeremiah?"

  She smiled. "Your cat's name is in the Bible," she said.

  The old preacher's eyes crinkled. "Maybe you aren't as lost as you think you are."

  She stared at him in confusion. "I never said I was lost."

  "I figured there was a reason you came to Lost and Found."

  "I heard the church b-bells," she stammered. The preacher with his keen insights unnerved her. "I best be going." Anxious to make her escape, she started up the aisle.

  Reverend Hotchkins scooped the cat up with one hand and stepped aside to let her pass. "Follow the signs," he called after her.

  Her hand on the ornate handle of the heavy door, Sarah glanced over her shoulder. "Signs?"

  "God is leading the way. You just have to follow the signs."

  She paused outside the church, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the glare of the sun. Dodging around a horse-drawn hearse blocking the road, she headed for the hotel.

  On the outer wall of a bank were colorful posters proclaiming the fall arrival of Barnum's Greatest Show on Earth and promising a "more extensive, expensive, and wonderful circus, hippodrome, and menagerie than has ever before been seen in this country."

  Next to it a smaller poster announced the first Sebastian County Fair. The smaller print read: The opening address will be given by Judge Parker.

  Just reading the name of the hanging judge sent shivers down her spine. Moving away from the bank, her eyes inadvertently lit upon a wanted poster tacked to a nearby post.

  Stopping in her tracks, she stared at the yellow placard in horror. Bold, dark type read:

  Wanted

  Sarah Prescott

  Reward: 500 dollars in gold coin.

  Heart pounding, she glanced around. She'd seen wanted posters for her brothers but never one for herself.

  Until today.

  She ripped the notice away from its pinnings and read the small print at the bottom:

  Suspect was last seen wearing canvas pants, slouch hat, and red leather boots.

  The sketch wasn't a good likeness, but the description was accurate.

  Whipping
off her hat, she let her hair fall loosely to her shoulders. But there wasn't anything to be done about her pants or boots.

  She crumpled the notice in her hands and stuffed it in her pocket. Suddenly it seemed that every man and woman was looking straight at her.

  Though the sun beat down with unforgiving heat, she shivered. The busy street that had moments earlier wrapped her in anonymity now lurked with danger.

  Could the man in a long black coat and gray pants be a Wells Fargo agent? Were the two men dressed in brown and wearing plug hats Pinkerton detectives? And what about the tall, broad-shouldered man with the tawny mustache and goatee? Could that possibly be Judge Parker himself?

  Feeling trapped, she glanced up and down the busy street. She spotted what surely was a marshal heading her way and quickly ducked through the door of the nearest open shop. A jangle of bells and the smell of sweet lavender greeted her.

  Satisfied that no one had followed her, she glanced around the tiny, cramped shop. Rough wood shelves piled high with bolts of fabric lined the walls on both sides. On the back wall, spools of thread dangled from little wooden pegs, interspersed with trails of colorful ribbons and delicate lace.

  A woman with hips wide as a depot stove bent over the counter, her graying hair a mass of spring-tight curls. A sign read Mrs. Springlock's Dry Goods. If the tightly curled hair was any indication, the woman could be no other than the proprietor herself.

  "May I help you?" she mumbled through a mouth full of pins. Judging from the look of disapproval on her matronly face as she stared at Sarah's tousled red hair, she didn't much relish the thought.

  Sarah stood behind a stack of fabric bolts to hide her canvas pants from the woman's prying eyes. "Just lookin'," she said.

  Then she saw something that practically made her knees buckle beneath the heaviness of her heart. A dress similar to the one Justin had salvaged from the ill-fated wagon train hung from a nearby hook. But it was the color that tore at her soul and caused her heart to squeeze in anguish. It was the exact same blue as the dress ravished by locusts.

  The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder and cuffs, and edged with blue satin ribbon. The pleats on the fitted bodice hid a row of fine china buttons.

  She regretted not trying the first dress on for Justin. She regretted a lot of things.

  She pulled the dress off the wooden hanger and held it in front of her to hide her masculine attire from the woman in back. Her appearance in the mirror shocked her. For the longest while all she could do was stare at the unfamiliar image of herself. If this wasn't an answer to a prayer, she didn't know what was. The old preacher had told her to watch for signs.

  But a wanted poster?A sign from God?

  Shaken by the thought, she called, "Is this dress for sale?"

  Mrs. Springlock hesitated as if to decide how she wanted to answer the question. "For a price," she said finally through stiffened lips. She pulled the pins one by one out of her mouth and jabbed them into the hem of a woolen cape.

  "A price, eh?"

  The shopkeeper pulled the last of the pins from her mouth. "I only sell to women of discriminating taste."

  "Well, I'll be," Sarah said, unable to believe her good fortune. "Then I'm the person you're lookin' for. I'm 'bout as incriminatin' as you can get."

  Sarah undid her gun belt and laid it next to a bolt of dark chambray. The woman's mouth fell open, and her face turned white as baker's dough.

  Sarah, not wishing to frighten her, quickly tried to reassure her. "Don't you go worryin' none, you hear? I know how to use it. Why, I once shot a cigar out of a man's mouth from thirty yards away."

  Mrs. Springlock's eyes bulged like the yolks of two fried eggs. Taking this as a sign that the seamstress was duly impressed with her skill as a marksman, Sarah pulled off her clothes right in the middle of the store. But before she had a chance to tug the dress down over her head, the proprietor rounded the counter and gasped.

  "Oh my!" Mrs. Springlock exclaimed, her hands flying to her chest. Her curls bounced up and down like broken mattress springs. "What a disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourself."

  At first Sarah thought the fool woman was still fretting over the gun, but then she noticed the seamstress staring openly at her unmentionables—or rather lack of them.

  The way the women carried on, you'd think not wearing undergarments was as foolhardy as walking around without a weapon.

  Ignoring the woman's scandalized gasps, Sarah slid the dress over her head and pushed her arms into the sleeves. She stood before the full-length mirror to work the tiny buttons into the holes. She viewed herself from every angle. Never before had she known the luxury of a full-length mirror.

  "Will you look at that? I can see myself comin' and goin'." She lifted the hem of the skirt and wrinkled her brow. "I'd have to grow another coupla feet for this dress to fit. Are your incriminatin' customers really so tall?"

  Mrs. Springlock gave a haughty sniff. "The skirt is designed to be worn over three petticoats."

  "Three?" Sarah wasn't sure she heard right. It seemed like a waste to wear three of anything. "I ain't owned a single petticoat in my life," she admitted.

  Robert had given her money, but she hadn't planned on purchasing anything so frivolous as a dress, let alone a petticoat. She didn't feel right about spending stolen money. The truth was that she never did. She hated watching her brothers throw money around on gambling and other vices. Though George offered to buy her pretty things, she never took one penny more than she needed for bare necessities. Now, however, it seemed like she had no other choice.

  "Where money's concerned, I've always been a tight spitter," she explained, twisting and turning. She debated what to do. Finally, the vision of herself in the mirror was simply too much of a temptation to pass up.

  "I'll take three of those there petticoats. If I'm gonna buy me a dress, I might as well go whole hog."

  While Sarah worked the ruffled layers under her dress, the seamstress hovered nervously, wringing her hands and casting anxious glances at the door as if she feared the arrival of other customers.

  "You don't understand. My dresses are designed for ladies."

  "Don't surprise me none," Sarah replied. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, wishing with all her heart that a certain handsome preacher could see her now. "If this ain't a miracle!" she announced, feeling suddenly lighthearted. "I'm a full-fledged lady!"

  The woman stood staring at her with hands placed firmly on her wide hips. "Not with that hair, you're not."

  Sarah touched the unruly mass with her hand and frowned in dismay. "It's the only hair I've got."

  Mrs. Springlock's face softened as if she suddenly felt sorry for her. "Come in back. I'll see what I can do."

  Sarah followed her through a narrow door to a room that was even more cramped than the one in front. She stood before a beveled glass mirror while the proprietor brushed her hair back and created smooth curls with a flame-heated curling rod. After a while, the older woman stepped back and nodded approvingly at her own work.

  "You clean up mighty nice," she said.

  Sarah turned her head from side to another. "Looks like I've got me a head full of sausages," she said, grinning.

  Mrs. Springlock smiled back at her.

  Sarah walked around the room, testing the feel of soft fabric around her ankles. She never felt anything quite like it. "It's gonna take some gettin' used to."

  "If you want to be a lady, you best stop walking like a man."

  Sarah stopped midstep. "It's the only walk I got."

  "Nonsense. You just need to work on it. Take small, dainty steps." Mrs. Springlock demonstrated, her bulky hips swaying like an old mule's rump.

  Sarah tried her best to imitate the woman. "I feel like a hog on a saddle," she said, describing her discomfort.

  The woman stared at Sarah's feet. "It would help if you wore decent footwear. Those boots—"

  "I ain't parting with my boots," Sarah said. The hem
of the dress nearly reached the floor, hiding most if not all of her boots.

  Mrs. Springlock made a face. "If you want to be a lady, you must refrain from using the word 'ain't.' It's a contraction that should be avoided at all costs. The correct terms are 'am not,' 'is not,' 'have not,' or 'are not.'"

  "Whoa!" Sarah's head spun. "That's a whole lot of 'nots' I'm gonna have to remember. If you need that many words to replace 'ain't,' then lady talk sure ain't. . . am not. . . efficient."

  "Is not," Mrs. Springlock said sharply. "Isn't efficient."

  Sarah sighed. She wasn't sure that she would ever learn to walk and talk like a lady, but she sure did look like one. Justin said that no one would hang a lady, and she wanted so much to believe he was right.

  She stood staring at herself in the mirror for the longest while. Was the color of the dress purely coincidence—or something else?

  Watch for signs, the old preacher had said. But what if she was reading them all wrong? Still. . .

  She closed her eyes. Dare she take a chance? She'd told

  Justin that faith was enough for him, but would it be enough for her?

  Heart pounding, she finally made up her mind. She pulled her wad of money out of her overall pocket with shaky hands and paid for the dress and unmentionables.

  Then she buckled her gun belt around her middle.

  Mrs. Springlock stared down her considerable nose. "A lady doesn't wear a gun belt," she sniffed.

  "This lady does," Sarah said. Talking and walking like a lady was one thing, but giving up her weapon and boots was where she drew the line. She pushed the remaining money into the pocket of her dress.1

  "What's the fastest way to get to Rocky Creek?"

  Mrs. Springlock put the cash into her money box and handed Sarah her change. "Take the ferry across the river and catch the train to Texarkana. From there you can take a stage to Texas."

  Sarah thanked her, took a deep breath to brace herself, and left the shop.