Read Online Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality: The Complete Novels Wild Angel and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell by Pat Murphy - Free Book Online
Authors: Pat Murphy
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men killed without warning; men killed at a distance. She had seen this happen twice. She understood it now.
She got away for one simple reason: Socks did not sleep with his boots on. He had learned, in his first year of trapping, that his feet stayed warmer at night if he took off his boots, took off the socks that he had worn all day, and put on a pair of wool socks. His mother had knit those socks for him before he had left for St. Louis, and he had promised to wear them to keep his feet warm at night.
He had kept his promise, and when the socks his mother had lovingly knit for him wore out, he purchased another pair and continued the same routine. This routine was, of course, the reason for his nickname. In the community of mountain men, where bathing more than twice a year could get you a reputation as a dandy, Michael Day’s nightly changing of socks seemed the ultimate in fastidiousness. Each night, he put on sleeping socks; each morning, he put on his ordinary socks, which he washed every few weeks.
When Socks crawled from his bedroll to go to the rescue (or so he thought) of the little girl he stopped to change his socks and pull his boots on, giving Sarah a significant head start. There wasn’t a terrible rush, he reckoned. The wolf was dead. The little girl would recognize him as her savior and come when he called. So he could take a moment to put on his boots.
But the little girl didn’t come when he called. The wolf was dead, sure enough. A clean shot through the eye; a damn fine shot, he thought. But the little girl was gone. Vanished, leaving behind the prints of her moccasined feet in the sand by the lake.
Socks followed the little girl’s trail up the slope for a bit. He found sign of other wolves: tracks, tufts of fur in the grass where wolves had been sleeping, the gnawed bones of a deer kill. It looked like the little girl had run right to where the wolves were sleeping, but there was no indication that the animals had attacked her.
He followed her trail a little farther, calling as he went. “Rallo! Rallo! Little girl! Come back!”
She didn’t come back. He lost her trail on a granite slope and could not find it again. He spent a day by the lake, searching for the little girl without success. Then he packed the venison on his two mules and headed to Downieville, the nearest large town, to sell his meat and tell his tale.
Jasper Davis was having lunch at Downieville’s Lucky Dog Saloon. The primary purpose of this thriving establishment was to relieve miners of their gold while providing them with food, alcoholic beverages, and entertainment (in the form of gambling).
Jasper had provided half the capital for the establishment of the saloon and now he was entitled to half the profits. For Jasper, this had proven an extremely profitable investment. He was well on the way to becoming a prosperous businessman, and that was quite useful. Once he was known to have a successful business, no one would question his free-spending ways.
“I’d recommend the venison steak.” Samuel, Jasper’s partner and the man who managed the saloon’s day-to-day operation, pulled up a chair and sat down at Jasper’s table. “A mountain man just came down from the high country. Had venison to sell and a crazy story to tell.”
“What sort of story?”
“Claims he saw a little white girl romping around by a lake in the high country. Just a slip of a girl, wearing nothing but a petticoat. Claims he saw a wolf stalking her. He shot the wolf—has the skin to prove that—but the little girl ran away and vanished in the woods.”
Jasper frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this. “Probably just an Indian brat.”
Samuel shrugged. “That’s what I said. But he says this child had a head of curly red hair and the face of an angel. He swears that she was no Indian. I think maybe he’s been in the hills too long.” Samuel jerked his head toward the bar. “That’s the fellow. Goes by the name of
She got away for one simple reason: Socks did not sleep with his boots on. He had learned, in his first year of trapping, that his feet stayed warmer at night if he took off his boots, took off the socks that he had worn all day, and put on a pair of wool socks. His mother had knit those socks for him before he had left for St. Louis, and he had promised to wear them to keep his feet warm at night.
He had kept his promise, and when the socks his mother had lovingly knit for him wore out, he purchased another pair and continued the same routine. This routine was, of course, the reason for his nickname. In the community of mountain men, where bathing more than twice a year could get you a reputation as a dandy, Michael Day’s nightly changing of socks seemed the ultimate in fastidiousness. Each night, he put on sleeping socks; each morning, he put on his ordinary socks, which he washed every few weeks.
When Socks crawled from his bedroll to go to the rescue (or so he thought) of the little girl he stopped to change his socks and pull his boots on, giving Sarah a significant head start. There wasn’t a terrible rush, he reckoned. The wolf was dead. The little girl would recognize him as her savior and come when he called. So he could take a moment to put on his boots.
But the little girl didn’t come when he called. The wolf was dead, sure enough. A clean shot through the eye; a damn fine shot, he thought. But the little girl was gone. Vanished, leaving behind the prints of her moccasined feet in the sand by the lake.
Socks followed the little girl’s trail up the slope for a bit. He found sign of other wolves: tracks, tufts of fur in the grass where wolves had been sleeping, the gnawed bones of a deer kill. It looked like the little girl had run right to where the wolves were sleeping, but there was no indication that the animals had attacked her.
He followed her trail a little farther, calling as he went. “Rallo! Rallo! Little girl! Come back!”
She didn’t come back. He lost her trail on a granite slope and could not find it again. He spent a day by the lake, searching for the little girl without success. Then he packed the venison on his two mules and headed to Downieville, the nearest large town, to sell his meat and tell his tale.
Jasper Davis was having lunch at Downieville’s Lucky Dog Saloon. The primary purpose of this thriving establishment was to relieve miners of their gold while providing them with food, alcoholic beverages, and entertainment (in the form of gambling).
Jasper had provided half the capital for the establishment of the saloon and now he was entitled to half the profits. For Jasper, this had proven an extremely profitable investment. He was well on the way to becoming a prosperous businessman, and that was quite useful. Once he was known to have a successful business, no one would question his free-spending ways.
“I’d recommend the venison steak.” Samuel, Jasper’s partner and the man who managed the saloon’s day-to-day operation, pulled up a chair and sat down at Jasper’s table. “A mountain man just came down from the high country. Had venison to sell and a crazy story to tell.”
“What sort of story?”
“Claims he saw a little white girl romping around by a lake in the high country. Just a slip of a girl, wearing nothing but a petticoat. Claims he saw a wolf stalking her. He shot the wolf—has the skin to prove that—but the little girl ran away and vanished in the woods.”
Jasper frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this. “Probably just an Indian brat.”
Samuel shrugged. “That’s what I said. But he says this child had a head of curly red hair and the face of an angel. He swears that she was no Indian. I think maybe he’s been in the hills too long.” Samuel jerked his head toward the bar. “That’s the fellow. Goes by the name of
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