“My name’s Calverson,” the man said, standing and extending his hand. “I’m a prospector by trade. What is you boys’ occupation?” When he stood his coat parted, and the double-action Starr revolver holstered at his waist became visible.

“Didn’t say,” Ditch repeated. Neither he nor Pritchard shook Calverson’s offered hand.

“Tell me, Mr. Calverson,” Pritchard said. “Why is that young lady on a tether?”

“Her?” he said. “That there’s Missy. That’s what I call her, anyway. Don’t know her given name. She belongs to me.”

“How’d that come to be?”

“Won her in a card game in Hot Springs, a couple of weeks back. Real accommodating young girl, if you know what I mean. Which reminds me, if either of you fellows are in a sporting mood, I could be persuaded to allow you a poke for say, two dollars each. She looks a bit rough, but trust me, she’s a young, spirited gal. She’ll let you have her front, back, and sideways, if that’s your inclination. Worth every penny of two dollars, I can assure you.”

“Seems to me,” Pritchard said, “the need to keep her tethered would suggest she’s not as accommodating as you advertise.”

“She’ll be as accommodating as you want,” Calverson said. “You’ll get your two dollars’ worth, I can promise you that.”

“Sounds like you know from personal experience?”

“Can’t very well recommend something I haven’t tried myself, can I?”

“I thought you said you were a prospector,” Pritchard said. “Sounds to me like you’re a pimp.”

“A man does what he has to,” Calverson said, his expression hardening. “How old are you boys, anyway?”

“Old enough,” Pritchard said. Ditch watched apprehensively as the familiar shadow began to fall over his friend’s eyes.

“Here’s your stew,” the shopkeeper announced, entering with a wooden tray and two bowls.

“Fetch another bowl,” Pritchard told him, “for the lady.”

“Now, hold on a minute,” Calverson said. “I don’t recall Missy saying she was hungry.”

“She’s hungry, all right,” Pritchard said. “She looks like she hasn’t eaten in a week.”

“I suppose I could let you feed her,” Calverson said, scratching his chin, “if that would entertain you. But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“Two dollars.”

“You’re going to charge me two dollars to feed a starving child a nickel’s worth of hog soup?”

“You have to pay for the pleasure of her company,” Calverson said. “Whether you dance with her, poke her, or feed her. It’s all the same to me. Two dollars is the going rate.”

“I’ll make you a better offer,” Pritchard said. “How about you untie her, allow her to sit at the table like a human being, and eat a bowl of hot stew? In exchange, I’ll let you keep on breathing.”