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"I haven’t been on them."

"Ah. Well, ma’am, they have quite a reputation, and it an’t a good one. I myself feel that when we send these folks off, we are sending them into the wilderness. And I can’t speak for the drivers, either. Most of them carry their kegs of highly rectified whiskey with them, within easy reach." He leaned over the desk to me. "Good deal of fighting along the way, ma’am. That’s what we hear. Of course, you can go west."

"West!"

"Yes, ma’am. There’s plenty of room going west to Kansas City, and you can get passage there. You’d think the steamboats would stay away, but they are drawn to it! And the passage is very high now. Twenty dollars or more."

"Twenty dollars! It was twelve, and before that it was eight."

"War is surely a good opportunity, ma’am."

"How much is the stage to Kansas City?"

"Ten dollars, ma’am."

"I have a gal."

"She can ride on top for eight, walk alongside and get up from time to time for four."

"She can walk alongside the stage for four dollars?"

"Yes, ma’am. The driver will allow her to get up four times for ten minutes a time, by his pocket watch."

"That’s—"

"That’s what the market will bear, ma’am." He gave me a cheerful smile and stuck his pencil behind his ear, probably pondering the cascade of money pouring through Independence now that would surely at least trickle in his direction.

Lorna, I have to say, was less than astonished by my report. All she said was, "Den we have to walk. You know de way out o’ dis town?"

Well, I did.

Though we never spoke of it, in the back of both our minds was the knowledge that Papa would soon be looking for us, and the course of action we had chosen, to stay during daylight in Independence and then make off after dark, could easily be the wrong choice. If it had taken us half a day to get from the plantation by pony cart, it would take much less than that for Papa and his friends to gallop there on fresh horses. It all depended upon when they returned from the Harris plantation and how quickly it was revealed that I was gone, Lorna was gone with me, and the pony cart was gone with the both of us. Perhaps because we never spoke of it, it was all too easy to imagine the smoothest and quickest possible pursuit on their part, all too easy to envision that moment of looking up and seeing them, him, Papa, right before you, his little arm raised and something in his hand. A whip? A gun? All too easy to wonder what would happen then, upon discovery. And wondering that seemed to stop me in my tracks, make it impossible to move or act. But perhaps speaking about it would add fancy upon fancy, hers upon mine, mine upon hers. We didn’t dare.

We were impatient for full darkness. When it came, we fixed our hair and got ourselves together and passed out of the now crowded hotel without looking either left or right, me in front, Lorna a step or two behind, me with my head high, Lorna with hers low. I went down the stairs, my hand skimming the banister. I strode through the lower room and looked at no one who was looking at me. I went outside and down the outer steps, which numbered four. I turned left, west, and marched along. I saw that walking to Kansas City was going to be considerably harder in a skirt and light shoes than it had been in trousers and boots, but there was no help for that. We passed men on horseback, men in wagons, men afoot. We passed groups of men, men in twos and threes, solitary men. It seemed that all of them looked first at me and second at Lorna, and all speculated about us, but no one stopped us. We walked on, and soon enough the town gave way to countryside. Just about then, when we were alone, Lorna said, "What time do ya make it?"

I said, "I don’t know. I sold the watch."

That was all we said.

I thought of how, the last time I passed this way, I had crawled under bushes or haystacks to sleep at night and had confidently, more or less, gone my way during the day. I remembered how intent I had