August 2nd 1876

The clouds were low over the Black Hills, the air heavy with coming rain, when Sophia stepped onto the streets of Deadwood. The mountains loomed over the gulch, more menacing than usual. Damn, she hated those mountains. She hated the thick pine trees that grew over them, the deep ravines that cut through them and the men who lived on them.

Her pace quickened as she made her way down Main Street, a thick dust kicking up around her black kid boots, coating them in a grimy film. Deadwood’s miserable shanties sagged alongside the thoroughfare and horse dung rotted in the summer heat. Quickly side stepping a pile swarming with flies, Sophia headed straight towards one of the few real buildings in town, its high pine-board front standing out from the other roughly hew log buildings.

Stepping below the shadowing overhang, Sophia could hear the tinkle of piano music floating through the swinging doors as she pushed them open. Nuttall and Mann’s Saloon was quiet: the boisterous miners that flooded the building at night were all working their claims. One man leaned against the bar, a half empty bottle of whiskey next to him and a shot glass clutched covetously in his hand. His hat was tipped over one eye and on his face was a bemused grim of a man in his cups.

Behind the bar, Phil was idly wiping down bottles. He looked up when Sophia entered.

“Where ya been?” He queried. “The Boss’s mad as a peeled rattler. He’s been lookin’ for ya all mornin’”

“It don’t matter,” Sophia replied. “Ain’t none of his damn business, is it? I ain’t workin’ right now anyhow.”

Phil shrugged his mammoth shoulders, his suspenders straining to hold his as they were pulled across his girth. “Just warnin’ ya; he’s been wrathy all day,” Phil looked knowingly at Sophia. “The Boss knows you’ve been talkin’ to him.”

Sophia’s wide brown eyes held Phil’s, “I don’t know what yur talkin’ about Phil. I ain’t been talkin’ to no one.”

Phil shrugged and started to wipe down the bottles again. “Sure, if you say so. I’m just warnin’ ya.”

“Well, thanks, Phil. I appreciate it, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Sophia replied. “Besides it ain’t none of his business. I-”

The man at the bar collapsed to the floor with a loud thump and a crash as the whiskey bottle shattered next to him. Sophia hurried over to him.

“Who’s he, Phil?” she asked, leaning over him.

“Said his name was McCall, came from over the hills. He’s been here all mornin’.”

Sophia stood up and brushed her long black hair from her eyes. Hands on her hips she considered the figure on the floor. Lips pursed she made her decision. “Take him to my room,” she demanded.

“Sophia . . .”

“No.” Sophia cut Phil off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t argue with me. We can’t leave him here. Take him to my room.”

“Sophia, don’t go wakin’ snakes. The Boss ain’t goin’ to like this.”

“What ain’t The Boss goin’ to like?” another voice cut across the room. Sophia and Phil both turned as a figure pushed through the swinging doors. Emelina sauntered over, hips swaying beneath her colorful skirt, breasts pushing at what restraint her low bodice provided. Her roughed face was alight with interest and trouble as she looked from Sophia to the man on the floor.

“You ain’t takin’ another man into yur bed, are ya?” she clucked her tongue. “Phil’s right, The Boss ain’t goin’ to like that at all. What is it, the third man this week? My, my, my, aren’t we generous.” She exaggerated the last word, and smiled. “Ya know, Sophia, The Boss probably wouldn’t mind it so much if you made ‘em pay. It’s the givin’ it away free that he hates so much.”

Sophia’s cheeks burned red and her eyes snapped as she stood her ground. “That’s not what I do and you know it, Emelina.” She crossed her arms, her voice rising in volume. “Maybe you don’t mind spreadin’ ‘em for a few extra pennies, but I do. So, shut your mouth and leave me be. Some of us still have morals.”

Emelina laughed, a rough bark, a bitter laugh. “Morals? Sophia you don’t have any morals. Yur scum . So am I, but at least I know it. Stop denyin’ it Sophia and get over yur high ‘n mighty self. We’re the painted ladies of the west and we don’t have morals.”

Flipping her golden hair off her shoulder, Emelina sauntered back toward the door. “Don’t forget, Sophia, yur scum, “she called over her shoulder, before disappearing onto the street.

Sophia turned back angrily to Phil and the collapsed man. “Didn’t you hear me? Take him to my room and hurry up,” she snapped, and turning on her heel, headed up the stairs to her room.

Phil followed her a few minutes later, breathing heavily as he reached the top of the stairs. McCall dangled carelessly over his shoulder. With a grunt, Phil dropped the unconscious man onto Sophia’s bed and a brown paper packet went flying, knocked off the makeshift bedside table by the man’s limp hand. Sophia picked it up and thrust it into Phil’s empty hands.

“Give these back to Emelina, and tell her I’m sick of her leavin’ ‘em in here,” Sophia demanded. The use of mind numbing drugs wasn’t uncommon among the ‘doves’. She knew more than a few girls who’d ended it all by taking too much. Emelina’s dependence on her laudanum was an irritation to Sophia, so was her insistence that Sophia should try it too. Sophia wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even consider it; she wanted out, out of Deadwood, out of this life; but she would do it the right way- on a horse and through the hills.