and then.”
“Arrested?”
“Impersonating a man, so-called.”
“Huh.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t mistake you.”
They have a cigarillo each. Jensen’s followed gold all over the map: Nevada, Boise, Salt Lake City. Got bit by a rattlesnake one time. “Never gone looking for a bullet,” he mentions, “but I’ve always thought that if one happened my way, it wouldn’t make no odds.”
She leans to top up his mug.
“I still reckon you’re getting something out of this business,” he says suddenly.
For a minute she thinks “this business” means life. Then she gets it, almost laughs, lets out a long sigh instead. “Well, I can’t fool you, Jensen. Your wife did promise me something I’ve always had a hankering for.”
“I knew it!”
“Something you’ll hardly miss.”
“What is it?”
Very quiet. “A child.”
The fire crackles. Jensen stares at her over his smeared plate. His mouth moves before he speaks. The word comes out hoarse. “Which one?”
She would have liked to keep it up a bit longer but she can’t stop the sound, it bubbles up, it whoops out into the starry night.
Jensen’s plate is overturned, he’s jumped the fire, he’s on top of her. “You dyed-in-the-wool bastard.”
Mollie’s helpless with glee. “Which one?” is all she can squeak: “Which one?”
His hands are on her throat. She can’t reach her Peacemaker,this could very well be the end of Mollie Monroe, the all too likely squalid end for a woman of her peculiarities, left throttled by a dying campfire, but still she can’t stop laughing.
Jensen’s teeth are very close to hers. They’ve stopped moving. “You’re as ugly as a burnt boot,” he informs her.
“Mm-hm.”
“Face like a dime’s worth of dog meat.”
Mollie lets out a small groan. “Oh, fish or cut bait, won’t you?”
She pulls down her own pants before he can. He goes at her hammer and tongs. Like a wolf, like she likes it. His flesh a stone pounding her to dust. Sand in her face and her own gun bruising her thigh.
They sleep back-to-back for heat.
Up before the sun. The mountains stand gray and saw-toothed. Mollie doesn’t make coffee. They pack in silence, without looking at each other, like two old prospectors. Jensen takes back his rifle.
When the little camp comes into sight around a bend, she says, “Hey! Finally shed of you. You going to do the clean thing now, make the bettermost of it?”
He speaks between his teeth. “Next time you set yourself up for judge and jury—”
“Christ almighty,” she says, “who am I to judge? I’ve woken up in my own puke on a poker table.”
He’s looking right past her at the tent with the fire smoking outside it.
Mollie reins in her horse. Turns to undo the packs of supplies.
“Will you have some breakfast?” His eyes are scanning the rocks for his children.
“I won’t.”
He shakes her hand.
“Give my respects to Monroe.”
“And mine to Mrs. Jensen.” Mollie clicks her tongue to her horse, turns back toward Wickenburg.
The Long Way Home
Mollie (born Mary) Sanger, born somewhere in New England in 1836 or perhaps 1846, arrived in Arizona as the wife of a lieutenant in the mid-1860s but soon paired up with George Monroe and worked as a prospector, cowboy, cook, and saloonkeeper. This story, about a (possibly apocryphal) incident from the early 1870s in which she dragged a prospector back to his family, draws on two articles, “Mollie Monroe: Memorable, ‘Crazy’ Character of Early Prescott,” in Sharlot Hall Museum: Days Past (November 2, 1997), and Nell Simcox’s “The Story of Mollie Monroe: Girl Cowboy,” in Real West Magazine (April 1983).
A few years later, Mollie moved from Wickenburg back to Prescott (apparently without George Monroe). In 1877 she was the first woman in Arizona committed for insanity, which probably translates as cross-dressing, promiscuity, and alcoholism. In 1895 Mollie Monroe escaped from Phoenix
“Arrested?”
“Impersonating a man, so-called.”
“Huh.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t mistake you.”
They have a cigarillo each. Jensen’s followed gold all over the map: Nevada, Boise, Salt Lake City. Got bit by a rattlesnake one time. “Never gone looking for a bullet,” he mentions, “but I’ve always thought that if one happened my way, it wouldn’t make no odds.”
She leans to top up his mug.
“I still reckon you’re getting something out of this business,” he says suddenly.
For a minute she thinks “this business” means life. Then she gets it, almost laughs, lets out a long sigh instead. “Well, I can’t fool you, Jensen. Your wife did promise me something I’ve always had a hankering for.”
“I knew it!”
“Something you’ll hardly miss.”
“What is it?”
Very quiet. “A child.”
The fire crackles. Jensen stares at her over his smeared plate. His mouth moves before he speaks. The word comes out hoarse. “Which one?”
She would have liked to keep it up a bit longer but she can’t stop the sound, it bubbles up, it whoops out into the starry night.
Jensen’s plate is overturned, he’s jumped the fire, he’s on top of her. “You dyed-in-the-wool bastard.”
Mollie’s helpless with glee. “Which one?” is all she can squeak: “Which one?”
His hands are on her throat. She can’t reach her Peacemaker,this could very well be the end of Mollie Monroe, the all too likely squalid end for a woman of her peculiarities, left throttled by a dying campfire, but still she can’t stop laughing.
Jensen’s teeth are very close to hers. They’ve stopped moving. “You’re as ugly as a burnt boot,” he informs her.
“Mm-hm.”
“Face like a dime’s worth of dog meat.”
Mollie lets out a small groan. “Oh, fish or cut bait, won’t you?”
She pulls down her own pants before he can. He goes at her hammer and tongs. Like a wolf, like she likes it. His flesh a stone pounding her to dust. Sand in her face and her own gun bruising her thigh.
They sleep back-to-back for heat.
Up before the sun. The mountains stand gray and saw-toothed. Mollie doesn’t make coffee. They pack in silence, without looking at each other, like two old prospectors. Jensen takes back his rifle.
When the little camp comes into sight around a bend, she says, “Hey! Finally shed of you. You going to do the clean thing now, make the bettermost of it?”
He speaks between his teeth. “Next time you set yourself up for judge and jury—”
“Christ almighty,” she says, “who am I to judge? I’ve woken up in my own puke on a poker table.”
He’s looking right past her at the tent with the fire smoking outside it.
Mollie reins in her horse. Turns to undo the packs of supplies.
“Will you have some breakfast?” His eyes are scanning the rocks for his children.
“I won’t.”
He shakes her hand.
“Give my respects to Monroe.”
“And mine to Mrs. Jensen.” Mollie clicks her tongue to her horse, turns back toward Wickenburg.
The Long Way Home
Mollie (born Mary) Sanger, born somewhere in New England in 1836 or perhaps 1846, arrived in Arizona as the wife of a lieutenant in the mid-1860s but soon paired up with George Monroe and worked as a prospector, cowboy, cook, and saloonkeeper. This story, about a (possibly apocryphal) incident from the early 1870s in which she dragged a prospector back to his family, draws on two articles, “Mollie Monroe: Memorable, ‘Crazy’ Character of Early Prescott,” in Sharlot Hall Museum: Days Past (November 2, 1997), and Nell Simcox’s “The Story of Mollie Monroe: Girl Cowboy,” in Real West Magazine (April 1983).
A few years later, Mollie moved from Wickenburg back to Prescott (apparently without George Monroe). In 1877 she was the first woman in Arizona committed for insanity, which probably translates as cross-dressing, promiscuity, and alcoholism. In 1895 Mollie Monroe escaped from Phoenix
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