<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: brush script std;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;">End of the first day, April 1866<br/><br/>Dearest Josiah,<br/><br/>It has been a long day, full of dust and sun.  There were times I would have sworn to have swallowed half of Missouri, kicked up as it was into the air by the many hooves, and feet traveling ahead of our place in the train.  Never have I been so glad to have a drink of water as when we stopped to make camp for the evening.  Well, I suppose that as a strong statement to make considering where I was scarcely two years past.<br/><br/>The day started out pleasant enough when we got underway.  The sun was shining and the air was still cool in the morning.  But by the noon hour, I thought surely it would have blistered the skin from my body, were it not for this wide brimmed hat.  I have the yankee woman to thank for the men's clothing.  All of what I shall be wearing for the next few months belonged to her poor late husband. <br/><br/>I can sympathize with her grief, Josiah, yankee though she may be.  I know what it is like to lose a husband, my dear.  Oh the pain I went through!  And now I know she must be feeling the same way.  Yet I had the comfort of knowing that you died fighting to save our way of life from the Northern aggression. She has no such relief from the grief that besets her poor spirit.  Her husband was set upon by brigands, and robbed of all the money he had.  It left her bereft and in a fix.<br/><br/>(I have decided, dear husband, to resort to the vulgar common speech of the men I have had occasion to share company with in the past, in order to compel the illusion that I am a man on this journey.  It will be a trial to pose as the husband of that loose woman in the first place, I am not accustomed to consorting with her type.  But to reach the ultimate goal we all three share, it is necessary. I fear I shall have to do more than talk like a man to accomplish the ruse. But I shall not speak of such things here with you, dear husband. In any case, forgive me if some of that common language finds its way into this narrative.)<br/><br/>She proposed to offer her poor husband's clothes to me to wear to pose as husband to the other woman, if I would help her with the funds to get her wagon and oxen out of hock.  It seemed an equitable arrangement since we all needed to go with the train, and not likely to get there on our own.<br/><br/>Most of the money I had from the sale of our farm I used to pay the guarantor for the wagon and team owned by the poor yankee woman's husband.  Much of the rest was used to buy supplies for our journey.  I allowed myself one luxury, Josiah, and that was the purchase of one of those Henry repeating rifles.  The damned yankees used them well enough against us when I was with the boys in Georgia, and I was impressed.  It was said in the camps that those blue bellies could load that rifle on Sunday and fire it all week!  I knew when I saw it in that dry goods store that I just had to have it, though it cost a pretty penny.  With that and the Remington that I got from one of our boys, I fear for no wild injun attack. I keep it next to me on the wagon seat, between me and my 'wife' and betwixt the two, I cherish the Henry more than the wife.<br/><br/>We made nearly 16 miles today, by the wagon master's reckoning.  He said that we ought to go farther tomorrow, since everybody will be getting ready to go earlier than today.  I must close for now, so I can water the oxen.<br/><br/>Yours Always,<br/>Jess</span><br/></span><br/>+++++++++++++++++<br/><br/>The young man led the team of oxen down to the gently sloping banks of the shallow creek that wound it's way through the Missouri prairie.  It was too small of a creek to show up on any map, or even to have a name that folks would remember.  But it was enough for the thirsty animals to enjoy and replenish themselves, and it was a welcome sight to the hazel green eyes of the slim figure who knelt upstream from the mighty animals to fill the wooden bucket he carried.<br/><br/>He squinted against the late evening sun that shone just above the horizon on the opposite bank of the stream, but though he was looking at the scene right in front of him, his thoughts were in a different place.  And those thoughts troubled him enough to make his brow furrow.<br/><br/>Jess' mind was on her new 'wife' and 'sister-in-law'.  In their current situation, she was going to have to start acting more like a husband or risk their whole plan unraveling.  But doing the things she'd have to do to pull off the deception would mean becoming close to  a woman Jessica Ashleigh Covington-Lee would never have associated with in her old life.  She realized she was going to have to change how she thought about her companions, and they would have to change how they thought about her.  One thing was for certain; she had better start soon, she thought.<br/><br/>It was the thoughts of just what she would have to do to become a better 'husband' to a former prostitute that occupied Jess' mind as she hobbled the oxen and set them to graze, then began to climb the low sloping bank of the stream back up to where the wagon train was encamped.  She was carrying the wooden bucket full of water, and trying not to spill too much of it, when she heard raised voices ahead, coming from the wagon she shared with the two other women.<br/><br/>As she hastened her steps and drew nearer, she could tell it was some sort of confrontation.  There was a dirty looking man there, grabbing Bethie by her arm and growling through his thick beard and mustache, "I know who I saw, and I say yer the same whore what was at Barber's place a' kissin' on those two other men last week."<br/><br/>The words drove a spike of fear of being discovered deep into Jess' gut, but the sight of how the man was handling Bethie turned that fear into anger as cold and hard as any feeling she'd known during the war.  This drunken lout was going to ruin everything, and get them thrown out of the wagon train on their first day out!  The anger spurred her actions without conscious thought.  She took a couple staggering steps forward, spinning as she went, swinging the bucket out from her body as she turned in a full circle, gaining momentum, then brought it swinging up to crash against the side of the man's head.  The impact knocked him to the ground, momentarily stunned senseless as water splashed everywhere.<br/><br/>But Jess' Southern temper didn't let her stop there.  A moment later, the Remington was in her hand, cocked and pointed at the man on the ground as he scrabbled to reach for his own pistol, holding his still spinning head with his other hand.  He stopped in mid-draw.  The younger, almost boyish looking man who held the Remington Army .44 pointed steadily at him had not drawn particularly fast in the eyes of any onlooker who witnessed the altercation.  But the draw was smooth, the revolver coming clear of the holster and the hammer cocking back in one smooth motion, hinting at the practice gained by repeated use in the past.<br/><br/>The grizzles mule skinner paused, looking up at the yawning maw of the unwavering barrel.  He heard the low, hard-edged sound of the young man's voice as it hissed between clenched teeth, "Mister, this here's my wife.  And if you ever insult her or put your hands on her like that agin' I'll put a bullet through yore haid 'stead o' that thar bucket!"<br/><br/>It was the sound of the voice as much as the big hole of the pistol bore that froze the man's hand on the butt of his own gun.  It wasn't a high angry shout, rather a low, venomous warning that hinted at the resolve behind the words.  Looking past the barrel of the Remington, he could see that the face behind the aimed gun was very young looking, even fair, although contorted in anger at the moment.  But coming out of the war, there were many a youthful face that concealed a hard edged killer behind it.  Young men who had left their family farm and went off to fight in the grand cause had come back as trained killers, inured to death and suffering.  And especially in Missouri, many with nothing better to do, and no other skills to speak of, were coming west.  They didn't have to be fast to be deadly.  All they needed was a reason.<br/><br/>Just then the harsh shout of the wagon master cut through the tension.  "Hey! Break it up!  Put that gun away!" He stormed through the crowd, shoving onlookers aside to get through, then got between Jess and the mule skinner.  Jess lowered the revolver and eased the hammer down with her thumb, still glowering at the grizzled man as he got to his feet carefully.  To the mule skinner, the wagon master barked, "Haven't you got things to do?"  then back to Jess, he queried, "What's your name, son?  What is this all about?"<br/><br/>Jess slowly holstered the Remington.  "Lee.  Jess Lee.  That man was grabbing my wife.  I got every right to defend her."  The wagon master looked the young hot head over in the dimming light of the evening.  There was something not quite right about the man, he thought.  Whip cord lean and tough, spoiling for a fight, apparently.  He nodded and said, "Well since you have so much steam to work off, you can take a night watch.  Go on up to the lead wagon where the other men are meeting.  Take that fancy rifle of yours with you.  Somebody there will tell you what to do."<br/><br/>Jess sullenly nodded.  There was no use giving the wagon master any reason to think she'd be troublesome.  She didn't want to risk getting kicked out of the wagon company at this stage.  Sparing a glance to Bethie and Penelope she asked, "Are you all right?"<br/>