Under a Painted Sky Read Online Free Page A

the book and help me knock in a hole.”
    She clasps the Bible to her chest. “You want me to be struck down?”
    â€œOh, sorry. Here, hold the pointy part against the strap, like this.” I show her. Putting down the Bible, she takes the belt, and pokes the prong into the leather where I want it.
    I take up the Good Book myself, then in one swift movement whack it down over the metal prong, driving it into the leather. I pray that nobody heard.
    â€œSweet Jesus!” Annamae cries out. Her mouth opens in horror.
    â€œThank you, Lord,” I whisper piously. My heart pounds hard enough to knock some of its own holes through my chest.
    The belt still slings low across my hips, but maybe it will give me a boyish swagger. I reholster the gun, hoping I will never need to use it, especially since I don’t know how to load it.
    Annamae pats down Yorkshire’s pockets. She recovers a few dollars and a powder horn, then pulls two gold rings off his pinkie fingers. Shoving them into her saddlebag, she stands back to examine me. Her eyes land on my wet hair. “We need hats.”
    â€œHe doesn’t need his anymore.” I unhook Yorkshire’s black hat and hand it to her. “Wide brim, it’ll hide your face.”
    â€œThere’s more downstairs. Miss Betsy probably still watching the front so we’ll go out the back. But hush, mind you. She got rabbit ears.”
    Annamae stuffs the last sandwich into her saddlebag, while I sling on my violin case, pulling the strap extra-tight. All the layers slow my movement, and the gun hangs heavy against my thigh, but I might as well get used to it. No longer am I Samantha Young, the curious-looking miss from Bowery Lane in New York City. I am a desperado.
    I wipe my palms on my trousers and try to stop breathing so loudly. Slowly, Annamae opens the door.
    After dropping the key into the laundry chute in the hallway, Annamae leads the way to the back of the hotel. Shadows thrown by sconces along the burgundy walls give the illusion that the hallway’s on fire. I stick close to Annamae and try not to think about Father in the Whistle.
    We tiptoe downstairs and through another burning corridor leading to the back entryway. A rack of antlers yields an assortment of hats and coats. Annamae slips into a wool frock coat, while I cram my hair into the plainest hat I can find, appalled at the ease with which I’ve gone from law-abiding citizen to wanton criminal.
Father, you raised me better, but I’m out of choices right now.
    I reach for a coat, but the
shhh, tap
of a scraping cane freezes my hand. Annamae grabs my wrist and pulls me to the door. She yanks it open. As soon as we both clear the doorway, she pauses for a heart-stopping moment to ease it shut without making a sound. Then we dash away toward St. Francis Street.
    After half a block, my legs shake like a newborn foal’s. Annamae is not even breathing hard. The fabric of her frock coat swishes rhythmically as she pumps her arms up and down. She has slipped into her disguise as easily as if she’s been wearing men’s clothes all her life, her shoulders forming solid bumps even under the many layers.
    By contrast, my garments feel like they’re wearing me, not the other way around. “I can’t,” I wheeze, pausing to catch my breath.
    She grabs a fistful of my shirt and hauls me forward. “Oh yes you can.”
    The uneven roadway and my oversized trousers vie for who can trip me first, but I manage to make it to the street corner.
    Annamae glances back toward La Belle Hotel. No one is following us.
    On St. Francis Street, a line of covered wagons stretches as far as I can see, and then all the way back to St. Louis, three hundred miles away. People from as far away as Maine journey to St. Joe, the step-off point into the Wild West, which lies on the other side of the Missouri. Teams of four to twenty oxen or mules fidget and snort, rocking their