Liz: a Denison, Texas Working Girl, An Excerpt  from Death in the Little Winter Moon, a Western novel by Rickey Pittman

At a stagecoach inn on the edge of town, the marshal paid a dollar for a room with an unpainted pine board floor, and whitewashed walls. There was a small parlor woodstove already lit that had warmed the room. As it was growing dark, he lit the single tallow candle, washed his face and hands in the ceramic bowl on the washstand, dried his hands on the towel provided, and stretched out on the rope bed’s straw mattress that was covered with a quilt that smelled of sweat and woodsmoke. In the room’s one window, he could see a full moon. Its beams streamed through the wavy glass window, filling the room with a greenish blue glow, touching and shifting the shadows with long, wavy lines. That was when he remembered what he should not have forgotten: Chitto could shapeshift during a full moon’s night into an owl or rabid dog, and since this was the Little Winter Moon, the one that marked the beginning of the deaths. Don’t think of such things, he told himself. There’s nothing you can do tonight. He had been chasing Chitto for over three years. He had no idea where Chitto might go now, he only knew that wherever he went, murders would follow in every full moon. I should have killed him the first time I saw him, he told himself. Maybe it’s time to give up chasing Chitto. Yet, inside himself, he knew he would not give up. He was destined to follow the trail of murdered bodies until he found Chitto, and this time, he would kill him. He willed himself to stare at the flickering candle’s flame, until his thoughts stopped wandering, and he slipped into a deep sleep.
In the morning, he paid another dollar for a passable breakfasts of cornbread, eggs and fried ham. He then rode past St. Patrick’s Catholic church, several houses and stores on Main Street and then turned one block south at a crudely painted sign that said, SKIDDY STREET. He passed a line of tents and shacks, two saloons, a dance hall where he could hear a fiddle and banjo and then came to a wooden female boarding house with a brown front and a sign that said, LADIES BOARDING HOUSE. Then he saw what he was looking for. A marshtakie pony was tied to a wooden hitching post. He was sure it was Rainwater’s pony that Chitto had escaped on. He dismounted, used a slipknot to tie his horse to the hitching post, approached the pony’s shoulder, and spoke calmly, “Fuschati, Rainwater’s little redbird, do you remember me?” He gently touched his neck and patted his shoulder and looked at the leather saddle. “I wonder where and how Chitto got this fancy saddle. Rainwater always rode you bareback. Is Chitto inside? I do hope so. When I return to Wewoka, I will take you with me.”
Two cowboys staggered out of the house, whooping and hollering. “Damnation! The BROWN FRONT sure has good whiskey! That daughter of Millie is sure is a wild one, ain’t she? I wonder why she’s called Dirty Legs Kitty? She was clean as morning dew and smelled like rose water.”
The marshal nodded to the men, stepped on the porch and entered the house. A lady in a corseted, blue silk evening gown greeted him. “Welcome, sir! You can call me Millie. I own this place. How can we help you? Whiskey? A woman? I have two beautiful daughters who would love to serve and delight you! Of course, Liz is with a customer now. Kitty, sitting over there is my other daughter! Kitty, bring this man a whiskey.”
Kitty rose, walked to the twelve-foot-long bar, dipped a tin cup into an open barrel of whiskey and handed it to the marshal. She winked and said, “Hello there! You are a handsome one. Is he for me, mama?” Like her mother, she had rouged cheeks and carmine tinted lips, and wore an emerald-green satin evening gown with a low neckline that exposed bare shoulders and much of her bosom.
Millie said, “What do you think of my daughter? Isn’t she a pretty one? For three dollars, she will take you to her room.”
“No, thank you. I’m here looking for a man. You say you’re the owner of this boarding house?”
Millie giggled. “You want a man? I’ve never been asked to provide a man, though I’m sure you might visit the Palace Saloon down the street and find you a cowboy in rut.”
He shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. I’m a federal marshal and I’m looking for a fugitive. The man who owns that pony tied to the hitching post outside. Can you describe the man who is now with your daughter? Is he an Indian?”
“I don’t do business with no Indians, Mexicans, or colored men. And I won’t hire any woman to work for me who isn’t white. This customer is as white as you are.”
“Where are they?”
She pointed to a closed door. “In that room.”
He drew his pistol. “You best get your daughter out of there.”
Mollie opened the bedroom’s door, stepped inside, and said, “Liz, get up, get dressed. You’re done here.” The marshal heard the girl and Chitto laughing. The masked girl came out first. Her mother took her by the hand and dragged her away from the door. “This man’s a Federal Marshal. You just stand there and be quiet.”
“What’s all the ruckus about?” Chitto staggered out half-dressed and so drunk he could hardly stand. He looked at the marshal with bleary crossed eyes. “Oh, it’s you, Marshal. I thought I’d seen the last of you.” He leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. “Have you come to hang me or shoot me?”
Now that he had Chitto in custody, he had to decide what to do with him. The marshal walked to Chitto and barked, “I ain’t made up my mind yet. Looks like your luck has run out. You are under arrest. Stand up and hold out your hands.” When Chitto stood and held out his hands, the marshal holstered his pistol and snapped the John Tower ratcheted cuffs on his wrists. “Girl, did he have a bag or case with him?”
“Yes,” Liz replied.
“Get it.”
Chitto said, “I know what you’re looking for. I no longer have it.”
“Where is it?”
Chitto grinned. “I’ll never tell you, and you’ll never find it.”
Chitto’s arrogance angered the marshal. The girl returned to the bedroom and returned with Chitto’s valise. She held it out to the marshal who said, “Dump it out.”
She released the latches and poured out the contents—a few clothes, some coins, a Bowie knife, and Chitto’s pistol. “Where are you taking him?”
“I’m taking him to a Federal judge will hang him.”
“No, you can’t do that!” she whimpered. She stepped closer to Chitto, threw her arms around his neck and embraced him. “My darling, did you mean all those sweet things you said to me?”
“You know I did, Liz.”
With her back to the marshal, she slipped her hand into her bodice, drew out a Philadelphia Derringer, and pressed it into Chitto’s hands. Without releasing him, she turned her head, looked at the marshal and smiled.

*Photograph Credit: Courtesy of Stefanie. Loeflfer.

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