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a drunkard. Sometimes Ma hired Betsy to help with the cleaning and the cooking. Ma treated her kindly. She gave her a dress she said she was tired of, combed her hair to get out the twigs and burs, and insisted she spend the night when she worked late. I thought she was the sorriest girl I ever met and asked Ma what I could do.
    “Be a friend to her,” Ma had said.
    And so whenever I met her on the street, I was friendly. Once when Abigail and I took a picnic into the woods, I invited Betsy to go with us, although she was almost a grown-up. She taught me how to shoot marbles and whittle with a knife.
    “Yes, these Indians are no better than Betsy Pride’s father,” Pa told me. “He was a worthless old thing.”
    “Who?” Ma asked, coming up to us.
    “We were talking about Hal Pride.”
    Ma shook her head. “Poor Betsy. She never had a chance.”
    “Will and I are going into town,” Pa said, changing the subject. “St. Joe is no place for a lady. Besides, somebody has to stay and guard the wagons. Who knows what could be stolen.”
    I was disappointed, because I wanted to see St. Joe. I didn’t care that it was rough or that bad people lived there. But I knew better than to beg Pa to go.
    “I’ll stay,” Ma said, and I knew that was the end of it.
    As Ma and I watched the men go off, Aunt Catherine came up to us. “They’re going without us?” she asked.
    “I promised to watch the wagons. Besides, Thomas says St. Joe is no place for a lady.”
    Aunt Catherine put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t promise any such thing. And if your husband believes it is all right for a lady to face drought and wind and Indians and wild animals, I see no reason why we should be protected against whatever dangers St. Joe has. After these dull days, I would welcome a bit of excitement. Come along, Emmy Blue. I am in need of a spool of thread, which I daresay your Uncle Will would approve of because he has torn his shirt and I have nothing to stitch it up with. You and I can see the sights on the way to the store.”
    I stared at her, my mouth open. Then I turned to Ma, who would surely say no. But instead, Ma smiled at me. “I promised I would stay. I didn’t say anything about you. It may be your last look at civilization, such as it is. But try to come back ahead of the men.”
    So Aunt Catherine took my hand, and we walked toward the center of St. Joe, making sure we kept well behind Pa and Uncle Will.
    St. Joe wasn’t that much different from Quincy, the town near our farm that we’d visit two or three times a year. In fact, it wasn’t even as nice. There were new brick buildings and a big hotel on streets that were dusty and rutted from the wagons passing through. Houses were being built of brick and stone. The town was crowded with people dressed in all sorts of clothing—overalls, suits, fur, and buckskin embroidered with beads and pieces of calico. There were ladies in lace and satin and men in flowered vests under what Aunt Catherine called frock coats. As I stopped to take everything in, a delivery wagon shot past us, churning mud. I jumped back as the driver yelled, “Watch it, girlie.”
    We passed outfitting stores with tents, frying pans, rope, and wagon wheels. There were big shallow pans that Aunt Catherine said the prospectors used to wash gold out of the streams and there were picks for breaking rock. I saw heavy work pants and felt hats, rows of canned tomatoes and oysters and sardines. Sombreros and paper collars were piled on counters next to stacks of ammunition. And everywhere—on the counters, in windows, piled on top of bins of spices—were guidebooks to the Pike’s Peak country.
    After visiting several places, we found a dry goods store and went inside, where Aunt Catherine fussed over the ribbons, selecting one that was a lavender plaid. “I’ll keep this in my pocket and take it out when no one is looking so that I’ll know I’m still a lady,” she said. “Now, Emmy Blue, pick