Chapter 1

Lillian swallowed hard and closed the door of her house soundlessly behind her. She made her way across the backyard, heart thudding, and froze when the dog down the block barked once.

Silliness, pure silliness. She wasn’t a skulking runaway to startle at every shadow. She was off on an adventure, a dangerous one, but still an adventure. Besides, she decided as she set her hand on the gate and let herself out of the yard, a man wouldn’t sneak. He’d be quiet but he’d walk as if he had every right to be out and about.

And tonight, she was a man. She had cut off a good foot of her long, black hair and burned it in the stove. The pants and shirt she wore, bought cheaply from a passing trader, made her feel immodest and half-dressed, as if she was going about in her underthings. The band that compressed her breasts chafed her ribs and the serape that concealed the rest of her shape made the night almost too warm. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of the band and itched abominably. The money pouch felt too heavy, and she wondered if she should have brought less than five dollars.

But her driver, Elliot, had said the entry bribe was three dollars, a hefty price. The fight was illegal, bare-knuckle boxing being a violent affair, so they had to pay off the proper officials to even hold it. She had given Elliot his own three dollar entry fee, and another dollar to place a wager for her on whomever he thought likeliest to win.

No women were allowed at the illegal boxing matches. Most didn’t venture abroad after dark. It was unseemly and dangerous. Abilene had been a cow town for many years, and even appointing Wild Bill Hickok as the Marshal hadn’t totally salvaged it from the drovers and attendant low-lives. The streets were safer now, but decent folks stayed in. Unlike cities back east with street lamps and electric lights, the prairie nights were dark.

She stepped carefully, the fat orange moon lighting her way. It would be easy enough to step in a prairie dog hole and break her leg. That would be a fine way to be found in the morning. A lantern would have been a wise idea, but it also would have given her away.

In her long life of odd behavior, this would certainly set tongues wagging if word got out. It was no secret in Abilene, that the late Artemus Shaw had wanted a son and that he had raised his daughter to be as eccentric as he had been. He was a man ahead of his time, and because of him, her house was the most modern in town, with gaslights, indoor plumbing, including hot water, and even a telephone.

She’d heard the saying that curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back. In Lillian’s world, that proverbial feline was nine times dead, despite reviving, and she was working on the rest of the cat colony. And tonight, she would have a world of her curiosity satisfied.

Then perhaps she could invent for a while before being spurred into something new. Her insatiable curiosity drove her to read and invent and tinker. It broke up her sleep, waking her with half-formed ideas until she had taken to keeping a pencil by the bed. Let her maid, Flossie, complain of the scribbled-on sheets, she had no intention of losing ideas by waking completely or falling back into dreams.

She had improved both the kitchen water pump and the stove. She had rerouted the gaslights to something a bit less dangerous than an open flame on a tube of gas. But her prize was the soother.

Lillian was not married at the age of twenty-eight and never intended to be. Nor could she take a lover. She had begun inventing these shortly after her parents died, basing it on the drawings in an anatomy book, and did a small underground business among the ladies of Abilene. But her inventions lacked a certain verisimilitude. Gossip had it the men boxed naked. Ever the perfectionist, Lillian had taken matters into her own hands.

She made her way out of the little town and to the place where a caravan was parked, with a much larger drayage wagon near it. It was a long walk, and the moccasins she had bought had thin places in the soles that didn’t match her feet. She kept walking, carrying herself as tall as she could.

Tonight, she was a man, she reminded herself. She had pinned her braids tightly to the top of her head, hoping very much that the darkness and excitement would keep most men from looking too closely at her.

Men didn’t really see women anyway, she’d found. For the most part, they saw dresses and bonnets, tipped their hats and went about their business. They recognized buggies or wagons or horses before they recognized a woman in a new dress or bonnet. She’d learned that years ago. At fourteen, she had worn her mother’s favorite striped day dress outside on errands, and every man she passed had called her Ruth, her mother’s name. Only the bank clerk had recognized her face. She planned to use this knowledge to her advantage.

A large black tent had been put up, and two big men stood at the door. Lillian held onto her bribe and marched up, like the young man she was pretending to be. She named herself Ben, after the recent president, and was prepared to say it if asked.

Ben wouldn’t be afraid, even though the men were bigger than he was. He walked right in, slipped the bribe into the hand of the guard and took a place not far from the double ring of stakes and ropes that marked the fighting area.

The tent filled quickly, with white men from town, Chinese and black men from the railroad camp, rough looking men who had holed up at the abandoned fort, and Cheyenne from the local tribe. Each kept to their own group. Lillian felt small and a little scared as the men pushed in around her. They surrounded her, leaving her with no way out of the tent. She almost couldn’t move. She didn’t dare elbow for more space, politeness too ingrained even a decade after her mother’s passing.

The interior was painted with scenes from Greek mythology, with spacers of the various Greek goddesses. They stood arrayed around the edge: regal Hera, stern and forbidding with her peacock’s neck curling lewdly up her leg; martial Athena, in Amazonian armor that left one breast bare; athletic Artemis, bare to the waist as she lifted her bow, the crescent moon on her brow; wanton Aphrodite, naked on her seashell. Between each, nude men competed in races, at throwing javelins, hurling discus, and wrestling. The art surprised her, and set a much different tone than she had expected of such a disreputable event.

She was very near the ropes, just outside the outer rope barrier. Horse and sweat, coal and tar, tobacco and alcohol filled her nose. She couldn’t sneeze, that would be disastrous. She had a squeak of a sneeze that could be mistaken for nothing other than a woman’s.

Someone passed her a lit cigar and she passed it to the man beside her, Mr. Jordan from the bank, she realized. He barely noticed her with his eyes fixed on the ring, but took the cigar and puffed it as he waited. A flask came her way, and she rubbed the mouth with her sleeve. She meant to take a small sip, just enough to give her some courage but, by trying not to touch the opening, she wound up pouring a healthy slug into her mouth. The cheap whiskey burned all the way down, but she managed not to sputter. She passed that on to Mr. Jordan as well. He made a disgusted face and passed it to the next man.

The men kept pressing. She saw many faces she knew, but kept her own hat pulled as low as she could and trusted her shorter stature to keep her from being recognized. Just when Lillian thought she would have to sneeze or shove or do something untoward, a bell sounded.

An older man in a vest and shirtsleeves, wearing a bowler hat over his mutton-chop whiskers, came out and stood in the middle of the ring. He looked over the crowd and nodded before vanishing. Lillian thought he looked at her a little too long. Then another man, a little younger, in a frock-coat and top hat with a sinister thin mustache came out and held up his hands. The crowd quieted. Lillian tried not to giggle. He looked like a melodrama villain, like the one she had seen last year when the traveling actors passed through. She doubted he would be tying anyone to a keg of gunpowder though.

He held up his hands, and the men quieted. “Gentlemen, welcome to this evening’s entertainment.” His voice was sharp and accented like something back east. There was a nasal sound to it and an edge as he launched into the announcement. “Tonight for your pleasure and edification, Turlough McGuire, the Belfast Assassin, will perform pugilistic feats never before seen by human beings. His opponent, your own Mr. George McKenzie, must last one full half of an hour or knock him out to win.” The man beckoned to someone backstage. When no one emerged, he continued. “Big George McKenzie, from Great Bend, able to lift a yearling calf from the ground or wrestle a steer barehanded, tonight will take on the undefeated Belfast Assassin in a match to the humiliation.”

Lillian watched avidly. George McKenzie was a roustabout and drifter, forever in trouble in the town. The big, blond man would work for a month, or two months, on a ranch, and then come into town, drink and gamble away his earnings, get into a fight, spend a week in the jail and start it all over. It was said no woman was safe when he was around and that he stole chickens when no one was watching the hen house.

George came out, wearing nothing whatsoever. Lillian managed to keep her mouth from hanging open. Her own near-nakedness in the men’s clothing was uncomfortable and odd. His was just shocking. She reminded herself this was why she had come tonight. He was a tall man, with sturdy muscles from much hard work, but a soft area around his middle. A dusting of chest hair thickened on his belly to a deep golden triangle.

She stared at her first sight of a man’s penis. It hung, soft-looking, like a tube the size of a couple fingers, between his legs. Darker shapes moved behind it. She studied it, comparing it with her own devices at home, invented for the prevention of nervous hysteria. Her designs needed some serious revisions. She hoped to market the single most realistic, most effective device ever made for gentle ladies.

The men around the ring applauded. She wondered why he was naked.

Chapter 1

Lillian swallowed hard and closed the door of her house soundlessly behind her. She made her way across the backyard, heart thudding, and froze when the dog down the block barked once.

Silliness, pure silliness. She wasn’t a skulking runaway to startle at every shadow. She was off on an adventure, a dangerous one, but still an adventure. Besides, she decided as she set her hand on the gate and let herself out of the yard, a man wouldn’t sneak. He’d be quiet but he’d walk as if he had every right to be out and about.

And tonight, she was a man. She had cut off a good foot of her long, black hair and burned it in the stove. The pants and shirt she wore, bought cheaply from a passing trader, made her feel immodest and half-dressed, as if she was going about in her underthings. The band that compressed her breasts chafed her ribs and the serape that concealed the rest of her shape made the night almost too warm. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of the band and itched abominably. The money pouch felt too heavy, and she wondered if she should have brought less than five dollars.

But her driver, Elliot, had said the entry bribe was three dollars, a hefty price. The fight was illegal, bare-knuckle boxing being a violent affair, so they had to pay off the proper officials to even hold it. She had given Elliot his own three dollar entry fee, and another dollar to place a wager for her on whomever he thought likeliest to win.

No women were allowed at the illegal boxing matches. Most didn’t venture abroad after dark. It was unseemly and dangerous. Abilene had been a cow town for many years, and even appointing Wild Bill Hickok as the Marshal hadn’t totally salvaged it from the drovers and attendant low-lives. The streets were safer now, but decent folks stayed in. Unlike cities back east with street lamps and electric lights, the prairie nights were dark.

She stepped carefully, the fat orange moon lighting her way. It would be easy enough to step in a prairie dog hole and break her leg. That would be a fine way to be found in the morning. A lantern would have been a wise idea, but it also would have given her away.

In her long life of odd behavior, this would certainly set tongues wagging if word got out. It was no secret in Abilene, that the late Artemus Shaw had wanted a son and that he had raised his daughter to be as eccentric as he had been. He was a man ahead of his time, and because of him, her house was the most modern in town, with gaslights, indoor plumbing, including hot water, and even a telephone.

She’d heard the saying that curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back. In Lillian’s world, that proverbial feline was nine times dead, despite reviving, and she was working on the rest of the cat colony. And tonight, she would have a world of her curiosity satisfied.

Then perhaps she could invent for a while before being spurred into something new. Her insatiable curiosity drove her to read and invent and tinker. It broke up her sleep, waking her with half-formed ideas until she had taken to keeping a pencil by the bed. Let her maid, Flossie, complain of the scribbled-on sheets, she had no intention of losing ideas by waking completely or falling back into dreams.

She had improved both the kitchen water pump and the stove. She had rerouted the gaslights to something a bit less dangerous than an open flame on a tube of gas. But her prize was the soother.

Lillian was not married at the age of twenty-eight and never intended to be. Nor could she take a lover. She had begun inventing these shortly after her parents died, basing it on the drawings in an anatomy book, and did a small underground business among the ladies of Abilene. But her inventions lacked a certain verisimilitude. Gossip had it the men boxed naked. Ever the perfectionist, Lillian had taken matters into her own hands.

She made her way out of the little town and to the place where a caravan was parked, with a much larger drayage wagon near it. It was a long walk, and the moccasins she had bought had thin places in the soles that didn’t match her feet. She kept walking, carrying herself as tall as she could.

Tonight, she was a man, she reminded herself. She had pinned her braids tightly to the top of her head, hoping very much that the darkness and excitement would keep most men from looking too closely at her.

Men didn’t really see women anyway, she’d found. For the most part, they saw dresses and bonnets, tipped their hats and went about their business. They recognized buggies or wagons or horses before they recognized a woman in a new dress or bonnet. She’d learned that years ago. At fourteen, she had worn her mother’s favorite striped day dress outside on errands, and every man she passed had called her Ruth, her mother’s name. Only the bank clerk had recognized her face. She planned to use this knowledge to her advantage.

A large black tent had been put up, and two big men stood at the door. Lillian held onto her bribe and marched up, like the young man she was pretending to be. She named herself Ben, after the recent president, and was prepared to say it if asked.

Ben wouldn’t be afraid, even though the men were bigger than he was. He walked right in, slipped the bribe into the hand of the guard and took a place not far from the double ring of stakes and ropes that marked the fighting area.

The tent filled quickly, with white men from town, Chinese and black men from the railroad camp, rough looking men who had holed up at the abandoned fort, and Cheyenne from the local tribe. Each kept to their own group. Lillian felt small and a little scared as the men pushed in around her. They surrounded her, leaving her with no way out of the tent. She almost couldn’t move. She didn’t dare elbow for more space, politeness too ingrained even a decade after her mother’s passing.

The interior was painted with scenes from Greek mythology, with spacers of the various Greek goddesses. They stood arrayed around the edge: regal Hera, stern and forbidding with her peacock’s neck curling lewdly up her leg; martial Athena, in Amazonian armor that left one breast bare; athletic Artemis, bare to the waist as she lifted her bow, the crescent moon on her brow; wanton Aphrodite, naked on her seashell. Between each, nude men competed in races, at throwing javelins, hurling discus, and wrestling. The art surprised her, and set a much different tone than she had expected of such a disreputable event.

She was very near the ropes, just outside the outer rope barrier. Horse and sweat, coal and tar, tobacco and alcohol filled her nose. She couldn’t sneeze, that would be disastrous. She had a squeak of a sneeze that could be mistaken for nothing other than a woman’s.

Someone passed her a lit cigar and she passed it to the man beside her, Mr. Jordan from the bank, she realized. He barely noticed her with his eyes fixed on the ring, but took the cigar and puffed it as he waited. A flask came her way, and she rubbed the mouth with her sleeve. She meant to take a small sip, just enough to give her some courage but, by trying not to touch the opening, she wound up pouring a healthy slug into her mouth. The cheap whiskey burned all the way down, but she managed not to sputter. She passed that on to Mr. Jordan as well. He made a disgusted face and passed it to the next man.

The men kept pressing. She saw many faces she knew, but kept her own hat pulled as low as she could and trusted her shorter stature to keep her from being recognized. Just when Lillian thought she would have to sneeze or shove or do something untoward, a bell sounded.

An older man in a vest and shirtsleeves, wearing a bowler hat over his mutton-chop whiskers, came out and stood in the middle of the ring. He looked over the crowd and nodded before vanishing. Lillian thought he looked at her a little too long. Then another man, a little younger, in a frock-coat and top hat with a sinister thin mustache came out and held up his hands. The crowd quieted. Lillian tried not to giggle. He looked like a melodrama villain, like the one she had seen last year when the traveling actors passed through. She doubted he would be tying anyone to a keg of gunpowder though.

He held up his hands, and the men quieted. “Gentlemen, welcome to this evening’s entertainment.” His voice was sharp and accented like something back east. There was a nasal sound to it and an edge as he launched into the announcement. “Tonight for your pleasure and edification, Turlough McGuire, the Belfast Assassin, will perform pugilistic feats never before seen by human beings. His opponent, your own Mr. George McKenzie, must last one full half of an hour or knock him out to win.” The man beckoned to someone backstage. When no one emerged, he continued. “Big George McKenzie, from Great Bend, able to lift a yearling calf from the ground or wrestle a steer barehanded, tonight will take on the undefeated Belfast Assassin in a match to the humiliation.”

Lillian watched avidly. George McKenzie was a roustabout and drifter, forever in trouble in the town. The big, blond man would work for a month, or two months, on a ranch, and then come into town, drink and gamble away his earnings, get into a fight, spend a week in the jail and start it all over. It was said no woman was safe when he was around and that he stole chickens when no one was watching the hen house.

George came out, wearing nothing whatsoever. Lillian managed to keep her mouth from hanging open. Her own near-nakedness in the men’s clothing was uncomfortable and odd. His was just shocking. She reminded herself this was why she had come tonight. He was a tall man, with sturdy muscles from much hard work, but a soft area around his middle. A dusting of chest hair thickened on his belly to a deep golden triangle.

She stared at her first sight of a man’s penis. It hung, soft-looking, like a tube the size of a couple fingers, between his legs. Darker shapes moved behind it. She studied it, comparing it with her own devices at home, invented for the prevention of nervous hysteria. Her designs needed some serious revisions. She hoped to market the single most realistic, most effective device ever made for gentle ladies.

The men around the ring applauded. She wondered why he was naked.