by the eye to see the line of the wig. The white dress, complete with bustle. Glittered and shim- mered as Lily moved. It was tight at the collar and the wrists but it showed her divine form. Rip gulped. She had changed her makeup, too, less flamboyant but her eyes appeared darker, rounder, and her skin softer, almost white. She swung a para- sol at him, showing her pale pink fingernails.

"I can't just stand and sing," she breathed, taking a sip from one of the glasses and leaving the outline of her pink lips on it. "I have to act out a part. In this skit I'm Madame Dupont, teaching the correct way to sing. Joe had a lot of funny lines to interject as we, that is, as I did this song. She took another sip of the bour- bon.

"Do anything you like," stam- mered Rip. He had been bugged by a few thoughts as he was leav- ing the bar. "I have to ask you something else, too."

Her painted eyes narrowed. "Go ahead," she said, hardly us- ing her vocal cords at all.

"All these guys who want to buy you a drink," Rip said nerv- ously. She was holding herself so haughtily, her imitation of a teacher almost perfect. "Why don't we let them? We could give you a special brand, like tea, from the bar, and you could drink as much as you liked. I'd split the profits with you at the end of each day."

For a moment, she appeared about to hit him with her para- sol. "You want me to be a dance hall girl?" It was Monty speaking hurt and indignant.

""

“No, no, nothing like that,' said Rip hastily. "It's just that, here you are, bringing in all these customers, and not getting much of a cut. You're holed up in here, afraid to go out and yet you could be out there, making mon-

ey.

She took a furious swallow of the bourbon, throwing her head back, and, for the first time, giv- ing Hassell a glimpse of her adam's apple.

"You could make up a charac- ter for it," Hassell suggested slowly. "And play it out in front of a closer, more intimate audi-

ence.

They were interrupted by Charlie Thompson rapping on the door. He poked his head into Lily's dressing room. "I'm finish- ed," he said gloomily, and then retreated.

"Come on," said Rip. The bru- nette took his arm in ladylike fashion and followed him down to the stage area. Introduced a- gain as, "Lily Dupree, our little sweetheart," she strolled languid- ly out onto the stage, this time to be greeted by whistles, calls and general applause. She dis- dained it all and began the song. Her parody of the schoolmarm's voice was so correct that again the miners settled back, more stunned than anything else.

It became clear to Rip right then that Lily was very talented, much too good to be working in a place like Cottonwood, and he sensed that the men knew it too. She strutted about the stage in complete control, and, when the song ended, she didn't skip off, she stood and acknowledged their applause. When she didn't leave, the noise slowly died away and she waited proudly for it to stop. Then, raising the hem of her white dress, showing her white slippers, her white stock- ings, and her trim ankles to the men, she tripped lightly down from the stage and walked, or rather swayed, right up to Old Bob Tate.

She put a soft hand on his cheek, as he stood there like a statue. The white of her skin and the pink of her nails were a vivid

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contrast to the miner's black and grey stubble. "You're my man," she said huskily, though how she knew it was Old Bob she never did tell Rip. "You're the first to invite me to drink with you."

There was a yelling and a hol- lering through that bar worse than the Fourth of July. Every man in the place wanted to buy Lily a drink, but she kept her eyes steadily on Old Bob. He had the most foolish grin you ever saw on his face, and you could see by the carrot-color on the top of his head how pleased he was. Lily, of course, did not drink at the bar. She settled at a small table, and to Rip's eyes, re- ceived homage like a queen. She was so assured with the miners, keeping the talk light and banter- ing that Rip could himself have left the bar. He was sure there wouldn't be any trouble over her.

After an hour of general fun, with the saloon getting noisier and hotter by the moment, Lily rose, took out her small fan, and came over to Rip at the bar. He could see the miners moving to new positions just to watch her. "I'd like to return to my room," she said softly to Hassell.

"But of course." Rip put her arm through his, tipped his hat to the mob and withdrew with her through the side door. Sur- prisingly, out of the light and glare of the saloon, she began to tremble, almost to the point of convulsions. Hastily, Rip escort- ed her into the dressing room and closed the door. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Lily sat down before her mir- ror and stared at her reflection. "It was that young cowboy," she said huskily. "The one called. Ross, the one who killed Joe. He wanted to buy me a drink. The last time he saw me he threatened to kill me, too, if I took a dime off the table. He just