“They are to be delivered to Miss Olivia Killion.”
“Yes, miss.”
She carried the pistol, shotgun, rifle, and possibles bag with her and started up
the street, avoiding eye contact with the respectable women she passed, knowing
she must look as if she were off to war. But she didn’t attract as much attention
as she might have, thanks to the other bizarre sights on the street that day – a group of wild-haired white men in Indian garb, trappers in outlandish fur hats and pelts, and long-haired Jesuits in flowing brown robes.
Relieved to see the red, white, and blue flag over the entrance to the hotel, she
marched in and asked for a room. The clerk did not bat an eye at her apparel.
After he handed her the key she said, “My things will be delivered shortly.
Please send them up when they arrive and then I’ll be wanting a hot bath. In the
meantime, I would greatly appreciate a cup of coffee. Hot. Very hot.”
The clerk nodded amiably at each request and she climbed the stairs to her
room. It was simply furnished – single bed, dresser, small table, and two chairs –
but appeared to be clean. She hated to sit on the blue and red flowered bedspread
in her filthy clothes, but couldn’t resist sinking down onto the soft mattress. She
hadn’t been lying there long when a quick rap on the door brought her back to
her feet. The clerk and another man carried her baskets in and a boy of ten or twelve handed her a tin cup of coffee covered with a china saucer.
“Just one moment, miss,” the clerk said and went out, leaving the door open.
He soon returned with a large tin bathtub, a towel and washcloth, and a bar of soap in a tin holder. “When would you like us to bring the water to fill it?” he
asked.
“Now. I mean, as quickly as you can. Please.”
When they closed the door behind them she picked up the coffee and took a
sip. It was delicious, but hot. Very hot. She set it back down and removed the things she needed for her bath from the baskets. Then she moved one of the chairs to the window and drank her coffee while watching the bustle in the street
below. When she finished she unlaced her shoes and took a deep breath before
gingerly working her feet free. It was not as bad as she’d feared, after so many
hours in them. She straightened her legs and wiggled her toes. Peeling her socks
away was another matter; they had clotted into her bloody blisters and she ripped
one and then the other off, almost crying with pain.
The clerk soon returned with two rough-looking men. They brought with
them five buckets of steaming hot water and one of cold. The buckets were
large, almost twice the size of those Olivia had carried up their hill, and she rose
to grip one of the handles, checking to see if she could lift it.
“You want we should pour the water in for you, miss?” the clerk offered.
“Yes, that would be kind of you. But please leave one bucket of hot water
aside.”
They did so and she was finally alone. Standing naked on the rag rug and
using the remaining pail of hot water, she scrubbed herself with the washcloth,
removing the worst layer of grime. Then she stepped into the tub, squatted in its
blessed warmth, and gripped the sides as she slowly sank down. The tub was
small – she had to sit with her knees folded against her chest – but the hot water
