Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs

When word, even a lie, like that gets out, you might as well be running a hog ranch than a parlor house. So I sold out, moved north. Whoring is a gamble. I am certain of that, as sure as I am that had I remained in Jesse’s way, tried to stop his case, block his retreat, and protect my own investment, he would have killed me.
    He lay quiet when he had finished, rolled over, and curled up in a ball. A few minutes later, I heard him whispering a prayer, and I knew I had better leave, figured he was thinking about that new wife of his, how he had betrayed her, how he had failed sweet Jesus. Quickly I dressed and went downstairs, glad to be free of Jesse James for a while.
    His brother sat on a corner sofa, debating Shakespeare with a Minneapolis butcher and an Eagan apothecary. Always the gentleman, Frank rose when he saw me, swept off his hat, and bowed.
    “The man at the Nicollet House said the women at Madam Mollie’s have no equal. I am John Wood, of Virginia, have seen much of the world, yet the man at the Nicollet House did not prepare me for your beauty.” He kissed my hand, while the butcher and apothecary applauded his bravado.
    “Nicollet House,” I said. “The best in the city.”
    “We would have it no other way.”
    “May I buy you a glass of champagne, Mister Wood? At the bar?”
    “To be seen in your company is an offer I cannot refuse.” He excused himself and escorted me to the farthest, quietest corner of the parlor, where Fish brought our flutes of champagne.
    “How long have you been in town?” I asked when Fish had left.
    “But a short while. Trying to buy good horses.”
    “Saint Paul’s safer than Minneapolis,” I told him.
    “Are you desiring we take our leave, Mollie?” He smirked, something his kid brother never could do. “We paid a hack to transport us from the Nicollet in style, and young Bob Younger’s upstairs now partaking of some horizontal refreshments with that plump redhead.”
    Bob Younger. God, this might be worse than I ever figured. If Bob had tagged along with the James brothers, that meant Cole had to be with them, and who knew how many others.
    “All I am saying is Saint Paul is safe for men of…of your…particular breed, Mister Wood.”
    I could easily picture Frank, Jesse, and Cole in St. Paul. That was Jack Chinn’s town. Chinn had ridden with Quantrill and Morgan during the war, now ran a gambling den, pretty much controlled all of St. Paul’s gambling parlors, and St. Paul did not have much law, as long as you never raised much hell. On the other hand, my bordello was about as ill-reputed as Minneapolis allowed. The city had a new Farmers’ Market, which had opened up only that year. We had the Nicollet House just a few blocks from my place, we had the Pence Opera House, and an exploding population. All I could think of was Lawrence, and Centralia, Liberty, Gallatin, and Lexington—all those towns stained with blood. I dreaded the sight of Minneapolis turned into some battleground.
    “Yes, well, Bob has lauded Saint Paul since his arrival. Stiles took him to a baseball game at Red Cap Park, and he seems fascinated with that damyankee game. I fear Stiles may have corrupted the poor lad.”
    Stiles. Bill Stiles. I knew, detested that name, recalling Bill Stiles, a petty criminal and horse thief who had frequented my parlor years ago. That would explain why they came north to explore Minneapolis and St. Paul.
    “I would rather be corrupted by baseball than.…” I shook my head. “The Red Caps have a good team.” I winked and finished my champagne. “And some of my best customers.” I let him drain his flute before turning serious. “I told, uh, Mister Huddleson, that I hope he has no designs on dropping in on any cases here.”
    Frank slid the empty flute down the bar, shaking his head. “Miss Ellsworth, we are simply taking in the sights, enjoying ourselves. Poker. Horse trading. Not exactly the kinds of cases you seem to be laying on our