Vanessa eventually gained the strength to sit up. Langston was recounting some interesting story, and she did not interrupt him. She ate and drank, propped in a humble cot in a truly humble hotel room of some sort, as she listened.

She felt that she was healing, and could only guess at what injuries she'd had and been treated for (by whom?). Frankly, she had no intention to ask Langston what happened after she passed out, that last time in his family's house. That was a tale she didn't care to know.

His words grew groggy and he excused himself to nap in the chair, sitting as formidably as ever. Eventually, she slipped into sleeping as well.

Again, she awoke to the sound of a story, but the story ended abruptly when she sat up.

"Your color is back. You can walk, now?"

She wobbled to her feet. "I suppose so."

He stood. "I am expected back at Madame's, and will be late. I'll be setting out on foot and you're welcome to follow me to the next town, but only that. Everyone thinks you are dead, and it's safest you stay that way. There are traveling clothes for you, and I've gotten our supplies in order; the little remaining of your money is sewn into the inside of the cloak. I would recommend that as a trick of traveling."

She dressed as he covered his eyes with his hand, and listened as he went over more details. They departed into the desert, and Vanessa listened as closely as she could to every word he had for her, every instruction and description. By the time she dozed off for the night in their meager little dune campsite, she had learned to read the stars and test the air for weather; to dig for minerals one could eat if one had do. Conserving water, dried foods, proper clothing, she all absorbed this as best she could, because, as Langston hinted, traveling on foot would be something she would need to do an endless number of times in her life.

OXO

"Prep Mrs. Young for C-section," midwife Winnifred instructed her apprentice, tying her long, gray hair atop her head.

"Yes ma'am," her apprentice replied, already having given Mrs. Young the necessary remedies. Her own hair was already pinned up, tight and neat as could be in braids swirled round the sides and back of her skull. With skilled hands, she did as needed to be done.

"Begin." The older woman checked the patient's pulse and watched as her apprentice took charge of the surgery. In fact, Winnifred did hardly a thing until the baby was out, and she took to stitching things closed as her apprentice washed the baby and coaxed it to cry.

Winnifred was a midwife with many decades experience. She used to do these things herself. Presently, her apprentice took this over, "For practice" she announced. She and her apprentice had an unspoken rule betwixt them – the young girl had better luck with some dangerous things, so she wrote out the remedies and preformed the surgeries. Winnifred took the credit, and her apprentice took home 40 percent of the midwife fees. This was the way things were, and had been, and thus there was no explanation of the origin and education of this strange girl, nor any question that Winnifred was truly the midwife.

Vanessa was only an apprentice.

"Thank you, Miss Winnifred," the happy new father whispered, taking his son in his arms.

"My pleasure, sir," she replied, smiling in her warm, wrinkled way.

Carrying the tools and bottles of their trade in her arms, the apprentice stood back, eyes flitting about the Young's home as she followed the midwife out.

"Let her sleep for a few days, don't let her lift a finger. I'll send Vanessa to check on her periodically."

Bowing her head as they left, Vanessa followed the elder woman through the streets of the small town of Greenwich. She watched all about her, near tripping once or twice on a bump in the walkway. Once she'd carried Winnifred's things up to the old lady's home, washed them, tucked them away in the cabinet, she took her part of the earnings and mumbled, 'goodbye.'

Nodding, Winnifred did not watch her leave. "Someone will run for you in short time; Mrs. Young's sister is due any moment as well."

Vanessa did not reply. She walked tall, postured like a normal person, and she was normal as far as anyone could see. These days, her dress was plain and of a dark blue, sleeves cut to her elbows, skirt to the ground, and neckline modestly high.

Closing the door of her little, rented house, she stepped softly to a floorboard, and, lifting it, pulled out the tin of cash she'd saved over many months in this dreary place. The dark red crust under her nails was ignored, as she thumbed through the bills to count, to tally, to see that she was nearly to her goal. Though she didn't intend to let anyone know that she was soon to leave, she was, and would never see Winnifred again.

OXO

Eyeing the ladies like the hawk he was paid to be, Langston stood firm as stone at his post within the corner window of the main room. The whites of his eyes stood out stark against the shadows, as his own deep-hued skin blended with the darkness of the night. Breathing out a deep breath, his thoughts turned to the strange, blonde girl. He wondered if she was dead yet, and wondered if she was what he remembered her to be.

The women of Madame's house displayed little emotion at the announcement of Vanessa's passing. Madame was stoic as ever as she somberly recited the gist of what had occurred in July. Langston said not a word, not to anyone but Madame in private, and that was how she knew the story. He'd been careful to leave out details that would come round to bite him in the end – no one knew that he'd sheltered her after the mob, that he'd taken her to the doctor and led her to safety. And though he scarce believed it himself, he told her about the reason for the riotous mob.

"They killed our little Vanessa out of fear, ladies," Madame spoke, crossing her arms as she let the details she'd just revealed sink in. "Whether she was a witch or a demon or whatever or not, remember who she was here. Remember, though we are safe in this house, this world is dangerous. Think of it – July – our most prosperous city! Civilized, my ass." Drawing deep upon her slim cigarette, Madame had stepped away, leaving the women to whisper.

Langston saw it in their faces, in the lines around their eyes. The women could try to hide their fear, but it was apparent to him. They were wondering what it would feel like to die like that.

But the people on Gunsmoke, their skin was thick. One could scarce grow up without seeing some atrocity or another. You could either get used to it, to the futility of doing anything against the tide of injustice, or you could practice with a gun until your fingers bled, lift weights until your arms hung strange, and seek out cybernetic enhancements. Whatever the case, the mob-killing of a young orphan girl was something Langston knew would not affect anyone all that much.

Still, he thought of her often.

"Langston, another loiterer…"

Jessa's whispered request brought Langston from his memories, out onto the front porch. Slipping past the ruffled, laced ladies, he stood formidably before a bundled traveler. "Move along now," Langston's deep whisper commanded.

The figure stood still for a moment, thin and tall, wrapped head to foot in traveling wrappings and cloak. Removing goggles with gloved hands, the figure's oceanic eyes blinked up at him and a hand went to grasp his hand. "Sorry, then," the figure croaked, stepping off of the house porch.

Striding back to his post within the house, Langston saw that the ladies were busy with their wiles and work. They hadn't noticed the paper note the figure had slipped into Langston's hand, nor did they observe him hastily read it within.

'Good Samaritan:

In secret, please meet me in the back after Last Call. I will match Madame's salary to you, plus 50, to have you as my bodyguard. I have the funds to pay up front; we should leave to stay in another town.'