Irina of the Romany. 4.

The day was dusty, full of a haze. She stumbled into the Sheriff's office dressed in mens' clothes, triumphant at her ability not to wither under the weight of marime clothing from a gadjo. She had made it 6 miles from Hiram's Crossroads in the sweltering heat to the town at the base of Rockington Pass.

"I wanna see the best madam in this town." She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Now just who in God's chamber pot are you? You one of them Injuns who lives west of town? Ain't you got your own sheriff?"

"I ain't no Injun. I from the Mexican part of town. We read fortunes and dance and sing for ye."

"Why you dressed like a man? You some kind of invert?"

"Look. A man, he try to reach under my skirts and I have none of it. I's a good girl. Good Mexican and American family."

"Yeah. Mexican. Sure."

"I'm here because I Rom Bari. No, we not Injuns. I wanna make a deal with the Hurdy-Gurdy girls in your town."

The Sheriff drew his face up close. "You ain't heard of no Hurdy-Gurdy girls nor Saloons here. Get out if you a Christian woman or invert or what have ye. This here's a dry county."

"Fine. I find 'em myself. You gonna be sad I met you." She pushed open the door of the Sheriff's office and the wind continued to vacuum it open. She extracted the man's dagger, tied with red string around the handle, from her vest.

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