They were startlingly lovely, beautifully dressed in matching hoop skirts and off-the-face bonnets and button-up shoes, visions of unexpected beauty in the center of what even its most loyal supporters admitted was a rough-and-ready town.

With strangers in Trinidad rare and visitors of this type virtually unknown, it was only natural that the interest generated by the girls’ arrival should quickly spread from the cluster of saloon loafers, so that by the time the girls had traveled half a block in those shiny red shoes, they had captured the attention of virtually the whole of Main Street.

“It’s a mortal shame,” Chaney Wilcox sighed at length, “but somebody had better go tell ’em, I guess.”

“Tell ’em what?” Waterburn slurred.

“That they done got off at the wrong danged town, o’ course, you blamed fool!” Wilcox retorted.

“Guess you’re right at that, Chaney,” drawled young Olan Forrest, slicking down his hair. “Can’t be anything more’n a mistake that’d see a couple gals like that arrive here . . . more’s the pity. Reckon I oughtta go see if I can be of any help.”

“Someone stop him!