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She upends the bottle, drinking a good potion of what’s left.
“It’s just an expression. I count the days by when we reach a new town or the Magistrate says to camp.”
“He’s Father Time, too? The guy knows a lot of tricks.”
“That he does.”
She hands me back the bottle. The stuff we’re drinking is vile. Greasy and fishy, but even flounder-flavored turpentine will taste good when it’s the only drink in town.
I say, “How long have you been with him?”
Daja shakes her head. “I don’t know. There weren’t a lot of us back then. Hardly any vehicles.” She holds out her arms and turns in a half circle. “But now look at us.”
I hand her back the bottle.
“You’re a whole army.”
“Damn right,” she says.
“Onward Christian soldiers.”
Her eyes narrow.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s an old hymn back where I grew up . . . not that I actually spent a lot of time in church.”
“Must be a Protestant thing. What were you? Methodist? Baptist?”
“I have no idea.”
“I figured. My family practically worshiped the pope. It felt like I was in church all the time,” she says. “Four times a week at least. Not that I minded. Except I couldn’t be an altar boy, but I’d sneak in after services and put on their gear anyway.”
“You ever get caught?”
“Never. But it was still a sin, so here I am.”
I hand her back the bottle.
“You think you were damned because you played dress-up?”
“Why else?”
“You never killed anybody or robbed a bank or short-sheeted the pope?”
Daja smiles.
“Nope. I was a very good girl.”
“And here I was thinking you were Ma Barker back upstairs.”
“Nah. I didn’t learn to ride till I got here. I never even threw a punch back home.”
She looks me over.
“I bet you were exactly the way you are now.”
“Only prettier.”
