Montana Authors Project

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Along toward the middle of the day, beyond where even a trickle of water ran, Boone climbed the last lift to the divide. One way the land pitched down to Oregon, to the Flathead and Clark's Fork and the Columbia and the western sea; the other, it fell off to the Marias and Missouri, to Blackfoot country and Red Horn's band and Teal Eye carrying his young one in her. It was strange that a man could go off and leave a part of him living behind him and have no power over it and no say-so but only the knowledge that there was a live piece of him that wasn't with him. (295)…

Along Wyoming Street houses of prostitution thrived, the lavish Dumas Brothel and Venus Alley, where women plied their trade in thin-framed cribs, a line of double-decked openings attached to the back wall of buildings, fronted by a curtain, a single lightbulb over each entrance. (132)…

Where the ridge leveled off, he spurred the horse to a gallop and pulled up short before the outer gate. A Frenchman peeked through the pickets and swung the gate open to let him through and closed it tight afterwards. "Where's the customers?" Jim asked. The Frenchman gestured with his hands, saying only God knew. A clerk eyed Jim, his hands palms down on the counter. "Only customers we get these days are ugly customers," he said. (328)…
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