Certainly, she didn’t dress like Jingfei, and I’d hate to picture her in a gold-trimmed changyi. What she wore was patched Army-issue blue trousers that was too big, and she wasn’t exactly on the skinny side, neither, held up by the dirty canvas suspenders and the gun belt around her waist that holstered an ivory-handled Schofield. A six-button bib-front shirt, red and black checked, one nasty-looking bandanna, and a linen duster that blowed behind her because the wind had started blowing. Her black slouch hat looked worser than the one I’d left behind in Calico. At first, I thought she had some giant boil or cyst on her cheek, but then she turned her head a mite and spit, and the wind blowed brown tobacco juice all over the tan vest of the fellow who stood behind her. He didn’t complain none, and I couldn’t blame him. I’d knowed some whores who dipped snuff, but never a lady who chawed Starr Navy tobacco by the crate-load. Not that I’d ever mistook Candy Crutchfield for a lady.
