They probably knew they were doomed in Doubtful, Wyoming, but it was my official duty to give them all notices. They had to shut down before March 1 or face the music. And that went for the gals in their houses, too. They knew, of course. Mrs. Goodrich had told them, even though she wasn’t present during the vote. But still, I had to make it official, and now that the notices had been printed up by the Doubtful Advertiser I had to stuff them into the hands of the owners, and maybe leave a few around for the girls to pick up and study, always assuming they could read. Reading wasn’t easy, especially public notices that used big words and were just as pompous as any lawyer could dream up. So one February afternoon I loaded a sheaf of them in my arm and headed for the sporting district. It wasn’t doing so well since the saloons had been shut down, but it was lively enough, getting trade off the ranches. I thought I’d start with Denver Sally. She had the biggest house, two stories, with a dozen rooms upstairs and a parlor, kitchen, and closed-down saloon, along with her private suite, downstairs.
