Journal of a Cowboy
The soiled doves served many functions
On the following morning, the men got up early after a good night’s rest. The cold and the wind had ceased. Their mounts had started off at a good trot, basking their hides in the warm sun. Jean-Luc thought that perhaps they should continue their trek through Council Grove, Kan., because it happened to be close to the end of the Santa Fe Trail and they might find employment there.
As Jean-Luc and Jacques got nearer to it, they came upon a house, larger than most and somewhat hidden from the most-traveled area, standing amid a clump of trees.
It had a large porch that ushered guests into a fancy living room, and a comely lady came out to greet them. She pulled a black, embroidered shawl over her ample bosom, showing herself to be a modest creature. Her lilting southern accent made the men feel very much at home.
At first, Jean-Luc and Jacques thought that she might belong to some kind of a holy order like a convent. As their eyes grew accustomed to the interior light, though, the men could discern the luxury of the room, which almost seemed palatial. She brought some coffee for them in a silver service along with homemade biscuits. Little by little they could make out some other cowhands waiting uncomfortably in the shadowed corners of the place. They seemed to be waiting for some kind of signal or permission to go forward.
After a few moments, the matron who had ushered them in handed one of the waiting men a note, and he hastened upstairs eagerly. It was then that the two French cowhands cast long looks at each other and nodded. They had suddenly understood that they had wandered into a house of ill repute. It was not a religious order at all.
The madame of the house smiled beneficently at them but she made no effort to hurry them along at all, sensing their discomfort and perhaps their curiosity. “These girls who work for me,” she began, “have been ousted from their homes by their families. They needed a place to stay and so I have taken them in. Here, they are able to work for their living.”
“What do you call these girls of yours?” Jean Luc ventured to ask.
“The world calls them different names but to me, they are simply “soiled doves,” stained by the wiles of a cruel world. Some are called hookers, courtesans, hustlers, tarts, women of the streets, cocottes, call girls, floosies, tramps, mines, temptresses, sirens, flirts, wenches, vamps or ladies of easy virtue. In this country, where there is a preponderance of men and a scarcity of women in frontier places, these girls serve an important function,” she said, pouring them both another cup of coffee.
The madame was obviously proud of her girls. She looked upon them kindly and went on: “They have been defamed and written out of history books. If it hadn’t been for them, many small villages could not have been populated. They were baby sitters and cleaning ladies or school marms. Many of them kept frustrated farmers from beating up their wives.”
Jean-Luc gazed upon her with an air of mystery and knowledge. He sipped his coffee and let her tell them more: “In places where there were only men, there were few social functions, such as dances. If there was music but no dance partners, half the men would be designated as dance partners for the evening. He would wear black arm bands to indicate that they were the female dancers for the others that evening. As soon as the function was over, they would remove their arm bands and went back to being men just like all the others. Their service was not looked upon as an admission of sexuality and nobody thought any less of them.”
“I guess this really is a land of opportunity,” Jacques Duval said, hiding his amused smirk with his coffee cup.
“Necessity is the mother of invention, and it doesn’t discriminate by gender,” he added.