Ella Forsythe had no use for men or the baggage that came with them. She'd been freed of such trappings when her useless and meek husband, James, had dropped dead whilst kneeling for prayer in church back in Virginia. She'd sold everything, lock, stock and barrel, but one mule and a few necessaries and headed off to Missouri.

Dressed in James' old pants, shirt and heavy coat, she'd cut off her long-hair, put a hat down low over her eyes and practised lowering her voice enough to pass for a youngish man. She was glad to be rid of the social requirements of women. Her long hair was always dirty, coming loose from its braids or buns and made her look like a harridan. Now, sporting shaggy layers to the nape of her neck, she felt free; unencumbered and longing to flee civilisation as she'd known it.

Back in Virginia, when James was busy in town, she'd talked to travellers as they stopped by for water and a bite to eat. She questioned them about the routes west and determined she was going to Missouri, then points West, someday.

Now that James was dead, she never looked back. She now sat by a campfire, not far from St. Louis and watched as the fire burned the last of her dresses. "Eldon" Forsythe, late of Virginia, and a good hand at muleskinning, was born and ready to do business.