I was born on a farm in a little town in Minnesota, daughter of a French showgirl and a no-good drunken pig farmer. My childhood was spent shepherding my younger brothers from our daddy, who got violent after a few plugs of whiskey. In one of his more dramatic rages, he shoved my mama in the pond out back and held her head in the water till she stopped struggling. I tried to stop him, but I was only thirteen at the time, and he cuffed me in the ear so hard when I screamed that he knocked me clean out. When I came to, my daddy had passed out from the booze and the shock and my mama was floating beside me. Without thinking, I ran inside, grabbed my mama’s best kitchen knife and ran him right through the heart.

I knew I had to get out of there, so I took my daddy’s wallet, grabbed my brothers, and hopped the earliest train to Dodge City, Kansas, to seek my fortune and avoid the heat that often follows girls who kill their fathers. My brothers and I learned to live by stealing—there sure are a lot of suckers in big cities.

Still, I felt like I wasn’t doing enough. I’d already lost whatever capacity for human emotion or conscience I’d had when I ran my daddy through, so why not put that to good use? I became a bounty hunter. The pay sure beat robbing little old ladies with some sad orphan story, and besides, I liked it. Mostly I turned in the men I was supposed to catch, but the really mean ones, the ones that were wanted for raping women or abusing their wives…those I kept for myself.

It’s been six years since I killed my daddy. I’ve traveled all over the country by train, looking for adventure and new business. As for my brothers, John and George stayed back at home. I hear they’re doing all right.