Marigold Fisher hid behind the mercantile and swiftly changed from dirty breeches, tied at the waist with a rope, and a shirt which was two sizes two big.
The clothes belonged to her eldest brother, Lester. He was the instigator of the mischief, justice, he called it. Will, their youngest brother, and Marigold followed his lead. She pulled the dozens of pins from her long, auburn hair and allowed it to tumble in waves down her back. There was no need for shoes, she had been barefoot ever since ma and pa had been killed by some outlaws on their way into town. She still fumed at the thought that no-one in Cold Spring had bothered to look for the killers. After all, the Fishers were poor no-account farmers that no-one would miss.
Written Fireside: Be Mine, Marshal