Petticoats and the Ferryman's Ledger opens beneath the vast, sun-baked skies of the late nineteenth century. Dust devils danced across the sagebrush flat as the wagon train slowed to a halt at the edge of the rimrock.
"We make camp here," the scout announced, spitting tobacco into the dry red dirt. "There is water in the canyon, but we won't be the only ones drinking from it tonight."
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By nightfall, the fires were kept low. Every man cleaned his rifle with an oily rag, watching the dark ridgeline for any sign of riders. The silence of the frontier had a weight of its own—an unspoken promise that out here, beyond the reach of magistrates and marshals, a man lived or died by the quickness of his hand and the word of his neighbors.