Mary was raised in a brothel. Didn’t want that kind of life and jumped on a wagon train when she was 15. Ride with her into the Wild West of long ago. She promises not to lie too bad.
I found her handwritten story in an old trunk I bought at an auction in Walton, NY.
There are many corrections and many notes and pictures stuck between the pages, and the ink and pencil are faded and often difficult to read. I had to guess a few times and hope the language of my guesses doesn’t sound too modern, nor done too much harm to Mary’s intent.
The name Mary Faraday Huntington does not appear in any of the old records. Whoever wrote the words shamelessly talks about things rarely mentioned in stories of the Wild West.
She describes the way it was long ago in the gold fields of the Sierras and among the soiled doves of San Francisco, not the sugar coated fairy tales of book and Hollywood.