Do be aware that, as seems to be a habit with me, this story proceeds fairly slowly, with a relatively small amount of explicit content. This first chapter, for example, has essentially none. If that would trouble you, you needn't waste your time in reading it.
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Mid-afternoon. Summer. The sun burned high and bright in a cloudless August sky, searing down upon a dusty little town a few miles off the Rio Grande. Siesta time. Too hot to work, too hot almost to move - even the air outside held still and quiet as all the men and women hid indoors from the heat. Low homes of white adobe and of wood lined the wide boulevard to the center of the town, building up to the comparative majesty of a two-story saloon and flophouse. Four horses tethered up outside before a murky trough of water, shifting occasionally on their feet as they patiently waited for their riders to return. Far in the distance, the faint cry of a carrion bird delighting in some newly-discovered meal.
But closer issues were at hand. A sound of struggle rising past the batwing doors of the saloon, of angry exclamations and scattered furniture, building towards violence - at least until a tired holler cut through the growing din, loud enough to be audible even from the street outside. "All right now, you fellas take that outside. Ain't gonna be no brawlin' in here, understand?"
The reprimand won a few moments of quiet, of reprieve. Then all at once, three figures burst from the doorway, spilling out onto the wooden veranda - one man in front, shabbily dressed and lanky of build, shoved bodily backwards by those behind. The second of them larger, younger, his fists clasped furiously at the first man's lapels; the third man following closely after, smaller but still itching to throw a punch.
"You damned cheat." Sweat shimmered in a faint sheen on the larger man's face, hot and angry, as he bellowed down at the half-battered figure before him. A violent shove sending him to spawl upon the ground, his back striking one of the wooden columns with an uncomfortable
crack
. "Where's our money?" And as though to emphasize the point, the second of the aggressors delivered a savage kick to the prone man's side.
Breath hissed through clenched teeth, flecked with blood. The man on the ground doubled up protectively, writhing in pain but still defiant. He spat at the foot of his assailant, glared back into grizzled, crimson features. "I ain't a cheat."
The foot came down again, a filthy boot heavy on the older man's neck. "You're a cheat and a liar, Slim." A warning, a rumbling growl from deep in the throat. "You expect to live through the next few minutes, you better start whistlin' a different tune."
While the bigger man spoke, his companion dropped down to the wooden walkway, hands checking industriously at the pockets of their target while he was unable to resist. Just a scarce few moments later that he rose again, now clutching a small back of coin. "I got it, Jack." Pleased satisfaction in his voice as he pulled at the drawstrings, peering into the jingling leather sack. "We can split it up proper, make sure we each get back our stake. Little bit extra in here, too, looks like."
"Dammit, that money ain't yours." 'Slim' snarled up angrily, struggling fruitlessly against the larger man's weight. "You're so sure I cheated, fine, take back what you lost. But you ain't got no claim to the rest."
"You shut your mouth, Slim." The gun came out then, a revolver dark and ugly in Jack's hand. Hanging down loose, uncocked - a threat to which the older man's eyes were inexhorably drawn. "I got half a mind to fix you right here."
"Hey, now." A bit of diffidence gathered now in the voice of the smaller man. Hesitation. "We got our money back. No need to get yourself in no trouble over this louse."
"I hate cheats." His eyes blazed fiercely, still glaring down at his captive. "I hate'm, more'n anything else. You get robbed by a desperado out on the road, least he's got some damn guts. This piece'a shit..." He spat, a thick gobbet of saliva and tobacco remnants splattering messily on the older man's vest. "Ain't even got a gun. He's a damned coward. Expects folk'll let'm off the hook if he don't got a way to fight back." The barrel of the revolver rose up in his hand, deliberate and menacing, aligned with the eyes of the man below. An expression there now almost resigned, expectant. No longer struggling. "I ain't feeling that merciful."
"Quite a friendly scene."
It was a new voice that now spoke, drawling slow and sarcastic past the moment's tension. Not quite rough enough to hide its still-youthful pitch and purity, nor the subtly feminine melody of its tones. Three pairs of eyes rose up to find and boggle at the speaker - a woman's face looked back at them, but the garb beneath was that of a man. Perched atop a mid-sized chestnut stallion, she wore the long leather duster of a ranger, heavy boots with muddy spurs. Flashing green eyes and serious features bronzed by the sun, staring out from below a dark Stetson hat. Beneath the large and shapeless garb, one could scarce discern the smoothness of youthful curves, the low shoulders and narrow waist of the woman hidden away.
A moment passed in silence. Shocked at this interruption, and at the faintly preposterous figure behind it. "Well?" She spoke again, as her horse harumphed. "What's all this about?" Narrowness in her eye, and a curl of warning at her lip.
Finally, Jack stirred, waking from his surprise. His head shaking in disapproval still faintly astonished. "You best just move along, missie. This ain't gonna be pretty."
"You aim to shoot him?" Archness lined the question, her gaze flickering down to the silent man beneath his gun, then back up to his eye.
"Don't much have to aim, at this range." Black humor sparked in his expression, tugged at his lip. "But you got the notion of it. This man here's a low-down dirty cheat, and I mean to show what I think of his kind." The hammer of the revolver clicked into place, a punctuation mark on this dark promise.
It could have been an eyeblink, a lightning strike - the woman's hand scarcely seemed to flicked beneath the edge of her coat before emerging again with a weapon of her own. A long forty-five with a heavy barrel, polished steel shining like silver; on its side, a light tracery of engraving captured the image of a rose in bloom, tangled with thorns. "Where I sit," she spoke still cool and quiet, "That sounds like murder."
"Lady..." Jack sputtered in annoyed disbelief as his compatriot backed slowly away, hand dropping down near his hip. "You best put that thing away 'fore I decide to take you serious."
A moment's irritation flashed in the woman's gaze, her mouth tightening to a low frown. Brief deliberation, glancing at the uncertain watchfulness of the man behind, and at 'Slim,' looking up at her bloody from the corner of his eye. Then all at once, an explosion shattered the relative quiet of the afternoon, the two standing figures flinching backwards as the black revolver kicked suddenly to the air, clattered noisily across the wooden walk. The smaller man pulling his own gun, only to find the woman's steady aim and gaze already centered on him.
"My
hand
!" Jack was first to speak, gasping half in shock. His right hand cradled carefully in his left. "I think you broke my-"
"Quiet." An icy aside, as she stared down her target. "Toss it over here. Quickly, now."
Humiliated resentment burned in the smaller man's eyes - but it was no more than a moment before he acceeded, his own weapon set to tumble in the dirt, coming to rest by the hooves of the woman's horse. "Right, now," she gestured with the gun. "Get moving. Both of you. You listen good, maybe I'll pass along your irons to whoever passes for the law around here. Let him decide if you get'm back." Her gaze stayed on the pair, cool and unflinching, as they made their way muttering off the wooden walkway and down the road, Jack nursing still at his injured hand. Only once they were safely in the distance did she holster her weapon and slip fluidly down from the saddle, casting an incurious glance at the man still lying on the floor as she retrieved the guns from the dirt where they lay. "You all right?"
"...reckon so." The difficulty with which he spoke belied his answer - it was a visible effort for him to haul himself upright, one hand braced against the wall to keep steady. A small cut on his cheek, seeping crimson. Still, he managed to cast an appraising eye in the woman's direction, impressed...and a little bemused. "Guess maybe I owe you some thanks."
She shook her head in casual denial, stowing the revolvers in the fair-sized saddlebags that hung off the sides of her horse. "Ain't got nothin' to do with you, really. Just don't take kindly to people gettin' cut down in front of me." Glancing down the road at the pair of retreating figures, still visible. "You really cheat'em?"
The man shrugged with perhaps affected ease, pulling from his vest pocket a small tin of tobacco, papers nestled nicely in its bottom. "Don't matter much now, I suppose. Either way, they got all I won, and then some." Tying up her horse, she half-watched as he worked through a clearly familiar ritual of preparing himself a smoke, his hands slightly uncooperative after his experience. A match flaring briefly brilliant against the wooden railing, once he was finished - he took a long, steadying drag on the resulting cigarette, a look almost enterprising climbing into his eye as it slowly traveled across the length of the woman's body. Such as could be seen, at least, beneath her sturdy trail clothes. "Ain't ever seen a lady could handle a gun like that."
"Well, now you have." Brusque and careless, her stallion secured by the trough. "Listen, I don't mean to be in town long. You help me out, tell me what you know, you can call us even." He nodded genially - she continued. "See, I'm lookin' for someone. A man."
"Well, now." An edge of suggestion in his tone, a tiny smirk curled upon his lips amidst bruises and caking blood. "I reckon you found one."
No reaction. Not even a flicker of irritation; she just pressed onward, launching into a description with the even tone of long repetition. "He'd be getting near his fifties now. Stands a little under six feet. Hair and eyes are both dark brown, though I reckon the hair might be goin' grey now. He..."
Her voice suddenly faltered, hesitated, as her eyes caught upon the face of the man before her. Really looking at him for the first time, suddenly scrutinizing the stubbly curve of his jaws, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Wondering, as her heart thumped deeper, faster. "He's lightly built...like you. Don't often give his name, what I've heard, but it's Blake." Her gaze, heavy in his features, caught the subtle flinch of surprise as she spoke the name. "James Blake." And from the way his eyes alit suddenly with calculation and suspicion, it did not seem that there could be further room for doubt...
"So..." He intoned gamely, after a moment's awkward quiet. "This 'Blake' fella...supposin' I might know where he is, what do you want with him?"
The woman just stared, swallowed in abrupt uncertainty. Her whole manner suddenly altered - the easy, reckless confidence that had carried her as she drove off his assailants now dissolved, her spine stiff with discomfort and anxiety. Her brow, low and almost disbelieving. A whisper on her lips. "It's you, ain't it."
