in a voice like a John Ford film
"Drawing Dead"
Gallifrey
Gen (with implied Brax/Romana and Narvin/Leela)
~3.3k
Western AU. Brax and Romana are thieves on the run, Narvin is the Pinkerton sent to capture them. Leela's just along for the ride. For
neveralarch.
NOTE: Huuurrrrgh. Re-reading this, I am afraid it might be too serious! I hope this is okay. Also please excuse my anachronisms and hastily-Wiki'd geography. I tried to do real research, but then I didn't.
i.
Ace of Hearts, Six of Hearts, Seven of Diamonds, Jack of Spades. Nothing. Braxiatel keeps his face blank.
McCall tips out another shot of whiskey: he's done. Linetti's scratching his beard, a little vein-twitch in his neck: ditto. Jones smiling, stacking/spreading/stacking his cards one-handed: no read.
Brax looks peripheral at Romana. That flash of red fabric, body straight and lithe, smirk playing up just perceptible. He swallows down want/need, hard. She smirks bigger. Look away, pick up the shot glass three-fingered, angle the cigar towards Jones. Don't check to see if anyone caught it. He keeps his face blank.
Linetti stretches, frowns, puts his hand face-down on the table. "Fuck it, I got nothing. I'm hitting Wally's before he closes. You joining, little lady?" He puffs himself up, leers at Romana.
Brax moves a hand slow to his holster. Romana keeps smirking. "Hardly," she says. The tiniest movement: she opens the purse sitting on her lap, the catch clicking open, .22 most likely already pointed dead at Jones.
Time drags. Linetti, oblivious, shrugs and stumbles out, shouldering the door open. Street noise cuts the tension. Brax snaps back into the game.
Romana reaches into her bag and pulls out a cigarette case, stands up and matches one lit in a single fluid motion. "You boys and your cards. How it captures your attention so, I'll never understand." She walks casual around the table.
"It's a pleasant diversion," Brax murmurs.
"It's the money, Miss," McCall says. "It's this or the mines, and they don't let you drink down there." He pours another shot.
"It's degenerate. Irving's never been able to resist. Have you." Romana raises an eyebrow as she passes behind Jones, but doesn't pause.
Jones deals the last cards: Two of Hearts to McCall, Queen of Diamonds to himself, Jack of Clubs to Brax.
Brax smiles fake-absently and sweeps up his card. "Vice is what separates us from the animals. Sin, luxury, indulgence. The self-destructive act is proof of our autonomy and awareness."
"Shut the fuck up," Jones says. It's the most he's said all night. "Fucking dandy."
Brax smiles again, and tosses a handful of coins onto the pile. A silver piece spinning. Time drags: McCall gives up in visible stages, eyes back and forth between his hand and the money and some place off distant. Pours another shot.
"And beyond that," Brax continues. "It's not so much about the cards themselves. The game is irrelevant. This is brinksmanship, gentlemen. A bloodless duel, my will against yours."
"My fist against your mouth, you don't shut it soon." Jones raises: two coins, a watch.
McCall folds. Romana turns and looks through the window, silhouetted against the torchlight outside. Brax watches her watching. Keep it in, keep it in. He pulls himself back to his nothing hand. He visualizes the precise actions he would take, should this turn ugly. He'll win, he knows that much. The question is will Jones lose gracefully. He visualizes the bullet in the chamber.
Jones calls. Cards on the table: he's got less than nothing. King-high.
"In a certain light, it almost looks like a type of religion," Brax says, palming down his one-pair hand then dragging the pile towards him, not giving Jones time to react. The pocketwatch pops open, hands to the wrong time. He closes it, winds it, holds it up to his ear, listens to the tick. "Faith in a higher power. A trust that the universe will look out for us."
"Blind fucking luck," Jones says. Brax calculates the likelihood of him fighting. It's low, for now, and Brax has no intention of staying long enough to see if it's a slow-burn fuse.
"Thank you for the excellent company and competition, Mr. Jones. I'm afraid I must adjourn. Milady?" He tucks the watch into his vest and drops the money into his satchel, pulling it closed tight, planning out the next ten minutes of high street/stable/ride out.
Jones seethes silent, but stays put.
"That was a waste of time," Romana whispers as he leads her out. "We should be in Colorado by now."
"By that measure, most of life is a waste of time. Colorado can wait, darling. Surely you don't wish to go mechanically from job to job, with no pleasures in between?"
"Don't 'darling' me, Braxiatel. I'm not in the mood."
"No sobriquets, as you wish. A more conservative Mr. Braxiatel, simply doing his gentlemanly duty, escorting his companion-"
Romana snorts.
"-Business associate, do forgive my linguistic carelessness. Escorting his business associate through the wilds of Cheyenne."
They reach the stable. The carriage, the horses: still there. The boy he'd paid to watch it: still there also, but sleeping. No extra, then. He holds out a hand, which Romana accepts with a minimum of eye-contact, and disappears into the dark confines of the coach, slamming the door shut. Nearly takes his fingers off.
"A word of thanks would not go amiss," he calls back. "Considering the situation, a man of high standing volunteering for the filth and exertion of a teamster." She says nothing, if she hears at all. He does a quick re-inventory: revolver, the shotgun on the floor, flask and pipe and portfolio. Reorganize the facts, the plan, the back-up plans, the escape routes. Events branching out.
He rehearses the play. It's only that we've come on hard times, do you see, and with my wife in her condition these claims are more work than I can afford. I'm willing to compromise on price.
The last of twilight gone now, the moon risen high. A strange, delicate glow. Civilization disappearing behind them, the land flattening, mountains giving way to the prairie.
ii.
The job: Irving Braxiatel, bankrobber/card cheat/conman; Romana Guillame, possible anarchist/suspected murderess. Last known location: Pittsburgh, with unverified sightings leading west. No known current affiliations, itinerary clues limited to gossip. A dead trail, but a Pennsylvania steel baron with the money to resurrect it. The Agency's written orders: find them, get a confession, bring them in. Implied: kill them.
Narvin isn't in the assassination business but he'll make an exception for anarchists. He'd been at Homestead.
He follows a thin lead to Cheyenne. Two weeks stagecoach, off and on. His whole body aches. The telegram waiting for him reads I AM NOT PAYING YOU FOR YOUR INCOMPETENCE. M.A.
All those little towns, they made him in every one. Maybe it was the hat. No one wants to talk to a Pinkerton, which is fine, since he has no particular desire to talk to most people, but it wouldn't hurt to be more subtle, in certain situations.
Like this, for instance. The stage reached the end of its usefulness around two towns ago, if he's honest. The thought of venturing alone into the country is alarming. He has his talents, scouting is not one of them. So he asked, quite politely, if anyone would be willing to serve as guide. Punctuated with a quick jingle of coins. Three saloons, each one they all turned away in unison. A more emphatic jingle. Nothing.
He's in what passes for a restaurant, having failed to solicit even the slightest interest, writing and re-writing a telegram for back East. Regret to inform you, no no. Unfortunately have been unable to locate - scratch that. The coffee is terrible, the food unidentifiable. The clientele: best not to dwell. No sign of target, please advise. He rips through the paper with the nib of his pen.
The place goes silent again, like when he came in. He forces himself not to look up. Someone walking in, a wave of whispering, rustling, he glances halfway. He's spared any further effort: she sits down at his table.
She sits down. A woman, alone, wearing not much of anything. Skins and then skin. He feels a blush start crawling up the back of his neck. He finally meets her eyes.
"Can I help you?" he asks, icily as he knows how.
"You need a guide," she says firmly. Her accent isn't much more noticeable than his. "I know this land well. If you pay me in advance I will take you anywhere you need to go."
"Yes, a guide. Not an Indian whore. You must have been misinfor-" He stops when her knife hits his throat. The whispering and rustling stop. Everyone staring. Blood starting to well, she's breathing hard but not labored. Eyes bright and fixed on his.
"One more false word and you are dead," she says conversationally.
"Understood," he says. She slowly steps back. The knife is the last to go.
"I am known as Leela." She slides the knife back into a sheath on her ankle.
"I thought you people were all called Running Eagle or Sitting Duck - nevermind. I'm Narvin."
A slight tension (over the 'you people', no doubt) rises then drifts away. She stands up; he sprains his neck keeping his eyes on her face.
"I will find us two good horses. You will be in charge of provisions. Meet me at noon, by the church."
He figures he's got no other prospects. He nods. But, wait. Everyone's still staring. Rumors breed like flies here. "Stop."
Leela turns back, long legs mirroring the arch of her eyebrows. She's not the sort of person to do anything just because you demand it, is what that pose says. Narvin files it away for future reference.
"Put this on, would you." He takes off his coat, thrusts it awkwardly at her. "The men, here and outside, they..." He nods at her body. "React to you, dressed as you are."
She smiles, predator-style. "I wear what I want. I am not responsible for other people's weaknesses. And I will kill any man who attempts to, as you say, 'react'."
"Noted," he says. He puts his coat back on, clears his throat, straightens his cravat. "Shall we, then?"
iii.
An initially cryptic telegram: YOUR TIRED FRIENDS HOPE TO RENDEZVOUS IN COLORADO. M.A.
Romana figures it out quick enough. Tired, sleepless. Implied inverted commas around 'friends' - a known enemy. The eye that never sleeps. Pinkertons.
Braxiatel sidles up. She folds the telegram and tucks it into her purse.
"What's this now?"
"My mother. She's always so worried."
"Let's be fair to dear old Mater, you do partake in some worrying activities."
"And let's be clear that we are not having this conversation, or any variation thereof. Your man at the bank, he came through?"
Braxiatel sighs theatrically. "You wound me, milady. I merely wish to remind you of the-"
"Do stop talking, Braxiatel." She remarkably does not slap him in the face. Medals have been awarded for less. "Your man. You've gotten in contact, yes?"
"Yes, yes, everything is arranged." He looks like he's about to say something else, but thinks better of it.
They shouldn't have spent the night here. They shouldn't be moving so slowly. She should think of something, something to hurry him, that will not arouse suspicion. She tries to will him to pick up the pace with her thoughts alone. She's no mesmerist. He ambles back and forth, packing his suitcase one sock at a time.
When they finally hit the road again, it's past noon and she's weak from the exertion of not physically pushing him along. It takes so much energy to be subservient. The smiles chafe worse than the saddle, the demureness more constricting than the corset. She wishes, for the thousandth time, that she'd been born a man. She'd do a hell of a lot better at it than Braxiatel.
iv.
The man seemed as strange and out of place in town as she was. And also, she needed the money. These are her two excuses.
They haven't discussed what they're out here to do. Still, she knows. He'd asked for a shortcut through the mountains: he wishes to intercept someone on the road. He is well-armed but not a thug, and not a lawman either: a hired gun, then.
She will make her decision at the time whether she will still follow him and his money, or if the attack is unjust.
The path narrows and steepens. She nudges her horse to a walk, then a stop, then swings off.
Narvin groans. "We're walking? Please tell me again how this is the quickest route. Or do you mean to leave me for dead, Savage."
"It is the shortest distance. We will only walk for a little while. And if you fall, I will carry you."
"Ha ha."
They walk. She sees the dead tree, the fallen rocks. The sun hangs to their left. Not long now.
"You are not like the others," she calls back. "And you talk strangely."
"Whereas you are the toast of the town, amazing all with your graceful diction and wit."
She doesn't need to look back to know he's red-faced and puffing, but walking stronger now. Anger is a tool she uses well.
"This part of the country, only a certain kind of person comes. I don't share their dream of the frontier. I live in New - in a very big city, very far away. And I was born, oh. Elsewhere. Even farther away than that." He stumbles, falls, picks himself up before the horse walks over him. She sneaks a glance back: he's dusty, unhappy, but determined.
These men who are strangers to their own kind. She would be sympathetic, if it wasn't so much worse for those of different kinds. Her compassion only reaches so far.
"You are not an American?"
"Not by birth. By deed. They changed my name, you know. At Castle Garden. Narvinovitch, too many syllables, it's not American, or maybe it was just a clerical error, which might be worse. They cut off my ancestry with a piece of paper."
"They killed my family and took away my home," she counters.
"Yours is best," he says.
The path clears. She was not led astray, they are where they are meant to be. She allows herself to feel pride, but doesn't wallow in it. She climbs back on the horse.
"Oh, thank God," Narvin says. It takes him three tries to remount.
"Your God has little to do with this. You may thank me, if you wish."
v.
The view from the carriage is unimpressive. This entire state is unimpressive. They'd sang such songs of the West, her friends in Philadelphia. The majesty of God's work, and so on. She does not deny that the mountains are very tall and the prairies quite flat, but the spectacle fails to move her.
The landscape stops scrolling by. The horses mutter. She hears Braxiatel give out with a muffled but identifiably vulgar oath. She hears the sound of a shell being dropped into the shotgun.
She pushes the fear to the back of her mind, and opens the door.
"I don't fucking believe it. Oh, do pardon my harsh language, milady, I didn't realize you-"
"Cut it, Brax." She wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "What is it."
He points across the range. Two riders, coming fast. The rendezvous. Her fear grows, she ignores it. Brax checks the shotgun again. They wait.
The riders slow. They don't shoot, that's something. And what a strange pair they make: a savage woman and a small, pink man in a battered bowler hat. They dismount, the savage standing tense by the horses and the man approaching with arms loose around his side. The twin bulks of holsters under his coat. She breathes evenly.
"Good day, sir," she calls out. "Can we be of some assistance?"
"That depends." He sounds ragged but triumphant. "Mrs. Guillame? Mr. Braxiatel?"
"No," Brax says, but too late. She counts the seconds it takes him to drag out a fake name. "Mr. and Mrs. Everett, heading for Cripple Creek."
"Do not lie to us, Mr. ...Bracksyadell." The woman produces a knife from seemingly nowhere.
The man frowns. "'Us'? When did that happen? Nevermind. My name is Narvin, I'm with the Pinkerton Detective Agency, I've been sent to apprehend you. Using any force I deem necessary."
Braxiatel moves to aim, but Narvin is faster. Brax acquiesces, the coward, dropping the rifle down slow to the ground, hands held palm-up.
Romana rolls her eyes. "Thank you for the support, Braxiatel. Now. Mr. Narvin. I'm sure we can come to an agreement here."
Narvin keeps a revolver trained on both of them, but his gaze just on her. "I'm sure we can't."
"Is this about Chicago?"
"I wasn't informed. Frankly, I don't care which particular grievance my employer has."
"And who is your employer? Come on, Mr. Narvin. What's the harm in granting me this last request."
He hesitates. Pulls back the hammer on his left-hand gun. "M. Arkadian. From Pennsylvania."
She stares at him, wide-eyed, then bursts into laughter. Doubled-over, gasping laughter.
His hand wavers. "Care to let me in on the joke?"
"Oh," she says, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Don't mind me, it's just hysteria." She pulls a folded piece of paper from somewhere in the folds of her dress.
PICK UP THE PACE LADY R. THE HORSEMEN APPROACHETH. M.A.
"'M.A.' could be anyone," he says, but the doubt is writ plain in his features.
"It's Arkadian. The bastard. What purpose this even serves...what am I saying, it's about money. Somewhere, somehow, that man is making a pile of money off of one or both of us dying." She stifles a final giggle. "The look on your face, really."
"I'm sure whatever look I have is entirely appropriate to the situation."
Braxiatel clears his throat, hands still held up. "This complication should postpone any violence, yes?"
"No," the savage says.
"Yes," Romana says.
Narvin carefully lowers his arms, slides both guns back into their holsters, but keeps his hands hovering nearby. "Possibly. For now."
"Come with us to Cripple Creek. We'll have a drink, share a meal, compare notes. We keep an eye on each other until this is sorted. And it will get sorted." Romana holds out a hand. Narvin, reluctantly, shakes it.
"We may still kill you later," the savage says. "If you turn out to be lying. I am Leela of the Sevateem tribe, and we do not forgive a broken trust."
"I wish you luck on your war with the entire United States government," Braxiatel says. He tosses the shotgun onto the coach's front seat. "Milady?"
"I can do it myself, Brax." Romana climbs up, pauses on the step. "If he calls me 'milady' again, you can kill him, Leela."
She hears snatches of their conversation through the coach walls. Condescending: That was sarcasm, she doesn't actually want you to kill him. Angry/defensive: I know. I may not kill him but I will kill you if you continue to treat me like a child.
She smiles, eases the last of the shakes from her body. Checks and re-checks that her .22 is loaded and ready. The prairies start rolling on again. She's not dead. Arkadian will be, but that can wait. Just think of it, a gold-rush town filled with gold-rush halfwits, everyone desperate for a cut of the action. Like taking candy from a baby. She knows just the dress to wear.
And those two, wherever they came from, still bickering, going from the pitch and tone of their discussion; Indians have no love for the law and she's yet to meet a Pinkerton she couldn't bribe. She'll have no trouble there.
Outside, the sun setting red against the horizon. She pulls the curtains closed and drifts into a daydream of untended bank counters and drunk prospectors. The town won't know what hit them.
This entry was originally posted at http://levendis.dreamwidth.org/7295.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Gallifrey
Gen (with implied Brax/Romana and Narvin/Leela)
~3.3k
Western AU. Brax and Romana are thieves on the run, Narvin is the Pinkerton sent to capture them. Leela's just along for the ride. For
neveralarch.
NOTE: Huuurrrrgh. Re-reading this, I am afraid it might be too serious! I hope this is okay. Also please excuse my anachronisms and hastily-Wiki'd geography. I tried to do real research, but then I didn't.
i.
Ace of Hearts, Six of Hearts, Seven of Diamonds, Jack of Spades. Nothing. Braxiatel keeps his face blank.
McCall tips out another shot of whiskey: he's done. Linetti's scratching his beard, a little vein-twitch in his neck: ditto. Jones smiling, stacking/spreading/stacking his cards one-handed: no read.
Brax looks peripheral at Romana. That flash of red fabric, body straight and lithe, smirk playing up just perceptible. He swallows down want/need, hard. She smirks bigger. Look away, pick up the shot glass three-fingered, angle the cigar towards Jones. Don't check to see if anyone caught it. He keeps his face blank.
Linetti stretches, frowns, puts his hand face-down on the table. "Fuck it, I got nothing. I'm hitting Wally's before he closes. You joining, little lady?" He puffs himself up, leers at Romana.
Brax moves a hand slow to his holster. Romana keeps smirking. "Hardly," she says. The tiniest movement: she opens the purse sitting on her lap, the catch clicking open, .22 most likely already pointed dead at Jones.
Time drags. Linetti, oblivious, shrugs and stumbles out, shouldering the door open. Street noise cuts the tension. Brax snaps back into the game.
Romana reaches into her bag and pulls out a cigarette case, stands up and matches one lit in a single fluid motion. "You boys and your cards. How it captures your attention so, I'll never understand." She walks casual around the table.
"It's a pleasant diversion," Brax murmurs.
"It's the money, Miss," McCall says. "It's this or the mines, and they don't let you drink down there." He pours another shot.
"It's degenerate. Irving's never been able to resist. Have you." Romana raises an eyebrow as she passes behind Jones, but doesn't pause.
Jones deals the last cards: Two of Hearts to McCall, Queen of Diamonds to himself, Jack of Clubs to Brax.
Brax smiles fake-absently and sweeps up his card. "Vice is what separates us from the animals. Sin, luxury, indulgence. The self-destructive act is proof of our autonomy and awareness."
"Shut the fuck up," Jones says. It's the most he's said all night. "Fucking dandy."
Brax smiles again, and tosses a handful of coins onto the pile. A silver piece spinning. Time drags: McCall gives up in visible stages, eyes back and forth between his hand and the money and some place off distant. Pours another shot.
"And beyond that," Brax continues. "It's not so much about the cards themselves. The game is irrelevant. This is brinksmanship, gentlemen. A bloodless duel, my will against yours."
"My fist against your mouth, you don't shut it soon." Jones raises: two coins, a watch.
McCall folds. Romana turns and looks through the window, silhouetted against the torchlight outside. Brax watches her watching. Keep it in, keep it in. He pulls himself back to his nothing hand. He visualizes the precise actions he would take, should this turn ugly. He'll win, he knows that much. The question is will Jones lose gracefully. He visualizes the bullet in the chamber.
Jones calls. Cards on the table: he's got less than nothing. King-high.
"In a certain light, it almost looks like a type of religion," Brax says, palming down his one-pair hand then dragging the pile towards him, not giving Jones time to react. The pocketwatch pops open, hands to the wrong time. He closes it, winds it, holds it up to his ear, listens to the tick. "Faith in a higher power. A trust that the universe will look out for us."
"Blind fucking luck," Jones says. Brax calculates the likelihood of him fighting. It's low, for now, and Brax has no intention of staying long enough to see if it's a slow-burn fuse.
"Thank you for the excellent company and competition, Mr. Jones. I'm afraid I must adjourn. Milady?" He tucks the watch into his vest and drops the money into his satchel, pulling it closed tight, planning out the next ten minutes of high street/stable/ride out.
Jones seethes silent, but stays put.
"That was a waste of time," Romana whispers as he leads her out. "We should be in Colorado by now."
"By that measure, most of life is a waste of time. Colorado can wait, darling. Surely you don't wish to go mechanically from job to job, with no pleasures in between?"
"Don't 'darling' me, Braxiatel. I'm not in the mood."
"No sobriquets, as you wish. A more conservative Mr. Braxiatel, simply doing his gentlemanly duty, escorting his companion-"
Romana snorts.
"-Business associate, do forgive my linguistic carelessness. Escorting his business associate through the wilds of Cheyenne."
They reach the stable. The carriage, the horses: still there. The boy he'd paid to watch it: still there also, but sleeping. No extra, then. He holds out a hand, which Romana accepts with a minimum of eye-contact, and disappears into the dark confines of the coach, slamming the door shut. Nearly takes his fingers off.
"A word of thanks would not go amiss," he calls back. "Considering the situation, a man of high standing volunteering for the filth and exertion of a teamster." She says nothing, if she hears at all. He does a quick re-inventory: revolver, the shotgun on the floor, flask and pipe and portfolio. Reorganize the facts, the plan, the back-up plans, the escape routes. Events branching out.
He rehearses the play. It's only that we've come on hard times, do you see, and with my wife in her condition these claims are more work than I can afford. I'm willing to compromise on price.
The last of twilight gone now, the moon risen high. A strange, delicate glow. Civilization disappearing behind them, the land flattening, mountains giving way to the prairie.
ii.
The job: Irving Braxiatel, bankrobber/card cheat/conman; Romana Guillame, possible anarchist/suspected murderess. Last known location: Pittsburgh, with unverified sightings leading west. No known current affiliations, itinerary clues limited to gossip. A dead trail, but a Pennsylvania steel baron with the money to resurrect it. The Agency's written orders: find them, get a confession, bring them in. Implied: kill them.
Narvin isn't in the assassination business but he'll make an exception for anarchists. He'd been at Homestead.
He follows a thin lead to Cheyenne. Two weeks stagecoach, off and on. His whole body aches. The telegram waiting for him reads I AM NOT PAYING YOU FOR YOUR INCOMPETENCE. M.A.
All those little towns, they made him in every one. Maybe it was the hat. No one wants to talk to a Pinkerton, which is fine, since he has no particular desire to talk to most people, but it wouldn't hurt to be more subtle, in certain situations.
Like this, for instance. The stage reached the end of its usefulness around two towns ago, if he's honest. The thought of venturing alone into the country is alarming. He has his talents, scouting is not one of them. So he asked, quite politely, if anyone would be willing to serve as guide. Punctuated with a quick jingle of coins. Three saloons, each one they all turned away in unison. A more emphatic jingle. Nothing.
He's in what passes for a restaurant, having failed to solicit even the slightest interest, writing and re-writing a telegram for back East. Regret to inform you, no no. Unfortunately have been unable to locate - scratch that. The coffee is terrible, the food unidentifiable. The clientele: best not to dwell. No sign of target, please advise. He rips through the paper with the nib of his pen.
The place goes silent again, like when he came in. He forces himself not to look up. Someone walking in, a wave of whispering, rustling, he glances halfway. He's spared any further effort: she sits down at his table.
She sits down. A woman, alone, wearing not much of anything. Skins and then skin. He feels a blush start crawling up the back of his neck. He finally meets her eyes.
"Can I help you?" he asks, icily as he knows how.
"You need a guide," she says firmly. Her accent isn't much more noticeable than his. "I know this land well. If you pay me in advance I will take you anywhere you need to go."
"Yes, a guide. Not an Indian whore. You must have been misinfor-" He stops when her knife hits his throat. The whispering and rustling stop. Everyone staring. Blood starting to well, she's breathing hard but not labored. Eyes bright and fixed on his.
"One more false word and you are dead," she says conversationally.
"Understood," he says. She slowly steps back. The knife is the last to go.
"I am known as Leela." She slides the knife back into a sheath on her ankle.
"I thought you people were all called Running Eagle or Sitting Duck - nevermind. I'm Narvin."
A slight tension (over the 'you people', no doubt) rises then drifts away. She stands up; he sprains his neck keeping his eyes on her face.
"I will find us two good horses. You will be in charge of provisions. Meet me at noon, by the church."
He figures he's got no other prospects. He nods. But, wait. Everyone's still staring. Rumors breed like flies here. "Stop."
Leela turns back, long legs mirroring the arch of her eyebrows. She's not the sort of person to do anything just because you demand it, is what that pose says. Narvin files it away for future reference.
"Put this on, would you." He takes off his coat, thrusts it awkwardly at her. "The men, here and outside, they..." He nods at her body. "React to you, dressed as you are."
She smiles, predator-style. "I wear what I want. I am not responsible for other people's weaknesses. And I will kill any man who attempts to, as you say, 'react'."
"Noted," he says. He puts his coat back on, clears his throat, straightens his cravat. "Shall we, then?"
iii.
An initially cryptic telegram: YOUR TIRED FRIENDS HOPE TO RENDEZVOUS IN COLORADO. M.A.
Romana figures it out quick enough. Tired, sleepless. Implied inverted commas around 'friends' - a known enemy. The eye that never sleeps. Pinkertons.
Braxiatel sidles up. She folds the telegram and tucks it into her purse.
"What's this now?"
"My mother. She's always so worried."
"Let's be fair to dear old Mater, you do partake in some worrying activities."
"And let's be clear that we are not having this conversation, or any variation thereof. Your man at the bank, he came through?"
Braxiatel sighs theatrically. "You wound me, milady. I merely wish to remind you of the-"
"Do stop talking, Braxiatel." She remarkably does not slap him in the face. Medals have been awarded for less. "Your man. You've gotten in contact, yes?"
"Yes, yes, everything is arranged." He looks like he's about to say something else, but thinks better of it.
They shouldn't have spent the night here. They shouldn't be moving so slowly. She should think of something, something to hurry him, that will not arouse suspicion. She tries to will him to pick up the pace with her thoughts alone. She's no mesmerist. He ambles back and forth, packing his suitcase one sock at a time.
When they finally hit the road again, it's past noon and she's weak from the exertion of not physically pushing him along. It takes so much energy to be subservient. The smiles chafe worse than the saddle, the demureness more constricting than the corset. She wishes, for the thousandth time, that she'd been born a man. She'd do a hell of a lot better at it than Braxiatel.
iv.
The man seemed as strange and out of place in town as she was. And also, she needed the money. These are her two excuses.
They haven't discussed what they're out here to do. Still, she knows. He'd asked for a shortcut through the mountains: he wishes to intercept someone on the road. He is well-armed but not a thug, and not a lawman either: a hired gun, then.
She will make her decision at the time whether she will still follow him and his money, or if the attack is unjust.
The path narrows and steepens. She nudges her horse to a walk, then a stop, then swings off.
Narvin groans. "We're walking? Please tell me again how this is the quickest route. Or do you mean to leave me for dead, Savage."
"It is the shortest distance. We will only walk for a little while. And if you fall, I will carry you."
"Ha ha."
They walk. She sees the dead tree, the fallen rocks. The sun hangs to their left. Not long now.
"You are not like the others," she calls back. "And you talk strangely."
"Whereas you are the toast of the town, amazing all with your graceful diction and wit."
She doesn't need to look back to know he's red-faced and puffing, but walking stronger now. Anger is a tool she uses well.
"This part of the country, only a certain kind of person comes. I don't share their dream of the frontier. I live in New - in a very big city, very far away. And I was born, oh. Elsewhere. Even farther away than that." He stumbles, falls, picks himself up before the horse walks over him. She sneaks a glance back: he's dusty, unhappy, but determined.
These men who are strangers to their own kind. She would be sympathetic, if it wasn't so much worse for those of different kinds. Her compassion only reaches so far.
"You are not an American?"
"Not by birth. By deed. They changed my name, you know. At Castle Garden. Narvinovitch, too many syllables, it's not American, or maybe it was just a clerical error, which might be worse. They cut off my ancestry with a piece of paper."
"They killed my family and took away my home," she counters.
"Yours is best," he says.
The path clears. She was not led astray, they are where they are meant to be. She allows herself to feel pride, but doesn't wallow in it. She climbs back on the horse.
"Oh, thank God," Narvin says. It takes him three tries to remount.
"Your God has little to do with this. You may thank me, if you wish."
v.
The view from the carriage is unimpressive. This entire state is unimpressive. They'd sang such songs of the West, her friends in Philadelphia. The majesty of God's work, and so on. She does not deny that the mountains are very tall and the prairies quite flat, but the spectacle fails to move her.
The landscape stops scrolling by. The horses mutter. She hears Braxiatel give out with a muffled but identifiably vulgar oath. She hears the sound of a shell being dropped into the shotgun.
She pushes the fear to the back of her mind, and opens the door.
"I don't fucking believe it. Oh, do pardon my harsh language, milady, I didn't realize you-"
"Cut it, Brax." She wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "What is it."
He points across the range. Two riders, coming fast. The rendezvous. Her fear grows, she ignores it. Brax checks the shotgun again. They wait.
The riders slow. They don't shoot, that's something. And what a strange pair they make: a savage woman and a small, pink man in a battered bowler hat. They dismount, the savage standing tense by the horses and the man approaching with arms loose around his side. The twin bulks of holsters under his coat. She breathes evenly.
"Good day, sir," she calls out. "Can we be of some assistance?"
"That depends." He sounds ragged but triumphant. "Mrs. Guillame? Mr. Braxiatel?"
"No," Brax says, but too late. She counts the seconds it takes him to drag out a fake name. "Mr. and Mrs. Everett, heading for Cripple Creek."
"Do not lie to us, Mr. ...Bracksyadell." The woman produces a knife from seemingly nowhere.
The man frowns. "'Us'? When did that happen? Nevermind. My name is Narvin, I'm with the Pinkerton Detective Agency, I've been sent to apprehend you. Using any force I deem necessary."
Braxiatel moves to aim, but Narvin is faster. Brax acquiesces, the coward, dropping the rifle down slow to the ground, hands held palm-up.
Romana rolls her eyes. "Thank you for the support, Braxiatel. Now. Mr. Narvin. I'm sure we can come to an agreement here."
Narvin keeps a revolver trained on both of them, but his gaze just on her. "I'm sure we can't."
"Is this about Chicago?"
"I wasn't informed. Frankly, I don't care which particular grievance my employer has."
"And who is your employer? Come on, Mr. Narvin. What's the harm in granting me this last request."
He hesitates. Pulls back the hammer on his left-hand gun. "M. Arkadian. From Pennsylvania."
She stares at him, wide-eyed, then bursts into laughter. Doubled-over, gasping laughter.
His hand wavers. "Care to let me in on the joke?"
"Oh," she says, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Don't mind me, it's just hysteria." She pulls a folded piece of paper from somewhere in the folds of her dress.
PICK UP THE PACE LADY R. THE HORSEMEN APPROACHETH. M.A.
"'M.A.' could be anyone," he says, but the doubt is writ plain in his features.
"It's Arkadian. The bastard. What purpose this even serves...what am I saying, it's about money. Somewhere, somehow, that man is making a pile of money off of one or both of us dying." She stifles a final giggle. "The look on your face, really."
"I'm sure whatever look I have is entirely appropriate to the situation."
Braxiatel clears his throat, hands still held up. "This complication should postpone any violence, yes?"
"No," the savage says.
"Yes," Romana says.
Narvin carefully lowers his arms, slides both guns back into their holsters, but keeps his hands hovering nearby. "Possibly. For now."
"Come with us to Cripple Creek. We'll have a drink, share a meal, compare notes. We keep an eye on each other until this is sorted. And it will get sorted." Romana holds out a hand. Narvin, reluctantly, shakes it.
"We may still kill you later," the savage says. "If you turn out to be lying. I am Leela of the Sevateem tribe, and we do not forgive a broken trust."
"I wish you luck on your war with the entire United States government," Braxiatel says. He tosses the shotgun onto the coach's front seat. "Milady?"
"I can do it myself, Brax." Romana climbs up, pauses on the step. "If he calls me 'milady' again, you can kill him, Leela."
She hears snatches of their conversation through the coach walls. Condescending: That was sarcasm, she doesn't actually want you to kill him. Angry/defensive: I know. I may not kill him but I will kill you if you continue to treat me like a child.
She smiles, eases the last of the shakes from her body. Checks and re-checks that her .22 is loaded and ready. The prairies start rolling on again. She's not dead. Arkadian will be, but that can wait. Just think of it, a gold-rush town filled with gold-rush halfwits, everyone desperate for a cut of the action. Like taking candy from a baby. She knows just the dress to wear.
And those two, wherever they came from, still bickering, going from the pitch and tone of their discussion; Indians have no love for the law and she's yet to meet a Pinkerton she couldn't bribe. She'll have no trouble there.
Outside, the sun setting red against the horizon. She pulls the curtains closed and drifts into a daydream of untended bank counters and drunk prospectors. The town won't know what hit them.
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