M7 Fic: Drunk Anarchy -- Prologue and Chapter 1 (of 4)
I wrote a fic for the M7 Big Bang, for which Randi2204 made me art! Two fabulous banners, and I love them both. Here's the first. I'll put the other one at the end of the last part (which is part 4).
Title: DRUNK ANARCHY
Author: TIPPER
Disclaimer: Usual - don't own nada.
Characters: Buck, Ezra, Vin, Chris, and some OCs
Pairing(s): None (Gen story)
Word count: 15,825 (with chapter names).
Rating: T - for bad language
Warnings: None (other than the bad language)
Parts: 4 (plus the prologue)
Summary: Billy Rufus tells the story of when seven men helped battle off some serious bad guys in his small mountain town, all to help out a woman and her son. And he tells the story completely drunk.
A/N: In the fashion of "Drunk History", the whole story is told by someone who is completely and utterly drunk (Billy Rufus, the saloon owner) to his brother (Henry Beau), a couple of days after the whole story plays out. There's a lot of slurred speech, misspoken words, and bad behavior.
A/N 2: This is based on a prompt from my friend J Brooks, who challenged me to base this story on an incident in royal history. I chose a couple from the Anarchy in England. I also happened to watch Drunk History for the first time while I was coming up with this, and…well, this is what happened.
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PROLOGUE
Hank LeClerc snapped the reins, feeling the tug as the horses picked up speed, the wagon creaking in response. Cold air blew brusquely down the mountain pass, carrying the smell of pine and juniper-a welcome scent. With a huff, Hank shook snowflakes off his thick blonde beard and smiled tightly through chapped lips. He'd been smelling the spring coming in the air for a week, but it wasn't here yet-winter wasn't giving up its hold on the mountains quite yet.
He looked up as he came over the crest, expecting to see what he always did on his weekly visits into Oxford on market day-a bustling little town, filled with ranchers, farmers and townsfolk bargaining for wares and provisions, people in good spirits on the verge of laughter, color and the smells of cooking food filling the air. There was always a sense of merriment and he looked forward to it every other week that he came in for supplies.
What he saw caused him to grind the wagon to a halt.
The town looked dead.
Feeling the inside of his mouth getting cold, he closed it with a snap and urged the stalled horses forward. The cart dipped and swayed dangerously as he tried to miss the largest holes in the mud-churned ground, causing him to swear a few times. Normally, the road down was rutted but dry and straight, and, at this time of year, framed by pristine drifts of pure white snow on either side. Now it looked like the whole hill had been stripped and scarred with filth-a lot of men had to have been camped up here.
He spat as he turned the horses to miss the largest piles of waste and crap, grimacing at the horrific smell that the melting snow hadn't managed to wash away yet. He pulled his bandana out of his pocket, pressing it to his face, trying not to breathe too deeply.
When his small cart finally reached the little bridge across the stream, he sighed to see that it had been destroyed. Grumbling, he climbed down and, holding the reins tightly, shivered as he stepped into the stream, the freezing cold water whipping around his heavily booted feet. The horses didn't like it either, pulling against his direction as he encouraged them to follow. Stepping as carefully as he could-at least the water was clear and shallow-he prayed he wouldn't break a wheel as the cart jostled and tilted over the large rocks cluttering the streambed.
On the far side, he breathed a little easier-partly because he was away from the worst of the filth and smell, but also because the wheels seemed solid still. He considered how he'd have to go round the long way to get home this afternoon, using the bridge down by Geoffrey Martel's farm.
Climbing back onto the cart, he spurred the horses forward, uncertain that he really wanted to see what had become of the town itself. But beggars couldn't be choosers-he needed supplies. Plus, he'd come this far….
As he reached the first set of clapboard buildings, rising tall over the dirt, the sound of hammering became obvious, echoing through the streets. He soon saw why as he turned around the boarding house and onto the main street: a majority of townsfolk were on ladders or perched on busted overhangs and balconies, attaching new wood or reinforcing broken braces and beams. Others were stuffing straw and mud into cracks and holes in the sides of building, while even more were painting over what looked like burn marks. Bits of splintered wood and shell casings were mashed into the snow and dirt, churned up like his wife's cake recipe, and children were scattered about, quietly and gingerly picking up debris to toss into wagons. Everyone was working this morning, but not to set up the market. This was a town rebuilding itself.
He smiled slightly. Down, but definitely not dead, and not for long.
He pulled to a stop by the massive sycamore that marked the center of the town, looking up at the leafless branches. It was a beautiful tree, the pride of the town, easily sixty feet tall, but there were branches on the ground, like someone had shot at it directly and deliberately. Who would shoot at such a beautiful tree?
A child looked up at him from the road next to the tree-Martel's youngest son, looked like-and despite all the devastation, the boy tugged down the scarf he wore and grinned. Hank smiled back, and the boy picked up a piece of the broken sycamore.
"Gonna whittle it into a present for my mum," the boy said, showing the wood to Hank proudly.
"Good for you," Hank said, giving him a nod. "I'm sure she'll love it."
The boy grinned again and, branch under his arm, took off down the side street next to the laundry.
Clicking his tongue, Hank got the horses moving again, turning around the tree towards his destination.
He whistled softly when he saw Edith Godwin's feed store--the front of it looked like someone had exploded several bags of seed all over the snow piles in front. The large pane glass window on the front also sported a couple cracked bullet holes. She was on her porch with her husband Harry, the two of them somewhat ineffectually trying to shovel the loose seed, snow and grain into buckets. She looked up as he drove the cart towards her, pushing her hat back.
"Ho there, Godwins," he called as he pulled the horses to a stop. "Everyone alright?" He gestured a gloved hand to the town. "What happened?"
She just smiled tightly, while Harry huffed and walked into the warmth of the store, her husband's shoulders slumped.
"Some unpleasantness," she replied, shrugging. "Still trying to come to terms, but no one's hurt that you'd know." She leaned against her shovel, looking out over the rest of the town. "Not sure I feel up to telling the story just yet, and I know Harry don't. All that matters is that it's done now." She looked at his cart. "How much you need?"
"The usual. That okay?"
"Surely. Most our stock was in the back, so it's fine. But we're not quite ready for you yet. Tie up your wagon round back, then come back 'round noon. I reckon most everyone will be back to normal by then and we can get it loaded."
"Noon?" Hank frowned, and glanced over at the clock on the church. It read just before nine in the morning.
"Yep." She started pushing the broom around again, then stopped, a small, dark smile on her face. "Tell you what. You go find that no good, rotten, big mouth brother of yours, Billy Rufus. If anyone should tell the story of what happened, it's him. Then come back and we'll do business when the steeple chimes twelve. Might even have a piece of pie for you when you come back, it's baking in the oven as we speak."
Hank smiled at that, and tipped his hat to her before turning to look at the saloon his brother owned near the old sycamore. It was the only place in the town no one was working to fix up, though it looked as wrecked as everywhere else.
"What did'ya do now, Billy?" he muttered.
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CHAPTER ONE: BILLY RUFUS TELLS A STORY
It was dark inside the saloon, and unusually quiet. Even the bustle of the rebuilding going on outside seemed oddly muffled despite the broken windows and loose door. The room itself was in chaos, chairs and tables upended, some split in half, while a cold wind whistled through it all. Snow had blown in, a dusting beneath the windows and inside the threshold. The bar, though, was intact, and there was a single occupant manning it.
“Billy,” Hank greeted, settling himself at the end of the bar where his brother was leaning into the wood as if it were the only thing holding him up. At least one dead soldier lay in front of the man on its side, label side up to show it was the usual rot-gut whiskey. Another bottle on its way to join the first was gripped in Billy’s hand. He looked like hell. Damn, it was too early for this. “You alright there, Billy Rufus?”
He was both pale and flushed, eyes redder than his cheeks, but Billy Rufus managed to raise his head to look up at his questioner. After a moment’s befuddlement, his blue eyes lit with recognition and Billy blessed him with a drool filled smile.
“Hank! My sweet baby bub…brud…brother! Whatchoo doing here?”
Ooh, there was a powerful stench that accompanied that hello, and Hank slid over a little to be out of the line of fire coming from Billy’s mouth.
“Usual. Supplies for the farm,” Henry replied. “At least, it was ‘til I saw the state of the town. Looks like half of it's been torn to shred by bullets, even the big sycamore in the center of town looks like it's had several branches taken off. I tried to ask Edith at the feed store, which looked a bit less destroyed, but she just wouldn’t talk about it. She sent me in here.”
“Yeah,” Billy said, sneering a little. “She would. Thinks 'is my fault. Like I could’a known.”
“Your fault?” Henry frowned slightly. “What’s your fault?”
“Oh, it was terrible, just terrible what happened. And I mean terrible. A crying shame. That poor woman, and that poor little boy, the terribleness of it. Just so…so….”
“Terrible?” Hank asked.
“Yeah.” Billy Rufus sniffled. “That.” He spun suddenly, grabbing onto Hank’s jacket like a lifeline. “But I swears to you, Henry, I swears, it wasn’t me that let on. I didn’t. Well, not the second time. First times, yes, but nots the second. I swears on our father’s sainted grave. You gotta believe me. You’re my kin. You believe me, right?”
Hank just lifted his eyebrows, and gently pulled Billy’s sweaty paw of his jacket and placed it on the sticky bar.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But maybe you can fill me in on what happened, so I can answer.”
“What happened…” Billy repeated, pulling the whiskey bottle closer to him. “Sure. Sure…Sure.”
He paused then, took a swig, and glared blearily at the label. After a moment, he frowned and looked over at Hank.
“Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“What wazzah talking ‘bout?”
“Why the town looks like hell, and why it’s not your fault.”
“Oh.” Billy sighed, slumping a little further in his seat. “Right.” Then he grinned suddenly. "It actually started kinda fun. New peoples, you know? And neat lookin' ones at that. Not cowboys, not a one, I can tell you that."
Hank nodded, while Billy looked out the window.
“It started ‘bout a week ago,” he began, “late in the afternoon, when these four scary looking types came riding into town…well, no, scratch that. One was scary, one was scruffy, one looked like a jerk, and one looked like a cardsharp. All fancy bright red coat and pretty hair, like he washed it or some-ut..” He sniffed. “They was accump….accumpan…accumpanin this pretty lady, with long, dark brown hair and just the nicest smile…” Billy leaned against the bar, resting his chin on his hand and smiling dreamily up at the soot-blackened ceiling. “She sat straight up in the saddle, like a queen, you know? Like Queen Victoria herself, all regal and stuff. The kinda woman that just makes you wanta-“
“Billy.”
“Right, right,” he grinned wolfishly. “But she was damned pretty. Her name was Maddie. Shame she had a kid.”
“A kid?”
“Yeah. Named Henry, actually, just like you. Pest, he was. Whining all the time, like he thought he was sum-tin special. Annoying.” He sneered, then the sneer fell suddenly, his expression washing over with shame. “I shouldn’t’a said that. That poor kid. Can’t believe I said that. Oh, I’m gonna go ta hell, Hank, I jest know it. Whazz wrong with me?”
“I’m not answering that.”
Billy Rufus sighed again, leaning more heavily on his hand.
Hank nudged him. "Billy?"
“Story. Right. It goes down like this." He frowned. "They comes up here to the saloon, and scary guy, he starz givin’ orders, like he’s in charge. Tells ‘em stuff. ‘Cardsharp,’ he orders, ‘you get Matilda and Henry rooms for the night at the hotel. Scruffy,’ he says then, ‘you go scout ‘bout, look for the guys, make sure no one’s followin’. And jerkface…’” Billy screws up his face. “I think the jerk’s name was Beau or Butch or Brick, or some-ut stupid like that…. ‘Brick,’ he says to the jerk, ‘you scope the town fer badgers. I’s gonna go talk to the sheriff.’” And then they disperse. But, ‘course, we’re all watching, ‘cause we don’t get strangers that often, you know?”
Hank just nodded, but something didn’t quite sit right. “Did you say, ‘badgers’?”
“Whut?”
“Scary guy sent the jerk to find badgers, you said.”
“Did I? No, I didn't.” He giggled. “Badgers. Heh. Why would anyone go looking for badgers? You needs listen…to listen better, little bro.”
Hank smiled wanly, and Billy waved it off.
"Anyhoo, a whiles later, Scary, Cardsharp and Brick are all here in the saloon, talkin' in a corner. They's arguin'. Now, you know me, I don't eavesdrop, not the type, but I can tells they're not happy 'bout sum-tin, and, being civic minded, I want to help. So, I's listenin'. That's good of me, right?"
Ooh, no, it wasn't. "Um…"
"And Cardsharp's saying that he doesn't like the 'job' they're on. Says he doesn't like Matilda. Who couldn't not like that vision? She has to be the prettiest, loveliest girl…woman…did I mention the brown hair? It shone, I swear. How many women's hair shine? Most are as coarse as the hair on my-"
"Billy."
"Spoilsport," Billy sneered. "So, necessarily, I don't take to Cardsharp. He don't look right to me, you know? Like, maybe, they're not on the up and up. Scary doesn't look like a good guy either, and Brick? Him I like the least. He's got these beady eyes and this moustache that, I swears, moved like a caty-piller cross his face. Made me think the woman was in trouble. Anyone with a black moustache that thick's up to no good, I promise you. So I was just 'bout to go talk to the Sheriff 'bout the moustache, when, lo and behold, the li'l bit herself walks in!" Billy swung his arms wide, his eyes puffing out. "She jes' came marchin' in, the kid asleep on her shoulder, Scruffy trailing behind, looking put out. She goes and dumps the kid on Cardsharp, who protested with something like "I just washed this coat!", but she just marches up to the bar to talk to me."
"To you?"
"Well, to get a drink, telling everyone how much she deserved one. So…that counts. And I meant to make it count, know what I mean?" He waggled his eyebrows.
"Ugh, Billy." Hank grabbed the whiskey, thinking he'd need a glass if he was going to listen to this.
"Ugh, Billy," Billy repeated, sneering the words. "Yer no fun. Remind me to get a funnier brother next time."
Hank knocked back a shot. "You telling a story, or what?" he demanded, pouring another.
Billy stuck his tongue out. "Fine. So, while she's chattin' me up, there's some argument goin' on in the background 'mong the men, but I don't listen, 'cause she's all over me. All suggestive looks n' stuff. I knows when a woman's into me. And she was into me. You know what I mean? Next thing you know, we spent the night together."
The whiskey Hank had been in the middle of drinking spewed across the bar. "What?" he demanded, wiping the liquor from his chin. "She what?"
Billy grinned, then sighed. "Well, okay," he said, popping his chin on his hand again. "Maybe not the way you think I meant, though I meant it what I wanted to say, you see?"
"God no. She slept with you?"
Billy's grin grew wider, then, abruptly, it fell. He lowered his head. "Damn it. I can't lie to you, little brother. Turned out she was a tease. I just talked to her for a while. She didn't put out. Her boy kept interrupting, whining for his momma, saying he wanted ta sleep. Pestering and interrupting and being a hell of a cockblocker, until she demanded Cardsharp take 'im away. Cardsharp did, though I thinks he was sort of put out by whatever the boy'd smeared on his coat. But he took the kid away too late; by then, she wasn't interested in me no more."
Hank took a fresh shot of whiskey, and shook his head, smiling slightly. Most likely, she hadn't been interested at all.
"But," Billy continued, "evens with all that, she told me her whole story. Turned out, those men were with her for her proshecshun…proshectun.…to keep her safe. Assigned by some judge or other, some friend of her pa." He cleared his throat, looking ashamed again. "Turns out her pa had died, had willed her some claim to some gold mine in the hills, less than two days ride from Leadstown. And, well, you know that Leadstown's just over the hills. A day's ride from here. Super close. But, and this is the stupid part, 'parantly, she had to get to the clerk's office in Leadstown by this certain date, like, end of the week, or it went to cousin, her cousin Steve."
"Steve?" Hank repeated.
"Steeeeve," Billy said, nodded, dragging the name out. "And not just any Steve. Stevie B!"
"Steve DeBlois?"
"The very sames! And suddenly, I know who she is! She's ol' Henry Norman's daughter, Maddie! The one he sent east to that fancy boarding school? The one that married that guy, you know, the one with all the, you know the stuff and the things. The German feller. The one that died. 'Least I think he's dead. Pretty sure. I mean, if he wasn't, why'd she be here. So, yeah, he's dead." He threw back another shot, proud of himself.
Hank flashed a tiny smile at the terrible description. "Uh huh."
Billy burped loudly, and wiped the spittle from his chin. "So, anyways, she's here with these no-good-niks, trying to stay hidden, no one…letting no one knows they's here. Stay one night, then they're gone go on. To Leadstown. Well," Billy shook his head, patting the bar like he needed to emphasize what was coming, "that was just stupid telling me, now, wasn't it? I mean, if they was trying to stay hidden, telling Billy Rufus is not going to do it. You know as well as I do, I can't keep a secret. I'm awful at secrets! I means, really, I can't be blamed, can I? It was Henry Norman's wee girl. How exciting is that? Everyone remembers her when she was little, so cute, with the pigtails and the l'il hats and…the cute! And they all loved ol Henry…" He sighed, shaking his head. "And, oh my lord, I couldn't help it. And so, that's why what happened here's sorta my fault. But…I mean, was it really?" He peered up at Hank, eyes narrowed as if trying to see if his brother was understanding, maybe even forgiving.
Hank just took another drink. He hadn't forgiven his brother for tattling to their mother when he'd accidentally left the chicken coop open when he was six. All those chickens-one very quick coyote. His mother made him muck and scrub the stables alone for a month.
Billy Rufus just sighed again, long and painful at his brother's obvious reticence. "Yer thinking about the chickens, aren't you?"
"Yep."
"But, see? That's my point! Haven't never kept anything secret. So…I told on 'em. And not just, say, a couple people. I told everyone. Started with some folks in the bar, then I had to get water and there were folks by the water, and then the guy by the privy, and the guys out front the livery, and then ladies in front of the merc across the way…." He twisted his lips, and took another drink.
"And anyway, talk kinda cascaded. Whole town knew in less n' half n' hour. And now, this I couldn't have known. I couldn't a' known that Stevie would've had a hankering that Maddie might show up, or how far he'd go to stop her. Her daddy had made the provision about the mine, in case she didn't wants to come back here, and I guess ol' Henry didn't think she would. Not sure if he knew her husband had died or whatnot before he kicked the bucket, but, well, he figured, if she didn't wants to run it herself, it best go to her cousin, since he would wanta have it. Besides, Steve's dad had helped ol' Henry get that mine in the first place, so he had some rights. But, I guess she thought it her birthright or some such, and, well, Stevie B didn't take kindly to nots getting it, and so…he staimed to op…aimed to stop her if she tried. And, really, how was I supposed to know how far he'd go? I mean, he's Stevie B. All 'round good guy. He weren't supposed to get all like that."
"All like what?"
"Warlike."
"Warlike?"
"Soldiers and guns n' stuff. Like he was in the war."
"He was in the war."
"Ten years ago!"
"He still has his uniform."
"So?"
"So he wears it in the memorial day parade every year? Has friends who are still in the army?"
"Phhhht."
"You're an idiot, Billy Rufus."
"Yeah." Billy's sneer fell, replaced by a something dark. "I know. But I ain't evil. And what Steve brought us here, that was evil."
Hank put his glass down, because, for all the drunken nonsense that had come out of his brother's mouth up 'til then, that was the first thing he said that sounded stone cold sober.
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To Be Continued in Chapter Two
Title: DRUNK ANARCHY
Author: TIPPER
Disclaimer: Usual - don't own nada.
Characters: Buck, Ezra, Vin, Chris, and some OCs
Pairing(s): None (Gen story)
Word count: 15,825 (with chapter names).
Rating: T - for bad language
Warnings: None (other than the bad language)
Parts: 4 (plus the prologue)
Summary: Billy Rufus tells the story of when seven men helped battle off some serious bad guys in his small mountain town, all to help out a woman and her son. And he tells the story completely drunk.
A/N: In the fashion of "Drunk History", the whole story is told by someone who is completely and utterly drunk (Billy Rufus, the saloon owner) to his brother (Henry Beau), a couple of days after the whole story plays out. There's a lot of slurred speech, misspoken words, and bad behavior.
A/N 2: This is based on a prompt from my friend J Brooks, who challenged me to base this story on an incident in royal history. I chose a couple from the Anarchy in England. I also happened to watch Drunk History for the first time while I was coming up with this, and…well, this is what happened.
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PROLOGUE
Hank LeClerc snapped the reins, feeling the tug as the horses picked up speed, the wagon creaking in response. Cold air blew brusquely down the mountain pass, carrying the smell of pine and juniper-a welcome scent. With a huff, Hank shook snowflakes off his thick blonde beard and smiled tightly through chapped lips. He'd been smelling the spring coming in the air for a week, but it wasn't here yet-winter wasn't giving up its hold on the mountains quite yet.
He looked up as he came over the crest, expecting to see what he always did on his weekly visits into Oxford on market day-a bustling little town, filled with ranchers, farmers and townsfolk bargaining for wares and provisions, people in good spirits on the verge of laughter, color and the smells of cooking food filling the air. There was always a sense of merriment and he looked forward to it every other week that he came in for supplies.
What he saw caused him to grind the wagon to a halt.
The town looked dead.
Feeling the inside of his mouth getting cold, he closed it with a snap and urged the stalled horses forward. The cart dipped and swayed dangerously as he tried to miss the largest holes in the mud-churned ground, causing him to swear a few times. Normally, the road down was rutted but dry and straight, and, at this time of year, framed by pristine drifts of pure white snow on either side. Now it looked like the whole hill had been stripped and scarred with filth-a lot of men had to have been camped up here.
He spat as he turned the horses to miss the largest piles of waste and crap, grimacing at the horrific smell that the melting snow hadn't managed to wash away yet. He pulled his bandana out of his pocket, pressing it to his face, trying not to breathe too deeply.
When his small cart finally reached the little bridge across the stream, he sighed to see that it had been destroyed. Grumbling, he climbed down and, holding the reins tightly, shivered as he stepped into the stream, the freezing cold water whipping around his heavily booted feet. The horses didn't like it either, pulling against his direction as he encouraged them to follow. Stepping as carefully as he could-at least the water was clear and shallow-he prayed he wouldn't break a wheel as the cart jostled and tilted over the large rocks cluttering the streambed.
On the far side, he breathed a little easier-partly because he was away from the worst of the filth and smell, but also because the wheels seemed solid still. He considered how he'd have to go round the long way to get home this afternoon, using the bridge down by Geoffrey Martel's farm.
Climbing back onto the cart, he spurred the horses forward, uncertain that he really wanted to see what had become of the town itself. But beggars couldn't be choosers-he needed supplies. Plus, he'd come this far….
As he reached the first set of clapboard buildings, rising tall over the dirt, the sound of hammering became obvious, echoing through the streets. He soon saw why as he turned around the boarding house and onto the main street: a majority of townsfolk were on ladders or perched on busted overhangs and balconies, attaching new wood or reinforcing broken braces and beams. Others were stuffing straw and mud into cracks and holes in the sides of building, while even more were painting over what looked like burn marks. Bits of splintered wood and shell casings were mashed into the snow and dirt, churned up like his wife's cake recipe, and children were scattered about, quietly and gingerly picking up debris to toss into wagons. Everyone was working this morning, but not to set up the market. This was a town rebuilding itself.
He smiled slightly. Down, but definitely not dead, and not for long.
He pulled to a stop by the massive sycamore that marked the center of the town, looking up at the leafless branches. It was a beautiful tree, the pride of the town, easily sixty feet tall, but there were branches on the ground, like someone had shot at it directly and deliberately. Who would shoot at such a beautiful tree?
A child looked up at him from the road next to the tree-Martel's youngest son, looked like-and despite all the devastation, the boy tugged down the scarf he wore and grinned. Hank smiled back, and the boy picked up a piece of the broken sycamore.
"Gonna whittle it into a present for my mum," the boy said, showing the wood to Hank proudly.
"Good for you," Hank said, giving him a nod. "I'm sure she'll love it."
The boy grinned again and, branch under his arm, took off down the side street next to the laundry.
Clicking his tongue, Hank got the horses moving again, turning around the tree towards his destination.
He whistled softly when he saw Edith Godwin's feed store--the front of it looked like someone had exploded several bags of seed all over the snow piles in front. The large pane glass window on the front also sported a couple cracked bullet holes. She was on her porch with her husband Harry, the two of them somewhat ineffectually trying to shovel the loose seed, snow and grain into buckets. She looked up as he drove the cart towards her, pushing her hat back.
"Ho there, Godwins," he called as he pulled the horses to a stop. "Everyone alright?" He gestured a gloved hand to the town. "What happened?"
She just smiled tightly, while Harry huffed and walked into the warmth of the store, her husband's shoulders slumped.
"Some unpleasantness," she replied, shrugging. "Still trying to come to terms, but no one's hurt that you'd know." She leaned against her shovel, looking out over the rest of the town. "Not sure I feel up to telling the story just yet, and I know Harry don't. All that matters is that it's done now." She looked at his cart. "How much you need?"
"The usual. That okay?"
"Surely. Most our stock was in the back, so it's fine. But we're not quite ready for you yet. Tie up your wagon round back, then come back 'round noon. I reckon most everyone will be back to normal by then and we can get it loaded."
"Noon?" Hank frowned, and glanced over at the clock on the church. It read just before nine in the morning.
"Yep." She started pushing the broom around again, then stopped, a small, dark smile on her face. "Tell you what. You go find that no good, rotten, big mouth brother of yours, Billy Rufus. If anyone should tell the story of what happened, it's him. Then come back and we'll do business when the steeple chimes twelve. Might even have a piece of pie for you when you come back, it's baking in the oven as we speak."
Hank smiled at that, and tipped his hat to her before turning to look at the saloon his brother owned near the old sycamore. It was the only place in the town no one was working to fix up, though it looked as wrecked as everywhere else.
"What did'ya do now, Billy?" he muttered.
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CHAPTER ONE: BILLY RUFUS TELLS A STORY
It was dark inside the saloon, and unusually quiet. Even the bustle of the rebuilding going on outside seemed oddly muffled despite the broken windows and loose door. The room itself was in chaos, chairs and tables upended, some split in half, while a cold wind whistled through it all. Snow had blown in, a dusting beneath the windows and inside the threshold. The bar, though, was intact, and there was a single occupant manning it.
“Billy,” Hank greeted, settling himself at the end of the bar where his brother was leaning into the wood as if it were the only thing holding him up. At least one dead soldier lay in front of the man on its side, label side up to show it was the usual rot-gut whiskey. Another bottle on its way to join the first was gripped in Billy’s hand. He looked like hell. Damn, it was too early for this. “You alright there, Billy Rufus?”
He was both pale and flushed, eyes redder than his cheeks, but Billy Rufus managed to raise his head to look up at his questioner. After a moment’s befuddlement, his blue eyes lit with recognition and Billy blessed him with a drool filled smile.
“Hank! My sweet baby bub…brud…brother! Whatchoo doing here?”
Ooh, there was a powerful stench that accompanied that hello, and Hank slid over a little to be out of the line of fire coming from Billy’s mouth.
“Usual. Supplies for the farm,” Henry replied. “At least, it was ‘til I saw the state of the town. Looks like half of it's been torn to shred by bullets, even the big sycamore in the center of town looks like it's had several branches taken off. I tried to ask Edith at the feed store, which looked a bit less destroyed, but she just wouldn’t talk about it. She sent me in here.”
“Yeah,” Billy said, sneering a little. “She would. Thinks 'is my fault. Like I could’a known.”
“Your fault?” Henry frowned slightly. “What’s your fault?”
“Oh, it was terrible, just terrible what happened. And I mean terrible. A crying shame. That poor woman, and that poor little boy, the terribleness of it. Just so…so….”
“Terrible?” Hank asked.
“Yeah.” Billy Rufus sniffled. “That.” He spun suddenly, grabbing onto Hank’s jacket like a lifeline. “But I swears to you, Henry, I swears, it wasn’t me that let on. I didn’t. Well, not the second time. First times, yes, but nots the second. I swears on our father’s sainted grave. You gotta believe me. You’re my kin. You believe me, right?”
Hank just lifted his eyebrows, and gently pulled Billy’s sweaty paw of his jacket and placed it on the sticky bar.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But maybe you can fill me in on what happened, so I can answer.”
“What happened…” Billy repeated, pulling the whiskey bottle closer to him. “Sure. Sure…Sure.”
He paused then, took a swig, and glared blearily at the label. After a moment, he frowned and looked over at Hank.
“Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“What wazzah talking ‘bout?”
“Why the town looks like hell, and why it’s not your fault.”
“Oh.” Billy sighed, slumping a little further in his seat. “Right.” Then he grinned suddenly. "It actually started kinda fun. New peoples, you know? And neat lookin' ones at that. Not cowboys, not a one, I can tell you that."
Hank nodded, while Billy looked out the window.
“It started ‘bout a week ago,” he began, “late in the afternoon, when these four scary looking types came riding into town…well, no, scratch that. One was scary, one was scruffy, one looked like a jerk, and one looked like a cardsharp. All fancy bright red coat and pretty hair, like he washed it or some-ut..” He sniffed. “They was accump….accumpan…accumpanin this pretty lady, with long, dark brown hair and just the nicest smile…” Billy leaned against the bar, resting his chin on his hand and smiling dreamily up at the soot-blackened ceiling. “She sat straight up in the saddle, like a queen, you know? Like Queen Victoria herself, all regal and stuff. The kinda woman that just makes you wanta-“
“Billy.”
“Right, right,” he grinned wolfishly. “But she was damned pretty. Her name was Maddie. Shame she had a kid.”
“A kid?”
“Yeah. Named Henry, actually, just like you. Pest, he was. Whining all the time, like he thought he was sum-tin special. Annoying.” He sneered, then the sneer fell suddenly, his expression washing over with shame. “I shouldn’t’a said that. That poor kid. Can’t believe I said that. Oh, I’m gonna go ta hell, Hank, I jest know it. Whazz wrong with me?”
“I’m not answering that.”
Billy Rufus sighed again, leaning more heavily on his hand.
Hank nudged him. "Billy?"
“Story. Right. It goes down like this." He frowned. "They comes up here to the saloon, and scary guy, he starz givin’ orders, like he’s in charge. Tells ‘em stuff. ‘Cardsharp,’ he orders, ‘you get Matilda and Henry rooms for the night at the hotel. Scruffy,’ he says then, ‘you go scout ‘bout, look for the guys, make sure no one’s followin’. And jerkface…’” Billy screws up his face. “I think the jerk’s name was Beau or Butch or Brick, or some-ut stupid like that…. ‘Brick,’ he says to the jerk, ‘you scope the town fer badgers. I’s gonna go talk to the sheriff.’” And then they disperse. But, ‘course, we’re all watching, ‘cause we don’t get strangers that often, you know?”
Hank just nodded, but something didn’t quite sit right. “Did you say, ‘badgers’?”
“Whut?”
“Scary guy sent the jerk to find badgers, you said.”
“Did I? No, I didn't.” He giggled. “Badgers. Heh. Why would anyone go looking for badgers? You needs listen…to listen better, little bro.”
Hank smiled wanly, and Billy waved it off.
"Anyhoo, a whiles later, Scary, Cardsharp and Brick are all here in the saloon, talkin' in a corner. They's arguin'. Now, you know me, I don't eavesdrop, not the type, but I can tells they're not happy 'bout sum-tin, and, being civic minded, I want to help. So, I's listenin'. That's good of me, right?"
Ooh, no, it wasn't. "Um…"
"And Cardsharp's saying that he doesn't like the 'job' they're on. Says he doesn't like Matilda. Who couldn't not like that vision? She has to be the prettiest, loveliest girl…woman…did I mention the brown hair? It shone, I swear. How many women's hair shine? Most are as coarse as the hair on my-"
"Billy."
"Spoilsport," Billy sneered. "So, necessarily, I don't take to Cardsharp. He don't look right to me, you know? Like, maybe, they're not on the up and up. Scary doesn't look like a good guy either, and Brick? Him I like the least. He's got these beady eyes and this moustache that, I swears, moved like a caty-piller cross his face. Made me think the woman was in trouble. Anyone with a black moustache that thick's up to no good, I promise you. So I was just 'bout to go talk to the Sheriff 'bout the moustache, when, lo and behold, the li'l bit herself walks in!" Billy swung his arms wide, his eyes puffing out. "She jes' came marchin' in, the kid asleep on her shoulder, Scruffy trailing behind, looking put out. She goes and dumps the kid on Cardsharp, who protested with something like "I just washed this coat!", but she just marches up to the bar to talk to me."
"To you?"
"Well, to get a drink, telling everyone how much she deserved one. So…that counts. And I meant to make it count, know what I mean?" He waggled his eyebrows.
"Ugh, Billy." Hank grabbed the whiskey, thinking he'd need a glass if he was going to listen to this.
"Ugh, Billy," Billy repeated, sneering the words. "Yer no fun. Remind me to get a funnier brother next time."
Hank knocked back a shot. "You telling a story, or what?" he demanded, pouring another.
Billy stuck his tongue out. "Fine. So, while she's chattin' me up, there's some argument goin' on in the background 'mong the men, but I don't listen, 'cause she's all over me. All suggestive looks n' stuff. I knows when a woman's into me. And she was into me. You know what I mean? Next thing you know, we spent the night together."
The whiskey Hank had been in the middle of drinking spewed across the bar. "What?" he demanded, wiping the liquor from his chin. "She what?"
Billy grinned, then sighed. "Well, okay," he said, popping his chin on his hand again. "Maybe not the way you think I meant, though I meant it what I wanted to say, you see?"
"God no. She slept with you?"
Billy's grin grew wider, then, abruptly, it fell. He lowered his head. "Damn it. I can't lie to you, little brother. Turned out she was a tease. I just talked to her for a while. She didn't put out. Her boy kept interrupting, whining for his momma, saying he wanted ta sleep. Pestering and interrupting and being a hell of a cockblocker, until she demanded Cardsharp take 'im away. Cardsharp did, though I thinks he was sort of put out by whatever the boy'd smeared on his coat. But he took the kid away too late; by then, she wasn't interested in me no more."
Hank took a fresh shot of whiskey, and shook his head, smiling slightly. Most likely, she hadn't been interested at all.
"But," Billy continued, "evens with all that, she told me her whole story. Turned out, those men were with her for her proshecshun…proshectun.…to keep her safe. Assigned by some judge or other, some friend of her pa." He cleared his throat, looking ashamed again. "Turns out her pa had died, had willed her some claim to some gold mine in the hills, less than two days ride from Leadstown. And, well, you know that Leadstown's just over the hills. A day's ride from here. Super close. But, and this is the stupid part, 'parantly, she had to get to the clerk's office in Leadstown by this certain date, like, end of the week, or it went to cousin, her cousin Steve."
"Steve?" Hank repeated.
"Steeeeve," Billy said, nodded, dragging the name out. "And not just any Steve. Stevie B!"
"Steve DeBlois?"
"The very sames! And suddenly, I know who she is! She's ol' Henry Norman's daughter, Maddie! The one he sent east to that fancy boarding school? The one that married that guy, you know, the one with all the, you know the stuff and the things. The German feller. The one that died. 'Least I think he's dead. Pretty sure. I mean, if he wasn't, why'd she be here. So, yeah, he's dead." He threw back another shot, proud of himself.
Hank flashed a tiny smile at the terrible description. "Uh huh."
Billy burped loudly, and wiped the spittle from his chin. "So, anyways, she's here with these no-good-niks, trying to stay hidden, no one…letting no one knows they's here. Stay one night, then they're gone go on. To Leadstown. Well," Billy shook his head, patting the bar like he needed to emphasize what was coming, "that was just stupid telling me, now, wasn't it? I mean, if they was trying to stay hidden, telling Billy Rufus is not going to do it. You know as well as I do, I can't keep a secret. I'm awful at secrets! I means, really, I can't be blamed, can I? It was Henry Norman's wee girl. How exciting is that? Everyone remembers her when she was little, so cute, with the pigtails and the l'il hats and…the cute! And they all loved ol Henry…" He sighed, shaking his head. "And, oh my lord, I couldn't help it. And so, that's why what happened here's sorta my fault. But…I mean, was it really?" He peered up at Hank, eyes narrowed as if trying to see if his brother was understanding, maybe even forgiving.
Hank just took another drink. He hadn't forgiven his brother for tattling to their mother when he'd accidentally left the chicken coop open when he was six. All those chickens-one very quick coyote. His mother made him muck and scrub the stables alone for a month.
Billy Rufus just sighed again, long and painful at his brother's obvious reticence. "Yer thinking about the chickens, aren't you?"
"Yep."
"But, see? That's my point! Haven't never kept anything secret. So…I told on 'em. And not just, say, a couple people. I told everyone. Started with some folks in the bar, then I had to get water and there were folks by the water, and then the guy by the privy, and the guys out front the livery, and then ladies in front of the merc across the way…." He twisted his lips, and took another drink.
"And anyway, talk kinda cascaded. Whole town knew in less n' half n' hour. And now, this I couldn't have known. I couldn't a' known that Stevie would've had a hankering that Maddie might show up, or how far he'd go to stop her. Her daddy had made the provision about the mine, in case she didn't wants to come back here, and I guess ol' Henry didn't think she would. Not sure if he knew her husband had died or whatnot before he kicked the bucket, but, well, he figured, if she didn't wants to run it herself, it best go to her cousin, since he would wanta have it. Besides, Steve's dad had helped ol' Henry get that mine in the first place, so he had some rights. But, I guess she thought it her birthright or some such, and, well, Stevie B didn't take kindly to nots getting it, and so…he staimed to op…aimed to stop her if she tried. And, really, how was I supposed to know how far he'd go? I mean, he's Stevie B. All 'round good guy. He weren't supposed to get all like that."
"All like what?"
"Warlike."
"Warlike?"
"Soldiers and guns n' stuff. Like he was in the war."
"He was in the war."
"Ten years ago!"
"He still has his uniform."
"So?"
"So he wears it in the memorial day parade every year? Has friends who are still in the army?"
"Phhhht."
"You're an idiot, Billy Rufus."
"Yeah." Billy's sneer fell, replaced by a something dark. "I know. But I ain't evil. And what Steve brought us here, that was evil."
Hank put his glass down, because, for all the drunken nonsense that had come out of his brother's mouth up 'til then, that was the first thing he said that sounded stone cold sober.
____________________________________
To Be Continued in Chapter Two