“I see,” Sarah said. “Does he have a preference? Girls?” She leaned in. “Boys?”
“If he’s going to get over his wife, I think he’d need a woman’s attentions, Miss Sarah. I caught him stealing glances at the young lady at the top of the stairs. . . .”
Miss Sarah turned and beckoned the woman down.
The younger woman questioned her every move, not confident about taking up the space she occupied. Seeing her closer, she was maybe eighteen. Not out of adolescence, with all of the self-consciousness that came with it.
Improv had been what helped Leah get past that. Presumably, sex work could do it, too, but if the girl had come into town with her brothers, she wouldn’t have been at the business long. But how did it work in the genre world? Was it the sanitized version of sex work from the movies and books, or was it actual early modern sex work, warts and all?
“This is Maribel. She’ll take care of your friend.”
Leah repeated Roman’s made-up backstory to Maribel, who nodded.
“I’ll do my best, Miss Sarah.”
Maribel descended to Roman, who had stuck to character, tipsily sulking at his empty table.
“Come on, Roman. Miss Maribel would like to speak with you upstairs.” Leah mimed helping him to his feet. Thankfully, Roman did all the lifting himself, because Leah was pretty sure she wouldn’t have been able to get him to his feet on her own.
Roman got one hand on the railing, and Maribel looped her lace-gloved hand through his other arm, guiding him up the stairs.
They stopped at the landing and Leah turned to Sarah, who watched the pair move while smiling for the crowd. Her respect for the madam kept ratcheting up. She was the best version of the archetype brought to life.
“Uh, Miss Sarah. There’s one more thing. I wanted to ask if I might wait by the door, make sure he goes through with it and stops moping all over our campfires.”
Miss Sarah crossed her arms. “My girls are plenty encouraging on their own.”
Leah tried to improv a reason why the madam should let her go up anyway, and the only good ones involved paying for her own company, which she decided against.
“Fair enough.” Leah stepped back, starting to turn.
Think. Think. Think.
Ah.
“You got an outhouse? That whiskey goes straight through me.”
“Out back, up against the rocks,” Miss Sarah said.
Leah tipped her hat to the madam. She “helped” Roman up the stairs, and then made herself heard as she came right back down and left by the front door.
The street was almost totally empty, save for some people packing wagons and loading saddlebags.
Rounding the corner to head for the outhouse back, Leah put a hand to her ear to activate the comm. “Roman’s upstairs with Maribel, but I couldn’t get permission to go up and watch his back. Finding another spot now.”
King’s voice answered her. “Just act casual. The PPM will help you blend into the background if you let it.”
“Got it.”
Through the comm, Leah overheard Roman and Maribel exchanging niceties. The Afrikaaner was playing coy, inviting Maribel to be more active to draw him out. Problem was, it wasn’t working. So they were mostly not talking. Leah imagined the awkwardness of two fully clothed strangers looking at each other in a bedroom, saying mostly nothing. She’d had dates like that.
The saloon’s backyard rolled right into a rock outcropping twelve feet high, a natural wind block. Leah found the outhouse no problem, but what she was looking for was another way in or upstairs. There was a back door to the saloon, which she bet had a stairwell for staff to supplement the grand stairway in the main room.
A quick peek in the window showed a kitchen where off-duty girls sat eating and chatting. No way she’d be getting in there. As she began to pull her head back, something caught her eye.
The cook, a younger man, looked familiar. Really familiar. As in, family resemblance familiar.
Bingo.
Leah scooted away from the back door and took a long arc to the tree, plotting a path up to the first-floor awning that stretched along the back wall of the saloon. More than enough for her to crawl along, if she were industrious. Since she’d been climbing trees and jungle gyms since she was three, the answer to that question was a confident yes. Sitting up in the tree would get her close enough for visual contact, if the angle was right and if Roman was on this side of the building. And she bet she could get to the window in about thirty seconds if she had to.
Leah angled her path to the outhouse to make sure she wasn’t being watched as she moved to the back side of the tree. Then, using skills earned with many skinned knees and sprained ankles, she scurried up, perching herself among the leaves and finding a stable position with a view of the rooms. The shades were drawn, but they were all light-colored, and still yielded silhouettes.
She had eyes on three rooms from her angle. One was clearly not Roman and Maribel, as the silhouetted figures were already very much in the middle of things. But two other pairs were in the “just talking” phase.
“In position. Roman, if you can stand up now, I’ll confirm your location.”
A figure in one of the rooms stood, taking a step forward.
“Confirmed. I have eyes on,” Leah said.
“Well done,” King said. “Now stay put, and don’t get caught.”
“One more thing,” Leah added, happy that King couldn’t see her self-satisfied smile. “I’m pretty sure our sole survivor is working in the kitchen.”
A moment went by, and Roman said, “Is that so?” presumably waiting for a chance to say the same line for both conversations.
With no one around, there was no reason to hide her proud grin. “Thought you might want to know.”
Leah settled in, getting comfortable in the tree. The flaky bark made that hard, but she’d spent many an afternoon reading in trees. Okay, big guy, it’s all you, she thought, locking in on Roman as the pair continued to talk.
* * *
Roman stood two paces from the bed. The room was practically hotel-bare, without even the faux-homey gestures that chain hotels indulged in to show that they cared. Maribel hadn’t been here for long, the place hadn’t taken on her style, her character.
The room held a bed, a chair, a small dresser, and a closet. Maribel had a bag leaning against the closet door, propping it closed. Good chance she had a knife under the pillow, for protection, maybe a revolver in the bag if things went really poorly.
Maribel lounged on the bed, splayed out in an awkward imitation of a come-hither look. The room hadn’t fit her, and she didn’t fit it. She patted the simple yellow cotton sheets of the bed, saying, “Why don’t you take a seat, let me get those boots off of you.”
Roman kept an eye on the closet as he joined her. Maribel slipped off of the bed and kneeled to pull off his boots, which had been worn to as close a comfortable fit as they would ever be, still pinching at the heel.
“How long you been in town, Ms. Maribel?”
“Not too long. A month or so.” Maribel set one boot aside. Roman stretched his foot, feeling the grains of sand roll against his toes. Oh, the shower he would take after the mission.
“Why here? Why not head all the way to the coast, San Francisco or the like?” he asked, trying to lure her out to get more information. Mallery figured something was up with the Mendoza brothers, but she hadn’t been certain, at least that’s what her notes said. Comparing Maribel to the feeds Mallery had sent back to HQ, the girl was almost definitely Juan’s kin.
He’d bet good money Maribel was connected to the story, but he didn’t know how aggressive to play the scene. But he was certain that he wasn’t about to jump in bed with a teenager.
The girl struggled with the other boot, slipping it back and forth to shimmy it off of his heel.
“Oh, you know. Big city dreams turn out to be more expensive than you think. One delay and suddenly the money you had to get t
o the coast only gets you as far as Nowhere, Colorado, and you have to learn to make do.”
“You came out West all on your own?”
Maribel finally got the other boot off, and set it beside the first.
“Yes, sir,” she said. Maribel paused, no more boots to fixate on. The next logical piece of undressing would be his shirt or pants, a substantial step up in intimacy.
She wavered in place and steadied herself on the bed frame.
“Miss?” he asked.
The girl raised a hand to bid him wait. She took several long breaths. But her breathing wasn’t strained.
If he was a gambling man, and on worlds like this he was, she was faking it. But to what end?
“I’m not feeling so well, Mister Roman. If’n you don’t mind, I think it’d be best if I ask Miss Sarah to send up someone else to look after you while I take a sit-down.”
“I didn’t ask for the other girls, Maribel. I asked for you.”
Maribel stopped, body freezing. But not out of fear. More like she was weighing her options.
Roman scooted back on the bed, giving her space. “I’m going to make a guess, and if I’m wrong, I’ll leave and you’ll get your money, no fuss. But if I’m right, hear me out.”
Maribel’s hand slid across the bed, probably toward a knife or a holdout pistol.
Roman moved slow, raising his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you. But I’m guessing that your last name is Mendoza, and you had two brothers, Frank and Juan, until Matt Williamson and his gang killed one and scared the other one off.”
He watched Maribel’s eyes, already knowing the answer. “So am I right?”
“What do you want with me, then?” her words came out half-question, half-accusation.
“I’m mighty sorry about your brother. My friends and I, we’re here to stop the Williamsons, but we need Frank’s help. So can you tell us where he is?”
“Oh, I wish I knew. He ran off from that fight, and I ain’t seen him since. Miss Sarah said she’d shut me up tight when the Williamsons come ’round again, make sure they didn’t know he still had kin in town.”
Still dissembling, then. Roman sighed. “It’s a shame. Would have been awful handy to meet the only man to survive a showdown with the Williamsons.”
Roman let the words hang in the air, tuning his ears. He heard the creaking of wood in the hall.
Story worlds had a way of bending to your plans, as long as you set your intentions to match the tale types. What he needed right now was for Frank Mendoza to come and check on his sister.
And that was it. “But how could he have abandoned his little sister, with those bloodthirsty men sworn to come back for another try at the town? I mean, your brother’s no coward, is he?”
Wood creaked again. Maribel stole a look to the door.
“I couldn’t say, mister. Now why don’t you lay back, and I’ll get someone up here to help you forget all about those Williamsons.”
Instead, Roman shot to his feet and pulled the door open, revealing Frank Mendoza, wearing a stain-worn apron.
Frank reached to his belt and came away with a revolver, flour-covered hand shaking. Roman stood perfectly still, not wanting to give Frank any more reason to shoot, having already startled the man.
“Frank Mendoza, I presume.”
Frank shook in place. “We don’t want no trouble, mister. So you best go on mosey yourself downstairs and forget about both of us.” It was far harder to take Frank’s threat seriously when his hand was shaking like he was in an earthquake. The gun was plenty dangerous, assuming it was loaded. But without control, that pistol was more hazard than weapon.
“How about you put that gun down, Frank,” Roman said, trying to make his voice as calming as possible. “Shaking like that, you’re more likely to hurt Maribel than me.”
“This fella and his friends are going after the Williamsons.” Maribel turned to Roman. “You gonna give us all the bounty on the Williamsons if he helps you get rid of them?”
Much better. “Of course. My friends and I, we heard about the Williamsons, and we mean to help you drive them off. Get justice for poor Juan and your other friends. But if we’re gonna win this fight, we need you, Frank. You’re the only one who has faced the Williamsons and survived.”
Roman smiled, trying to warm up the situation. He didn’t have the charm of Mallery or Shirin, but he’d been in scrapes like this before, sweet-talking at the business end of a barrel. He could just snatch the gun from the young man, but with Frank’s finger already on the trigger, it was a risky play. “We drive them off, then my friends and I will get you and Maribel the next train to San Francisco, with some extra money besides. Plus whatever we recover from the bandits.”
Frank was still shaking, but less so. Terror had given way to confusion, and Roman saw a flicker of hope in the young man’s eyes.
And a flicker was all they needed to plant the seed of heroism.
Maribel crossed to her brother and pushed his hand down, lowering the gun. They talked in whispers, too low for Roman to hear anything other than that it was in Spanish.
The gun away, Maribel turned. “Why don’t you bring your friends up here to talk, Roman?”
* * *
Leah came in to fetch Miss Sarah, and once they’d explained, the madam gave the nod. The three of them went up discreetly over the next ten minutes to avoid suspicion. Well, any more than they already got as outsiders.
The group sat and stood in the room, Maribel sitting with her brother on the bed. Frank was jittery. Leah imagined if she’d walked away from a gunfight only twenty-four hours ago, she’d be jittery, too.
King introduced the team. “I’m King. You’ve met Roman. This is Lee, and Atlas Jane.” Even King saying her cover reminded Leah of how strange it was to look down and see a stranger’s body. She remembered to adjust her stance, switching from a cocked hip to leaning back against the wall, arms crossed.
Think dudely thoughts.
King continued. “I’m a State Marshal, and these are my deputies. Governor sent us over in a hurry after he heard what the Williamson gang did. And I don’t cotton to bullies.”
King pointed at Frank. “We’d like to help you with the Williamsons. And we’ve got a plan that will see them run off or bleeding on the street. But we need you for this fight.”
“Your sheriff died in the shootout, and the deputy, too?” Shirin asked like she didn’t know the answer. A fine interviewing skill. It was also a stand-up skill.
“Yep. Both of ’em,” Frank said.
King steepled his hands, a chess master with words for his playing pieces. Dude was scary in action. “That means the town needs a new sheriff. Who could do the job?”
Frank looked to Maribel. “There ain’t many gunslingers around. Miss Sarah says the town hasn’t had trouble for a few years. Most folks ride right on by to the bigger towns, or hit the train coming out of Sandborne.”
“That the truth, then?” King said. “In that case, I think we’ve got our new sheriff right here. The only man to face the Williamsons and live.”
Frank froze like a deer in the headlights back home, refusing to move even as Leah’s father yelled at it and waved it off the road.
King read the room, then turned back to Frank and Maribel. “Here’s the offer. You help us take out the bandits, we get you set up as the new sheriff, or we get you train tickets to the coast. Either way, you get a purse to look after your sister and get your brother a proper burial.”
Frank looked to his sister then down to his shaking hands.
“I . . . I’ll try. But I can’t promise nothing, Mr. King. I ain’t no hero.”
“You became a hero the moment you stepped up to face the Williamson gang the first time,” King said. “What we’re going to do now is make you a gunslinger. With training and my team at your back, we’ll put Matt Williamson in the ground, restore peace in this town, and get you and your sister on your way to the coast.”
King offere
d a hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Frank met King’s hand, twitching from head to toe. “Deal.”
“Excellent. We’ve got a few hours of sunlight. Meet me behind the saloon in five minutes.” King nodded to Roman, then walked out of the room.
Four: Y’all are pullin’, not squeezing
Squinting, Leah looked down the sight of the heavy revolver at the tin cans and bottles that King and Roman had set up along the fence at the edge of the saloon property. A small hill in the background served as the backdrop, keeping their misses from endangering the neighbors.
“Both eyes open. Squinting kills your depth perception,” said Roman from behind.
Leah opened her eyes, refocused, and pulled the trigger.
The gun kicked in her hands like a cat in 2 a.m. freakout mode, roared like a cannon shot, and yet her bullet smacked into the hill, at least a yard off-target.
Beside her, poor Frank was doing even worse. He held the revolver in both hands, his body recoiling from the gun, head turned away. Almost everything Leah knew about guns before that day came from watching TV, and even she knew Frank was holding it wrong.
“Grip, Frank. Let’s start again.” Roman stepped up beside the timid gunslinger, keeping a wary eye on the muzzle of the revolver. He put a steady hand on Frank’s wrist, then took the gun and wrapped the scared young man’s right hand around the grip, setting his finger along the stock.
If she didn’t know better, Leah would have guessed that Frank was playing up the awkward to make “Lee” feel more comfortable. But that wasn’t the way of it, and his twitchiness mostly made her more nervous. Nothing like your neighbor on the shooting range being as shaky as a jackhammer to tank any semblance of calm and focus.
Leah squeezed off a few more shots, going wide to the left, then to the right. She aimed again and put a bullet straight into the post . . . six inches below the can.
She adjusted again and fired, winging the can, which wobbled and then dropped off of the post.
The Shootout Solution Page 5
