“You don’t notice how everyone watches you, whispers about your secrets?”
“I mean, sure,” he said. “But you don’t care a whit about gossip.”
“It’s a turbulent story, right?” I propped myself against a mound of hay, crossed my feet at the ankles. The blackstrap tasted of warm molasses and the deep of night. “Who doesn’t love a scandalous tale?”
Stot pressed his shoulder against the haystack, turned toward me. I couldn’t think with him this close. A gap opened inside me, dark starlight full of so much space.
With Stot, it seemed as if speed didn’t matter. I wasn’t sure what did matter to him, but it wasn’t memory, time, ages rushing on past. It was as if ol’ Wild Bill told his tales of Stot.Take time,Wild Bill had said.Be sure and not shoot too quick. Many a feller slip up for shootin’ in a hurry.
On a sudden a noise punched, a ping ringing off a stump. I dropped to the ground, spilling my rum.
Gunshots.
Stot crouched behind the hayrick, gun pointed at shadows. The music vanished, replaced with shrieks and swishing clothes as everyone rushed for cover. I yanked my pistol from my ankle holster, bent behind Stot’s shoulder, gun raised. More shots rang out. Whispers, cries, pounding boots.
“Outlaws?” I whispered, scrutinizing the black expanse.
A zip soared beside the hay and thunked into wood.
“There’s a land,” a voice twined into the night, belting a melody, “that is fairer than day.”
Blazes, that was just Willie, drunk as all wrath on applejack, thinking he’s in some sharpshooting tournament.
“Willie Sheridan Hoopes—” I yelled. “Stop.”
I crept forward, gun trained. Backlit by the low moon, Willie ambled toward me, pistol loosely held, crooning his ridiculous song. “In the sweet, by and by.”
Shooting at his feet would just spook him. I must get his gun. Willie stumbled over some craggy bluestem, his gaudy scarf catching the firelight. I crouched behind a barrel, my hands clammy on my Peacemaker. There was a blur from the side as Stot tackled him and wrenched the gun from his hand.
“The dickens?” Willie slurred.
Stot punched him square in the face, knocking him out.
I rushed to them, skirts held in one hand, six-shooter pointed at the ground. Stot glanced up, jaw tight. “He’s unacceptable.”
I flinched. Stot was furious. I leaned over my legs and gusted a delirious laugh.
“You’re laughing.”
I yelled over my shoulder. “Everything’s fine—” I collapsed onto the ground, legs askew. Called out, “Just a half-wit. We got the gun.”
Stot unmanned Willie’s other weapons. “I don’t find this funny, at all.”
I wiped at my tears. “Ah, hell. No, it’s god-awful.”
I pressed against the grass, held myself steady. Stot checked Willie’s breath, then hefted him up. “Countryside full of selfish, dangerous fools.”
I followed, and Stot tossed Willie over his stallion, the gold chain of Willie’s ornate pocket watch silvered in the moonlight. Stot wasn’t wrong. The slapdash towns were rum-full of drunk cowboys shooting out the lights and galloping about with feral madness. This was still the Wild West.
“You coming along,” Stot asked, “as I haul him home?”
“I just wanted to dance.”
Stot paused tying Willie to his mustang, a lightness flooding his eyes. “You truly like dancing, huh?”
“Mmm.”
The night air smelt of fire and sugar, apples and gun smoke. I stumbled backward a few paces, then raced over to the hayricks. The townsfolk murmured in fragile clusters, shaken.
