Marshal Frank Canton bustled across the room, the leather of his boots squeaking. He stopped at our table, gaze stuttering on the outlaws, and wiped a handkerchief across his sweaty forehead. “Alright now, Miss Hoopes.” Marshal Canton straightened his wide, four-in-hand necktie. “Why don’t we head on over to the office.”
I kicked out a chair. “Sit down, Frank. Take a breath.”
Quiet Bill snorted and slapped his thigh.
Marshal Canton smoothed a thumb along the border of his handkerchief, took a gander over his shoulder toward the batwing door. A decanter with lemon clicked before me. I flinched, but it was just the bartender. I slipped my hands round the glass, remnants of soot and flame a burnt texture across my palms. Bitter Creek leaned back against his chair’s spindles, his expression almost hungry, as if he relished my terror.
“I’ve a story to tell.” I cleared my throat, raised my voice. “Everyone has a right to hear.”
“Alright.” Bitter Creek stuck a cigarette between his teeth. “Let’s have it.” He kicked his feet onto the tabletop and spoke to the marshal. “Sit.”
Marshal Canton sat in a hurry, his breathing fast and wet. I sipped the brandy, forced my posture to ease. My pulse thumped the undersides of my wrists. “Those missing men of yours? They set fire to my claim and attempted to assault me,” I began.
Marshal Canton’s elbows slipped off the table. Bitter Creek ran a coin over his knuckles, back and forth, the saloon a hollow echo. His gaze was frightening, feral and unhinged. I could understand why his summer name was once Slaughter Kid. I told of that first day of the rush, sweat soaking my spine, the entire saloon sidling as close as they dared. I chronicled the fire and the cayenne pepper, narrated a tale with enough detail to distinguish the missing cowboys. MarshalCanton fiddled with his tie, and the bartender topped off my drink, his red-knuckled hand shaking. As I spoke, Bitter Creek evaluated me, coin racing across his joints, the Native headdress on the penny flashing and vanishing as the coin flipped.
“So I blasted them, sending them to kingdom come,” I said, finishing my story.
A hush. A decanter fell to the floor and reverberated with an eerie twang as the glass spun. I knew then that I’d be shot by nightfall. I was as good as hanged. It was just the toss of a coin, a gamble that folks would be decent enough to treat a woman same as they’d treat a man. Why’d I expect folks to care about a woman’s perspective? Why’d I think there was a possibility my story would be believed? This world was twisted upside down.
I squeezed my throat above the high neck of my lace overblouse. It smelt of burning, of red oak wood and history.
Tulsa Jack snorted, breaking the pause. “Sure enough, doll.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No.”
“Why would she come in here and make up stories?” Quiet Bill leaned against a post. “Saying notions that’ll get her pushing up daisies?”
Tulsa Jack scratched his forearm, wiry hair beside large freckles. “I don’t buy it.” He leaned closer, his face windburnt along his cheekbones. “Sweetheart, in the Wild West we don’t let little ladies make up stories,” he drawled. “They were quick riders, surely got there before some woman—you must’ve slain them to gettheirland.”
“Well now, Tulsa, I ride swift.” I raised my glass in a toast, then sipped, the lemon peel bitter along the inner curve of my cheeks.
Marshal Canton kept shaking his head, the barrels of his arms crossed over his body. “Now, say this tale is truth?” He took off his hat, rested the brim on his stomach. “Why’d you hide the bodies?”
“Why do you think?” I crossed my arms, mirroring him. “Because I assumed none would believe me, that I’d lose my land and be hanged for murder.”
“But did youmurderthem?” Marshal Canton asked.
“No. They tried to rape me: They would’ve slaughtered me for the land.” I held Bitter Creek’s gaze, then Quiet Bill’s. “I decided I didn’t want to die that day.”
There was a long moment, the entire saloon steaming with the tension between the Wild Bunch and me, Bitter Creek’s bronze penny glinting in the quavering lamplight, his skin pallid below his thick black mustache. I caught the gaze of the adventuress in the jade dress, her scarlet lips pursed. It was as if she wanted to say she believed me—but of course she couldn’t. Women, even bold, renegade women, were trained to be silent.
Quiet Bill crossed his long legs at the ankles, herringbone trousers cuffed up above his golden alligator boots. “It ain’t right to threaten a lady like that.”
Tulsa Jack scoffed. Then Bitter Creek set his coin down with a loud clack, his light-blue eyes ghostly. “You’re saying it was kill them or be killed.”
“It was the only choice.” I held his uncanny gaze. “I’m not sure about you, but when stuck between a bad choice and something awfuller, I’m choosing bad.”
Bitter Creek stroked his mustache. He must know the predicament of balancing the black and the dark of a moral dilemma. In the smoke above, a lantern light winked out, and the grimy box of the saloon dimmed further. All a’sudden, Bitter Creek pushed off the table and lurched up. He snapped at the crowd, his gangly arms shaking out tension. “Every one of you—stop eavesdropping.”
And quick as a punch, the swarm turned away and pretended to busy themselves with their own matters. Bitter Creek sat back down. His lady stepped forward and set her hands on his shoulders. He rearranged his spine about the chair, and her smile strained.
Marshal Canton tipped his decanter, the etched glass tossing refractions across the table’s dark wood. He made slick, wet soundsas he chewed his tobacco. “You see,” the marshal said, “what doesn’t track for me—how’d you haul off them bodies?”
“Like I already said—tied ’em to my horse, dragged them away.” I gripped my drink, black cinders an arc under my nails.
The marshal straightened his paisley tie. “I’m thinking you had help. The Browns, perhaps.”
