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Couples/mslily03
Various - Genie
Adv of Miss Lilly's Tavern... 3
With a hiss of steam that always sounded to him like the sigh of a
spent man, the 6:15 from Big Sky pulled into Rattlesnake Gorge's station.
John Frewling teased his watch from his waistcoat by the chain. Snapping it
open close to his vest, he squinted slightly at the numbers to make them
focus. 6:16; close enough for most folks, but he'd have a word with the
engineer before he claimed his luggage.
Easing his lanky frame from the second-class carriage, Frewling
adjusted his bowler hat to shield his eyes better from the glare of the
morning sun, just coming over the mountains to the east, and strolled towards
the front of the train. He traded a wink with the stationmaster, and swung up
into the locomotive, dodging the hot cylinder below the driver's box with
practiced ease.
A minute and a reprimand later, he dropped out the other side onto the
tracks, and sauntered down the far side of the train, watching the dusty
carriage windows as he made his way back to the luggage car. No-one ever
looked out the off-side windows when they were boarding, and it was a good
opportunity to make sure his quarry wasn't leaving on the train that had
brought him. No sign of MacTavish; that was all the better. Reclaiming his
black leather Gladstone from the handler, Frewling headed purposefully for the
station office.
***
"Just so's you know why I'm here," Frewling said, tossing a much-
folded paper onto the stationmaster's desk. "Not much to do with the rail
line here, but it does affect the Company as a whole." One could hear the
capital letter quite easily in the respectful way he pronounced the word.
Frewling sipped his whiskey, avoiding the crack in the glass. This wouldn't
do. The Company would have to send out a new set of glassware to the station.
There were standards to keep, even in the Arizona Territory.
The stationmaster adjusted his wire-rimmed specs on the end of his
beaky nose and unfolded the paper. WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE, the headline
screamed. Below a badly-made woodcut of a man with dark hair and deep-set
eyes, KYLE MACTAVISH, for TRAIN ROBBERY and MURDER. REWARD: $500.
"My heavens, that's quite a sum, Mr. Frewling." The stationmaster
smoothed the flyer onto the leather pad of his desk.
"M-hm," Frewling put down his whiskey half finished and took his boots
off the stationmaster's desk, "and I intend to collect it.
I haven't had a bonus in my pay for over two months, and it's about that time
again." He stood, his back crackling as he stretched. =And it'll make a nice
addition to my retirement fund,= Frewling thought, but did not say.
"Well," said the stationmaster, "do y'have arrangements made for a
place t'stay?"
"No," Frewling admitted. "Thought I'd wander down t'the saloon and
see what there is to see along the way."
"Well, talk to Miss Cotton at the edge of town. She's got a
respectable rooming house, bed and breakfast, and it's only a dollar a week.
And if you happen by Miss Lily's --"
Frewling cut him off. "Business afore pleasure, Perkins. You know
me." And with that, he picked up his Gladstone and departed.
=Oh, aye, I know ye, all right,= Perkins thought as he polished off
Frewling's whiskey, wincing as his scraggly mustache caught in the crack in
the glass. =Ye'll be in Miss Lily's afore the night's over, that I'll wager.=
The bell on its wire jingled as the door brushed it aside, then again
as Frewling closed the door behind himself, stepping out onto the porch of the
train station. He frowned at a chip on the cut-glass doorknob; terrible
maintenance of Company property in this town. He'd have to speak with Perkins
about hiring a real maintenance man, and not using gamblers down on their luck
and drunks hard up for money.
The morning sun burned pitilessly into his eyes, coming down at an
angle that ignored the short brim of his bowler, as he turned to the street.
Shadows were thrown long and sharp in the dust. A few of the townsfolk
hurried by, merchants opening their shops, delivery boys with bags and bales,
and a wagon rolled past, stirring up the dust so bad as to make Frewling fit
to sneeze. He dodged around the back end of the wagon, choosing to wade
through the dust while it was still low to the ground than swim through it as
it rose, and made his way across the single main street of Rattlesnake Gorge
to the saloon.
The saloon's porch creaked ominously as he stepped up onto it. The
large brown dog sprawled across the top step opened its eyes and looked up
without even moving as Frewling stepped over it and through the swinging doors
into the main room.
Ah, at least that was in reasonable order. Fresh sawdust on the
floor, a few stray motes dancing in the beam of early morning sun coming
through the poor-quality but clean windows telling him that the floor had just
been swept. Several townsfolk sat about the tables, and the smell of frying
sausage and coffee was like manna to his dust-tortured nose. Frewling set his
bag on the floor at the bar, and waited for the barkeep to notice him.
Handing a plate of breakfast to the lone serving girl working at that
hour, the barman turned to Frewling. His white shirt was freshly laundered,
its collar stiff with starch, and the sleeves shoved up and caught with a red
garter above each elbow.
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Frewling noted with approval the precision of the
man's black bow- tie and his carefully waxed mustache. "Welcome t Rattlesnake
Gorge," the barman said. "You come in on the morning train from Big Sky?"
"Yes," Frewling replied, a bit uncomfortable at the attention the
customers at the tables were suddenly paying. "Breakfast, please, with
coffee."
Behind him, a young boy, perhaps twelve, in ragged pants much too
large for him, torn off at the knees and held up with a bit of rope, and a
baggy shirt that had seen better days, reached cautiously for the city
slicker's bag. If he moved just right, and avoided that darned creaky board
fifth from the end of the bar, he could snatch the bag and be out the door
before the slicker knew what was happening. The townsfolk wouldn't stop him,
or warn the slicker. They were up for a bit of fun with a stranger as much as
he was. A little further, just a little closer. . .
And the touch of cold metal on his hand froze him in place. The
slicker's hand hid all but the last quarter-inch of the barrels from view, but
the derringer had appeared like a conjurer's trick, and pressed on his wrist,
threatening to maim him if he so much as twitched. The boy looked up into
cold grey eyes that told him the truth about the slicker: a lawman.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, boy," Frewling said quietly.
"You're much too young to lose that hand."
"Please, sir," the boy said, turning on as much gamin charm as he
could muster, "I was hungry -- I didn't mean no harm, really..."
"Oh, get on with you," Frewling said, unable to hold back a grin.
"I've dealt with urchins with more brass than you in Chicago, and they didn't
fool me either." A twitch of his fingers, and the derringer vanished like a
prairie dog into its hole. "But if you're relaly hungry, let's see what we
can do about that." He stood up straight, and caught the barman's eye.
"Another breakfast, with milk, if you've got it." Then to the boy, "And
what's your name, lad?"
"Jake, sir." This was too sudden a turn of events. Jake's paranoia
was ringing alarms in the back of his head -- why was this lawman being nice
to him when he'd tried to steal the man's bag? He didn't look like =that=
sort, that favored young boys, but you never knew. Never too careful, he
always said. But breakfast -- oh, and it smelled so good, and the lawman was
leading over to a table. Easier to sit down and eat and worry about an escape
later.
"Now, Jake," said Frewling, tucking into his sausages and biscuits,
"I'm John Frewling. I just came into town, and I could use a pair of sharp
eyes to fill me in on things." He paused, knife and fork held at the ready,
and gave the boy a sharp look.
Jake swallowed with difficulty. Getting the whole biscuit down at
once was a chore. Sharp eyes? Hm. "Is there any coin to't?" he asked.
Frewling chuckled. "Straight to the matter, eh, lad? I like that.
Well, that could be, depending on whether you deal me straight or dirty." He
pointed his knife at Jake. "I don't think I need to tell you what happens to
boys what cross the law, do I?"
Jake shook his head, trying to look earnest. At best, he managed
worried. "No, sir, not me. I done seen three hangin's in my life."
Frewling applied his knife to a sausage. "I don't think it'd be as
serious as that -- but we might have to find the orphanage you've no doubt run
away from." His eyes flicked up from his plate and fixed Jake like a hawk
spotting a mouse.
Jake gulped. That would be bad. That would be worse than a hangin',
to be sent back to the Church orphanage in Big Sky. "I won't deal you off the
bottom, mister, never."
"Well, then, perhaps we have a deal. After breakfast, then, you could
show me to the widow Cotton's place. I've business here in town that may keep
me a few days, and it'd be faster to have someone who knows the town to show
me around." And maybe we could put a few pounds on you, Frewling thought,
noting the way the boy gulped down his breakfast like he hadn't had a proper
meal in days. Probaby hadn't, either. Not like Chicago, this Arizona
Territory. Too few buildings, no open market in the streets where an urchin
could grab enough food on one pass down the barrows to last him the day. Time
enough later to find out where the boy was living and under what conditions.
Time now for coffee and the local gossip.
"So, Jake."
Jake looked up with a start. The lawman had been quiet for a while.
This could be trouble.
"Sir?"
"John. My name's John."
"John, then, it is." It felt odd addressing a lawman by his Christian
name. Jake only hoped this wasn't a prelude to something bad.
"Tell me about Rattlesnake Gorge." Frewling sipped at his coffee;
almost gone, he'd best catch the girl's eye while she was passing. "Thank
you," he told her as she refilled his cup.
"What d'ye wanna know?" Jake asked.
"Oh, all about it. Who's the sheriff and what kind of man is he?
What games are on, and where? Who's courting who?"
That last was easy enough. A twelve year old boy noticed anyone
walking close. "Well, there's Tyler the blacksmith, he's sweet on Annie what
teaches t'the school-house..."
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