Dust, chapter 2 PG-13
Posted: Fri Mar 20, 2009 5:16 am
Usual disclaimers
As a reminder, our setting is the Kansas/Colorado border, 1873.
Dust
Chapter 2
The six horses stamped and switched their tails restlessly as the stage driver, the stationmaster, and the guard worked in silence to buckle and tighten the myriad straps of the harness. Slade thought that the part of this job he hated the most was rolling out of his bedroll in the stable—no niceties like a proper bed for an employee—at some ungodly hour before dawn to wrestle a bunch of reluctant nags into harness. It might not have been so bad if he could have looked forward to a decent breakfast, or at least a proper cup of coffee, but remembering the watery, burnt slop from the night before, he had no hope of that. It had been possibly the worst coffee he’d had since Lee surrendered at Appomattox. And if the stationmaster’s woman were in a good mood, which privately Slade doubted was likely, there might be corn hoecakes in addition to last night’s beans and stew. Nothing there to look forward to. When this job was done, he was hitting the trail for Denver and the biggest, bloodiest rare steak he could find.
As he worked, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, almost beyond the range of the flickering piñon torch that was providing inadequate light for their work. Some stage inns would have provided a decent oil lantern or two, but not this god-forsaken hellhole.
He saw the movement again, and whirled to find one of the passengers watching. It was that tall Easterner, the one who dressed like a riverboat gambler, but had a more dangerous gleam in his eye than any gambler Slade Weston had ever seen before.
“What’re you looking at?” he growled. “Never seen honest work before?”
The man smiled, and Slade remembered anew why he’d changed his mind about picking a fight with the pale stranger. He thought once more, a little desperately, that he should’ve taken the chance. It might’ve been his ticket out. He still wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten suckered into this unholy mess anyway, but he supposed the cards had been dealt, and there was nothing left but to play the hand out. He turned back to his work, dealing the stolid draught horse before him an unnecessary slap as he maneuvered it into a better position.
Josef watched the proceedings with scant interest. He’d spent the bulk of the darkness outside, staring at the stars until the early morning fog started to rise. It was thick out now, and he overheard one of the men griping about it. Apparently, this close to the river bottom, at this time of year, it was usual. But the wisps of mist circling him made him feel hemmed in, not in control of his environment. That made him irritable, and the discomforts of the place had him frankly bored. He was starting to hate travel. With long torturous hours huddled between Iris and young Mrs. Watkins looming ahead, when he wanted nothing more than a cool, dark place to pass the day, he could feel the fatigue lowering again. The lift he’d taken from feeding on his pet the night before was not really enough to sustain him for long.
Not with the lack of rest.
He consoled himself with the thought that after one or two more days at most, he’d be in Las Animas. It was probably another godforsaken little hole, but with any luck it would have a decent saloon or two where he could pass the nights gambling and let his very public late hours disguise his nocturnal nature in a socially acceptable way. And while he essentially disliked trafficking with human whores, his—in retrospect—foolish decision to travel with only one fresh bite would soon leave him with little other option. He had taken a path he thought less conspicuous, and this was where it had brought him.
But first, there was the stagecoach ride to endure. If that accommodating little Mrs. Watkins would agree to leave her window shade drawn, he might be able to catch some much needed rest.
As he watched the men expertly handle the complex six-horse hitch, though, his mind turned again to the problem of the guard, Weston. The man had certainly not been as drunk as he’d pretended last night, and Josef could think of no logical reason the fellow should wish to counterfeit such a state, and then try to pick a fight for no reason. He knew that somewhere, there must be a key, one that would make it all make sense. But at the moment, as he wearily watched the fog-bound darkness paling into the flat pre-dawn gray, it escaped him what it might be.
The noise in the courtyard woke Sally, and she stirred sleepily, waiting for the rolling waves of nausea that had become a common morning companion for her. Moving as quietly as she could, she delved into the small supply of soda crackers her mother had pressed on her. Usually nibbling one or two, slowly, first thing upon waking, settled her stomach enough she could get up and begin the day.
Iris was slower to stir, stretching extravagantly when she finally deigned to awaken, and complaining about everything she could think of as she dressed, a running monologue to herself. The cold of the room, the horrible food, how the bed was so hard and lumpy, the sheets so rough, she’d never slept a wink, not a wink. Sally wondered at that point about the gentle snores she’d heard throughout the night, but said nothing, although her palm was positively itching to slap the complaints off the other woman’s lips. And the litany continued. She couldn’t believe Josef was subjecting her to this misery, this was not the life she’d signed up for. Where was the glamour, the excitement—any of it? Iris was punctuating her tirade with affected exclamations of “Well, I never! I just never!”
As Sally finished her own simple toilette, she’d had enough. Picking up the small carpetbag that held her meager travel supplies, she looked at Iris and smiled sweetly. “It’s my opinion that if you ‘never,’ your precious Mr. Constantine wouldn’t have brought you along in the first place.” And with that she walked out the door and down the stairs to the common room.
Five hours later, Sally was almost past wishing she’d never been born. The stagecoach jolted again, and she let out an involuntary yelp when Mr. Constantine was thrown against her again.
“I really am sorry, Mrs. Watkins,” he said, his voice muffled within the scarf shielding his lower face. He pulled it down to give her an apologetic grimace. “We’re neither of us very good travelers, are we?”
“I think not, Mr. Constantine,” she replied, ignoring Iris’s annoyed sniff. The woman really was insufferable, she thought, if she objected to her—Sally groped for a word—friend even speaking to another woman. “If we could only stop for a few minutes.”
The man quirked one corner of his mouth. “We seem to be making good speed today. Perhaps we’ll arrive early at our destination for the night.”
Sally couldn’t help a short laugh. “Something to look forward to, then.”
Josef felt a slow smile spread across his features. Pity this Sally Watkins was so very thoroughly claimed by a human, he thought. Iris was a regular little spitfire all right, and her blood suited him well, but he could have chosen a better traveling companion. Still, once he’d concluded his business in the southwestern part of the territory, they could go on to Denver, or maybe Tucson. There should be sufficient diversions in either of those places, even for Iris. Perhaps she’d like to go back on the boards. She was a pretty fair actress, and it would keep her busy. Her singing voice could be better, but he didn’t imagine standards were all that high here in the wilderness.
“Mr. Constantine,” Sally said, breaking into his train of thought, “if it wouldn’t make you too uncomfortable, I surely could use a peek out the window. Just long enough to—uh—to let me get my balance back.”
Josef nodded and made sure his collar and hat were well adjusted against the possibility of any stray sunlight striking him. “Your consideration of my—sensitivity—is much appreciated, ma’am.”
She couldn’t see much, not without craning her head out the window, which didn’t seem dignified enough for someone just addressed as “ma’am.” And the dust thrown up from the horses’ hooves on the dry road threatened to choke her. But it was better than feeling so closed in, even if only for a few moments. The terrain was changing, slowly, the roll of the plains deepening, the gold of the tall waving grass giving way to a duller tan of rocks, lightened here and there by the pale gray-green of sagebrush. Off to the left, she could still see the trees bordering the riverbed.
The road took a gentle curve, heading for a slight rocky defile, and Sally thought she could see a tree trunk tilted across the road, blocking the way.
That didn’t look right, she thought as the stage began to slow. She could hear the driver shouting at the guard.
“Get your shotgun up, Weston,” he yelled. “They’re gonna get the drop on us!”
What Weston said in reply, if anything, she couldn’t hear, but as the stagecoach rolled to a halt, they all heard the single shot, and the hard thump of the driver’s body hitting the ground.
Link to Chapter 3
As a reminder, our setting is the Kansas/Colorado border, 1873.
Dust
Chapter 2
The six horses stamped and switched their tails restlessly as the stage driver, the stationmaster, and the guard worked in silence to buckle and tighten the myriad straps of the harness. Slade thought that the part of this job he hated the most was rolling out of his bedroll in the stable—no niceties like a proper bed for an employee—at some ungodly hour before dawn to wrestle a bunch of reluctant nags into harness. It might not have been so bad if he could have looked forward to a decent breakfast, or at least a proper cup of coffee, but remembering the watery, burnt slop from the night before, he had no hope of that. It had been possibly the worst coffee he’d had since Lee surrendered at Appomattox. And if the stationmaster’s woman were in a good mood, which privately Slade doubted was likely, there might be corn hoecakes in addition to last night’s beans and stew. Nothing there to look forward to. When this job was done, he was hitting the trail for Denver and the biggest, bloodiest rare steak he could find.
As he worked, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, almost beyond the range of the flickering piñon torch that was providing inadequate light for their work. Some stage inns would have provided a decent oil lantern or two, but not this god-forsaken hellhole.
He saw the movement again, and whirled to find one of the passengers watching. It was that tall Easterner, the one who dressed like a riverboat gambler, but had a more dangerous gleam in his eye than any gambler Slade Weston had ever seen before.
“What’re you looking at?” he growled. “Never seen honest work before?”
The man smiled, and Slade remembered anew why he’d changed his mind about picking a fight with the pale stranger. He thought once more, a little desperately, that he should’ve taken the chance. It might’ve been his ticket out. He still wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten suckered into this unholy mess anyway, but he supposed the cards had been dealt, and there was nothing left but to play the hand out. He turned back to his work, dealing the stolid draught horse before him an unnecessary slap as he maneuvered it into a better position.
Josef watched the proceedings with scant interest. He’d spent the bulk of the darkness outside, staring at the stars until the early morning fog started to rise. It was thick out now, and he overheard one of the men griping about it. Apparently, this close to the river bottom, at this time of year, it was usual. But the wisps of mist circling him made him feel hemmed in, not in control of his environment. That made him irritable, and the discomforts of the place had him frankly bored. He was starting to hate travel. With long torturous hours huddled between Iris and young Mrs. Watkins looming ahead, when he wanted nothing more than a cool, dark place to pass the day, he could feel the fatigue lowering again. The lift he’d taken from feeding on his pet the night before was not really enough to sustain him for long.
Not with the lack of rest.
He consoled himself with the thought that after one or two more days at most, he’d be in Las Animas. It was probably another godforsaken little hole, but with any luck it would have a decent saloon or two where he could pass the nights gambling and let his very public late hours disguise his nocturnal nature in a socially acceptable way. And while he essentially disliked trafficking with human whores, his—in retrospect—foolish decision to travel with only one fresh bite would soon leave him with little other option. He had taken a path he thought less conspicuous, and this was where it had brought him.
But first, there was the stagecoach ride to endure. If that accommodating little Mrs. Watkins would agree to leave her window shade drawn, he might be able to catch some much needed rest.
As he watched the men expertly handle the complex six-horse hitch, though, his mind turned again to the problem of the guard, Weston. The man had certainly not been as drunk as he’d pretended last night, and Josef could think of no logical reason the fellow should wish to counterfeit such a state, and then try to pick a fight for no reason. He knew that somewhere, there must be a key, one that would make it all make sense. But at the moment, as he wearily watched the fog-bound darkness paling into the flat pre-dawn gray, it escaped him what it might be.
The noise in the courtyard woke Sally, and she stirred sleepily, waiting for the rolling waves of nausea that had become a common morning companion for her. Moving as quietly as she could, she delved into the small supply of soda crackers her mother had pressed on her. Usually nibbling one or two, slowly, first thing upon waking, settled her stomach enough she could get up and begin the day.
Iris was slower to stir, stretching extravagantly when she finally deigned to awaken, and complaining about everything she could think of as she dressed, a running monologue to herself. The cold of the room, the horrible food, how the bed was so hard and lumpy, the sheets so rough, she’d never slept a wink, not a wink. Sally wondered at that point about the gentle snores she’d heard throughout the night, but said nothing, although her palm was positively itching to slap the complaints off the other woman’s lips. And the litany continued. She couldn’t believe Josef was subjecting her to this misery, this was not the life she’d signed up for. Where was the glamour, the excitement—any of it? Iris was punctuating her tirade with affected exclamations of “Well, I never! I just never!”
As Sally finished her own simple toilette, she’d had enough. Picking up the small carpetbag that held her meager travel supplies, she looked at Iris and smiled sweetly. “It’s my opinion that if you ‘never,’ your precious Mr. Constantine wouldn’t have brought you along in the first place.” And with that she walked out the door and down the stairs to the common room.
Five hours later, Sally was almost past wishing she’d never been born. The stagecoach jolted again, and she let out an involuntary yelp when Mr. Constantine was thrown against her again.
“I really am sorry, Mrs. Watkins,” he said, his voice muffled within the scarf shielding his lower face. He pulled it down to give her an apologetic grimace. “We’re neither of us very good travelers, are we?”
“I think not, Mr. Constantine,” she replied, ignoring Iris’s annoyed sniff. The woman really was insufferable, she thought, if she objected to her—Sally groped for a word—friend even speaking to another woman. “If we could only stop for a few minutes.”
The man quirked one corner of his mouth. “We seem to be making good speed today. Perhaps we’ll arrive early at our destination for the night.”
Sally couldn’t help a short laugh. “Something to look forward to, then.”
Josef felt a slow smile spread across his features. Pity this Sally Watkins was so very thoroughly claimed by a human, he thought. Iris was a regular little spitfire all right, and her blood suited him well, but he could have chosen a better traveling companion. Still, once he’d concluded his business in the southwestern part of the territory, they could go on to Denver, or maybe Tucson. There should be sufficient diversions in either of those places, even for Iris. Perhaps she’d like to go back on the boards. She was a pretty fair actress, and it would keep her busy. Her singing voice could be better, but he didn’t imagine standards were all that high here in the wilderness.
“Mr. Constantine,” Sally said, breaking into his train of thought, “if it wouldn’t make you too uncomfortable, I surely could use a peek out the window. Just long enough to—uh—to let me get my balance back.”
Josef nodded and made sure his collar and hat were well adjusted against the possibility of any stray sunlight striking him. “Your consideration of my—sensitivity—is much appreciated, ma’am.”
She couldn’t see much, not without craning her head out the window, which didn’t seem dignified enough for someone just addressed as “ma’am.” And the dust thrown up from the horses’ hooves on the dry road threatened to choke her. But it was better than feeling so closed in, even if only for a few moments. The terrain was changing, slowly, the roll of the plains deepening, the gold of the tall waving grass giving way to a duller tan of rocks, lightened here and there by the pale gray-green of sagebrush. Off to the left, she could still see the trees bordering the riverbed.
The road took a gentle curve, heading for a slight rocky defile, and Sally thought she could see a tree trunk tilted across the road, blocking the way.
That didn’t look right, she thought as the stage began to slow. She could hear the driver shouting at the guard.
“Get your shotgun up, Weston,” he yelled. “They’re gonna get the drop on us!”
What Weston said in reply, if anything, she couldn’t hear, but as the stagecoach rolled to a halt, they all heard the single shot, and the hard thump of the driver’s body hitting the ground.
Link to Chapter 3