Chapter Seven
The clock said half past five when she awoke, surprised that she'd actually slept. She gave herself a good stretch and stepped out onto her balcony to assess the weather. She drew her shawl closer. The weather had cooled, the Chinook wind bringing rain from far out in the west. Storm would be on them within the hour. There was no one else on the street. Looking aways to the Crystal Springs, she could see there were horses tied up in front. There were horses tied up in front of the Astoria, now that she looked down; must have arrived in the last few minutes and where did they come from? Blackie was among them.
She turned her ear towards the open door behind her. There was raucous laughter. Unpleasant laughter, not the sociable kind. That no one had informed her of arriving customers was an impossibility. The sound of breaking glass meant trouble.
Down the street she spied Clara moving quick toward the Astoria. Marie-Rose waved frantic, hoping Clara would see and head for the Sheriff's office. She didn't stop to see if her signal had been understood, but hustled back through her room, taking a pistol from the dresser drawer as she passed.
Voices from the saloon carried up the stairs. Hooting, yelling.
"Hit 'im again, Spinks!"
"Get up, polecat, I ask'd you a question."
Spinks. That weasel. Buell had gone hard with that one recently, surprising he was back in town so soon after. Must have picked a fight with one of the ranch hands. Please God, not Tully again. But O'Malley would not allow that, so O'Malley might not be able, and that thought gave her a true fright. The laughter subsided, letting an angry, unsteady voice be heard.
"Pull a gun on me then hit me from behind. That's pretty low. How many of there are you?" Carlyle's voice.
"One's all you got to worry about, coyote, and that's me."
"Just want to know if I'm going to have to use both hands… ughh—"
Another heavy smack. If Spinks had decided to pick a fight with Carlyle, it may not bode well for Carlyle's pretty face, if Spinks had enough roughs with him. Too few and it didn't bode well for Spinks. Now she was praying for Clara to come back with the sheriff, or at least Randall. She further prayed to the dear Lord that Tully had skit out, and the Pinkerton man, where might he be? Him walking into the middle of whatever Spinks and his goons were doing for fun didn't bode well for the Astoria. Whoever took whose side, it would be ugly.
"Answer me polite, coyote. Where's the fuckin' sheriff?" There was the smack of fist on flesh and another round of mean hoots and whistles.
Marie-Rose went cold at that. Asking for the sheriff? This was serious, not just some yahoos getting roostered up and looking for payback from earlier affront. She stepped carefully to the railing to get a look below.
In the saloon's main room, she could see several men, mostly gathered towards the middle. O'Malley was nowhere to be seen, nor was Tully. Belrose men, she was sure. Two of them she recognized from earlier in the day. The one that gave trouble to Lisabet was not among them, but the other two were there, standing quietly by, watching the proceedings. Spinks stood all a-swagger before a sagging Carlyle, arms pulled up hard behind him by two louts. His guns were gone. Carlyle's jacket was stained wet and dripping, and he was licking a trickle of blood from his lip. Carlyle had a look in his eye that Marie-Rose thought should have made Spinks think a bit, but thinking and Spinks never really spent time together. Sitting on the bar was a runty little fellow, gun in hand, playing with Carlyle's tomahawk.
And they were drinking her liquor. As she moved to the top of the stairs, raring to give hell, her arm was grabbed from behind her.
"Nothing to concern you, Miss Rose." A seedy and cold-eyed ranch hand from the Belrose spread stepped out of the tub room doorway, gun in hand. He stayed just out of sight of those below and shoved her back toward her bedroom door.
"Albert Juke, you damned fool, what the hell is—"
"Just take yourself back in your room, woman. Not your quarrel."
She glared at him, horrified. Over his shoulder, she could see the door to the room at the end of the passage move slightly, and Lisabet's face was briefly visible.
Another crash came from below, and more raucous noise, and Juke and Marie-Rose both turned their attention below. Carlyle must have dodged a fist; one of the men holding him was painfully twisting Carlyle's arm up behind him.
She was afraid to move, or breathe much. Juke hadn't seen the gun she held; she was holding it low against her dress.
"Juke, you crowbait fool, what the hell is this?" She spoke as quickly and quietly as she could. "That drifter just rode in this afternoon. Just 'cause he stood up for one of my girls—"
"We got our orders, woman. Now get."
"Orders? From who? Belrose? In my saloon?"
"He got his own orders."
Juke shoved her behind him, stepping up to the railing. His attention had been drawn down to the entrance to the saloon.
The fading light from the doorway of the saloon was blocked by a tall figure. The enigmatic Mister Cartwright, in his black coat and bowler hat, one hand on the swinging door, had come to a dead stop as he took in the scene before him. Spinks glanced at him, but paid him no mind. Amazing and stupid little man.
There was only a clock-tick to take in the whirl of expressions that played over Cartwright's face right then, like a lightning strike dancing across the prairie at night: surprise, anger, relief, and more, all in instant succession. Cartwright mouthed a word, looked like "damn," and as the lightning flicker faded, what remained was forged-steel anger. In the space of exactly one heartbeat, Marie-Rose allowed for a touch of hope.
Carlyle spat blood and grinned up at Spinks. "My baby brother hits harder than you."
Spinks smiled broadly back, an insult to the eye, and laughed loudly into Carlyle's face, an insult to the nose. He called over his shoulder to Cartwright. "We'll attend to you presently, Mister Pinkerton Man," and reared back his fist.
Not a week went by that Marie-Rose didn't see punches thrown, and she'd seen men move fast, but when Mister Benjamin Cartwright crossed the length of the saloon entire in a blink and sent Spinks boots-in-the-air onto the table beyond with fist like a freight train, she was mouth-open amazed.
There was a moment of utter shocked stillness. The clock ticked twice.
Carlyle said, "Hey there, Sammy."
Cartwright said, "Ow."
Spinks was a heap on the floor by the collapsed table, and raised up a howling of pain. Cartwright spun and backhanded the slack-jawed runt who'd been holding the gun on Carlyle, sending him and the tomahawk flying clear off the bar. The other men shook off their surprise, and the brannigan began in earnest. The two that held Carlyle found themselves holding air as Carlyle twisted out of their grip, then were gasping for it when a fist and an elbow found belly and jaw, one and two. Cartwright grabbed the closest man to him and tossed him like a sack of feed into one beside Carlyle. Still it was two against six or seven.
Juke shoved Marie-Rose aside and took aim below, lining up a shot into the flurry of bodies. She put her pistol in his kidney, but he was too close, and Juke twisted into her, elbowing her hard. She grabbed at Juke's gun hand. The gun fired wild, high into the far wall. He cursed and grabbed Marie-Rose by her hair, and she screeched a curse of her own. The ruckus below froze at the gunshot. Cartwright was holding one man face down on the bar by a painfully twisted arm while fending off another with a bottle; Carlyle was dodging two by spinning one around by the arm.
"Hey! Let go of her, you crowbait skunk!" Carlyle hollered. He shouldered one opponent in the ribs and made for the stairs, ignoring the other.
Then Juke hollered himself as Marie-Rose returned the favor and grabbed his greasy beard, yanking his head forward over the railing. Clara bolted from the back stair and Lisabet from her room rushed him from behind and, grabbing an ankle each, tipped him full up and over. His bellow got as far as the letter "f" before there was a wet feed sack sound and a crack from the floor below. The women exchanged grim looks, Lisabet white-eyed and pale, Clara still out of breath from her dash and angry. Lisabet ran for her room.
"Thank you, ladies," Carlyle called up prettily, and changed direction, diving out of sight toward the card parlor, carrying one of his attackers with him.
"Thank you, ladies," Cartwright echoed, yanking the arm he held hard upward and twisting. The little man had the tomahawk, but Cartwright's long arm just batted it away. He gave the one in hand a powerful yank, bringing up a real shriek of agony from the other.
Cartwright wasn't even looking at the man whose shoulder he'd just dislocated; he dropped him, spun, and moved on to the next two. Marie-Rose had seen her share of fights and she'd seen her share of fighters, but these two were eye-poppers. Carlyle rolled back into view and sprang to his feet. He kicked the leg out from under one of the sons-of-bitches Cartwright was tussling with while still attending to his own opponents. He was spitting blood.
"Dean!" yelled Cartwright, and Carlyle dove sideways to dodge a flying bottle. He was grinning a fool wolf-pup grin, skittering and jabbing, and he leapt back out of sight with a war whoop.
Not "damn," she noted.
Cartwright was a different kind of fighter: fast and accurate as a rattler and punched like a full throttle locomotive. Powerful and graceful, every move was clean, economical, and lethal. For all that, he was pitiless, and took no joy from it, if his stony face was any gauge. A table crashed into splinters from where Carlyle had disappeared. Marie-Rose looked frantically for her gun. Lisabet came back carrying her own derringer.
"Clara, get the sheriff," Marie-Rose barked.
"Tully's doing," Clara gasped. Marie-Rose found her pistol by the stair, took Juke's as well, and directed Clara to watch from the balcony. She and Lisabet advanced down the stairs side by side.
They found the battle had already ended. Carlyle was dragging a wall-eyed galoot by the shirt collar to add to a pile of bodies. Seven bodies either sleeping peaceful or moaning painful, plus the lump of Juke. The two left standing were breathing heavy and grinning at each other. No one had drawn a gun. Cartwright had a grip on the sleeve of Carlyle's jacket. His eyes were shining. Carlyle was rubbing his jaw, getting his breath.
He looked Cartwright up and down and gave a low whistle. "Look at you, Sammy. Straight out of Tombstone."
Cartwright snorted and made a sour-apple face, but didn't let free his hold. Carlyle didn't appear to notice, but for all his smirk had quite a shine in his own eyes as he looked around. He wiped his lip with his free sleeve.
"You fine ladies alright up there?" he called to where Marie-Rose and Lisabet had taken position, firearms aimed at the troublemakers still moving.
"We're just dandy, thank you kindly," Marie-Rose said. "Sheriff should be along right smart. Where is O'Malley?"
"Behind the bar, took a knock on the head when they pulled a gun on me."
Marie-Rose came down to the bottom of the stairs and Lisabet disappeared behind the bar. She reappeared helping a woozy O'Malley to his feet. He had his hand on the back of his head.
"Tully came down to the Springs, Miss Rose," Cartwright said, his eyes not leaving Carlyle's back. "He said you were looking for me." She looked at him, standing tall amidst the bodies, impassive as a train tender but with as much boiling inside.
"So I was, though the why of it has gone right out of my head. I'm sure it will come to me presently," she said. She kept her voice even.
Carlyle grinned. "What're you doing here, Sammy? No library in this burg." He called over to O'Malley. "You okay, Irish?"
Carlyle gave Cartwright's shoulder a quick squeeze, moved over to the bar. Cartwright's hand fell away from the sleeve it held as Carlyle moved to retrieve his tomahawk. She noted how that hand took its own time lowering to Cartwright's side. O'Malley had both hands on the bar, steadying himself. He glared angrily by way of an answer to Carlyle's question. Lisabet ducked around to examine the back of his head.
"How'd they pull a gun on you?" Marie-Rose directed the question at either Carlyle or O'Malley.
The men exchanged a dead-eye look. "They got lucky," Carlyle said. Neither of them would meet Marie-Rose's narrowing eyes.
"Where's Spinks?" Lisabet asked.
"Ran out the back, the fink." Carlyle spat into the spittoon, sounding the brass pot like a ship's bell. He stepped back over to Cartwright, who suffered Carlyle to take his chin in hand and move his head from side to side for examination. Marie-Rose would put money that Cartwright hadn't been touched once, but maybe this familiar behavior was about more than the fight. Satisfied of no damage, Carlyle glanced about.
"Let's gather iron," he said.
Lisabet, pistol at the ready, moved to stand in sight of the open rear door. She waited there, glancing in the kitchen, eyes alert.
Cartwright set to divesting the ornery of what firearms and cutlery he could find. His hair flopped over his eyes.
Marie-Rose addressed herself to the both of them. "I do believe introductions are in order." She still held her own pistol, and no one was collecting that.
Carlyle looked momentarily surprised, but met her eyes. "Dean Winchester, Miss Rose. This is my brother, Sam."
The former Cartwright stepped to stand just behind his brother. They were unalike as frogs and goats, manner and look, even in their clothes, one sky white and deep-water black, the other sunrise red and Great Plains brown, but the way they stood side-by-side, in that way that says distance is only too far, never too close, spoke clear of blood and bond. They both looked abashed, for some reason. She gave them both an appraising look.
"All right, then. Mister Dean Winchester and Mister Sam Winchester. We are much indebted for your efforts on our behalf, and that's the truth of it." She surveyed the wreckage. At least two of the fallen had pulled themselves over to hang on the boot-rail of the bar, though they hadn't tried to stand. Shifty eyes moved from the brothers to the women's guns and back.
Moaning came from behind the bar. That would be the fellow that Sam Winchester dropped after twisting his arm near off. O'Malley lifted his head from his hands and delivered a vicious kick. There was a thud and silence.
"Sorry about the names thing, Miss Rose. Long story," said Sam Winchester.
"Kind of a habit…" Dean muttered.
"You can call yourselves the Grand Dukes of Zarostinia for all I care. I just wanted to know what the hell was going on in this town. What's your business with Cade Belrose?"
"Who?" asked Dean. He appeared relieved.
"Local bigwig," Sam said. He addressed Marie-Rose. "No business, ma'am, we're just passing through."
"Just passing through. Separately or together?" So different. Same white teeth. She wondered that she hadn't marked that, but Cartwright had smiled little.
"We were separated a while back, ma'am. I promise we'll be no trouble…"
She stopped him with a raised hand.
"Don't fire up those pretty eyes on my account, my lad. I've had the best try to charm me. Anyway, none of my business. But the Sheriff will be here presently so you'd best be ready to answer him."
"No worries, Miss Rose, we'll be heading out of town right away," said Sam.
"We will?" Dean asked, turning slightly.
"We won't?" Apprehension tightened Sam's voice.
"Having a good time here, Sam."
"Dean, we need to talk. We have to get back."
"Unfinished business, Sam."
"I know, Dean, but—"
"Something we can handle, Sam."
"I know, Dean, I think I have a line on it, but there's no time."
She watched this back and forth a moment, wanting to laugh despite the seriousness. Buell's job to sort them out. The brothers set about relieving conscious and unconscious bodies of firearms and knives, making a presentable pile of iron on the bar top. Marie-Rose stood in the center of the room, surveying the damage and watching the brothers try to carry on furtive conversation as they went about their business. She caught snippets.
"Dean, I waited as long as I could."
"Wait a while longer. I can't find the Sterners."
"It may be too late for them. I had to find you."
"What? Why? Risky and dumb, Sam, it's a big country… dreams stay with you…" Nice singing voice had Mister Dean Winchester. He laughed a bit.
Sam wasn't mollified. "Dude! Three weeks!"
"Three weeks? No way. Wait…"
"…But I found something out—"
They noticed everyone was looking at them. They continued the disarming in silence, but looks went back and forth that argued just as loud.
Clara came down the stairs, shrugging. The bodies on the floor were stirring; everyone standing had a gun in their hands.
Dean waggled a gun barrel toward the door. "Rise and shine, boys, last call's early today." O'Malley dragged a body from behind the bar.
Dean spoke to Sam. "Sheriff?"
Sam went out front, eyes alert. Shook his head. Lisabet went over to check out Juke. She gave him a nudge with her booted foot and shrugged at Marie-Rose. Bones broke, but not his neck. Marie-Rose was nonplussed, but just as well; Clara and Lisabet might take it bad if they'd killed someone. Well, Lisabet might. She glanced at Lisabet and decided she needn't worry.
Dean indicated the door with his pistol. "No offense to the first-rate Astoria, Miss Rose, but I think the F Troop would prefer other accommodations." The rowdies looked at each other, but gutless won out. They started moving.
"We shall endure the disgrace with what dignity we can muster," said Marie-Rose.
He flicked his chin toward the men on the floor. "Your chum needs a hand."
Sam stood to the side of the door, clear of any line of fire.
The gang still had numbers over the brothers, but the two silent ones, the ones what had given Lisabet grief earlier in the day, seemed to be willing to take their medicine. The rest of the sorry herd followed their lead.
Dean and Sam conducted a heads-together of their own outside. Sam returned to Marie-Rose.
"Dean'll take these guys down to the jail, Miss Rose, but can Mister O'Malley go with him? If you're okay, Mister O'Malley? Probably better if a local went along."
She looked to O'Malley, who nodded, and he took his shotgun in hand.
She murmured to him as he passed her. "Mind those two, the galoots from earlier. They're up to something."
Clara came up behind her as he moved out.
"Tully fetched Cartwright?" Marie-Rose asked her.
Clara nodded. "Hollered into the Crystal Springs where we were, said you were asking after him, and was he acquainted with a gun slingin', poker-playin' Kansan with a smile for the ladies as such a fella was getting his ass whupped at the Astoria. Cartwright left a hole in the air. Tully seemed right pleased."
Marie-Rose nodded. "So he should be."
Sam had taken up a position in the doorway as Dean and O'Malley led the limping and ornery men off down the road to the Sheriff's office at the other end of Gilead. Further along, she could see Tully running toward them full tilt. He skirted around the gang being shepherded down the street and ran over to Dean Winchester. They said a few words, and Dean put his head back and laughed a big laugh, then shooed him onward toward the hotel. Rain spatters chased him the rest of the way to the Astoria.
"Trouble all over town, Miss Rose," he gasped out. Then he grinned up at Sam. "I guessed right, didn't I, Mister Cartwright?"
Sam nodded, with a provisional smile.
She pulled Tully inside.
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