Chapter Thirteen
The rain was coming down hard when the clock struck nine, and the Astoria waited. They cleaned up a bit of wreckage, which wasn't too bad, and listened to the thunder and rain, then closed the storm door at last. They might have been the last people alive in Nebraska for all they could tell.
They idled in Marie-Rose's room, with the lamp turned down to a flicker and the windows tight shut and firearms at hand beside them. Lisabet tried to darn stockings, ended up making a tangle and cursing. Clara couldn't sit at all, kept going near the window to look out, though with the full dark and rain it was hard to even see the road. They talked about the Winchester men, how different they were from each other, and yet similar, whether they were of the breed to come in from a fight in a high lather. The way menfolk dealt with facing their mortality was good for her business, but that turn of conversation cast a pall.
They talked of how one seemed the wandering type, which suited Lisabet, who hankered for the wide world she wasn't likely to see, and how the other seemed the settling type, which suited Clara, who wanted a man to find her worth putting down roots for. Neither was wanting to spend her days staring at ceilings till the Calamity took her livelihood or her life, but how there weren't much to be done for it. Marie-Rose kept her peace, thinking neither future was in the cards if the girls were just going to wait and hope.
She polished the brass candlesticks and thought of those women who did not wait. Women who sat on wagons, following their men into a vast empty future. Women who sat at home, wondering if they were widows. Of women who put on men's trousers and strapped on guns, some to pass as beardless boys, some as just crazy old birds, but either way out of sorts with the world. She admired them, though. She thought on the Pawnee, where the women didn't sit around wondering what their braves were up to. They stood side-by-side with the men in running things, and what's more if a squaw's man came back without meat for the pot she found herself a new man. Civilized women did about as much, of course, just didn't do it so obvious. She thought on that noisy gaggle of geese in Omaha stumping for votes for women. Might as well wish for the moon. Anyway, no use complaining. Though Marie-Rose Dumaine was finding that in her old age, her patience for waiting had run bone dry.
So they passed the time. Marie-Rose would call Clara away from the window, Lisabet would draw blood and swear, and eventually they were bickering like broody hens. Clara gave up and went back to her room, Lisabet shortly followed.
She listened to the ticking clock and the dripping water and the fraying hope. Reaching into the silk bag on the dressing table beside her, she chose a card. Seven of Coins. Which meant something about something. It meant she was sitting in her God damned room in her God damned saloon in her God damned town waiting for momentous things to happen somewhere else and for someone to God damned stroll by and tell her how it fell out. It pissed her off mightily. Truth was she was sick and fierce mad at herself for getting the vapors when Sam Winchester faced down Cade Belrose. She had a gun, it was sitting on the bar. She hadn't thought to shoot the fucker in the head herself. Last time that was going to happen, you can bet on that. In disgust she shoved the cards back in the bag then into the inlay box where they lived, and slammed the lid sharp.
It was near eleven when a clatter from below in the saloon roused her. She took her gun in hand and hurried to the stair, keeping to the shadow. The lights were out in the girls' rooms.
A voice floated up from the saloon. "Well, buckaroo, looks like they forgot about us." Dean Winchester's smoky rumble. She let some fear fall away, but only some. She went down. In the low light, she saw Dean and Sam Winchester closing and barring the door behind them.
Dean surveyed the deserted saloon. He shook rain water from his jacket.
"Good evening, Miss Rose," Sam said.
"Or not," Dean said. "Didn't see you there, Miss Rose. Forgot to ask if there was a late check-in rule." He eyed the gun she held. "Which I'm guessing is kinda strict?"
Her relief at seeing them had stiffened her arm. Must not have occurred to the boys that she had feared it wouldn't be them entering. She put up her pistol and looked at Sam, tall and gaunt and pale, blood and ash and rain on his face and hands and coat. He looked grim. She moved toward him, but he smiled a wan smile and waved her off. Not his blood, then. She hid a shudder. She looked at Dean, who looked much as he always did: either just out of a fight or on his way into one. They looked to be tuckered, but had that hum about them that says a man's been in a good knuckle-up: Death rode up close and passed him by, and that brush with mortality lit a fire in them.
Dean moved heavily toward the bar. "Miss Rose, as your barkeep is presently down at Doc Abernathy's, might we do the honors on his behalf?"
She hiked her skirts and strode forward, pushing past him.
"Day of Judgment will come and go before a customer serves himself in my place of business. Or services himself." She banged two glasses on the bar top and went for the good stuff. He grinned at her.
She thought about smiling back, but her face just plain refused. She just poured. Sam was carrying an oilskin satchel she didn't recognize, dripping water, and a leather grip hastily packed with a bright white shirtsleeve hanging out. He must have brought his belongings from the Crystal Springs.
"How bad was it and where is Tully Bodiene?" Her voice was fiddle-string taut.
Dean answered her seriously. "Tully took a bite to the leg, Miss Rose, but not bad. O'Malley has a bullet crease in his side. They're both with Doc Abernathy."
"Sheriff Buell?"
"He's back at the jail. Fully in charge again. Randall took a bad hit to the head, so he sent his deputies, that's us, to make sure everything was all right here. Which it is, I see."
She nodded once, curtly. "You said Tully was bit."
"He just got a cut on his leg, the Doc is wrapping it up. He'll be fine in a day or so, won't even scar."
Marie-Rose's forbearance was running very thin, and when it came to Tully, she let it show in her eyes.
"He wouldn't stay back like I told him, the little…"
Sam had opened the bag he carried onto the nearby table, checking books and papers for water damage. He'd found a towel and was dabbing. Marie-Rose jerked her chin at a table. "Sit. Did you stay put when you were his age?"
Both men fell gratefully into chairs. Sam was fussing with the satchel, and had set two large books on the floor beside him. He didn't look up, but said nothing very loudly.
"Not always, I guess," Dean said. "He saw his brother's horse and was off like a rocket."
Sam may have been smiling. She put whiskey down in front of them, and stood ready with the bottle.
"Willam Bodiene's horse? At Hilliard's church?"
Dean emptied his glass, and Sam picked up the tale.
"The Reverend Hilliard wasn't who he claimed to be, Miss Rose. His dog was trained to attack people, and it went after Tully. Hilliard had been poisoning people's minds for some time. Belrose was one, and the men that worked for him. Poisoning them literally, in fact. Tully's brother was being held captive there."
Dean picked up Sam's glass and downed that, too. He smiled at Marie-Rose, who refilled both.
"Held captive? The hell are you saying?"
"There were several people that wouldn't see things the Reverend's way, and he tried to persuade them. Willam wouldn't be converted."
"Dear God in Heaven," said Marie-Rose.
"He mostly just needs food and sleep, the Doc thinks. Tully was supposed to stay outside—"
"Came in like an Apache war party, Miss Rose, that little scrapper took out two—" Dean froze at the look on her face.
Sam stepped back in. "Sheriff Buell already tore us a strip, Miss Rose. But it was his brother—"
"You needn't explain to me how well you understand that, Sam Winchester." He nodded, and Dean occupied himself with his drink.
Marie-Rose set the bottle on the table with a thud, went back to the kitchen. She returned with a pair of plates with potatoes and beef. The boys looked up with big eyes and boundless gratitude. She dropped forks for the both them. "Just tell me who is alive and who is dead and the rest can come out in the morning."
A looked passed between them, weighing and sifting.
So it was as bad as she feared. The rest may never come out.
She brought a pitcher of water from the bar.
"There were about a dozen people there in all, Miss Rose. Most will recover in time, but there were bodies. We don't know the names, I'm sorry."
"And Belrose's men?"
Dean spoke through a full mouth. "Taken care of. Sheriff Buell is back in control. He's one tough hombre." She heard a tone in his voice that suggested he did not often admit to admiration. "Gotta tell you, though, Miss Rose, you're going to need a new holy man. Mister Hillaird wasn't preaching from the Common Book of Prayer."
From where she stood, she could see the spines of the books beside Sam's boots. He slid his foot over to try to hide them, but her eyes were fine, thank you, and what she saw gave her a deep, cold chill. She locked eyes with Sam, who met her look gravely while protecting his plate from Dean's fork.
"Those come from the church?"
"Yes, ma'am." He nudged the books carefully back under the sack.
"That the source of our troubles?"
He looked at his plate, then back up at her, earnest and chary. He looked to be herding words that weren't willing to go through the gate.
Dean spoke up instead. "You're upsetting the lady, Sam."
Marie-Rose shot a look right back at Dean. "Do I appear as I am required of smelling salts, Mister Dean Winchester? I am sore troubled about my people and my town. You didn't strike me as one who thinks women delicate."
Dean blinked at her and pulled in his glass like she might take it away from him. He grinned that sunbeam grin at her, and she nearly slapped the rascal for nearly getting her to smile back.
"Sorry, ma'am, I don't. No offense."
He looked up mournful over his sad, empty plate. Picking it up, he said, "This is fantastic, Miss Rose. Could we put another helping on our tab?" He sent up his charming smile.
She looked at each one a moment and then stood, taking Dean's plate. She was too wound up to be forgiving. "I shall tell you this, Misters Winchester: when I ask a question of import I do not appreciate being told to hang fire for an answer. Not about my folk. In my own saloon."
Dean's hopeful expression flickered wanly and his plate wavered as he held it out. She swept back to the kitchen and set to refilling his plate. She'd banged two ladles full out when shadow fell from the doorway. The Winchesters stood there. Dean spoke first.
"We're sorry, Miss Rose. Most times people are happier not knowing."
They looked proper contrite. Still going to be cagey, that she could tell, but sorry of it for all that.
"I know more'n I want to, that's the unpainted truth. Left the city of my birth to be shot of such business. Anyhow, 'happy' don't enter into it."
"You're not most people, Miss Rose," said Sam.
She handed Dean his plate. They followed her back into the main room, where she looked at them. The fire still smoldered in Dean, and the earth wouldn't be moved. She might have better luck in the inky depths of the other one. She held Sam's eyes and said, "We'll discuss this in the morning."
He nodded, looking grateful for the reprieve. Then the guarded look left his face and he smiled at her so sweet she thought she might jump over the bar to hide, so fast could he change.
She gave a long look at Dean. Dean flicked a imploring signal to Sam.
"Miss Rose," Sam asked politely as a convent schoolgirl, "Dean never got his bath and he smells. Is the water still on?"
Dean bobbed his head happily at the notion.
Back
