Queen's Peril

by Darin Kennedy

  All present took note of Steven and Niklaus: a cluster of top hat-wearing gentlemen of wealth; a man covered with so much soot he could only be the local blacksmith; a trio of, no doubt, ladies of the evening. Between being new in town and the fact that their clothes and haircuts wouldn’t come into style for half a century, they were hard to miss.

  Archie stepped between Steven and Niklaus and moved behind the bar, prompting a trio of cowpokes to raise their glasses in unison.

  “About time you got back, Archie.” This man, the largest of the three, finished the last vestiges of his beer and wiped his mouth on a checkered sleeve. “We were about to come hunting for you.”

  “Yeah.” Another, this one guilty of the worst comb-over in history—literally, Steven considered—crinkled up his nose. “Not good for business to leave your customers thirsty, Arch.”

  “Patience, gentlemen. The evening has just begun.” Archie rested his elbows on the bar’s dark wood. “So, what’ll it be?”

  “The usual,” said the third, his words followed by a peal of coughing. “And make mine a double.”

  “Some whiskey to warm your feet, then.” Archie poured a glass for each of the men and brought his attention back to Steven and Niklaus. “You two. Join me at the other end of the bar.”

  Steven and Niklaus moved to the corner and grabbed a couple barstools below the mounted bison head. Archie arrived seconds later with another trio of whiskeys.

  “So, you’re bartending these days?” Steven raised an eyebrow. “Does that fly with your other chosen vocation?”

  Archie shrugged, a quiet laugh escaping his lips. “Way I see it, job’s not that different. People come in, break some bread, drink some alcohol, confess their sins.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “If you must know, the bartender took ill just a few days after Emilio and I hit ground. The job pays for a room at Dottie’s and keeps food in my belly.” He shook his head and smiled. “And I wasn’t always a priest, you know.” Archie ran his fingers through his kinky grey hair. “In any case, what else would I do in this state? Most jobs around here aren’t exactly designed for senior citizens.”

  “You mentioned Emilio.” Steven kept his voice low. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

  “Last I saw him, he was doing just fine. Went to work at a ranch just outside of town a couple months back. He drops by the saloon every few days to check in.”

  “A couple months?” Niklaus asked. “How long have you two been here?’

  Archie considered for a moment. “Going on four months, by my reckoning.”

  Niklaus shot Steven a questioning glance. “That’s about as long as we were stuck in the forties.”

  “Where are we exactly?” Steven peered around the room. “And when?”

  “Wyoming, winter of 1890.” Archie turned up his glass. “Wolf’s Bend sits just west of the Nebraska border.”

  “1890.” Steven stroked his chin. “And what have you been up to besides serving whiskey to the local gentry?”

  “Not much else to do. An old black man and a Latino kid stuck in the middle of the old west and—surprise, surprise—nobody’s beating down their door to offer a hand up.” The corner of Archie’s mouth curled into a half-smile. “Truth be told, I’m pleasantly surprised the two of us are still alive and kicking.”

  “You got a Wyoming winter, while we got a Florida hurricane.” Niklaus laughed. “Not sure who drew the short straw there.” His brow furrowed. “Another thing. Before, you told that kid Levi you’ve been expecting us.”

  “It’s true. That’s why I insisted to Emilio that we not leave this town.”

  “But how could you have known?” Steven’s gaze shot to Niklaus and back to Archie. “You said all your visions dried up after you drew your icon from the pouch.”

  “And now, it would appear, it’s me that’s all dried up.” Archie downed his whiskey and poured himself another shot. “Three nights after we arrived here in Wolf’s Bend, I had another vision. Not quite as clear as the old days, but I had a feeling it was more than just a wishful dream.”

  “A vision.” Steven crossed his arms. “And what did you see exactly?”

  “Our little meeting here, the three of us sitting at this very bar drinking a round and catching up.” He pointed to the window behind Steven’s head. “Snow halfway up the glass. Everybody bound up against the cold.” He let out a chortle. “I just prayed it was this winter and not some time further down the pike.”

  “And that’s it?” Steven took a sip of his whiskey, the liquid burning its way through his chest and warming his belly. “No other tidbits you’d care to share?”

  “That’s the only memory that stands out. Everything else has been nothing but normal dreams, at least as I recall.” Archie raised his glass and downed his second shot. “So, your turn, Steven. From what Niklaus has said, the two of you ended up in Florida in the forties. How did you come to be here?” He glanced at the dragonfly pendant hooked to Steven’s coat. “Was it—”

  “Amaryllis has indeed been helpful of late, but Grey’s the one who saved our bacon.”

  “Grey?”

  “1946 vintage. We sought him out some sixty years before he first came looking for me.” Steven debated exactly how much to tell Archie. “We used his pouch from 1946 to come here.”

  “Hmm.” Archie considered for a moment. “Wait. I heard the pouch’s pulse before. You brought the Hvitr Kyll from 1946 with you? Won’t that screw up everything?”

  “It was Grey’s idea.” Niklaus’ mouth quirked to one side as he let go an exhausted chuckle. “He seemed to think everything would work itself out.”

  “But, it is here, right?” Archie asked, his words relaying something akin to hunger.

  Steven pulled open his coat to reveal the white leather bag hanging at his hip. “I have it, though for all practical purposes, its batteries are dead.” He shook his head in frustration. “Unless, of course, you know the location of a nearby crossing.”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Archie steepled his fingers before his chin, the zeal from his voice already extinguished. “The maps around here barely have state lines, much less the location of mystical power nexuses.” He shot Niklaus a quizzical look. “You two managed to find a crossing in 1946?”

  “In Florida.” Niklaus shrugged. “Somehow, we stumbled upon a place that would allow us to come here to 1890. Once we got close to the spot, the pouch did the rest.” He downed his whiskey and placed the glass on the bar. “The rest is, literally, history.”

  “I doubt you stumbled upon anything.” Archie pulled in a deep breath. “Not too many coincidences where the Game is involved.” He refilled all their glasses. “So, the pouch brought you here? To Wolf’s Bend?”

  Steven chuckled. “By way of a snowy ridge about two miles northeast.”

  “A ridge we probably should’ve marked a little more carefully,” Niklaus muttered.

  “Even if we had, there’s no guarantee that spot has enough oomph to send us away from here.” Steven sighed. “We asked the pouch to find our friends, not a revolving door.”

  “Amazing.” Archie shook his head. “Trapped out of your time, and you still manage to find Grey, Emilio, and me without breaking a sweat.” He smiled, the unsettling twinkle Steven often found in Archie’s gaze notably absent. “It would seem yet again that the pouch has chosen its Pawn wisely.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Steven downed another shot of whiskey. “You see—”

  “Hey, barkeep.” One of the quartet playing poker in the corner walked over and laid a bill on the bar. His blue uniform marked him as U.S. Cavalry and the stripes on his sleeve indicated he was enlisted. “Another round of whiskey for me and my boys.”

  “Will do, Sergeant.”

  As Archie busied himself pulling glasses and pouring drinks, Steven leaned close to Niklaus. “All right. Archie’s here and Emilio’s apparently less than a day’s ride away.”

  “That still leaves the matter of how we’re going to g
et the pouch to take us to wherever Zed sent Audrey and Lena.”

  Steven’s shoulders slumped. “One problem at a time, Nik. One problem at a time.”

  Niklaus raised a brow. “Do we try to get back to Florida?”

  “I doubt we could find the spot.” Steven shook his head. “The only person who knows where the Coral Castle is supposed to be built someday is an ocean away in Latvia and, unless I miss my guess, barely out of diapers.”

  “Stonehenge, then?” Niklaus cracked his neck. “Grey ‘46 said that Britain’s favorite ring of stones would probably do the trick.”

  “Not sure how the four of us are getting back to the east coast and across the Atlantic with no money, not to mention the weeks to months that would take.”

  Archie sidled over and rejoined the conversation. “So, 1946, huh?” His face darkened. “That was the year my sister Henrietta died. My mother was never the same after that. Even her brother, my uncle Joe, coming home from the war couldn’t bring her around.”

  “What happened to your sister?” Niklaus asked.

  “We never quite figured that out. Our house sat only a couple blocks from the edge of one of New Orleans’ major swamps. One afternoon Henrietta was playing down by the bayou. When dinner time came around, my mother called for her a hundred times, but she didn’t come.” Archie’s voice grew quiet. “I’m the one who found her. Face down in the muck, her braids floating in the muddy water.” His head dropped. “I can still see it like it was yesterday.”

  “God, I’m sorry.” Steven clasped the old man’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to drag up bad memories.”

  “Some wounds just don’t heal, Steven.” Archie’s gaze grew hard and cold. “I think you’d agree with that sentiment, would you not?”

  The hair on Steven’s neck rose at the not-so-cryptic question, the dread coursing through him doubled by a lone flutter of Amaryllis’ wings. Before he could respond, though, Niklaus offered his own opinion.

  “The past is the past.” Niklaus poured another round of whiskey. “What say we focus on the present? Maybe compare notes and start working on a way to get all of us out of here.”

  Over the next hour, Archie kept the saloon’s clientele fed and watered with a bit of help from Steven and Niklaus, the trio trading stories of their months apart in between. Beyond tales of a truly wild west interspersed with a bit of local gossip, Archie had little to add. Steven and Niklaus, on the other hand, detailed for the priest their entire four months from beginning to end, hoping that in doing so, they’d find some clue as to what their next step should be. As they came to the end of their story, one detail in particular hit Archie like a ton of bricks.

  “A castle?” he asked. “Made of coral?” His eyes slid shut. “Why does that sound so—”

  “Barkeep!” The sergeant from before jammed his empty glass down on his table’s scratched surface. “Another round for me and my boys here.” His words slurred, he nearly fell out of his chair as he glanced across his shoulder at their end of the bar. “And make it quick.”

  Archie’s mouth turned down in a practiced frown. “It appears you gentlemen have already had more than enough this evening.”

  The sergeant rose from his chair and walked to the bar. “Listen, old man. You come across pretty smart for a negro, but not smart enough to know when to shut your damn mouth. Now, pour another round for me and my boys or things might get ugly. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Archie lowered his eyes. “Another round of whiskey, then.”

  Steven stepped between them. “Excuse me, Sergeant, but we’re talking here.”

  “Steven,” Archie said. “Don’t.”

  Steven searched Archie’s eyes and found a look of defeat he’d never seen there before. “But Archie, he—”

  “It’s all right,” Archie said. “I have the situation well in hand.”

  “You heard the man.” The sergeant stroked his three-day stubble. “Maybe you and your friend should stay out of business that doesn’t concern you.”

  Steven bristled. “I’m not sure who you think you are, but when a drunkard goes threatening a defenseless man well into his seventies, that definitely concerns me.”

  “You’re asking for a beating, son.” The sergeant cracked his knuckles. “And I’m more than happy to oblige.”

  Niklaus stepped between them. “Calm down. Both of you. This isn’t—”

  The sergeant swung at Niklaus’ chin. Niklaus ducked to one side, just avoiding the wild haymaker, and landed an uppercut of his own, sending his attacker airborne. Cards and cash flew in every direction as the sergeant landed atop their gambling table, bringing the other three cavalry soldiers to their feet. This left Steven in the middle of a scene he’d enjoyed in a hundred different movies over the years: the barroom brawl.

  Though he had to admit bar fights weren’t nearly as much fun when the drunken brawlers were trained soldiers and the person they were swinging on was you.

  Steven grabbed a barstool and brandished it before him like an amateur lion tamer as the two soldiers closest to him charged. The third helped the dazed sergeant up from the floor, and the two of them moved on Niklaus. Steven and Niklaus, in turn, pulled together, the bar to their rear, and waited for the circling jackals to pounce.

  This is going to hurt, Steven thought. A lot.

  Two clicks echoed in the space, and the business end of a double-barreled shotgun emerged from between Steven and Niklaus like a lethal flower blooming in stop motion.

  “Now,” came Archie’s trembling voice, “why don’t all of you gentlemen settle down. This may not be my place, but I’ll not let you tear it apart.”

  “And what are you going to do about it, old man?” The sergeant took a step forward, his hands held before him in cautious surrender. “Shoot a United States Cavalryman right here in front of God and everybody?”

  The door to the saloon slammed open and the resulting blast of cold air hit all involved like a bucket of ice water.

  “He won’t have to do anything.” The unfamiliar baritone voice heralded the twin thuds of heavy boots on wood.

  Steven glanced in the direction of the frigid blast of air and found two men standing in the saloon’s open doorway. The first nearly as tall as Niklaus, his sharp blue eyes stared out from beneath a burgundy Stetson. A full salt-and-pepper beard of whiskers hid his face while his full-length duster almost concealed the shotgun at his side. The other, a stocky black man in his thirties, rested a hand on the six-shooter at his side, a silver five-point star girded within a circle of brass pinned to his vest.

  “Everything all right in here, Mr. Lacan?” The darker-skinned man’s accent hit Steven’s ears as odd, reminding him of a college friend that hailed from Ghana with perhaps a touch of the Caribbean thrown into the mix.

  “Right as rain, Deputy.” Archie laid his shotgun on the bar. “Just working to clear up a little misunderstanding, isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

  The four soldiers, along with Steven and Niklaus, mumbled their agreement.

  The man in the duster released the hammers on his shotgun and brought it across his shoulder. “That’s funny. Looked to me like yet another brawl brewing in my favorite drinking establishment.”

  “Fear not, Sheriff. I have this under control.” Archie brought out two fistfuls of glasses. “How about a round for everyone?”

  “I sincerely doubt more whiskey is the solution to this problem.” The sheriff stepped up to the sergeant and stared down at the shorter man’s balding head. “Sergeant Percy. Do you remember what I told you two nights ago?”

  The sergeant remained silent.

  “While you and your men are in my town, I expect you to maintain a certain level of decorum.”

  “Yes, Sheriff.”

  “And if you and your men can’t keep a rein on your behavior, I may have to insist you stay out in the pasture with the rest of your unit.” His steely blue eyes narrowed beneath the rim of his Stetson. “I understand those tents aren’t
too warm this time of year.”

  “You understand right.”

  “This is the last time we’ll be having this discussion, isn’t that correct, Sergeant Percy?”

  Percy shot Steven a glance filled with no small amount of ire. “Yes, Sheriff.”

  “Good. Now, why don’t you and your men get back to your game while I introduce myself to these newcomers?” Percy and one of his men righted their table while the other two silently picked up the scattered cards and coins from the floor.

  The sheriff offered Steven his hand. “I’m Tom Post. Sheriff around these parts.”

  “Steven Bauer.” Steven did his best not to wince at the man’s firm handshake.

  “Niklaus Zamek.” Niklaus fared a bit better with the sheriff’s grip. “Pleasure.”

  “You two are new in town.” Post studied them with a jeweler’s eye. “What’s your business here in Wolf’s Bend?”

  “Your bartender, actually.” Steven inclined his head in Archie’s direction. “We know the illustrious Mr. Lacan from back east.”

  “We’re headed to California,” Niklaus added, “but had to go the long way around to deliver a message to Archie here.”

  Post eyed them both with a hint of suspicion. “Is that right, Archie?”

  “Indeed, it is.” Archie’s lips turned up in a half grin. “It seems a lifetime has passed since I last laid eyes on this pair.”

  Post grabbed a stool and sat down at the bar. “And how exactly do you know these gentlemen?”

  Archie pulled a beer and set it down in front of the sheriff. “Now that’s a long story.”

  “Good thing I like long stories.” Post took a sip from his beer and glanced across his shoulder at his deputy. “Might as well pull up a stool, John. Temperature’s starting to drop outside. I don’t imagine too many people will be out after another half hour or so.”

  “I suppose I could kick up my boots for a few.” The deputy took the stool to Post’s left. “Afternoon, Archie.”