Silver on the Road

by Laura Anne Gilman

  But she would be an adult, come sundown. She would be free.

  Izzy had said the word “free” so many times in her head, she didn’t know what it meant anymore. Ree’s words came back to her: “First know what you want.” How could she know what she wanted when she’d never wanted for anything her whole life?

  With the front doors open to the street, the sounds of the town filtered in: voices raised in greeting, the occasional clop of hooves or rattle of wagons, a horse’s neigh or dog’s bark. She heard the laundry­man’s voice: fresh linens were being delivered. Inside the saloon, though, it was hushed, the occasional scrape of a chair or clink of a glass, Alice’s broom on the floor, and the sound of cards in the boss’s hands.

  He’d come in while she was thinking, sitting down at his favorite table while everyone worked around him. His hair gleamed dark red now in the dusty light, slicked back and curled down to the turn of his collar, a neat goatee turning silver trimmed close against his bronzed jaw. Only his eyes never changed, golden brown and deep as the moon.

  He knew she was watching him.

  “What should I do?” she asked, not raising her voice a bit.

  “Your cards, your call,” he said, slicing open a new deck and spreading it out underneath his hand. “All I can do is wait and see how they’re played.”

  An entirely unsatisfactory answer. Izzy rested her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees, and watched him deal out the cards to invisible players. Supple hands, strong wrists, his shirtsleeves pulled back to show the sinews moving under his skin. The working girls said he was a particular lover; only a few ever felt his touch, despite what the preachermen said. He liked women; he liked men. But he liked them willing. That was more than she could say about some of the men who’d come into the saloon. You knew them, the way they looked, the way they moved. You learned to tell, and evade, and not give them the chance to make trouble.

  If they did, the boss gave them what they came for, twice over, and they never came back again.

  “Tell me about my parents,” she said.

  “They were young. And stupid.” He said it without condemnation; stupidity was a natural state. “In over their heads and looking for a way out.”

  “But there wasn’t one.” She knew the story by heart but liked hearing him tell it, anyway.

  “No. There wasn’t. They’d planted themselves in Oiwunta territory without asking permission, built themselves a house and had themselves a child, and never once thought there might be a price to pay.”

  Everything had a price. Every resident of Flood knew that. Every­one who survived a year in the Territory knew that. “And then the Oiwunta came.”

  “They came back from the summer hunting grounds and found a cabin in their lands, where the creek turned and watered the soil, and the deer had roamed freely.” He set aside the deck of cards and slit open another pack, fanning the pasteboards easily, frowning as he did so.

  The backs of the boards were dark blue, pipped with silver. The last pack had been pipped in gold. They got a new shipment in from the East every month, and the old ones were burned so nobody could say the cards were worn or marked.

  “That was offense given, thrice over. The Oiwunta would have been within their rights to kill everyone, burn the cabin down, and steal all that was within.” He paused, fingers splayed over the cards. “Although it’s easier to steal, then burn. They’re a tricky folk to predict, though.” He smiled, closed-mouthed, as though that pleased him.

  The natives didn’t come to Flood, mostly; the boss said they had their own ways of getting into trouble, didn’t need him for it.

  “But they didn’t,” she said, bringing the story back to her parents.

  “They didn’t. They’d been watching, the Oiwunta had, watching what happened elsewhere when settler folk moved in, and they were smart—smarter than your parents, not that it took much doing. The strangers could stay, but they had to pay. Just once, but something that would tie them to the land, tie them to the welfare of the tribe. Their child.”

  “Me.”

  “You.” The boss shrugged, shuffled the cards, and laid down a new hand on the felt, all his attention on the pasteboard. “They could have had other children; if they wanted to make a go of it out there, they’d have to have other children, take in orphans, or hire help from somewhere else. But they were stupid, like I said. They refused. And the Oiwunta burned ’em out. Stole everything they had but left ’em alive.”

  “And then they came here,” Marie added as she passed by, unable to resist adding her piece. Marie had been here then. Marie, Izzy thought, had always been here, much like the devil himself. She had the smooth skin and straight back of a young woman, but she had always been here, for as long as Izzy could recall.

  “To the saloon?” she asked.

  “To Flood,” the boss said. “And, eventually, here.”

  Everyone who came to Flood came to the saloon, eventually. To see, to deal, to press their luck, or to pay homage. The newspapers back East called everything this side of the Mudwater the Devil’s West, but Flood especially was the devil’s town. He came and he went, but you could always find him there if you came calling. And people did, even if they didn’t always know they was looking for him.

  “Nothing but the clothes on their backs and a single horse—and you, little mite, all wide-eyed and closed mouth, barely walking. Didn’t say a word, even when your daddy handed you over.” The boss chuckled, looking up at her then. “Thought I was getting a quiet one. Proof even I can be wrong.”

  She remembered that, maybe. Her father was a hard-handed blur in her memory, and her mother only a soft voice and tears, but she remembered being handed over, the boss’s face peering down into hers, and him promising that she’d never be sick, never be hungry, never be lonely, so long as she worked for him.

  The boss kept his promises.

  “What happened to them after that?”

  “They took the money from your indenture and they left town.”

  “Where did they go?” She had never asked that question before, either, in all the times he’d told the story.

  “Back south across the Knife? Or headed north, maybe. No idea.”

  They weren’t his; he didn’t worry about them.

  Izzy thought about that for a minute, then got up from the steps and headed for the storeroom. If the laundryman had been here, there were linens to fold and put away. Her birthday didn’t mean there weren’t still chores to be done.

  “You thinking of following them?” Sarah was nine and not a saloon girl; her mother was one of the faro dealers, so she helped out and generally got petted and spoiled by everyone. She perched on the edge of the worktable now, watching while Izzy worked.

  “Of course not,” Izzy said, sorting the linens into piles, a familiar, mindless routine. “Why would I?”

  “They’re your parents.” Sarah’s eyes went wide when Izzy shrugged. She liked hearing the stories, liked imagining the house she’d been born in, on the banks of a creek with fierce natives lined up outside on their painted ponies, strong and true. But the people who had birthed her had less relevance than the farmers and gamblers who came through Flood, and left even less of a mark on her life.

  “You gonna stay?” Sarah’s voice was hopeful.

  “I don’t know.”

  Until now, it had been a story, like the story of how she came to Flood, only she could change this story, play out all the endings she could imagine. But at the end of the day, she would be sixteen for real. The term her parents had sold her into would end, and in the eyes of the law, she would be a legal adult. She could choose to sign an employment contract, name her own terms . . . or she could leave.

  The possibilities taunted her, ticking down the hours until she had to give the boss an answer. Stay, and her future was decided. She would never be ill, or lonely, ne
ver be without food or shelter. It seemed foolish to consider any other choice, and yet, and yet. Izzy pressed her hands into the pile of linen and closed her eyes. And yet, the thought of remaining as she was filled her with upset, like a bird trapped inside a too-small cage. She was ungrateful; she was a fool for wanting more.

  Especially since she could not say what that more might be.

  “Izzy?”

  “Take these to the storeroom,” she said, pushing the folded linens into Sarah’s arms. “I’ve other things to do.”

  By midafternoon, the upstairs rooms were filled with noise and voices as the women woke up, and the arrival of the Lees’ new baby too early meant that Rosa was called out for her healing skills, meaning Izzy added hairdresser and bodice-lacer to her usual chores. No matter how busy her hands, though, Izzy’s thoughts kept wandering, picking one possibility up to consider it, then setting it aside for another, the need to make a decision weighting her shoulders. Nueva España. The States. Heading north to the Wilds to make her living as a trapper. Settling down in one of the Territory towns, maybe become a storekeeper or marry a farmer. Stay in Flood. Leave Flood forever. Each time she thought she’d come to a decision, then a new thought would wind its way in and tangle the threads again, only now her chest got tight every time she thought of something new, the need to make a decision pressing against her and making it hard to breathe.

  “You have wrinkles in your forehead, Izzy.” A tall brunette paused as she walked past the window seat where Izzy had taken refuge for a moment, and reached out to rub at Izzy’s forehead. “Men don’t like girls with worry-lines.”

  “Men don’t look that high up,” Izzy retorted, batting at the helping hand. She was trying to fix her hair; a braid was fine for daytime, but she was due on shift soon, and the thick black mass needed to be pinned up neatly.

  “Oh, here, let me do that. How someone so nimble with her hands can so muddle a coil, I’ll never understand.” Peggy settled in behind her, making swift work of rolling the braid up into a neat knot. “There you are.”

  Izzy didn’t bother to reach up with a hand to check it; Peggy wouldn’t say it was ready if it wasn’t.

  She tilted her head to look up at the older woman. Peggy had come to Flood seven years before, after her husband died. She had to be nearly forty, but despite her sorrow, her face was unlined now and she still laughed easily. Even the hardest customers relaxed when she rested her hand on their shoulder. “Have you ever been East, to the States?” Izzy asked, trying to keep her face equally calm.

  “Not me, no.” Peggy didn’t sound surprised by the question, but then, Peggy rarely was surprised by anything. “My brother was born there, but we came out when he was only five.”

  Her brother was a road marshal, one of those who settled disputes and kept the daily peace. A hard job, the boss always said, but some folk were born to it, and Tom was one of those. He’d ridden through town last year and visited with them for a while. He didn’t laugh the way his sister did, and kept the six-pointed star pinned inside his vest, but he’d smiled at her and given the young ’uns store-bought candy.

  “And west, out to the Spanish lands?”

  “Now, why on earth would I want to do that?” Peggy’s hands rested briefly on Izzy’s shoulders, her fingers warm and hard through the cotton of her shawl and dress. “Izzy, dearling, whatever is in that head of yours, with all these questions?”

  Izzy looked down at her hands, rubbing fingertips together and feeling the soft calluses there. People came to Flood for a reason. But she hadn’t come here; she’d been brought. What reason did she have to stay? “Just thinking, is all.”

  “Well, you think too much and you’ll be late for your shift. Go on; shoo, now.”

  Izzy ducked back into her room to catch up a shawl to drape over her shoulders against the evening chill, and came back out just as the clock called four chimes. She went to the stairs and looked down; it was a quiet start to the night, with only half of the six gaming tables in use, but that would change soon enough. Catie was right; Sundays were always busy. She looked back up at the balcony, where Peggy was leaning against the railing. The woman smiled and winked, then went back into her room to finish her own preparations.

  Peggy was content here. So was Rosa. So was mostly everyone. Why couldn’t she be the same?

  Izzy was the only girl working that afternoon; Lisabeth had a bad head cold, and Alice was too young to work with customers yet. Sarah’s mother was working the far left table, dark brown hair piled elegantly on her head, a periwinkle-blue gown half-covered by her lace shawl, her pale, slender fingers distributing cards. Jack’s table was the other side of the room from hers, only two men at it just then, talking among themselves while they waited for a third. Jack had shed his jacket, his shirtsleeves gleaming white like the store-bought finery they were, emphasizing the odd coppery redness of his hair.

  This was her home. She knew every pulse, every shift, the way she knew her own heartbeat.

  Suddenly aware that she’d been moon-gazing, Izzy picked up a tray from behind the bar and began circulating around the tables, collecting empty glasses and filled ashtrays. As she worked, she looked over the crowd, habit and curiosity sorting them out. There were a few locals passing time and gossiping, a handful of strangers with the look of professional gamblers come to test their luck against the devil, and two men who sat shoulder-slumped at the bar, drinking too slow to forget but too fast to be calm. Only one woman among them all, watching the tables, wearing widow black trimmed with purple. That meant she was nearly out of mourning, or was out but decided black made her look exotic. Her dust-veil was tucked back, showing wisps of pitch-black hair and a pale, square face that had never seen the noon sun, not without a parasol, anyway.

  Men came to Flood for a hundred different reasons, the boss always said. Women only came for one reason: revenge. Izzy thought that he would deal with this woman last, after the easier tasks were done.

  Izzy waited patiently for Iktan to finish filling the new orders, then carried them to the main table, where the boss held sway, his hands sorting and delivering cards with nonchalance, as though gold and souls were not on the table.

  Three men were playing him, two sweating, one too cool. He was the one with the worst hand, she thought in passing.

  She delivered her drinks, then paused by the boss in case he had direction for her.

  “What do you think, birthday girl? What do you see?” The boss’s voice was scented with the cigars he carried but never smoked, and the lighter taste of the gold-colored whiskey he drank a sip at a time.

  Izzy knew what he was asking. They played this game often. “The woman.” She was the most interesting, of all the people here tonight. “She’s glad he’s dead. There’s something else she wants.”

  “A lover? Scorned, or unresponsive?”

  “Another woman.” Izzy didn’t know how she knew that; something about the way the woman’s head turned, the way she listened or simply how she wore her hat. “She hates another woman.”

  “Ah.” He had already known, of course. But she felt a flush of satisfaction hearing his voice confirm her suspicion. People were so easy to read, sometimes. She finished delivering their drinks and turned to go.

  “And that gentleman, last seat at Jack’s table?”

  And sometimes, they weren’t so easy to read. Izzy studied the stranger from under her lashes, careful not to draw his attention. Despite that, he turned and looked directly at her. His smile was sly and sweet, and promised things she knew that she’d like. Izzy composed herself, looking her fill, until she had his measure.

  “A charmer, that one. He’s winning and doesn’t care.” Most men cared very much. Whatever they brought to the table, they clung to—until they gambled it away in a moment of passion or hunger, and then the devil had them.

  “Yes.” The boss agreed with her assessment. �
��Why is that?”

  It was a question, and an order.

  When she’d been younger, Izzy could get away with walking up to someone and asking a question. Even if someone had been offended, they’d laughed rather than take it out on a child. Now she had to be more careful. She ghosted to the man’s elbow, her tray balanced on her palm, a saucy pitch she’d stolen from Peggy in her voice. “You like a freshening?”

  “That’s all right, darlin’.” He had a soft voice, faded around the Rs and Ds, and he didn’t look up from his cards when she paused at his elbow.

  “I can get you something else, if you like?”

  He looked up then, and his gaze took her in, crown to toe. Close up, she noted that he’d dark blue eyes under thick brown lashes, and his crooked, sly smile was all the more powerful when he wasn’t trying for sweet. Izzy felt herself blush; there was no way not to, under such a look, but she made herself stand and take it.

  She could tell that he wasn’t one of those men who came here for the women and not the cards, but he looked his fill anyway and didn’t seem to mind what he saw. “Your boss send you over to distract me?”

  “If he wanted to do that, he’d send Molly or Sue.”

  “Get me drunk, then, drinking his surprisingly fine whiskey?”

  There was good whiskey and rotgut behind the bar; Iktan decided what you got, no matter what you paid. She let his wink go and tilted her head at him, curious. “Why would the boss do that?”

  “Why, indeed? Because I’ve got a tidy pile of his house’s money under my palm?”

  Izzy almost laughed. “He doesn’t mind that. The boss admires a man who takes chances and plays them well.”

  “And to entice us in, he offers the only honest faro game in all the Devil’s West.” His smile was cheeky, his dimples showing, and there was laughter in his eyes, too, the way they crinkled around the edges and made him look older than he probably was.

  “The devil’s table is an honest one,” Izzy said, not quite scolding him.