‘I went to find a calling. Do something proper of sorts,’ Franco objected, quite amazed at this reaction.
‘You left!’ Ketan shouted. ‘You locked yourself in that crappy yard with your pappy, shunning the lot of us, working on some scrappy little ride. The next I hear you was already making your way to pastures new without even the notion of a goodbye. You left us; you left me. Dress it up however you want but leaving is what you did. Nothing more.’
Jacques slowly reached across to his holster on his hip, though Franco’s small, otherwise unnoticed gesture, told him otherwise. The fingers retreated.
‘And then you wander on in here,’ Ketan said, ‘talking to my father, talking to me like you’re so above it all, above everyone else. Talking about ours. Damn you. Money doesn’t give you the right, Franc.’ The shortening of Franco’s name caused memories to surface. ‘You need that rolling palace taken away from you, bring you down to the rest of us. Find your roots.’
Franco’s demeanour changed. He was wrong to come here, wrong to see someone he used to call a friend, and exceptionally wrong to expect welcoming arms.
But for what reason was he rejected?
Just because he was discontented with scratching the ground like a chicken, to take the harsh days and call them the norm, should he be scorned? Franco had built a life for himself, maybe not the most ordinary but it was a life, a good life and one he learned to relish every day.
In the time he had spent in this life, he had realized that Ketan was not some grand figure from his youth. True, he was a friend, once, but the longer this tirade went on for, the closer Franco came to the conclusion that Ketan wasn’t the person he once was.
He was less than that.
Ketan was just another crook.
A small-time bandit, and a poor one at that, seeing that he’d taken a slug to the leg. Franco had dealt with enough crooks in his life to know where they all ended up: in unmarked graves that the desert claimed. This would be Ketan’s fate, undoubtedly, and he had no time for such persons, old friend or not.
‘You best be careful. That sounds like jealousy,’ Franco said.
‘Sounds like actuality to me. I got a good thing here. I don’t need the likes of you lousing it up.’
‘I can see.’ Franco dragged his stool back, loudly. The bartender retreated. He had seen this kind of exchange before and it normally ended up with sweeping splintered wood and broken glass. ‘And I can see that talking will get me nowhere so this is all time wasted. One last thing, though, what do you suggest I tell your father about this little chat?’
Ketan sank the last of his drink and swallowed it away. ‘Tell him to mind his damn business – the same thing you should do.’ With a flick of the wrist he skated the empty glass between them. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
Franco took these words with their leave and ventured out into the early afternoon sun. A blaze of light forced him to shade his eyes, standing aside from the workers who busied themselves back and forth in plumes of golden dust.
‘Well that could have gone better,’ Jacques muttered.
‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘Despite you being friends and all, we may do well not going back. The place is a nest of villainy and your pal is agitated. We’ve got enough heat on us as it is. I think this best be left as is.’
* * *
Unbeknown to the pair, they were being observed from across the street, through the dust by a lone constable. He manoeuvred naturally and gave no cause to hide his presence, clad in a royal blue duster with badge pinned to his breast, he had been ordered to survey The Water Hole on patrol for anything of interest, and interest he had discovered.
The constable had witnessed the whole thing: the delivery of the goods, the thieves responsible and more importantly, he had seen Franco – owner of the prestigious Gambler’s Den – at the scene, making a quick leave upon the goods’ arrival. The only conclusion he could make was that those on the Gambler’s Den were somehow in league with those running the whole affair.
And when he reported back to Alex Juniper, it was exactly the information the sheriff had wished for.
Chapter Ten
The Gambit
Revelry was for other people. Not for Wyld.
Despite being an unregistered passenger she was not restricted in her movements aboard the Gambler’s Den. Franco’s trust in her was uncommonly generous, so when meals were served, an invitation for her to join the others was always extended. This was mostly declined.
Rarely did she make an appearance elsewhere, for venturing to the other carriages encouraged sly glances and speculative whispers about her person. It was not out of malice, for the most part at least. Wyld was simply an aspect separate to what the showgirls were used to and she became the subject of gossip. There was no use in fuelling idle rumour, so should Wyld take up the offer of a meal, she collected it when the others had finished theirs and the dining cart was empty.
In contradiction to her own feelings on the matter, Kitty kept the ovens warm on the off chance of this happening, as per Franco’s demands. She served the food with much less care, never making small talk and certainly not wishing to engage in substantial conversation. Kitty trusted Wyld even less than the others did. Maybe it was the boisterousness of her youth, but she was outspoken in regards to their resident tagalong. Mercifully, this time Kitty simply did her job. She shoved a plate of pungent curry in Wyld’s hands and kept any comments to herself.
Silence accompanied Wyld’s meal from the first bite to the last. She pushed the bloated red larrson beans into a heap, finding their bitterness unpalatable. She had taken to her hammock, positioned in one of the storage cars, hidden among tables and amusements, nestled in a little space she had called home for the last few weeks. It was cramped for sure, dusty, and compared to the residence carriage the showgirls resided in, almost insulting, but Wyld didn’t need luxury. Never had. A poky spot, a place to lay her head was all the comfort she needed, or had ever been used to.
Wyld had been caught as a stowaway by Jacques when she was train hopping. She had mistaken the Gambler’s Den for a simple passenger hauler. Confronted by Jacques, her quick thinking and impressive negotiation resulted in passage in exchange for payment and regional information. She would have her independence, space for her belongings, but she was to remain hidden and, as Franco very strongly stated, any trouble would result in her expulsion.
Just recalling that conversation resulted in her teeth grating back and forth in frustration. How insulting, she grumbled, to infer such a thing. How long did he think she had been doing this? A week? Two? Try a lifetime, she could have retorted with, right into his patronizing face. That would shut him up.
She rocked her hammock side to side, swigging from a bulbous brown bottle in light, careful gulps, smacking her lips each time. Assorted memories rocked with her, a series of nagging visions that Wyld had earlier spent time staring at.
Trouble didn’t usually follow her. Like everything else she encountered – opportunities, men, and wealth – trouble usually neglected to show its face in her presence and for that she had been thankful.
But the incidents in the Vault greatly disturbed her.
Wyld had been caught up in the break-in, a messy, amateur affair with the theft of contraband under the noses of the law and deaths on both sides. Things had never gone so wrong before. Sure, there had been a handful of tight spots she could recall but not like this. Nothing had been like this. It was a harsh lesson to be taught and definitely one that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.
Trembling fingers gripped the bottle neck as, once more, the sullen look of the policeman she had shot lingered, bearing down on her with all his weight. Damn those eyes of his. Drink, she told herself, and chase the spectre away. It didn’t work. Instead she tried to be rational. One of them was to meet their end and it was only due to the good graces of the Holy Sorceress that it wasn’t her.
G
race. A faster finger. An instinct to stay alive. Wyld couldn’t tell which specifically to attribute her survival to.
Another mouthful was taken. A silent curse was made.
She was living as a vagabond, previously just ruining lives but now she had stepped into the world of taking them. She confessed in her thoughts to being a murderer. No matter how justified her act may have been, it was a line she once promised herself she wouldn’t cross. In her youth she had witnessed folks killed for scraps of food, for unpaid debts and, shockingly, simply for the fun of it. This all predictably made an impression and whilst it was sensible to carry iron for self-defence, it had been to threaten only.
Wyld had never been prepared to pull a trigger, let alone do so with lethal intent. One life, twenty, did the actual body count make any difference? She would be branded a killer either way. It was painfully difficult to justify, forcing her to question whether this journey was even worth it.
On her stomach sat the statue, staring back at her with a frozen expression of judgement. The effigy claimed, or more accurately, stolen, sat proud upon its rounded base.
The poky, squatting gold form of an Angel, with brilliant wings outstretched, was embedded into the face, surrounded with symbols from a language best forgotten and a time now ignored. Years had deposited scratches on the once brilliant metal, no doubt helped by the conflicts it had seen and the hands it had passed through. The finely crafted golden features made her curiously anxious the longer she observed them. The ill-gotten items had been treated as stock and their reverence ignored, though this one was the exception. Unlike many of her acquisitions, it was curiously respected.
Wyld’s fingers lifted the piece to what little light the lamp made.
‘Is it worth it?’ Wyld whispered to the figure, searching the Angel’s gold visage with her eyes. Momentarily she wished for an answer to be given, no matter how implausible it seemed. Oh, how she wished it could speak to her. She pressed the cold metal against her forehead, questioning – among other things – if anybody even cared. Then she set it back down.
A slow striking of the car door diverted these thoughts. Katerina lightly slunk inside when invited, very much respectful of the personal space of the car’s inhabitant. She cooed a hello, waving a bottle of red wine and a glass, watching Wyld’s hammock rock to a stop.
‘Good evening, I don’t mean to impose on what you’re up to.’ Katerina scanned her surroundings, trying to work out what that may have been but obviously came up with nothing. ‘I was wondering if you would like to join us. We’re all playing cards and would welcome another hand.’
‘Sorry. I figure I’m just not your sort of company. No offence and all.’
‘None taken I assure you. I just thought it would be nice to invite our resident ghost. I rarely see you and thought that it must get pretty stuffy in here by your lonesome.’
Wyld cracked a smile in approval. ‘It’s appreciated, thanks. It’s nice to know that I’m not invisible to everyone. I get some disapproving looks from time to time so I just try to stay out of sight and all. I stand out too much among the make-up and –’ she gestured to Katerina who probed for a place to sit ‘– all that flair.’
‘You’re telling me. The dresses can be a bit much. Having to keep up the pretence can be draining.’
‘What pretence?’
‘The boss says we have to keep the image of who we are at all times, especially away from the Den itself. I get it. I really do, but it can be such a chore. We’re on display all the time and that’s fine. It can just be tiring.’
‘Enough to leave?’
‘Heavens no.’ Katerina gave a warm chuckle. ‘The girls here, well, we’re family, you know. You don’t walk out on your family. May I?’
Katerina pointed to a pine trunk strapped with rough iron, finding a lack of a proper chair.
‘Be my guest.’ Wyld wearily sighed and took another gulp from her bottle. You’re right, she thought. You don’t abandon your family. So why did he?
Katerina took a meek drink from a glass and gestured. ‘What about yours?’
‘Some white rum from in town. Local stuff. It’s fancy –’
‘No, I mean your family. Where are they?’
‘That’s pretty much non-existent,’ she said. ‘Orphan of the streets like many others out there. I never got to know my family. If I did nowadays, I would sock them on the jaw.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Wyld snorted. ‘Nobody else is.’
They both drank more, bolder, unsure as to how to continue the conversation.
‘I envy you, you know?’ Katerina eventually stated, refilling her glass, halfway this time.
‘That’s just the drink talking.’
‘No, I’m serious. You live so nomadically. Wind in your hair. You’re free, you know? Nobody to answer to.’ A blaze of red curls hid her features before eventually being moved away with a palm, replaced with an immediate smile that seemed suspiciously one of reflex and illusion.
‘Except Franco,’ Wyld added, swigging once more with a stifled gasp.
‘Except Franco. But you know what I mean.’
‘It’s nothing that couldn’t be fixed. There’s no harm venturing out to find a little purpose.’
‘There are some folks – you are very much included in this – who are well suited to adapting to challenging lifestyles. They thrive in such environments. It’s in their very being I guess one could say. Now, when it comes to me, I’m the opposite. I like my comforts. I am accustomed to them, have been all my days. The Den is my compromise for wanderlust.’
‘What were you before all this? Did you have a job or something?’
Katerina broadly grinned, genuinely excited to discuss such things. Rarely had she had the opportunity to do so. ‘I was a seamstress. I suppose I still am as I make alterations for the others if their garments need adjusting and I fix the clothes too. I even sewed up Franco when he caught a bullet. That was a first. But I didn’t actually need to work before, I did it as a hobby.’
‘Moneyed family?’ Wyld pressed, slightly concerned that this was too personal, though she was answered promptly.
‘Unfortunately so,’ Katerina said. ‘I had a childhood out of a book. Several books actually. Have you seen those family paintings that nobility have, hanging over fireplaces? I was the child with the pout who wanted to be doing anything else other than posing.’
‘Sounds like a fine time to me,’ Wyld countered. ‘I’ve always wanted to be invited to one of those fancy shindigs where there’s food for miles and the conversation is as pleasant as hornet stings.’
‘Not fine enough, I assure you. I heard that the Gambler’s Den was in town from my father. He promised to take me and when I saw Franco perform I was smitten. I knew there and then I wanted that life: the show, the performance, the fireworks, the applause – oh the applause! I approached Misu and she interviewed me that night. I must have done something well because I’ve been here ever since.’
‘If I had a family like yours, I would spend some of that wealth in tracking you down,’ Wyld said cautiously. It was a fair point. If one had money then there was nothing you couldn’t accomplish or obtain.
‘Fortunate for me that my father just doesn’t care then, isn’t it? My mother was more the free-spirited type. He was,’ Katerina corrected herself hurriedly, ‘is a bore. Talking about boring, I’m blabbering on about myself like I’m in fashion. What’s your story?’
Wyld swung her legs over to a more suitable position. Given her standing on the Gambler’s Den, or lack of it, reason dictated she should be wary of what she said. Reason also suggested drinking more and damn the consequences. The second of these took precedence.
‘I’ve been travelling for months from the south. It’s not been easy. Don’t know if you’ve got romantic notions of such travels but when a hot bath is a luxury, you know you’re doing something wrong.’
‘How do you afford the rooms? It must be costly.’
‘Money is no concern. Sold everything I owned before leaving, which got me not too far admittedly, but I sell things to make ends meet.’
‘What kind of things?’ Katerina narrowed her green eyes. ‘Our things?’
Wyld unfurled her still-clasped hands, reached forward, and passed her acquisition over for inspection.
Katerina examined its surface. It was presumably old but still in impeccable condition. Her eyes searched stoic features of the effigy. She handled it gently, careful not to inadvertently damage it. The statue’s blank eyes stared back. Wyld wondered whether it prompted the recollection of stories from youth, dramatic tales of sacrifice and danger, for Katerina as it did for her.
Clearly impressed by both its appearance and unexpected weight, Katerina passed it back. Wyld placed it beside her on the hammock with considerable care.
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘I stole it.’
‘You’re a thief?’
‘No,’ Wyld protested. ‘I’m not that. I acquire things to order for shadier clientele. I don’t know if it has a title.’
‘The title would be a thief.’
‘Only without the –’
‘The fact that you are, by definition of the word, a thief?’
‘Something like that.’ Wyld sighed wearily. Why was she trying to garnish her actions, or even justify them? Who, exactly, did she have to redeem herself to? She was a thief, but one born of necessity. That was the justification and it would have to be good enough for her conscience.
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Some dust-ball museum out west when we passed through. For such a rarity you would have assumed security was paramount, but you would be wrong. Quite the disgrace I assure you.’
Den of Shadows Page 15