She Returns From War

by Lee Collins

  The door at the front of her passenger car opened, drawing her attention from the window. A man in a dark blue uniform and matching hat stepped through the doorway.

  "Next stop, Albuquerque. Albuquerque, next stop," he announced. "Tickets will be checked at the station for those continuing on to San Francisco." Task complete, he marched down the aisle toward the next car.

  Victoria stretched her arms skyward and groaned. She wasn't used to this much travel at one time, and her muscles ached from the uncomfortable seats. Around her, the other passengers stirred themselves out of the stupor that had blanketed them for the last two hundred miles. Hushed conversations sprang up like whispers of wind in withered branches, murmuring about luggage and next steps. Victoria pulled her own small valise out from beneath her seat, wrapping her fingers around the handle of her parasol. When she disembarked, the luggage boys would help her carry the larger trunks to a nearby hotel.

  Her fingers trembled with anticipation. She had very nearly reached the end of her westward journey. Father Baez's advice led her south, to the wilderness of Santa Fe. When she arrived, the priest there, a Father Perez, had told her to board a train for Albuquerque as soon as he heard her say the name Cora Oglesby. The huntress had set off for the frontier town not long after arriving in Santa Fe four years before, and Father Perez seemed certain that she was still there.

  The car trembled as the train pulled into the Albuquerque station. Through the windows, she could hear the shrill voice of the train's whistle crying out that they had arrived. Conversations in the car grew louder as the passengers began moving toward the exit. A few remained in their seats, staring out the windows or watching the others shuffle past. Victoria waited for the gaggle to pass before standing. Valise in hand, she made for the door, eyes fixed on the glowing swath of sunlight spilling through it.

  A blast of hot air greeted her as she stepped out of the car and onto the station platform. The glare was blinding. She quickly unfolded her parasol, blinking as it rose to block out the sun. Groups of passengers stood on the platform, talking among themselves while waiting for their luggage. Next to her, three men in pressed suits discussed the possibilities for expanding their business into this wild, untamed land. Their voices clipped along excitedly as ideas flew between them. She knew the language well enough; it brought back memories of her father and his many meetings. A lump swelled in her throat at the thought. Despite her sorrow, Victoria's lips curled upward in a small smile. Were it not for his ambition, she would not be standing where she was. His fortune had enabled her to cross oceans and continents.

  The platform shook beneath her. Luggage boys were unloading the freight car, tossing bags and suitcases out into the sun. Already the crowd of passengers pressed in around the growing pile, searching through it for their belongings. Victoria watched them from beneath her parasol. Once the bustle subsided, she would ask one of the bag boys to help her along to the nearest hotel, promising a smile and a tip for his efforts. As she watched the crowd thin, she wondered idly just what sort of accommodations a town like this had to offer. A glance over the haphazard group of buildings standing nearest the station seemed to promise that they wouldn't be much. No matter. She wouldn't be here long. If all went well, she and the Oglesby woman would be leaving on the next day's train.

  The sun drifted lazily toward the western horizon, drawing shades of deep blue and violet into the sky. Drops of sweat stood out on Victoria's forehead as she stood in front of the sand-blasted building. The streets of Albuquerque had not yet relinquished the afternoon heat, and the people wandering them moved like plague sufferers and smelled worse. She had seldom been surrounded by such an overpowering cloud of human stink. Even in the street, the stench of sweat, spit, and animals pressed up against her. It put her on edge; she could almost feel it crawling up her legs and under the neckline of her dress. How any woman, even one as uncouth as Cora Oglesby, could stand living in such a miasma confounded her.

  More confusing, however, were the words painted on the sign that hung above the door in front of her. In bold black letters, it proclaimed the name of the establishment: Ben's Print Shop. Although Victoria had never seen a printing press, she knew right away that this particular building had never set ink to a page. The men passing through the batwing doors couldn't possibly be literate. They peered at the world from beneath wide-brimmed hats, their eyes bleary from sun and liquor. Many wore guns in low-slung holsters that dangled from their belts, the leather cracked and faded. She had never seen so many guns in one place, and that men such as these carried them made her uneasy. What if they decided to turn them on her? As a young girl, she'd heard stories of holdups and shoot-outs in the American West, but she'd only half-believed them. Now, in the presence of men who looked as though they might re-enact such stories at the prompting of a single booze-soaked thought, she suddenly felt very alone. The memory of James Townsend's round, kindly face sprang to her mind's eye, and she fervently wished she had taken his advice and brought along an escort.

  No, she told herself. She could handle herself. Cora Oglesby made a home for herself among such men. Surely Victoria could brave them for a day or two.

  As if on cue, a scraggly-looking man tumbled through the batwing doors and into the street. Victoria backed up a few paces, startled. Before the man could pull himself together, an empty bottle sailed through the door, shattering on the packed earth only a few feet from his head. A voice from inside cracked like an old whip as it shouted curses at the man. Victoria could only watch as the man picked himself up and shambled off down the street. As he disappeared into the general bustle in the street, a grim satisfaction welled up inside her. Although the voice from the door sounded as old and tough as a rusted iron cog, there was no mistaking that it belonged to a woman.

  The other passersby didn't give the commotion a second glance, but Victoria could feel them gawking at her when she turned her back. Worse, she couldn't exactly blame them. Choosing from among her finer traveling dresses to wear in such a rustic place practically begged for unwanted attention. The sight of the blue ruffles and bright white collar must have seemed the height of silliness to those walking about in such drab colors, but she would feel even sillier if she went back to her room to change. Better to see this through before she lost her nerve.

  Squaring her shoulders, Victoria stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and through the batwing doors. Inside, a cloud of blue smoke drifted along the ceiling, constantly fed by the cigars, cigarettes, and pipes of the men gathered around card games. A bar ran the length of the wall to her left. Bottles of liquor gleamed under the light of the kerosene lamps lining the walls. Against the far corner, a man in a bowler hat and suspenders plinked at an upright piano, occasionally stumbling upon something that resembled a melody.

  A hush fell over the room as the doors swung shut behind her. Heads turned and chairs scraped along the floor as the men took in the sight of her. Their eyes were cold and probing. She could feel them exploring every inch of her body, lingering on the swells of her hips and chest. Her tongue darted across her lips. "Good day, gentlemen."

  "Wrong door, sweetheart," came a voice.

  "Brothel's across the way," said another, getting a laugh from the rest.

  "If you're taking customers, there's a storeroom in the back."

  Victoria's cheeks flushed a deep red. Her eyes dropped to the floorboards.

  "Aw, see, you all went and made her color up." The voice was the one she'd heard out in the street. "That ain't no way to treat a lady of the night, now is it?"

  Another laugh rolled around the room. Indignation began to boil beneath Victoria's humiliation. It rose inside her until she found the courage to look toward the speaker, blue eyes sparking with anger.

  The object of her rage sat at one of the tables, surrounded by four men. Unlike her companions, she hadn't turned her chair to face the young woman when she entered. Her attention was focused on the cards sprouting from her right hand like a greasy bouq
uet. The woman's other hand held an empty shot glass in a loose fist, her index finger toying with the rim.

  The silence in the room showed no sign of ending, so Victoria took a step toward the woman. "I beg your pardon," she said.

  "You don't look like you need to beg for anything," the woman replied, turning to face her. Age and sun had folded the skin of her face into itself like sheets on a well-made bed. Her hair was the color of a photograph: black and white and grey. A single streak of white ran from the edge of her hairline into the long braid that ended halfway down her back. Dark eyes glimmered at her as the woman broke into a grin. "I reckon every man here could beg you for a year's pay and you'd still have enough to buy us all a round."

  "I am not a prostitute."

  The woman snorted. "Sure you ain't. Just because you only spread your legs for one rich feller don't make you any less a bawd. How many times you rut with him afore he bought you that fancy dress?"

  Victoria's blue eyes narrowed, her cheeks fading from red to white. "None. Not that it's any of your concern, but I am not and have never been married, so I am no man's whore."

  "Well, you ain't wearing that fancy getup for nothing. I'm more than a mite curious what would bring such a proper lady into the Print Shop if she ain't looking to ply her trade. You just get a hankering for some of my famous whiskey, or is you here on other business?"

  "As a matter of fact, I am," Victoria said, her back as straight as a flagpole. "I happen to be looking for someone."

  "Among this lot?" The woman's laugh was as coarse as the stubble on the men's faces. "I don't reckon we got anything you'd be after, young missie. Now, you got something some of these boys here'd be after, though, so I'd watch your back if I was you."

  Victoria refused to let their eyes bother her. "I was instructed to come here. By a priest."

  Another laugh. "Sounds like you got yourself mixed in with the wrong church. Ain't no priest in his right mind would tell a pretty thing like you to come down where pretty things wither and rot if they ain't trampled on first. Maybe he was aiming to make a warning out of your tale when it's through."

  "His name," Victoria said after a pause, "was Father Baez."

  For the first time, the woman's face grew still. In the silence that followed, Victoria smiled to herself. This woman was Cora Oglesby; no doubt about it. What's more, she'd taken the huntress off-guard.

  Cora swallowed. "Well, ain't that interesting."

  "It is," Victoria replied.

  "Who might you be looking for?"

  The young woman leaned forward slightly. "A woman he once knew. Something of a bounty hunter, I understand."

  A few of the men around her laughed, but Cora's face was stone. "What makes him think she's here?"

  "Such a woman would truly be a rarity," Victoria said. "There aren't too many like her, even here in the American West. Really, I might have just as easily found my way here without his help."

  "It would have gone better for you if you had," Cora said. "I don't expect your woman takes kindly to being hunted. If she's got that big a reputation, mayhap she'd set on you just for having the gall to track her down."

  Victoria tried to snuff out the spark of fear that Cora's words had ignited. "That would be quite impolite of her. It isn't as though I've come this far just for a chance to kill her."

  Cora nodded. "There's a smart girl." She set her cards face down on the table. "I'm out this round, boys. Gonna have me a chat with our new friend. Just holler at Eli if your throats start getting dry."

  Her chair skidded backward as she stood to her feet. Cora Oglesby was not tall, perhaps only an inch or two taller than Victoria. Buckskin trousers and a faded flannel shirt hung from her frame, accented by a bandana tied around her neck. Her boots thumped across the floor, and she motioned for Victoria to follow her. Steeling her nerves, Victoria trailed Cora through a door in the rear wall of the saloon.

  "Hold the door a minute," Cora said. The old huntress pulled a book of matches from her shirt pocket. Striking one against the wall, she lit a lamp hanging from the ceiling. Yellow light filled the room, illuminating stacks of wooden crates and barrels. Turning back to her visitor, Cora nodded. Victoria pulled the door closed, muffling the voices of the saloon's patrons.

  "Now, then." Cora folded her arms and leaned against a stack of crates. This close, Victoria could see a line of thin white scars on the other woman's cheek. "I ain't the type to toss around words when they don't need tossing. You mind telling me why you saw fit to pester poor old Father Baez just so you could get your mitts on me?"

  "I have a favor to ask of you," Victoria said. She paused, waiting for the woman's harsh laugh, but it never came.

  "You going to come out with it, or can I get back to my game?"

  The young woman took a deep breath. "I need your help hunting a group of creatures."

  "Awful long way to come just to find a big game hunter," Cora said. "Ain't you English folk got enough of your own hunters? Why bother me about it?"

  "Big game hunters couldn't help me with these sorts of creatures," Victoria replied.

  Cora raised an eyebrow. "What are you getting at?"

  "I'm told you are skilled at killing beasts of a...supernatural nature."

  "Father Baez tell you that?"

  "No," Victoria said. "I first heard your name from a friend of my father's. He is a scholar at Oxford-"

  Before she could finish, Cora's lips pulled back in a grin. Unlike her earlier laughter, this smile seemed born of fondness. "Well, I'll be damned. Your daddy was a friend of old King George?"

  "King George?" Victoria's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

  "That's what I called him," Cora said. "Easier on the tongue and all. Ain't nobody got the time to spit out all of James Townsend. Besides, he sure carried himself like he was royalty, so I thought it fit."

  Despite her apprehension, Victoria felt herself smile. "I suppose he could give that impression. I don't know him well, but he is a very well-educated man. He identified the creatures I spoke of and suggested I seek you out to assist me in subduing them."

  "Did he, now?" Cora leaned back. "We did have ourselves a time back in Leadville. Shot up a whole mess of vampires and a wendigo besides. Even old King George stuck himself a few suckers with that cross of his. Never did kill a one of them, though."

  "He didn't?" Victoria asked. "He told me he had firsthand experience in such dealings."

  "In a way, I guess that's true," Cora said. "Like I said, he was there for a lot of the scrapes we got into, both in town and up at the mine, but I had to do most of the work my own self. You Brits ain't worth half a shake when doing needs done."

  Victoria squared her shoulders at the older woman. "I'll thank you not to judge all of my countrymen by the actions of one."

  "You're welcome, then," Cora said, "but that don't change the facts none."

  Victoria pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She wasn't sure if this woman was being deliberately obtuse or if she just wasn't that bright. Most likely both. It was time to try a different approach. "I'm not disputing the fact that you are more than capable. Had I thought James could have helped me himself, I wouldn't have traveled these long miles to seek you out." Only half a lie.

  "Good to know George ain't taken leave of his sense." Cora shifted her weight toward the door. "We done now?"

  "Will you help me?"

  Cora's smile exposed the gap between her front teeth. "And here I thought Brits was at least good for their brains. Ain't you figured it out yet?"

  Victoria hesitated. She heard the answer in Cora's tone, but she had to ask. "What?"

  "My hunting days are over."

  For a moment, Victoria could only stand there blinking. Cora watched her, the smile never leaving her face. Victoria knew she had to say something, something that would change this old woman's mind before it was too late. The silence hung between them as the sounds of the saloon filtered through the door,
voices and laughter and the meandering melody of the piano. Victoria's mouth felt full of cotton.

  Cora's boots thumped against the floorboards. She stepped over to the door and reached out her hand to open it. Victoria moved without thinking, grabbing her wrist. "Wait."

  The hunter's brown eyes snapped up. "Take your pretty little hands off me," Cora said, her tone flat.

  Victoria's grip tightened. "Help me."

  Cora's other hand cracked across her face. The force of the blow knocked her backward into a crate. Cradling her stinging cheek, Victoria blinked back tears. She turned her head and looked at the other woman, accusation in her blue eyes.

  Cora matched her gaze evenly. "I mean what I say," she said. "Don't you ever touch me, and I ain't helping you with no monster hunt. My hunting days is through."

  "So you're a coward, then?" Victoria asked, rage overwhelming her sense. "You're just a drunken old fool who strikes other women who come to her begging for help." She stood to her full height, removing her hand from her face. Her cheek blazed bright red. "I came to you across countless miles, crossing an ocean and half a continent because I heard the stories of you. I heard the legends of your bravery and your heroism, and I believed them. I believed that I would find a holy warrior when I reached this place, a heroine who would help me avenge the deaths of my parents." Victoria's voice grew quieter as she spoke, her words sliding a stone lid over her hopes as her father's brothers had slid stone lids over her parents. "I suppose I was the fool, a naive girl still believing in fairy tales. If nothing else, I gained wisdom on this journey. A poor consolation, but with only cowards and old men left to me, I should be grateful to have learned it while I am still young."

  The hunter listened to her tirade, her face blank. When Victoria finished, Cora took a deep breath and looked down at her boots. The white streak in her hair shone softly in the light. Victoria stood still, surprised at herself for what she had just said. Father Baez's warnings popped back into her head, and she swallowed. Her speech may very well get her shot by this woman. To die in the storeroom of an American saloon wasn't how she pictured her end, but maybe she should have seen it coming when she stepped off the train in this miserable little town.