She Returns From War

by Lee Collins

  Then, without a word, Cora turned away. Her boots thumped across the saloon's floor, carrying her toward the stairs in the back. Victoria watched her go, her mind locked up in confusion. Nobody else in the room even noticed Cora's departure. They continued to bicker and banter, tossing chips and cards on the tables. The old piano stood forlorn behind them. A shout from out in the street drifted through the saloon's door. Minutes passed, marked only by the shuffling of cards and muttering of curses, yet still she stood rooted to the floor, one elbow resting on the bar.

  Her mind finally shook free, and the questions began rolling through it. Should she go up after her? The message had clearly shaken the old hunter, shaken worse than Victoria would have thought possible. Seeing Cora's entire demeanor change, her devil-may-care attitude vanish in an instant, had confused and frightened her. Whoever this Fodor Glava was, he clearly held a great power over her. If the red-eyed woman could control him, she might be more than a match even for the great Cora Oglesby. The thought chilled Victoria's blood. She couldn't begin to guess what Cora would do with the message she had delivered, but the Indian woman's threat now loomed large and menacing.

  Victoria glanced over her shoulder. A few men sauntered through the door, each looking her up and down before heading over to one of the occupied tables. Chairs grated against the floor as the others raised their fingers in greeting.

  "Hey, sweetheart," one of the newcomers called, "ain't you working a bit early?"

  Victoria ignored the comment and the laughter that followed.

  "You ought to come over and sit on my lap," another said. She shot him a cool look. He grinned back as the other men at the table whistled and jeered.

  "Looks like you got yourself a bed bunny for tonight, Wilson."

  "She keep you real warm, I bet."

  "Hardly," Victoria said.

  Hoots echoed around the table. "Well, if you ain't going to look after my pecker, you might at least see about wetting my whistle," the man named Wilson said.

  "I am not your barmaid."

  "You ain't a barmaid and you ain't a whore," Wilson said. "What good are you, then?"

  Victoria stared at him. "Too good for you."

  The front legs of Wilson's chair thudded to the floor. "What'd you say?"

  "You heard me," she replied, looking away.

  "I don't let no bitch mouth off to me like that," Wilson said, "especially not one so high and mighty as you. Now, I'm a gentlemen, so I's let you say you're sorry and let it go at that."

  "An apology?" Victoria tossed her hair back over her shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes lest she lose her nerve. "I don't believe one's in order."

  "Too bad for you." The floor creaked as Wilson stood to his feet. "I done my best to be civil, but now I got to teach you your proper place. Won't do to have the whores getting all uppity in this town." The planks beneath her feet trembled as he walked toward her, but she continued to feign disinterest. Her pulse quickened with each step.

  "Now then, missie." His breath, sour and wet, poured into her ear, "you going to bend over nicely, or do I got to get mean?"

  Victoria turned toward the door, but he grabbed her arm before she could take a step. Instinct took over, and she brought her other hand around, smacking him across the face. Laughter filled the room. Wilson's eyes blazed as he whirled back on her. Victoria's spine popped as he leaned into her, pushing her down onto the bar.

  Twisting against him, Victoria tried to get enough leverage to kick him in the shins, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. The smell of sweat clung to him like a second skin, smothering her. She screamed, but the men at the tables just sat and watched. Wilson's face loomed only inches above her, yellow teeth bared in a grin. All of Cora's warnings exploded in her mind. If only she had listened. She could feel his crotch pressing into the folds of her dress.

  "Enough!" The hunter's voice cracked like thunder across the saloon. Wilson turned his face toward the sound, and his grip loosened. Victoria cried out as she shoved him away. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a chair. Pulling herself upright, Victoria blinked back her tears and looked up at her savior.

  Cora stood on the staircase. Silver metal gleamed in her right hand, the long barrel pointed at the man named Wilson. The hunter's eyes glinted as she descended, planting each boot deliberately. When she reached the bottom, she continued her advance, the gun's barrel never wavering. The room rang with her footsteps. They came to rest in front of Wilson, silver pressed firmly into his chest.

  Nobody breathed.

  "Leave her be," Cora said. "I need her." Wilson's mouth opened to reply. Cora twisted the gun. "No lip from you. Now get."

  Wilson stared at her a moment, then nodded. Keeping his eyes on her, he slowly backed toward the saloon's door. The batwings creaked as he stepped through, disappearing into the glow of the daylight. Only when his shadow faded did Victoria dare to breathe again.

  Cora cocked her head toward the young Englishwoman as she slid the revolver into a low-slung holster on her belt. Victoria's blue eyes were rimmed with white as she blinked back.

  "Didn't I warn you about them, Miss Fancy?" Before Victoria could respond, she turned to the flabbergasted men at the tables. "What're you all gawking at? Ain't you never seen a gun before?" She spat on the floor. "Fine lot you are, watching a lady get roughed up and not lifting a finger. I ought to shoot the bunch of you for yellow cowards." A few of the men grumbled in protest, but they fell silent when Cora's hand returned to the butt of her gun. "Go on now, all of you. The Print Shop is closed for today."

  They rose to their feet and shuffled past the two women, some with a glare at Victoria. When the batwings creaked shut behind the last man, Cora heaved a sigh. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the bar and looked at Victoria. "Can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?"

  Victoria's tongue darted across her lips. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

  "You're welcome," Cora said, "but don't go thinking I did that because I like you. Fact is, I ain't all that fond of you. I reckon that little display with Wilson showed you that this ain't no place fit for prancing ponies and the like. You prance too much out here, you get yourself hurt. Hard places make hard men, and you got to be just as hard if you aim to keep all your parts and pieces."

  "I'll remember that," Victoria said.

  Cora nodded. "See that you do, because I ain't going to jump in next time." She fell silent, seeming to ponder that for a second. Victoria did not want to dwell on it any longer, but she could think of nothing else to say. Even now, she could still feel Wilson's fingers on her arms, dirty nails digging into her skin.

  "But," Cora said, "that ain't the real reason we're still talking." Her face grew grave, a look of determination and cold fury that made Victoria slightly uneasy. "I reckon you figured that me and that Fodor Glava got us some history."

  "Yes," Victoria said, unsure if she should explain further.

  Cora didn't give her the option. "We've crossed paths a time or two, and it never was a happy time when we did. Thing is, I'm right sure our last meeting ended with my stabbing him and shooting him and cutting off his head."

  Victoria covered her mouth with her hand. "What did you say?"

  "That I killed the dirty son of a bitch like the dog he was," Cora said. "Don't go all fluttery on me. Ain't no man living or dead deserved it more, except maybe the feller who made him. What's the term King George used? Sired, I think. I reckon Glava's sire was a nasty bit of work himself. Maybe he's still off somewhere killing folk, maybe not. Ain't my concern. What is my concern is that I know I killed that Glava dead."

  "So you think I'm lying to you again."

  "Well, I'd be lying my own self if I said that thought ain't crossed my mind," Cora said. "More I thought it over, though, the more I figured that there ain't no way you could have known to say that name to me. We ain't never met before, you clearly ain't been out west before, and you ain't in the business your own self. Then I though
t, well, maybe old King George or Father Baez gave you the tip-off." Victoria was about to deny it, but Cora held up her hand. "No need to say a word. Sure, both of them was there four years ago and saw enough to tell, but ain't neither one going to just up and spout out secrets like that. Father Baez ain't the sort, and I wouldn't bet a nickel on George being able to pull a single name out of that pudding bowl he calls a head."

  Victoria smiled at that. "Yes, he is a singularly scattered man, isn't he?"

  "Back in Leadville, I figured we'd ride up to that big house of his one day and find him outside in his bloomers and nothing else."

  "We?" Victoria asked.

  "I meant me."

  The sudden edge in Cora's voice took Victoria by surprise. "I'm sorry," she said, although she wasn't sure why she was apologizing.

  Cora waved her hand dismissively. "It ain't important. What been eating at me is how this feller of yours knew that name. Even more, I want to know why he knew to tell you to tell me." She looked at Victoria for a long moment. The younger woman shifted her weight. She laced her fingers together and rested her hands on the bar. She tried meeting Cora's gaze but soon began studying the bottles lining the wall. There was something about the old hunter's eyes that unsettled her. They sparked with intelligence, but there was something else lurking in them. Something darker, hidden in the shadow cast by that intelligence.

  "Well, I guess it don't matter none, anyhow," Cora finally said. "Only a few people in the world as would know that name, and I just named all of them. Puts me in a right fine puzzlement, and I ain't going to sleep proper till I get an answer."

  "What will you do, then?" Victoria asked.

  "Hunt that bastard down and make him sing for me," Cora replied. "Can't be Glava himself, but whoever he is, he knows about him. Worse, he's making himself out to be him. Anyone who'd take that monster's name is looking to be one in his own right, and I won't stand for it."

  Victoria nodded. She wasn't sure why Cora was telling her all of this. Disappointment and fear still churned inside her, and hearing Cora talk only intensified the vortex. Instead of boarding an east-bound train with her, the old hunter wanted to ride off into the desert after the blueeyed man. Even if Cora somehow managed to find the man calling himself Fodor Glava, she probably wouldn't do it in time to save Victoria from the red-eyed woman's wrath. The young woman tried to swallow her fear, eyes downcast as she wracked her brain for some way out of the trap she'd stumbled into.

  "Seems right two-faced of me, I know," Cora said. "Here I am telling you I'm setting out to hunt me down a monster in the self-same morning I said I ain't helping you with yours."

  Victoria looked at the old hunter in surprise. She hadn't expected her to just come out and say what Victoria herself had already considered. Holding her tongue, she hoped Cora would next admit that such hypocrisy didn't sit well with her or something of that nature.

  "Fact is, I ain't any more inclined to trot on out to England to do your job than I was yesterday. I still prefer poker and whiskey to travel, even in a fancy train car, and I ain't got no interest at all in prancing about with the likes of you and George all day. If the good Lord wanted me to be fancy, he'd have made me out of silk and pearls or some such."

  Cora paused, running a hand over her chin as if what she was going to say next wouldn't come out without encouragement. "You understand," she said, "that I ain't the sort to rely on nobody. Ain't but a few folks in this wide world that I trust, and I've had to kill some of them, too. I don't want to be adding to either list right now, but it seems I have to if I'm to get my answers. You're the only one who can take me to this feller, meaning I have to ask you for help to find him. I don't like it none, but there it is.

  "So here's the deal." Her fist slammed down onto the bar, making Victoria jump. "You take me to this feller of yours so I can have my answers from him. Once he's had his say and I've put him in the ground, I'll follow you back to wherever you want and settle your spooks. Deal?"

  Victoria couldn't believe her sudden change of fortune. "You would really do that?" she asked.

  "If I hadn't said it, you would have," Cora said. "I need your help, you need mine. I reckon my helping you will be a sight more work than you helping me, but I guess I'm just generous like that. So we got a deal?"

  "Yes! Yes, absolutely," Victoria said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the excitement out of her voice. She shook Cora's offered hand. "When do we start?"

  SIX

  Her stomach rolled and pinched, begging to be fed. The girl ignored it as best she could. It would do no good to go to her father for help. He could not feed her any more than he could feed himself. His legs were thin like a bird's legs now, and his face had sharp edges. She didn't like the way he looked.

  They had been living in the new area for a long time. She could barely remember her old home, the one with the big blanket over the entrance. It seemed like something she dreamed at night to forget what it was like to be awake. She was always hungry, but she didn't like waiting in line for food from the soldiers. All of the people looked sad when they stood in that line. They talked of times when they could plant their own food, when they were safe from the Apaches, when they lived in the land their ancestors had given them. They did not belong here, in the place they called Hweeldi.

  The girl did not understand everything they said. She didn't remember the life she had before Hweeldi. To hear the other people speak of it, it had been a happy life, and it made her sad to think she didn't remember it.

  She did remember her mother, though, and the memory made her sadder than anything else. Her mother had been brave and strong and good. How could she have died? When she closed her eyes, the girl could sometimes see the blood covering her mother's feet as she shivered from the cold. Other women had ridden in the cart with the girl, but her mother would not sit next to them, even when her feet began leaving red footprints in the dirt.

  When she thought about it, it made the girl angry. If her mother had ridden in the cart with them, she might not have died and left her alone with her father. The girl didn't like being angry at her mother. Still, she would sometimes think of that memory before she went to sleep at night. If she did, she might dream of her mother again. The dreams weren't always nice, but her mother was alive in them, and that was enough.

  One night, she dreamed that her mother came to her as she stood in the line for food. She was as pretty as ever, the sun shining in her hair. In the strange way of dreams, the girl didn't remember that her mother was dead; she just smiled at her. Her mother wrapped the girl's hand in one of her own and led her away from the line into one of the stone buildings used by the soldiers. The girl was frightened to be in this room, but she only held on to her mother's hand and said nothing. Her mother was wise; if she was in this room, it was allowed.

  Soldiers suddenly appeared in the room with their blue clothes and long weapons. The girl knew now that those weapons were loud and dangerous. She had seen the soldiers kill men with them. Hiding behind her mother, the girl cringed as they yelled and pointed their weapons. Her mother tried to speak to them, but they did not understand her. The girl knew some of the white man's tongue and looked up, hoping to speak for her mother.

  The weapons roared, and the girl woke with tears on her cheeks.

  Victoria itched. Her arms itched, her legs itched, her head itched, her feet itched, her hands itched, even her face itched. She blamed her new clothes for much of the problem, but the sun and the desert wind were also at fault. The sun beat down on her, making sweat bead on her forehead beneath the brim of her hat. Stirred up by the wind, dust and sand clung to the sweat, forming a film that covered her from eyebrow to collarbone. Denim trousers - the first trousers she'd ever worn - rode up behind her knees and chaffed her thighs. Her new shirt was slightly too large, billowing out around her chest, and yet it still bunched up under her armpits and stuck to her back. Blisters were already starting to form on her feet, drawn up by the rubbing of her new boots. The
horse's constant motion beneath her, up and down, back and forth, twisted her hips and back until the joints creaked with every step.

  She was miserable.

  "You sure we're riding the right way?" Cora asked from beside her.

  Victoria squinted at the horizon. "As long as we don't change direction, yes. It was dark, though, so I can't be certain." Truth be told, she wasn't at all sure they were going the right way. They'd started from where the blueeyed man had left her just outside of town and ridden back along his path. None of the landscape looked familiar because it all looked the same: scrub brush the color of aged cheese and taller bushes standing like sentinels at irregular intervals. Mesas loomed on the horizon, distant and serene, attended by rolling hills.

  The sight was enough to make her dizzy, and she dropped her gaze to the saddle horn. What made her most uncomfortable about her predicament, even more than the blisters swelling on her heels or the vast expanse surrounding her, was the weight resting on her left leg. She glanced nervously at the smooth wooden grip sticking out of the holster like a thick, hooked finger. The guns her father used to hunt game had always frightened her; to carry one on her person, even a small one, made her more than a little uneasy. She kept expecting the heat or the motion of the horse to somehow make it fire and blow her leg off. When dismounting to make water or eat a quick meal of salted beef, she made sure to carefully remove the revolver from its holster and hand it to a smirking Cora.

  "How far was it, again?" Cora interrupted her thoughts.

  "I'm not sure, exactly," Victoria said. "The woman with him said it was farther than I could walk in a day and a night."

  "So two day's walk, then? I'd say that's about a day's ride if we push it some." Cora tapped her heels into her horse, an aging chestnut mare she called Our Lady of Virginia. The mare responded by breaking into a brisk trot. Victoria urged her own horse forward to match Cora's pace. She hadn't bothered coming up with a name for her new mount, a silver-grey gelding whose coat seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Cora had picked it out. No horse would be more reliable than a good old Confederate grey, she said.