by Amy Faye
His hand came down hard on Mickey's pistol, grabbing and twisting and pulling with his left as his right rocked the farmer's chin. For a moment, the bartender allowed himself to relax. If Mick let himself stay on the floor, maybe that would be the end of it.
His vision swept the room to see what the extent of the damage was. The Okie standing there, his hands balled up at his sides, said that he hadn't hit whatever he'd aimed at. There was a hole in the table, and a hole in the floor, and a half-dozen men pushed back with their eyes as wide as could be, but no shock of red blood.
Chris looked back just in time to see Mick get up with anger in his eyes. He took his sweet time responding. It was his second mistake of the night. The Okie wasn't going to let him get a second try. Chris couldn't blame him, but the flash of a knife showing meant he had to step in anyways.
The feeling of a blade biting into his flesh never got easier to bear, no matter how many times it happened. Letting it get to him wasn't an option, though. Not when it could mean someone else getting hurt. His teeth rattled as he gnashed them together, and his hand came across in a heavy clubbing motion.
The boy clattered to the ground. The knife slipped free, and Christopher's heavy boot heel clapped down on top of it. The gash in his side felt wasn't one of the worse wounds he'd had, but his mind screamed at him to fight harder, to get out of the situation. Adrenaline and pain mixed into a heady cocktail that made it hard to keep his eyes focused and keep himself calm.
"Stay down," he growled, his hand dropping finally to the butt of his pistol in a threat that didn't need to be voiced. "Both of you."
He shot an eyelong glance toward the door. "Somebody go fetch the Sheriff, will you? We'll let the law sort this out."
The boy moved a little, and Chris pulled back the hammer on his pistol without moving to slip it from his belt. The audible 'click' stilled him.
"I got to get out of here, boss."
"You'll get a fair shake. We all saw Mick pull a pistol, didn't we?"
"I'm not going to hang for this," the kid says, trying to make himself sound more certain of himself than looked. "By God, I ain't gonna hang."
Chris turns to regard Mick, who sat on the floor rubbing at his lip where it had busted open.
"You neither. Don't move."
The Okie tried to protest a third time, but Chris cut him off.
"Soon as the Sheriff gets here, he'll get the whole story straight from me. He'll see what to do about it, and you ain't gonna talk your way out of it. I wouldn't recommend trying to fight your way out, neither."
The boy got a sullen look on his face. There wasn't a whole lot he could do to change the situation, though, and Chris was thankful that he realized it.
He'd had plenty of other stuff to worry about already. This was exactly what he didn't want to deal with today. The sound of footsteps outside told him someone was coming. Hopefully with a Sheriff in tow. Then maybe he'd be able to get back to his damned job.
The kid relaxed back down to the floor, finally getting his head on straight. Chris's hands shook as he pulled his pistol free of the holster to let the hammer back forward gently. In a minute, the adrenaline would pass, and then he'd see what needed to be done about the new scar he'd have in a week or two.
Five
There was absolutely no reason for the big bartender to have come back to her little schoolhouse at the edge of town. With no kids, he wasn't going to need to discuss her teaching. He wasn't going to need to see her for anything at all, and up until several days ago, he hadn't done it one time.
That didn't stop Marie from looking up, and somewhere deep down in her gut, wondering if he'd be standing there in her doorway again. It had been distracting. The sound of the rain slapping against the side of the building, though, told her more than adequately not to expect anything.
If he was going to come, he'd wait until it were a little less miserable out. Half the kids had done the same.
The other half crowded the edges of the room, finding little spaces between the wide cracks in the ceiling—cracks that hadn't been particularly noticeable until the water pouring through them soaked her hair.
She looked up again as a crack came from above and the spot where she'd been standing was showered with a bucketful of water, landing right in her face. She took a deep breath and stepped away for a moment: rubbing the water out of her eyes, squeezing what she could from her hair, and smothering the frustration that threatened to overwhelm her as best she could.
It was lucky that the few who had come in were young. As the day went on she was becoming more and more drenched, and if she wasn't outright indecent already, it wouldn't be long. She shivered at the thought of anyone seeing her like this.
She'd never live down the talk that would come about. Never in a million years, no matter what Chris Broadmoor did. Jamie Pearson was still waiting patiently when she turned back. Arithmetic wasn't her strongest suit, but it needed to be taught.
Marie's eyes scan the floor, looking for somewhere—anywhere—where the rain wasn't coming straight through. She eventually settled for a spot with the wall pressing up against her backside, but it was dry enough and if she was lucky, maybe it would stay that way.
She let herself slip back into teaching mode. Cover the lessons as best she could, given the circumstances. No need to worry about any of this until later. When something could be done about it.
But that didn't stop her from worrying. Not one bit. Marie let out an exasperated sigh—Jamie's eyes went wide looking down at his slate, a momentary flash of panic that maybe she was mad at him. She didn't know what was going on in his house, not really. But there were signs that something was wrong, without a single doubt. Every little thing was a possible cause for extreme alarm. That wasn't the behavior of a healthy, happy child.
She made a mental note to see what could be done about it. Maybe go by his house and see what he was dealing with.
Then again, she made a mental note as well to have someone do something about the schoolhouse. They couldn't keep working in a place like this. They'd all go home soaked to their bones because the schoolhouse, a place where children are supposed to learn and be taught, a place where young minds are shaped, where the nation's future was supposed to flourish, had more holes in it than cheesecloth.
Satisfied that Jamie had grasped the material, she left him with several problems to work through. No doubt it would take him some time to complete them, which gave her ample time to go and make sure that all of the other youngsters were on-task.
An hour later, the sun was back out. That can happen, and the warmth was starting to come back. The children filed out slowly, one by one. Jamie looked nervous as he left. His parents would be coming back any day now, but no doubt he was nonetheless nervous.
Marie had plenty of experience coming home to an empty house, after her mother passed on. There was something unspeakably unpleasant about it. But it wasn't her place to step in. She'd have plenty of opportunity to speak to Jamie's parents when they came back.
She could extend the offer to keep an eye on him when they had to go out of town. They might not mind so much, after all, and then she'd be able to make sure that the boy was taken care of without overstepping the boundary between a teacher and student.
As he left, and the room was finally completely empty, she let herself deflate a little bit. What a long day. Some days were always going to be easier than others. That was just the way of the world. But the bad ones always felt bad.
She looked up at the roof. What had seemed like a reasonably adequate construction before now seemed drastically under-built. She could just about see blue sky through some places where the patchwork hadn't managed to hold up.
A trip to the carpenter's, then.
Marie looked down at her blouse. It stuck to her in places where she would very decidedly rather that it didn't, but a few minutes in the sun should clear it up a little bit. That was what she hoped, anyways.
The walk across
town did a little bit to help. The heat wasn't quite what she'd hoped for, but it served. There was a young man behind the counter, perhaps fifteen. She hadn't seen him in any of her classes. He regarded her silently for a moment before greeting her.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but, could I ask—what would it cost to have a roof repaired? I'm the new teacher, and the school-house—"
He nodded for a moment. "Sure, I could come look at it and make an estimate. The boss is working at the moment." He gestured towards a doorway. Through it, she could hear the sound of wood pounding on wood.
"I'd like that very much."
He went into the back, came back a minute later with a long, heavy-looking ladder slung over a shoulder. This was less painful than she'd expected, she thought, somewhat pleased.
Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad after all.
Six
There had been a long-standing agreement between Chris and the owner of the little bar where he worked. Chris would do as he was told, make a little money, but most of his pay would be in room and board. In turn, Stanley would look the other way on his colorful past, as long as Chris didn't bring it along with him.
That had seemed fair, at first. Hell, it seemed almost fair now. There was talk, of course. Always would be, when someone like him came around. Whether he managed to hide his past or not, they would spot an outsider right away and there would always be talk.
His habit of wearing a pistol, in a quiet town like Applewood Junction, that was always going to draw attention, too. But just yesterday he'd shown exactly how useful that was. So really, if they were being completely honest, there wasn't a whole lot to be worried about. Not really.
There was no reasonable criticism that anyone could make of him, not one that would stick.
Unreasonable criticism, though? That had a unique way of sticking to his bones. A way of finding everything that he looked like and ignoring the years of reliable service he'd given. Maybe, all of a sudden out of nowhere, he'd become a mad dog. Nobody could be sure that he wouldn't, after all.
So in spite of all his reassuring himself, it wasn't really much of a surprise when Stan came into the bar with his hat pressed on low. He had a habit of doing that when he was spoiling for a fight. Which meant that Chris had to be extra careful not to let him, in spite of himself.
The bartender took a deep breath in.
"Mornin', boss."
"You want to tell me what the hell happened yesterday?"
Chris kept his shoulders relaxed. That would be the first thing to go. When his shoulders got tight, he might as well walk right out the door, because at that point it was only a matter of time until voices got raised, and then it wasn't going to back down from there.
"What do you mean, boss?"
"You know full damn well what I mean." Something deep down in the bartender's belly didn't like being eyeballed like that. He swallowed that frustration. "Things go nuts, and I'm up to my neck in complaints—and what do I find but you're at the center of it. Walloped not one, but two customers? That right?"
"Wasn't my intention to do anything of the sort, boss."
"Don't talk to me about intentions."
Chris raises his eyes. It's a mistake, and he realizes it a moment later, when he feels frustration starting to flare up, and for a tense moment he almost feels as if he's going to lose his temper.
It's close, but he manages to get control of himself in spite of the strong urge to lash out. A little part of him relaxes. Maybe the years have had a positive effect on his demeanor after all.
"You would have rather I let some kid get shot?"
The boss looks at Chris with a flat expression. No, that wouldn't have been preferable, Chris knows. But couldn't someone else have done it? Someone who wasn't already the cause of all sorts of rumors spreading around the town?
That would have been a thousand times better. Just next time make it so someone else is involved.
"No," Stan finally concedes. "You're right."
"I'm sorry that it happened. I keep thinking I should've had a better sense for the feeling in the room. But I did the best I could under the circumstances."
Chris works to drop his shoulders. Keep them relaxed, don't let them hunch up. Don't get mad. Stay calm.
His eyes are on Stan's body as he stands on the other side. It's a skill that Chris picked up in his old life. Something you need to know, how pissed the other guy is. You have to know all the time. No room for any doubt, not ever.
If someone's about to pull a gun, you have to know before he knows it himself. And Chris watches his boss's body language for any signs of anger, growing or shrinking.
His own shoulders sag a little. He closes his eyes longer than a moment. And then the anger slips off his shoulders. "Yeah. You're probably right."
"So what should I do then?" Chris asks it in a conversational way. Like he's handing the reins over to Stan. The fact is, though, that there's no answer. What he's really doing, in the end, is dropping the problem right in Stan's lap. Another soft reminder that it was a difficult situation with no real answers.
"Look—I don't—" He doesn't finish the sentence. The older man tenses up again. Time to massage him back into relaxing. Then he steps back and leans against the bar, his eyes on the floor. "Just don't worry about it."
"And when Mickey comes back in, whenever Sheriff Roberts is done with him?"
He makes a thoughtful face, and doesn't answer for a couple of minutes. "Just—don't start anything, alright?"
"You got it, boss. Won't start anything at all."
"If he decides he's got a problem, call Jim over. I'd much rather Jim dealt with it in that case."
Chris bristles a little at the suggestion. "Yeah," he says finally.
There was a time when a Broadmoor wouldn't dream of letting someone else fight his battles for him. That was a long time ago, though. For Chris, it might as well have been forever ago. Like a dream from a long time ago that he'd never exactly woken up from.
Letting someone else deal with it in this case, he thought, might just be the right answer. Because all eyes would be on him for a while. It didn't change things, not really. Everyone's eyes were always on him, because he was the mad dog roughneck out-of-towner who had no accounting for his whereabouts or why he'd come into town.
Which, in Chris's case, was probably better than knowing where he'd come from. They were less afraid of him this way.
Seven
There was a little time remaining before the children were going to be waking, which was going to have to be enough time for Marie to get all of this dealt with, regardless of the fact that there was simply no way that she was going to actually do it.
There wasn't much choice, was there? No choice at all; the alternative was to cancel classes in either case, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Not if she had any other choice.
There would be talk, she knew, but it didn't stop her lifting her skirts and running through the middle of town. If she hurried, then she'd be able to get something started, at least. They'd understand her need, right?
She stops a few steps short of the door and takes what little time that she can afford to get herself back together as she closes the last few steps at a walk. Heads are turning to see the wild woman running through town, but they'd understand, when they saw the school building.
The boy looked up at her. It was the same one that she'd talked to yesterday, thankfully, which meant that there wouldn't be much explanation needed.
"You have to help me," she said, hints of breathlessness touching her voice in spite of her.
"I told you. It's going to run us twenty dollars in materials alone."
She sets her jaw. "I have a hole in my roof big enough that a boulder might have fallen through. Almost a whole ton of debris landed all over my students' desks. I don't have time to get all that money together. I promise, you'll be paid, but I need you to come now, before they start arriving."
He takes in a breath, and
shakes his head. "I can't do that, ma'am."
"No, you don't understand—"
"If you could just give us ten, fifteen dollars—"
The numbers ran through her head. She could almost pay it, if she didn't eat for a few days. They could just get started… at some point, would they reimburse her for that?
Her lips pursed together as the numbers failed to add up several times, and she tried to turn them and make them fit some other way.
If she saved—no, there's no saving. It needs to be today, and it needs to be right now.
"How much do you need? Ten or fifteen?"
His jaw shifts left and right, whether he tries to decide or to figure out how to deal with this woman who's being pushy while, she knew, offering nothing at all in terms of peaceful terms.
"Fifteen up front would be doing you a favor," he says. "Ten would be a big favor. I know you're a teacher, 'n all, but I don't know you that well."
She closed her eyes. She could have done eight. She could have pretended that ten could be done, almost. But fifteen was outside of the discussion. It wasn't that she couldn't afford it—it was that she didn't have fifteen dollars to her name, not in the bank here.
If she wired back home, sure. But wiring back home meant closing the school for the day. She couldn't do that. She just…
Marie let out a long breath. "Thank you, Mr Peters."
"Sorry I couldn't be more help," he offers, as if it might change something. The only thing it changes is that he sounds sympathetic when he says 'no.'
"No, I'm sorry," she offers, finally. "Good luck with your work here."
"No hard feelings, ma'am. You have money to pay for our services, you're always welcome here."
She's most of the way out the door before her mind registers that he's spoken. "Thank you," she says finally, before stepping out.
It's only been a few moments, and the same folks who had stopped to watch her early-morning sprint are still standing around, hoping to see some satisfactory ending to the story. Marie ignores them as best she can and keeps her head up and straight ahead as she walks down the middle of the street back towards the schoolhouse.