Chapter Text
Out in the world, when a bedraggled soul looked for quiet moments of contemplation, they sought the midnight hour, when everyone had gone to sleep. But midnight was right when The Bakery came alive. So for mulling over his thoughts, Alfie had to wait til dawn.
And on that morning, like most mornings, he moseyed downstairs, cup of coffee in hand, from his personal quarters to the saloon below. Johnny Mud lay sprawled across a table-top with a puddle of drool collecting against his face, and Hattie was knelt at the hearth, starting a fire. But otherwise, the room was still and silent. His feet thudded heavy against the floorboards–he’d never been a light step. And yet it wasn’t enough to rouse the drunkard.
“Hattie, shake him the fuck up, will you?”
Without turning away from her task, the young woman scoffed. “You don’t pay me near enough to touch that varmint.”
Johnny Mud was a harmless drunkard. But he was a sad kind of drunk; the sort that killed a mood. He learned, after being booed and harangued many a night, that he was not a primetime bargoer. No, he typically showed up at three or four in the morning, drank his fill of whiskey, and wept himself to sleep on one of Alfie’s tables. All in all, he was one of the least troublesome of Alfie’s regulars, but first thing in the morning, when the day still had the potential to be good, his ugly mug was the last fucking thing Alfie cared to see.
But like a blessing, Ollie strolled out of the storage room and, without instruction, hoisted Johnny up by the back of his collar and shoved him into one of the back rooms–the shitty one, with the bullet holes, where they stored busted furniture and broken mops. It had a lopsided bed, and often doubled as sleep-it-off quarters; theoretically for anyone, but these days, mostly for Johnny.
So when Hattie scrambled off to start breakfast, Alfie was left blessedly alone to plan out his day. He sipped slow at his coffee, careful to not dampen his moustache, and tapped a beringed knuckle against the bar in contemplation.
Something strange was drifting through the air: change, perhaps. No doubt the change of seasons, as autumn blew in like an unwelcome draft. But something else, too. Traffic seemed to be picking up through camp. It was inevitable, he supposed. Running from civilization was a fool’s errand, and though Alfie wasn’t above the occasional bit of foolishness, he knew what was coming. Manifest fucking destiny. A load of bullshit, in his opinion. The rich and powerful rotting of fucking greed from the inside out and spreading it like a sickness across the country.
Like it or not, it was on its way. So if he was going to preserve the little slice of peace he’d carved out for himself, he’d have to get ahead of the encroaching masses. Especially with these fucking Shelby boys sniffing around. Couldn’t even keep track of how many there were–three, maybe four, plus a sister and an aunt and a cousin and a whole flock of gypsy brethren. They’d been content for years, taking care of their horses and whatever Farmer John nonsense they kept busy with. But now one of them was enterprising. Prospecting. Not for gold or silver, but for a lot where he might build a little business. ‘Course, Alfie’d had the forethought, nearly a decade ago, to purchase up as much land in the camp as was reasonable with his savings. So anything that Shelby boy wanted to do would have to go through him. That ought to slow him down.
No, Shelby was future trouble. The present trouble was Sabini. The bastard strolled into town three days ago, looking for a place to lay low, and bodies were already collecting. He did this, every so often, when the heat was on him from robbing trains. Begging “please old friend, for the sake of our dear departed mothers.” And what was Alfie to say to a childhood friend? Especially one who paid him ten cents for every dollar of his spoils.
But this time, he had witnesses on his trail—a pair of goddamn vigilantes looking to make a name for themselves by bringing down the Darby Gang. And that managed to become Alfie’s trouble too.
“Right then, getting rid of the goddamn tenderfoots is gonna cost extra.”
“How much?”
Alfie thought on it a moment, rubbed idly at his beard. “Fifty percent.”
“Fifty fucking percent? Fuck me Solomons, I got men to pay.”
“Not my fucking problem. And that’s generous, ‘cause I’ve included the disposal fee.”
That was the end of the conversation. Sabini stormed off in the direction of The Bakery’s dusty basement, prepared to settle in for a week while the heat died down. The next day, Alfie sent Abe off to take care of the vigilantes before they made it into town. And as of late last night, Ollie had disposed of the bodies.
All was well-handled, the fire across the room was finally starting to spread its warmth, and Alfie would have a few hours of peace before the earliest patrons got thirsty and came waddling in.
He loved nothing so much in life as he loved The Bakery. Earned every cent he used to buy the land and the lumber. Built the place with his own two hands, and didn’t even mind that he tore them up in the process. It was a haven, for him and for the camp. And it was a fresh start after the War. He watched dust motes flit through a ray of early morning sunlight and still marveled at the calmness. All those years ago, ducking cannon balls and musket fire, he never could’ve conjured this life up for himself.
That’s why the idea of change irked him so. He’d be happy to live out the rest of his days serving drinks, looking after the women that worked for him, and supervising the sanity of the rowdy camp. He’d even tolerate Sabini’s antics if it meant preserving his refuge. But there was talk of annexation in the air, and now the Shelbys wanted to open a gambling den—change was whipping in with the breeze.
And so was Ollie. All but running in from the thoroughfare with a cloud of dust at his heels.
“It’s the fucking law,” he panted when he was close enough that a whisper would do. Alfie grimaced at the sight of sweat beading on Ollie’s forehead.
“What fucking law?”
“US Marshal, inquiring around camp.”
“Fucking Sabini,” he muttered. “Head down to the basement, make sure he keeps his goddamn mouth shut.”
Ollie nodded and scrambled to his orders, wringing his hands frantically. He was trustworthy, but easily spooked. One look at him and the Marshal’s suspicions would rouse. It was best to get him out of sight.
The Rocky Mountains always sent a thrill through her heart. She liked the freedom that being a Marshal gave her, but she liked the views even more. The endless stretch of Kansas hypnotized her, the Ozarks were like seeing a piece of home, abroad, and the mighty Mississippi was a sparkling thread through history, stitching her moment to a thousand moments before her. The Colorado Territory, though? Particularly stunning. If it weren’t for the gun at her side, she might’ve forgotten she was on the job, such was the peace of the land. Being so small in the face of something so big was liberating, in its own kinda way–what did her worries matter when it was possible for land to touch the sky? And it was harsh, too, which made her respect it all the more.
It made her jealous as well, ‘cause hers was a life full of disrespect. The other Marshals went by their last name, maybe the state they called home. But she was, against her own wishes, “Lady Marshal”–a novelty item, back in Missouri and a joke to most of her fellow Marshals. Above all else, she was mocked as an unsuitable wife, liable to shoot any man that so much as made a pass at her. In most cases, they were right. She hadn’t met a man alive that didn’t underwhelm her more feminine sensibilities. Maybe that’s why she found them so easy to work with–predictable, shallow, and scared shitless of her. But still in charge, and determined to hold her back. So every ounce of respect she had, she’d fought for, tooth and nail. And she carried each and every nugget of it with her, wherever she roamed–like a downtrodden prospector, desperate for a break, clinging to the scraps he’d found.
But this job that took her into Colorado was going to be her great victory. Charles “Darby” Sabini was wanted in four states and two territories, mostly for robbing trains. And by some miracle, she’d convinced the Chief Marshal to give her the job of bringing him down. There were suspicions that Sabini had steady ties to a silver camp high in the Rockies. She was already headed in the town’s direction when another robbery cropped up along the way. No proof it was the Darby Gang this time, but she knew it was his doing.
“And I will be his undoing,” she whispered, partly to herself, partly to her horse. The Marshals might not take her seriously, but she dared any of them to find a faster shot west of the Mississippi. It was a skill that served her well–both a weapon and a tool, that could remove a threat and convince a town that she meant business.
She wondered what this camp would have in store for her. Most prospecting settlements were little better than tents around campfires, but Silverton had a reputation as a steady growing town, with a proper brothel, a little saloon, and even a newspaper.
It was still early when she arrived, the sun only just peeking out above the mountains. The thoroughfare could hardly be called bustling, but courteous faces turned to greet her as she walked her horse down it to a hitching post. Not smiles, by any stretch of the imagination, but open acknowledgements. Which was better than some places she’d been. When her horse was secure, she stopped the first reasonable looking man that walked by and introduced herself–a rugged gentleman, missing a few teeth. He winced a little at the word “Marshal,” as most frontiersmen did, but she carried on regardless.
“Y’all have a law man in town? A sheriff, perhaps?”
He shook his head and scratched the prickly grey patches of hair on his cheeks. “No ma’am, each of us takes care of himself.” She glanced at his worn trousers and dirt-stained shirt and couldn’t help but smile a bit. He meant it, when he said they took care of themselves, and she was charmed by that.
“Maybe you have a mayor? Anyone that knows the camp’s comings and goings?”
“You best talk to Solomons, then. If it passes through camp, he and his know about it.” He marched off without offering better directions, but a quick look down the road suggested that the best bet was toward a building labeled “The Bakery.” She saw a dark-haired man enter it, and figuring it open, started the dusty trek to its double doors.
They swung wide with a soft creak, and revealed a small, but jovial looking saloon, with a fireplace and a sofa and half a dozen tables with chairs. Upstairs, a pair of women whispered to one another over the railing, their faces painted with too much make-up, and their loose corsets dipped dangerously low. One of them waved down at her then glanced pointedly across the room to the center feature: a well-polished wooden bar, and a bearded man stood behind it. He watched her over the rim of his mug for a moment, glaring eyes boring holes into her forehead. Then he set the cup down carefully and preened at his mustache.
“You make a fine door, ma’am, but is there something I can help you with?”
She approached the bar with as much confidence as she could muster and opened the side of her jacket to reveal her gun–a show of transparency and a forewarning against any foolishness.
“U.S. Marshal. I’m looking for someone named ‘Solomons.’”
His eyes twitched for a fleeting moment before he offered his hand, lined with rings and a small black crown tattoo. “Alfie Solomons, owner and proprietor. What do the fucking U.S. Marshals want with me?”