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Chapter Text

This tale begins with a pair of boots. Custom-made, exhaustively-polished, patent leather boots, to be exact.

The saloon floorboards creaked as the aforesaid footwear set down. Dust plumed out from beneath the soles, turning circles in the air before settling. The legs that occupied the boots were clad in gray slacks; above that, a golden buckle bearing the initials “E.S.” added a touch of conceit to a swanky red vest and suit-coat. The head attached to this ensemble had none of its stylish bearing – a pug nose, thick eyebrows, and buck teeth completed the man.

“Blix,” said Buck-tooth, “we must interrogate this rabble as quickly as possible, before this filthy establishment diminishes the value of my suit. Ahem - the boots!”

Blix the Butler immediately pulled a rag from his pocket, knelt down, and began polishing. Hunched as he was and dressed all in black, the old man gave the impression of a well-bred vulture. He straightened, bowed, and returned the rag to his pocket.

“Better,” said the buck-toothed man, wringing his hands together. “Now, for the rabble...”

Around the saloon, fingers crept toward their gun holsters. A trio of grizzly, unshaven men stopped their Poker game and glared over at the newcomer. A tattooed hulk by the bar turned around with a growl. A few paces away, a vagrant on the floor licked the blade of his knife, while a giggling drunkard pounded discordant notes on the piano. The barkeep merely looked bored as he polished a glass.

“Rabble, eh?” repeated a one-armed lout at nearby table. “Now that ain't no way to talk. No way to talk at all.” He elbowed his buddy, who was hammering back shots of fizzy purple liquid. “Is it?”

The second lout coughed, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Maybe rich boy 'ere just needs a taste of our hospitality,” he slurred. Snorting, he spat a blob of mucus next to the leather boots. “There y'go,” he sniggered, “the first drink's on me.”

The patrons erupted into riotous laughter, and in a split second Blix pulled two firearms from his suit. Guns came out all around the saloon, and the butler's employer raised a hand to stop him.

“Down, Blix. The last thing we need is for these flea-bitten scum to start a fire-fight.” The Butler re-holstered the weapons, and Buck-tooth condescendingly tossed the one-armed vagabond and his buddy a handful of silver coins. “Get lost,” he said. “I'm sure there's a house of ill repute in this two-bit town that accepts cash and greasy old men.”

The two drifters flashed him gap-toothed smiles and a thumbs-up, then staggered out of the saloon, leaving the washboard doors swinging behind them. The rich man strolled out into the center of the room, butler in tow.

“I've come to this impoverished rat-hole because I'm looking for somebody,” he announced. “Have any of you ever heard of an outlaw called 'Tex'?”

Gasps broke out all around the saloon, and the tattooed muscle-man by the bar whimpered like a little girl. The barkeep stopped polishing long enough to crook a finger toward the far corner, where a lone figure was sitting in silence.

“Over there,” he said.

The newcomer and his servant struck out across the room, weaving their way around shabby furniture and the occasional inebriated customer. As they approached, the duo saw that their quarry was reclining in a chair, boots propped up on the nearest table. The outlaw was dressed in brown trousers, a threadbare longcoat, and a tan cowboy hat. The brim of the hat hung down over Tex's face, hiding everything except a crooked smile.

“Tex?” asked the rich man.

“In the flesh, Bucky,” answered a female voice.

Butler and employer both backed up a step; they had been expecting a man. Still grinning, Tex raised her chin, and strands of blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. The face beneath the hat was delicate and fair, but her skin was streaked with grime, and the intensity of her green eyes hinted at either madness or great talent – or perhaps both.

“You're Tex?!”

“Cynthia Aurora Vortex,” she replied with a tip of the hat, “at your service.”

“But...but you can't be a gun-for-hire!” he exclaimed. “You're a woman!”

Tex casually reached into her coat and produced a green-handled revolver. “One well-placed shot with this,” she said, “and I could make you a woman too.”

Blix's eyes widened. “Mein Herr,” he whispered, “that gun! Don't you recognize it? It's the famous Emerald Ire, the deadliest six-shooter in all of Texas!”

“I can see that, you blithering idiot,” returned his employer. “Keep quiet.”

Tex twirled the weapon around her finger. “So,” she began, “what's the son of Rail Baron Strych doing so far from St. Louis? You didn't come this far west just to visit little old me, did you Eustace?”

His mouth fell open. “I didn't...How do you...”

“How do I know who you are? Your father owns the South-Central Pacific Railroad, you overdressed prat. Anybody with one good eyeball has seen your ugly mug in the newspapers.”

“Why, I never! How dare you speak to me in that tone of –”

She pulled back the hammer on her weapon, and he shut up.

“Anyhow,” she continued, “you didn't come here to cower in fear of my caustic tongue and expert gunmanship. You came here with a job offer.”

Eustace's ruffled feathers settled the instant money entered the conversation. “Exactly. I'm here with a business proposition. I have someone who needs to be, shall we say, 'taken care of', and I've heard from reputable sources that you're the gun for the job.”

“I do like to think I've got a corner on the market,” she returned. “So, how exactly do you want this fellow 'taken care of'? I offer three packages: scared off, maimed, and six-feet-under.”

“The latter. I need this individual dead and buried in a fortnight, and I'm prepared to offer you $1,000 to make that happen.”

“My rate is $3,000. $1,500 up front, and the remainder once I've completed the task. Take it or leave it.”

“Ah...just a moment.” Eustace pulled Blix aside and whispered in his ear. “We must pacify this trigger-happy trollop. Three measly thousand dollars is nothing compared to what we will make once you-know-who is out of the picture and you-know-what is in our possession.” Blix nodded agreement, and Strych turned back to the outlaw. “Very well, Miss Vortex, you have yourself a bargain.”

The butler produced a wad of cash and tossed it disdainfully onto the table. Tex grinned and thumbed through the stack.

“Splendid,” she said. “Would you like to see the full details of the arrangement, as drawn up in my official contract?”

“Your what?”

She reached into her coat once again, and this time pulled out a tri-fold piece of paper, which she handed to Eustace. He squinted down at the text.

“What in the...what is this? Even my filthy rich father's lawyers couldn't decipher this. You wrote this legalese? What kind of killer are you?”

“I'm a fan of the law, when I don't have to follow it.”

He tossed the contract back in her face. “Forget the fine print. You'll get your payment when you finish the job. It's as simple as that.”

“Mmm, how’s this for simple: you sign the damn agreement, or you find someone else to do your dirty work.”

Exasperated, he motioned to Blix, who supplied him with a writing utensil. He signed his name in a flourish, then straightened. “Satisfied?”

“Thrilled beyond measure,” she chuckled, tucking the contract back into her longcoat. “All right, Bucky...where am I off to?”

“100 miles west of here, to an unpleasant little dust-bowl called Retro Valley.”

“Retro Valley? Never heard of it.”

“No one has. But that will change before long. I need that land, you see; I'm planning to – ”

“Save it, Strych,” she interrupted, returning her gun to its holster. “I don't need a backstory. Just tell me the name of the man you want me to kill.”

“His name is James Neutron,” replied Eustace. “He's the town Sheriff.”

Welp, I really went for it, guys. A pure, unadulterated orgy of all my favorite clichés. Hope you enjoy.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- Fact: *** asterisks are actually tumbleweeds
- Fact: There was no South-Central Pacific Railroad IRL. The name is an amalgam of two real companies - the Central Pacific railroad, which merged with the Union Pacific in 1869 to form the first transcontinental railroad - and the Southern Pacific company, which later leased Central Pacific. In this story, the Central Pacific and Southern Pacific railways do not exist...only the Union Pacific does. In my little "alternate timeline", the former two are combined into one imaginary entity, the 'South-Central Pacific Railroad', owned by Eustace's father. The transcontinental railroad would thus not have been formed until sometime in the 1870s, a bit later than in real life. This may or may not be important to the story.
- Fact: Tex's gun is an 1863 Starr Single Action Revolver. With a range of up to 66ft and easy-to-use design, it was much more popular than its double-action predecessor from 1858, and would have been used extensively by Union Army soldiers. The handle was painted green at some point because plot reasons.

Episode References: in Attack of the Twonkies, Cindy auditions by singing the following: That's why I'm Quick-draw Cora, The cowgirl of Kalamazoo! See ya at the ranch, boys! I may have taken this literally. 

Chapter Text

Far to the west, across miles of sand and wind-hewn crags, the sun rose and set and rose again on a quiet frontier town. At the end of a dusty street, past some flat-fronted houses, a church, and a tiny bank, stood another saloon. The wooden sign that hung from the porch-roof creaked back and forth in the breeze; it bore the words "Retro Valley Juke Joint" in stenciled block letters.

Inside, the saloon's owner was wiping down the mahogany bar. She was dark-skinned girl clad in a low-cut magenta blouse and ruffled skirt. Rouge colored her cheeks, and she wore her black ringlets pinned up in a bun. Her bracelets clinked against the glass bottles as she arranged them on the shelves.

"Oye, mami!" came a grating shout. "You never gonna believe this!"

The individual who burst through the saloon doors looked like he might be, for lack of a better term, one burrito shy of a combo plate. He was dressed in a ragged plaid shirt and denim overalls, and he held a pick-axe in one hand. His hair stood on end, and the amount of dirt on his face and arms was almost comical.

"Guess what?"

The proprietor rolled her eyes when she saw him. "Don't tell me. All your crazy prospectin' is finally on the verge of payin' off. You finally found the right spot to dig, and this time it's gonna be different. This time you're gonna strike it rich. Does that sound 'bout right? Or did you 'finally' realize you need to fix that loose screw in your head?"

"Loose screw? Ay caramba,Libby, how can you say that? If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times – There's gold in them thar hills! Why won't you believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you, Señor Estevez. And I pray to the Lord Almighty that when you find this legendary gold, you have it melted down and made into a washtub."

He stamped his foot. "I will find it, woman! And when I do, I'm gonna march in here with an armload of nuggets and dump 'em right on the counter. Then you'll see the error of your ways and apologize, right after you grab me by the britches and lay a big wet one on me."

She snorted. "That's 'Miss Folfax' to you, Señor...and I'll do you one better. If you ever actually strike gold in that godforsaken patch o' desert, I'll marry your crazy Mexican backside and be done with it."

He grinned. "I'm gonna hold you to that."

Libby shook her head. "Anyway, now that we've got that cleared up, whaddya want? If this ain't your usual gold fever fandango, then why'd you come barrelin' in here? Is Butch face-down in the water trough again?"

"Nope. But there is a pistol-packin' chica dressed like a bandido outside, and she's tying up her horse to your porch."

"What?"

Miss Folfax and Señor Estevez heard the clink of spurs well before their wearer appeared. Tex burst through the washboard doors and glared into the interior, as if daring any rowdy patrons to speak their minds. When she saw that the only occupants were a pretty barkeep and a mud-encrusted prospector, she relaxed a little.

"Welcome to Libby's Juke Joint!" called out the proprietor cheerfully. "What'll you be havin', Miss?"

Information on my target, thought Tex. She sauntered over and slapped a fistful of dollars onto the counter, and aloud she asked, "What's the most vile, gut-rotting concoction you sell in this place?"

"That'd be the 'Mule Skinner' – 100 Proof Flurp cut with cayenne powder and rotten saguaro and served in a rusty tankard."

"Sounds disgusting. I'll take it."

Miss Folfax set to work making the drink, humming to herself as she fished out a jar of cayenne from one of the cupboards. Señor Estevez pulled up a stool beside Tex.

"Where you hail from, señorita?" he asked, using his pickaxe as a back-scratcher. "Back East? I don't suppose you've heard any news about that big gold strike up in Arkansas..."

Libby conked him over the head with her stirring spoon. "If she's from back East, then I'm a beef-head Anglo sodbuster. Look how she's dressed! This girl looks like she was born in a saddle and spoon-fed gunpowder instead of mother's milk."

Tex grinned. Saloons were always the best place to gather intel, and this was exactly the sort of woman she liked running in to: sassy, with wits enough to understand the world, but without the discretion to match. All Tex had to do was ask the right questions, and this loose-tongued strumpet would start handing out gossip like communion wafers at church.

"Lots of empty seats," commented Tex, with a nonchalant glance around the room. "Business sluggish these days?"

Libby set the tankard in front of the outlaw. "You're just a touch early for the regulars," she said. "'Course, in a town as small as this, we don't get much of a crowd even durin' peak hours. That's fine by me, though – this here's a Juke Joint, not some filthy cantina filled with trigger-happy troublemakers. We come here to drink with friends, not to brawl."

"Smart policy," dead-panned Tex. After a pause, she cocked her head to one side. "Say, what's the head count round here, anyway? I couldn't help but notice when I rode into town...it's not exactly downtown St. Louis."

Miss Folfax looked to the Señor. "What would you say, Sheen? Can't be more 'n what...five dozen souls who live here year round?"

He nodded confirmation.

"That's all?"

"'Fraid so. If you're lookin' for action, you should gear up and follow the road east, past Sagebrush Sally's ranch. There's a proper town there called Marble Orchard, with a train stop, a bunkhouse, a workin' post office, a couple bordellos, an' enough liquor to keep you loaded to the gunwhales for as long as you've got coin."

Tex eyed Libby over the rim of the mug. "Wow, sounds pretty lawless. It must be hard to keep order around here, being such wild territory and all. I feel for you."

"Don't worry," sniggered Señor Estevez, "this town's different. Safer than any one-horse pueblo in Mexico, that's for sure. Retro Valley is home sweet home, long as you don't mind having locos for neighbors."

"Case in point," drawled Libby, gesturing at the prospector. "But Sheen's right. Marble Orchard gets the criminal types. We just seem to get the loonies. Hardly surprisin' though, considerin' the law round here is...well, he ain't the typical fare."

Tex's grip tightened on her cup, and she crafted her next prompt with care. "I don't know...I've run into more than my fair share of badged-up crazies over the years. I doubt yours is anything out of the ordinary."

"You're just sayin' that 'cause you've never met Mr. Neutron," snorted Libby. "He used to be some sort of genius gunsmith back East. Made all kind of gizmos and contraptions for the Union Army durin' the war. I can't imagine why he ditched his cushy life for a dusty, flea-ridden patch of scrub like this, but he did. He owns the whole town, you know, and most of the desert that borders it." She shook her head. "He really is a wonderful man, and a fine hand with a gun, but it's like his mind is somewhere else."

Tex made a mental note of 'fine hand with a gun'.

"More 'n just his mind, mami," grinned the prospector. "When was the last time he spent a full day on his beat? He's too busy chasing lightning in the desert and letting his hob-legged perro run after Farmer Wheezer's llamas!"

They both had a good laugh, and Tex cataloged away the information – she'd need to have a word with that farmer. Tex drained the tankard, then slid it back toward Miss Folfax. The outlaw had spun her exit lie before the dark-skinned woman even had the mug in hand.

"Thanks for the refreshments, Libs. I need to tend to my mount before he keels over from hunger – you mentioned a Mr. Wheezer? If he keeps animals, he must have some horse feed for sale. Where can I find him?"

"Up the road apiece. The Wheezers and their grange hands Oleander and Miss Emily run a good-sized farm near the river. You can't miss it."

Tex tipped her hat at them, exchanged a farewell, and took her leave. Once outside, she untied her tawny-colored horse from the porch and sprang up into the saddle. The beast neighed grumpily.

"Easy there, Humphrey," she said, scratching him behind the ears. "The trail's hot. It won't be long now."

She rode him away at a canter, and Miss Folfax appeared behind her, waving a handkerchief in goodbye. "Don't be a stranger, now!" she called. "Come back an' listen to me sing sometime!"

Tex felt a twinge of guilt. In a roundabout way, she had just manipulated a friendly young woman into aiding in a homicide. She quickly shook off the notion. It's no skin off that girl's back if the sheriff ends up at the bottom of the river...

Tex's hand drifted to her six-shooter. The Emerald Ire seemed to have a mind of its own, at times like these – it sang in its holster, a verse for every life it had taken. Tex had known that song once, but not anymore. It was a dirge now, and it had grown too long.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-Why yes, Purple Flurp was totally an alcoholic beverage in the Old West.
-"Juke Joint" is term for an informal establishment featuring music, dancing, gambling, and drinking, primarily operated by African American people in the southeastern United States. Tons of these "freed slave saloons" popped up after emancipation in the rural south, where Jim-Crow laws generally prevented sharecroppers and other black workers from going to whites-only establishments. By selecting this name for her business (instead of saloon, cantina, or barrelhouse), Libby is not only paying homage to those establishments, but also setting up her bar as a haven for people who are rejected elsewhere.

-Some colloquialisms:
*Beef-head Anglo Sodbuster - Dumbass white boy farmer
*Loaded to the gunwhales - drunk off your ass
*Marble Orchard - graveyard (a good name for a town with a dangerous reputation)
*Bordello - brothel

Chapter Text

The Wheezer Farmstead was situated on acres of rolling, flower-specked prairie. Bluebonnets and stalks of wheat bobbed up and down in the river-breeze, and Tex closed her eyes, listening to the bumblebees that droned from blossom to blossom. She passed a livestock pen filled with horses, and another with cattle; the beasts flicked their tails to keep flies and other biting insects from settling on their flanks. One more bend in the dirt track brought Tex to a newly-constructed barn. A dozen fuzzy llamas cavorted around the pasture, and the farmer who sat among them looked so at home that Tex nearly missed him. He rested with his back against a stone wall, combing the tangles from a baby llama's wool. Tex trotted up for a closer look.

Farmer Wheezer proved to be a pudgy Irishman – pale, ginger-haired, and covered with freckles. He sported an ugly orange shirt and green suspenders, and he had the cross-eyed squint of someone whose glasses no longer quite did the trick. His legs were altogether too skinny for his roly-poly torso, and Tex had to stifle a chuckle when he heaved himself off the ground to greet her.

"Need some help, Miss?" he asked, before lifting his spectacles to peer up at her. "You are a 'Miss', right?"

She laughed disarmingly, then moved right on to ingratiating herself. "Those are some fine beasts you have there," she said. "I don't know many farmers who raise llamas north of the border."

He beamed with pride. "They're a well-kept secret, Miste– err, I mean, Miss. Sheep's wool chafes like grit in your girdle once you've felt llama fur. It's like running your hands over the clouds in heaven."

Tex suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. It was so easy to gain the favor of strangers, as long as you were willing to feign interest in their boring, second-rate lives.

"Remarkable," she breathed, gazing around in exaggerated admiration. "I must say, sir, this farm is the very pink of perfection – I had not expected to encounter such charming scenery or such well-mannered folk when I first volunteered to carry a message to Retro Valley."

"A message? Is it for me?"

"Oh no, sir," she giggled, slipping further into the role of charming ninny. "I have a message for a Mr. James Neutron – you don't know where I could find him, do you? It's quite important that I give it to him straight away." She patted her coat pocket, as if to indicate a letter – knowing that Mr. Wheezer could not see the revolver concealed underneath.

"Aww, sorry, Miss. He won't be back until sundown. He's out in the desert with Goddard right now."

"Goddard?"

"Oh, that's his dog. The two of them always go out into the desert on Fridays. Something about quartz crystals...or was it lightning?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is he really off his rocker, then, like people in town were saying?"

Farmer Wheezer's eyes flashed. "Don't you listen to them, Miss! Our Sheriff is as sharp as they come. You know, he came up with a fancy new irrigator for my crops, and now we have more food than we know what to do with...than the whole town knows what to do with!" He gestured toward the river, and Tex raised her eyebrows in genuine interest.

The outlaw was about to press him further about the irrigation system when she heard footsteps coming toward them. Tex looked to her left to find a young lady approaching through a trail in the flowers. There were daisies in her flaxen braids, and a green bonnet kept the sun off her exquisitely pretty face.

"Carl my love, dinner is being ready now!" Her voice rose and fell in sing-song tones. "Will you be coming in soon for the eating?"

Mr. Wheezer answered in the affirmative, then introduced the woman as his wife Elke. Tex was taken aback. This lady, his wife? Mr. Wheezer was so ugly he could bluff a buzzard off a meat wagon – how in heaven's name had he managed to secure such a stunning bride?

Money, no doubt, concluded Tex grimly. A man who owned a prosperous farm could afford a beautiful woman. Everyone has their price, she thought. I wonder what mine is?

"Will you care to be joining us for the dinner, Miss?" asked Mrs. Wheezer.

"Oh...no thank you, Ma'am," replied the outlaw, trying to place Elke's accent – Swedish? "I was just on my way to the Sheriff's."

"Well," said the farmer, "His house isn't too much farther up the road. And if you don't feel like waiting 'til sunset, you can always leave the letter on his table. He keeps the front door unlocked most days. Unless of course you need to speak to him in person or something..." he trailed off. "Anyhow, don't be afraid to stop by the farm tonight if you need a place to rest your heels and take care of your horse!"

Tex thanked them with a tip of her hat, then steered Humphrey back onto the main track. As the mismatched couple grew smaller behind her, Tex's smile widened into a bloodthirsty grin.

What kind of a Sheriff left his doors unlocked while he was out wandering in the desert? What kind of a person designed and built irrigation systems for a fat, guileless neighbor and his too-pretty wife? Tex was rarely curious about her targets, but this man – this man might prove to be different.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-I have no idea if llamas were raised outside of South America in the 1870s, but I don't really give a flying crap. CARL IS NOT CARL WITHOUT LLAMAS
-As an Irishman, Carl's parents would likely have come over from Ireland during the Great Potato Famine of the late 1840s. Most Irish immigrants settled into crappy urban conditions, but some opted to go west and seek greener pastures (literally, in Carl's case). Since Carl would've been born in America, he's got no accent, unlike Elke, who's pretty much fresh off the boat. Prior to the 1890s, Swedish immigrants were not particularly numerous, and they generally failed to assimilate into American society. Elke is doing better than most, then, seeing as she speaks English, is married to a financially-secure dude, and has a way cool bonnet.
-Carl's green and orange clothes are not only delightfully canon, but also a subtle reference to Ireland's deep-seated religious divide (orange for Protestants, and green for Catholics, as immortalized in the Irish Rovers song "The Orange and the Green". Google it).
-Goddard's namesake, the famous physicist and inventor Robert H. Goddard, wasn't born until 1882, so it doesn't really make much sense for Jimmy to have named his dog this. Fortunately, there was another scientist named John Frederick Goddard who was born in the late 1700s, and who was something of a genius chemist. So yeah, in this version of reality, Goddard the dog is named after him instead.

Chapter Text

Tex dismounted when she saw the first plumes of chimney smoke. Pulling some supplies from her rucksack, she led Humphrey to a grove of nearby pines. Chickadees hopped from twig to twig, chirping and flicking their tail feathers; pine needles tickled her face and arms as she pushed aside a branch and sent her horse past. The shade was cool and fragrant, and for a moment she longed to while away the evening among the trees. Instead, she gave Humphrey two quick pats, tied off his reins, and left him to devour his bag of oats.

Tex crept up the hill in a low and stealthy crouch, then peaked over the top. There it was. The Neutron homestead sat below her on the plain, and Tex took the lay of the land in silence. A good-sized house on a flat patch of soil...an apple tree...a stable near a dry gully....a set of locomotive parts lying in the middle of the yard...

Despite the lackluster scenery, Tex's heart pounded within her. She stood slowly, and a gust of wind caught her hair and threw back her longcoat. She could smell the desert – that odor of sand and coyote and distant sage, and a wild excitement filled her. There she was, standing on the very edge of civilization, and nobody within 100 miles knew what she had come here to do. Nobody knew what she thought or felt or wanted. Nobody ever did. Not her clients, or her informants, or her victims. There was a power in her loneliness, and over the years Tex had learned to drink it like nectar.

She picked her way down the hill, ears straining against the chirruping grasshoppers. But Goddard didn't bark as she approached, and nothing moved within the house. She stepped onto the porch, and it creaked weakly – and Tex knew she was alone.

She found the front door unlocked. The instant she crossed the threshold, the smells of the interior washed over her. There was sawdust and parchment, woodsmoke and peppermint – but above all, the familiar, comforting fragrance of balsam soap. It was the smell of civilization, and in a flash Tex was back in her childhood, sitting in the front parlor of her family's home. It was all there, in vivid detail: the crisp pages of the book in her lap, the folds of her peach-colored dress, Daddy's too-large slippers on her feet. It was as if the past and the present were tethered to each other by a scented string, and she need only look down its length to see herself standing on the other side.

Tex threw off the memory with a shiver and stomped into the front room. A map of Retro Valley hung over the fireplace – which was unlit, Tex discovered with a frown. Where was the chimney smoke coming from, then? As she rooted around the house, checking for weapons and valuables, she came across other oddities. There were chunks of quartz on the Grandfather clock, for instance, and a box full of metal cogs occupied the armchair by the door. In the washroom, she found a broken gel-plate camera, and she nearly bashed her head against a hairbrush-and-crank contraption hanging from the ceiling. Continuing with this theme, Tex's foray into the pantry revealed a cactus taking up most of the kitchen table.

The study was the only room that seemed to be in order. A bookshelf soared nearly to the housetop, and it contained tomes with names like Experimental Researches in Electricity, Domestic Quadrupeds: Their Natures and Uses, and The Encyclopedia of Infinite Knowledge. She walked to the far side of the room, where an abacus, some paper, and a jar of ink sat atop a mahogany desk. Without meaning to, she ran her hand over the glossy wood and sighed. Gorgeous.

Tex strolled into the master bedroom last of all. The bedspread was the same blue as the curtains, which was the same blue as the throw-rug on the floor, which was the same blue as the chair in the corner. Tex grinned at the Sheriff's decorative sense as she rifled through his belongings. Some keepsakes, a set of candlesticks, a telescope by the window, a wall-safe behind the dresser...

The Grandfather clock struck six, and Tex jumped in surprise. The throw-rug slid when she landed on it, and she staggered sideways and nearly tripped over a heap of unwashed pants. Tex was about to open the obscenity flood-gate when something caught her eye – her accident had shifted the rug just enough to reveal a glimmer of metal underneath. She pushed aside the pants, lifted the corner of the carpet, and threw it back. The outlaw didn't bother stifling her sharp intake of air. There, in the middle of the bedroom floor, was a trapdoor. And it was double-bolted and padlocked shut.

She plunked down on the Sheriff's bed. A trapdoor....to where? What could he be hiding under the house? Big valuables, that couldn't fit in a safe? Contraband? Bodies? Her mind swarmed with questions, then, one insight: The chimney smoke. There's another fireplace down there. Tex laid back as she pondered, and the scent of balsam soap wafted up from the comforter. She closed her eyes. I'll bet he smells like this too... Shuddering, the outlaw reprimanded herself for the thought, then jumped up and began pacing.

After about ten steps, it occurred to her that she didn't want to kill him...at least, not yet. You could tell a lot about a man based upon his belongings and his reputation in town, and the Sheriff seemed an outlier in both these categories. Nothing about him fit with the image of a pioneer-town lawman. A Sheriff on the edge of the world ought to be vigorous and austere, not scatterbrained and inscrutable, with hidden rooms under his house. Tex wanted to know more. Curiosity gnawed her insides like hunger, and she fished the murder contract out of her coat.

Her mind raced as she read the words. She would offer him the Remuneration Clause...then she'd see what kind of man he was. She'd unravel him until he had no secrets left. Calmed, Tex tucked the document away. She slid the rug back over the trapdoor, then set out to finish the preparations for his arrival.

This just in: even in a completely different version of reality, Jimmy still can't be bothered to pick up his pants.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-In the study, Tex encounters a book called Experimental Researches in Electricity, which was written in 1844 by the great scientist Michael Faraday. His research on the magnetic field around a conductor carrying a direct current established the basis for the concept of the electromagnetic field in physics. He also discovered the principle of electromagnetic induction, diamagnetism, and the laws of electrolysis. His inventions of electromagnetic rotary devices formed the foundation of electric motor technology, and he also created an early version of the bunsen burner. So yeah, cool guy. (The second book, Domestic Quadrupeds: Their Natures and Uses is something I made up; The Encyclopedia of Infinite Knowledge is of course from the Jimmy Neutron episode Time is Money).
-In addition to a primitive version of Jimmy's hair-styling gizmo, the washroom contains a gel plate camera, which was invented in 1871 by Richard Leach Maddox. Beginning at this time, cameras could finally be made small enough to be hand-held or even concealed. There was a proliferation of various designs, from single and twin lens reflexes to large and bulky field cameras, handheld cameras, and even "detective cameras" disguised as pocket watches, hats, or other objects. The gel-plate camera would mark the high point of photography until 1888, when the first Kodak camera went on sale.
-Finally, if Tex's reaction to the hidden trapdoor seems a bit excessive, you need to keep in mind that in the 1870s, frontier houses weren't equipped with basements. Root cellars, maybe, but nobody kept those padlocked shut under rugs in their bedrooms. Something like that would have been just a tad suspicious.

Chapter Text

It was nearly dusk by the time James Neutron shuffled tiredly into his bedroom. The kerosene lamp he carried threw long shadows across Tex, who was waiting for him, unseen in the corner chair. She gave him the once-over as he set down the lamp on the nightstand and removed his hat. The Sheriff was a man of average height, with an over-sized head and mussed-up brown hair. He wore a faded red shirt and a pair of the same trousers she'd tripped over earlier.

Tex chewed her thumbnail as he removed his gun belt and chucked it onto the bed. Unarmed and oblivious. Good. The Sheriff picked up the light again, and then unwittingly gazed straight at her. He flinched when he realized he wasn't alone – but his grip on the lamp never faltered, and Tex was reminded of a rhyme she'd heard long ago:

Drink with friends or not at all,
Don't fire 'till you're ready;
Beware the man who startled can,
Still hold his hands a-steady.

Tex could almost see the gears in his head turning as he tried to make sense of her presence. After a pause, he defaulted to the obvious question.

"Who are you?"

"I'm God's own blessèd angel," she answered wryly, pushing up the brim of her hat. "Can't you tell by my harp and pearly white robes?"

He noticed the revolver in her hands, and his eyes flicked toward the gun belt on his bed. Tex immediately cocked her weapon.

"Uh-uh, I don't think so. You're not gonna get the drop on me, dunderhead. Now take a step back – there's a good Sheriff – and put your hands in the air."

He did as he was told, looking her up and down as he reached skyward. "All right, what's this about? What do you want?"

Tex decided it would be fun to mess with him a little, so she said, "Well, let's think about this, shall we? You're a man. I'm a woman. We're in the bedroom... Obviously I want that Mahogany desk in your study."

He stared dumbly, and she sighed.

"No? Not even a chuckle? Ah well, straight to business, then: this little stick-up isn't about what I want, Mr. Neutron. It's about what my client wants – and he'd very much like to see you dead."

He flinched again, but he looked more puzzled than afraid. Finally he said, "Someone hired you to kill me?"

"You've got a mind like a steel trap, sir."

His befuddled expression transformed into a glare. It went straight through her, and Tex's heart rate increased. She knew a dangerous man when she saw one. Watch your back, came that little voice inside her head. If you let him get the better of you, you'll end up behind bars – or worse.

"Dare I ask why I'm still alive, then?" he sneered. "If you're going to execute me, I suggest you do it now, and spare me the taunting. I'd prefer if my last seconds of life weren't monopolized by a no-count, low-down, villainous piece of scum like you."

"Villainous piece of scum? Oh, Mr. Neutron, you positively wound me. And here I was, thinking I might just take pity on you and elect to spare your life."

He rolled his eyes. "Right, yes, of course, and Blaise Pascal lives in my stable. Please. You're an assassin. You've probably never felt pity in your life. Spare me the theatrics, and tell me what you're after. I'd be dead ten times over already if you were thinking solely of your client's wishes."

Smart, she thought. Sense of humor could use some work though.

"I'm curious about you, Mr. Neutron," she said matter-of-factly. "I want to see what kind of a man leaves his front door unlocked, but keeps a double-bolted trapdoor hidden under a rug in his bedroom."

She could see the surprise on his face. "You found that?"

"Uh-huh. You might want to try picking up your pants."

He snorted. "Well, if you're looking for a job as a housekeeper, I'm afraid I'm going to have to reject your application."

Tex couldn't help but laugh. "I'm still technically employed, thanks. My client just failed to read the fine print in our contract." She cleared her throat before narrating the terms. "Ahem. As stated in paragraph 5, line 6 of the homicide-for-hire agreement, I reserve the right to offer the target – that's you – a chance to save himself, provided that the target – that's you again – proves to be of more value alive than dead."

"Value? How could I possibly be of value to you?"

"Well, that depends. There are only two types of men who matter in this world, Mr. Neutron. Those who have money –" she tapped the side of her head "– and those who have brains. Everyone else is just a scribble in the margins. Now, the fellow who hired me is a member of the old boys' club, so if you want to trump his hand, you're gonna have to outspend him. Let me put it to you simple: pay me more than he did, and I'll hightail it out of here without another word."

"Ah, I see how it is. And how much did he pay you, this man who sent you to put a bullet in my head?"

His angry stare was thrilling, and she challenged it with a half-mad grin. "$1,500," she answered.

"What happens if I cannot afford the fee? What then? No wait, let me guess – my value as an asset steeply depreciates."

"Not at all! You misjudge me, Sheriff; I am deeply sympathetic to budget constraints. If your wallet proves too thin, you can rest assured that you still possess something I hold in high esteem...your mind. You seem like a clever man, and I'd love to see you put your wits to work. The fact of the matter is, I'm hankering for some entertainment, so if you can figure out a way to surprise me...no, impress me...three times within the next week, I'll let you off the hook for free. However –" she spun the cylinder on her revolver "– I am not easily overawed, and if you fail to impress me thrice by Friday next, I'll have no choice but to carry out my client's wishes. It won't even be a murder, Mr. Neutron. You will simply disappear."

Tex waited for his reaction, her finger hovering a hair's breadth above the trigger. The metal was fast warming to the temperature of her skin.

"$1,500 to save my life?" he said at last. "Fine." She kept her revolver trained on him as he stalked over to his dresser and slid it aside, exposing the wall-safe Tex had spotted earlier. Holding the kerosene lamp in his left hand, he input the combination with his right. The door swung open, and Tex tensed, ready to shoot if he pulled a weapon from the safe. Instead, he removed a bundle of paper money. The Sheriff turned to face her, running his finger along the stack to showcase each individual bill.

"Here we are," he told her. "$1,575. My entire savings."

"All right. Come forward slowly and drop the money at my feet. No funny business, either."

He crossed the distance between them, and Tex nodded to herself. Order had been restored. He might have secret rooms under his house, but deep down, he was just like every other man: prosaic and buyable. Tex was about to offer another scathing remark when the Sheriff did something she wasn't expecting: he didn't drop the money. He kept right on walking until he was standing directly over her, and she had to fight the urge to shrink back in the chair. The light from the kerosene lamp flickered over both of them, flaring and dying and flaring again, as they locked gazes.

"Look at you," he said, "sitting there with your revolver, assigning a dollar value to my existence. Is that what life and death is to you? A transaction? You sicken me. If I wanted to continue putting money into the hands of crooked scoundrels, I would've stayed in Massachusetts."

"Massachusetts? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you. About everyone like you. People who think the world can be bought and sold like a bag of flour. Well I've got news for you, miss – what you said before, about the two types of men who matter? You couldn't be more wrong. There's only one type that matters." He tapped the side of his head. "And I'm going to show you which."

With a look of contempt, the Sheriff removed the glass shield from the kerosene lamp. He tossed the shield onto the bed, and Tex stared at the exposed flame in bewilderment. The glass? Why would he take off the gl– Then it hit her like a brick wall. No. He wouldn't. There's no way in a million years...

But he did. He lowered the cash into the open flame, and the whole stack caught fire. The bills curled back like corn husks, charring and crumbling into his waiting palm. Just like that, a small fortune up in smoke – and along with it, his easy way out. Still glaring, he dumped the ashes into Tex's lap, then leaned over her.

"Impressed yet?" he said.

Tex couldn't answer.

...

Hours later, and Tex was still awake. She lay on the Sheriff's roof, listening to the chorus of nighttime sounds – crickets in the grass, the whispering wind, a whip-poor-will trilling in the faraway pines. Humphrey munched on hay inside the stable, and Tex wondered if her horse preferred its security to the open night air.

Rolling over, she gazed up into the sky. It seemed to fill all of existence, arcing from its zenith overhead right down to the tips of her peripheral vision. She knew every inch of the heavens by heart. When she was little, her Daddy had taught her the names of the constellations, but she still preferred to imagine her own. Draco was The Coiled Rattlesnake; Cepheus was The Courthouse. Cygnus was no swan...it was a vulture circling the Milky Way, and Lyra was a miniature lasso. Tex felt a kinship with these alternate constellations, because they fit her world in a way ancient myths never could.

Where, then, would a figure like James Neutron fit into the skymap she had created? Everything about him seemed out of place. She had never before met a man willing to throw away his lifeline just to one-up an opponent. What sane individual would stand over an armed killer and burn $1,575? What kind of person forsook guaranteed salvation in favor of a gamble, just to prove a point? The whole thing filled her with a frightened kind of awe. It was difficult to admit, but she could scarcely remember a time when she'd been more impressed.

If it's a challenge he wants, she thought, he'll have it. Starting tomorrow, the game begins in earnest. One down, two to go.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-Believe it or not, I actually researched the history of steel to see if "mind like a steel trap" would be an 1870s-appropriate snarky remark. Turns out, the modern era in steel-making began with the introduction of Henry Bessemer's 'Bessemer Process' in 1858. So yeah, take that, history. I know you.
-If you've ever suffered through the binomial expansion unit in Algebra class, chances are you've heard of Blaise Pascal. Pascal was a a French mathematician, physicist, inventor, writer, and Christian philosopher who lived in the 1600s; he invented, among other things, a mechanical calculator, Pascal's Triangle, and Pascal's Theorem. He is also remembered in theological circles for positing the idea that, although we cannot know whether or not a God exists, there's more to be gained from wagering that he does exist (because if he doesn't, well...nothing happens, but if he does, you get rewarded for your belief). Nowadays this is known as Pascal's Wager, and is a favorite point of discussion for philosophically-minded hipster college kids everywhere.
-In case you were unclear about just how ballsy burning $1,500+ would have been in the 1870s, let me put it into perspective for you. In 2022 dollars, that comes out to somewhere along the lines of $38,000. If you're now wondering why Tex charged Eustace double that amount for one measly hit, it's because he's rich as all get-out and probably wouldn't blink at dropping 20k on an urn. She figured as much and took advantage of it. And if you're further wondering why the hell the Sheriff would have 30k in modern dollars in a safe in his room...well, you'll have to wait and find out (Hint: he's not a hooker)

Chapter Text

Tex woke to the scent of fresh-baked bread. After ages of nothing but trail rations, one whiff was all it took to send her stomach into conniptions. Hopping up, she stretched her stiff limbs, then climbed down from the roof and followed her nose inside. She sauntered into the kitchen to find the Sheriff at the table eating breakfast. He still wore last night's clothes, and his hair was standing up like the fur on a spooked cat. He froze when he saw her, a piece of toast raised halfway to his mouth.

Eager to harass him, Tex swaggered over and snatched the food right out of his hand. She bit into the flaky crust as she eased herself into the chair opposite him, and he looked on in astonishment.

“You – you took my toast!” he stammered.

“Mmmm, yeah,” she said, licking her fingers, “and it is delicious. Much obliged.”

He scowled at her, and Tex decided he was more attractive when he was angry. Smacking her lips, she leaned back and surveyed the pantry. In daylight it was cheerful and bright, with white curtains, hickory cabinets, and pale green wallpaper. Any pretense to normalcy ended there. Jars filled with grasshoppers lined the windowsill, and yesterday's dirty dishes lay in a mechanized basin on the floor, surrounded by all manner of gears and pulleys.

And then there was the matter of the five-foot-tall cactus sitting smack-dab in the middle of the kitchen table...

“So,” she chomped after moment, “are you going to introduce me?”

“Introduce you?”

“Yeah, you know. To your cactus. The two of you must be very close, always taking your meals together and whatnot.”

The Sheriff glanced up at the towering plant. “Don't be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “I don't keep cacti for companionship. That saguaro is a part of an ongoing experiment of mine. It has to sit in that exact spot, or the test will fail.”

“Wow. No wonder you're still a bachelor.”

He glared again, and Tex swiped his fork. He immediately leaned forward and snatched it from her grip. “Look,” he said, “since you clearly mean to antagonize me for the rest of the week, could you at least do me the courtesy of sharing your name? I didn't catch it while you were waving a gun in my face, putting up your horse in my stable, or sleeping the night away on my roof.”

“Apologies!” she chuckled, before reaching over to the cactus and snapping off a spine. She used it to spear one of the sausages on his plate, then ate the pilfered morsel in one bite. “Mmm...Cynthia Aurora Vortex, at your service, Mr. Neutron. You can call me Tex for short.”

Exasperated, he shoved the whole dish over to her. “Here! Help yourself, Miss Vortex. I can see you're determined to have my breakfast regardless of my feelings on the matter.”

“I told you; it's 'Tex', dunderhead.” She picked up his coffee mug and took a swig. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

He snatched the coffee back from her and pounded the remaining liquid. “I refuse to debase myself with monosyllabic criminal pseudonyms,” he declared, slamming down the cup. “And since I cannot abide the thought of being on a first-name basis with a felon, you'll have to settle for your last name, Vortex. If you ever decide to take a bath and delouse yourself, perhaps I'll reconsider.”

“Tch. Fine by me, Neutron. Just remember that I have both our pistols in my belt, and I've always got one hand ready for the draw...in case you get any smart ideas.”

His grin was threatening. “You just wait. You'll find out...you'll see what I can do. I'm going to beat you at your own game, you little minx, and once I've finished impressing you, I'm going to haul you off to jail for conspiracy to commit murder. I'll see you stand trial if it's the last thing I do.”

“Pffft, good luck getting a conviction. What evidence do you have? Last night's conversation? Not gonna cut it. I know the laws of this country like the back of my hand, and if you take me to trial, I will get myself exonerated.”

“No evidence?” he murmured. “Hmm, I suppose not. Unless of course, you had a written copy of that homicide contract you mentioned yesterday. Perhaps concealed somewhere, like inside that longcoat, or in your hat –”

Tex felt a twinge of alarm. Of course, he couldn't know that she carried a copy of the contract in her pocket. She would have to make sure he was never alone with her jacket.

“My client has the contract,” she lied, “and he's hundreds of miles away by now.”

“How unfortunate. It appears I'm out of luck, then.” He twirled the fork back and forth, flipping it with the precise control of a surgeon. “Or maybe,” he continued, in a tone that made her hair stand on end, “you won't get a trial. Maybe I'll ignore Habeas corpus, and just let you waste away in the Retro Valley prison, until there's nothing left for anyone to find.”

Before Tex could retort with a counter-threat, a strange tapping sound filled the pantry. Mr. Neutron raised a finger to shush her. Blip blip blip, bliiiip bliiiip bliiiip, blip blip blip... He listened intently, and when the noises ceased, he sprung up from the table. He fetched a suede vest from the back of his chair and buttoned it over his shirt.

“Hey Neutron, was that–”

“Morse Code?” he completed, pinning a star-shaped badge to his lapel. “Yes. There's a Western Union telegraph line not far from here; I tapped into the wire so townsfolk could contact me in the event of an emergency. Not sure which one of them sent it, but if I heard the message right, it seems a brawl has broken out in the town square.”

“Brawl? Never mind the brawl! How the devil did you manage to tap into a Western Union line?”

Instead of answering, he whistled. “Goddard, where are you, boy? Don't tell me you're still chasing after that infernal squirrel! Must we go through this every morning?”

Tex heard the click of nails on the hardwood floor, and the Sheriff's dog trotted into the pantry. Goddard took one look at the outlaw, wagged his tail, and went to sniff her boots. As he approached, Tex realized he was missing a leg. A harness held a metal prosthetic in place; it was the same gray as his sleek fur.

“You made a mechanical leg for your dog?” she exclaimed.

The Sheriff eyed her sideways as he knelt to stroke his pet. “As the week wears on, my dear, you may find I have a variety of talents.” She raised an eyebrow, and he straightened. “But for now, duty calls. Goddard and I are bound for the town square to break up the fight.” He extended a hand. “Seeing as I may find myself in harm's way on this venture, I'll be needing my weapon back now. I'm sure you understand.”

She snorted. “Sakes alive, Neutron, you must think I'm a halfwit. But never fear – I'll protect you. Until the week's up, you can think of me as your personal bodyguard. Wherever you go, I'll go too. I promise, nobody will shoot you but me.”

“I...don't even know what to say to that.” He shook his head. “Go saddle up our horses, Vortex. If you can do it in under two minutes, I'll buy you a drink at Libby's.”

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-OK, Morse code, here we go. In 1836, American artist Samuel F. B. Morse, physicist Joseph Henry, and mechanist/inventor Alfred Vail used their bro time to kick back, hang out, and create an electrical telegraph system. However, because the telegraph was basically limited to blips, bleeps, and periods of silence, language would have to be transmitted via code. Morse was like, "I got this", and he sat down and came up with the forerunner to modern International Morse code (which was then standardized in 1865, and is still used today). The message heard in this chapter - 3 short, 3 long, 3 short - comes out to "SOS", the universal distress signal.
-Western Union was and still is a financial services and communications corp. It was created in 1855 when two competing telegraph companies merged and became this weird monopoly juggernaut that ate up other companies like cheez-its. By 1860, it had built telegraph lines from the East Coast to the Mississippi River, and from the Great Lakes to the Ohio River. In 1861, it opened the first transcontinental telegraph, facilitating near-instantaneous communication between the east and west coasts. Prior to this, message delivery depended on the Pony Express, which employed horseback riders to carry letters in staged relays between stations (where fresh horses and riders were waiting). At the absolute fastest, a Pony Express message would take about ten days to make it from one coast to the other. Imagine waiting ten days to read one freaking e-mail...

-Vocab, in case you didn't already know:
*Minx - a pert or impudent young woman
*Habeas corpus - known as "the great writ", this requirement-by-law states that a person under arrest must be brought before a judge or into court. It protects against unlawful or indefinite detention, and it has historically been an important legal instrument safeguarding individual freedom against arbitrary state action (and pissed-off sheriffs).

Chapter Text

They rode into town amid a cloud of kicked-up dust. The Sheriff had trained Goddard to sit behind him in the saddle, and the dog panted happily as the horse galloped, ears flapping in the wind. Tex frowned. When charging into danger, it was best to look as intimidating as possible, and the sight of a goofy, drooling dog was likely to inspire laughter, not fear.

Once they reached the square, however, Tex began to understand the Sheriff's lack of caution. It wasn't a proper brawl at all, merely a belligerent man yelling insults at another fellow across the street. Still, just to be safe, Tex drew both guns as she dismounted. She approached the shouting man and found him to be squat, unkempt, and ugly, with a bulbous jaw and hair that hung over his eyes. He clutched a near-empty jug of Flurp in one fist, and there were purple stains all up and down his striped shirt. The target of his jeers was another story altogether: a story that began with 'tall', continued with 'tan', and ended with 'exceptionally, fantastically good-looking'.

“Get back here, Injun Nick, y'hear me?” yelled the squat man. “Yer dumber 'n a rocks of box...pox of...” His face reddened from the exertion of trying to form a coherent sentence. “Box a rocks! I said it before, Ninjun...Injun Nick, an' I'm a...ssshay it again: this town ain't big enough fer the two of us!”

Injun Nick affected amused indifference. He pulled a cigar from his buckskin jacket and popped it into his mouth, then proceeded to chew on it, unlit, as though it were a stick of candy.

The Sheriff threw up his hands as he dismounted. “Really Butch? Again? How many times do you plan on disturbing the peace? So help me, there will be consequences if you keep this up.”

Butch stumbled around to face him. “What're you on 'bout? Jim-Jam-Jimmy? Yyyy'know, I used to beat the tar outta dandies like you when I weren't only THIS high!” The drunk swung up an arm to indicate a child's height, and he nearly pitched backward in the process. “Tha's howsiss...how izz..how...”

“Hang it all, Butch, it's 9 o'clock in the morning! What is the matter with you?”

“Well, if you want my professional opinion,” remarked Tex, “I'd say he's three sheets to the wind, Sheriff.”

He gave her a withering look. “More like four sheets. What I don't understand is why he feels the need to be this inebriated before the midday mark!”

Butch's observational skills must have been operating on a delay, because he suddenly gaped up at Tex. “Wait just a damned minute, isssss'at a lady?” He lifted his hair out of his eyes to get a better look. “...It is a lady! Well I'll be a son of a! I didn't know you'd gone 'n got yerself a hanger-on-er, Sheriff. Dad-blasted…how come I'm the only man in this whole damned...this whole damned town who can't get hisself a woman?” He pointed a calloused finger up at Goddard, who still sat in the saddle. “You let your doggone...dog...you let him ride in yer pillion, but you still get a woman, an' I don't? It ain't fair! I wouldn’t piss on your teeth if your mouth was on fire!”

“Oh, that is charming, Butch. But she's not my woman. Think of her as...my deputy for the rest of the week. I'd watch your mouth around her, if you know what's good for you. She possesses a short temper and an itchy trigger finger.”

Tex gave both pistols a flashy twirl, but Butch had already turned back to Nick. “This is your fault! You take all the good ones...girlsh, every girl I set my eye on, you gotta come in an' steal her away. That's whatchyare, Nick...a thief. Thief thief thhhhhief. You think you're ten feet tall and bulletproof, but you're no better 'n me!”

Injun Nick tossed back a lock of raven hair. His voice, which was gravelly and disaffected, added to his suave demeanor. “I hate to break it to you, Butch, but you're ten pounds of ugly in a five pound bag. You're never gonna get a girl looking like that. So yeah, if you're wondering why Britney went for me last night instead of you, it's cause you look and smell like the northbound side of a southbound mule. Might wanna work on that, padre.”

Nick flipped up his jacket collar, re-positioned the cigar in his mouth, and headed off down the street. He walked with a pronounced limp, Tex noticed – a stark imperfection in his otherwise flawless appearance.

“Northbound side of a–!” spat Butch. “You! You gotta face like a bulldog lickin' wizz off a nettle! Come back here! I’ll beat you like a rented mule, you half-breed Comanche gimp!”

Nick stopped in his tracks. He hesitated for several seconds before strolling off again, and Tex knew that Butch's words had angered him. Nick tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked off, whistling lazily. This time, though, he camouflaged his limp with a swagger.

Butch continued hurling insults into thin air, and Tex scratched her chin in thought.

“If you're wondering about the limp,” said the Sheriff, answering Tex's unspoken question, “the origin story grows more spectacular with every retelling: grizzly bear attack, wrestled God, that sort of thing. Personally, I think he just broke his leg a bunch of times as a kid.”

Tex stared after his retreating figure. “Mmm, I see. A tall dark man with a mysterious wound. How...intriguing.”

The Sheriff took one look at her expression and frowned. “I wouldn't set your sights on Nick Dean, if I were you. He's a trapper by trade, but his real profession is womanizing. He's a rounder, Vortex, and he's got lovers and debts in every town from here to San Antonio.”

“What's this?” She whirled round to face him. “Concerned for my easily-besmirched honor, are we? I appreciate the sentiment, but if you'd care to see the morrow, I suggest you mind your own business. I've been managing my own affairs since I was fifteen, thank you very much, and I don't intend to stop now.”

“Suit yourself.”

Evidently Butch needed no provocation to change targets, because he turned to the Sheriff and narrowed his eyes. “Hey, I heard that. You laughin' at me, huh? You think that's funny?”

“Butch, I wasn't talking to –”

“Huh?! You...you and yer woman, you think I'm funny? I'll show you funny!”

He pitched the Flurp jug at the Sheriff's face, and Tex didn't think – she just raised her pistol and fired. It was an incredible shot, and the ceramic container shattered in midair. Butch fell clean over from surprise, the horses bucked, and Goddard was nearly thrown from the saddle. Shards of pottery exploded outward; some landed, tinkling, on the dusty street, and the rest rained down on the Sheriff. Most of the fragments bounced harmlessly off his vest, but one grazed his cheek and left a small cut. He shook the largest of the chunks from his hair, before turning on Tex with a venomous glare.

“What are you trying to do,” he yelled, “pepper me with shrapnel? That shard almost hit my eye, you trigger-happy moron!”

“What? I just saved your sorry ass from getting pelted in the head with flying jug, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I would've dodged it! I'm perfectly capable of holding my own in a dangerous situation. I'm not some inept first-timer who needs protection, least of all from an unscrupulous, uneducated degenerate like you.”

The reproof stung more than it should have, and she retorted with vitriol. “Uneducated?! You think this is a 'dangerous situation', and you accuse me of ignorance? Hell's bells, how sheltered are you, Sheriff?”

“Just because I don't fraternize with the dregs of society –”

“Hey! I don't fraternize with anyone unless they – hey, what the – whoa now!” Tex nearly toppled sideways as Butch grabbed hold of her leg. He snagged her coat with his other hand, then proceeded to haul himself up arm over arm, using her clothing as a ladder. Butch had changed his tune, as drunken louts are wont to do, and he babbled out apologies as he steadied himself against her. If she was scandalized by the physical contact, Tex gave no sign of it. Instead, she favored the Sheriff with an angry glance.

Uneducated. I'll show you uneducated...

When Butch finally regained his balance, Tex patted him on the shoulder. “Good news, my inebriated friend. Excessive alcohol consumption has impaired your judgment, so you won't understand the gravity of the charges I'm about to convey upon you. Let's review...disorderly conduct, public drunkenness, coarse contact with a lady of good standing... And then there's assaulting an officer of the law, which is a class six felony, and is gonna earn you a year in the big house, minimum. Now, a proper lawyer could probably get that charge knocked down to misdemeanor simple assault, but seeing as there's no courthouse or judge or anything in this two-bit town, you'll have to settle for justice the Texas way.”

He blinked stupidly. “The what?”

“Goodnight, Butch.”

Tex punched him in the face, and he was out cold before he even hit the dirt. He lay there, snoring, with a dimwitted look on his face, and Tex turned back to the Sheriff in triumph.

Mr. Neutron appeared mildly stunned. “You...you didn't inform him of his rights,” he stammered after a moment.

“He’s plenty informed already. See? He's exercising his right to remain silent even as we speak.”

The Sheriff looked down at Butch, then back up at Tex. He frowned. “I don't understand you, Vortex. Killer, vagrant, quick-draw...attorney? You'll have to forgive me if I don't see the connection. Is there an explanation for any of this?”

Tex shook the soreness from her knuckles. “I used to be someone who mattered, Neutron. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime.” Grabbing both horses by the reins, she turned and strolled off toward Libby's Juke Joint, her coat billowing behind her. She motioned for him to follow. “Come on, Sheriff, we've done our civic duty.”

“But...but we can't just leave him in the middle of the street!”

“Sure we can.”

“Look, Vortex, Butch isn't all bad...I mean, sure, he is a bully and an ignoramus, but he's a first-rate carpenter, and he's really only a nuisance when he's intoxicated...”

“Don't get your dander up, Sheriff. He'll be fine. At any rate, he'll be sleeping off this bender for a coon's age...and in the meantime, I believe you owe me a drink. Horses saddled in one minute and forty five seconds, remember? It's time to pay up.”

The Sheriff regarded the outlaw with something akin to resentful admiration, then trotted off after her.

At long last, I have achieved my dream of using the iconic phrase "this town ain't big enough fer the two of us" in one of my own works. Already this story has allowed me to check two such phrases off my bucket list.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- The Comanche (Nʉmʉnʉʉ, "the people") are an indigenous group native to the Southern Plains region of what is now the United States. Originally an offshoot of the Shoshone, their historic territory spanned parts of present-day New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. During the 18th and 19th centuries, the Comanche developed a nomadic horse culture, hunting bison and other large game. They traded extensively with neighboring Native American peoples as well as European settlers. Not all interactions were peaceful, however – as foreign colonists encroached ever farther into Comanche territory, the men began waging war on them (and on neighboring indigenous groups). Thousands of captives from raids on Spanish, Mexican, and American settlers were assimilated into Comanche society, resulting in many mixed-race children, like Nick. (And yes, the moniker "Injun Nick" – which I borrowed from Mark Twain – would be considered highly offensive today). One not-so-fun fact about the Comanche is that they were infamous for brutally torturing their adversaries during times of war...but if the victim put on a brave face and resisted showing any signs of pain, they were given an honorable death, or were even set free. Hooray!
- A Class 6 Felony is the least serious of all the felony charges; however, the designation is anachronistic. I tried my best to find a listing of period-accurate legal terminology for the state of Texas, but no luck. When all else fails, you sometimes have to make shit up. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
-Those of you who are familiar with the history of law may wonder why the Sheriff mentioned "reading Butch his rights", when this protocol (known as Miranda Rights) wasn't made mandatory until the 1960s. The Sheriff was referring to Butch's 5th Amendment rights (the part of the Bill of Rights that allows people to keep silent in order to avoid self-incrimination).

Vocab:
* Pillion - A pad or cushion for an extra rider behind the saddle on a horse
* Three sheets to the wind - rip-roaring drunk
* Don't get your dander up - chill out
* The Big House - prison

Chapter Text

Tex tapped her fingernails against the tabletop as she waited for the Sheriff to get back with the drinks. He was taking his sweet time at the bar, shooting the breeze with Miss Folfax, and Tex exhaled her irritation. Goddard nuzzled her leg from beneath the chair, and she patted him as she surveyed the room. She hadn't given it much thought before, but the Retro Valley Juke Joint had to be one of the cleanest and best-decorated saloons in all Texas. A painting of an opera house sat above the piano, and Libby had matched the rest of the room to its maroon and gold color scheme. A fiddle hung beside the bar, and a velvet curtain half-concealed a quaint little country stage and an adjacent back room. It was upbeat, inviting, and packed to the rafters with good cheer – frankly, Tex couldn't comprehend how the whole place hadn't been ransacked by thieves and shot full of bullets ages ago.

“Sorry for the wait,” came the Sheriff's voice. “Thanks to a certain someone, I had to explain to Libby why a gunshot interrupted her morning tidy-up.”

Tex turned to find him beside the table, carrying two full glasses of milk. He set one down in front of her, and she gaped at it as he took his seat.

“Milk? You brought me to a saloon and ordered me milk?”

“What? I promised to buy you a drink if you saddled the horses in under two minutes. I never specified what kind of drink.”

Tex pulled her hat down over her ears. “Ugh, God's teeth, you're a pain in the ass. Next time I'll make sure to specify before I...hey...wait a minute...” She peered into his face, and her eyes widened. “Oh holy hell, you're not one of those crack-brained Temperance Leaguers, are you?”

“The anti-alcohol crowd? Not by a long shot,” he replied. “I just consider it unwise to ingest liquor before the midday mark. But never fear – if you'd still care to drink come suppertime, I'd be happy to oblige you. After all, once you've fallen into a drunken stupor, it'll be a simple matter to roll you over, help myself to those pistols, and handcuff you to a piece of furniture.”

“Oh-ho! How sporting of you to warn me. But I'm afraid you've got it wrong, Mr. Lawman. I never, ever get drunk unless I'm with someone I trust with my life. Do you have any idea what would happen to me if I passed out in the wrong company? I'm a woman in the wilds, Sheriff. Assuming I was lucky enough to even wake up afterward, I doubt there would be much felicity left for me in living.”

This seemed to trouble him, and he frowned into his milk glass. In the ensuing silence, Libby's voice rang out from somewhere in the back room.

“Hold up just a second more, Sheriff! Almost got the money together now. Just gotta count a couple more coins out the tip jar...”

“I already told you, Miss Folfax,” he shouted back, “there's no rush. Take your time.”

'Almost got the money'? thought Tex. What is she talking about?

She treated the Sheriff to a quizzical squint, and he lowered his voice. “Listen, Vortex, just so we're clear, I want you to leave the townsfolk out of this. You are my problem, not theirs. I told Miss Folfax that you're a deputy-in-training from Red River County, so that’s the identity you must assume. If anyone asks, you tell them that you're here to obtain field experience under my guidance, understand?”

Tex choked on her milk. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me – field experience, under your guidance? Sweet mother Mary above. I hope you've got smelling salts on hand, Sheriff, 'cause if you keep talking like that, I'm liable to have myself a laughing fit.”

“Just...shh! Just play along, all right? We need to keep our stories straight. It's not like I'm asking the impossible...I imagine you're well-accustomed to telling lies about yourself, being a vicious, evil backbiter and all.”

Tex kicked him under the table, and he clenched his jaw in anger, but held his tongue. Seconds later, Libby emerged from the back room carrying a white envelope. Her walk was jaunty, and there was a hint of pride in her smile as she approached the table.

“Here we are, Mr. Neutron,” said Miss Folfax, “the last payment. $15.25, as promised, and in full.” She handed the envelope to the Sheriff, who tucked it into his vest pocket – without, Tex noticed, checking to make sure the money was inside. Libby noticed too, and she rolled her eyes. “Sheriff, you sod-for-brains naive trustin' fool, you're spoiling my fun! You're supposed to look inside the envelope first. Go on. Open it!”

Puzzled, he retrieved the parcel from his vest and popped open the paper flap. Tex leaned across the table, watching as he pulled a piece of stationery from among the dollar bills.

“It's an invitation!” blurted Libby, before he'd even had the chance to read it. “The Retro Valley Juke Joint has been in business a full year now, an' as of this moment, my loan is finally paid off. Naturally I'm throwin' a party to celebrate. Monday night, startin' at 6pm and goin' until daybreak, we are gonna happify ourselves into oblivion. Everyone who's anyone is gonna be there...Mr. 'n Mrs. Wheezer, Oleander and Miss Emily, Britney, Injun Nick, Ike, Nissa, Wendell, Doctor Bolbi, Ignishka, Butch if he's sober enough to walk through the front door...”

“...Señor Estevez?” suggested the Sheriff, with the slightest of eyebrow-raises.

“Yes, the Señor. Lands sakes, it wouldn't be a party without Sheen staggerin' 'round half plastered, prattlin' on about Cabarrus, North Carolina and the biggest gold nugget ever dug up...”

Mr. Neutron started cracking up, and Miss Folfax followed suit. Tex smiled into her glass, and for a moment she basked in secondhand mirth...then she remembered what she was: a stranger with a gun, seated across from a man with a cross-hair on his heart, listening to an inside joke about someone she barely knew. Her smile quickly faded.

“And Miss Tex,” continued Libby, “I expect to be seein' your pretty face there, too. I've never met a lady deputy before, and I'd love for the two of us to get better acquainted. Plus, let's be honest...you could probably teach the Sheriff a thing or two about Texas shindigs. I swear, if Mr. Neutron spends one more town get-together sittin' in the corner doin' sums on my napkins, I'm gonna flip my lid.”

Tex kept her gaze on the table. “Me. You're inviting me to your party. ...Why?”

“Simple. Mr. Neutron was the one who lent me the money to build this place. He got me on my feet, set me up with the essentials...gave me an interest-free loan, when nobody else with two cents to rub together would even spit in my direction. I owe him a lot, Miss Tex, so any friend of his is a friend of mine. Yourself included.”

Tex peered over at the Sheriff from underneath her bangs, trying to get a read on his expression. He was watching her watching him, however, and he merely took another sip from his glass. Libby picked up on their silent exchange and gave both of them a funny look, but before anyone spoke, a loud knock-knock-knock interrupted from the other room.

“Sorry,” grimaced Libby, “would you two excuse me for a second? I've got someone at the back door.” She hurried off to attend to it, and Tex looked down at the table again.

“So,” she said, tracing a finger along the rim of her glass, “you sweet on her?”

Mr. Neutron seemed genuinely taken aback. “Miss Folfax? Not in the slightest. Why?”

“Oh, just trying to figure out why anyone would give an interest-free loan to a woman with no visible capital. Way I see it, you're either sweet on her, or you are spectacularly devoid of business sense.”

His expression darkened. “Keep quiet about things you don't understand, Vortex. I didn't do it for her.”

“Then who'd you do it for?”

A grating voice echoed from the back room, followed by a short burst of laughter. Libby stuck her face out of the doorway and called to Tex and the Sheriff.

“Apologies for runnin' off,” she half-chuckled, “but we got us a situation back here. Doctor's pet goat got loose again, and this time he went after Sheen. Bothersome varmint knocked him into some brambles and ate half his shirt off.”

The prospector muttered something to Miss Folfax, and she answered him over her shoulder. “Don't you back-sass me, Señor Estevez...I've got two more of your shirts above stairs. And no, not the one that caught fire last week – I told you, I can't mend a chest-sized cinder hole. What? Yeah, I'm comin'...” She turned again to her guests, mouthed the word 'sorry', then disappeared into the back room. Tex and the Sheriff heard creaking as the proprietor and her charge ascended the staircase up to the second floor.

“Ah,” said Tex, after their footsteps had faded, “so it's the prospector. He's the one who's sweet on her.”

“Eureka,” Mr. Neutron replied dryly. “Problem is, no woman in her right mind is going to settle down with a man who spends most of his time camped out in the desert with a pack mule.” The Sheriff sighed. “Look, I'll make it simple for you. When I left Massachusetts a year and a half ago, I was alone. Carl and Sheen were the first real friends I made after I bought this valley. They may have their idiosyncrasies, but they've treated me better than my own family, and I don't take that sort of thing lightly. Sheen wanted Miss Folfax to stay in town until he could get better situated, so I made it happen. That's what I do, Vortex. I make things happen.”

Tex stared at him. “Hold up a second. That's a touching story of loyalty and can-do attitude and all, but...did you just say that you bought a valley? How does one 'buy' an entire valley, pray tell? I mean...burning wads of cash to impress me, financing saloons, purchasing vast swathes of land...just how much money do you have?”

“Me? $15.25. My parents? ...More than some mid-sized countries, I'd say.”

“Your parents?”

He sighed again. “My father is a big-shot investor back East. He owns a controlling stake in the corporate empire of Mr. Hank McSpanky. Long story short, back when McSpanky was just a penniless entrepreneur, my father struck a bargain with him – a full partnership, in exchange for $50 of start-up cash. Obviously it paid off.”

Tex gripped the edge of the table. “Wait...Agri-King McSpanky? The smelly, crazy-eyed tycoon who's wealthier than the dreams of avarice? That Hank McSpanky?”

“The very same.”

“Jesus Christ on a crutch,” blinked Tex. “You must be rolling in it.”

“My parents are rolling in it, not me. They reduced my yearly stipend after I showed no interest in stock trading and refused to marry McSpanky's pedigreed twit of a niece. That $1,500 I burned really was the last of my funds.”

“You passed up easy money and a dumb broad who'd cater to your every whim?” She shook her head. “Bonehead move on your part, Neutron.”

“Easy for you to say. You didn't have to grow up in that household. My parents were obsessed with their financial empire. They didn't care if I gargled liquid nitrogen and set the drapes on fire, as long as Hilgo the maid cleaned it up afterward. I spent most of my childhood locked in the backyard summerhouse, filling my spare hours with research and experiments.”

“Experiments, huh? You mean like your pet table cactus?”

“Yes, like my – no, not like the cactus, curse you! Would you quit harping on that?”

She hid a smile. “All right, so you don't get on well with your parents. That doesn't explain why you came west. You could be living the high life with some gorgeous society lady in Richmond or Boston right now. Why come here? Why buy Retro Valley? And why appoint yourself town sheriff, instead of mayor, or blacksmith, or...anything else, really? No offense, but you don't particularly strike me as the rootin' tootin' gunslinger type.”

The clunk-clunk-clunk of descending footsteps forestalled the Sheriff's reply. He and Tex turned to find Sheen standing in the doorway, scratching at the starched collar of his new teal shirt.

The Señor nodded to Mr. Neutron. “Oiga, amigo! What you doin' with pistol chica, eh? You two friends now or somethin'?”

“Coworkers,” corrected the Sheriff. “Sheen, this is Tex. She's...a deputy of sorts. I'm training her for the remainder of the week.”

“Oh, lucky man! Maybe that's what I need, you know? Get me a couple gold-hunting disciples, teach 'em the ropes, maybe trick 'em into doing my laundry...”

“I already do your laundry, estúpido,” said Miss Folfax, appearing from the back room. “And if you don't take a bath soon, next time I wash your clothes, I'm gonna pitch you into the washtub along with the load. Hold you down and scrub you like flea-ridden cat.”

“Gotta catch me first, mamacita,” winked the prospector.

Libby exhaled in defeat. “Sheriff,” she went on, “pay Doctor Bolbi a visit on your way home, would ya? Tell him he needs to keep that bloodthirsty goat of his locked up. If I catch that thing roamin' 'round my property again, I'll be servin' up goat pot-pie at Monday's get-together.”

“Mmmm, nothin' beats goat pot pie,” said Sheen appreciatively. “Served alongside rotisserie squirrel, smothered in possum gravy with a side of gecko gruel... That's the stuff.”

The Sheriff pushed away from the table. “Sheen, you never cease to fascinate me. Miss Folfax, thanks again for the drinks and party invitation. I'll have a word with the doctor and let you know what he says tomorrow morning, when we see you at church.”

He nodded politely, adjusted the top button on his vest, and then headed toward the door. Goddard yawned and obediently rose to follow, and Tex leaped up a moment later.

“Church?” repeated the outlaw, hurrying to catch up with him. “You're gonna make me go to church?”

He held the door open for her. “What's the matter, Vortex? Does your kind burst into flame when you pass beneath a steeple?”

Her snappy objection launched the pair into a fast-paced repartée, and they continued to argue as they exited the building. Miss Folfax watched them go, scratching her chin as the washboard doors swung shut behind them.

“Huh,” mused Libby. “Yesterday that girl acted like she'd never heard of the Sheriff in her life. Day later, they're hangin' 'round my juke joint, mouthin' off and givin' each other the hairy eyeball, like they got some big secret I don't know about. Bit odd, wouldn't you say?”

“Nahhh. People all got some big secret, right? Take my mule Sal. She acts all innocent, like she don't know who ate those pepinos I got from Carl...but I know better. I know.”

“Oh, pish.” Miss Folfax picked up their empty glasses and tucked them under her arm. “I'm gonna get to the bottom of this, you'll see. Those two got somethin' goin' on, and I'm gonna find out what it is. I bet you a three-dollar piece I have 'em figured in less than a week.”

“Make that a three-dollar piece and a half-pound of taffy, and you're on.”

“Deal,” she said, and they shook on it.

I finally got to do the saloon milk joke. I told you guys...every cliché I can muster.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- When Tex talks about "Temperance Leaguers", she's referring to a nineteenth century reform movement that was aimed at limiting or restricting the sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages. The American Temperance Society was formed in 1826, and within 12 years it claimed more than 8,000 local groups and over 1,500,000 members. By 1839, 18 temperance journals were being published, and in the 1840s the movement spawned a series of Broadway plays about the dangers of drinking. The most famous of which, "The Drunkard", was wildly popular and continued to be a staple of the New York theater scene until 1875, bringing the Temperance movement into mainstream consciousness in the process.
- Since I mentioned handcuffs...let's have a look at their history, shall we? Wrist restraints have been around forever, but there weren't really any handcuffs in the modern sense until 1862, when inventor W.V. Adams patented a design for cuffs that had adjustable ratchets. His design was used all the way 'til WWII.
- Anyone who has read a good (or bad) Victorian novel has probably heard of Smelling Salts. Historically, the pungent preparation of ammonium carbonate and perfume was sniffed as a stimulant to relieve faintness or fits of hysteria.
- Libby bets Sheen a three-dollar piece - this coin was minted from 1854 to 1889. Its value was intended to tie in with the postal system - at the time, a first class postage stamp was worth 3¢, and such stamps were often sold in sheets of one hundred stamps. Therefore, the three-dollar piece was exactly enough money to purchase a sheet of stamps.

Lastly, I named Sheen's mule "Sal" because of the classic American folk song "Erie Canal" (Google it). Oh, and "pepinos" is Spanish for cucumbers.

Chapter Text

Far away, in bustling downtown San Antonio, Eustace Strych was having a very different sort of morning. From his suite on the second floor of the Menger Hotel, he could monitor all the comings-and-goings outside, a duty which he performed with self-satisfied disdain. He stood by the window, glowering down at a couple of local gentry as they climbed into a horse and buggy across the street. The man wore a frilly yellow waist-coat, and his lady friend hitched up her skirts far too high as she boarded the coach. Eustace tugged at the lapels of his silken dressing gown, as if aligning them could somehow mitigate the faux-pas of fashion and etiquette he saw down below.

"Look at those simpering peons," scowled Eustace, as his butler entered the room. "They think they're high society because their town is famous throughout the West. The West, can you imagine! They can't even muster the civility to call it 'St. Anthony' instead of that Mexican drivel – it's ghastly. Yes, Blix, the sooner we catch the train back to St. Louis and bid farewell to this backwoods rat hole, the better."

"Mein Herr?"

Eustace glanced back to find Blix still standing in the doorway. The butler held a tray heaped high with steaming foodstuffs.

"What are you waiting for, you domestic buffoon?" scolded the magnate. "Set out the tray and the silverware before it gets cold!"

Blix made haste to comply, and Eustace strolled over to the breakfast table, oblivious to the opulence of his surroundings. The room was exquisite: carpeted in blue and papered in violet, it sported a four-poster bed with imported linens and matching curtains. The furniture was all hand-carved and accented with animal designs – the table legs tapered into lion's paws, for instance, and the nearby oval mirror featured an eagle perched atop its arch. Eustace paused to examine his reflection before sitting down.

"So tell me, Blix, what did the proprietors of this hovel prepare for my morning meal?"

The butler laid a cloth napkin over Eustace's lap as he narrated. "Buckwheat crêpes with sautéed apples and Gruyère cheese, poached eggs, and potato-crust quiche with leeks and mushrooms. To drink, fresh-squeezed pear juice and sugared coffee. The chef sends his apologies – the Menger staff was unable to accommodate your request for truffle-stuffed sweetbread."

"Hmph." Eustace grumpily surveyed the place setting. The dishes, which were blue and white porcelain, seemed clean enough, but the utensils were not polished to his standards. He picked up the fork and squinted at it. "Wipe this 'til it gleams, will you? And hand me the newspaper before you do."

The butler reached into his coat, removed the Saturday morning paper, and exchanged it for the dirty fork. He rubbed the utensil down with a spare napkin while his employer flipped to the financial section of the San Antonio Express. A column on the bottom of the page caught Eustace's eye, and the buck-toothed man stopped mid-yawn. A second later, he jumped up, jostling the table and nearly upsetting the pear juice. He stared down at the paper in horror, eyes flashing from side to side as he sped through the article.

"What is it, Mein Herr?" asked Blix, still polishing. "Is something the matter?"

By the time Eustace looked up again, his hands were shaking, and his voice was half-hysterical. "Yes, something's the matter, you great twit!" he shouted. "THIS! Look at this!"

He turned the paper round and flashed the headline at his butler: NORTH-CENTRAL PACIFIC & UNION PACIFIC RAILROADS ANNOUNCE TALKS FOR MERGER

"How could this happen?" he wailed. "HOW!? This announcement is six months ahead of schedule! Don't you understand what this means? We've already invested millions building westward, preparing to link up with the Union Pacific Line. If North-Central Pacific gets there ahead of us, we won't just lose our investment – we'll lose only our chance to be part of the first transcontinental railroad! South-Central Pacific will be forever doomed to obscurity as a mere regional enterprise!"

"Shall I telegraph your father, sir?"

"What for? This whole thing is his fault! We wouldn't be in this pickle if he'd spent more time working to expand our profits, and less time convincing his uptown golf buddies to use their riches to 'benefit the people' or whatever... My father has no sense of progress anymore, Blix. He's content to sit around the mansion and indulge his hobbies, even as our competitors snap at our heels!"

Blix set the polished fork down on the table. "Then how do you propose we handle this, sir? If North-Central really is poised to beat us to the punch, we'll need to act swiftly."

"Agreed, Blix – swiftly, and without mercy." Eustace wrung the newspaper like a sodden cloth. "First off, we'll need to reformulate our most recent plan. When I dispatched that assassin after Neutron, I counted on having at least three months for his Estate to be dealt with and for the sale of the land to go through. At this rate, North-Central and Union Pacific will have already merged by the time we lay claim to Retro Valley soil. No, the old plan won't work anymore – a more extreme approach may be necessary." The rich man sighed heavily, as if wounded by the whole affair. "You know how I abhor getting my hands dirty, Blix – but I'm afraid it cannot be helped this time. We'll need to obtain further local assistance."

"I'm not sure I understand you, Master Strych."

Eustace tossed the balled-up newspaper at his butler. "You don't need to understand me!" he snapped. "You need only do as I say! Now get your servile posterior down to the river and check the showboats. Track down Eddie, even if it takes all day and night...and when you find him, bring him here. I believe he may be of further use to us."

"Should I tell him you're the one behind this invitation, Mein Herr? When I consulted him last week about finding a reliable gun-for-hire, I made certain to keep your identity a secret, as you instructed..."

"I'm rescinding that instruction," huffed Master Strych, settling back into his chair. "If Eddie asks who sent you, tell him. And if he balks at the invitation, don't be afraid to sweeten the deal. Tell him I can make it worth his while."

The butler gave a stiff bow. "Would you like anything else before I leave, sir?"

"Nay, begone. My throat is hoarse from yelling and my crêpes are getting cold."

Blix exited the room without another word, and Eustace turned at last to his breakfast.

Thanks for reading, simpering peons!

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
-The Menger Hotel is a real (and awesome!) landmark in San Antonio. It was built by German immigrant William Menger in 1859, 23 years after the fall of the nearby Alamo. By the 1870s, the Menger was the best-known hotel in the southwest. Over the years, it has hosted such famous guests as Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, Babe Ruth, and Oscar Wilde. Teddy Roosevelt visited 3 times, most famously in 1898 when he used the bar to recruit the Rough Riders, who fought in Cuba in the Spanish-American War. The Menger Hotel is still in operation today, holding the unofficial title of "The Most Haunted Hotel in Texas."
-The San Antonio Express was a legit newspaper. It grew from uncertain beginnings in the 1860s, but after its competitors went out of business, it expanded into a full newspaper in the 1870s. Today, it is the third most-circulated newspaper in Texas, but is now known as the San Antonio Express-News, thanks to a merger with a competitor in the 1980s.
-As I said before, there is no South-Central Pacific or North-Central Pacific Railways - I made them up to replace the real-life Central Pacific Company, which linked up with Union Pacific to form the first transcontinental railroad.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, Dr. Bolbi wasn't hard to find. Tex and the Sheriff had barely finished unhitching their horses when they spotted him: he was out in the street, crouching over the unconscious Butch like some great, fat buzzard dressed all in tweed.

Mr. Neutron grimaced. “Stay here, Goddard,” he muttered, and with a heavy sigh, tossed the reins back over the post. He started off toward the doctor, and Tex trotted after him.

“Dr. Bolbi Stroganovsky,” said the Sheriff as they approached – it was more of a statement than a greeting. “Care to explain why you're squatting beside an unconscious man in the middle of the square?”

The doctor looked up. He was a toad-faced man, with puffy cheeks and bulging eyes that seemed to gaze off in opposite directions. He wore three-quarter pants and a scarlet bow-tie, and his brown hair was parted in the center and oiled flat against his scalp. Tex automatically scanned him for weapons, but saw only a tattered carpet bag clutched in one stumpy hand.

“Doctor,” repeated the Sheriff, “did you hear me? What are you doing?”

Bolbi pointed at Butch. “Man is dead, yes? Bolbi fix him up good, no problems?”

“You can't 'fix up' up a dead man,” returned Mr. Neutron irritably, “but that hardly matters, seeing as he's very much alive. Butch is merely suffering from the effects of over-indulgence. He should awake in a couple of hours – with a splitting headache, I'd imagine, but no worse for the wear.”

The corpulent doctor sprang up. “Headache? You have headache?”

“I didn't say tha–”

“Bolbi will fix!” The doctor popped open his carpet bag and began rooting around inside. The sack contained dozens of identical brown vials, and the Sheriff stared on, dumbfounded, as Bolbi selected one and presented it to him. “You take this,” he instructed. “It will cure headache in only one hour, with big guarantee! Doctor Bolbi will sell it for cheap, $2 only. Is real good deal!”

Before the Sheriff could respond to the unexpected sales pitch, Bolbi removed a second vial from the bag and waved it at Tex. “Bolbi has too, medicine for pretty lady! One drink makes all your skin so soft and clear. Bolbi promises solemn vow: you will be more beautiful, or Bolbi gives back $1 price!”

Tex took one look at the unmarked bottle, and then turned straight to Mr. Neutron. “If this bohunk's a licensed physician, then I'm President Grant. Why haven't you run him out of town?”

The Sheriff hung his head miserably. “That's the rub – he is licensed – and it's not a forgery, as far as I can tell. Of course, his credentials were issued overseas, so even if they are authentic, that's no guarantee of competency. His ethics are certainly suspect, given that he spends most of his time trying to sell people his mystery elixirs. Every once in a while he'll find some poor sod like Butch and drag him back to his workshop, then charge an exorbitant fee for 'life-saving treatment'...”

“So...that is yes?” interrupted Bolbi, glancing from one to the other in earnest. “You want special-offer medicine?”

“That would be a resounding 'no', you potbellied quack,” answered Tex. “We're here on official law enforcement business. We've had a complaint about your pet goat attacking one of the townsfolk. You need to keep him confined, or the next time you see him, he'll be marinating on a spit. Do I make myself clear?” Bolbi's expression remained vacant, and Tex realized she'd have to simplify her instructions. “You. Bolbi. Your goat. Bolbi's goat is outside. Hurting people. Put the goat inside your yard. Do not let the goat out. Do you understand?”

“Ah yes! Doctor Bolbi understands! No more letting outside Yuri the musical goat!”

Tex opened her mouth to repeat the bizarre moniker, but then thought better of it. When Bolbi made no move to leave, or indeed to do anything other than stare blankly into space, she turned incredulously to the Sheriff.

“This man has the dead-eyed stare of an ox. You could kneel down with the chickens and start pecking grain, and I doubt he'd notice anything amiss.”

Mr. Neutron rubbed his temples, but didn't contradict her. She swung back to Bolbi.

“Well,” she snapped, “what're you waiting for? That shirt-eating menace is still running amok in the streets! Go find him. Go on! Get!” She aimed a swift kick at his rear end, and he scrambled off down the street, bottles tinkling all the way.

Mr. Neutron watched him go, and after a pause, he said, “You know, for a second there, you actually sounded like a real deputy-in-training. Authoritative, direct, though perhaps a bit overzealous... you almost had me thinking you cared about public safety.”

“Yeah, too bad I'm evil incarnate,” she shot back sarcastically. “Real shame, isn't it?”

“Yes. It is.”

He turned and walked back toward the horses, and there was something in his voice that made Tex wish she hadn't spoken. Is that really what people think of me? she wondered as she rushed to catch up.

She fell into step beside him. “I'm not a complete monster, you know,” she blurted. “I would care about public safety, if there was a 'public' to care about. Decent people are a rare breed in these parts, Neutron. I live in the company of cutthroats and defilers, and they'd happily flay the skin from my bones if I gave them the chance. But you know what? They will never get that chance, because I'm smarter and faster than all of them.” She hesitated before adding, “Just like I'm smarter and faster than you.”

He stopped in his tracks, and slowly turned round to face her. “Oh really? Is that so?” She could hear the challenge in his voice, and it left her feeling unaccountably pleased.

“Yes. It is so.”

He withdrew his gaze and continued walking. They stopped beside the horses, and he reached up to pet Goddard, who was perched behind the saddle. “Smarter...faster. I guess it remains to be seen, Vortex. I'm sure the week will provide ample opportunities for us to demonstrate our respective abilities.” He tugged his horse's reins free of the hitching post. “But, in the meantime, I fear that I have some mundane activities to attend to. There's an errand I've been meaning to run since Tuesday, and it's high time I took care of it.” The Sheriff climbed onto his horse, then nodded at the outlaw. “Well? Are you accompanying me or not? Mount up!”

Tex swung up into the saddle in one quick, graceful movement. It made the Sheriff's ascent look woefully slow and ponderous, and Tex flashed him a triumphant smile. “Superior agility: check,” she said, before taking off down the street at a gallop.

“Slow down, Vortex!” he shouted, barreling after her. “You don't know where we're going!”

“Then I guess you'd better catch up!” She called over her shoulder.

After a bit of a race up the road, they eased up on the reins and matched strides with each other. A thought had occurred to Tex, and she voiced it as soon as he pulled up beside her.

“Don't you think it's dangerous,” she asked, “not having a real doctor in Retro Valley? What if someone falls ill, or busts a leg or something? Disease and misfortune never sleep out here in the back country.”

“You needn't worry,” he said confidently. “Bolbi has a twin sister, Ignishka – and what her brother lacks in ethics, she makes up for in medical know-how. She doesn't have a license, and she can't speak a lick of English, but I saw her set a broken ankle once when Bolbi was away. It was masterful. So you see, we are not without recourse in the event of a disaster. And of course, if all else fails, the townsfolk can always turn to me for help. I lack formal training, but I've studied medical theory, and my understanding of physiology goes far beyond the rudimentary. I am well-versed in all matters of the human body.”

Well-versed in all matters of the human body... He spoke these words with a scientific air, but that didn't stop a slow tingle from creeping over the outlaw's skin. A string of indecent thoughts followed suit, and Tex was caught so off guard that she nearly veered her horse off the track.

“Trouble, Vortex?” asked the Sheriff, raising an eyebrow. “Glass of milk too much for you?”

Color rose in her cheeks, and she whirled away from him. Two heartbeats later, her embarrassment surged into anger, and she squeezed the reins until her fists shook. How dare he, she thought. How dare he get into my head like that. I can't afford to entertain improper notions about a target!

“...Vortex?”

“What?” she snapped.

“We're here.”

Tex shook her head to regain her bearings; they had stopped in front of a gray building on the outskirts of town. Grateful for the distraction, she sized up the structure and found it to be thoroughly unimpressive. Weeds grew unchecked along the foundation, the paint around the windows had begun to peel, and the porch sagged in the center. Even the sign above the entrance was in disrepair: it read RETRO VAL EY J IL SE.

Tex jumped down beside the hitching post, and the gravel crunched beneath her feet. “Jilse?” she asked, shading her eyes as she looked up at the sign. “What the Sam Hill is a Jilse?”

“That's jailhouse, Vortex,” he said as he tied off his horse. “Sandstorm last week took off some of the letters, and I haven't gotten around to fixing them.” The outlaw's eyes flashed at the mention of the word “jailhouse”, and Mr. Neutron smiled. “What's the matter...does my dear deputy have an aversion to establishments of lawful repute?”

Glaring, Tex marched toward the porch. As she defiantly stomped up the stairs, the lawman emitted a shrill whistle.

“Goddard, door!” he called.

To Tex's surprise, the Sheriff's dog bounded past her. The gray canine hopped up onto his hind legs, took the handle in his mouth, and pulled down. The door swung inward, and the Sheriff motioned for her to enter.

The outlaw's mouth dropped open. “But...how did you...you trained your dog to...” she tripped over her words.

“Like I said earlier, I'm a man of many, many talents. Now go on, go inside!”

Tex looked down at Goddard, who had curled up on a mat next to the entrance. His wagging tail went thump thump thump against the surface of the porch. “Uh...thanks?” she said awkwardly, before stepping over the threshold and into the jailhouse.

The floorboards creaked as boots met wood. As it turned out, the interior was every bit as drab and uninspiring as the exterior. Dust coated the stacks of paper on the desk, and cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. The whole place had a musty, foreign smell...nothing like the balsam drafts of the Sheriff's house.

Tex planted her hands on her hips. “This is your jailhouse?”

“That it is,” replied the Sheriff, appearing behind her. He removed his hat and tossed it onto the desk. “It's pretty bare-bones, but it suffices. How does it strike you?”

She turned a slow circle as she appraised the facility. “It looks like a broom closet.”

“Oh, come on, it's not that bad.”

“Isn't it?” She walked the length of the room with a sneer curling her lip. “Windows, filthy. Walls, mouldering. And – look at this!” She came to a stop outside the prison's only jail cell. “A jailhouse, with only one cell? Have you taken leave of your senses? What if a posse of bandits rode into town tomorrow? What would you do with them all?”

“I –”

“What if you arrested a man and a woman at the same time? Were you planning on throwing them in there together, with that bed right in the corner?”

“Well I –”

"What kind of a lawman are you, keeping your lockup in this sorry state? The trapdoor in your bedroom has better security, for pity's sake." She pointed past him. "Look here, that bed I just mentioned – is that a box-spring? Because any thief worth his salt could use one of those springs to pick the lock. And take a good long look at that back wall. Nothing but a bunch of flimsy pine boards – can't you see the problem with that? Hell, when I was bounty-hunting in Nacogdoches, I saw a lady blast a hole through a softwood wall using a Ruger that she'd hidden in her bustier."

The Sheriff edged closer. "You seem to know an awful lot about jailhouses. Firsthand experience, I presume?"

"Not as an inmate," she answered. "When I was a kid, our town had itself a regular crowbar hotel. I used to swing by on occasion."

"Childhood visits to the local penitentiary? Now that is interesting. Any other incarceratory wisdom you'd care to dispense?"

"Yes, as a matter a fact, there is. For starters – God, I can't believe I have to say this – your desk is within pissing distance of the cell. You're going to want to move it farther away, unless you'd fancy a warm shower when you least expect it."

If Tex had been paying attention, she would have noticed the Sheriff steadily drawing nearer. She would have caught him unfastening the clasp on his badge, would have seen him repositioning the pin so that it hung on by a thread. But Tex wasn't paying attention. She was far too preoccupied lecturing him on the prison's shortcomings.

He came up behind her. “Back up. Let’s start with the wall...which sections would you recommend replacing?”

“Sections?” repeated the outlaw. “Forget sections.” She swept her arm in an arc. “I'd redo the whole thing, corner to corner, from the bottom plank up...”

He leaned forward, as if to get a better look...and the badge he'd carefully loosened fell from his vest. It struck the threshold with a ping!, bounced once, and rolled into the cell's open doorway.

Without thinking, Tex bent to pick it up. “Hey dunderhead, you dropped your –”

The Sheriff shoved her forward with all his might. Caught off balance, she stumbled into the cell, and he slammed the door shut behind her. The metallic clang hit her harder than any gunshot ever could, and she spun and lunged at the barrier – but it was too late. Panic buzzed in her ears and prickled over her skin, and rage wasn't far behind. She turned on her captor like a cornered animal, teeth bared in a snarl.

He leaned nonchalantly against the cell. “You know, you look pretty good behind bars.”

“Go to hell!” she shouted. “You have no right to lock me in here! I demand that you release me this instant!”

“Well, which is it? Should I go to hell, or release you?”

Tex pulled her revolver from its holster. “Open the door, Neutron,” she hissed, pressing the barrel against his stomach. “Open the door, or your last meal will be lead. I mean it.”

“My my, someone's in a temper. And here I thought you'd be impressed with my ingenious little trick. Life's full of surprises.”

“I'll pull this trigger! I MEAN it!”

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Nah, I don't think you do. See, killing me won't get you out of there. For all your bluster about inadequate facilities, this jail is more than capable of holding you. I had no part in constructing this building – it was already here when I bought the land – but I did design the cell you're in. It's not just a set of wraparound bars...it's a cage, with pine planks laid over the back to join it with the wall. Oh, and the door is secured by a custom deadbolt, so I hope you brought some sophisticated lock-picking equipment. You could try shooting it open, of course, if you'd fancy a nice bullet ricochet.”

Tex lurched forward and grabbed him by the shirt. She yanked him down to her level, and he caught hold of the bars to steady himself.

“Idiot!” she yelled. “You think you're all high and mighty, just 'cause you managed to put one over on me? You don't have even have an inkling about how the real world works. You live in West Texas, and you have one jail cell. Need I go on?”

He wriggled in her grasp. “I don't need more than one cell, Vortex. Retro Valley is a safe haven, and I've taken steps to make sure it stays that way. In the year and a half I've lived here, I've never once had to throw anyone in jail...until you, of course. Congratulations.”

“The presumption! You think past luck is a guarantee of future security? Safety isn't permanent! I don't care how idyllic this precious little town seems right now. Sooner or later the outside world will get a hold of this place, and when that happens, it'll go to straight to hell, just like every other settlement in this godforsaken territory. You mark my words.”

“It doesn't have to be that way. Not if someone is willing to stand up and protect it.”

Tex pulled on his collar until the fabric dug into his neck. “This isn't Massachusetts, Neutron!” she shouted. “There is no justice, no order, no sanity this far into the sticks. People out here are savage as a meataxe, and they will take whatever they want from you, whenever they want it. Got that? You stand in their way, and I swear to you...you won't be an obstacle for long. They will eat you alive.”

He grabbed her by the hand. “Like you did?”

Tex jerked back, cradling her hand as though she'd been stung. Her fingers were still tingling from the coarse warmth of his shirt, and she rubbed them distractedly before returning her pistol to its holster. “That's...that's different,” she stammered. “I'm not the one who wants to kill you.”

“All right, then – who does? Answer, and I’ll let you out.”

Silence.

“Well?” he pressed. “You do know his name, don't you?”

Her lips drew into a tight line. “I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Sheriff. There's a non-disclosure agreement in my gun-for-hire contract...it stipulates that I cannot reveal the identity of my clients without their express permission.”

“What if I were to venture a guess or two? I have a fair number of enemies back home, and I wouldn't be surprised if one of them resorted to violence. You could give me a signal, blink twice when I hit on the right one...”

“No,” Tex said firmly. “I'm fond of loopholes, but I'm not an out-and-out oath breaker. The terms of my contract are very clear on this matter.”

He was quiet a moment. “All right. I can respect that.” He relaxed, easing himself down against the bars. “Assuming that I cannot convince you to divulge information on your client, I’d be willing to settle for information on you. I must admit, you aren’t an easy person to pin down.”

“Perhaps that’s by design.”

“Perhaps. But if you want to get out of this cell, you’ll have to give me more than that. Let’s start with those childhood visits to your local prison.”

No details, cautioned her inner voice. He might use it against you later.

“All right,” she said after a pause. “That’s harmless enough.” The outlaw retreated a few steps and affected an indifferent air. “I used to visit the jailhouse, Mr. Lawman, because I enjoyed talking to the prisoners. Listening to tales of their exploits, mocking them for their failures, lording my freedom over them – I was a pretty rotten kid, you see. I got a kick out of thinking I was better than everyone else.”

“Did your family know you were fraternizing with convicts?”

“My father encouraged it. My parents moved to Texas to help 'civilize the West', as they called it – my mother was a schoolmarm, and my father was an attorney. He dreamed of bringing law and order to the frontier, and he said my 'childlike insights' into the criminal mind helped him be a better prosecutor.”

“And your mother?”

Tex stopped. “She didn't care what I did, as long as my actions didn't reflect poorly on her. My mother's mission in life was to convince the world that we Vortexes were the greatest of all God's creations. She was a firm believer in her own innate superiority.”

“Ah. A belief shared by my own parents,” he said wryly. “All right, next question: how does the daughter of a small-town prosecutor end up becoming a professional gunslinger? I doubt you laid in bed at night as a child and dreamed of living a life on the lam.”

You're right, she thought. I dreamed of happier things.

“No more questions,” she snapped. “I'm done revealing secrets, unless you'd care to surrender some of your own. How does that sound, Neutron – want to show me the skeletons in your closet? Open yourself up to scrutiny and judgment? ...No?” She kicked the baseboard as hard as she could. “Then open the damn door!”

Exhaling in resignation, the Sheriff fetched the key ring from a peg on the opposite wall. He turned the key in the lock, and the hinges squeaked as the door came open. The second she was out of the cell, Tex turned heel, grabbed him by the shoulders, and rammed him against the bars.

“So help me, Neutron,” she hissed, “if you ever try anything like that again, I'll...I'll...”

“You'll what? Shoot me? Go ahead. Nothing's stopping you. I'm easy pickings, after all. Isn't that how you see me? A five foot, ten inch target with a price tag attached?” She scowled and jerked away, and he dusted off his vest with an air of finality. “That's what I thought. Now let's get a move on – I wasn't lying about that errand I had to run. I just...allowed us to get a little bit sidetracked first.”

He stooped down and retrieved his badge from the floor, and Tex had to resist the impulse to smack him upside the head. In the end, her resentment found another outlet – she stormed over and snatched the Sheriff's hat off his desk.

“You've lost your hat privileges,” she said primly, brushing off the brim. “I'm confiscating it until I deem you worthy of its return. Oh, and don't be surprised if it acquires a few bullet holes by the time it finds its way back to you. I'm simply hopeless when it comes to trigger control.” With that, she stuck her nose in the air and marched out the front door.

Laughter and vexation mingled in the Sheriff's voice as he chased her down the porch steps. “Vortex, you have no right to seize my personal effects! Give me back my hat!”

He made a grab for it, and she dodged toward the horses, holding it at arm's length. “What's the matter, Neutron? Too fast for you?” Tex ducked under her mount and came up behind him, then made a great show of placing the hat onto Humphrey's head. “Ah, simply marvelous!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in mock admiration. “It suits him, don't you think? I've never seen such a handsome creature. Far better looking than the hat's previous wearer.”

“I'm warning you, Vortex, take my hat off that horse this instant, or I'll –”

“Or you'll what?” Defeat registered on his face, and she snorted derisively as she climbed into the saddle. “Yeah,” she said. “That's what I thought.”

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- Ulysses S. Grant was president of the U.S from 1869–1877, and he was a pretty interesting dude. He was a famous Union Army commander during the Civil War, and in the heat of battle, when his staff officers were full of anxiety, Grant was known to calmly smoke his cigar. His nerves of steel were a wonder to his men - he could write dispatches while shells burst around him and never flinch. Oddly, although he witnessed some of the most violent battles in history, Grant could not stand the sight of blood. Rare steak nauseated him, and he was known to cook his meat to the point of charring. Delish!
- Nacogdoches, the town Tex mentions bounty hunting in, is known as "the oldest city in Texas", boasting sites of human habitation that date back 10,000 years. The city has been under more flags than the state of Texas, claiming nine flags. In addition to the Six Flags of Texas (no, not the theme park), it also flew under the flags of the Magee-Gutierrez Republic, the Long Republic, and the Fredonian Rebellion.
- Since I mentioned box-springs, you should know that the inner spring mattress was patented in 1865 - however, it was not until the 1930's that they became dominant in the bedding industry. The primary advantage of the box-spring is that it's less likely to become infested with bugs than other forms of bedding.

Vocab:
* Bohunk - derogatory term for an immigrant from central or southeastern Europe
* Sam Hill - a nickname for the devil
* Crowbar Hotel - oft-used prison

Chapter Text

It took Blix the better part of 12 hours to track down his quarry. The butler's search, which had started by the river, brought him over docks, through showboats, and across the promenade, before finally leading him into the 10 block sector of the city that locals referred to as 'the sporting district'. And sporting it was – if gambling, hard liquor, and loose women fit your definition of recreational activities. All three of these vices abounded at the Santa Rosa Parlor, the grandest and sleaziest of all the establishments in the area. Inside, flattery and invective floated through air heavy with cigar smoke and cheap perfume; glasses clinked, men whistled, and doxies plied their trade.

Blix found Eddie at the Blackjack table. The gambler was ensconced in wads of cash, cufflinks, and pocket watches, and he tapped his finger absently as the dealer distributed the next hand. In general, the butler avoided observing things too closely – independent thought was not an asset in his line of work – but Eddie was the kind of guy who made a strong impression. He was young, no more than 15 or 16, with big brown eyes and a clean-shaven head. He wore his white shirt unbuttoned to the navel, an unusual choice for someone with no muscles, chest hair, or scars to exhibit. His adolescent physique was not his most striking feature, however. It was his voice that set him apart – it was harsh and deep, as if someone had replaced his vocal cords with those of a bad-tempered, barrel-chested chain smoker.

A buxom wench stopped to give Eddie a kiss, and Blix used the distraction to sidle up behind him on the left. The teenager's senses were evidently quite keen, because he noticed Blix despite the woman's attentions.

“Hey baldie,” barked Eddie when his mouth was his again, “anyone ever tell you not to stand beside a man playing cards?”

The wench giggled drunkenly. “'Baldie'?” she hiccuped. “As I live 'n breathe, Eddie, you're balder 'n this old fogie, an' you're young 'nough to nurse off me.”

Eddie nodded to the dealer. “Hit me.” He picked up the new card – a 3 of Hearts – and added it to his hand before responding. “Apples and oranges, dollface. They don't call me 'Eddie the Baby' for nothing. Shaved head's my trademark, not like Wrinkles back there...his comb-over's got worm chow written all over it. Hit me again.” The dealer tossed another card his way – a Queen of Diamonds – and Eddie swore before folding.

“Tut tut,” crooned the hussy, “I've gone 'n soured your luck, baby. I'll be off 'afore things take a permanent downturn...got business to conduct anyways. Man by the door's been starin' at my rack all night.”

As soon as she was gone, Blix stooped and whispered into Eddie's ear. “Forgive my impertinence, Mein Herr, but I'm here on behalf of my employer, who requires your assistance in a business matter of utmost importance. You may remember me from last week, when I asked you to...”

“I don't know your ass from a hole in the ground, old timer,” interrupted Eddie, tossing a cufflink into the center of the table. “Now get lost before I bring this conversation to the attention of my good friend Terry over there.” Eddie nodded at the player across from him – a burly thug carrying a Spencer carbine and no less than two dozen knives.

Blix wisely decided to change his approach. “My apologies if we got off on the wrong foot,” murmured the Butler, pulling a $20 bill from his jacket and slipping it to Eddie. “My employer is Rail Baron Eustace Strych, and he would like to speak to you about a very lucrative partnership opportunity.”

“Strych?” muttered the teen. “I know that name. How do I know that name?”

“Well, sir –”

“Forget it, gramps. Men with my kinda brains don't need a lucrative partnership to make top dollar. Observe.” He threw down a Jack and an Ace, and groans broke out around the table. The teenager reached into the center to collect his winnings.

Blix leaned closer. “Money is not the only recompense. As I understand it, Mein Herr, the proposed venture involves your cousin, James Neutron – were you aware that he recently relocated to Texas?”

For the first time since their conversation began, Eddie turned around to look at the butler. “Jimmy's in Texas? Christ Almighty. Wonder why he moved all the way out here...maybe thought he could ruin my life some more, the swell-headed prick.”

“If you're curious about your cousin's current situation, then you're in luck. My employer would be more than happy to supply you with the full story, provided you listen to his offer. All you have to do is come to the Menger Hotel at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning... I will meet you in the lobby and escort you to a private meeting room for breakfast and an extended discussion.”

“Hey stupid,” said Eddie, sounding not unlike a petulant toddler, “let's get one thing straight. I take orders from nobody, got that? I don't meet with your employer; he meets with me. Sunday, 3 o'clock at the Menger, not a second earlier. Take it or leave it.”

“3 o'clock it is,” replied Blix, bowing at the waist. “I look forward to seeing you then.”

Short, I know, but I felt like I needed to introduce 'Eddie the Baby' (named à la Billy the Kid) before throwing him together with Eustace. Eddie is challenging to write...I don't think I've ever seen him in a fanfic before, and his dialogue style within the show is so crude that it was difficult to debase it even further without making every other word into an obscenity. I hope I did a decent job ageing him up - it wasn't easy, seeing as his whole schtick revolves around being a baby. 

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-The Santa Rosa Parlor = not a real place. San Antonio's red light district really was called 'the Sporting District', though - Texas history is replete with prostitution, excessive alcohol consumption, gambling, and violent crime, and these activities were (in city centers at least) usually confined to a particular 10+ block sector. Each had their own nickname - Galveston had "the Postoffice Street District", for example, while Fort Worth boasted "Hell's Half Acre". These centers of vice were something of a tourist attraction - San Antonio even issued a freaking pamphlet for the Sporting District, complete with brothel ratings to help guests get laid. I swear, you can't make this shit up.
-The origins of Blackjack are obscure, but according to the sources I found, the game has been with us in one form or another since at least the 1700s. If you don't know how to play, I recommend looking up the rules! It's easy and super fun.

Vocab:
* Spencer Carbine - a lever action, repeating rifle used during the Civil War, especially by the Union Army.
* Doxies - prostitutes

Chapter Text

There was no doubt about it: Tex hated Sundays.

Sundays meant prying stares and false promises – honeyed words from a bunch of blowhards who threw around terms like “sanctuary” and “forgiveness”, while secretly judging everyone around them. Tex wasn't fooled...she knew what people were really like. After all, did they not pay her to murder their neighbors, lovers, friends, brothers? The West belonged to devils and desperadoes, not to true believers. The good either perished or lost their souls to corruption's gangrenous rot.

The outlaw tried not to ruminate on the fate of her own soul as she and the Sheriff approached the tiny white church in the center of town. The house of worship was located next to the Retro Valley bank, and the arrangement appealed to Tex's sardonic brand of humor. Would you look at that that, she smirked. The Almighty and the almighty dollar, within spitting distance of each other. Hallelujah. Stealing a sidelong glance at Mr. Neutron, she wondered if he'd ever entertained such cynical thoughts. Probably not. He probably liked going to church – after all, do-gooders like him didn't have to worry about the near-certainty of eternal hellfire.

Sinner, said her conscience, and she squirmed in the saddle. The Sheriff, meanwhile, whistled as he rode, dressed to the nines in a pair of starched trousers and an indigo shirt. He looked so respectable, so comparatively sin-free... Tex's dour mood worsened.

“Head to the big oak beside the chapel,” he directed, breaking through her reverie. “We should leave the horses in the shade...my analysis of the cloud cover tells me that we're in for some uncomfortably high temperatures today.”

“The cloud cover?” she repeated, steering Humphrey toward the tree. “Are you serious? Any moron could tell you that it's gonna be a scorcher, Neutron. The heat's already intolerable and it's not even 9 o'clock.”

“Don't be so adversarial, Vortex,” he returned cheerfully. “Atmospheric conditions are a goldmine of predictive information. Those hazy clouds in the western sky, for instance – no, higher up, above the ridge line – yeah, right there, see those? They're called cirrostratus, and their abundance signals the approach of a summer storm system. Based on the current wind speed, I estimate that we'll receive precipitation in the next 24 to 48 hours.”

“What? You're full of it.”

“You doubt the accuracy of my forecast? All right then, let's make a friendly wager. How's this: if I'm right, and it rains, you have to return my firearm.”

“And if you're wrong? If it doesn't rain?”

“Then you can delight in the knowledge that, for one brief instant at least, you were smarter than me.”

Tex rolled her eyes as they pulled up underneath the oak. “Like I'd ever take that wager. It's bad enough you press-ganged me into attending Sunday morning service with you...in case you hadn't noticed, church-going's not exactly my forté.”

“You don't say! And here I had you pegged as a regular holy roller, what with your lack of feminine charm, abrasive manners, and constant depravity. How silly of me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as she dismounted. “Lack of feminine charm? What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what you think it means: you're hostile and infuriating and you dress like a man.”

“Hey!” she shouted, knotting the reins with a bit more vigor than necessary, “I do what I have to do to stay alive out here, okay? I can't go around advertising the fact that I'm a woman. Might as well paint a big red target on my back and be done with it.”

He considered her words as they walked over to the entrance. “Fair enough,” he conceded. “I won't cast aspersions on you because of your clothing choices. I will stand by what I said about you being infuriating and hostile, though.”

“Oh, shove it. For your information, I can be plenty charming when I want to be. Amiable, eloquent...downright irresistible even. And I clean up real nice.”

“Pfft, sure. Whatever you say, Vortex.”

“I mean it! Why, if I pulled out all the stops, you'd be –”

Tex wasn't even halfway through her boast when the church doors swung open. The Sheriff nearly collided with the young woman who'd opened them, and when he caught sight of her, he went from insolent to tongue-tied in two seconds flat. He hemmed and hawed like an idiot while she apologized, and Tex could see why: the woman was strikingly beautiful, with porcelain skin, full lips, and dark brown hair. She wore a Muslin dress and a crucifix necklace, and the simplicity of her attire brought all the more attention to her glamorous features.

“Why, Mr. Neutron!” she declared, in a voice like milk and honey. “Early again, I see! Your unremittingly eager attendance is a testament to the strength of your piety and...oh, who is this? Have you brought a lady friend with you this week, Sheriff?”

The woman turned politely to Tex, and the lawman practically dove in between them.

“L-lady friend?” he stuttered. “Not at all, Betty, I assure you! She's just, uh...a colleague! A friend of a distant friend who I agreed to mentor for a week...nothing to write home about, in the grand scheme of things. I'd scarcely even call her a colleague, more like an acquaintance, or a quasi-stranger even...” He trailed off when he realized that Betty's expression had grown puzzled, and Tex's, murderous. “Ahem. I uh, I beg your pardon. Let me start afresh: Betty, this is Vor- I mean, Miss Vortex, my temporary deputy-in-training. Miss Vortex, this is Betty, our very own town preacher.”

It was an insulting introduction, but Tex's surprise outweighed her aggravation. “Town preacher?” she repeated. “Your sin-buster's a woman?”

“Oh, now, I'm not a proper minister,” dismissed Betty, fanning herself as she propped open the door with a length of wood. “I'm just filling in because my husband is no longer...well, until my husband comes back.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Betty covered it with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Tex, who read body language as a matter of course, scented blood in the water. Marriage troubles? she wondered.

The Sheriff wrung his hands together. “So, um, uh, need help setting up this morning? Any nails to hammer in, loose boards to fix, pews to re-align? You know I'm always happy to provide assistance.”

“Why, that's most kind of you, Mr. Lawman! Pretty sure everything's ship-shape at the moment, but you're welcome to accompany me as I go 'round and open the windows. The church is a bit on the warm side today, I'm afraid.”

His face lit up, and they headed into the building together. Tex scowled, stuffed her hands into her pockets, and stalked after them. Cursed evangelical belle, she grumbled to herself. Doesn't that tongue-dragger realize he's drooling over a married woman? Pathetic.

The second she stepped into the church, Tex knew that the morning wasn’t going to be merely unpleasant – it was going to be downright torturous. “A bit on the warm side” was the understatement of the century. A more fitting description for the church interior would've been “sweltering”, “suffocating”, or “unfit for human life”. Tex hadn't even gone three steps before the heat engulfed her. It pressed in on all sides, vice-like, squeezing the air from her lungs.

“It's hotter than the hinges of hell in here!” she swore, releasing a constricted breath. “You're just opening the windows now?”

It was a blasphemous outburst, considering the setting, but Mr. Neutron and the preacher woman were too busy exchanging pleasantries to hear it. Useless, she thought. It's like I'm not even here. The outlaw stewed in her foul temper as she gazed around at the pews, fanning herself with her lapel. The interior of the church was unpainted, and an open Bible sat atop the pulpit, a satin bookmark dangling from its spine like a wilted summer flower. A sparrow fluttered overhead in the rafters, and when Tex closed her eyes to listen, she caught the nose-tickling scent of cedar and candle smoke.

“Oi, pistol chica! Over here!”

Tex turned to see Señor Estevez kneeling beside the back pew, clutching a rosary in one dirt-encrusted hand. He waved at her when they made eye contact, and she walked over to him – anything was better than standing around listening to the Sheriff's agonizingly transparent flirtation attempts.

“Buenos días!” greeted Sheen as she approached. “Nice domingo we’re having, eh? You enjoying the heatwave?”

“About as much as I’d enjoy a good flogging,” replied Tex. “What’re you doing here so early, anyway? Did you come to fawn over the church mouse too?”

“Huh? No no, Miss Pistola, I’m here because I’m Catholic! This town's got no priests or cathedrals or nothing, so I gotta hold my own mass before you heretics take over the church, know what I mean?” He winked to show he was teasing, then added, “Hey, you need me to pray for something? I was just about to call on Saint Anthony...him and me, we’re like, muy simpatico. He's gonna help me find a Sinai-sized mountain of gold out in the desert, just you wait and see. If you're looking for something special yourself, I can put in a good word –”

Sheen broke off mid-sentence; seconds later, he started waving like a madman to someone behind Tex. The outlaw turned to see Libby walking into the church, looking radiant in a short-sleeved yellow dress and matching gloves. She was humming to herself, swinging her handbag in time with the rhythm, and Tex couldn't help but be cheered. It only took a couple of seconds for Miss Folfax to spot them. She hurried over, and the prospector jumped to his feet.

“Wow mamacita,” he admired, “nice dress! You look just like a big stick of butter!”

Libby dropped her face into her palm. “Thought I'd find you here, Señor. It wouldn't be a proper Sunday without you kissin' up to some dead fool or another, am I right?” Tex caught the hint of a smile as Libby raised her gaze. “An’ Miss Deputy, you're lookin' right as rain this mornin', though I confess I didn't expect to see you here so early. Where's Mr. Neutron?”

Tex scowled over her shoulder in the direction of Betty and the Sheriff. “Pfft. Just follow the sound of incessant nattering, and you'll spot him in no time flat.” The outlaw curled her lip in contempt as she watched the pair. “Look at him, following her around like a dog begging for a treat. For a man who prides himself on his wits, he sure is an idiot.”

Miss Folfax raised an eyebrow. “I see what you're thinkin', Miss Deputy, but you really shouldn't get the wrong idea about the Sheriff. See, even though Betty's 'married', she ain't really married. Her pastor husband ran off with an Apache woman 'bout five months ago – left Betty high 'n dry without so much as a farewell. You can't blame Mr. Neutron for settin' his sights on her, considerin' the situation.”

Señor Estevez chuckled. “Not that he's had any luck, poor loco. Preacher lady's not looking for a new amor... Jimmy told me she's still all dutiful-like, hoping and praying that her husband will 'repent' and come back.”

Sheen clasped his hands and batted his eyelashes in a hokey imitation of prayer, and Tex grinned. Instead of sympathy, she felt spiteful satisfaction. Foolish woman, she thought. I hope she lives a long and lonely life, waiting in vain for her adulterous husband to see the error of his ways.

“I knew there was a reason I didn't like her,” Tex sneered aloud. “Fidelity without scruples is the mark of a weak mind. If I had a husband who ran off on me, I wouldn't just sit back and take it. I'd go out and hunt the bastard down.”

The prospector let out an uneasy laugh. “Heh…ay gringa, you're pretty scary, you know that?”

“Yes, well, maybe there's a reason for that. After all, I am a stone-cold killer who can shoot a man dead with nary a second thought.” Raising her arm, she curled her fingers into the shape of a pistol, then closed one eye and took aim at him. “Bang,” she said, before letting her arm fall back to her side. “Another verse for my gun to sing.”

He looked dumbstruck for a moment, then burst into an enormous grin. “Hey, wow, good one, guerita! I didn't know you had a sense of humor!”

Tex only had a moment to enjoy her own private joke before Miss Folfax grabbed her arm and pointed toward the door.

“Take a look at who's comin' in! Em and Oleander – an' if they're here, the Wheezers can't be far behind. C'mon, I'll take you round and introduce you. It ain't fittin' for you to be stayin' in town without acquaintin' yourself with everyone.”

“Actually,” began Tex, “I already met the Wheez–”

Evidently Miss Folfax wasn't interested in what Tex had to say on the subject, because she locked arms with the outlaw and out-and-out dragged her over to the entrance.

And so it happened that Tex, who sometimes went whole months without talking to more than a handful of people, was thrown headlong into the Retro Valley social circuit. First up were Emily and Oleander, the Wheezer's red-headed farm hands, followed by the Wheezers themselves. Then there was Ike the blacksmith, Wendell the Banker, and Nissa the shopkeeper, whose bedridden husband owned the general store down the road. Injun Nick and Butch she already knew, of course, and Dr. Bolbi's sister Ignishka needed no introduction, for she shared her brother's puffy cheeks and bug-eyed stare. The infamous Britney, who had been the cause of the argument between Nick and Butch the previous day, turned out to be a vacuous blonde with thick eyelashes and gravity-defying braids. Dozens more followed – a pair of gaunt brothers, a sullen teenage boy, an old man with no teeth – one after another, until names and faces began to run together in Tex's mind.

By the time Betty called the congregation to take their seats, the outlaw was all too happy to oblige. She collapsed onto the rearmost pew, cheeks flushed red from the heat, and Libby slid in beside her on the left.

“Confound it all,” exclaimed Miss Folfax, fishing a paper fan out of her handbag. “I'm sweatin' buckets over here. These Texas summers'll be the death of a poor li'l yankee like me, you mark my words.”

Tex's eyes shot open. “Yankee? You're from up north?”

“Mm, surprised, are you? I get that a lot. Folks tend to lump me in with the Exoduster crowd, but I'm a Pennsylvania girl, true as blue. I came west after –”

“No fair, mamacita!” cut in Señor Estevez, flopping down on Libby's other side. “Why you bein' so loose-lipped with Miss Pistola? It took two whole months for you to tell me anything personal!”

“Don't be jealous, you great lout,” snorted Libby as she fanned herself. “I would've told you sooner if you hadn't been so danged determined to flirt your way into my good graces. God Almighty gave some men the power to woo ladies with words, but I'm afraid He had other qualities in mind when He made you.”

Tex felt something brush against her right leg, and she looked up to see the Sheriff standing over her. Her heart skipped a beat. You let him sneak up on you, she thought automatically. What if he'd wanted to kill you? Do you WANT to die in this two-bit backwater?

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to feel the usual panic. After all, the voice that greeted her was not homicidal – merely grumpy.

“Scoot over,” he said, nudging her leg with his knee. “We five always sit together on Sundays. If you're determined to share the pew with us, you're going to have to make room.”

“We five?” She looked past him to see Carl and Elke waiting to join them on the pew, and her eyebrows shot up in comprehension. “Ah.”

She tapped Libby on the arm, who in turn prodded Sheen, and all three of them pushed down to accommodate the newcomers. The pew shook as Mr. Neutron and the Wheezers took their seats.

“It's a bit cramped,” grumbled the Sheriff, bumping shoulders with Tex as he settled in. “I'm not accustomed to pressing up against my seatmates like this.”

“Nobody asked you to sit so close,” she hissed back.

“Friends!” Betty's voice echoed out over the congregation, and the assembled worshipers fell silent. “As always I am pleased to see your smiling faces on this, another lovely Sunday morning. Let us begin with a reading from the New Testament, book of 1st Corinthians, chapter 7, verse 1. Ahem: It is good for a man never to marry. Nevertheless, to avoid immorality, if he must marry, then let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband. Let the husband render unto the wife due benevolence; and likewise also the wife unto the husband...”

“The Bible's views on marriage are a favorite topic of our lady preacher,” informed Miss Folfax, in a whisper laced with wry amusement.

Tex couldn't help but grin as she relaxed into her seat and turned her gaze toward the ceiling. For a time, she was content to watch the trapped sparrow as it flitted from beam to beam, its pitiful calls for help drowned out by readings from the Word of God.

This truly is a peculiar town, she mused, envisioning the space around her without dropping her gaze. To her left, a gold hunter from Mexico and a black yankee businesswoman, and to her right, a farmer and his immigrant wife, seated beside the self-banished heir of one of the richest families in the country. Tex had never before seen such dissimilar people mingling so freely. True, frontier gatherings were always motley affairs, filled with eccentrics and dreamers and castoffs and libertines, but this was different. It was as if someone had put the world in a churner and taken whatever splashed out.

And at the center of this whole affair is the man I'm supposed to kill, she thought. She dropped her chin and looked over at him. This close, she could see that the Sheriff’s lower lip was chapped, and that his forehead, cheeks, and nose were all pink with sunburn. She studied his profile for a moment before the truth of the matter dawned on her. That sunburn...it was my doing. I took away his hat after we left the jailhouse yesterday. He spent the whole afternoon down by the river fixing irrigation pipes, with nothing to keep the sun off his face...

Mr. Neutron caught her staring at him, and he swiveled around to face her, brow creased in a subtle frown. Tex went stiff as a board. She pursed her lips together, glared at him, and then rapidly turned her gaze back to the ceiling. She didn't budge another inch after that. She scowled at the rafters until the very end of the service, when the congregation stood to sing the closing hymns.

“Rescue the perishing, care for the dying...” The shaky melody gained sureness as the verses progressed. “Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave...”

Tex mouthed the words without lending her voice to the song. Beside her, Libby's vocals rang out warm and pure. With no oratorio of her own to drown out the sound, Tex could hear every nuance of Libby's singing, every measured dip and rise. Enraptured, she listened as the notes soared like cottonwood seeds caught in the updrafts of summer.

Sermon-averse though she was, Tex felt genuinely sorry when the final hymn came to a close. The church broke out into a soft hum as people began to gather up their belongings and prepare for departure. Tex turned her attention to Miss Folfax, watching as the prettily-dressed woman opened her handbag and stuffed the paper fan back inside. It was a simple, mundane action, perfunctory and unguarded, yet it somehow caused a two-day old thought to return to Tex: It's no skin off that girl's back if the sheriff ends up at the bottom of the river...

Is that really true? she wondered suddenly. If I kill the Sheriff, Eustace Strych and his ilk will be the ones calling the shots in Retro Valley. Will this woman really be unaffected by that?

It wasn't the sort of question Tex was accustomed to asking herself, and it had a paralyzing effect on her; she remained stock still even as people filed out of the pews, laughing and chatting as they went. Snippets of their conversations swarmed around her like summer flies: A bad back here. An apple-bread recipe there. A litter of kittens discovered under a porch. The sorrow of a relative's passing.

Miss Folfax must have noticed her prolonged immobility, because instead of following Sheen into the aisle, she urged him on. She observed the blonde for several moments before waving a hand in front of her face. Tex blinked in surprise.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Miss Deputy? You look quite invested in that patch of space you’re gawkin’ at.”

“Oh, I, –” she fumbled for an excuse. “I was just, uh…just wondering where you learned to sing like that. Your voice is honest-to-God Pearly Gates material.”

Libby feigned flusteration at the compliment, but her self-satisfied giggle gave her away. It was the laugh of a woman who knew she was talented and never grew tired of being praised for it. Tex almost smirked in response; she could respect that kind of vanity.

“You’re too kind,” replied Miss Folfax, waving her handbag with affected nonchalance. “But the truth is, I’ve been singin' like a canary for as long as I can remember. I was brought up in an abolitionist church, you see, and we –”

Tex felt the pew jostling against the back of her leg, and she looked over to see Mr. Neutron clumsily making his way into the aisle. He headed toward the front of the room, where a small crowd had gathered to converse with Betty. With a touch of perverse humor, Tex wondered why Strych couldn't have paid her to eliminate the preacher woman instead.

“–ancipation, our Pastor helped supply and coordinate members of the Underground Railroad in Philadelphia.”

The outlaw snapped back to the present conversation. “Whoa. Truly?”

“Mm-hmm. That's how my parents met. My Mama was free-born, like me, but my Daddy was a fugitive slave from Virginia. He ran away when he was just fifteen, and our Pastor helped him make a new life for himself in the city.” Libby sighed dreamily. “Our church was an amazin' place, Miss Deputy...so full of good-natured and charitable people. Did you know, we held mixed services right in the middle of Philadelphia? We were never short on attendees either, and I sang in front of the congregation most every week.”

“My-oh-my. A local celebrity, then.”

Miss Folfax's expression grew sheepish. “That's what I thought too. I have to confess, I grew a little full of myself. I was only eleven when Lincoln freed the slaves, but somehow I got it into my head that before long I was gonna become a famous chanteuse and sing for him at the White House.” She gave a half-hearted laugh. “You must think I'm daft, to have had a dream like that.”

“Not really. I’ve had some pretty daft dreams in my day, too. When you're young, you don't realize life's limitations.”

Libby gave Tex's forearm a commiserative squeeze. “Anyhow, after the war ended, my father went south to look for his missing family. It had never sat well with Daddy, having to abandon his brothers and sisters like he did, so I couldn't blame him for leaving. It took him a couple of years to track everyone down, but once he'd done it, he sent for my Mama and me to join him, and the whole lot of us pitched in to buy a small property in New Orleans – have you been, Miss Tex?”

“To the Crescent City? Can't say I have.”

“Then you've been sorely deprived, 'cause it's one of the finest sights this side of the Mason Dixon. I fell in love with it the second I stepped off the train platform. There's so much color and music and excitement – I woke up every day feelin' like I was really living, y'know? And the nightlife! All around me were showgirls and singers, beautiful women who performed in theaters or on showboats to crowds of cheerin' spectators. I thought, 'This! This is what I want to do with my life!'” Her glow of enthusiasm reached its apex, then slowly began to fade. “I really was a fool back then, Miss Tex,” she sighed. “I was just settin' myself up for disappointment.”

Tex could hardly believe how much information Miss Folfax was volunteering, especially since they'd only met two days earlier. The outlaw rarely encountered people so forthcoming, and it intrigued her.

“How do you mean?” she prompted.

Libby grimaced. “Life in the South wasn't like life in the Philadelphia suburbs. There were no mixed race churches, and there were no Pastors or Abraham Lincolns. The fine folk of New Orleans treated me like a flea-ridden dog. I was forbidden from settin' foot on the showboats, except as a servant, and every theater manager I approached laughed in my face and told me that no white audience would ever pay to hear a colored girl sing. Not even the shady cabaret shows would take me on, and eventually I had to throw in the towel. I ended up servin' drinks at a waterfront Juke Joint and wearin' low-cut shirts so I could get bigger tips from the dockworkers.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's no matter. In the end, it all worked out for the best. You see, as I was whiling away the hours scrubbin' glasses and waitin' on grabby patrons, I picked up a lot of business tips from my boss. Not that he ever helped me intentionally, of course. He was a crotchety, greedy old mulatto with one milky eye and a mean streak a mile wide, but he always had plenty of money and the freedom to run his bar however he wanted. I thought to myself, you know, maybe this old codger's got the right idea. With things the way they are now, I can never be a singer...but I bet I could run the best damn Juke Joint you ever set foot in.”

By then only three other people remained in the church: Mr. Neutron, who was talking to Betty, and a pinch-faced bitty of a woman waiting in line behind him. The bitty caught the word “damn” and leveled a disapproving look at Miss Folfax. Tex glared daggers at the woman, who blanched and returned her gaze to the floor.

“So,” the blonde continued smoothly, “you decided to go into business for yourself. How'd you end up in Texas?”

“Haha, well. It seems bein' dark-skinned wasn't my only crime; I had the audacity to be a woman besides. As a female in a man's profession yourself, I'm sure you can appreciate my troubles.” Libby tucked in her chin, then thrust her index finger into the air, assuming the guise of a fat pontificator. “A woman can't run no drinkin' joint!” she bellowed. “What does a woman know about keepin' track o' figgers? Pah! You'll be bankrupt in a fortnight!”

“Ha,” said Tex. “The usual claptrap.”

“Exactly, the usual claptrap. And of course my parents wanted me to settle down and get married, but I wasn’t about to have some good-for-nothin’ husband orderin’ me around. My Mama taught me how to read, so I’d seen the newspaper articles about the men and women who’d gone West and struck it rich. A plot of land and a livelihood for anyone who wants it - that's how I heard it from the dockworkers. I nearly gave my parents a heart attack when I told them I wanted to try my luck out on the frontier. They agreed in the end, though, and a couple months later I took my life savings and a bag of clothes and caught the next train to Texas.”

“By yourself, without an escort or a way to defend yourself? Isn't that a bit reckless?”

Miss Folfax leaned in and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between you and me, Miss Deputy, I always carry. Got my trusty Derringer strapped to my garter belt even as we speak. I wouldn't dream of runnin' a Juke Joint without it, even in a town as mellow as this.”

Admiration welled up inside Tex. I misjudged this woman, she thought. She may be the town gossip, but she's got sand.

Libby drew in a long breath as she straightened. “You're right, though. In hindsight, I suppose it was a bit reckless. The West wasn't the welcoming paradise the advertisements made it out to be. Everywhere I went, I met lowlifes and criminals – nobody wanted me in their town, except as a harlot, and they sure as blazes wouldn't give me a loan to start a business. Things got real bad when a stagecoach I'd hired never showed, and I wound up stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a suitcase and a gun.”

“What happened?”

“I walked for miles with no water, and I might've ended up as buzzard food if I hadn't run into Señor Estevez and that ridiculous mule of his, wanderin' the hills in search of gold.” Libby chuckled. “I think he was the first man I met in all Texas who didn't scare the daylights out of me. I stayed at his camp for two days, then he escorted me back to Retro Valley. And well...the rest is history. With Mr. Neutron's help, I got this bar, and I run it the way I please. Out here in the sticks, people don't have the luxury of bein' choosy about who serves their drinks. I have a monopoly on the alcohol in this town, so folks either gotta put up or shut up, and that's how I like it. I get to sing whenever I want, too…and while I’m a far cry from bein’ a showgirl, I can’t really complain about the way things’ve turned out.”

Miss Folfax beamed at her, and Tex got the distinct impression that the barkeep had not only enjoyed recounting her entire life story to a near stranger at church, but that she expected Tex to return the favor at some point. It was a strange form of tit for tat, and the outlaw wasn't sure how to take it. Was it the act of an emotionally manipulative gossip-monger, or an invitation of friendship from a talkative but otherwise kind woman? It was so hard to take kindness at face value – Tex had lied so often herself that she suspected everyone else of doing the same.

She heard a chuckle from the direction of the door, and she turned to see Mr. Neutron lounging against one of the pews, regarding them both with an amused expression on his face. Everybody else had gone.

Miss Folfax saw him too, and she stomped her foot in indignation. “James Isaac Neutron, didn't your mother ever teach you not to eavesdrop?” Libby gave a huff, but Tex could tell she was just playing it up for sport. “I have half a mind to knock some manners into you,” she added, “so watch yourself.”

“Don't bother. Vortex here will just knock them out of me again.”

It was the kind of comment that was ostensibly innocent, but with a bit of imagination could be taken another way entirely. Libby shot Tex a look.

“Well. I'll, uh, I'll leave you to it then.” She cleared her throat. “I enjoyed speakin’ to you, Miss Deputy. I'm off to begin preparations for tomorrow’s party – I trust I’ll see you there?”

The blonde nodded, and Miss Folfax waved goodbye as she headed for the exit, heels clacking against the floorboards. Tex watched her go, fondness and foreboding at war within her. The door swung shut behind Libby, leaving the outlaw and the Sheriff alone together.

He crossed his arms and leaned back, looking pleased with himself for some reason. “So,” he said after a moment. “Little miss killer makes a friend – somebody ought to telegraph the papers.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all. I am curious, though – if I handed you three thousand dollars this very moment, and I asked you to kill Miss Folfax, would you do it?”

Tex couldn't keep the shock from her face. She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a hand to silence her.

“Don't look so scandalized. I didn't mean it. It's just, you said yesterday that you would, and I quote, 'care about public safety if there was a public to care about'. It got me thinking - I wanted to see if you're really the soulless money-grubber you make yourself out to be. I am happy to report that, in addition to greed and belligerence, your emotional repertoire contains at least some basic form of human feeling. Funny how that works...it's hard to murder people once you've gotten to know them, isn't it?”

His smugness infuriated her, but there wasn't much she could say in her own defense. She opted for a threat instead. “Don't think this changes anything between us, Neutron,” she said coldly. “It doesn't matter how well I get to know you; I will still shoot you in the head if you fail to deliver on your end of our agreement.”

He turned away. “Sure. Go for it. At the end of the day, the joke's on you, sweetheart – 'cause I'll be spending a happy eternity discussing physics and electrochemistry with da Vinci, Faraday, and Newton, and you'll be right back where you started. Just another gun-toting felon, with no friends or family, and no one to mourn you when you die. Maybe you ought to stop and give that a few moments consideration. I'll be waiting outside.”

Tex trembled, positively livid, as he walked out the door. She wanted to beat the tar out of him, but that wouldn't solve anything. There's no way I can win this, she realized, and the thought filled her with equal parts anger and despair. If I kill him, Strych and his cronies will take over, and I have no doubt that everyone in this valley will suffer for it. If I spare him, Eustace will just find someone else to do the job, and the outcome will be the same. No matter which choice I make, Neutron will wind up dead eventually, and then it'll be a toss-up to see who gets thrown to the dogs. Libby? Sheen? The Wheezers? Injun Nick? Could be any of them. It's like I told Neutron yesterday...this whole damn town's going to hell on a fast horse. All I know is, I don't want to be around when the shooting starts.

The trapped sparrow cried out pitifully from the rafters overhead. It flapped and fluttered and peeped, and the wooden walls creaked as they dried and splintered in the hot sun. Tex stood in the middle of the empty church, stomach churning, with all the world's saints and devils and angels looking down on her.

Sundays really are the worst, she thought.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- Indigo - prior to the advent of synthetic dyes, if you wanted blue clothes, you'd need pigment from the indigo plant. It was an important cash crop in the American south, and because of its high value as a trading commodity, it was often referred to as 'Blue Gold'. In other words, the Sheriff's shirt was probably quite expensive.
- Muslin - A loosely woven cotton fabric. Air moves easily through muslin, making it ideally suited for hot, dry climates.
- Milk and honey - a reference to the Biblical book of Exodus. In the story, God speaks to Moses through a burning bush and promises the wandering Israelite people a land so rich and fertile it's said to be “flowing with milk and honey”. The descriptor was basically desert culture shorthand for 'mega enticing', which is why I used it to describe Betty's voice.
- Saint Anthony - in Catholicism, he's the saint you call on when you're trying to find a lost item. Side note: I made Sheen Catholic because duh, he's from Mexico in this story, and Mexicans are predominately Roman Catholic. Of course, things get a bit complicated when you realize that Libby would undoubtedly be a Protestant, given her Pennsylvania roots. Nowadays, people from different Christian denominations intermarry all the time, and unless your family is super conservative or something, it's generally not a big deal. But in 1875? That would likely be a deal-breaker, and even if it wasn't, it would certainly be a huge sticking point in any potential relationship. The fact that Sheen and Libby are able to sort of playfully rib each other over the matter (with him calling Protestants “heretics” and her referring to saints as “dead fools”) shows just how close the two of them really are. You don't joke about crap like that in the 1870s unless you're secure in your friendship.
- The hymn sung in the chapter, “Rescue the Perishing”, is an old American classic that was written in 1869.
- Underground Railroad - a network of secret routes and safe houses used by 19th-century slaves to escape to free states and Canada with the aid of abolitionists and allies sympathetic to their cause. It is estimated that by 1850, 100,000 slaves had escaped via the Railroad. The most famous member of the Underground Railroad is of course Harriet Tubman, but 'Conductors' came from various backgrounds and included free-born blacks, white abolitionists, former slaves (either escaped or legally freed), and Native Americans. Churches also played a role, especially the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), Congregationalists, Wesleyans, and Reformed Presbyterians, as well as certain sects of mainstream denominations such the Methodist church and American Baptists. Local populations of free blacks were vital to resettlement – without their “camouflage”, escaped slaves would've been quickly discovered and captured. Runaways often chose Pennsylvania not only because it was close by, but also because it contained the North's largest free African-American population, more than 56,000 residents by the eve of the Civil War.
- Mason Dixon - A demarcation line between four U.S. States that was put into place in the 1760s to resolve a border dispute between British colonies. In popular usage, the Mason–Dixon line symbolizes a cultural boundary between the Northeastern and the Southern United States. After Pennsylvania abolished slavery in the late 1700s, it was seen by many to be an unofficial border between slave states and free states (not to be confused with the line drawn during The Missouri Compromise in 1820, which also had to do with slavery. Ugh, American history, Y U NO BE SIMPLE).
- I mention in the chapter that once the war was over, Libby's father traveled south to look for missing family members. This was actually a huge issue after emancipation. Because slaves were sold and resold so often, tracking down family members could take years, even decades, if they ever turned up at all. Libby's dad was able to locate all his relatives in a comparatively short time span, no doubt thanks to his years as a free worker, which would've allowed him to save extra money to aid in the search, whereas most former slaves had to do it while also dealing with severe poverty.
- The Derringer, originally called the Philadelphia Deringer, was a small caliber handgun designed by Henry Deringer and produced from 1852 through 1868. Its tiny size made this “pocket pistol” popular as a concealed carry weapon, especially among women.
- Fun fact: nobody would have used the idiom “throw in the towel” in 1875. The term, which first entered popular usage in the early 1900s, comes from boxing (if a boxer was suffering a beating, the guy in his corner would literally throw a towel in the ring to indicate the fighter's concession and end the match). Back in the 1800s, boxers used sponges to mop up their sweat instead of towels, so believe it or not, the original version of this saying is actually “chuck up the sponge”. However, this sounds friggin STUPID and would probably just confuse the reader, so I had Libby use the anachronistic “throw in the towel” instead.

-Vocab:
*She's got sand - she's chock full of pluck and resolve
*Exodusters - the name given to freed slaves who moved West after the Civil War. The biggest and most famous wave of the migration actually occurred in 1879, after this story takes place, with Kansas as the destination.
*guerita - blondie
*gringo/gringa - slang term for white guy/white girl, respectively
*domingo - Sunday
*chanteuse - singer, but fancy
*colored - African American. Nowadays this term is considered rude (“people of color” is preferred), but back in the 1870s, “colored” would have been one of the more polite descriptors.
*mulatto - a person who is born from one white parent and one black parent. The term is not common in contemporary settings and is generally considered archaic and offensive.

Guest art by Ninoshka

Chapter Text

It was 3:45 in the afternoon by the time Eddie the Baby wandered into the lobby of the Menger Hotel. The waitstaff cast anxious glances at the adolescent criminal as he took a drag from his cigarette and stomped the dirt from his boots. Blix the butler, who had been standing motionless in the adjoining corridor, stepped out into the lobby to greet him.

“Right this way, sir,” he said, bowing into the cloud of smoke that surrounded the teenage outlaw.

Eddie flicked his still-lit cigarette into a potted plant. “You can ease up on the formalities, old timer. I’m not the type to stand on ceremony. Now let’s get this done 'n finished, before you start to decompose.”

Blix escorted Eddie to the upstairs boardroom where his employer was waiting. The office they entered was upscale, with oak paneled walls and a table so polished that it reflected the chairs encircling it. Despite the high class furnishings, hostility lingered in the air, as though years of clandestine business dealings had stripped the space of all cheer. It was the sort of room that turned laughter into sneers, and smiles into threats.

“You!” shouted Eustace, slapping the tabletop as he sprung up. “Does the concept of punctuality mean nothing to you? I expected you here forty-five minutes ago!”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He'd been concentrating on his cards when Blix came to see him at the Santa Rosa Parlor, so he'd failed to make the connection between the name ‘Eustace Strych’ and the man awaiting him at the Menger. Now that they were face-to-bucktoothed-face, however, their past connection came spiraling up from his memory banks.

“Well I'll be a son of a bitch,” swore the teenager, flopping down on the nearest chair. “Look who it is – Useless Strych, the ol' namby-pamby rail brat himself. Christ, I ain't seen hide nor hair of you since...well, since we both lived in Beantown, back when your father and my uncle Hugh were weekend Flurp drinkin' buddies. God, you look awful.”

Eddie the Baby leaned back in his seat, shirt unbuttoned and legs spread wide, and Eustace regarded him with an expression of disgust.

“I look awful?” repeated Eustace. “You’re the one lolling about like a back-alley trollop. Lace up that smock you call a shirt and close your legs before your appalling manners sour my stomach. Honestly. If it weren't for that wretched cousin of yours, I'd swear you were the worst thing to have ever crawled out from underneath the Neutron family rock.”

“Pfft. Go piss up a rope, you pampered dandy. I won’t listen to a lecture on manners from the likes of you. Always bitching and moaning and carrying on whenever things don’t go your way… Say, do you still kick the servants when you're throwing a hissy fit? Or is impotent rage considered passé nowadays?”

Eustace gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white, but before he could launch into a retaliatory tirade, Eddie raised a hand to stop him.

“All right, all right, don't get your silk knickers in a knot, Useless. Forget I said anything. Let's just get to the point, shall we? Time's a-wastin', and I wanna know why I forfeited a perfectly good afternoon of carousin' and gambling just so I could sit here and stare at your ugly mug. Your flunky said you had something to discuss with me, so get to it.”

“Hmph,” snorted Eustace. “Impertinent, pre-pubescent degenerate. Hold your tongue, and we can be done with it. Blix, bring the paper!”

The butler stepped forward, newspaper clipping in hand, and placed it on the table in front of his employer.

“What I am about to tell you,” began Eustace, “involves family secrets, corporate warfare, and a years-long land dispute. I trust that, as a former member of genteel society, confidentiality still means something to you.”

The teenager merely raised an eyebrow, and Eustace slid the paper toward him. Eddie examined it briefly before reading the headline aloud.

“North-Central Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads Announce Talks for Merger.” He tossed the scrap of paper back at Eustace. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

“That depends. You were still just a child when we both lived in Boston…how much do you remember about the Strych family business?”

“You want a retrospective or something? How’s this: a few decades back, your father the business genius founded the South-Central Pacific Railroad and, through sheer force of will, turned it into one of the biggest moneymaking enterprises in the United States. You, meanwhile, were born with a silver spoon so far up your ass that you never learned to walk straight. That about cover it?”

There was a short pause as Eustace reined in his anger. “You are partially correct,” he breathed, folding his hands on the tabletop. “My father is indeed the founder of the South-Central Pacific Railroad. And yes, for a time it was one of the most profitable enterprises in the country…but that’s no longer the case.”

“Oh?”

“Times have changed, Eddie. Westward expansion undermined our monopoly on the rails; we still hold sway from Boston to St. Louis, but our profits are dwindling, and we struggle to get new contracts. Our competitors, meanwhile, are pushing westward at breakneck speed. At this point, we have two options: push westward ahead of them, or accept defeat and doom ourselves to a future of ever-diminishing returns.”

Eddie settled back in the chair, listening.

“What we need is a project on a grand scale – something that will put us back on top, permanently.” Eustace turned the newspaper clipping around and tapped it twice. “That’s where the Union Pacific Company comes in. You’ve heard of them, I imagine? They got their start on the southern coast of California, and they’ve been building eastward toward Texas…ultimately, their goal is to construct the world’s first transcontinental railroad.”

“…So?”

“So it’s simple: if South-Central is to survive, we need to be part of that transcontinental railroad. Trouble is, we aren’t the only company that has its sights set on a merger with Union Pacific. Our biggest competitor, North-Central Pacific, has been blocking our progress every step of the way. Any time my company tries to purchase a piece of real estate, they swoop in with a better offer, just to keep it out of our hands. We’ve had to zigzag westward over subpar terrain, and it’s costing us a fortune.”

“My-oh-my, Useless, is that a note of distress I detect in your voice? What’s the matter? Worried you’ll have to sell one of your solid gold piss-pots to pay your butler’s salary?”

“This is no laughing matter, Eddie! Our primary competitor is buying land out from under us, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. Union Pacific will join up with whichever line reaches them first, and thanks to North-Central’s underhanded schemes, they’re in the better position.” He tapped the newspaper clipping again. “Just yesterday, news of a potential merger between the two companies appeared in the San Antonio Express…six months ahead of my estimates. As you can imagine, I nearly had a heart attack. Fortunately, it’s not too late for us to reach the Union Pacific line first, provided we follow the correct route. Here, take a look...”

Eustace snapped his fingers, and Blix fished a map out of his coat and laid it down. Eustace smoothed out the creases, and Eddie leaned in to get a closer look. A dotted purple line extended across the map from California to the Texas border; on the other side, a dotted blue line meandered across the eastern United States and ended its run in Texas. Between the two sets of lines was a gap, and in that gap someone had drawn an X in red ink. Eddie squinted at the cursive lettering beneath the X. It read Retro Valley.

“The purple line represents Union Pacific,” explained Eustace, “and the blue line represents South-Central. As you can see, we’re not terribly far from our goal, but we’re also running out of time. If we want to make it to Union Pacific before North-Central does, we’re going to need a direct route through west Texas – one with smooth terrain and access to fresh water. Unfortunately, North-Central has been aware of this for some time, and they’ve bought up all the suitable parcels of land in the area…with one exception. Retro Valley.”

“Right. I get it. The only way you beat out North-Central is if you get your greedy little mitts on that red X. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem, Eddie, is that Retro Valley already belongs to someone else, and he is not interested in selling. I’ve tried all the usual tactics – bribery, lies, threats – nothing’s worked. And yet, the fact remains: I need that valley. Which is why, last week, I sent Blix to speak with you about locating a suitable gun-for-hire.”

“Wait just a cotton pickin’ minute…you sent an assassin after this clown, just because he refused to sell you his acreage? Christ Almighty, Useless, you’ve got more gumption than I gave you credit for.”

Eustace folded the map and handed it back to Blix. “Originally, the plan was simple: get rid of the owner, wait for his holdings to pass onto his next of kin, and then purchase the land from them.”

“What makes you think his kinfolk would –”

“– Would sell me the land? Let’s just say I’m…well acquainted with the owner's family. Even stricken with the grief of their son’s passing, I’m certain his parents would be willing to part with the land for the right price. They're the type of people who recognize a good business opportunity when they see one.” Eustace let out a long, tired sigh. “Unfortunately, this plan is no longer tenable. For it to work, I would need time to go through the proper legal channels. When I dispatched that gun-for-hire, I’d counted on having at least six months to acquire the land and begin construction. But with yesterday’s merger announcement, I no longer have that time. Going through legal channels isn’t an option anymore, which is why I’ve called on you. ……….Eddie, I want you to help me take Retro Valley by force.”

The boy nearly did a spit-take. “I’m sorry…what?”

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself here in San Antonio, Eddie. You command respect in the city's criminal sector, yet you hail from my social circle, which makes you an ideal intermediary between myself and the Texas underworld. I need you to use your influence to muster up a posse of thugs and ruffians to help me capture the valley. I need men who won’t ask questions and who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. They will, of course, be handsomely rewarded for their efforts: luxury transportation, a cash advance, plus looting and pillaging rights within the settlement.”

“You want me to help you shoot up a town?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic; the slaughter won’t be indiscriminate. Only those individuals who resist the takeover need die. We’ll press-gang the rest into working construction until I can get a fresh supply of workers out there. After that, we’ll intimidate or bribe the survivors into silence.”

“You’re crazy, Strych. You can’t just set a gang of killers loose on a town and expect them to show restraint at the wave of a hand. Once they get goin’, they’ll ransack the place and kill and defile at random. You can’t go cherry-pickin’ victims and expect a bunch of cut-throats to heed your recommendations.”

“Who said anything about cherry-picking? I just – ugh, look: I don’t enjoy getting my hands dirty like this, all right? North-Central has left me with no other choice. If high casualty figures are the cost of securing my company’s future, then that’s a burden I am going to have to bear.”

The outlaw shook his head. “I always knew you were a jackass, Eustace, but I never thought you were angling for the bughouse 'til just now. What in blue blazes has gotten into you? You expect me to orchestrate some half-baked country raid – and for what, money? I already got all the money I need, you gilded prick. Why would I ever, ever involve myself in a shitshow like this?”

The rail baron smiled. “Because, my dear Eddie, there’s one important piece of information I haven’t shared with you yet: the identity of my adversary. The man who owns Retro Valley, the man who needs to die? It’s your cousin Jimmy.”

There was a moment of silence, then Eddie slumped back in the chair and crossed his arms. “So what?” he mumbled. “Why should I care?”

“Why should you care? Have you taken leave of your senses? Or have you just chosen to forget what Jimmy did to you four years ago? He exposed your plot to kill your aunt Amanda and gain her stake in the Neutron family fortune, remember? Because of him, you lost everything – your inheritance, your reputation, your privileged position in society. He’s the reason you were disowned and cast out. Do you really intend to let him get away with that?”

Eddie played with a loose string on his shirt, and Eustace pressed him further. “Now’s your chance to redress your grievances. I gave that gun-for-hire a fortnight to complete her task, so chances are Jimmy is still alive. Don’t you want to be present at his execution? If anyone deserves to watch him die, it’s you. Hell, you can even pull the trigger yourself if you want to. And why stop there? Take his house, his land, his tenants; take his woman if he has one. Once I’ve secured the valley and handled the cover-up, the town is yours to do with as you please. All I ask in return is that you help me accomplish this task.”

There was a pause. “And if your cover-up fails? If we’re implicated in a crime of this magnitude…what then?”

"Please. The world doesn't care what happens to the denizens of some catchpenny backwater town. And besides, even if I am implicated, it won't matter. You and I both know how the justice system works here in America – if you grease the right palms, you can get away with almost anything. Once my company merges with Union Pacific, I'll be untouchable. No court in this country would dare come after me. And as for you, you already have a bounty on your head, so what the difference? Isn't the payoff worth the risk?

Eddie scratched his bald pate, considering.

“You do realize,” prompted Eustace, “that the longer we sit here deliberating, the more likely it is that Tex will have already eliminated Jimmy by the time we arrive. If you want to take your revenge on a living man rather than a dead one, you need to make up your mind now. Can I count on your participation or not?”

The teenager sighed. “All right, I’m in. But I warn you, you’re playin’ fast and loose with fate here. There are a hundred ways that this operation could turn ugly, and if that happens, I ain’t comin’ to save your sorry hide. I watch my back, not yours, you got that? And I pursue my agenda first.”

“Yes, yes, fine. I’ll have Blix begin preparations for departure. Report back to me as soon as you’ve assembled a suitable fighting force…and remember, we’re on a deadline here. The sooner, the better.”

Pretty sure I could've just as easily entitled this chapter, "All Rich People Know Each Other".

Still pleased with myself for working in so many references to the episodes "Billion Dollar Boy" and "Clash of the Cousins" (•̀ᴗ•́ )

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- "Beantown" (a nickname for Boston that is still used today) has its roots in the 1700s; according to Boston-Online.com, back in colonial days, a favorite Boston food was beans baked in sugary molasses for several hours. Boston was part of the "triangular trade" in which slaves in the Caribbean grew sugar cane to be shipped to Boston, in order to be made into rum and in turn sent to West Africa for the acquisition of more slaves. Sailors and traders who were familiar with Boston's love of beans smothered in evil slave-sugar called the city "Beantown", a moniker that was considered rude by some of the locals.
- Eustace mentions that South-Central's rail monopoly extends only as far west as St. Louis, Missouri. Back in the day (and by "the day", I mean the 1800s), more railroads met at St. Louis than any other city in the United States. Connections between western and eastern lines at this locale would have been very profitable.
- As for the rest of the railroad related stuff in this chapter...NO idea if any of it is accurate, haha. I stole parts of it from the classic movie Once Upon a Time in the West, so if it's wrong you can blame those writers and not me.

Vocab:
* Bughouse - insane asylum

Chapter Text

For Tex, the Sabbath did not improve with age.

After church, she accompanied Mr. Neutron on his social calls, which included a conversation with Señor Estevez outside town, followed by a trip to the Wheezer farmstead. Pretending to enjoy the visit took immense fortitude. The house was sweltering, the midday meal was overcooked, and Elke asked enough questions to test even Tex’s prodigious lying capabilities. Then, just when it seemed like the worst of it had passed, they retired to the sitting room, and the Sheriff spent the better part of two hours telling Carl about his plans for a new wood-chopping machine. Tex felt like she was losing her mind. The whole town had a death sentence hanging over its head, and Mr. Neutron seemed unwilling or unable to acknowledge the approaching crisis. Did he not understand that she was going to kill him…and that if she didn’t, someone else would?

Plagued by these thoughts and others like them, Tex grew increasingly agitated as the afternoon progressed. By the time she and Mr. Neutron finally said their farewells, she was itching for a fight.

The ride home began civilly enough. A chance remark by the Sheriff revealed a mutual interest in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; subsequent discussion, however, escalated into a quarrel. Mr. Neutron argued that Victor Frankenstein, though misguided, was given a disproportionately bad rap. Tex’s assessment of the doctor was less generous, and involved words like “hubris” and “complete jackass”. By the time they arrived back home, they were so irritated with one another that Tex stormed off to the stables, and Mr. Neutron shut himself inside the house.

They didn’t speak again until suppertime, when hunger compelled Tex to skulk into the kitchen and try to make amends. By the time she got there, the Sheriff was already dumping his cutlery into the mechanized wash-basin on the floor, where it joined days’ worth of dishes in the greasy water. He nodded in greeting, then gestured toward the plate of food sitting on the table.

“Help yourself. I’ll be on the back porch if you need anything.” His tone was terse, but polite – perhaps his anger had abated.

As soon as he left, Tex sat down to eat. She stabbed a piece of boiled potato with her fork, then held it up to the light, unable to shake off her habitual paranoia. She felt confident that Mr. Neutron wasn’t the type to poison food, but what about a sleeping draught? That wasn’t out of the question, was it?

Oh, for heaven’s sake, give it a rest, she thought, and took a bite.

The meal was cold, but richly flavored, and Tex wondered where he’d learned to cook. Didn’t wealthy families have servants to do that sort of thing for them? Someone in Retro Valley must have taught him, unless children of the Boston elite received culinary training as part of their education.

“What about you, Mr. Table Cactus?” she asked, addressing the saguaro. “Do you envy him? Wish you could’ve studied at some prestigious institution back in the Old States?”

The cactus, predictably, had nothing to say on the matter, so she finished out the meal in silence. To show her gratitude, she put extra effort into tidying up the kitchen – she scrubbed the table, wiped down the counters, and gave the cactus a good watering. She couldn’t make heads or tails of the basin-contraption, so she scoured the dishes by hand and stacked them in the cupboard. By the time she went in search of Mr. Neutron, it was nearly 8 o’clock.

As promised, he was out on the back porch, sitting in a rocking chair. Books surrounded him on both sides – to his left, the volumes were stacked in neat columns. To his right, they were strewn about all helter-skelter, as if he’d grown bored halfway through and tossed them. Goddard wagged his tail and puppy-smiled up at her, but Mr. Neutron failed to acknowledge her approach. He stared intently at the manuscript in his hands, eyes obscured by the brim of his hat. Customarily, a gentleman would cede his chair to a lady, but Tex expected no such courtesy. She hung her ten-gallon on the railing, peeled off her coat, flung it over the floorboards, and slumped down onto it.

She lay on her side, overlooking the vast prairie beyond the fence-line. The grass rippled and bobbed in the evening wind – a great, golden, undulating sea, stretching to the place where horizon met imagination. There were no words to capture its grandeur, or its desolation. A man could wander that expanse forever, and never find what he was looking for.

Thunk. Tex turned toward the sound; behind her, the Sheriff had thrown his book onto the deck. Rising with a yawn, he stretched, prodded Goddard with his foot, and motioned toward the house. The dog bounded over and opened the door for him, but Tex was not the sort to be wowed twice. As master and pet disappeared inside, the outlaw turned her attention to the discarded book. She scooted over to the rocker and picked it up. It was a copy of the British Medical Journal, opened to page 246.

“On The Antiseptic Principle in the Practice of Surgery,” she read. “…Joseph Lister. Hmm…”

She turned the page, skimming the text as best she could in the gathering dark. Once upon a time, Tex had been a swift reader, and she labored to recapture that skill. The article was easy to follow, at least. The author spoke at length about the need for cleanliness in operating rooms. Beyond that, he seemed to be explaining his technique for disinfecting wounds using a solution of carbolic acid.

She heard the creak of wood, and when she looked up, she found Mr. Neutron standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame and eating a pastry.

“You’ve chosen an excellent book,” he observed. “Though I hesitate to ask your opinion on it, given the trajectory of our last discussion.”

Tex ignored the gibe. “This Lister fellow,” she said, snapping the cover shut. “He a doctor?”

“Professor at the University of Glasgow, actually,” he replied, taking a bite. “His experiments are revolutionizing the way medicine is practiced in Europe. A few more years of refinement, and surgery will be safe. No more dying from suppuration or ward fever.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“The world is changing, Vortex. The United States is woefully behind Europe when it comes to cutting-edge medicine, but Lister first published his findings eight years ago. It’ll catch on. Soon.”

He sounded so confident, Tex was tempted to believe him. Instead, she revisited the conundrum that had been on her mind all weekend. Mr. Neutron came from the socialite crowd: educated, rich, influential. He clearly took an interest in world affairs. So why was he out here, wasting his talents on the inconsequential problems of Retro Valley?

“So. Joseph Lister,” she said, in lieu of her real question. “You ever meet him?”

“Not in person, no. Although we did correspond briefly, a few years back.”

“You did? What did you discuss?”

He walked toward her. “We talked about his research. About Louis Pasteur’s ideas. About life in Scotland. At the time, I was considering going to Europe – I was fascinated by physics, and I thought I might research electromagnetism alongside James Clerk Maxwell.” He chuckled as he sat. “Heh, good ol’ Maxwell. Brilliant man. Hideous beard.”

“Why didn’t you go? To Europe, I mean. If you were determined to leave home, why not go somewhere decent? Why come here, of all places?”

“Because, Vortex. I finally realized what I wanted.”

“And what’s that?”

“To get away from everything.” He leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. “From everyone. You speak of the West as though it were a den of lions, but rest assured, civilization has its own set of evils.”

“And what sort of evils plague a man of your station, pray tell?”

His response was uncharacteristically vitriolic. “Society is cursed, Vortex. Give people an inch, and they’ll take a mile. Can you fault me for running away from those who would seek to exploit my talents for personal gain? Out here, I’m the master of my own fate. I may never accomplish great things, but at least I won’t be a pawn in someone else’s game. And I can make a difference, small as it may be, for the people living in this town.”

“Why do you care about them so much?”

“Do I need a reason to care about people?”

She pursed her lips. “You know what you are?” she said. “You’re a man who threw away a winning lottery ticket. You hit the birthright jackpot: rich, white, intelligent, male. If I’d been born with those advantages, you wouldn’t see me wasting away out in cow country. I’d be sitting in a mansion somewhere, knocking back champagne and reading Voltaire in the original French.”

“You don’t know that, Vortex. In my place, you might have run away too.”

Tex thought back over the mistakes she’d made in her youth – the stupid, prideful, life-ruining mistakes – and concluded that maybe, just maybe, he was right. Disheartened, she flopped onto her back.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s say I run away. What am I running from?”

“Corruption. Greed. Exploitation. Pick your poison.”

She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “You can’t escape human nature, genius. If I’m going to suffer mankind’s foibles, why not do it in the lap of luxury?”

“What, and sell your soul to a bunch of crooked plutocrats? No thanks – not for all the riches on the planet. My parents taught me that lesson. They took my inventions, my discoveries, and they did terrible things with them. All for a little bit of money.”

He fell silent, but the hurt in his voice convinced Tex that there was more to the story. She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. After a pause, he got up and walked across the porch, then leaned against the railing with a sigh. She tilted her head to get a better look, and she found herself face-to-boot with an upside down version of him.

“What about you, Vortex?” he asked. “What’s your poison?”

When she didn’t respond, he turned and gazed down at her.

“Well?”

She lay there on the deck, resting on a pillow of filthy, tangled hair, looking up at him with her mad green eyes.

“Maybe I just like killing people. Ever think of that?”

He raised his eyebrows, and they stared at each other for a long while. “Is that so?” he said.

She should have kept her mouth shut. Revealing her secrets was against the rules; it went against every cautionary impulse she’d ever instilled in herself. And yet, in that moment, she wanted someone to know. It might as well be him.

“I wasn’t always like this,” she admitted. “I had very different aspirations, back before I – well, before. Like I told you yesterday, my father was an attorney, and my grandfather was a judge. For many years, I planned to follow in their footsteps. I thought that, with perseverance, I might be the first woman admitted to the Bar. A foolhardy notion, in retrospect.”

He sounded surprised. “You aspired to the practice of law, but became a career criminal instead?”

“The irony does not escape me, I assure you. If I could change the past, I would.”

“You’d take back your crimes?”

“No. I’d take back my aspirations.”

He frowned. She looked away. By unspoken agreement, the conversation ceased. The rest of the evening passed by in silence, and that night Tex dreamed of empty courtrooms, flooded white by summer sun.

***

Tex awoke to the peal of nearby gunshots.

Instinct took over immediately – she rolled onto her stomach, flattened herself against the roof, and drew her pistol. Heart racing, she belly-crawled toward the edge and peered over it. Disoriented and bleary-eyed though she was, it only took her a few seconds to locate the shooters. Even from a distance she recognized them, and her alarm gave way to anger.

Mr. Wheezer, Señor Estevez, and Mr. Neutron were down by the gully, sighting in a hunting rifle.

Tex released a stream of curse-words as she stood, jammed her gun back in its holster, and snatched her hat off the roof. She heard the three of them laughing as she climbed down the apple tree beside the house. It soured her mood even further.

Does no one work in this town? she grumbled to herself.

Carl was the first to notice her as she stomped toward them. He shaded his eyes, squinting against the morning light. “Howdy there, miss!” he called. “Fine morn, ain’t it?”

“Gentlemen,” she said, keeping her eyes on the rifle, which was currently in the Sheriff’s hands. “Bit early to be takin’ potshots in the gully, wouldn’t you say?”

Mr. Neutron tightened his grip on the gun. Their eyes locked, and she tensed. Easy… she told herself. He’s not going to shoot you in front of his friends.

Mr. Wheezer, oblivious to Tex’s fears, hooked his thumbs through his suspenders and gave them a tug. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” he sighed, rocking back on his heels. “Coyotes are harassing my stock again. The brutes attacked a baby llama last night, and when I tried to come to her rescue, my gun misfired.”

“He shot the weathervane clean off the roof,” chuckled Señor Estevez. “Unlikeliest marksman in Texas.”

Carl blanched. “Mr. Neutron’s the only one who can mend my rifle, so I brought it over first thing.”

“Jim made special sights for Carl’s guns, on account of him bein’ blind as a bat,” explained Sheen. “Ain’t that right, Carl?”

“What? Blind as a – I am not!”

“Are too. You couldn’t hit the ground with your hat in three throws. I’d pity you if it wasn’t so funny.”

Mr. Wheezer continued to protest, but Señor Estevez had already left the joke behind. He jerked his thumb toward Mr. Neutron.

“Carl may be the master of dumb luck, but when it comes to marksmanship, Jimmy here is the real deal. Ain’t that right, amigo? Best shot in the state, by my account.”

Every man has his vice; that much is common knowledge. For some men, it’s women. For others, it’s cards. Some men take to the pipe. Others lose themselves in liquor. Tex was no exception, although her vice was different than most. Tex’s vice was competition. She yearned to win the way a boozer yearns for a stiff drink…and she couldn’t let a remark like that go unchallenged. She drew her revolver and gave it a spin.

“Five bucks says I’m better, hombre.”

“Oh ho, I like your mettle! How you wanna test it?”

“Got anything you can toss?”

Sheen fished around in his overalls, but came up with nothing. After a moment, Carl reached into his pocket and produced a small glass vial. The label read Dr Bolbi Specail Elixir.

“Caaaarl,” groaned the Sheriff. “You actually bought one of those?”

Mr. Wheezer muttered something about headaches as he handed the bottle to Señor Estevez.

“All right,” said Tex. “Throw it as far as you can. Angle it toward the gully if possible.”

Tex bent her knees and widened her stance, drawing arm at the ready. Sheen reared back and, grunting slightly, hurled the vial with all his might. In the blink of an eye, Tex drew her weapon, and the airborne bottle exploded into a spray of shards. The Señor let out a whoop of delight.

“Hot damn! You see that, Jimmy? Little miss bandida’s a trick-shot!”

Tex turned to face the Sheriff, exultant. “Beat that,” she smirked.

Mr. Neutron raised his chin slightly. “You misunderstand the nature of my talent,” he said, resting the rifle against one shoulder. “You’re the quick draw, Vortex. I’m the deadeye.”

Gripping the lever, he flipped the gun forward to cock it. He spun it round a couple times before returning it to his shoulder.

“Pick a target,” he said. “Something far off. Something you think I can’t hit.”

Tex glanced around. Her gaze fell on the tree beside the house, and she noticed a tiny red apple dangling from the uppermost branch. She would have missed it entirely if it weren’t for the color. The fruit had ripened months ahead of schedule; it stood out against the dappled green of the canopy.

“See that red apple over yonder? The early bloomer, on the top branch. Hit that, without knocking any sticks loose.”

“Easy.”

Mr. Neutron knelt down, brought the rifle into position, and exhaled. Then, he froze. If it weren’t for the wind that tugged at his hair and shirt, Tex would’ve taken him for a statue.

BANG!

As the smoke cleared, the Sheriff stood, satisfied, and gestured toward the tree. “Go see for yourself.”

Tex jogged over, and sure enough, the apple was gone. She circled round, inspecting the grass, until she found a bullet-torn chunk of fruit. She picked it up and held it aloft.

“Told ya!” shouted Sheen from across the way. “Best sniper in Texas!”

Impressive, she thought, but not impressive enough. Accuracy is one thing. Speed is another. I’m still the better shot. The outlaw walked back over, tossing and catching the apple fragment as she went. She approached the Sheriff with her hand held out.

“Your kill,” she said wryly, offering the fruit.

For some reason, the color drained from his face. The lawman ignored the proffered apple and practically shoved the rifle into Carl’s waiting arms. She’d never seen a man so eager to be rid of a firearm before. You’d think the damn thing had the pox, she thought.

It took Mr. Neutron a moment to comport himself, but if Carl noticed, he said nothing. Sheen just kept right on babbling.

“Don't run from a sniper, or you'll just die tired. That's what my abuela always said. Which is pretty good advice, coming from someone who fought in La Intervención. It's right up there with my tío's words of wisdom: a big wife and a big farm ain't never done a man no harm...”

Tex realized that Mr. Wheezer was trying to say something, so she tuned out the prospector. “…sure are incredible, miss,” came the farmer’s voice. “With you ‘n the Sheriff around town, I feel safe as a baby in his mama’s arms. Thank you.”

The outlaw felt a twinge of guilt, then a stab of fear. If the inhabitants of Retro Valley knew who she was, knew what she was, they’d revile her. More than likely, they’d clap her in irons and send her to the hangman’s noose. These people are your enemy, she reminded herself, but the thought lacked conviction. Tex felt a headache coming on.

“I’m going back to the house,” she said, rubbing her temples. “I could use a brief respite.”

“I should return as well,” sighed the Sheriff. “That side of bacon in the larder isn’t going to cook itself.”

“All right! Free breakfast!” celebrated Sheen, without waiting to be invited.

The three men trailed behind her as she headed back, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Their company was amiable enough, she supposed, but her mind was preoccupied. She remained quiet all through the morning meal, barely listening as Sheen relayed his latest gold-hunting misadventure, which involved falling down a hole and getting bitten by a gopher. It wasn’t until they were washing up that the conversation finally captured her interest.

Carl had just finished waxing poetic about the bonnet he’d given Elke for her birthday, and talk shifted to the new ‘department stores’ that were popping up back east.

“It’s a real shame about that railroad business,” lamented Carl. “Elsewise Retro Valley might’ve gotten a store of its own someday. Not that I mind going to Marble Orchard and ordering gifts by post, of course. Folks there are, um…lively.”

Tex perked up. “What d’you mean, ‘that railroad business’?”

“Oh, right,” said the farmer. “You don’t know on account of bein’ new here, miss, but Retro Valley was almost a very different sort of town. Some bigwig rail baron tried to buy the land off Jimmy awhile back. Said that we’d be part of the first transcontinental line: a bustlin’ rail-town fixin’ to bust with settlers, entrepreneurs, and travelers. Jimmy turned him down.”

So that’s why Strych wants him dead, thought Tex.

She turned to the Sheriff. “This rail baron…why’d you send him packing? Imagine the prosperity a railroad would bring. The town would grow. Businesses would thrive. This backwoods mud hole would finally be worth something.”

“Worth something to whom?” he shot back. “The vultures back east who call themselves capitalists? A railroad would ruin this town. Trust me: isolation is a blessing, and I aim to keep it.”

“But if you just –”

"Look, Vortex. If Retro Valley were to become widely-known as 'prosperous', people would flock here in spades. Criminals. Charlatans. Parasites. And worse still, the self-declared 'respectable' folk. And you know what they'd bring with them, besides greed and disease? Their prejudices. You think they'd let a colored woman operate a drinking joint in the middle of town? They'd drive Libby out. They'd open dozens of new stores and force ours out of business. They'd set up farms and banks and cattle ranches and then fight with each other about them. And worst of all for me, they'd take my irrigation system and my wood-chopping machine and anything else they could get their hands on, and they'd try to duplicate them. Our lives would never be the same again."

It was an impassioned speech, and Tex couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He was the sort of man who stuck to his principles, and he was going to die because of it.

You can’t save him, she thought, and you shouldn’t want to. Take a walk. Clear your head.

She slammed the cupboard shut after putting away the last dish. “I’m going outside,” she said.

And she did.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- At the beginning of the chapter, Tex and the Sheriff argue about Frankenstein. Fun fact: the author, Mary Shelley, was the daughter of famed 18th century feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, who I once portrayed during a project in high school. Shelley was only 18 years old when she wrote Frankenstein; it was published anonymously in 1818, then reprinted in 1823 with her name attached to it. The book is considered to be the first great work of science fiction.
- Have you ever gargled with Listerine? Congrats! Joseph Lister is smiling down on you from inventor-heaven. His article, On the Antiseptic Principle in the Practice of Surgery, was a complete game-changer when it was first published in the British Medical Journal in 1867. (And yes, it really did appear on page 246. I checked). Lister realized that operating rooms needed to be kept clean, which was a revolutionary idea at the time. He developed antiseptic surgical methods; by using carbolic acid to clean wounds and surgical instruments, he was able to prevent infection. Hospitals that adopted his techniques saw deaths from infection fall from 60% to just 4%. Think about that for a second. Before Lister, surgery was so dangerous that more than half of all patients died. After Lister, less than 5% did.
- While we're on the subject of medical breakthroughs, the 1860s and 70s saw huge advances in our understanding of illness. In 1870, Louis Pasteur and Robert Koch established the germ theory of disease, proving that microorganisms are responsible for sicknesses like cholera and dysentery. Until then, people had believed that diseases were caused by "miasma" (contaminated air) or evil spirits. Of course, none of this information would reach the frontier until years later. Jimmy's just ahead of the game.
- James Clerk Maxwell was a Scottish scientist with a genius mind and a crazy beard. In 1865, he demonstrated that electric and magnetic fields travel through space as waves moving at the speed of light. Bam! Electromagnetism. His discoveries helped usher in the era of modern physics, laying the foundation for the fields of special relativity and quantum mechanics. Maxwell is largely considered to be the third greatest physicist of all time, behind only Newton and Einstein.
- Tex mentions her childhood dream of becoming the first woman admitted to the Bar. IRL, the first female lawyer was Iowa's Arabella Mansfield, admitted in 1869. [Tangent: My all-time favorite lawyer is ultimate badass Clara Shortridge Foltz, the first woman admitted to the California Bar. After her husband deserted her and their 5 kids, she lobbied through a bill allowing women to be lawyers, then took advantage of it that same year - 1878. She was a spitfire with a knack for witty comebacks. She once retorted to a trial opponent's ridicule by exclaiming: "Counsel intimates with a curl on his lip that I am called the lady lawyer. I am sorry that I cannot return the compliment, but I cannot. I never heard anybody call him any kind of a lawyer at all." Most importantly of all, Clara Foltz is the reason we have public defenders. Have you ever seen a cop show where the detective's like, 'You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided to you...' That was Foltz's idea.]
- Sheen makes reference to La Intervención Estadounidense, which is the Mexican name for the Mexican-American War. The conflict followed the U.S. annexation of Texas and lasted from 1846-1848. It claimed tens of thousands of lives, mostly from starvation and disease.
- Shop talk! 'Department stores' made a dramatic appearance in the middle of the 19th century, and permanently reshaped purchasing habits wherever they opened. Famous examples include Chicago's Marshall Field & Company, which started in 1852, and Wanamakers, which opened in Philadelphia in 1877. Both of these enterprises sprung up around freight terminals and were patronized by customers who arrived by rail.

Vocab:
* Old States - eastern part of the country, especially those states that existed before the Louisiana Purchase.
* Suppuration - infection so nasty it oozes pus

Chapter Text

Back in San Antonio, it was raining. Eustace huddled under the umbrella his butler was holding, shivering and rubbing his hands together. The air was unseasonably cold, and mist suffused the street, turning distant buildings into hazy shadows. Eustace cursed Eddie for making him venture out of doors in this weather. The boy outlaw had insisted they meet outside the train station; he hadn't said why. And now, to top it all off, the little snot had the audacity to be late.

Eustace heard footsteps approaching. He ventured a glance to his left, but the brim of the umbrella obscured his view. All he could see were legs: one short pair, and two very, very tall.

"Well damn, Useless," came Eddie's voice. "I didn't think it was possible for you to get any uglier, but gosh golly darn it, it looks like I was wrong."

Eustace smacked his butler's arm, and Blix repositioned the umbrella. Eddie came into view, wearing another one of his unbuttoned shirts.

"At least I know how to tell time," snapped Eustace. "It's a quarter past two, Eddie. You were supposed to be here 15 minutes ago."

He was going to pile on more insults, but he took a good look at the men behind Eddie and thought better of it. The first was broad and muscular; he sported a unibrow, a spencer carbine, and more knives than Eustace cared to count. The second was lanky and unconscionably ugly, with blond hair and teeth that stuck out like slats in a crooked fence. They were both soaked to the bone, and neither seemed to care.

"These here are my associates," said the boy outlaw, motioning to the two goons. "To my left is Terry Finster. To my right is Abraham 'Muttface' Adler. They've been helping me drum up the necessary manpower for our little undertaking."

Muttface was picking his nose. Eustace couldn't contain himself.

"For the love of God, man, use a handkerchief."

"Ain't got one," replied Muttface, slime leaking from his nostrils.

Eustace closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he kept his gaze on Eddie. "Well then. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I came to talk logistics. I know you've got the train fare covered, but I have other concerns. We're talkin' about stuffin' a bunch of heavily armed men into a railcar…that sorta thing's bound to attract attention. If we want our departure to go unnoticed, it's gonna take some doin'. There's bribes to be paid, favors to be called in, threats to be made. I want to make sure our asses are covered if this thing goes south."

"And we couldn't discuss this at the hotel because…?"

"Because Terry here is banned from the Menger. Ain't that right, Terry?"

"I pissed in their shrubbery," he grunted, by way of explanation.

"Of course you did." Eustace shook his head. "So, these preparations. How long are they going to take? Will we be ready to go by tonight? Tomorrow morning? When?"

"We leave when we leave, Useless. In the meantime, we might have another problem."

"And what sort of problem would that be?"

Eddie sighed. "I've been thinking. That broad you sent out after Neutron –"

"Tex?"

"Yeah, her. I don't think she was the right choice for this job. She may have a reputation for being the best, but if I'd've known the target was Jimmy, I never would've recommended a woman."

Eustace looked puzzled, so Eddie elaborated.

"Look. Speakin' in generalities, women make excellent covert killers. All they gotta do is bat their eyelashes and jiggle the goods, and men never suspect them until it's too late. But Jimmy? He won't fall for something like that. You know how he is when it comes to women – he only wants the ones he can't have. No way he'll be bested by some saddle-calloused tramp, not in a million years. He'll outplay her and survive."

"What makes you think she'll try to seduce him? I met Tex, and she wasn't exactly the 'temptress' type. Half the outlaws in the saloon were scared of her, and I don't blame them. I saw the gun she carried – you know, the famous one, with the green handle – what was it called again?"

"The Emerald Ire, sir?" supplied Blix.

"Yes, that's the one. The Emerald Ire. Point is, I care nothing for criminal exploits, but even I have heard talk of that weapon."

Eddie wore a self-satisfied expression. "Tex stole that revolver. Once upon a time it belonged to Seamus O'Healy, leader of the O'Healy gang. He and his brothers robbed a string of banks awhile back and popped off a few lawmen. Someone got a picture of him with his gun, and it was all over the papers – "the deadliest six shooter in all Texas", or some such nonsense. That's why you've heard of it. It was Seamus who gave that green-handled revolver its iconic reputation, not Tex. She took it from him after she murdered him in his sleep. She killed all seven of his brothers too, or so the story goes. You really think a teenaged girl could've eliminated a band of eight outlaws without playin' a little hanky-panky game to get them off their guard? Don't be a fool. Both you and I know women are only good for one thing, and it sure as hell ain't gunfighting."

Eustace wasn't convinced, but he didn't press the issue. "All right, for the sake of argument, let's say she does get to Retro Valley before us, and Jimmy does manage to outwit her. How is that a problem?"

"Because, Useless, he'll know someone is gunnin' for him. He'll be on the alert. The element of surprise is our most powerful weapon; I don't want to fight a man who knows he's a target."

The rail baron waved his hand dismissively. "We have nothing to worry about. Even if Jimmy knows that his life is in danger, he'll never expect anyone to launch a full-scale assault on the town. It's just not in his nature."

"Eh. I suppose. Still, I don't like unknown quantities. What if Tex is there, in Retro Valley, when we ride in and start shootin' up the place? We have no way of knowing how she'll react."

"I can tell you exactly how she'll react: she'll hightail it out of there as fast as her horse can carry her. There's no way she's going to risk her flea-bitten hide to save a bunch of strangers." He shivered harder. "Now, unless there's some pressing reason to remain out here in the street, may I suggest we continue this conversation inside? There's a diner up the road that serves passable coffee."

"You buyin'?"

Eustace rolled his yes. "Yes, I'm buying. Let's just get a move on."

And so these strange bedfellows walked off together, to discuss the logistics of murder and mayhem over a hot drink.

Woohoo! More minor character cameos. Props to those of you who recognized Terry Finster from Safety First and Retroville 9, and of course Abraham 'Muttface' Adler from that one scene in Trading Faces where Jimmy-in-Cindy's-body announces the list of boys who make "Cindy Vortex feel allll fuzzy inside".

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- There's not much to say this time around. There was a train station in San Antonio during the 1870s, but I'm not entirely sure when it was built. It might not have been completed until a year or two after this fanfic takes place, so I'm just gonna go ahead and claim artistic license on this one. After all, I invented two whole new railroad companies for this fic, so I might as well go for broke and change the timeline on Texas rail development as well.
-P.S. If you like this story, please leave a comment!

Chapter Text

The town square echoed with the sound of church bells: eight o'clock, and Libby's soirée was in full swing. Tex and the Sheriff rode up to the Juke Joint, fashionably late. For Tex, this tardiness was by design. She'd been out of sorts all afternoon, and she'd stalled for over an hour when the Sheriff had come to fetch her for the party. She made no attempt to hide her melancholy during the ride. The sky was dark with clouds, and when Tex looked up at them, her imagination conjured a pair of vast, predatory wings. For now, they were content to wait, but Tex could feel their hunger. They were a funeral shroud for the wicked and the wayward, and someday they would descend upon her.

"Buck up, Vortex," said the Sheriff, reading her mood. "It's just a party. Try to have a good time – you may find that it suits you." He was wearing a white shirt and a whiter smile, and his words did nothing to lift her spirits.

Tex tied Humphrey to the hitching post and headed for the entrance, leaving Mr. Neutron and Goddard behind. The windows blazed gold, and the entryway was a beacon, bright enough to blind. The siding glowed like a tin can lantern; pinpricks of light and laughter spilled from every gap in the clapboards. She pushed through the washboard doors, and radiance engulfed her.

Inside, the place was a riot of activity. Britney darted from table to table, refilling drinks and exchanging pleasantries, presumably at Libby's behest. The barkeep, meanwhile, was at the piano, playing a jaunty little tune while Señor Estevez bounced up and down beside her. Butch was passed out underneath the Wheezers' table, and Bolbi and Ignishka were doing some kind of strange slapping dance in time with the music. Further afield was Injun Nick, whose lounging presence had attracted a crowd of skirt-swishers. One of the bolder ones pitched forward in a giggle fit, and he snaked an arm around her waist to steady her. Tex found herself smirking. Ladykiller indeed, she thought.

A rush of air hit the back of her neck as the Sheriff entered the premises. A moment later she felt his hand close over her forearm, and the unexpected touch sent a jolt through her. "This way," he said, leading her through the crowd of revelers.

Libby was just finishing up her song when they arrived at the piano. She was all gussied up – cheeks rouged, dressed in a gown of turquoise, with her hair newly styled. She wore it in dozens of thick pleated braids, and they swung and bobbed as she played. To Tex, Libby looked like a princess, a royal from some foreign land where gold and water and prosperity abounded.

"Apologies for being late," intoned the Sheriff, dropping Tex's wrist. "I hope we haven't caused any offense."

Miss Folfax sprang up from the bench. "Nonsense!" she cried, and threw her arms around them both. Tex stiffened involuntarily. The embrace was warm, solid, rose-scented. The silky fabric of Libby's dress was a far cry from Tex's threadbare coat, and the outlaw felt a pang of embarrassment over her appearance. How long had it been since she'd owned something worth wearing?

"I got your usual table ready, Sheriff," said Libby, pulling away. "Go on and get settled, and I'll be over in a minute."

Mr. Neutron headed toward a private booth in the corner, a little ways away from the hustle and bustle of the party. Tex followed, inundated on all sides by raucous laughter and clinking glasses. Everywhere people hooted and joked and patted each other on the back; there wasn't a clenched fist or raised gun in sight.

"Sit here," instructed the Sheriff, motioning toward the closest seat.

Tex ignored him and chose the one on the other side of the table. She wasn't trying to be contrary – it was just the superior vantage point. That was the shape of her world: higher and lower ground, advantage and disadvantage, criminal and victim. It was second nature.

"It's better to face the room," she explained without thinking. "No one can sneak up on you that way."

To her surprise, his expression saddened. The reason dawned on her quickly. That's pity, she thought. He feels sorry for me.

As Goddard curled up under her chair, a couple of townsfolk mobbed the Sheriff, hollering praises and beseeching him to join them at the bar. After a half-hearted protest, he relented. "You'll have to excuse me, Vortex," he sighed. "I'll be back after I make the rounds. Do as you will in the meantime, but try not to make trouble." He turned to leave, then paused. His voice was gentler now. "You're not in danger here…I promise. Try to relax."

He gave her arm a quick pat, then vanished into the crowd. It was a kind gesture, but she didn't want his pity or his reassurance, so she pushed it from her mind. Crossing her arms, she settled back against the booth. She propped her feet up against the adjacent seat and tilted her hat forward so that the brim hid her eyes. Now Tex was in her element; she was the watcher, the observer, seeing without being seen. She steered her gaze around the room, taking it all in. She recognized plenty of familiar faces: Wendell the banker, Ike the blacksmith, Nissa the shopkeeper's wife, a couple of farmhands. Only one person seemed to be missing.

Looks like the preacher woman had better things to do with her time, Tex smirked to herself. What a shame. I think I might shed a tear.

The outlaw rested her hand on her gun, as she often did when surveilling. She traced her finger along the handle, then absent-mindedly popped open the holster and gave the chamber a spin. Whirrrrr click-click-clack. Again. Whirrrrr click-click-clack. It was a soothing, familiar sound, like rain on a canvas tent. For some reason, it reminded her of Mr. Neutron. He was…mechanical somehow. Under her skin, Tex was a witch's doll, made from thistle and dust and tangled briars. But if you cut the Sheriff open, you'd see gears turning at his core.

A shadow fell over the table, putting an end to her reverie. Tex knew who it was without looking up; the rose perfume gave it away.

"You're a woman of mystery, Miss Deputy," came Libby's voice. "Sittin' here by yourself, click-clickin' away on your gun."

Tex lifted the brim of her hat with one finger. "One of my many peculiarities," she winked, moving her legs off the chair. "I like to keep people guessing." Miss Folfax giggled as she sat, and Tex favored her with a genuine smile. "You must be pleased, Libs. Only a year in business, and you've got the whole town eating out of the palm of your hand. Or rather, drinking out of it. Now that's real power."

"You bet your ass it is," snorted Libby, with the signature titter of one slightly inebriated. "An' while we're on the subject, can I offer you some refreshment? I'd be a rotten host if I didn't. How about another round of that Mule Skinner you ordered the first time you came in here?"

Tex winced. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Libs: I only ordered that gutrot 'cause I was trying to show off. In my line of work, it pays to let the world know how tough you are."

"Well. In that case, you can save your bravado for the boys, because there's no need for it around me. Have a fruit tonic for all I care."

Tex mimed a toast. "Verily, in a world of beverage-bigots, you are a true progressive."

There was a lull in the conversation, and the outlaw pretended to scan the room. "I notice the church mouse isn't here tonight," she ventured.

"Church mouse? Oh – you mean Betty. She left at seven. She never stays long at these sorts of things. Says a woman of God ought to abstain from alcohol, set an example for the congregation…why the sudden interest in her whereabouts?"

"No interest. Just making conversation."

"Mm-hmm." Libby rested her cheek in her hand. "I would think you'd be more interested in the whereabouts of a certain lawman, little Miss Deputy."

Tex's sharp eyes flicked in her direction. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"

"I've seen you. You watch him like a hawk watches a rabbit. Or maybe he's the hawk, and you're the rabbit. I don't quite have it figured yet."

"I do no such thing," denied Tex, sticking her nose in the air. "And I resent the implication."

"Resent away. You rode into town on Friday actin' like you'd never met the man, and now you go everywhere together, givin' each other the hairy eyeball the entire time. The two of you know somethin' the rest of us don't, and I want in."

This woman is too perceptive for her own good, thought Tex.

"If you're a deputy-in-training from Red River County, you must have a reason for coming to Retro Valley. Why seek out our Sheriff in particular? There's more to the story. I'm sure of it."

"Are you always this nosy?"

"…Yes?" Libby's shoulders sagged. "Look. Here's my situation: I may have sort of…made a wager with Señor Estevez. We're both dyin' to know what you two have up your sleeves, and whichever one of us figures it out first gets three dollars and a half pound of taffy. Plus eternal braggin' rights, naturally."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I'm a businesswoman, and more importantly, I need to one-up that crazy Mexican, which is why I'm goin' directly to the source. So whaddya say…help a girl out? Give me some insider information, and I'll split the winnings with you 50-50. Assumin' you like taffy, of course."

In any other situation, Tex would've admired Libby's considerable pluck. There was so much to like about the barkeep. She had panache, and she had it in spades, but her temperament made her a nuisance. To Miss Folfax, gossip was entertainment. She trotted it out like a fine silk scarf, to be pawed at and admired by those she deemed worthy. The outlaw didn't have that luxury. Tex's secrets weren't breezy accessories; they were weighted chains strapped to her back, ugly and heavy and hidden away.

"I'm afraid there's nothing to tell, barkeep," said Tex, re-crossing her arms. "And besides – I despise taffy."

Seconds later, there was an enormous crashing sound, and both women whirled toward it. Britney had tripped over Butch's sprawled legs and dropped her entire tray of drinks. Shards of glass littered the expanding purple pool, and the hapless waitress rushed to contain the spill.

"Lord's mercy," said Miss Folfax, jumping up. "I need to see to this."

Libby hurried away, and the interrogation ended. Tex wondered how Miss Folfax would react if she told her the truth. 'You're right, Libby. I am hiding something. Turns out I'm not a deputy at all; I'm a gun-for-hire. No, no, not a bounty hunter – at least, not anymore. I shoot people. For money. Still want to be my friend?'

Tex sighed, and her gaze wandered to the spilled drinks. The liquid had splashed onto Elke's dress, and Mr. Wheezer was down on one knee, dutifully wiping the stains from his wife's hem. When he was done, she pulled him into an embrace so forceful that he almost fell into her lap. He smoothed back her hair, and she planted a kiss on his forehead. Tex looked away, ashamed that she'd spied on their private moment.

I was wrong about them, she realized. Elke didn't marry him for his money or for his fancy farm. They actually love each other. Genuinely.

The revelation shook her in a way she wasn't expecting. It came on like a sudden headache – a sense of panic, a distress that buzzed in her ears like cicadas in the summer heat. Wrong, they hummed, getting louder by the second. You've been wrong this whole time. You're wrong about everything.

Tex pushed away from the table. She needed air. The back door, she remembered. She wanted to run, but she forced herself to walk. Her pulse quickened with each step.

The back room was nothing like the bar area; it was roughhewn and cramped, with crates of booze stacked under the staircase. She cracked the door open, and a gust of wind threw back her hair. She took a deep breath. The temperature had dropped, and the cool evening air felt marvelous against her skin. The panic was gone.

Tex stood there a long while, gazing at the evening sky. The clouds were even darker now, and she heard thunder rumbling in the distance.

I'll be damned, she thought. It is going to rain. All that hogwash about cirrus clouds…the Sheriff was right.

Tex felt a presence behind her. She assumed it was Mr. Neutron, so she jumped when she saw Nick Dean standing there instead.

"Didn't mean to startle you," he smiled, running a hand through his jet black hair. "May I join you?"

She shrugged, and he swaggered over to the doorframe and leaned against it. He angled himself within her line of sight, so she couldn't look outside without seeing him.

"What brings you here, trapper?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"Same thing as you, I imagine," he replied, looking her up and down. "I'm here to admire the scenery."

He was so attractive, she was willing to forgive a line like that.

"You're not from around here, are you?" he went on. "I wouldn't forget a woman who looks like you. I saw you the other day with the Sheriff, and you've been on my mind ever since."

"My manner of dress does set me apart, I'll grant you that."

"No, not your clothes. Your eyes. I've never seen that shade of green before. Those eyes are like something out of the fireside tales our elders used to tell – tales about magic spirits who prey on men."

"Perhaps that's what I am. A being who preys on men."

"Well then," he grinned. "What would you say to a willing victim?"

He reached out to touch her cheek, and she let him. Over the years, plenty of men had propositioned Tex. Usually, she responded by pointing a gun at their heads. But she was safe here, in this saloon, and she knew it. There was no harm in letting a handsome man fawn over her.

"You seem like the kind of woman who doesn't let tradition tie her down. A free spirit. I suspect that you and I have a lot in common."

Tex wasn't sure what kind of woman she was, but it didn't matter. Nick wasn't really trying to get to know her, and that was fine.

He leaned closer. "Let's you and me get out of here, what do you say? Go somewhere a bit more private." He glanced at the staircase. "Or, if you'd prefer, there's a guest room upstairs. You decide."

It was a straightforward offer: no mind games or hidden agendas. Tex mulled it over. It would be easy to sneak away from the party. The Sheriff would notice her absence, but he had no right to tell her what company she was allowed to keep. Nick was a womanizer, but he wouldn't harm her, and he wouldn't ask questions. Is that what she wanted? A man who wouldn't ask questions? To forget who and what she was, if only for a night?

"Ahem," came the Sheriff's voice from behind her. "Am I interrupting something?"

Mr. Neutron stood in the entryway, backlit by the glow of the saloon. He had his hat in his hand, like a man come to call, or a penitent about to receive a blessing.

"That depends," returned Injun Nick. "The lady here hasn't given me her answer."

Tex looked back and forth between them. Nick was all smiles and easy charm; the Sheriff was expressionless. Tex bit her lip. She could say yes to Injun Nick. She could run from herself, the way she always did. There was nothing stopping her.

"I…can't," she said at last, shoulders slumping. "I thank you for the compliment, Nick, but I need to get back to the party."

"If that's what you want. You know where to find me if you change your mind."

Injun Nick limped back toward the bar. He had to squeeze past the Sheriff, who didn't bother moving to accommodate his passage. Tex kept her gaze on the floorboards.

Once Nick was out of earshot, she spoke up. "If I had said yes…would you have tried to stop me?"

"…No. It's your life. All the same, I'm glad you turned him down. I told you before, and I meant it: he's no good."

"I'm no good either, Neutron," she said softly.

He didn't reply. He just stared, frowning slightly, scrutinizing her. Finally, he redonned his hat and headed back toward their booth. Tex followed mutely. Shame burned her cheeks as they walked, though she couldn't say why.

She was so caught up in her private turmoil that it took her a full thirty seconds to register the sound of Libby's voice coming from the stage. The barkeep was up there, fiddle in hand, belting out a spirited rendition of The Yellow Rose of Texas. A few of the rowdier patrons were singing along. Sheen's delivery in particular sounded like someone forgot to grease the wagon.

There's a Yellow Rose in Texas
That I am goin' to see,
No other soldier knows her,
Nobody, only me.

Tex smiled faintly as the lyrics sailed through the air. It was a song she remembered from childhood; most Texans did. The war had been a great evil, but nobody could deny the beauty of its music.

Mr. Neutron was watching politely from his seat, and Tex took the opportunity to study his profile. His cheeks were still sunburnt; his white shirt drew attention to the splotches. I prefer him in blue, she mused absently, then frowned at herself. Why should she care what color he wore? And yet, once she'd tread upon that road, she couldn't keep her mind from wandering down it. Another question rose, unbidden: if the Sheriff had been the one to ask for a dalliance, would she have said yes? Tex guillotined the thought.

You may talk about your dearest May
and sing of Rosa Lee,
But the Yellow Rose of Texas
Beats the belles of Tennessee!

Libby leapt down from the stage, performance finished. She held her fiddle aloft as the crowd cheered, then disappeared into the bar area with a toss of her hair. What a waste, thought Tex. Such talent, and the only audience she'll ever get is a bunch of yokels. The world was filled with uncountable cruelties: some outrageous, some subtle. One could experience a lifetime of blessings, or ceaseless hardship, all because of an accident of birth.

Obviously, Miss Folfax didn't share Tex's cynicism. She reappeared, grinning from ear to ear, carrying a silver plate in one hand. To the outlaw's surprise, she made a beeline for their table.

"This is for you," winked the barkeep, setting the plate in front of her, "seein' as you and taffy ain't on friendly terms."

Tex looked down to see a slice of pie. Pecan pie, to be exact.

"House specialty," said Libby. "Pecan ripple. And you just got yourself the very last piece."

Tex blinked. "That's my favorite flavor."

"Excellent. I strive to keep my bribes custom-tailored."

The word 'bribe' caught Mr. Neutron's attention; he gave Miss Folfax a funny look, and she mistook it for vexation.

"My apologies, Sheriff. I would've offered you half, but I thought you hated pie."

"I do," he grumbled. "Reminds me of my father."

Tex ventured a taste; it was buttery, dense, and sweet. It may be a bribe, but it was a delicious bribe. She dug in with gusto.

"Pace yourself," grinned Libby. "We wouldn't want you to choke."

"I'll take my chances. Death by pie wouldn't be such a bad way to go."

Miss Folfax laughed and turned to leave, but Mr. Neutron caught her by the arm. He motioned her closer, and she leaned over so that he could whisper into her ear. Hushed words passed between them, and Tex watched on with interest, fork raised halfway to her mouth. Libby nodded once, then again. Straightening, she headed off toward the bar on whatever errand the Sheriff had sent her on.

"What was that about?" asked Tex, in between mouthfuls of pecans.

"Just wait. You'll see."

When Miss Folfax returned, she was carrying a pitcher of alcohol and a pair of shot glasses. She set them on the table one by one; the liquid sloshed and the glasses clinked as they made contact with the wood. Finally, she produced a deck of cards from the crook of her arm and handed it to Mr. Neutron.

"Will that be all?"

"Yes. Thank you, Miss Folfax."

The barkeep gathered up the empty pie plate, waggled her fingers at Tex, and went off on her merry way. Tex threw Mr. Neutron a puzzled look.

"I assume you have an explanation for this."

"I do. I think it's high time you and I got to know each other better, Vortex. To that end, we're going to play a little game."

He was staring at her very intently, and the effect was unsettling. Why was he so damned hard to read? "Go on," she hazarded.

"A drinking game."

She flopped back into the curve of the booth. "I thought I told you, dunderhead. I don't get drunk with people I don't trust. Buzz off."

"I remember." He turned the deck over in his hand. "But I think you may find this particular game to your liking."

Tex couldn't help it; her curiosity was piqued. She allowed her eyes to swivel back toward him. He removed the cards from their pack and began to shuffle them. He moved with precision and ease – the mark of a practiced dealer. Tex wasn't intimidated. She was an accomplished cheater.

He spread the cards into the shape of a fan. "Poker," he said. "5-Card Draw. Each hand, the winner gets to ask the loser a question…any question. The loser can either answer, or take a drink. It's as simple as that."

She raised an eyebrow. "In other words, spill your guts, and you're fine. Keep your secrets, and end up getting plastered. That puts me at the disadvantage. You have nothing to hide."

"…Haven't I?" The words came out low and enticing. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Forget it," she said.

"There's no risk to you, provided you win," he pressed. "I assume you're a skilled player. And even if you're not – even if you lose every round – you still needn't drink a single drop. All you have to do is answer my questions, and you're off the hook."

"What incentivizes me to tell the truth? I could lie. We could both lie. There's no guarantee that we won't just fabricate everything."

He continued on as if he hadn't heard. "If for some reason you do get drunk, you can stay the night with Libby. I won't try anything. I won't attempt to disarm you. I give you my word."

"I don't trust you."

"You don't have to."

"What's the point of this?" she snapped. He was being terribly persuasive, and it angered her.

"The point, my dear, is twofold. First, to learn. Second, and more importantly, to win."

A delicious chill stole over her. There it was again: her old, unquenchable vice. Competition. She struggled to maintain her resolve.

"You see," he said, "I've explained the rules, but I haven't told you the best part – the part that makes the whole exercise worthwhile. The game within the game, if you will."

He pulled a card from the stack and placed it in the center of the table.

"Ace of Spades. The death card. Right here, in full view – ours for the taking. Either one of us can try to snatch it away during play, but if we're caught, we have to put it back. Whoever has it in their possession tomorrow morning wins. If I win, you have to count it toward my 'impress the assassin' tally. If you win, I'll show you what I keep in the rooms under my house. How does that deal strike you?"

Tex felt as though she were being tempted by the devil himself. He leaned in closer, and she found herself mirroring his action. They huddled together over the pitcher, faces nearly touching.

"Come on, Vortex," he whispered. "Drink with me."

There was something profoundly seductive in those words. It made her dizzy. This man, this town, this contract…the strands of her life were unraveling.

He's dangerous, she reminded herself.

Yes, agreed the little voice in her head. But you can beat him.

"All right," she said. "I'll play."

I figured that, since Cindy's favorite flavor of ice cream is "pecan ripple", Tex's favorite flavor of pie is probably the same.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- The song Libby performs, The Yellow Rose of Texas, is a famous American oldie with unfortunate roots. There are like, 4567875 different versions of the lyrics, but the earliest known rendition was published in Christy's Plantation Melodies No. 2 in 1853. The song was popularized (and re-worded) during the Civil War, when it became a favorite among Confederate soldiers, especially those serving in the Texas Brigade. It's difficult to tell from the sparse bits I included, but the song is actually about a black man's love for a biracial Texan girl ("yellow" rose, referring to the color of her skin). In the 1850s, it was performed in minstrel shows by white actors in blackface (big yikes); it was later adopted by white troops, whose enthusiasm for the material is just beyond ironic. I mean, here you have these super racist Confederate soldiers (soldiers on the side of slavery!) singing the praises of a mixed race woman and declaring her to be superior to the society dames of Tennessee. People certainly are something. Anyway, you can listen to the song on youtube if you like. I like the Roy Rogers version, which swaps "cowboy" and "fellow" for soldier. There's even a cover by Elvis...except his version is about a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman. For some reason.
- On the subject of taffy, here's a weird tidbit: from the 1840s through till at least the 1870s, people would throw "Taffy Pulls", a type of social event centered around the pulling of taffy. The host would prepare the taffy recipe by melting molasses and sorghum or sugar with a mixture of water; participants would then coat their hands with butter and, with the aid of a partner, pull the hot mixture apart, fold it back together again, and repeat. This process would add air to the candy, resulting in a soft, chewy texture. Yeah. People really did get up to all sorts of hijinks in the era before television...

Chapter Text

He sat up straighter, a triumphant glint in his eye. "High card deals first. Shall we cut?"

"Nah," she said, easing back. "There's no need to stand on ceremony. You can start us out."

Let's see how you handle yourself, she thought.

"Very well."

He doled out ten cards – five in front of each of them. He flicked them onto the table, quick and precise, without flourish. Tex observed warily. She preferred opponents who were a bit more theatrical: shuffling one-handed, tossing and flipping the stack, streaming the cards from one hand to the other like a waterfall. She made short work of show-offs like that. But Mr. Neutron? His reserved bearing worried her. There was nothing obvious to latch onto, no weaknesses to exploit.

Tex picked up the cards, running her fingertips over them as she strategized. Clean, glossy. The deck was brand new. She held them to her nose and took a deep breath – there was something so invigorating about the smell of a freshly opened pack. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow, but she paid him no mind. It had been a long time since she'd handled cards that didn't reek of booze, cigar smoke, and the threat of imminent violence.

"Hit me," she said, tossing him two rejects.

He replaced them and took one of his own. She scrutinized the fresh cards.

"Two pair," she said, dropping her hand into view. "Jacks and sevens." A solid first round.

He smiled. "Three queens. I win."

Her eyes widened. Three of a kind on the very first go? Bastard.

She tossed her cards down onto the table. They slid every which-way, leaving a messy pile in the middle of their shared space. He didn't seem to notice.

"Interrogation time," he said, hunching forward and steepling his fingers. "Ready?"

"Fire away."

"All right. Who hired you to kill me?"

She stared at him blankly. "We've been over this. There's a non-disclosure clause in my contract, remember? I can't tell you."

"I'm well aware of that."

It took her a moment to process what was happening, but once she did, Tex wanted to kick herself. He was planning to soften her up, wasn't he – pitch a few questions she couldn't answer, get her just a little bit tipsy, so that she'd be easier to beat. Tex wanted to be angry, but she couldn't summon the vitriol. After all, who was there to blame but herself? She should have laid down some ground rules before agreeing to this ridiculous scheme.

Mr. Neutron filled her cup. "Drink up, Vortex."

She gazed into the bubbly purple liquid, and her reflection stared back, wiggling and wobbling on the surface. Eh, what the hell, she thought, and tossed it back. A constricting warmth spread through her core, and she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

"You look good when you lose," smirked the lawman, leaning closer. He tugged playfully on the brim of her hat, and she swatted his hand aside.

"Paws off, Neutron, or you'll be playing the next round one-handed. Losing the next round, I should say."

"Pfft. Promises, promises. Let's see you deliver on one of them."

Deliver she did. Tex won the match, king high, and she was quick to give him a taste of his own medicine.

"All right, genius. My turn. Tell me: what do you keep hidden in that room beneath your house?"

An unanswerable question. He had it coming, and he knew it, so he simply said "well played," and took a swig.

Third round: the tie-breaker. The cards landed, and Tex scooped them up with all the fiery ardor of a zealot at the pulpit. It was a rotten hand: a two, a four, a nine, a ten, and a queen, all off-suit. She struggled to keep her frustration in check as she discarded the two and the four, only to get another two and a four in their place.

Unsurprisingly, fortune favored the lawman that round.

"That murder-for-hire contract your employer signed," he said, "the one you obviously have stashed somewhere – where is it really? I'd love to take a gander at it."

Damn him. "I already told you. I don't have the contract. My client does."

"Liar."

"Screw you," she said, and threw back another shot.

The next hand went out, and the two of them faced off across the table. Tex's temper cooled as she reconsidered her strategy. If they kept going after each other like this, they'd be joining Butch on the floor before the night was out. For all her wrath and willfulness, Tex didn't want that kind of showdown. She took a deep breath. Control your impulses. Steer the game where you want it to go.

She won the next round. The Sheriff tensed, expecting another impossible-to-answer question, but it never came. Tex folded her hands on the table; this was her chance to ask him, really ask him, anything she wanted.

"Last night, on the porch," she began, "you told me that your parents took your inventions from you...that they did terrible things with them. What did you mean by that?"

He harrumphed. "What I meant, Vortex, is that my parents have never once stopped to consider how their actions might impact the world. Their understanding of cause and effect is limited to 'sales equals profits'. It's despicable."

He didn't elaborate, but Tex had no intention of letting it go. She gathered up the discard pile, jaw set in determination. Now was the time to put her skills into practice. A little sleight of hand, and she could stack the deck in her favor.

She licked her finger for traction. "Ready?"

"And willing."

Tex won the next round easily, with an all-clubs flush. A bit obvious, perhaps, but what did it matter? Technically speaking, they'd never established a rule against cheating. She returned to her most recent line of inquiry.

"Back to your parents. Which inventions did they take? Be specific."

He barked out a laugh, but it was devoid of mirth. "The list is expansive. I've been inventing things my whole life: a machine to tie shoes, a burp-inducing carbonated drink, a toy automaton. Silly things, mostly…until they weren't silly anymore. I designed weapons, Vortex, and they sold them. They gave my crank gun schematics to Richard Gatling for further development, and they turned over my rifle to Colt's Manufacturing Company."

The outlaw thought back to what Libby had said on Friday: He used to be some sort of genius gunsmith back East. Apparently, that distinction had been bestowed upon him without his consent.

"It didn't stop with the guns, either," he went on. "After word got out that the Neutrons had a boy genius under their roof, people started showing up with requests. Politicians, businessmen, friends of my father. 'Build me a machine to rig elections, Jimbo.' Or 'Help put my competitors out of business, sonny Jim.' I hated being treated like that – like an invention-dispensary – but my parents urged me to comply. I can never repair the harm I did, working for those uptown crooks. That's why I'm better off out here. I can build whatever I want, conduct whatever research I want, and it won't hurt anyone. No one stands to profit off it."

Tex let his words sink in. His self-imposed exile suddenly made a lot more sense.

"The Gatling Gun...the Colt..." she frowned. "What compels a child to design weapons?"

His glare was sharp and swift. "No free questions. Next hand."

The game continued, but Tex was distracted – at least, that's what she told herself when she lost the next round. She gazed down at her cards, befuddled, as the Sheriff took the subject of parents and turned it on her.

"What about your father and mother?" he asked. "Lawyer and a schoolmarm, right? What are they up to these days? They must be proud, knowing that their daughter is a homicidal vagrant."

The question stung, but there was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction of another swig. She summarized woodenly. "My father's dead. I'm not sure what happened to my mother."

He had the decency to look contrite. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"So am I."

There was a moment of silence. He cleared his throat. "Ah, well...don't hold back on my account. Have at it."

Tex obliged, and three nines mysteriously found their way into her hand. Next turn, she beat him by a landslide.

"What compels a child to design weapons?" she repeated. "Something must have happened."

He gazed long and hard into his cup. At first she thought he was going to drink; instead, he began to swirl the liquid around in circles.

"What do you remember about the war, Vortex?"

"The war? Precious little, I fear." She stole a glance at the Ace of Spades – she hadn't forgotten the larger objective. It was still on the table, beckoning. "Our boys fought with the Grays, but Texas as a whole didn't see much action. I never witnessed any battles."

"I did."

"You did? How? You're not old enough to –"

"I was eleven at the time," he interrupted. "We were down in Washington for the week, hobnobbing with a bunch of senators and their families. Word got out that the Union Army was marching to Bull Run to engage the enemy." He shook his head gloomily. "Back then, we thought our boys would trounce the Rebs right then and there: a short, tidy little war. How wrong we were."

She glanced at the Ace again. "How wrong indeed."

"It was Sunday, and spirits were high," he continued. "Nobody wanted to miss the action. Folks of all stripes hunted up carriages for a trip to the front. People brought field glasses and picnic lunches, like they would for a day at the races – insanity, in retrospect. Congressman Washburne invited my father to accompany him, and for reasons that I will never understand, I was brought along."

"You were at First Manassas?"

"Along with several hundred other civilians."

Tex couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. "Did you see the Rebels when they broke through the Union flank? Were you injured at all in the retreat?"

"It wasn't like that. Most of us were too far away from the fighting to be in any real danger. I remember sitting on the grass with my picnic basket, dripping sweat and swatting away flies. There was this one woman with an opera glass – she was beside herself every time a volley echoed from the battlefield. 'That is splendid!' she'd exclaim. Or 'Oh my! Is that not first-rate?'"

"No shortage of rubberneckers in the world."

"Indeed. It was only after the battle turned sour that the gawkers packed up and left. Some fled in a panic; others scuttled off later, with their tails between their legs. What I remember is the aftermath. When my father and I returned to Washington, it was as if we'd come back to a different city. The populace was despondent, because they'd finally realized the truth. We were in for a long and costly war."

Tex frowned as she tried to reconcile her own recollection of events with the Yankee perspective. The adults in her circle had suspected from the beginning that the war would cost a great deal...they'd just thought they'd be on the winning side of it.

He shivered. "When we eventually got back to Boston, the fighting was all anyone talked about. War and death, death and war. I hated it. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It consumed me."

"What do you mean?"

Mr. Neutron scowled into his glass. After a pause, he picked it up and drained the contents. She opened her mouth to ask him why he was drinking out of turn, but he raised his palm to stop her. "That one was strictly voluntary," he mumbled. "Just give me a second. I'll finish the story."

Tex had never seen him so rattled. She looked at the Ace, then back to the Sheriff. This was her chance. Perhaps it was callous to take advantage of his distress, but when it came to winning, Tex had no scruples. She inched her hand toward the card.

"Brilliance in a child is a dangerous thing," he said at last, gaze fixed on the empty cup. "In my naiveté, I thought that somehow, I could solve the problem. I locked myself inside the backyard summerhouse, and I drew up plans for weapons. I assumed that, if we had better guns on our side, the war would end faster. I thought that improved firepower would prevent deaths in the long run. But those assumptions, and the designs they inspired…they were just ideas. They weren't finished. They weren't ready to be used."

Tex's fingertips made contact with the Spade, and she began to slide it into her sleeve.

"I never should have left those schematics lying around," he went on bitterly. "My mother and father knew I was gifted, but they didn't understand what I was capable of. Those weapons killed thousands, Vortex. Those deaths are on my conscience."

His grief was plain to see, but she couldn't share it. There was a part of her – the worst part, perhaps – that delighted in his confession. Hypocrite, she exulted. You dare look down on me? You and I are exactly the same. Just a couple of lost souls with blood on our hands. She knew that she shouldn't rejoice in someone else's pain, in the pain of a nation even, but she couldn't help it. Triumph swept over her, fierce and swift and cruel. She longed to taunt him, to remind him of what he truly was: not a high-and-mighty lawman, or even a genius inventor, but a killer, like her.

She restrained her impulse. "Your parents are to blame, not you," she soothed. "And besides, if you hadn't invented those things, someone else would have. When people want to kill each other, they find a way to do it."

"Maybe. I tell myself that sometimes."

There was a long pause.

"Thank you," said Tex, as a way to fill the silence. "For the explanation, I mean. You didn't have to divulge as much as you did."

"You were honest about your parents. I wanted to return the favor."

Gently, he placed his hand over hers. For a second, she thought it was a gesture of solidarity…then he slipped his fingers into her cuff and yanked out the Ace of Spades.

"Nice try," he said, "but I'm only two drinks in. You'll have to do better than that."

He slapped the card back onto the table, and Tex bristled, outraged. Refusing to be outdone, she poured herself another glass, picked it up, and placed it squarely on top of the Ace. If he wanted to take it, he'd have to push her drink aside. One more impediment to his victory.

"Would you look at that," she purred. "The death card makes a mighty fine coaster."

"You can't –"

"I can put my cup anywhere I want to put my cup, Neutron. There's no rule against it."

"I…suppose you're right."

"I am right."

"And I'm impatient. The deck's almost spent. Deal your last."

Tex was all too happy to obey. She passed out the cards, fed him two new ones, tossed one of her own, and then revealed her hand.

"Full house," she declared. "Queens over sevens."

"Four of a kind," he said, and there was fire in his voice. "I win."

Tex couldn't believe her eyes. Four sixes. Was he cheating somehow, or was he just ridiculously lucky? It didn't matter. She'd have to pay up either way. She met his eyes and waited.

"Who was the first person you ever killed?" he asked.

Tex knew the answer before he'd even finished speaking. It was the kind of thing that was impossible to forget. The whole scene came back to her in a flash: high noon, standing in a dusty street, as bloodthirsty onlookers placed their bets. She heard the jingle of spurs and the clunk of heavy boots as her foe approached, huge, shadowed, faceless. One shot was all she'd get. There was a sudden gust of wind, and her hair was a ribbon, streaming past her face. Now.

"His name was Seamus O'Healy," she replied, banishing the memory. "He was a bank robber and a murderer…the leader of the O'Healy gang, if that rings any bells." She tapped the Emerald Ire. "That's where I got this gun. It was his."

He looked shocked. "The O'Healy gang. I remember hearing about them, but that was almost ten years ago. You couldn't have been more than what…fourteen? Fifteen?"

"I was fifteen when I dueled him. And I won, fair and square. That's how good I am."

She shouldn't have given him a free answer, but she had a braggart's heart. The Sheriff needed to know that he wasn't the only prodigy at the table.

"So a fifteen year old girl duels a famous outlaw and wins. Interesting. I wonder how something like that comes to pass."

Tex didn't like his tone of voice; there was something calculating about it, something detached. It struck her as the sort of tone a surgeon might use, pre-dissection, as he speculated on what he'd find underneath all that skin and bone.

He reached for the stack. "My deal," he announced.

Suspicion coursed through her. She watched closely as he flipped the cards onto the table, but if he was cheating, she saw no sign of it. Either he was playing fair, or he was every bit the card shark she was.

What were you expecting? she chided herself. He never would've challenged you to this game if he thought he couldn't win.

And he did win – the next round at least, with an all-diamonds flush. That confirmed it: he was definitely cheating. She just couldn't figure out how he was doing it.

"All right," he said, resting his weight on the table, "this I've got to know. How did you wind up in a shootout with Seamus O'Healy?"

Tex hesitated. She did not like where this conversation was going.

"I needed money," she replied at last. "O'Healy had a bounty on his head. Killing him meant I could collect the reward."

"A bounty, huh?" He shook his head. "I should have guessed. Money. The wellspring of all the world's evils."

Tex wasn't interested in his disgruntled philosophizing. Apprehension crawled over her skin like a swarm of ants. Seamus's death was her hingepin; her entire life revolved around it. That first kill... It was the story of her triumph and of her undoing: the fall of the O'Healy gang, and the last days of Cindy Vortex.

"I've never understood that mentality," he prattled on. "How can you put a dollar value on a man's life? It's barbarism, that's what it is."

What would it be like, she wondered, to tell someone her story – to tell him? Outcast to outcast; one killer to another. She scratched at the nape of her neck. The skin-ants were everywhere. She adjusted her hat, then crossed and uncrossed her legs several times. Was he ever going to play the next hand?

"Hurry up," she pressed. "You move slower than molasses in January."

"So eager to lose again, Vortex?"

"Eager for you to shut your mouth, Neutron. Deal the damn cards."

They were both silent as he passed out the next set. Tex couldn't focus. If I were a card, which one would I be? she pondered. She gazed at the Ace of Spades. She knew the answer.

"Full house," he announced, and she snapped back to attention. Tex swore as she tossed down her losing hand. She dreaded his next question.

"Why did you need money?"

Five words was all it took. Five words – one for each card – and she was standing at the entrance to a labyrinth. All her memories slumbered within. If she wandered through that open door, would she ever come out again?

"Nuh-uh," she said, and grabbed her cup. "Not going there." Another one down the hatch.

Relief piggybacked on the warm glow that coursed through her. Three shots wasn't so bad. She could handle that.

"An odd question to avoid," the Sheriff observed.

"I'll play the game as I see fit."

"Very well. So shall I."

There was a ruthless gleam in his eye, so she wasn't surprised when he won the next round. His query, on the other hand, did surprise her.

"Why did you need money?"

It was the exact same thing he'd already asked, repeated verbatim. He couldn't do that. Could he do that?

"I already paid up," she objected. "You can't come after me with the same question again."

"I can do whatever I please. There's no rule against asking the same question twice. Or three times. Or all night, until you pass out from intoxication, or give me what I want."

"You…you're serious, aren't you?"

"Dead serious."

Tex struggled to formulate a rebuttal, but she couldn't get past his sheer audacity. It flabbergasted her.

"You dare strong-arm the woman who holds your very life in her hands?"

"You'd be surprised by the things I'd dare to do to you."

Her pulse quickened, but whether it was from fury, or fright, or something else, she couldn't tell. It was an arms race now, and they'd just have to see who perished first. She leaned forward, fists clenched.

"Ask again." She bit out the words. "I dare you."

"Fine. Why did you need money?"

There was no fear in his eyes – only defiance. She'd seen that look before; it was the same one he'd worn the night he stood over her and burned $1500.

"Again," she repeated. This time, it was a threat.

"Tell me what happened to you, Cynthia Aurora Vortex. Or whatever people called you, before you became what you are now."

His words stopped her cold.

She looked at him, trying to make sense of her own confusion. He was just sitting there, staring at her with those bright eyes of his. A moment ago, she'd been ready to fight to the very last. Now she wasn't so sure. Had he really undermined her resolve so easily? Or had she chipped away at it herself, during her short stay in this strange town?

Of one thing, she was certain: there was no force on heaven or earth that could make her reveal why she'd sought that reward money. Nothing could make her admit what had happened after she'd killed O'Healy. She could invent a new story for herself. She could point her gun at him under the table until he picked a more acceptable line of inquiry. She could drink herself into oblivion and stay the night with Libby. She could simply get up, walk out of the Juke Joint, and go anywhere – literally anywhere – so long as it took her away from him.

But Tex did none of these things. She remained where she was, watching as ribbons of light danced over the liquid in the pitcher. The sounds of the party seemed impossibly distant; slow, echoing, as though they'd passed through water on their way to her ears. Everything outside the booth had receded. All she had left was alcohol, a pack of cards, and a blue-eyed man asking questions about an old wound that had never quite healed right. If she re-opened that wound and let him work on it, would it worsen? Or might it finally start to mend, once and for all?

Foolish girl, came the warning voice in her head. He can't fix you. No one can.

But still Tex hesitated. The truth waited, sad and small and expectant, like a caged songbird watching the world from behind a parlor windowpane. Though it might sing, or flutter its tiny wings, or pull out its feathers one by one in lonely agony, it would stay there forever. Safe. Trapped. Apart. Only she could open the door and set it free.

And if she told him her story, then what? What was it that she expected of him? Did she want his understanding? His judgment? To be held accountable for her mistakes, so that her guilt might finally abate?

Perhaps it was simpler than that. Maybe, just maybe, all she wanted was for someone, anyone, to know what had happened to her, before she died nameless and storyless on some distant patch of dry earth.

He'll be dead by then, too, she thought, and nobody else will ever know. Only the two of us, in all of existence.

It was almost poetic. Perhaps heaven would punish or reward them together, these two killers who had stayed up one night in a small Texas town, playing games with the truth about who and what they really were.

"I'll ask again," he prompted. "Why did you need the money?"

Tex stood atop a precipice, and his words were the wind at her back. It would be so easy to let go – to just lean forward and fall, and accept whatever fate awaited her in the darkness beneath her feet. After all, hadn't the Sheriff already taken that leap? He'd told her his story – all of it, even the ugly bits – and he'd done so willingly. If she reciprocated, they'd be standing eye to eye on the battlefield. Could she defeat an opponent on even ground? Or would he, as an equal, cease to be an opponent altogether? Perhaps, when the time came to pull the trigger, all she'd see was a fellow soldier, so caked in mud that neither could tell what color uniform the other had on underneath.

Tick tock. The wind pushed her forward. Uncertainty beckoned beneath her feet.

She let go.

"We were going to lose everything," she whispered.

Damn it's hard to describe a Poker game in an interesting way. Hope it wasn't too boring. Hold on tight for the next chapter...they gonna get DRUNK

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-The First Battle of Bull Run (or First Manassas, as it was known in the South) is famous because a bunch of idiots turned it into a war-time spectacle sport. It happened pretty much exactly how I described it: on July 21, 1861, a group of overly optimistic civilians camped out by the battlefield and watched the bloodshed play out, oohing and awwing like they were at a goddamn fireworks display. Then the rebel forces turned the tide against the Union Army, and everything went to shit. It was a psychological turning point in the war, when both sides finally realized that it was going to be a long, hard slog.
-The woman Jimmy mentions - the gawker with the opera glass who kept saying "splendid" and "first rate" - she was an actual person present at the battle. Her words of enthusiasm come down to us from the annals of history, and I included them verbatim, because she's such a colorful character.
-Congressman Elihu Washburne of Illinois is also a real person. I figured he deserved a cameo, seeing as he was one of the cooler politicians who attended the First Battle of Bull Run. He was responsible for promoting Grant within the Union Army, and after the war he was an advocate of suffrage and civil rights for African Americans.
-In real life, the Gatling Gun was invented by Richard Gatling in 1861, and patented in 1862. Although it required cranking and was therefore not a true automatic weapon, it nonetheless represented a huge leap in military tech. Gatling wrote that he created it to "reduce the size of armies and so reduce the number of deaths by combat and disease, and to show how futile war is." Twelve of the guns were purchased personally by Union commanders; eight others were fitted on gunboats.
-During the mid-to-late 1800s, it was commonly thought that wars could be shortened or even averted if only someone could create weapons that were powerful enough to end the fighting quickly. Great thinkers proposed many ideas: better guns, ironclad boats, aerial bombardment. The notion that military advancement = less death wasn't discredited until WWI. Turns out that weapons of mass destruction cause...well, mass destruction. Too bad 11-year-old Jimmy didn't know that T_T
-Seamus O'Healy's gun, the Emerald Ire, is a play on words. He's Irish, and Ireland is known colloquially as The Emerald Isle. The Irish name for the country is Éire, which sounds the same as ire, meaning anger. Combine the two and you get Emerald Ire.

Chapter Text

"We were going to lose everything," she whispered.

"What? I can't hear you over all this racket. You'll have to speak up."

It was too much, and something inside her snapped. "I said, we were going to lose everything, all right?!" The strength of her outburst surprised her, and she fell back against the seat, hands clasped over her mouth. After a moment she let them drop, and she looked away, cheeks burning. It was a good thing Libby was playing the piano, or the entire saloon might have heard.

"Go on."

"I don't want to go on."

"Do it anyway."

Tex didn't know where to start, so she closed her eyes and let her memories take her by the hand. They led her back, back to that dusty little town from yesteryear, and for a moment she was home again. There it all was, in living color: the sturdy whitewashed house, gleaming bright in the summer sun...the porch with its rocking chair, slanted with light...the vegetable garden out back, the sun-baked grass, the winding path to the old oak tree...

Tex searched for the right words. Improbably, Mr. Neutron's tale supplied them.

"You were right before," she began. "When you said that brilliance in a child is a dangerous thing." She toyed with the hem of her blouse; it had started to fray along the bottom. "Growing up, I was the smartest kid in school. I was the best at spelling. The best at sums. The best at recitation. I could memorize a book and repeat it back, line for line, without a single mistake. I could outrun all the other children, outplay all the boys at stick-ball, and spit watermelon seeds farther than anyone else I knew. As you might imagine, I was completely full of myself."

He gave a half-smile. "It's too bad we didn't grow up in the same town. I would've knocked you down a peg or two."

"Heh, yeah. Too bad."

Her brow furrowed as another memory surfaced. There she was, at eleven, standing behind the old millpond, surrounded by a group of jeering boys. She'd gotten too uppity, and they wanted payback. They pinched her and pulled her hair, and three of them held her down while the others kicked sand in her face. Pain. Humiliation. Anger. After that, she went home, stole her father's revolver out of his dresser, and practiced until she could shoot 30 crabapples off a fence without missing a single one. The boys didn't mess with her again after that.

"When I was eleven years old, I learned to use a gun," she said. "By God was I good. I used to swagger around town like an idiot, challenging passersby to shooting contests. I won every match. Started getting quite the reputation for myself, but I didn't care. I enjoyed feeling like I was bigger and better than everyone else."

"Did your parents…approve of these antics?"

"My mother worried about my 'coarse behavior', but my father reassured her that greatness often comes from the unorthodox. And nothing pleased my mother quite so much as having a daughter who aspired to greatness."

"So you kept shooting."

"And more. I started reading my father's law books, and before long I decided that I was going to become America's first lady lawyer. I knew it would be difficult, but I was young and proud, and I longed for fame. I didn't think anything could stop me."

"What happened?"

What happened, indeed. The sheer banality of it still galled her, even now, all these years later.

"The weather happened, Neutron. The summer I turned fifteen, there was a drought. The town I'd lived in my whole life just…dried up. Overnight, the land became worthless. My father's wealth was tied to that land – to our property, and to the courthouse – and as the town died, our livelihood died with it. We weren't destitute, but we were close."

Tex turned her gaze upward, toward the rafters. Another memory: sorrow, and the salty taste of tears. The sticky warmth of her own breath as she cried into her pillowcase, mourning the loss of the only home she'd ever known. The knowledge that she would never sleep another night in her childhood bedroom, never pass another day reading in the parlor, never spend another afternoon with her schoolyard friends. So many nevers.

"We had to leave," she continued, "but no one would buy our house or our acreage, and we couldn't take all our belongings with us. We packed up the good silver and jewelry to sell elsewhere. We took some clothes…food…a few legal documents…whatever we could fit into the wagon. My father tried to put a good face on it, but I knew the truth. He was heartbroken, and my mother was terrified."

Tex let out a long, wistful sigh. Her gaze moved down the wall and settled upon the pack of cards, and the Sheriff's own gaze followed.

"Shall I deal another hand?" he asked. "It's only fair. I should have to earn your story."

"No. Don't bother."

At this point, the game was nothing more than a pretext, and they both knew it. She'd gone too far to stop. He leaned back and waited for her to continue, and after a pause, she did.

"It shames me to admit that my ambition ruled me, even during our greatest crisis. I wanted to go East and pursue higher education. I had lofty dreams, and if I was going to achieve them, I would need money, power, influence – all things in short supply when you're a young woman from a dried-up town in Texas. I decided to take matters into my own hands."

"So…what? You ran away?"

"Mm, not exactly. Remember those prison visits I told you about? How I used to go to the jailhouse to blow off steam? Well, the night before we were supposed to leave, I went there. The place was deserted, save for the one prisoner still awaiting transfer. He saw me standing in front of the Wanted Posters. I kept thinking...life would be so easy, if only I could get my hands on some of that reward money. Evidently my countenance betrayed my greed, because he called me over."

Tex saw herself in hindsight, standing there outside the prison cell, all blonde and fair-skinned and rosy-cheeked. How deceptively innocent she must have looked in her peach gingham dress, moments before discussing murder with a sun-leathered con.

"We talked for almost an hour. He was a bitter old cuss who seemed to burn with hatred – and he especially hated the O'Healy gang. They'd betrayed him during a recent bank heist, or so he told me. He wanted vengeance. I wanted money. In exchange for my help, he offered to tell me where O'Healy was hiding out. He said the bounty was mine, as long as I killed the son of a bitch."

"And you took him up on that offer?"

She exhaled. "Look, I know what you're thinking, but you have to understand – when you're that desperate, every mirage looks like an oasis."

"You pursued O'Healy, then."

"I did. I stole one of our horses in the dead of night and rode out, my father's revolver strapped to my hip. Seamus was in a neighboring town. I thought I could find him, finish him off, and be back in a couple of days, laden with enough cash for a fresh start." She shook her head. "Such hubris. It nauseates me."

"What went wrong?"

"I didn't think things through, that's what went wrong. Seamus was a drunkard and a hothead. If I'd had a lick of sense, I would've plied him with alcohol, gotten him alone, and slit his throat. Instead, I challenged him to a duel. I gunned him down in the street, in broad daylight, while half the town watched on."

Tex clutched at her shot glass. The Ace of Spades lay on the table, forgotten, as she strayed deeper into the labyrinth.

"I killed him. It's funny...I don't even remember pulling the trigger." All she could remember was the gunsmoke, and how it parted as she'd walked toward the body, yielding like the Red Sea before Moses. "I was shaking like a leaf when I pried the Emerald Ire from his fingers. The handle was still warm. It was...I don't know. I threw up right there on the road. Then I went to the jailhouse to collect my reward."

Mr. Neutron winced. Tex fought to maintain her composure. She poured herself another drink and knocked it back, but it didn't help.

"Trouble is," she went on, "the town was a two-bit mud hole, and there wasn't enough money in the bank to pay out the full bounty. The local lawman told me I'd have to wait two days for the shipment of cash to arrive. So, like an idiot, I took what funds they could offer and rented myself a room above the saloon. I was so brash, so accustomed to primacy...I never stopped to think about the rest of O'Healy's gang, and how they might react to the death of their leader."

"That's right," he realized. "I almost forgot. The gang...they were O'Healy's younger brothers."

"Precisely. Big Irish family...eight brothers in total. They found out where I was staying, and three of them broke into my room in the middle of the night. They were carrying a rope and butcher knives, and they would've trussed me up and tortured me if I hadn't jumped out the window."

"You jumped out a second-story window?"

It was Tex's turn to wince. In her memories, she felt the sting of the shattering glass, followed by the lurch of free fall. She remembered lying, stunned, in a pile of hay, blood seeping from her sliced-up forearms. Then shouts from upstairs. Panic. The all-consuming need to run.

"It's a miracle I didn't break anything," she said dully. "When I landed, I didn't have time to think – I had to get out of there. I leapt atop the nearest horse and sped out into the desert. No food, no water, no money. I wasn't even fully dressed. The only thing I had was O'Healy's gun."

Tex reached for the pitcher. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured herself another shot.

"A couple of them pursued, but it was pitch black outside, and I had a head start. For two days I wandered that godforsaken wasteland, sunsick and delirious, until I stumbled upon a frontier town. A doxie took pity on me and nursed me back to health. She should've left me to die. The O'Healy brothers shot her in the head when they caught up with me."

The Sheriff grimaced. Tex drank.

"I ran. Three months, Neutron – that's how long they hunted me. They pushed me westward toward Indian territory. Day after day, week after week, month after month, I ran. The bastards even hired an Apache guide to help track me down. Every time I tried to circle back, to head for civilization and safety, they cut me off. I subsisted however I could, stealing from settlers, sleeping in barns, hiking through creek beds to hide my tracks. I lived like a savage."

She could still feel the gnawing hunger in her gut, still hear the eerie cries of the coyotes that stalked her path. During that hellish summer, Tex's aspirations had fallen away like cracked plaster. Her talents were worthless. Fame, fortune, a better life – meaningless. She would've sold her soul for a hot meal and a warm bed.

"How'd you finally get away?" he asked.

"You don't understand, Neutron. I didn't get away."

Tex poured herself another drink. It scalded her throat on the way down, bitter and acrid, like liquid brimstone. Her body felt heavy.

"I killed them," she said. "All of them. In hunting me down, the O'Healy brothers signed their own death warrants. I turned the tables on them, picked 'em off one by one."

Tex pantomimed pulling her gun from its holster, then aimed the phantom pistol at the Sheriff. She tilted her head to the side, closed her left eye, and squeezed the trigger.

"Bang," she said. "Oldest brother, dead. Crushed after I shot his horse out from under him."

She let her arm fall – then, without warning, swung it through the air, backhanding an imaginary foe. The lawman jumped, even though he was in no danger of being hit.

"Second brother, dead," she continued. "Bashed over the head with a kerosene lamp. Third brother –" she stabbed at the table with her fist "– stick through the eye. That one was messy."

"And the others?" Curiosity and revulsion mingled in his voice.

Tex raised her gun hand again and fired three more times. "Four, five, six. All in a row, quick and clean. By then I knew what I was doing. I set up an ambush, and they walked right into it."

She blew fake smoke away from her fingertip, then let her arm drop once and for all.

"That's only six," pointed out the Sheriff. "I thought you said Seamus had seven siblings."

Tex couldn't focus. She was standing over the fallen bodies, gold hair streaming in the wind like some avenging angel from the Old World. She slumped forward and rested her head in the crook of her elbow.

"The last one..." she murmured. Her thoughts were slower now. Hazy. "The last brother. He was just a little kid. Those...animals inducted a 12-year-old boy into their gang. I didn't want to kill him. I swear I didn't. He was shaking when he approached. I tried to talk him down, but he pulled a gun on me. I remembering thinking...the gun. It was too big for his hands. I shot him."

"Jesus, Vortex. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. Not really. In the end, I won. Those sons of bitches tried to get me, but I made it out alive."

For a moment, Tex was content to lay there like a dead thing. Face down, she extended her hand and felt around for her cup. Mr. Neutron slid it into her grasp, and she sat up, bleary-eyed. He stared at her for several seconds, then waved to get Libby's attention.

"Miss Folfax!" he called. "Could you come here a moment?"

The room was starting to swim, but Tex kept her expression neutral as Libby walked over.

"I apologize for the imposition," he said, "but do you think my deputy could rest her heels with you tonight? She's imbibed a fair amount of alcohol, and I feel it would be inappropriate to bring her back to my home in her current state."

"Oh?" Miss Folfax's voice went up in surprise. "All right then. That won't be a problem. Just, uh...let me know when you want to turn in, Miss Deputy."

The outlaw managed a nod, and Libby hurried away. Tex heard the sound of burbling liquid, and she looked over to find the Sheriff pouring himself another glass. He downed it in a single gulp.

"I won't let you drink alone," he said, reaching for the pitcher. "Look. I'll have another."

Tex smiled through the haze. He was being so kind. For some reason, she found herself giggling.

"Hey," she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. "Hey Neutron. Let's get drunk. Absolutely, positively smashed. Both of us. Together."

Amusement crossed his face. "That is...a robust change in attitude."

She held her cup aloft. "Caution, meet wind," she toasted.

"I'll drink to that."

They emptied their cups in unison. Tex removed her hat and dragged her fingers through her hair. She was speaking again. She was laughing.

"I tried, you know, to go back home after," she slurred. Was she still laughing? Why? She shook her head violently.

"Easy, Vortex," he said. "Take it slow."

Tex tried to concentrate. "I went back. It took ages, but I did it. All that blood on my hands, but I still tried to go back home. Can you believe it? Hey. Hey, take another drink."

He complied.

"I met the undertaker," she continued. "He was the only one still in town. He told me that my parents had stayed there all summer, awaiting my return. There wasn't much water, he said. The supply got tainted. Cholera. My father didn't make it."

Tex trailed off. It was her fault. Her Daddy had died because he was waiting for her. Because she'd run off like a fool. She wanted to throw something.

"My mother left town after my father died. She went looking for me. And she just...vanished. I searched high and low. Nothing. Almost starved to death, trying to find her." Tex rubbed the bridge of her nose. "That Apache tracker, the one the O'Healy's hired – 'member him? – he found me. Saw firsthand what I was capable of, he said. Offered me a job killin' cattle rustlers." She shrugged. "Had to feed myself somehow."

"Your mother...do you think she's still alive?"

"Doubt it. But I could never bring myself to leave Texas, just in case she's still out there somewhere."

Tex's head lolled forward. There was so much more she wanted to tell him. How she'd gone from wanderer to bounty hunter to paid assassin. But wasn't there something else? Something she was supposed to be doing?

"The Ace..." she murmured, then started laughing.

He raised the glass to his lips again, and suddenly he was laughing too. How many was that? She'd lost track. There were beads of sweat on his face, and he took off his hat to wipe his brow.

"Wasn't always a...a gun-for-hire, y'know," she managed. "Tried to go on the straight 'n narrow for awhile, but I'd got myself a reputation, see. Almost turned harlot, too, 'til I saw what that did to the girls. So I hunted outlaws. Dangerous men." She pointed to her hip. "I got shot. Here. After that I decided it was safer to just...I 'unno, kill reg'lar people. Folks who weren't doing their damnedest to kill me back."

She tried to take a sip from her glass, but there was nothing in it. She held it upside and shook it a few times to make sure.

"Anyways. Y'kill enough people for money, and it all starts to seem the same. Bounty. No bounty. Outlaw. Homesteader. Only thing't matters is hey, they're dead, and you're not. Say. Say, would ya pour me another one, Neutron?"

He ignored her request. "You could've settled down. Turned respectable."

"Coulda. Would've been hard, though. Women like me? Men want us for a night...a week...month, tops. Not for...for the long haul. Not for marriage."

Tex looked down at her boots. One of them had come unlaced. She bent down to tie it and wound up smacking her head against the table.

"Oww..." she moaned.

"There's a table there, Vortex," he said, and for a brief instant she hated his guts. Then she saw his comically mussed-up hair, his unfocused gaze, and she wanted nothing more than to tease him. She picked up his hat and donned it; it was too big for her, and it hung on her head like a bucket.

"Look at me, everybody!" she said, blindly flailing about. "I'm Sheriff Neutron. I keep a cactus in my kitchen for some reason, and my dog has a metal leg."

From beneath her chair, Goddard emitted a whine. Mr. Neutron only needed seconds to get in on the game. He snatched up her hat, brushed dirt from the brim, and placed it atop his own head.

"I have fleas," he said.

"What? I do not!" she protested.

"Do too."

"You're drunk!"

"So are you!"

The exchange required a lot of energy. Mr. Neutron slumped back against the booth, and Tex collapsed forward into the curve of her arm. The darkness she encountered there was pleasant.

"Mmm," she murmured. "This feels nice. I'm glad I did this."

He didn't reply, and she didn't sit up. Glasses clinked. Cutlery scraped. Piano keys fell through her mind as Libby played some sprightly chords. The world faded.

Blackness.

Well, there you have it. I wanted to show how someone like Tex could've fallen into her current profession, without necessarily being a terrible person from the outset. In constructing AU!Cindy's backstory, I didn't have much to work with, since we don't have the same amount of material about her family as we do for Jimmy's. I decided that I'd focus on what kind of person she'd be if, in her youth, she'd always been the smartest kid in class, the best at sports, etc. - essentially, how she wouldn't turned out if Jimmy hadn't been around to force-feed her humble pie. Hope you liked it - especially you, Jess! This chapter was for you :)

P.S. Don't binge drink, kids! lol

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- The O'Healy gang is, of course, entirely fictional - but I did draw inspiration from the Dalton gang, a group of bank robbers from the 1890s whose members included 3 brothers. The Eagles wrote some killer songs about them in their 1973 concept album, Desperado. The entire thing is worth listening to, and I highly recommend you look it up on youtube if you're unfamiliar with it.
- In real life, lone bounty hunters like the kind you see in Western films were uncommon. Most wanted criminals were hunted down by lawmen or by private detectives, including those employed by the infamous Pinkerton Detective Agency, which was founded in 1850. It wasn't just the state that furnished bounties, either - private companies or persons were known to have offered rewards for the capture of ne'er-do-wells and/or the return of their stolen property. That's not to say bounty hunters like Tex didn't exist - in fact, in 1872, the Supreme Court ruled that bounty hunters were a part of the U.S. law enforcement system in Taylor v. Taintor. Assassin-for-hire, on the other hand, has never been a legal profession, and Tex would be hanged if she were caught and convicted.
- Tex mentions that the O'Healy brothers hired an Apache tracker to help hunt her down. IRL, Apache scouts scouts underwent years of training that made them masters of wilderness survival. Traditionally, the Lipan, Chiricahua, and Mescaleros bands had scout societies; their original purpose was to protect their clans-people from enemies and to locate game and new campsites. During the Indian Wars (1860s onward), the United States Government hired what they called "Apache Scouts" (which were actually disparate groups, but were lumped together by outsiders). They acted as the eyes and ears of the U.S. military and often doubled as cultural translators. Many received commendations for bravery, despite the racism of the era.

Chapter Text

When Tex came to her senses, up and down had switched places. She opened one eye tentatively, and sunlight hit her like a punch to the face. Groaning, she rolled onto her side, her inner compass spinning. She was lying on the ground, she realized. Outside. What on earth was going on?

Her joints creaked as she propped herself up on one elbow. "Oww..." she croaked. "Where...am I..."

Tex's pulse pounded in the back of her skull. She turned her head to survey her surroundings, and the world took a second to catch up. Flecks of light darted to and fro in the corners of her vision as the sky above swam into focus. She was sprawled on the grass beneath an apple tree – Mr. Neutron's apple tree, she realized after a good minute and a half of confusion.

She rubbed her sleep-encrusted eyes, and something cold and slimy dripped onto her cheek. She looked down to find that her sleeves were covered in mud. Tex stared at them dumbly, waiting for something, anything, to make sense. There was mud on her trousers, too, and in her hair – and a long purple stain trailed down her blouse.

"What the hell... Ungh..."

She forced herself to sit up. Her clothing was soaking wet, and so was the ground – it must have rained while she was asleep. Tex fought against nausea and panic as she attempted to piece together the previous night's events. Nothing. A blank.

Calm down, she told herself. What's the last thing you remember?

The party. The poker game. Spilling her guts to the Sheriff. And drinking...lots and lots of drinking...

Tex pitched forward and caught her head in her palm. I was supposed to stay with Libby, she thought. I'm supposed to be at the Juke Joint. Not here. How did I...? She glanced around for clues. Bark littered the ground at the base of the apple tree, and the lowermost branch was snapped clean in half.

I think...I think tried to climb up onto the roof. Fell ass over teakettle, too, from the look of things.

Tex grimaced as a fresh wave of nausea rolled over her. Her mouth felt gummy, like she'd eaten a pail of wallpaper paste. Coffee, she thought. I need coffee.

She staggered to her feet and found herself face-to-face with a fat little squirrel clinging to the underside of the splintered branch. It chittered accusingly, and the sound barreled toward her like a freight train.

"Ugh, stop screaming," she muttered, stalking off toward the house. "Judgmental bastard."

Tex faltered up the porch steps and blundered through the front door. Distracted once again by the overpowering scent of balsam soap, Tex tripped over Goddard, who gave a sharp yelp and sprang to his feet. The outlaw caught herself against the grandfather clock, and it teetered back and forth as the Sheriff's voice echoed from the washroom.

"Goddard?" he called. "Everything all right?"

The lawman stepped into view, clutching a porcelain mug in one hand. He froze when he saw Tex.

She raised her chin and looked at him. He was resting his weight against the door frame, one sleeve rolled up, the other hanging free. He still wore yesterday's trousers, and his nightshirt was done up wrong. The buttons were misaligned, and it hung down farther on one side – rumpled, askew.

"Vortex?" His surprise was evident. "What are you doing here? And...what happened to your clothes?"

Tex glanced down at the mud. "Your guess is as good as mine," she replied, pushing away from the clock. "Just – please. Tell me you have some coffee."

Tex half walked, half stumbled toward him. She took one step too far, and he reached out an arm to steady her – or perhaps to stave her off. She wavered, off balance, in the space that remained between them.

"Today's your lucky day, Vortex," he said, with the hint of a conspiratorial smile. "I've made something better than coffee: a remedy uniquely suited to our current shared affliction."

He lifted the mug to his lips, took a sip, then handed it to her. She looked down into it, bleary-eyed; the liquid inside was blue, and it was bubbling.

"The hell is this?" she asked, squinting at the contents.

"Hangover cure. Something I invented after the...uh, incident last summer at Ike's party."

She gave the brew a skeptical sniff. "Ugh. Smells godawful."

"Tastes godawful too. What matters is that it works."

She looked down at the concoction, then back up at him. There were dark circles under his eyes. "I hope this kills me," she said, and drained the contents.

The flavor was sharp, biting – like unripened apples. It fizzled in her mouth, stinging her tongue, but she wasn't alarmed. Mr. Neutron wouldn't poison her. She offered him the empty mug, and he accepted it in silence. After a pause, he rested his head against the doorjamb, smiling faintly. He reached out to touch her hair, only to stop himself at the last second.

"Your hat is missing," he murmured.

Tex's hands flew to her head. "Shit. You're right."

She began to glance around frantically, as though she'd find it lying on the floor in plain sight. He chuckled, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Did you take it?"

"Me, abscond with your hat? Perish the thought."

"You were wearing it last night."

There was a pause. "So you remember that much."

Drip. Drip. A steady trickle of muddy water was falling from the bottom of Tex's longcoat. The Sheriff looked down at the spreading puddle and sighed.

"Apologies. I shouldn't bandy about while you're standing there looking like a half-drowned rat. Go on, get yourself cleaned up. I just drew water for a bath, but uh...heh, you clearly need it more than I do."

He sidestepped and gestured for her to walk past him into the washroom; she felt his hand on the small of her back as he nudged her over the threshold.

"Come to the pantry when you're done," he said from behind her. "Breakfast will be waiting."

The latch clicked shut, and Tex shivered. It was a cool morning, and the steam from the washtub had fogged up the windows. There was no lock, so she jammed her boots up against the base of the door. She removed her overcoat and let it sag to the ground, then yanked off her shirt and tossed it aside. The sodden garments squelched beneath her feet as she turned this way and that, searching for a place to stow her gunbelt. Ducking under the hairbrush-and-crank contraption, she drew closer to the looking glass. The washbasin there was empty, so she unhooked her belt and bandolier and stowed them inside, then placed both pistols on top. She glanced up. The mirror had begun to mist over, but a clear patch remained at face height. Tex stared into it. She saw grime. Stringy, sodden, tangled hair. And those mad eyes of hers – greener than a serpent's scales, more impenetrable than an uncut gem. She turned away.

Tex headed toward the tub, stumbling and hopping as she peeled off her water-logged pants. They landed with a splat beside her blouse and coat, and Tex climbed into the bath, hissing softly as the heat from the water hit her sore legs. After a moment her skin adjusted, and she lowered herself in.

"Ahh..." she breathed, settling her shoulders against the back of the tub. She closed her eyes, and the tension in her neck eased. For a long while she was content to lie there in silence, listening to the water lapping against the sides.

Gradually, the throbbing in her head lessened, and Tex half-opened her eyes. She noticed a pair of shelves to her left; the top rack was stacked with tools and curios, most of which were beyond her capacity to identify. The bottom rack held towels, sponges, and various cleaning supplies. As she reached for the soap, Tex noticed a set of freshly laundered beige pants and an indigo shirt. Mr. Neutron must have laid them out for himself while he was preparing the bath.

The Sheriff, she thought. The drinking game. Their wager. Now that her mind was clearer, the memories resurfaced, and brought with them the obvious question: where was the Ace of Spades?

Tex couldn't recall taking it. Then again, she'd apparently made a drunken pilgrimage from the Juke Joint to the Sheriff's lawn, and she couldn't remember that either. Had she ridden Humphrey back? Where was he? And where was her hat?

The outlaw groaned and slid further down into the tub, until her mouth disappeared beneath the surface and her grumbling turned into a series of angry bubbles. With no answers in sight, she lathered up some suds and got to work scrubbing herself. The scent revitalized her, and layer by layer the dirt sloughed off, until the water ran dark with the stain.

Tex wasn't one to tarry, so at the first signs of pruning skin, she hauled herself to her feet, wrung out her hair, and wrapped her body in a towel. Shivering, she stepped out of the washtub and tiptoed across the floor, dodging muddy puddles with each step. She crouched beside her discarded garments and rummaged through the pockets one by one, looking for the Ace. Her search turned up nothing. Just to be thorough, she opened the hidden compartment in her longcoat and felt around inside – and in an instant, all thoughts vanished except one.

Her homicide-for-hire contract was gone.

She brought the jacket to face level and peered into the compartment. Empty. She turned the sleeves inside out, then shook the coat, but nothing fell from it. She checked and re-checked the surrounding floor space, but all she found was spattered mud. Tex sat back on her heels. She tried to think, tried to put together the pieces, but no matter how hard she wracked her brain, the void in her memories remained.

For a moment, panic nearly overwhelmed her, and it took all her powers of self-control to direct her thoughts down a more judicious road. Maybe you stowed it in Humphrey's saddle bag and then forgot about it, she told herself. Maybe you put it in your hat. All you have to do is figure out a way to retrace your steps. Keep calm, and a solution will present itself.

The fear receded, and Tex glanced around the room. In her fugue, she'd made an absolute mess of the place, and she'd neglected to bring along a change of clothes. Her spare gear was still in Humphrey's saddle bag...wherever that was. Yesterday's outfit was slimy and stank of booze and muck. Disgusted with it and with herself, she pitched the whole thing, coat and all, into the tub to soak. She wiped her boots clean, mopped up the floor, and then tossed the towel in with the rest.

Shivering harder, she turned back toward the set of shelves, and her gaze fell upon the Sheriff's shirt and pants. Tex was a tall woman. They would probably fit.

Why not? She asked herself, and grabbed the ensemble.

Five minutes later, Tex stood in front of the mirror, lacing her boots and buckling her gunbelt. She stopped when she caught sight of her reflection. Her face was obscured by the mist-blurred glass, and if it weren't for her long hair, she might've mistaken herself for the Sheriff. His clothing was one size too large, but she was accustomed to wearing men's garments. She cinched her belt tighter to rein in the extra fabric.

A jar of toothpaste labeled Crème Dentifrice rested on one corner of the basin, and Tex helped herself. As she slathered the mixture onto her teeth, she hunted around for a comb. Unable to find one, she sighed, reached toward the ceiling, and yanked one of the brushes off the crank contraption. Problem solved.

Tex emerged from the washroom a new woman: cleaned, groomed, and miraculously hangover-free. The smell of bacon, fire potatoes, and scrambled eggs drew her to the kitchen. The Sheriff was nowhere to be seen, but he'd set a place for her at the table, and she eagerly hurried over – only to stop dead in her tracks when she saw what awaited her.

There, on the center of the plate, propped up against a stack of bacon, was the Ace of Spades.

Tex heard the creak of floorboards, and she whirled to find the Sheriff standing in the doorway, looking indecently smug.

"Breakfast is served," he said with a wry grin. "Bon appétit."

Ruh-roh (.ᴖ.)

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- During the 1850s, a new toothpaste in a jar called a Crème Dentifrice was put on the market. Colgate introduced its toothpaste in a tube (similar to modern-day toothpaste tubes) in the 1890s. Until after 1945, all toothpastes contained soap. Yum.
- The Sheriff never patented his miracle hangover cure, because he knew that kind of technology was too dangerous for the common man to handle.

Chapter Text

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"What's this?" he said. "No devastating comeback? No snappy, curt riposte?"

He cut a dapper figure in his neatly-tailored vest, and it only made the insult worse. She bristled like a wet-furred cat.

"Go boil your shirt," she spat.

"Ohoho, look at you – all puffed up and hissing. It's almost darling, if you ignore the claws."

"Run off at the mouth some more, and see what happens."

Light glinted off his badge as he moved closer. "You talk a big game, little hellion, but a spade's a spade, and a deal's a deal. Now tell me what I want to hear."

She crossed her arms. "Not until you tell me how you did it."

Mr. Neutron plucked a strip of bacon from her plate. He turned it over in his hands, admiring his handiwork, before taking a bite.

"Are you familiar with the wider world of Texas vice?" he asked. "Not just killers, mind you. The whole lot: robbers, gamesters, reprobates..."

Tex was taken aback. "I mean, we don't send each other Christmas cards, but I know the major players. Why?"

"There's an outlaw down in Alamo City – skinny little whelp with a bald head and a bad temper. Goes by the name 'Eddie the Baby'. Ever heard of him?"

"The famous gambler? I've heard the stories, same as anyone. Kid's got a hell of a reputation."

"Eddie's my cousin," he said flatly. "He taught me every trick I know."

She gaped in disbelief, and he grimaced.

"He was a wunderkind of sorts, when we were young," he went on. "We had a lot in common. Eddie had a head for numbers, and a mad knack for cards – Blackjack, Faro, Three-card Monte – you name it, we played it. Trouble is, greed was in his bones, and he never rose above it. He tried to kill my aunt and make off with her inheritance. We haven't spoken since."

Tex blinked. "Christ on a cracker. Your family really is the gift that keeps on giving."

"You have no idea."

"I've gotta ask – is there anyone back home you don't wholeheartedly despise?"

"There was a wasp that stung my father, once. I hope it's doing well."

She couldn't help but smile. "All right. So your homicidal cousin taught you how to cheat...but what about the Ace? You were cork-high and bottle-deep by the time our match was over. How'd you keep your wits?"

"Wits?" His mouth twitched as he struggled not to laugh. "Wits didn't enter into it. When I awoke this morning, the whole damn deck was in my pocket. How it got there, I will never know."

"You don't remember taking it?" It was more guffaw than question.

"My dear, after a certain point, I don't remember anything. And it gets worse. The cards weren't the only thing I stole - I made off with Libby's heirloom pitcher. How I got it home, I haven't a clue, but when I opened my eyes at first light, there it was, sitting on my pillow. Imagine my confusion."

She threw back her head and laughed. "Sheriff, you boozed-up, thieving fox – arrest yourself this instant."

"I can't. It's too late. I'm already on the lam."

"Well then," she said, sidling close, "you won't be needing this." She snatched the badge from his vest.

He tried to grab her sleeve, but she spun sideways, light as a dancer on her feet. She held the silver star out of reach.

"Hey!" he shouted. "What ever happened to honor among thieves?"

"What a childish notion. You should thank me for dispelling it."

"Thank you? I should as soon thank the devil for putting out a welcome mat."

He darted after her again, and she ducked beneath his arm, reversing their positions. "Over here!" she called.

He bumped the chair as he turned, and the clink of cutlery drew his attention to the table. He reached for the butter knife. "En garde," he teased, and held it like a sabre.

The playful threat delighted her. In a flash, Tex grabbed the fork and slashed it through the air. Metal clanged on metal, and the knife went flying; it pinged off the wall before clattering to the floor.

"Holy shit," he said.

"Don't bring a knife to a fork fight," she smirked, and wiggled it at him.

He lowered his arm. "You...are a terrifying woman."

"Aw shucks. Cut it out."

"No, I mean it. Here, let's have a rematch – hand me my revolver, and I'll give you the spoon."

"Ha!" She tossed the fork aside. "Nice try, but if you want your piece, you'll have to come and take it from me."

Tex was itching for more, but he demurred with a quiet chuckle. "As tempting as that sounds, Vortex, we had an agreement. So go on, out with it – tell me you're impressed. Shout it to the rooftops."

She pinned the star on her lapel, just above her bandolier. "I'm impressed," she said, admiring herself.

"You are maddening."

"And you're slow on your feet." She grabbed a biscuit off the plate. "Listen. Whether you realize it or not, you've chosen a very dangerous line of work. You need to be able to trust your reflexes. And that takes practice."

He looked her up and down. "I don't doubt it."

She jammed the biscuit in her mouth, only to discover that the hangover concoction had rendered her unable to taste. Dismayed, she set it down again.

Of course there's a catch.

She was quick to shrug off her disappointment. Breakfast could wait - there were bigger problems to solve.

"Come on," she said, nodding toward the door. "I'm feeling generous. If you help me track down my horse, I'll teach you some techniques for disarming an opponent."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's wise? I might use them against you."

"Please. I could trounce you with both hands tied behind my back."

He laughed again. "All right. I accept your offer. And Vortex –"

"What?"

"The badge looks good on you."

If you like this story, please leave a comment! I've started replying to them.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- When you think of gambling in the Old West, you probably think of Poker - but in actuality, the most popular game at the time was Faro. From 1825-1915, it could be found in every gambling hall in the country. Most betting games are skewed in favor of the House, but Faro is an exception (a fact that contributed heavily to its popularity). To even the odds, dealers often cheated using trick decks, sleight-of-hand, and rigged automatic dealing boxes. By 1925, the game had fallen out of favor, due to its low profitability.
- Speaking of cheating... While Jimmy never reveals the details of how he was stacking the deck, gamblers in the Old West had at their disposal an almost baffling number of cheating techniques. Some highlights include: spring-loaded devices concealed within the sleeve, plugs of tobacco harboring concealed mirrors, decks marked with hidden symbols or coded artwork, mathematical formulas that allowed number-crunchers to "count cards", and more. Usually, the cheater stacked the odds in their favor before the game began, by coming to the table with a piece of technology their opponent had not accounted for.
- The custom of sending Christmas cards dates back to the 1800s. It began in the UK in 1843, when Sir Henry Cole commissioned an artist to design a card that could be mass-produced using lithographic printing. By the 1850s, the tradition was in full swing in Britain, and by 1860, Christmas cards surpassed New Year cards in popularity. The trend came to the United States in 1873, when German expat Louis Prang began manufacturing them for an affordable price in Massachusetts. Victorian artist Kate Greenaway is credited with introducing the focus on children in Christmas cards, painting standalone, idyllic images of children dressed in festive holiday garb.
- The phrase "don't bring a knife to a gunfight" or some derivation thereof has appeared in at least 20 feature films, beginning with The Untouchables in 1987. Several sources I found claim that the idiom originated in the 19th century, but I have a hard time buying that. I included a parody of it anyway because it's fun.

Vocab:
* Go boil your shirt - go eff yourself
* Wunderkind - child prodigy
* Cork-high and bottle-deep - drunk as a skunk

Chapter Text

For Eustace, the drudgery of lawlessness was proving hard to bear. Since daybreak, he'd been trapped with Eddie in some no-name boarding house, stewing in a mélange of smoke and body odor. The back room that harbored them bore the scars of their endeavors. Discarded cigarette butts littered the carpet, and maps, checklists, and receipts lay scattered everywhere. A stack of Wanted posters occupied the table – it was a shopping list of sorts, a roster of degenerates whose crimes ranged from theft to assault to drunken slaughter. They weren't the sort of men Eustace was accustomed to employing, but these were desperate times.

As the clock struck noon, Eddie tossed one final leaflet on the stack. "Welp," he said, plumes curling from his Lucky Strike, "that takes care of firepower. The foreman has his marching orders, logistics look good…things are finally shapin' up."

The teenager indulged in a languid stretch, then rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Eustace fidgeted impatiently.

"Don't celebrate just yet," he chided. "We still need horses for the last leg of the trek. Wasn't Adler supposed to handle that? Where in blazes is he?"

"Beats me." Eddie took a deep, long drag, then slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Damn," he murmured, exhaling slowly. "I could really use a drink."

Tick-tick-tick. The sound of the rail baron's pocket watch lengthened the silence.

"Eddie," ventured Eustace, as he played with the chain on his timepiece, "I've been thinking: how big is the reward on Tex?"

"Her again?" Eddie scratched a bug bite, but didn't open his eyes.

"An outlaw of her caliber must be worth a pretty penny, don't you think? Much more than these bottom-of-the-barrel miscreants Terry dredged up."

"Do you have a point, Useless, or are you just takin' your tongue for a walk?"

"Come on, Eddie, think. We could take her in. Recoup some of our losses."

He snorted. "Hate to piss on your parade, compadre, but you won't get the payout you're lookin' for. Her bounty's for assault and battery. It ain't worth the trouble."

"Assault? That can't be right. I've seen grown men quail at the mere mention of her name – surely her trade is widely known."

"You don't get it, Strych. Her puny reward is why they're scared of her. They know that she could do away with them and face zero consequences. You see, Useless, there's this little thing called 'the burden of proof'. Tex doesn't just kill people – she makes her victims disappear. Without a body, the law can't prove they're actually dead. No body, no murder." He chuckled as he crushed his cigarette against the tabletop. "I gotta hand it to the bitch. She knows her stuff."

Eustace stroked his chin. "There must be someone willing to pay for her. A rival outlaw, perhaps? A jilted lover? The family of a missing victim?"

"God, you're a bore. Why does every conversation have to be about your bank account? It's exhausting."

"Well, I wouldn't expect a gambler to possess financial acumen," he shot back. "Shall we discuss some of your specialties instead? Cheap booze and loose women, perhaps?"

"Hey. Don't knock 'em 'til you try 'em, Strych."

Eustace made a face. "I'm not like you, Eddie. I drink wine, not spirits, and when it comes to the fairer sex, I have no choice but to take a circumspect approach. Men of my social standing are at constant risk of falling prey to greedy Jezebels who want to get their hands on our fortunes. It's one of the reasons why I haven't married."

"Aww, don't let it get you down, Useless. Look at it this way – with teeth like yours, you could always court a mule."

Eustace sighed heavily. It wasn't worth the argument.

Moments later, a knock came at the door, and Blix nudged it open half an inch. "I am sorry to interrupt, Mein Herr, but Abraham Adler is here to see you. Shall I send him in?"

"Stop asking permission to do your job, you ignoramus. Just do it."

"Yes, of course. I apologize."

The door creaked as it swung fully open, and Muttface gangled into view.

"Got an update on the hosses, boss," he said. "I found us a rustler that's willin' to throw in – he says he's got a plan to pinch some Appaloosas."

Eddie pulled out another cigarette. "Go on."

Muttface mistook this for an invitation, and he flopped down in a vacant chair. An eye-watering miasma wafted from his boots, and Eustace nearly gagged.

"Y'ever heard of a broad what goes by the name of 'Sagebrush Sally'?" he asked.

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"She owns a ranch just east of Marble Orchard. Word is, Sally ain't got no husband, and her line riders are spread real thin this time o' year. If we charge in, guns blazing, it oughtta be easy pickin's."

"So…what? We hoof it from the train stop, pop off a couple sentries, and ride the stolen horses down to Retro Valley?"

"I reckon that about covers it. Easy as, right?"

"Hmm." Eddie drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "This rustler…where'd you say you found him?"

"Up near Alazán Creek. I chanced upon him early mornin', camped out by the riverbank. Couldn't tell ya his real name, but folks 'round town call him 'Flippy'."

The boy outlaw narrowed his eyes. "Describe him to me."

"Gee, I dunno...creepy li'l cuss, about yay-high, and he's done up like a carnie barker. Fair near certain I sensed the devil on him, but I'm told he's the best in the biz. Why? You know him?"

"I knew him," replied Eddie, fishing out his lighter. "He used to work the rodeo circuit, back before he committed all the murders."

"Murders, plural?" interjected Eustace.

"Yep. Three U.S. marshals, two judges, and a clown. Though he insists the clown was self-defense."

"Good God."

"There's no sense tryin' to sugarcoat it. The man's crazy as a shithouse rat, but if he says he can get us horses, he can get us horses." Eddie turned back to Muttface. "Where does he want to meet?"

"...Here, boss. He's in the parlor now."

Eddie shook his head as he stood and gathered up his papers. "You know, I almost feel sorry for those poor suckers in Retro Valley. This is gonna be a bloodbath, and not a single one of them will see it comin'."

Yeah, Okay. This chapter didn't really need to exist, but I wanted to squeeze in one more minor character cameo...

I don't think I ever really clarified why Tex has her clients sign a formal contract before she takes a job, given that her modus operandi is covert action. The motive is simple: it's vindictiveness. If she ever does get caught (or if her client tries to throw her under the bus to hide their own culpability), she wants to be able to bring them down with her.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
- In 1870, an Ohio man named Albert Pease invented a machine that chopped up tobacco for cigarettes. This automation reduced the price, increasing their popularity. The "Lucky Strike" tobacco brand mentioned in this chapter was introduced in 1871, and it still exists today. Originally conceived as a kind of chewing tobacco, it later evolved into cigarettes. Also, fun fact: lighters were invented before matches! The first lighter was invented in 1823, while the match was created in 1826.
- The era of westward expansion was chaotic, with populations constantly in flux: people were known to disappear, then reappear elsewhere, all the time. Contract killers like Tex could evade prosecution, so long as their victims' fates remained a mystery. While it is possible to go to trial without the purported victim's body, no-body murder convictions were historically rare. By the mid-1870s, there had only been three such guilty verdicts in the United States – and one of them was later overturned after the alleged victim was found alive.
- Line Riders were ranch employees who patrolled the farmstead's boundaries, turning back stray livestock, repairing fences, and guarding against rustlers. Horse and cattle theft was a major problem in the Old West, especially in wartime; Comanche and Apache raiders preyed on Mexico in the years leading up to the Mexican-American War, and the outbreak of the American Civil War brought about a massive increase in rustling on both sides of the border. If you ever want to go down a crazy rabbit hole, read up on The Johnson County War in Wyoming. The conflict, which lasted from 1889 to 1893, was a dramatic clash between cattle barons, homesteaders, rustlers, local lawmen, and the United States Cavalry. Shit was wild.
- Alazán Creek is a small waterway in San Antonio. Named for its reddish-brown color, it was the site of a battle in 1813, during the Mexican War of Independence.

Vocab:
* Hosses - Horses
* Quail - Cower in fear
* Pinch - Steal
* Jezebel - A power-hungry temptress. In the Bible, Jezebel was a Phoenician royal who promoted the worship of false gods in Israel after seducing and marrying King Ahab.

Chapter Text

Libby was already saddle-sore by the time she crested the hill overlooking the Sheriff's house. It was slow riding, guiding a wayward stallion; she'd wrapped Humphrey's lead around her pommel, but he was an ornery beast, and he stamped and snorted as she paused atop the summit. Down below, a light mist crouched in the valleys and furrows. Though the honeysuckle blossoms had not yet given way to berries, the first hints of autumn were already lurking in the rushes. Here in Texas, the seasons ran together, but today the air had a distinctly northern chill. She shivered, pulled her shawl tighter, and pressed the horses on.

The slamming of a door drew her attention to the porch. Tex and Mr. Neutron ambled down the front steps, trading barbs and bumping elbows. They were dressed to match in indigo shirts and light trousers; he sported a vest, she a bandolier. Their attire called to mind the bold, attractive hues of the Union Army uniform, without its festooned pomposity.

At the sight of his mistress, Humphrey nickered and tossed his mane, and the barkeep raised her hand in greeting.

"Good mornin'!" she called out.

Tex flinched at the sound, and in the time it took Libby to blink, the blonde had drawn her six-gun. She lurched forward, fast as a sidewinder, placing herself between the Sheriff and the threat. There was a murderous glint in her eyes, and in the space between breaths, Libby saw the truth: that in the face of danger, this woman could kill without hesitation or remorse.

"Heavens to Betsy and my Aunt Mary," exclaimed Miss Folfax, clutching at the reins. "Point that thing at someone who deserves it!"

Tex could scarcely hide her embarrassment. She fumbled with her holster, muttering apologies, as Libby stared down at her. It took a moment for the barkeep to formulate her next words.

"My dear Miss Tex," she said at last, "who on Earth were you expectin'?"

The two co-conspirators – for that is clearly what they were – traded glances, and something passed between them, some silent understanding that Miss Folfax couldn't parse. She frowned. Who was this woman, really? What was she doing here? And what worried her so much that a simple greeting could elicit a response of lethal force?

In the face of such considerations, Libby's bet with Sheen receded in importance.

"I don't suppose you'd care to answer my question, Mr. Neutron," she attempted. "Or has your candor joined your wits at the bottom of my sterling silver pitcher?"

"Oof. Right for the jugular, huh."

"You can hardly blame me, Sheriff. I watched you stagger out of the saloon last night with the darn thing tucked under your arm like it was a prize pheasant. Now tell me what the heck is goin' on, before I dredge up some truly mortifying stories."

He pretended to be stupid. "Tell you...what's going on?"

Libby pointed at Tex. "This woman is a disciple of the Reaper. Just now, she was ready to send me to that big ol' Juke Joint in the sky for the crime of sneakin' up on you. Why? Do you have cause to think there's trouble on the way?"

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously and muttered something about coyotes.

"James Isaac Neutron," she said, "that is probably the least convincing lie you've ever told. I'm almost insulted."

"I'm not lying!" he sputtered. "Coyotes have been harassing Carl's stock. Go on and ask him if you don't believe me, or better yet, ask Sheen. He can tell you all about it."

Tex nodded in agreement. "Once a predator loses its fear of humans, it becomes a threat to public safety. Everyone knows that."

Libby drummed her fingertips against the saddle. "I see. I see how it is. Lying is a team sport with you two, is it? Couple of bullshit artists, collaboratin' on a painting?"

"You're making a mountain out of a molehill," insisted Tex.

The barkeep sighed. "Fine. Whatever." She continued grumbling to herself as she unwound Humphrey's lead. "You're just lucky I'm such a good neighbor. Not everyone would traipse all the way out here to return a wayward horse. Here."

The blonde had the decency to look sheepish as she shuffled forward to accept the proffered lead. "Thank you," she murmured. "And uh…sorry, I guess."

Libby softened. "I'm just glad you're alright. You gave me quite the fright, you know, when I came to check on you this mornin'. What kind of pickle-brained fool climbs out a second-story window in the dead of night? It's a marvel you didn't break every bone in your body."

Mr. Neutron turned towards Tex in disbelief, only to find that her expression mirrored his. Libby looked from one to the other.

"Stars and garters," she said. "What a matched set you are. I'd wager you don't remember last night's antics, do you Miss Tex?"

Tex winced. "I don't suppose you could fill me in on the details."

"Well, let's see: after the party, I hauled your sorry, sozzled ass above stairs and stowed you in the guest room. Last I laid eyes on you, you were rolled up in a quilt, drunkenly professing your love to me in song. I must say, your blandishments were first rate – you called me a 'princess from the land of the pharaohs'. I'm gonna have that one embroidered on a pillow."

Tex flushed with embarrassment. "Oh dear. But wait a minute – why'd I go rappelling out the window?"

The barkeep shrugged. "'fraid I can't say. I didn't actually see you make your escape, so I can only speculate about your motives. I'm just the humble detective who noticed scuff marks on the windowsill, and found this hangin' on the rose bushes down below." Libby turned to grab Tex's ten-gallon, which sat perched atop the arch of her bustle. "Catch!" she called.

Away it went, and Tex dropped the rope just in time to snatch it from the air. "My hat!" she cried, clutching it like a treasure.

"You're welcome."

A moment later, Tex's jubilation faded, and she grew very, very still. When she next spoke, her words had a steely edge, as though she concealed a blade behind her teeth.

"You didn't find anything else…did you?" she said.

"Well, Miss Lawman, if you're lookin' for your dignity, I'm afraid I have bad news."

The Sheriff barked out a laugh.

"The responsibility for this little escapade lies with me, I fear," he said, summoning up an almost theatrical level of contrition. "I forgot to warn you about my deputy's gecko-like affinity for climbing. Did you know she makes a habit of sleeping on my roof? Scurries right up the apple tree, fast as lightning."

Libby rounded on him like a Rottweiler. "You've been makin' a lady sleep on the roof?"

He shrunk back, cowed by her reproof. Tex leapt to his defense.

"He's not 'making' me do anything. Sleeping up there was my idea. In the summertime, I prefer the open air."

Libby paused to scrutinize the blonde. On reconsideration, a handful of details stood out: mud-caked boots. Oversized menswear. Hair stained honey-dark.

"You slept outside in the rain," she realized. "That's why you're wearin' the Sheriff's clothes."

Tex looked at her like she was obtuse. "Obviously. Why else would I be wearing his clothes?"

A fraught silence descended, as three minds came to a simultaneous conclusion.

"Her gear was covered in mud!" blurted the Sheriff, losing his composure entirely. "She had to wear something after her bath. What was she supposed to do? Walk around naked?"

"Mr. Neutron…you're diggin' the hole rather deeper, don't you think?"

"Miss Folfax!"

She held up a hand. "I'm sure there's an innocent explanation, Sheriff, but surely you must realize how this looks. If Miss Tex goes waltzin' around Retro Valley dressed in your clothes, people will talk."

"Yes, heaven forbid," snorted Tex, opening her saddlebag. "We wouldn't want anyone to think he's known the touch of a woman."

He reddened, scandalized.

"Sheriff, please," intoned Libby, struggling not to laugh. "Calm yourself! No harm's been done. If you'll just lend me your deputy for the afternoon, I'll see to it that she's properly attired."

Tex, who'd been busy rifling through her effects, abruptly stopped.

"With your permission, of course, Miss Tex," amended Libby.

"I've got a spare set of clothes right here," motioned Tex, lifting a tattered shirt from the bag. "I'll just go inside and change."

Libby couldn't help but wrinkle her nose when she saw the ratty garment. There were stains along the collar, and loose threads hung from the hem like inchworms dangling from a branch.

"That's your spare gear? Lord's mercy, this is worse than I thought. I can't let you walk around town wearin' that…that soiled dish towel," she shuddered. "It ain't fit for rags."

Tex exhaled and rested her forehead against Humphrey's flank. "I suppose you're right."

"Will the two of you be going into town, then?" asked Mr. Neutron, having found himself unceremoniously excised from the day's agenda.

"No need. For weeks now Elke has been crowin' like a rooster, singin' the praises of her new sewin' machine. You'd think the darn thing was the Arc of the Covenant, the way she talks about it. I'm sure she'll be eager to give us a demonstration."

Tex closed her saddlebag. "Actually, do you mind if we make a pit stop in town first? I know it means we'll have to backtrack, but I desperately need to pick up some supplies from the general store before I attend to anything else."

"If you'd like," she assented. Miss Folfax turned to the Sheriff. "Mr. Neutron, while I have you here, might I ask a favor?"

"What do you need?"

"Señor Estevez and I were supposed to have breakfast together today, but he never showed up. It ain't like him to miss out on free food and an opportunity to flirt. Could you swing by some of his usual haunts and see if you can sight him?"

Mr. Neutron was dismissive. "I'm sure he's fine. Probably just sleeping off a hangover."

"I don't know. He's been awfully accident-prone lately. I mean, in the last month alone, he's fallen down a gopher hole, sat on an ant nest, lit himself on fire, choked on a..."

"All right, all right! I take your point. If it'll put your mind at ease, I'll go and check on him. But let me fetch your pitcher first, before I forget."

He turned and trundled up the steps.

"While you're in there," called Tex, "find me an old blanket or something, so I can make a poncho. Let's not give the townsfolk any more grist for their rumor mill."

***

As midday approached, the trio went their separate ways. Mr. Neutron disappeared into the scrub, while Tex and Libby meandered along the road toward town. As the women rode, they passed a flock of grackles drinking from a roadside puddle, dressed to impress in glossy iridescents. A pair of Painted Lady butterflies turned corkscrews nearby, while lazy bees attended to a crop of freshly-opened daisies. Although the sky remained overcast, the sun was beginning to reassert its authority; Libby could feel its warmth on her skin, questing and uncertain, like a flame testing out a bit of kindling.

"I love days like this," she sighed, shrugging off her shawl. "Back East, I used to hate the rain. Now I live in awe of it."

The bluebonnets and phlox that lined the track were just the welcoming committee. In a day or two, the valley would erupt into a conflagration that rivaled Mardi Gras, as a thousand flowering plants donned their hats and held a brief, boisterous, colorful parade.

To her right, Tex gave a noncommittal grunt.

Miss Folfax stole a glance her way. The blonde sat atop her mount, straight-backed and alert, surveying the landscape with the tense focus of a scout searching for an ambush. Libby let her gaze linger, admiring the curve of the gunslinger's jaw. In profile, she was almost handsome. Had Tex wanted to pass for a man, she could have, though not indefinitely; the ruse might fool a man of average intellect, but almost any woman would see through it. It wasn't Tex's appearance that gave her away – it was her constant companion: wariness. It rode beside her like a phantom, leaving hoofprints in the dirt.

"Lookin' for somethin'?" asked the barkeep.

Tex shot her a sideways glance, then smirked ever so slightly. "Coyotes," she said gravely. "One can never be too careful."

"Very funny."

Tex returned her attention to the road. "It's nothing. Old habits die hard, is all: the world is full of predators, and not just the four-legged kind."

"You don't have to tell me that."

"No. I suppose I don't."

Up ahead, the town came into view. Tex kept her eyes on the ground, squinting this way and that, scouring the terrain with an urgency that exceeded mere vigilance. In Libby's estimation, 'force of habit' was an insufficient explanation.

"Are you sure you're not lookin' for somethin'?" she asked again. "I don't mean to harp, but you're actin' like Sheen when he spies a hint of glitter in the rock."

Tex hesitated, chewing on her lip. Her indecisiveness persisted for so long that Libby could almost imagine two tiny Texes slugging it out in her head.

"I can't say precisely when," she began, "but I misplaced something last night. A…keepsake, of sorts. I was hoping I might spot it along the road."

"What does it look like? I can keep an eye out for it."

"It's…a legal document. A piece of evidence from one of my father's court cases. Silly, I know, but it's all I have left of him."

Libby felt a jolt of sympathy. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if you truly lost a piece of paper on the road, it's probably long gone. The runoff here is like a deluge…flash floods sweep everythin' into the river after a rain."

Tex turned her face away, and the brim of her hat concealed her expression. Libby threw her a lifeline.

"Your father was a prosecutor?"

"Yes. Many years ago."

"You must miss him," she said gently. "I'm sure he'd be proud to know that you're continuin' his work. It can't be easy, doin' what you do, but for what it's worth, I wish there were more women like you."

Tex gave her a weak, wan smile.

As the duo rode into the square, a handful of residents stopped to bid them good day. Tex merely inclined her head, but Libby smiled and waved, same as she always did. The barkeep was not the type to grow complacent in her blessings. She could live to be 100, and she'd never grow tired of watching white folks tip their hats to her. Let New Orleans keep its glamour and its music – she'd keep the Wild West, its people, and its pocketbook.

The first pit stop on the women's sojourn took them to the general store, where Tex bought beef jerky and some phenol – hardly necessities, but who was she to judge? Afterward, at Tex's request, they paid a visit to the Juke Joint. They spent the next half hour turning the place inside out, searching every last nook and cranny, hunting for her keepsake. Despite their combined efforts, the only thing they found was a nonsensical 'treasure map' Sheen had doodled on a napkin.

There was nothing to be done about it, so Tex consented to leave the matter in the Lord's hands, and they set out once again. Though the gunslinger hid it well, Libby could sense her disquiet. She made a special effort to put forward lighter topics, and the pair chatted amiably as they made their way toward the Wheezer farmstead. Libby gushed about her childhood encounter with Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield – the Black Swan herself – while Tex joked about the time she won a rooster in a seed-spitting contest.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the property, the sun had finally broken through the clouds. Ahead of them, spring-kneed baby llamas frolicked through the paddocks, while glassy-eyed adults stood in a ring, chewing their cud. Libby hated the sickly sweet stench of livestock, but llamas produced scentless dung, and thus they remained in her good graces.

"We're almost there," she said, pointing toward the distant farmhouse. "And look! There's Oleander, and Miss Emily!"

The Wheezers' red-headed grange hands greeted them as they passed. Oleander was the sort of man who lived his life in a state of perpetual befuddlement, and that reality was on full display as he leaned against his hayfork, bits of straw protruding from his hair. "Afternoon," he said. Over in the vegetable patch, Emily set down her armload of zucchini and waved her kerchief at them.

Libby lowered her voice so only Tex could hear. "Word on the street is that Miss Emily won't be a "Miss" for very much longer. Accordin' to Ike, Oleander's been workin' up the courage to propose. It'll be a winter wedding, I expect. Spring at the latest."

"Seems the private affairs of the townsfolk aren't so very private after all," was Tex's wry reply.

"Private?" chuckled Libby. "A sordid liaison is private. A marriage is everyone's business!"

The pair came to a stop beside the hitching post at the end of the lane. Tex's spurs jingled as her feet hit the ground, and she expeditiously secured both horses. Seized by a sudden bout of playfulness, she turned back to Libby, bowed at the waist, and extended a hand.

"May I, milady?" she asked.

Miss Folfax giggled as she accepted. "My dear Miss Lawman, you are as gallant as a belvidere. Twice as handsome, too."

"If you're trying to flirt with me," Tex grinned, "it's working."

Libby dismounted in a tangle of skirts and smiles. A ways off, the creak of hinges signaled that their arrival had been noticed. Elke appeared in the front doorway, shading her eyes against the light; she held a basket under one arm, and the hem of her calico dress fluttered in the breeze.

"My goodness!" she exulted, in that singsong voice of hers. "Such beautiful ladies on my doorstep! It's a lovely surprise – please, come in, come in!"

Elke beckoned them over the threshold, and the three women exchanged pleasantries as they made their way through the foyer and into the pantry. Mrs. Wheezer offered them a tray of rågfrallor, and Libby politely declined. Tex, who had not yet learned to avoid Elke's dreadful cooking, made the mistake of accepting, and she spent the next several minutes gnawing through gritty, flavorless rye.

"So," said Elke, taking a seat at the table. "To what pleasure do I owe your visit?"

Libby gestured to Tex. "She needs new clothing. Desperately. We were hopin' you could help."

"You want a new dress?" she asked, lighting up.

"Not a dress," corrected the barkeep. "Trousers and a shirt, sized to fit a woman – soft enough to be comfortable, but sturdy enough to withstand the elements. You still keep extra fabric in your hope chest, don't you? Think you can make somethin' like that?"

Elke considered. "Hmm…I think, ja. But I will need to take measurements. Would you ladies like to come to my sewing room?"

"Please! Lead the way."

Elke hopped to her feet and exited the pantry. As soon as she was out of sight, Tex surreptitiously slid the remainder of the roll back onto the tray. Libby suppressed a smile as she fell into line behind them.

"Wait until you see her!" called Elke over her shoulder. "My new sewing machine, she is the most beautiful thing in the world. I must warn you that you will fall in love instantly, so please make yourselves prepared."

Elke led them into a small study papered with cheerful yellow flowers. To the right, an elegant divider obscured a jumble of furniture propped against the wall. To the left, daylight slanted through a bay window, illuminating motes of floating dust. A row of candle-stubs slumped along the windowsill, dribbling wax onto the cedar chest below. A floor-length mirror occupied the adjacent corner, but its best days were behind it, and the passage of years had left the glass warped and pockmarked. This odd amalgamation of features gave the place the feeling of a holy storage closet, and there, atop an oak desk in the center of the room, sat the object of worship: a sleek, curve-necked machine, manicured in gold and glossy black.

Elke lowered her voice to a reverent whisper as they circled round. "Isn't she incredible? She was an anniversary gift from my husband."

Tex let out a low whistle. "Looks expensive."

"Carl is the most generous of men."

"It really is gorgeous," agreed Libby, admiring the floral text, which spelled out the name of the manufacturer: SINGER. "Poor Nissa. She's gonna be apoplectic when she sees it – positively green with envy. She'll probably try to buy it off you."

"I do not care what color she turns," returned Elke, sticking her nose in the air. "My Singer is not for sale. Now...let me show you how she works!"

Elke launched into a chipper explanation of the machine's capabilities. Tex leaned past Libby to study the interlocking mechanisms, and the barkeep caught a whiff of her scent: sawdust, warm and amber-sweet, with after-notes of balsam soap.

"The best part is all the time I am saving," gushed Elke, stooping to grab a small box. "Something that used to take all day now takes one hour. I worry I will make beggars of my calluses!"

"Did it take long to learn?" asked Libby.

"Not so long. I have to have Carl read the English for me, but the guidebook explained everything."

As they chatted, Elke started assembling spools of thread, scissors, and other such sundries on the table. Libby took the hint and bent to retrieve a basket of writing supplies from underneath the desk. A fountain pen fell out, and by the time she had wrangled it, Elke was over by the hope chest, opening the lid. She kneeled and rummaged through the contents, digging through piles of fabric and bundles of pattern-paper. A stack of potentially suitable materials began to accumulate next to the chest.

Tex ran a hand along the top of the machine. "It's funny," she said. "When I was young, I used to pride myself on my needlecraft. Even. Precise. I never made mistakes."

"Well that makes one of us," snorted Libby. "I've poked enough holes in satin to outfit a burlesque troupe."

The lid slammed shut, and Elke got to her feet, grunting as she scooped up an armload of cloth and hoisted it onto the desk chair.

"Okay!" she exclaimed, smoothing her skirt. "The first thing we must do is decide the color for her shirt." She held up two lengths of cloth in front of Tex – one peach, one dark green. "What do you think? Good? Not good?"

"Hmm." Libby tilted her head to one side, considering. "The peach would certainly wow on Sundays, but for daily wear, I think I prefer somethin' more muted. Do you have a paler green…somethin' like a moss, or a sage?"

"You mean like this?" She produced a drape of linen.

"That's perfect!"

Tex scratched at her neck uncomfortably as the two women circled round her, holding up various swatches of fabric and discussing potential drawbacks.

"Tan for the trousers, definitely," said Libby. "No, no – the plain weave, not the twill."

"Which buttons?"

"The Mother-of-Pearl – the greenish luster draws the eye. Are there enough of them?"

On and on they went, discarding rejects as they worked. For the most part Tex accepted their decisions without comment, but she had to be persuaded to see reason in some cases.

"Why do I need a pull-string at the waist?" she complained, as Libby dangled three ribbons in front of her face. "It isn't necessary."

"What do you mean, 'not necessary'? How else will you show off your figure?"

"Show off my figure? Show it off to whom?"

"To the deserving, estúpida! You can leave it loose when you're working, and cinch it tight when the occasion calls for it. Take it from me: every outfit should have at least one built-in seduction feature."

Tex gave her a withering look. "Libby, come on. You're being ridiculous."

"Think of it this way," Elke chimed in. "If criminals are distracted, they will be easier to shoot!"

Tex groaned, but in the end, Libby got her way.

Once everything was sorted, Elke stowed the unwanted fabric back inside the chest. "Now we do the measurements," she announced, and Tex sent an imploring look into the mirror, as if begging her reflection for help. "It will be faster if we – how do you say – make this a team effort?"

Nodding, Libby smoothed the creases from a piece of paper, and Tex tossed her poncho onto the chair. She extended both arms as Elke approached her with a measuring tape. Elke started at her side, then moved around back, calling out numbers as she went, and Libby scribbled attentively. For whatever reason, Tex could not hide her discomfort with the procedure, and pink crept into her cheeks as Elke wound the tape around her bust. Eyes on the ceiling, the gunslinger clenched and unclenched her fingers, fighting to keep an air of nonchalance.

"You don't like to be touched?" asked Elke, without looking up.

"That's not it." There was something uncertain, even vulnerable, in Tex's tone of voice. "I'm fine with it in principle, I just…I'm just not used to it."

Melancholy welled within the barkeep's chest. Tex's unexpected, blushing reticence wasn't charming or comedic, but it was enlightening. It stood in stark contrast to the guard-dog-like ferocity from earlier, yet the two were not at odds – in some strange way, they explained each other. Libby wondered what it would take to soothe this woman's pain.

"All done!" called out Elke cheerfully, setting down the measuring tape next to the sewing machine.

Tex moved quickly to retrieve her woolen armor. While pulling the poncho over her head, she bumped the desk by mistake, and a spool of thread fell to the floor, bounced once, and rolled past the divider into the jumble of furniture, where it disappeared beneath a crate-shaped object covered with a sheet. Tex crossed the room to pick it up. She lifted the edge of the sheet, revealing a tiny wooden cradle underneath.

When Elke saw the cradle, her expression clouded over. With a flutter of her hands, she rushed forward to cover it again. A nonsensical mishmash of English and Swedish poured from her mouth, and Tex looked at Libby in alarm. Meeting her gaze, Libby shook her head once, then laid a steady hand on Mrs. Wheezer's shoulder.

"Come on, Elke," she said. "Miss Tex is still in need of socks. Why don't we pay a visit to your knittin' drawer?"

After a pause, Elke nodded once, and Libby put an arm around her and led her from the room.

By the time the women reached the parlor, their host had recovered. Elke approached a tall bureau with a songbird etched into the center. She had to jiggle the bottom drawer several times before it opened. Inside, they found yarn and knitting needles, plus hats, mittens, and dozens of pairs of socks in every conceivable color and size. The yarn was, of course, made from llama wool.

"In the winter evenings, Carl and I sit by the fire and knit," she explained. "He likes best to make socks, but there are too many of them for just the two of us, so I put the extra ones in here. Please, take whatever you like."

Refusing would have been unconscionably rude, so Tex picked through the selection and chose three pairs that looked to be about the right size. Libby grabbed a backup pair for Sheen, since he made a habit of destroying each and every garment that came into his possession. She also took a hat for Britney (who did not need it and would not wear it), because she knew it would make Elke happy.

"I don't know how to thank you," said Tex, gazing at the socks with an expression better suited for a funeral. "You've been so kind, so generous – I really don't deserve it. Please, let me pay you for your trouble."

"Oh no, no!" protested Elke. "This is…is a gift! I am so lucky, I have the most wonderful neighbors in the world. I want to do these nice things for you."

"Elke, please." Tex's voice was hoarse. Uneven. "I don't deserve it."

Libby laid a hand on her forearm. "Miss Tex. Everyone deserves to have at least one outfit that isn't fallin' apart at the seams."

That much, at least, was hard to argue with, so Tex let the matter drop.

Having accomplished their primary task, the trio retired to the kitchen for candy creams and sugared coffee – a repast that not even Elke could ruin. Ironically, talk turned to the subject of the recent coyote attack. Both the size of the beast and Carl's purported acts of heroism led Libby to suspect that the account had been embellished. After that, things got a bit silly, and they gossiped about Britney's latest fling with Nick Dean, Sheen's latest attempts to woo the barkeep, and Betty's ongoing crusade to get her husband back. Tex smiled and nodded when appropriate, but was otherwise silent for most of the discussion.

The afternoon was wearing on by the time that the women bid each other farewell. Elke called Oleander to fetch the horses from the stable, where he'd been attending to them. He helped Libby onto her mare, as etiquette required, but he was too slow to help Tex, who could probably out-climb a mountain goat.

"See you tomorrow at the granny bee!" shouted Elke, and Libby blew her a kiss.

As the farmhouse receded into the distance, Tex stole a glance over her shoulder.

"How long have Mr. and Mrs. Wheezer been married?" she asked.

Libby wracked her brain. "Goin' on about…four years now, if memory serves."

"And still no children?"

Libby saw what Tex was getting at, and she composed her reply carefully – it was, after all, a delicate matter. "There have been many…small losses," she said decorously. "It's been very difficult on Elke."

Tex grimaced. "That's a shame. Poor woman."

"That sewin' room was still a nursery when I first got to Retro Valley," recalled Libby. "I guess they decided to reappoint the space. Makes sense, from a practical standpoint."

"I hope things take a turn for her. She deserves happiness."

A momentary gloom descended on the barkeep. "Yes, well. The world would be a very different place if people got what they deserved."

It was the wrong thing to say. Tex receded back into her shell, and Libby's thoughts turned to Sheen, and his stupid, reckless search for gold, and whether something awful had befallen him.

***

As luck would have it, they crossed paths with the Sheriff later in the evening, and the three of them decided to pay a visit to the creek to check his crawdad traps. It wasn't the right season for crayfishing, but Mr. Neutron was an avid fan of Libby's jambalaya, and the traps he'd devised were diabolically effective. He filled her in on the day's findings as they made their way down the embankment. Apparently, Carl had seen the prospector heading west, walking in the direction of Marble Orchard – but his poor vision made the sighting dubious, and it was not enough to quell her ruminations.

Their destination offered better solace. The creek and its environs were a quiet, restful sort of place – perfect for lounging, if one took care to avoid the fruit-bearing briars. Libby came here on occasion to relax and read Britney's tawdry romance novels. Since her last visit, blue and purple spiderwort had bloomed along the water's edge, and these two faerie highways gave the locale a dreamlike quality. Libby picked herself a bouquet as the Sheriff waded into the knee-deep water to investigate the traps. Upstream, Tex used her poncho to gather wild raspberries.

"The mechanism's stuck," he informed, tugging at a metal box below the water's surface. "This might take a bit."

Miss Folfax settled on a patch of moss and began to braid the stems into a crown. Tex joined her, berry-stained and smiling, and the two of them sat in silence, enjoying the burble of the brook and the river's distant thunder.

Tex reclined with a sigh. "I could get used to this," she murmured, and pulled her hat down over her eyes.

In the end, the crawdad harvest surpassed expectations so mightily that Libby had to go and get a second bucket for them. By the time she returned, the Sheriff was no longer in the water. He and Tex had both stripped down to their shirts and trousers and were engaged in what appeared to be some sort of combat lesson. He held a stick in his right hand, and there were moss-stains on his clothes. She was empty-handed.

"All right," mimed Tex, "come at me again. This time, drive the knife down towards my chest, in an overhand strike."

Libby set the bucket down and sat to watch the show.

It was quite the spectacle. Mr. Neutron held nothing back as he lunged forward, and Libby almost gasped when the wooden blade went plunging down. Tex reacted in a blur. She caught his wrist, deflecting the strike down and to the side. She drove her other hand into his elbow, and he yelped in pain and dropped the stick.

"Rotation, and deflection," she said. "Remember, an overhand strike is often made in anger by an inexperienced opponent. It has a lot of force behind it, but you can use your attacker's momentum against them." She bent to pick up the stick. "Okay, now you give it a try. I'll walk you through it."

Miss Folfax popped a raspberry into her mouth as the two of them squared off. Tex performed a slow-motion version of the same attack, and the Sheriff fumbled his way through the redirect. She stopped to correct his stance, guiding the motion of his arm, and he nodded at her instructions. They ran it again, faster this time, and his form improved. Even though dusk was fast approaching, they practiced the maneuver over and over until he'd mastered it completely. Libby swatted at a mosquito.

"Okay," coached Tex, "let's imagine a different scenario. Say you're standing in a corner, and your back is up against the wall. If you can't duck out of the way, and you have no room to grab and twist, your options are limited." She held up her forearm. "90 degree bend at the elbow," she said. "Lift your arm like this to block the downward strike. If the blade is double-sided, it'll slice into your forearm, but a superficial cut is better than a neck or chest wound."

"Where did you learn all of this?" asked the Sheriff, slightly out of breath.

She tossed the "knife" and caught it. "Chinese washerwoman. It's a long story. Now – put your back against the tree, so I can show you what I mean."

He did as he was told, and Tex stepped toward him. She raised the mock dagger and slashed it down, aiming for his heart. She leveraged power, but not speed, and he moved to intercept, forearm colliding with her wrist. Then she did something he wasn't expecting: she added her other arm and bore down on him with her body's full weight. A piece of bark fell from the tree as he struggled against her.

"Look for an opening," she grunted. "What's exposed?"

"S…stomach. Solar…plexus."

She eased off. "Exactly. You don't need a lot of room to sucker-punch someone. Not bad, Neutron."

At this point the mosquitoes were becoming unbearable, and if Libby didn't intervene, these two idiots might go on tussling forever. She treated them to some polite applause, which was enough to make them turn around and finally acknowledge her.

"This has been a lovely demonstration," she said, "but in case you haven't noticed, it's getting dark, and I'm pretty sure the bugs are preparin' a buffet table."

Tex sighed. "You're right. We can pick this up again tomorrow." She reached up and flicked a chunk of lichen off his shoulder. "You're a fast learner, but repetition is what matters when you're building muscle memory."

The pair separated to retrieve their hats and outerwear, and Libby scratched her chin, considering the facts. If they'd intended to maintain the ruse that Tex was here for tutelage, they'd failed miserably. Whoever she was, the gunslinger was no greenhorn – that much was obvious. So why had she come here? Why was she teaching him these things?

The barkeep replayed the day's events, and a theory began to crystallize inside her mind. Tex had leapt in front of Mr. Neutron like she was expecting Death himself to gallop in, and now here she was, giving him self-defense lessons. There was only one explanation that made sense: someone was gunning for the Sheriff. Mr. Neutron was known to have made weapons for the Union Army; that alone might be enough to engender lethal enmity. He was also a lawman in largely lawless territory, which made him the adversary of every desperado crawling through the scrub. Perhaps Tex had caught wind of a scheme and come to warn him about it.

It was a sound hypothesis, but she'd have to test it out to know for sure.

"Miss Tex," she began, as Mr. Neutron loaded up the buckets, "might I pick your brain for a moment? I need some expert advice."

"Oh? Go ahead."

"If I thought someone had me in their sights – someone villainous – how might I protect myself? Assumin' I had time to prepare."

Tex was surprised. "Is this a hypothetical question?"

"Purely hypothetical."

She considered. "Well, in that case, here's what I would say. First off, arm yourself: a shotgun under the bar, and another in your bedroom. Fight if you have to, but have an exit plan ready, because running is usually the better option for a layperson. Keep some supplies in a bag and plot out multiple escape routes. Should the worst happen, flee into the desert, and stay at one of Sheen's encampments until you can find help. Oh – and if you keep cash on hand, make sure to store it somewhere safe. Somewhere nobody can find it."

"Could I hire a bodyguard?" she asked.

"You could." Tex shrugged. "Better pick the right one, though, or you'd just be treating your killer to a two-for-one special."

"What counts as 'right'? What qualities should I be lookin' for?"

"Hmm. I think…I think you could go one of two routes. Option one: find a man with a deeply-held, almost suicidal sense of duty. The kind of person who would take a bullet for his boss. Ideally, he should be a little bit in love with you, to bring down the cost of his services."

"And option two?" she prompted.

Tex looked her in the eye. "A fiend in human form. Someone who's killed before, and aims to kill again. Just make sure you pay them well, and never, ever piss them off."

Libby opened her mouth to ask "which one are you?", but then thought better of it.

"Is that all?" The blonde was getting restless.

Miss Folfax nodded. "That's all. Thanks."

She turned and went to help the Sheriff with the buckets. The barkeep smiled.

"Gotcha," she murmured to herself.

I struggled with this chapter for a long, LONG time. In the end, the only way I could get it to work was to write the entire thing from Libby's perspective. Hopefully you enjoyed it – it's something different, at least.
 

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- During their ride, Libby mentions meeting Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield, AKA The Black Swan. She was the first African American opera singer and one of the most illustrious talents of her era. Born into slavery, she moved to Philadelphia after being manumitted at a young age, where she grew up in mixed-race social circles. She began performing in the early 1850s, and during the height of her popularity, she toured the United States, Canada, and parts of Europe – she even sang for Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace. She performed pieces by many famous composers, including Mozart, and lent her talents to countless charitable causes. In her later years, she returned to Philadelphia, where she created the Black Swan Opera Troupe and became a vocal teacher.
- And now...I shall force you all to take a deep dive into one of my very favorite topics: the history of women's labor! Before the advent of automation in the 19th century, nearly all clothing was made in the home. A middle-class American housewife could expect to spend several days a month making and mending her family's clothes, even if she was lucky enough to outsource some of the work to a hired seamstress. According to Godey's Lady's Book (the most widely circulated magazine before the Civil War), it took about 14 hours to make a man's dress shirt and about 10 hours for a simple gown. The advent of the sewing machine changed all that.
- The sewing machine is something of a patchwork invention; improved in fits and starts, the very first iteration was patented in 1790 by the British inventor Thomas Saint. Barthelemy Thimonnier, Walter Hunt, and Elias Howe (or perhaps his wife, Elizabeth) all made important upgrades in the intervening decades, but it's Isaac Meritt Singer whose name became synonymous with sewing machines. The eighth child of destitute German immigrants, his first love was theater, but he never had much success as an actor. A brilliant businessman and machinist, in 1851 Singer founded a company that quickly grew to be the world's largest manufacturer of sewing machines (he also pioneered a number of business practices still used today, including payment plans and advertising campaigns). Dubbed "The Queen of Inventions" by Godey's magazine in 1860, the Singer sewing machine was initially too expensive for individual use. Many communities and organizations pooled their money to purchase a single machine for members to share. By the 1870s, however, the price had dropped dramatically, making them accessible to many women for the first time. They still remained a luxury for pioneering families; as Laura Ingalls Wilder recalled, her mother had always wanted a machine, but the family couldn't afford one until the girls were grown. Quote: As Pa lifted the blanket away, there stood a shining new sewing machine. Ma gasped. "Yes, Caroline, it is yours," Pa said proudly. "I had to sell a cow anyway." Here's the model featured in the chapter.
- According to popular legend, Ellen Curtis Demorest (a prosperous hat manufacturer who was born in 1828) had a eureka moment after she saw her maid cutting out a dress from some wrapping paper, and realized that fashionable garments could be collapsed into two dimensions for use by the home sewer. Wherever she got the idea, we know she devised a mathematical formula for printing patterns in various sizes. Aided by her sister and husband, she launched Madame Demorest's Mirror of Fashions, a pattern catalog, in 1860. By 1865, Demorest was so successful that she had 30 distribution agencies across the nation with over 200 saleswomen, spawning a mail order empire. An ardent abolitionist and women's rights advocate, Ellen Demorest employed both black and white women in her enterprises. Those who objected to her politics were told to fuck off asked to shop elsewhere.
- The widespread adoption of sewing machines and paper patterns had many positive effects, but the technological shift wasn't without its drawbacks. The reduction in crafting time was a boon to homemakers: that 14-hour shirt I mentioned could now be made in 1.25 hours, which freed up time for other activities, including leisure. Outside the home, the development of sewing machines for factory use revolutionized the shoe and garment industries. Production increased and prices fell, but workers suffered loss of independence, lower wages, and sometimes harsh working conditions. The addition of electric motors to the machines only worsened these conditions (we're talking full-on sweatshops here), and the ensuing social upheaval contributed to large-scale unrest, the organization of workers into unions, and eventually to the establishment of workplace safety regulations. Hello, OSHA!
- Tex mentions learning martial arts from a Chinese washerwoman. Whole dissertations could be written on Chinese immigrants and their vital role in the construction of the first transcontinental railroad, but this section has gone on long enough, so I'll be brief. Chinese-American workers faced brutal working conditions, racism, and wage discrimination, but without their labor, the western portion of the railroad would have never been completed. Check out Stanford University's Chinese Railroad Workers Project to learn more.

Vocab:
* Bustle - A pad or cushion used to create the illusion of a huge badonkadonk
* Arc of the Covenant - the ornate, gold-plated wooden chest said to house the Ten Commandments
* Mardi Gras - French for "Fat Tuesday"; the annual Mardi Gras parade defined New Orleans, spreading far beyond its French Catholic roots
* Phenol - carbolic acid
* Belvidere - a young, attractive man
* Rågfrallor - hearty bread rolls made with rye
* Sundries - various items not important enough to be mentioned individually
* Hope Chest - a piece of furniture once commonly used by unmarried young women to collect items deemed essential for married life
* Calico - the fabric of choice for women's dresses in the Old West. Made from unprocessed cotton, it was inexpensive, washable, and easily dyed
* Twill - one of the three fundamental types of fabric weaves, along with plain-weave and satin

Chapter Text

On the outskirts of Retro Valley proper, there was an old, dilapidated church. The entire structure slanted sideways, and when the wind blew in from the desert, the blanched splinters creaked like an old man's bones. A graveyard huddled in its leeward shadow – dozens of crosses, some wood, some stone, all weathered into anonymity. Once, it had been hallowed ground, but now it lay forsaken, disregarded even by the vultures. Such was the way of things: dust to dust, with a spate of heartbeats in between.

Tex tipped her hat to the forgotten dead as she and her companions cantered by. Mid-morning shadows stretched out from the party, melding horses with their riders; Mr. Neutron led the group, while she, Injun Nick, and Betty followed close behind. This unlikely combination was the product of a chance encounter earlier, and now they were all stuck with it. Nick chewed on his unlit cigar, squinting out into the brightness, as Betty regaled him with a passage from Ephesians. His restlessness was palpable.

In the distance, beyond the din of human voices, river water thundered. Tex longed to pay a visit to its shores – to fall upon her knees in supplication to the valley's pagan god, in the hope that he might offer counsel. Had she erred too greatly yesterday? It had been a major risk to include Libby in the search for her missing murder contract, but none of the alternatives had seemed the wiser option. The barkeep was impossible to stonewall, and she had a keen eye on her; it stood to reason that she, not Tex, would be the one to find it. Better to supply an explanation in advance, and forestall any scrutiny of the document's true contents.

That self-same fickle god probably has the contract now, she thought, and he's unlikely to surrender it. Best to soldier on.

Not far from the church, the riders came upon a confluence of paths. Some were ghost-trails, petering out a stone's throw from the crossroads, while others disappeared into plots of barley, wheat and rye. The grains here formed a patchwork quilt – green, then gold, then green again – but it was a Lilliputian version of the one on Carl's acreage, and a row of empty furrows still awaited tilling. It was the beginnings of a farm, built atop the ruins of whatever came before.

"You can thank Kevin and Oleander for the newly-planted crops," narrated Mr. Neutron, pointing at a square of barley. Tex had no idea who Kevin was, but then again, an assassin could not be expected to remember every random yokel living near the town.

"With all due respect, Mr. Neutron," came Betty's honeyed voice, "aren't you forgetting someone? Without your irrigation system, none of this bounty would be possible."

"Oh, well," he chuckled bashfully, rubbing at his neck, "I do what I can."

The outlaw rolled her eyes, and Nick flashed her an irreverent grin. "At least she isn't quoting Bible verses anymore," he whispered.

Up ahead, their destination beckoned: a brand new homestead, and beside it, a timber skeleton waiting to receive its wooden flesh. A swarm of townsfolk had descended on the site in preparation for the day's events. Tex counted at least five wagons, and two canopies provided shade to tables stocked with jugs and picnic baskets, courtesy of the settlement's female residents. She caught the scent of spices on the air.

"I hope my pies are good enough," the preacher fretted, as they approached the throng of women gathered around the tables. "I'm a little nervous. It's been years since I attended a barn-raising bee."

"Technically it's a granary," corrected Mr. Neutron, because his pedantry knew no bounds. "But I wouldn't worry about your pies – I'm sure they'll be appreciated. I, for one, cannot wait to try them."

You hate pie, thought Tex irritably, you unrepentant liar.

Aloud she asked him, "Whose land is this?"

"Well, the 'official' story is that two of Kevin's brothers will be moving in to tend it," he replied. "But everyone knows that Oleander means to marry Emily, so when the time comes, the happy couple will take up residence, and Kevin's kin will take over as grangehands for the Wheezers."

"What the Sheriff means to say," clarified Nick, leaning towards her, "is that he owns the land, and he decides who's allowed to live on it."

The resentment in the trapper's voice intrigued her. There were still so many things she didn't understand about Retro Valley's inner workings. The politics of power were insidious and subtle; they took time to puzzle out. It was time she didn't have – Tex was on a collision course with Friday's morbid deadline.

"Nick!" came an excited voice.

They brought their horses to a halt, and Britney emerged from the crowd.

"Hi, Nick!" she piped. "Howdy ya'll! Welcome to the granny bee!"

"Can you please stop calling it that," groaned the Sheriff, as Britney blinked and simpered for her swain.

"Gran-a-ry bee is too dang hard to say," she shot back. "My nickname rolls right off the tongue. It's so catchy, the whole town fancies it."

Libby materialized beside her, clad in a checkered blue dress and apron. "Britney's right – granny bee is head and shoulders better." She raised the volume of her voice. "Ain't that so, ladies?"

A round of "yes ma'am"s and "mm-hmm"s rippled through the crowd. Nissa, who was decked out in a hat so enormous that it hid her face, nodded enthusiastically, and the brim flopped up and down.

"You see that, Sheriff?" smirked Libby. "It seems you've been outvoted."

"The perils of democracy!" sang Britney, and Nick chuckled warmly.

"At any rate," the barkeep continued, "ya'll took your sweet time gettin' here. Butch and Mr. Wilderman are rarin' to get started."

"Butch is sober?" asked the Sheriff, dismounting from his horse.

"I should hope so," snorted Libby. "He's the carpenter in charge."

Mr. Neutron pulled some schematics from his saddle bag. "I'm going to inspect the staddle stones," he said. "Just in case."

Off he went, muttering to himself, and Tex hopped down from her saddle. Nick limped over to help Betty off of hers, and a bevy of hugs, kisses, and compliments ensued, as the entourage of women greeted the preacher. Nissa and Britney unloaded the pies from her riding basket with cheerful, ruthless efficiency, and as soon as everyone was clear, an acne-peppered teen came forward to collect the animals.

It took Libby all of 30 seconds to descend upon the outlaw. "Mornin' beautiful," she crooned, looping her arm through Tex's. "Glad you could make it."

Tex found that she was suddenly in very high spirits. "Libby?" she gasped, feigning wonderment. "Why, you look so heavenly today, I near mistook you for an angel."

"Oh, stop." The barkeep wiggled with delight. "You're too much."

"Careful," interjected Nissa. "She's been praised to the skies for two days running. Keep it up, and her head's liable to swell up like a hot air balloon."

"Oh, pish," dismissed the barkeep. "Nobody asked you." She beamed up at Tex. "Now – my lovely pistolera – since you're not otherwise engaged, might I take you for a jaunt? There's somebody I've been dyin' for you to meet."

Tex glanced around. "There are quite a few 'somebodies' here I haven't met."

"Yes, but there's one in particular who…well, it'll be easier just to show you. I swear, the two of you are gonna get on like a house on fire. C'mon!"

Miss Folfax tugged her into motion, and the pair of them steered around the flock of chatting, preening ladies, and made a beeline for the nascent granary. At this stage in its construction, the building resembled a gigantic four-poster bed. The foundation sat atop a row of staddle stones, which would keep the grain out of reach of vermin. The floor had already been laid, and a quartet of wooden posts stretched up from the floorboards, marking the end points of four nonexistent walls. Beside the structure, two piles of cut timber awaited the assembly crew. Carl, Ike, Wendell, Oleander, and Bolbi were among the men gathered nearby. Mr. Neutron skulked along the ground, measuring the stones.

"Yoo-hoo!" called Libby. "Sally Sagebrush, where're you at?"

One of the men turned around – and Tex saw that she wasn't a man at all. She was a tall, well-built woman, with short brown hair and a dusting of freckles. She wore denim, chaps, and boots with spurs, and her ten-gallon hat had a black velvet band around the base. Even from a distance, she exuded confidence, and Tex found herself unexpectedly tongue-tied. Libby pushed her forward.

"Sally!" she said brightly. "I've got someone to show you. This here's Tex…you know, the one I've been tellin' you about?"

The rancher's eyebrows shot up. There was a strange, tense silence as she and Tex sized each other up – then Sally broke into a huge grin, and it was instantly contagious.

"Tex!" she exclaimed, stepping forward to shake her hand. "What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Libby tells me you're a real terror – in the best possible way."

Sally's hand was rough, but warm. Tex gripped it with enthusiasm. "And you must be the roughrider out by Marble Orchard," she returned. "You've got one hell of a handshake."

Sally laughed. "I get that a lot. Strong handshake" – she leaned forward and lowered her voice – "and then the questions start."

"Ha!" grinned Tex. "I hear ya, sister. I won't bore you with the same old song and dance. I'll just ask you this: where'd you get your hat?"

Sally touched the brim. "This old thing? I've had it for years. It was a...parting gift of sorts, from my big brother. Two days after he gave it to me, that crazy so-and-so ran off and joined the clergy."

"The clergy?"

"Left the rest of us scramblin' to make do," she chuckled. "Bully for him, though."

"Sally's the eldest, after him," said Libby, offering context. "Her younger brothers are practically still babes."

The rancher snorted. "Not anymore they ain't. One came to me this week to brag because he found a single hair growin' on his chin. He's been swaggerin' around like a banty ever since, flirtin' with women twice his age. It's embarrassing for everyone."

"They're all peacocks at that age," the barkeep smiled.

"Enough about my brothers," said Sally. "I wanna hear about you! How's a scary-lookin' dame like you wind up running with the law, and not against it?" She looked Tex up and down. "Gosh, but you could skin me like a cat."

"It's true I haven't always walked a bloodless path," recited Tex, smooth as butter. "Once upon a time, I used to be a bounty hunter." Technically, it wasn't a lie.

"A bounty hunter?" repeated Libby, eyes glittering.

"I'm the one who captured Jedediah 'Deadeye' Jones," she boasted, with a smug little waggle of her head. "Got shot for my trouble, too."

Libby and Sally exchanged glances.

"You quick on the draw?" asked the rancher.

"I have no equal."

"Then maybe you can help me with my problem. Damn rustlers are a constant thorn in my side, and it ain't just horses; this spring, they tried to kidnap and ransom my kid brother. I've taken potshots at 'em, but they just keep comin' back."

"I've dealt with rustlers before. Kidnappers, too. Do you need me to put them in the ground?"

"Actually, yeah," responded Sally. "That'd be great. Or better yet, let's stack 'em up like cordwood – we can use them as kindling if our supplies start runnin' low."

"Okay then," put in Libby. "I'm gonna go now. You two have fun talkin' shop."

She patted Tex on the arm, curtsied to excuse herself, and left.

"Ain't she just the sweetest?" commented Sally, watching the barkeep go.

Tex smiled fondly. "I kind of love her."

"Heh, yeah. Everybody does. Anyone with taste, anyhow."

"Have you asked Mr. Neutron to help you with the rustlers?"

"He's done a full sweep of the property, but the buzzards have a sixth sense about them. They wait until it's just Amber and me out there, and then they swoop in." She spit on the ground. "Being women makes us targets, no matter how much I wish it didn't."

Tex grinned. "So put me in a bonnet. I'll lure the bastards in."

Sally laughed, and a warm glow suffused the outlaw. Knowing that this charismatic woman would have valued the Tex of Yesteryear was strangely reassuring.

"How long will you be in town?" asked Sally.

"I –"

The clanging of a cowbell interrupted her, and heads all over the hillside angled toward the sound.

"Callin' all shitheads!" belted Butch. "Ten minute warning!"

"Welp," said Sally, with a swing of her arm, "that's my cue. I'm off to enlist in the shithead army. Catch you round?"

"Sure thing."

The roughrider saluted and sauntered off to join the gathering regiment.

"Well, Miss Vortex," said the outlaw to no one in particular, "looks like you're on your own."

At first, Tex looked for Libby. When she couldn't find her, she took to prowling the periphery, scoping out the property. It was a place ruled by mismatched halves. The clapboard cabin was made from two different kinds of wood; likewise, the hillside itself was cleft along the spine. The side facing the river was a lush, green Canaan, while the side facing the desert echoed the perils of the Sinai. Scrub plants choked the rocky soil, clinging tenaciously to life. Far beyond them lay the wastes, silent and eternal, and Tex imagined soaring high above the sands, unbound by earthly tethers. Who might she become if she could sprout a pair of wings?

It did not occur to Tex that her presence might be welcomed by anyone but Libby, so she was taken by surprise when a shrill whistle pierced the air, and a voice called out her name.

"Vortex!" shouted Mr. Neutron, waving his arm at her. "Come here!"

"Did you just whistle for me like a dog?" she gaped.

"Not my fault you're too deaf to hear me ask politely. Now quit your bellyaching, and get on over here."

She stuffed her hands into her pockets and grumble-walked his way, sidestepping some mallets and hopping over a recumbent ladder as she went. That he had the audacity to summon her while crouching on the ground like a mole cricket only worsened the insult.

"What do you want?" she demanded, when they were close enough to speak without shouting.

"You ever been to a raising bee before?" He was arranging a group of tools by size.

"Huh? A raising bee?" Tex considered. "Hmm…once, that I can think of. But that was back in my hometown, when I was barely more than a child."

"Then you know how this works," he said. "Everyone pulls their weight. You didn't bring anything to eat, and you don't have an instrument, so by default, you're on construction duty. Now hand me one of those mallets."

Bewildered into compliance, she did as she was told. "You sure you want me in your hair, Neutron?" she asked, while passing it his way. "I'm a woman of many talents, but I don't know the first thing about carpentry."

"So? I'll teach you as we go." He shuffled left to grab something, and the edge of her longcoat bumped him in the face. He swatted at it. "And take off that godforsaken duster jacket, before it snags on something."

Tex sighed. I should've kept the poncho, she thought, as she tossed her coat a safe distance from the fray. I could have used it to smother him.

The Sheriff handed her a pair of work gloves, and they fell into line together as the motley crew of workers queued up for last inspection. Butch walked up and down the column, barking out orders like a battalion commander.

"Ya'll know the drill," he hollered. "Frame goes up first, then we do the siding and the roof. We only got so many nails, so don't waste 'em. If you go too fast and hurt yourself, don't come cryin' to me – I ain't your nursemaid, and I ain't gonna suckle ya."

"And no drinking on the job!" added Ike, with a sideways glance at Butch. "We don't want a repeat of the falling hammer incident."

"My scapula still hurts," said Carl sadly.

"Any questions?" belted Butch. "Anyone? No? Then get movin', ladies!"

After that, things unfolded in earnest. In the beginning, it was simply a question of muscle, and for this, Tex needed very little direction. She and Mr. Neutron quickly fell into a rhythm: they schlepped over to the pile, hoisted a piece of timber, carried it to the granary, and deposited it on the ground. Hoist, carry, drop, hoist, carry, drop. There was no need for conversation; a nudge here, a nod there, and they synced up seamlessly, like two gears in the same clock. Effortless. Invigorating.

The second stage was more opaque. Protocol dictated that the four wall-frames be assembled on the ground before being lifted into place. Expertise was required to join the vertical posts, horizontal beams, and diagonal support struts, and the Sheriff expounded on the process while they worked. He was a capable teacher – a bit verbose, perhaps, but never patronizing. Tex listened attentively.

Most of the menfolk paid them no mind, but a few watched their interactions with amusement, and eventually, the Sheriff put his foot in his mouth.

"This is a Mortise and Tenon Joint," he explained, pointing to a cube-shaped protuberance jutting out from one of the posts. "The Tenon on this piece slots into the square hole – the Mortise – on that one. When the prong is the right size, it fits perfectly inside the hole. This obviates the need for metal fasteners. Now. Grip that wood, and give it a good whack – it'll slide right in."

One of the men – a tan-skinned fellow with a prodigious unibrow – started cracking up. "Telling the little lady where you're going to put your prong, Neutron?" he sniggered.

The Sheriff's glare was fast and fierce. "Shut up, Kevin. Keep your wisecracks to yourself."

"Naw," came Nick's voice from behind her, "I'm with Kevin. Tell us more about the finer points of sliding into holes."

"Give us a lesson, Sheriff!" whooped someone else.

They all laughed, and his cheeks turned an angry shade of red. Tex didn't waste a second.

"Can you show me how to grip the wood?" she asked. "I need to work on my technique, and I hear you're something of an expert."

"Not you, too!" he groaned.

"Come on, Neutron," she said, tossing the mallet and catching it again. "It's funny."

"You heard her, padre," razzled Nick. "She wants to learn! Now go ahead and educate your pupil – we're all waiting!"

More laughter, and Kevin threw a playful clod of dirt at Nick.

"If you keep this up," glowered the Sheriff, "then the woodworking lesson's over. It'll be nothing but EUCLIDEAN GEOMETRY from here on out. With proofs!" He shouted the last word.

The outburst was met with cries of dismay, and one particularly emphatic curse. The crowd of bawdy onlookers dispersed.

"Troglodytes," he grumbled, once they had resumed their tasks.

Tex wasn't done. She leaned over him, letting her ponytail spill onto his shoulder. "Joke's on you, Sheriff," she whispered. "Euclid puts me in the mood."

He swore like a sailor, chucked his mallet, and then went stalking off to get a saw, muttering angrily the whole way. Tex stood there grinning as she watched him go, pleased as punch with her handiwork. So far, it was turning out to be a very good day.

They continued working through the early afternoon, taking breaks as needed to obtain refreshments and enjoy a bit of fiddling. The town boasted several competent musicians, though Libby's repertoire of talents exceeded all of them. Her rendition of Silver Threads Among the Gold brought tears to Carl's eyes, and even Tex felt something stir within her when the lyrics carried on the breeze.

Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold,
Shine upon my brow today,
Life is fading fast away.

Tex stopped to watch the Sheriff as he hammered a strut into place. He was sweating and covered in dust, and he held a spare nail in his mouth. A smile crossed her lips.

But, my darling, you will be, will be,
Always young and fair to me,
Yes, my darling, you will be
Always young and fair to me.

When it came time to raise the wall-frames, a small crowd of women gathered to cheer them on. A temporary ramp allowed the crew to drag the bottom plate onto the granary floor, and once it was properly aligned, they split into two teams. The Pull team clustered inside the nascent building, untangling their ropes, while the Push team remained outside, stretching their muscles and testing out the balance of their driving poles. Tex was antsy; it took immense self-control to refrain from head-bopping shenanigans.

"Push team ready!" shouted Butch. "Pull team on sta – Bolbi, you dumb shit, put that hammer down! – Pull team on standby. We move on three: one…two… three!"

Tex and the Sheriff crammed their fingers underneath the top plate, bent their knees, and lifted. Getting it off the ground was the hardest part. When it reached chest height, she wedged her shoulder underneath to get more traction. She felt him straining next to her.

"Pull team ready!" called Butch. "Ropes on three: one…two… three!"

A tug from beyond, and the weight lessened. Slowly, the whole frame began to tilt into an upright position. She, Mr. Neutron, and some of the other Push team members stepped away to grab their poles, while others continued hefting.

"Push team ready. Poles on three!"

She drove the tip of her pole into the sturdy junction between a post and beam. Beside her, others did the same, and together they advanced like lancers in a forward line. The wood creaked as it neared its vertical berth.

"Keep 'er steady, now!"

Ike and Mr. Neutron dropped their poles and moved forward to anchor the bottom plate, while Carl and Bolbi used their bodies as makeshift buttresses. Tex wiped sweat from her brow and looked up. A Red-Tailed Hawk drifted overhead; its keening cry trailed behind it like a banner.

"Two minute break," announced Butch. "Get some water, scratch your ass. Then we do the next one."

By the time they finished all four walls, the whole crew was exhausted and hungry, and they adjourned for lunch. The lush side of the hill was a lovely spot for a picnic, and the townsfolk fanned out across the grass, seated three or four to a blanket. Mr. Neutron joined Elke, Carl, and Oleander, while Tex settled beside Libby and Sally. She regretted her choice of venue a moment later when Betty appeared, carrying sarsaparilla.

"Here come the drinks!" caroled the preacher, passing out the cups. "Try not to spill any."

Betty was accompanied by a woman Tex didn't recognize. The stranger had a scholarly air, with short, dark-blond hair and tiny spectacles. There was something cold and stern about her, but she favored Sally with the barest hint of a smile when they sat.

"My, isn't this fortuitous!" exclaimed Betty, playing hostess. "Miss Tex – have you met Amber yet?"

"I don't believe I have." Tex turned toward the bespectacled woman.

Amber's expression didn't change, and she made no move to extend a hand in greeting. Instead, she passed a sandwich to Sally.

"Amber is a poet and a stagecoach driver," explained Betty. "She handles the bi-weekly supply runs from Marble Orchard down to Retro Valley. She currently resides at the Sagebrush property and acts as Sally's, um..." Betty paused. "…live-in female companion," she finished.

Ah, thought Tex. One of those arrangements.

"Amber is Betty's second cousin," added Libby. "They attended school together."

"Pleased to meet you," nodded Tex. Amber bit into a radish.

"The frame is coming along," she observed.

Sally wiped her hands. "Yeah, well. I have a feelin' we'll hit a snag before dinner. I just saw Butch hittin' the Flurp when he thought no one was lookin'. I give it two hours before he makes a scene."

Betty shook her head. "Somebody needs to have a word with that poor man. He isn't well."

"He's a louse, is what he is," grumbled Sally. "Someone ought to whoop him."

Amber smiled into her glass. Betty changed the subject.

"Say," she remarked, glancing around, "is Señor Estevez here today? I haven't seen him."

"He's…occupied," mumbled Libby. "Let's talk about somethin' else." She picked up a tea cake and shoved the entire thing into her mouth.

After lunch, the crew tackled the roof-frames, and her carpentry lessons continued. While they assembled the beams and struts, Mr. Neutron raved excitedly about the structural integrity of triangles. Tex found another triangle to study: the one formed by his shoulders and hips.

For shame, chided her inner voice. You are a disgrace to your profession.

Don't like it? Don't look, she shot back.

The sun traveled west. They hoisted the completed segments into place and added in the rafters. Carl hummed, Sally chatted. Nick and Wendell sang a chanty. Eventually, Ike had to call a recess so that Dr. Bolbi could be escorted from the field. He was cradling a grotesquely bloodied, swollen thumb, and he blubbered in his native language as Ignishka hurried over with a first aid bag.

"What happened to him?" rubbernecked Tex.

"Put a nail through his thumb," replied Wendell. "Looks nasty."

"Guess he has two thumbnails now," quipped Sally. She stretched, then dragged her forearm across her brow. "Yeesh. I am sweatin' like a hooker in church. Who's got a towel?"

They moved onto the exterior siding. It was here that Tex truly began to shine: the men discovered that she could climb like a spider monkey, and suddenly, her services were greatly in demand. She scurried up and down ladders, transferring supplies between the ground crew and the roof crew. She could even scale walls to make on-the-fly adjustments to the siding planks. A perennial show-off, she took every opportunity to exhibit her athleticism. She hung backward out of a narrow gap, kicking her legs like a schoolyard urchin.

"Do a flip!" dared Nick.

"Focus," urged the Sheriff.

Tex caught several of the men leering at her backside as she scrambled, but they had the good sense to keep their comments to themselves…for awhile. Nick made some flirtatious remarks that approached the line, but didn't cross it – that distinction, unsurprisingly, belonged to the now-intoxicated Butch. He waited until the lawman was out of earshot to wolf-whistle boorishly at her. When she looked down at him, he hooted and made a lewd motion with his crotch. Tex froze mid-climb; this was a far cry from the good-natured ribbing she'd appreciated earlier.

Ike – who was either a gentleman, or a workaholic – chucked a splinter at Butch. "Were you raised in a barn?" he admonished. "Keep your mind on the work, man. You're supposed to be a professional."

"It's her fault for runnin' up and down the walls, wearin' nothin' but them tight pants," he protested. "What's a fella supposed to think? If you don't like me whistlin', Wilderman, tell her to skedaddle."

"Butch." Carl's tone was unusually insistent. "That's no way to act around a lady."

"Lady? Please." He squeezed the air at chest height. "She's got the right equipment, sure, but that don't make her the marquise."

"That's enough," commanded Ike. "Simmer down, both of you."

Carl wasn't having it. "No. I will not simmer down. Is that how you treat Elke when I'm not around, Butch?"

Butch took a swig from his flask, then wiped his mouth. "Your woman don't shove her keister in my face, Wheezer. Jesus. Get your glasses fixed, so you can see what's right in front of you."

"God, you're a miserable cad when you drink," muttered Wendell.

"What's that?" He whirled to glare at him. "You wanna say that to my face?"

"Hey!" shouted Sally, setting down the plank she'd been carrying. "What's going on over there? Do I need to come kick some manners into you cretins?"

Butch rolled up his sleeve. "You're welcome to try, Clydesdale!"

"Enough!" roared Wendell, in disgust. "Save it for the dance floor, all of you!"

For a moment, it looked like the whole thing might come to blows, but then Mr. Neutron came strolling back, blissfully oblivious, and suddenly everyone was on their best behavior again. Tex mulled things over. Ordinarily, when a guy like Butch gave her trouble, she beat the ever-loving crap out of him to set an example. In this case, the other men had already censured him, so there was no need for a public spectacle. She could always thrash him later.

Pig, she thought, and let the matter drop.

As the shadows grew longer, Mr. Neutron assumed the role of master carpenter. There was no helping it – Butch was too drunk to access his higher functions – but his departure meant that Tex had to find a new work partner. The outlaw's mean-streak whispered to her, urging her to punish Butch. Now he's crossed you twice, it said. Make the drunkard pay. She fed it scraps, but kept it on a leash.

"Five minute break!" called Mr. Neutron, sighing heavily. "Bolbi's trapped inside the outhouse. I gotta go get the door open."

The men dispersed. Tex dropped to the ground.

"God, my back," complained Sally, one hand on her lumbar region. "I can feel the hunch comin'. I'll be Quasimodo before sunset."

"I'm Esmeralda now," said Tex, and stuck out her derrière. Sally laughed.

The two women handled tasks together for the remainder of the session. Butch's antics had put the whole enterprise behind schedule, and when it came time to stop for dinner, Ike and Mr. Neutron volunteered to stay behind and finish up the roofing. Tex enjoyed a glass of lemonade before settling down to eat. The evening meal was superb; Libby's jambalaya was to die for, and loath as she was to admit it, Tex had to concede that Betty's pies were almost good. She had two slices.

After clean-up, Tex grabbed her coat and left in search of solitude. The womenfolk made for pleasant company, but the shrieks of Nissa's gamboling children were getting on her nerves. For her destination, Tex chose the far side of the cabin, and this proved to be a mistake. As she wandered between the parked wagons, she stumbled across a scene straight out of a courtesan's handbook: Nick and Britney, pressed against a whitetop, kissing like the world was ending. He had one hand up her skirt, and her bustier was half-unbuttoned, revealing a ghastly burn scar on her bosom. A single frilly garter lay discarded at their feet.

Tex froze when she saw them. As a rule, the outlaw was accustomed to debauchery; in her time, she'd walked past dozens of couples in various states of undress, and she'd never batted an eye. But those merrymakers had been strangers – these were people that she knew. She began to back away, and a twig snapped beneath her boot. Nick pulled his face out of Britney's cleavage and looked over at her. They made eye contact.

Tex blushed. "S-sorry," she stammered, rapidly averting her gaze.

Britney started giggling, and after a moment, Nick started laughing too. Tex turned tail and power-walked away.

Her hasty, unplanned flight took her in the opposite direction of the revelers. She wandered back along the track they'd followed earlier, past the barley and the crossroads, in the direction of the abandoned church. What called her there, the outlaw couldn't say, but she never slowed her pace. Perhaps it was the lure of desolation, or the niggling suspicion that her own fate could be read among the stones. It didn't matter. The graveyard came into view, and what Tex saw there stole her breath away.

In the setting sun, the crosses glowed like embers.

The image captivated her, haunted her; she wandered toward it. A crumbling section of rock wall was all that remained of the cemetery's rectangular boundary, and the outlaw sat upon the rim. She removed her hat and held it to her chest. She was the proverbial moth.

Holy Fire, she thought. Until now, I had not known the meaning.

For a moment, it was the only thing she knew.

Then a passing cloud threw up a shield, and the air around her cooled. Slowly, her awe dissipated, and she was left with a peculiar sense of loss.

I will never see Truth like that again, she reflected.

She was selling herself short. Footsteps crunched behind her on the gravel, and she did not turn to look. She recognized their rhythm.

"Sheriff," she said.

"Deputy," he replied. "I thought I might find you here."

I'm running out of classmates for these minor character cameos, lol

Poor Bolbi

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- "Many hands make light work" was a common refrain in frontier settlements. In a world where a pioneering family's survival depended on building their own structures, it was common to call upon neighbors, friends, and relatives to assist with construction. Customarily, preparation was overseen by a master carpenter, and all of the raw materials were assembled in advance. Once everything was ready, the participants came together for a "raising bee", complete with music, food, and dancing. These highly-gendered gatherings made quick work of tasks that would have taken an enormous amount of time and effort for a single family. This tradition still exists among the Amish and in Mennonite communities. Weird Al Yankovic dedicates a verse to it in his 1996 gangsta rap parody, Amish Paradise.
- In the 1870s, granaries were used to store grain for human consumption, whereas pit silos (the precursors to modern, vertical silos) were used to store grain meant for animal feed. I chose to describe the building of a granary instead of the prototypical barn because I wanted to make life more difficult for myself. For our purposes, I've condensed the granary frame components down into a handful of simplified terms: Post = vertical piece of timber, Beam = horizontal piece, Supporting Strut = diagonal piece, Top Plate = the topmost Beam, Bottom Plate = the foundation Beam.
- And they were roommates...oh my god, they were roommates… In 1886, the term "Boston marriage" was popularized to describe the already well-known phenomenon of two unmarried women choosing to co-habitate. Until the 1920s, these unions were seen as perfectly respectable, and they provided women with an alternative to being financially dependent on a man. Some of these relationships were lesbian romances, while others were platonic. President Grover Cleveland's sister (and de Facto First Lady) Rose Cleveland was in such a relationship; her letters to Evangeline Marrs Simpson reveal a steamy courtship and ongoing love affair. It ended when Evangeline married a bishop, then picked back up again after he died.
- Euclid is the Ancient Greek mathematician responsible for everything you learned in high school Geometry class. He wrote The Elements, a mathematical treatise that synthesized theories from prior generations and posited foundational ideas of his own. The Elements can be divided into three main parts, covering Plane Geometry, Number Theory, and Solid Geometry. Euclid is considered to be one of greatest mathematicians of antiquity, and is one of the most influential people in the history of the field. He's also my boo, because I absolutely LOVE proofs.
- The song Libby sings in this chapter, Silver Threads Among the Gold, was written by Eben E. Rexford and Hart Pease Danks. When it was first published in 1873, the bittersweet lyrics catapulted the piece into the public imagination. It went on become the most popular song of the decade, and one of the most popular songs of the next 50 years. It was the most frequently recorded song of the acoustic recording era (approx. 1900-1920), and it continued getting radio play requests well into the 1930s and beyond. Nowadays, it's mostly performed by barbershop quartets, but you can find various renditions of it on youtube, including one by Bing Crosby that's quite nice.
- Literary references: The word Lilliputian, used here to mean 'miniature', comes from Gulliver's Travels, written by Jonathan Swift in 1726. In the satirical novel, the protagonist encounters a society of people around six inches in height who live on the island of Lilliput; these are the Lilliputians. Quasimodo and Esmeralda are characters in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, published by Victor Hugo in 1831. Originally in French, the novel was translated into English two years later. Legend has it that – faced with a looming deadline – Hugo stripped naked before locking himself inside his room, so that he couldn't leave until the work was done. Which, as a writer, yeah. I feel ya, buddy.
- I think I mentioned hot air balloons at one point? The hot air balloon is the first successful human-carrying flight technology; the first untethered flight occurred in France in 1783.

Vocab:
* Bee - a get-together structured around a specific activity, where neighbors pooled their labor to benefit one or more members of the community. Examples include: a quilting bee, a husking bee, a raising bee, and so forth
* Staddle Stones - mushroom-shaped foundation blocks used to elevate granaries above the ground, thereby protecting the stored grain from rodents, bugs, and water seepage
* Roughrider - a person who breaks horses
* Banty - short for "Bantum", a breed of miniature chicken (basically, Sally's calling her brother a tiny rooster)
* Canaan and the Sinai - in the Biblical book of Exodus, the Israelites spend 40 years wandering in the Sinai wilderness before making it to the promised land of Canaan
* Mole Cricket - a nocturnal, burrowing insect related to true crickets, grasshoppers, and katydids. The species native to Texas – the Northern Mole Cricket – has enlarged, shovel-like front legs and is quite hideous-looking
* Mortise and Tenon Joints - played for laughs, this fundamental piece of wood-working technology has been around for at least 7,000 years. Its biggest selling point is that it saves on nails
* Whitetop - a covered wagon

Chapter Text

She heard rustling as the lawman stepped over the rock wall and took a seat beside her. He heaved a drawn-out sigh.

"Long day, friend?" she asked dryly.

"Pain in the ass day," he said, resting his elbows on his knees. "There's always someone who can't be bothered to do their job, and I have to pick up the slack."

He sounded tired. For some reason, this worried her. "Did you get something to eat?" she checked. "Something to drink?"

"Yeah. Miss Folfax always puts aside extra jambalaya for me. It's our standing arrangement."

The Sheriff yawned, and a second later, Tex yawned too. The wind gusted, tangling the loose hairs around her face; she rubbed her eyes before returning her gaze to the firmament. She watched as the herds of cloud roamed toward bluer pastures, until the sun re-emerged, flooding the churchyard with color.

"Whoa," he breathed. "Would you look at that sunset."

She looked over at him instead. He was staring at the western sky, absentmindedly toying with an unlit cigar.

She nodded at it. "Did you mug Nick on your way over?"

"What? Oh, this. Ike gave it to me." He smiled. "It's sort of an unofficial tradition. Whenever we finish up a big project, he divvies out celebratory cigars to all the men. Nick came up with the idea after he found out that Ike's father works for a cigar manufacturer in New York."

"I didn't realize you smoked," she commented.

"I don't – not really. I'm convinced that it promotes the growth of pathologies inside the lungs, so I only indulge on special occasions." He rolled it back and forth between his fingers. "What about you?"

She shrugged. "Same, more or less." I don't enjoy smelling like the men I kill.

"Ah, what the heck," he said. "This is a special occasion, right? Do you have a light?"

Tex dug around in her pocket until she located her campfire starter. She tossed it his way, and he deposited the cigar between his teeth, flicked the silver lid, and engaged the flint wheel. Smoke curled from the tip.

"Thanks," he mumbled, passing the lighter back to her. She returned it to her pocket.

He exhaled lazily, and the scent of tobacco filled the air, full-bodied and fraught. It was the smell of Authority. Masculinity. Exclusion. She returned her attention to the graves.

"Who do you suppose these people were?" she wondered aloud. She wasn't really expecting an answer.

"There used to be another town here," he replied. "Years ago, before I bought the land." He took a drag.

"Used to be? What happened to it?"

He exhaled. "Same thing that happened to the Comanche outpost that preceded it…and the Apache one before that. Everyone died."

"Jesus. Sorry I asked." Tragedy. Tragedy, and the crushing wheel of fate.

"It's baked into the soul of this place," he continued. "After so much misfortune, folks started claiming that the whole locality was cursed. Possessed. No one wanted to live here, even though the river makes the valley an extremely attractive place for a settlement."

"You don't believe in curses, I imagine."

"Of course not." He inhaled again, then held out the cigar. "Smoke?" he offered. Surprised, Tex took it from him.

"I believe in curses," she said, holding Authority in her hand. "Just…not the supernatural kind. The worst one lurks within us all – what did Burns call it? Man's inhumanity to man?" She raised the cigar to her lips.

"This was neither man nor spirit made. The people here were felled by disease – smallpox, mostly. Which is why, early on, I made it a priority to inoculate the townsfolk. Science is our best weapon against mankind's most intractable blight."

"Inoculations, all the way out here? How'd you manage that?"

He winced slightly. "Money," he admitted. "Money, and connections. Like I told you, my parents reduced my yearly stipend well before I left Boston, but I was still sitting on a small mountain of cash. When I got here, I used it to upgrade Retro Valley's existing infrastructure. I fixed run-down buildings, improved sanitation, and added in new utilities, like the mill and the irrigation system."

"That must have cost a fortune."

"It did. The copper piping was the worst. Compared to that, the smallpox inoculations were a drop in the bucket." He took the stogie from her and scratched the shrapnel cut she'd given him on Saturday. "Have you heard of vaccine farms?"

"Can't say I have."

He tapped away the cinders. "A few years back, a practitioner in Boston – Dr. Henry Austin Martin – introduced a reliable way to utilize livestock as viral reservoirs. It's now possible to infect calves with cowpox and use them to propagate the virus, instead of humans. I wrote to him with an offer."

Respect – already a sapling – put down deeper roots. What was it he had told her? That's what I do, Vortex. I make things happen. An understatement, clearly.

"You paid for someone to ship you infected livestock so that you could make vaccines? That's…very magnanimous of you. Magnanimous, and clever."

"Not magnanimous," he corrected. "Necessary. Allowing people to die from preventable diseases is the epitome of senseless cruelty. Medicine should be free and accessible to everyone." He coughed, then handed her the cigar again. "Here."

She gazed down at the smoldering tip. A question was nagging at her. "You've done so much for the people here," she observed. "So why does Nick resent you? He let it slip this morning when we were discussing the new homestead; I couldn't help but notice."

"A lot of reasons," he sighed. "Some valid, some not."

"Like?"

"I've been very proactive about redistributing my wealth," he explained. "Giving loans, paying off debts. But I can't just leave the spigot running; unlike Miss Folfax, Nick is terrible with money. He's always incurring new deficits. I had to cut him off, or there'd be nothing left for anyone else."

"There must be more to it than that. Didn't you say the Comanche used to live here?"

He nodded. "His mother's people. Half a century ago, they used to hunt and fish along the river during their seasonal migrations. Much has been lost. I don't know how to fix it."

But you would if you could, she knew.

The conversation lulled. The sun sank lower, and the sky became a pyre that burned the day to ash. They were not alone, here among the headstones. Crickets sang a final hymn as the church's clapboards reddened; the steeple sat and listened. It was a liminal space, where emptiness had meaning, and Tex drifted through it.

Smoke and shadow plumed around the outlaw's face, stinging her eyes. "That cash you torched," she began. "Was that meant for the townsfolk? Were you going to use it to make improvements?"

"No. That was my emergency fund. It's always been my goal to make Retro Valley self-sustaining, so that it no longer requires constant injections of capital." The Sheriff tapped her arm. "Cigar," he prompted, and she returned it to him. "This part of Texas is incredibly arid, but we have multiple water sources, meaning we can produce far more food than the surrounding towns. It gives us something valuable to trade. There's a mining outpost to the south, for example, that gives us ore in exchange for grain, and Marble Orchard furnishes us with manufactured goods."

God, I hate how amazing you are, she thought.

"I was under the impression that your goal was to keep Retro Valley isolated," she said.

"It's a balancing act," he conceded. "Too much contact with the outside world, and we lose what makes us special. Too little, and we wither on the vine. I wish I knew precisely where the line was. I try to err on the side of caution, but I still get it wrong sometimes."

Tex studied him. A subtle frown creased his brow – he was second-guessing his decisions. He still had his elbows on his knees, she noted; the trials of the day had worn him down. A piece of sawdust clung to his shoulder, and his armpits and chest were stained with sweat. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and she noticed the beginnings of a bruise forming on his knuckle, though she had not seen him hurt himself. The imperfection struck her.

Not beauty, she reflected. Not salvation. Humanity, in all its messy glory.

He brought the cigar to his mouth, and in that instant, the sunlight fell upon him. Tex's breath caught. Time released its stranglehold; the sky bloomed, and the orange glow of sunset became the light of dawn.

I cannot kill this man, she thought.

The realization hit her like a thunderclap, but no attendant bolt of lightning arrived to strike her down. Tex waited to feel something – horror, anger, fear – but in the end, there was only a lingering sadness, and then the moment passed by like any other. The anticlimax was almost farcical: she had survived a blood-soaked battle, only to die the very next day by falling off her horse.

What do I do? she wondered.

Nothing, came the answer. You do nothing.

They sat in silence, smoking their shared cigar, as the sun slipped below the far horizon. Unspoken words hovered on her lips. Respect, and inclusion. Tragedy, and fate.

Jimmy says UNIVERSAL HEALTHCARE NOW (•̀ᴗ•́ )و

(don't smoke, kids)

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- People alive today do not appreciate what a horror-show the past was, particularly when it comes to infectious disease. In the era before vaccines and antibiotics, people just...dropped dead. Literally all of the time. Smallpox, diphtheria, tuberculosis, cholera, dysentery, polio, rabies, influenza, typhus, syphilis, meningitis, hepatitis, tetanus, scarlet fever, bubonic plague...the list goes on. Infant and childhood mortality rates were insane; half of all kids died before the age of 15. It's hard to imagine what kind of trauma this inflicted on people, even in the best of times – and God help those who survived The Worst™. Folks always talk about the Black Death like it's the lord of pandemics, but the bubonic plague 'only' killed 50-60% of Europe's population. That's nothing compared to what happened in the New World between 1492-1600. The European newcomers didn't just exploit and make war upon the indigenous peoples; they introduced unfamiliar zoonotic diseases that, together with the bloodshed, killed NINETY PERCENT of all human beings living on the continents. That is apocalyptic. The loss is incalculable.
- One of the main culprits? Smallpox. This monstrous ailment has been with us for at least 3,000 years; it is the second deadliest disease of all time, second only to tuberculosis (17,000+ years and counting). To get an idea of the how horrific this virus is, consider the following: smallpox killed 500 million people in the last 100 years of its existence alone. That's 10x more than the Black Death. In a population that has some level of immunity, the standard variant (Variola major) kills about 30% of the people it infects. Hemorrhagic and malignant smallpox (the BAD variants) have a 90-100% fatality rate. In immunologically-naive populations, it just kills everybody. So. How did we consign it to the dustbin of history? Allow me to condense 600 years of innovation into four paragraphs:
○ Phase 1: Variolation (1400s-1796)
People realized early on that some smallpox variants were less lethal than others. Globally, numerous disparate groups attempted to prevent severe illness by intentionally exposing healthy people to weaker variants – a practice known as variolation. This dangerous game of viral roulette yielded mixed results; some patients died, but others achieved lasting immunity. In 1721, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, an English aristocrat, medical pioneer, and writer, brought the practice to Europe, after observing it in Turkey. Despite the risks, it gained widespread acceptance. Decades later, in 1774, an English farmer named Benjamin Jetsy made an important observation: he realized that people who contracted cowpox – a much milder disease – never seemed to get sick with smallpox. Variolation's days were numbered.
○ Phase 2: Arm-to-Arm Vaccination (1796-1860)
In 1796, an English physician (and mad scientist) named Edward Jenner expanded on Jetsy's observation by experimenting on a child. He took scrapings from the pustules of a milkmaid suffering from cowpox, and he intradermally-inserted them into the arm of 8-year-old James Phipps, his gardener's son. The boy fell ill, but quickly recovered. Two months later, Jenner repeated the procedure with gunk from a smallpox sore in order to test the child's resistance. Phipps remained in perfect health, proving that cowpox infection conferred immunity to smallpox (the term 'vaccine' was coined later, taken from the Latin word for cow, vacca). The Europeans weren't done torturing children just yet: enter The Balmis Expedition. Eager to combat the smallpox pandemics ravaging the New World, Spain dispatched a ship carrying 22 orphan boys (aged 3 to 10) to act as carriers for the cowpox virus. An active infection is required for arm-to-arm vaccination, so two boys were infected at the beginning of the voyage, then another two, then another two, as the ship progressed across the Atlantic and beyond. It was a daisy chain of viral transmission...and it worked. Inoculation efforts began in the New World.
○ Phase 3: Animal Vaccines (1860-1959)
Arm-to-arm vaccination had a major limitation, besides the daisy chain thing: recipients ran the risk of contracting other infections (like syphilis) from donors. In 1860, a medical conference in Lyon, France spotlighted a newer, safer technique for propagating the virus: growing it inside animals. In 1870, Dr. Henry Austin Martin (the guy the Sheriff mentions) introduced this method to America, and for the next few years, if you wanted to get animal vaccines, you had to go through him. Eventually, tons of 'vaccine farms' began cropping up. Calves infected with cowpox (or vaccinia, another type of pox) functioned as viral reservoirs for vaccine production. An insidious profit motive developed, and in 1902, the Biologics Control Act was passed in the United States, regulating the industry.
○ Phase 4: The WHO Campaign (1959-1977)
In 1959, the World Health Organization (WHO) announced their intent to K.O. the damn thing once and for all, but the campaign fell short due to a lack of resources, funding, and global commitment. They re-launched the initiative in 1967. By that time, labs in many countries where smallpox occurred regularly were able to produce higher-quality freeze-dried vaccine. The development of the bifurcated needle, the establishment of an outbreak tracking system, and vaccine education campaigns also played a role in the success of the intensified efforts. WHO operatives used a technique called ring vaccination, which conserved resources and prevented further spread by forming a protective "ring" of immunity around infected individuals. Within a decade, smallpox was eradicated from the face of the Earth – an unprecedented victory in the history of mankind's struggle against disease.
- Phew. I'll try to cover the last three points quickly. 1) The Ancient Maya invented cigars (they also invented alcoholic enemas. A very innovative people, indeed). As far as the cigar industry is concerned, it was very much a Cuba thing until the 1860s, when Dutch, English, and German immigrants began setting up cigar shops in NYC. The city was a major port of trade, which helped things, and by 1870, cigar-making was the second-largest industry in the city. By 1890, 4 out of every 5 American men were smokers, and 1 out of every 3 American cigars was made in New York. 2) The widely-quoted phrase "man's inhumanity to man" comes from a famous poem by Robert Burns, entitled Man Was Made to Mourn, written in 1784. The expression entered the public lexicon almost immediately and persists to this day; the line was cited six times by Martin Luther King Jr. in his autobiography. 3) Copper prices spiked repeatedly during the latter half of the 19th century due to war, the growth of the railroad industry, the formation of monopolies, labor strikes, and the emergence of the telecommunications industry.

Now excuse me while I try to go and catch my breath. In the meantime, enjoy this illustration:

Chapter Text

It was the day that never, ever ended.

By the time the chip-fires were kindled and the impromptu dance floor was swept clean of debris, Tex was punch-drunk with fatigue. Two cups of coffee kept her going, but the brew could not restore her waning mental faculties. Cacophony besieged her – there was booze, and gossip, and flirtation, and the memory of things she'd left unsaid. She drifted from conversation to conversation, trying to act human, while the night grew strange around her.

It started with the music. Libby stopped to take a breather, and Wendell strolled onto the grassy stage, holding the most extraordinary violin that Tex had ever seen. It was silver, with a beauty that bordered on malevolence. From the moment he began, she could sense the mismatch between artist and instrument; the violin had a keening, eerie sound, but he played jaunty, upbeat melodies. The discordant notes cartwheeled through the crowd like jeering acrobats, suffusing everything and everyone with a touch of the uncanny. Tex began to wonder which smiles were real, and which were painted on.

Someone tapped her shoulder.

"Excuse me, Miss Vortex. Might I have the honor of claiming your first dance?"

Tex turned to find Ike standing there, holding his hat in his hands.

Crap, she thought.

It would be rude to brush him off. He seemed like a hard-working, judicious sort of man, and he was paying her a compliment by singling her out; moreover, he was the Sheriff's friend. All the same, Tex did not want to dance with him. She consulted her roster of excuses.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wilderman," she said, mustering up her most apologetic tone, "but I'm feeling out of sorts at present. I was just about to go for a walk."

"Would you be amenable to company? Or would you prefer the balm of solitary thought?"

"The latter," she replied. "I appreciate your perceptiveness, and your understanding."

The blacksmith bowed, nodded politely to the group beside her, and took his leave. Tex stuffed her hands into her pockets and embarked on her mandatory excursion.

Damn violin, she grumbled to herself.

She was waylaid yet again at the edge of the gathering. This time, Bolbi approached her. He extended a hand – it was wrapped in so many layers of bandages that it resembled a crayfish claw. He blinked one eye, then the other, and smiled.

"Oh hell no," she exclaimed, and hastened on into the darkness.

The sounds of the party receded, but the surreal atmosphere could not be shaken off so easily. Beyond the glow of the fires, the moon reigned, and everything was silver. The cold light played tricks with the senses, distorting the landscape into a cratered otherworld. Each time the moon disappeared behind a cloud, the terrain became treacherous, and Tex could not shake the sense that she was walking through a dream, where circus freaks and lunar faeries capered arm in arm, selling confusion and epiphany like trinkets. She could not buy one without the other.

I cannot kill him, she reflected. Then, in a nonsensical moment of caprice: I miss him.

Was it insanity, or insight? Only one thing was certain. Tex was in an untenable position – one she'd inflicted on herself. She could not carry out her client's mission, which meant that someone else would. By hook or by crook, Strych would persist until he got what he wanted. How was she supposed to protect the Sheriff from one the most powerful men in the country – a man with near limitless resources?

A fey voice whispered in her ear. You know how. Kill Rail Baron Strych.

It was an alluring, but unproductive answer. Murdering a plutocrat was not a scheme to be undertaken lightly. Tex specialized in disappearances, which required private access to the victim, and time afterward to dispose of all the evidence. It was a method tailor-made for the frontier. It would not serve her here. When members of the ruling class went missing, massive manhunts followed in short order.

Other plots had pitfalls of their own, and mistakes of any kind were likely to prove fatal. Was she willing to risk it all to save a man who would never thank her for it? To safeguard a town full of people she barely knew?

Libby, she thought.

The outlaw clenched her jaw. There had to be something she could do to allay the coming storm, but what?

Trade with us, and get an answer, the faeries beckoned. Give us your smile. Your name. The color of your eyes. Give us yesterday.

Tex tried to focus, but clarity was fleeting.

What I really need is a patsy, she thought. Someone I can frame for Strych's death.

Her reasoning was simple. Wealthy families bent the world to suit their whims; if Tex could supply them with a culprit, they would move heaven and earth to see that person punished. The investigation would become a rubber stamp.

There was only one problem: she didn't know enough about Eustace to select a viable scapegoat. Frustration churned in her gut.

You can't fix this tonight, she told herself. Stop spinning your wheels, and go back to the party.

The moon was sad to see her go. Reluctantly, she returned to the canopies and tables. The area was mostly deserted, except for Amber, who was doling out café noir. She remained mercifully silent as Tex paced back and forth, trying to lasso her galloping thoughts. It wasn't easy – the violin was louder here, and it had a puckish silver tongue.

Poison, it urged. Strychnine. Life's a joke, so end his with a pun.

Don't lose him, never lose him. The acrobats tumbled. Do anything, kill anyone, to Save him Save him Save him.

Was it humor, or delirium? Care, or obsession? Something profound had shaken loose, and now it was rattling around inside her, looking for an outlet. The night spun.

"Hey. Tex." A human voice – the first in eons. It sounded distant. "Tex? Yoohoo. Anybody home?"

The gunslinger snapped out of it. Sally was standing next to her, waving a hand in front of her face. Steam rose from her coffee cup.

Tex shuddered violently. "I swear to God, Sally…I think I'm losing my marbles."

"You and me both, sister," toasted the rancher. "This is my third batch of jitter juice. I can see clear across to Mexico, and the nightlife looks grand."

"Two cups for me," informed Tex. "I'm plotting a murder."

"Ooh, good call. Maybe that's what I'll do next."

"Please don't," deadpanned Amber.

Sally gestured at the outlaw's holster. "Mmm," she sipped, "while I've got you here, I've been meanin' to inquire. That revolver you carry – the one with the green handle – I've never seen its equal. Where'd you come by such a weapon? I feel like I've heard tales about it…somewhere."

"I sincerely doubt that," replied Tex, too quickly.

"No, no, I'm resolute. It was in the papers, I think. A long time back. Amber, honey…help me out here."

Amber's eyes took on a far-off look. "Front page of the San Antonio Express," she provided. "Their second issue. Headline: The Deadliest Six-Shooter in Texas. Seamus O'Healy Strikes Again. The article detailed his killing spree and included the picture that made his weapon famous."

"Y'see?" exulted Sally. "I knew I kept you around for a reason."

Tex's mouth went dry. It was an exceptional feat of memory – so exceptional that it might just betray the role she'd played in the O'Healy gang's destruction. She quickly fabricated an explanation.

"I nicked it off an outlaw I brought in," she shrugged. "Couldn't get the full reward, so I took my payment elsewhere."

"You think he got it from Seamus? The ol' hothead died in a duel, as I recall."

Amber interjected. "That's correct. Legend has it that, following his death, the Emerald Ire became the calling card of someone even worse. I wrote a poem about it."

A poem?

Tex patted the handle. "It's a pretty piece of craftsmanship," she stated nonchalantly. "Valuable, certainly. It's probably changed hands more than once."

"Huh." The roughrider drained her mug. "Well, I'd love to hear more scuttlebutt from your bounty huntin' days, but I've got a date with the dance floor. You comin', Amber, or are you gonna marry the coffee pot?"

"I'm coming."

"See you round!" saluted Sally.

The two women headed off together, and Tex went slack with relief. Infamy certainly had its drawbacks.

So did coffee.

With a demoralized sigh, Tex traipsed the short distance to the cabin, where the world's sketchiest outhouse waited for her. Bolbi's erstwhile prison was not the sort of place one set foot in voluntarily. Insects buzzed around it, and the lantern revealed a sardonic message scrawled beside the hinges. It read: ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

Oh, great, she thought. There's a line.

The pinch-faced biddy from church was just ahead of her, so Tex hung back, keeping to the shadows. She reclined against the cabin's outer wall and started counting bugs. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Moth, katydid, beetle. She yawned, and then the very last person she wanted to see came stumbling around the corner, and they nearly collided.

"Goodness me!" exclaimed Britney. "I didn't see you there! Sorry about that."

Tex cringed as bosoms and garters staged a burlesque show in her brain, but she managed to quell the urge to shrink away. A moment later, the line moved; the biddy entered the outhouse, and Britney joined Tex up against the wall. The awkwardness grated like nails on a chalkboard.

"Sorry you had to see that, earlier – with Nick," she began. "I just can't keep my hands off that man."

"Yes. Clearly."

"He's handsome, right?" she said cheerfully. "But that ain't all – compadre has the goods. You ain't been with a man 'til you been with that one."

Tex blinked in surprise. "Okay?"

I did not need to know that.

Tex turned away and pretended to look at something on the ground. Britney didn't get the message.

"Nick and I were just talkin' about what a great job you did out there today," she shared.

"Huh?"

"With the menfolk? You really held your own. I was rootin' for you the whole time, you know."

"Oh. Thanks."

Britney pointed to the outlaw's neck. "Say, that's a real nice bandana you got there! It's so bright, it really brings out your eyes."

Does it, now? I like to wear it when I'm burying bodies.

"I like your…" Tex groped for something to say. "Bracelet?"

"Oh, this?" She jingled it around. "It's nothin'. Nick gave it to me last year as an antiversary gift."

"Anti…versary?"

"A little joke between us. A way to celebrate our commitment to stayin' noncommittal."

"You mean…the two of you aren't, you know…" Tex touched her fingertips together.

Britney laughed. "A couple? Naaaah." She pulled a flask from her bustier, popped the lid, and took a swig. "My freedom's too important to me." She swirled the liquid round, and after another hearty sip, she looked up at the sky and smiled faintly. "See, Nick ain't like most men. He makes no demands of me. He never gets jealous, never tries to keep me for himself. I don't judge him for his rovin' eye, and he don't judge me for mine. It's why we get along so well."

"I guess I can see the appeal of that arrangement," the outlaw lied.

"There ain't nothin' worse than a controlling man," Britney scowled, pounding a fist into her palm. "I don't care who they are – family, friend, lover. It's all the same." She took an angry swig, then dragged her sleeve across her mouth. "They'll try to kill you before they'll let you go."

Tex studied her with renewed interest. Here was a woman with a story. "How'd you wind up in Retro Valley?" she asked.

"How does anyone?" she shrugged. "Runnin' toward somethin', or from somethin'. Lost souls, outcasts, geniuses. If you like the weirdness, you stick around."

"And you like it here?"

The darkness faded from her face, and her chipper demeanor returned. "I love it. Miss Folfax is a great boss. I don't care what color skin she's got; she is the sharpest piece o' calico in the whole damn town. She pays well and treats everybody fair. What more could a girl like me ask for?"

"What more, indeed."

The conversation petered out, and Tex stood there quietly while Britney hummed to herself and played with the hem of her skirt. Despite her natural inclination to disengage, the outlaw couldn't help but notice: out here in the darkness, this flouncy, inebriated girl looked so…vulnerable.

"Hey Britney?" she ventured.

"Yeah?"

"If the past ever comes knocking, and you find yourself in trouble, you come and find me, understand?" She tapped the Emerald Ire. "I'll take care of the problem for you."

Britney goggled at her, then broke out giggling. "Oh, goodness me," she snorted. "You are a spitfire, ain't ya? That's fantastic. No wonder the boss likes you so much."

Tex looked away. "I'm serious."

"Ah, well," said Britney. "My 'problem' is deader than a doornail, praise the Lord, but if I find someone else worth killin', you'll be the first to hear about it. Sound good?"

"Sounds good."

Britney took a tiny nip from her flask, hiccuped once, then shot Tex a conspiratorial glance. "Say, Miss Lawman. Who's your Nick?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Britney leaned close, bright-eyed and slightly manic. "I'm talkin' about men, obviously," she whispered. Tex could smell the liquor on her breath. "What's your type? You can't be out there killin' all of 'em, can you? I mean, when the sun goes down, someone's gotta ring your bell."

"That's…a colorful way of putting it."

"So? Don't you know the answer?"

Tex fell silent. Despite her best efforts, she'd never been able to kill the part of herself that wanted companionship, but it had been a long, long time since she'd seriously considered finding herself a partner. The men who existed in her world were a tempting risk at best, and an existential threat at worst. The kind of man worth having – the kind who would care enough to treat her like a person – would never settle for a woman like her. She had bathed in the blood of the river Styx, and it had left her too willful, too talented, and too cruel.

And yet, her wishful thinking prompted.

I want a man who can keep me on my toes, she thought. Intelligent, and motivated. Someone who's not afraid of my profession.

She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. All of those things were true, but they weren't the crux of it.

"Desire is not enough for me," admitted Tex. "Physical attraction is a temperamental thing. Any man can want me. What I'm looking for is a man who needs me. To him, I should be irreplaceable." She turned to Britney. "God. That sounds pathetic, doesn't it?"

"What? What's pathetic about that?" challenged Britney. "Everyone deserves to feel needed."

Why in the hell am I even having this conversation? she wondered, but her traitorous mouth kept talking.

"Nobody's ever needed me," she prattled on, like an idiot. "And why on earth would they? I destroy everything I touch, like a plague, or…or dynamite."

Britney grabbed Tex's hands and held them in her own. "No. Now, you listen to me: you are the most" – and here she almost tipped over – "most glorgeousss thing this side of Dolan Falls. You're ten foot tall an' bulletproof. Y'hear me? Say it!"

"I'm ten feet tall and bulletproof," repeated Tex.

"That's right." She squeezed her hand. "Now go out there and live it. Grab the one you want, or ditch the one you don't. Ignore the rules, and the naysayers, and do whatever makes you happy. Go on! Hurry!" Britney slapped her on the back, and for some absurd reason, this lit a fire under Tex.

Possessed by the demon of feminine camaraderie, the outlaw confidently marched away – without using the facilities. She was halfway to the dance floor before she realized what she was doing. She halted mid-step and attempted to recalculate, but by then it was too late. The predators had spotted her.

"Miss Lawman!" called Elke, waving from the crowd. She had one arm hooked around Ignishka; both their cheeks were rosy from exertion. "Won't you come and dance with us?"

Tex's eyes darted, looking for an exit, but she found none. Sighing in defeat, she dutifully shuffled over, cursing herself, Britney, Elke, Wendell, and anyone else within spitting distance. As she neared the women, Ignishka leaned over and whispered something foreign-sounding in Elke's ear, causing both of them to giggle.

"Elke, you speak her language?" asked Tex, surprised.

"What? Oh, no, no! Ignishka, she speaks Swedish, and other languages, too. Before she came to this country, she lived in many places." Ignishka murmured something else, and Elke translated for her. "She says thank you for punching Butch on Saturday. When she saw it through the window, it made her laugh."

Tex saw an opportunity to get some intel for the Sheriff. "Can you ask her how she learned to set a broken leg?"

More babbling. "She says she went to university."

"What? They let women be doctors where she comes from?"

"No," said Elke, listening attentively. "Her brother didn't want to be a doctor, but the family would not accept his wish. So Bolbi let her…I do not know the word. Efterlikna?" She frowned. "They are twins, so she dresses like him, and learns to be a doctor in his place."

"She impersonated her brother to learn medicine?"

"Yes! That's it. Bolbi instead joined a troupe of actors, but then he got in trouble, and they had to run away." Elke shook her head sadly. "Ignishka did not say this part, but I believe they have many debts, and he would be in great danger if anyone found them here. You cannot swindle people without risking your own life."

Layers upon layers, thought Tex. The wonders never cease.

"So," smiled Elke, because this was just another Wednesday for her, "will you dance with us now? When the Caller is done with her break, we're going to do the Varsouvienne."

Tex tried to get out of it. "I don't know…I'm a decade out of date when it comes to dancing trends."

"That's not a problem – Libby can share with you anything you don't remember." She glanced around. "Where is she, anyway? Libby? Libby!"

Elke scoured the crowd, but it was Tex who spotted the barkeep. She was standing on the fringes of the celebration, staring out into the desert. Her hands were clutched to her chest, and there was something in her pose that spoke to longing, and to pain.

"Uh-oh," said Tex. "Stay here."

Tex is having a normal one, ladies and gents

I just want to say that "drunk girl in the bathroom with whom you have a surprisingly deep conversation" is one of my very favorite genres of person, and I am convinced that this archetype has existed for as long as humans have been drinking alcohol.

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT 

- Silver-toned aluminum violins were manufactured in the late 19th and early 20th centuries – their resiliency and low cost made them easier to care for than wood and cheaper to manufacture, especially in wartime. The first American patent for an aluminum violin was issued in 1891 to Alfred Springer, but I was able to find sources alleging earlier production dates. Aluminum violins sound different than wooden ones because the two materials vibrate differently. I find them to be uncanny and off-putting; many musicians agreed, which is why their audience always remained fairly niche.
- Strychnine, a toxic alkaloid, was discovered in 1818 by the French chemists Joseph Bienaimé Caventou and Pierre-Joseph Pelletier. Effective as a pesticide, murderers were quick to see its utility as well. In 1855, the English doctor William Palmer – AKA the Prince of Poisoners – became infamous after he used Strychnine to kill his friend John Cook. He also killed a bunch of his own family members, including his wife, brother, and four of his children, but he never stood trial for those crimes. Palmer made large sums of money by collecting on his victims' life insurance policies, all of which he lost by gambling on horses. Charles Dickens called Palmer "the greatest villain that ever stood in the Old Bailey". He was executed by hanging in 1865; as he stepped onto the gallows, Palmer is said to have looked at the trapdoor and exclaimed, "Are you sure it's safe?"
- Literary references: In Dante's Inferno (a 14th-century Christian fanfic), Hell is conceptualized as nine concentric circles of torment. The gate leading to the first ring is said to bear the following inscription: lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intraten. In English: abandon hope, all ye who enter here. During college, I scrawled these words on the door of a disgusting port-o-potty, just to be a wiseass.

Vocab:
* Chip-fires - fires fueled by cow, horse, or buffalo dung
* Scuttlebutt - gossip
* Piece of calico - woman
* Dolan Falls - a waterfall near Del Rio, Texas
* Caller - the person who prompts figure changes in line dance, square dance, and contra dance

Chapter Text

Elke and Ignishka exchanged glances.

"You know where to find us," said Elke, and the two of them turned back to the dance floor.

A cloud blotted out the sky as Tex trudged off, tasting evening tobacco on her tongue. Libby didn't hear her coming. She stood motionless, half in light, half in shadow, and a subtle threat hummed below the surface. It wasn't just the music, or the here-again-gone-again moon – the night itself was predatory. At any moment, it might unhinge its fearsome jaw, and lunge.

"Libs?" she prompted, approaching gingerly. "Everything all right?"

Tex couldn't see the barkeep's face – only her back. The checkered patterns on her dress swam in circles, playing leap-frog in the firelight.

"I'm fine," she murmured quietly. "Just…lost in thought."

You are most certainly not fine.

"I enjoyed your music earlier," attempted Tex. "Are you done playing for the night?"

"My bow's a wreck," she said, "and anyways, my arm was gettin' sore. Better to let Wendell have his turn."

Tex was quiet for a minute. "You're not going to dance?" she asked.

"Dance? Dance with whom?" Her voice sounded despondent.

"With me," Tex answered forcefully, before she could talk herself out of it.

"You."

"If you'd do me the honor…Miss Folfax."

"I don't know," she hesitated. "I don't think I'd make for very pleasant company."

Tex followed Libby's gaze out into the desert. She searched for signs of life – a campfire, a lantern, a billowing trail of dust – but nothing stood out. The best she could offer was a platitude.

"I'm sure the prospector is fine," she reassured. "He'll turn up eventually, like he always does."

Libby sighed. "You're probably right…but that's really only half of it."

"Then what's the matter?"

A pause. "I just…I can't shake this feelin' that somethin' awful is about to happen. Two of my closest friends are in danger, and I can't do a damn thing about it. One carelessly risks his neck chasin' daydreams in a wasteland, and the other has a target on his back. I feel completely useless."

"What do you mean, 'has a target on his back'?"

Libby turned to face her. Light and shadow switched places.

"Miss Deputy, or should I say Miss Bodyguard, I'll be direct: who's gunnin' for the Sheriff?"

"Gunning…for…?"

Panic reared up like a hydra. Tex took a single step backward, preparing to – what? Flee?

"Some scoundrel means to kill him. Don't try to deny it. Tell me who it is."

She couldn't speak. Then she saw Libby's determined expression, and she began to reverse-engineer the prior day's events. In retrospect, Tex had been acting like a bodyguard. She was still acting like one. She was one.

Of course she sussed it out, thought Tex. Of course.

To hell with it.

"I can't name names," the gunslinger replied, "but I can tell you this: there were two people involved in the initial conspiracy against him. One of them is no longer a threat. As for the other, well…I'll give it my best shot, but I fear my best might not be good enough. I'm excellent at what I do, but I'm not a miracle worker."

"Why have you been keepin' this from us? From all his friends?"

"That was his prerogative. Please don't broach this topic with him, Libby – he made me promise to keep quiet."

"Are you going to kill the other conspirator?" she asked, matter-of-factly.

Tex considered lying. She decided against it. "If I can," she said.

"Good. Good riddance."

"Good riddance?"

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Her jewelry jingled. She was a glistening, poisonous butterfly – for a moment.

"I just…didn't expect you to accept that so easily. Most people would balk upon discovering that their new friend is a murderer."

Libby's eyes glinted in the firelight. "I'm no pacifist, Miss Tex. My aunts and uncles didn't go free because their masters had a change of heart – they went free because Sherman marched through Georgia and razed every last plantation to the ground. Some people just need killin', plain and simple."

"I'm no Union general, Miss Folfax," emphasized Tex. "I have no army. I'm just a really bad person with a gun, trying to save one man."

"A deadly person with a gun. And who cares? When the enslavers and despoilers come for me and mine, I don't want some saintly do-gooder on my side. I want a friendly monster who will eat anyone who threatens me."

The two women stared at each other, taking one another's measure. Ruffles and earrings. Leather and gunmetal. They were strangers. They were sisters.

"As monsters go, I'm not particularly friendly," warned Tex.

"Sure you are. You came out here to check on me, didn't you?"

Tex scuffed her sole against the dirt. "Yeah, well. You're special."

"If I was in trouble, you'd fight to protect me, right? Just like you're protectin' the Sheriff."

"…Yes."

She shrugged. "Then we're square."

Tex stood mutely as the wind ran its fingers through her hair. Was this…a path forward? Or was truth, divorced from history, just another kind of lie? Perhaps the distinction didn't matter; Libby knew she was a monster, and didn't hate her for it. An immense weight lifted from her shoulders.

"You know what?" remarked Miss Folfax, hands on her hips. "I actually feel a whole lot better now. I shouldn't waste any more time standin' out here, barkin' at a knot. Let's go and have some fun, shall we? Before we get old...and saggy."

Tex surprised herself by leaning over and kissing the barkeep on the forehead. "Let's," she said.

"Heh." Libby rubbed the spot, smiling sheepishly. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. I intend to step on your toes as much as humanly possible all throughout the session."

Arm in arm, the women returned to the open-air ballroom. Nissa was finished with her break, and interested participants were beginning to assemble. Elke, Ignishka, and Britney stood together in the women's line, beetle-bright in their dresses and baubles. Their partners in the row of men appeared drab by comparison.

"There you are!" waved Elke. "You're just in time – we have not started yet. The Varsouvienne is next."

"Perfect!" cheered the barkeep. "That's one of my favorites."

She went to join the women's line, and promptly blundered into Tex, who had the same idea.

"My apologies," said Libby. "Shall I play the masculine role? I shouldn't have assumed."

"No, it's fine," she replied. "I'm taller, so I'll do it. But you'll have to remind me where the man is supposed to start. It's been ages since I've done this, and I've only ever danced the woman's part."

"Sure." The barkeep rotated so that her back was facing Tex. "To begin, you're gonna want to take your arms, and – wait." She craned her neck. "Are you wearin' spurs?"

Tex looked down at her boots. "I am."

"Take those off. It's poor etiquette to wear them on the floor; you might catch the hem of someone's dress."

The outlaw did as she was told, then got back into position.

"Stand behind me – a little to the left – and take both of my hands in yours," instructed Libby. "My left in your left, my right in your right. I lift my arms like so, and then we start the promenade."

They hurriedly reviewed the sequence of glides, two-steps, and tiny kicks. Some of it came back to Tex immediately; the rest she could fudge by copying the other couples. At the very least, she would not be the greatest embarrassment on the floor – Bolbi could find no partner other than his sister, and his bandages were starting to unravel.

"Next up we'll be doing the Varsouvienne," announced Nissa. "If you enjoy the Polka Redowa, or mazurkas in general, then this sweet little number is for you. Grab yourself a friend, and circle up."

Tex and Libby found their place in the coterie, a few paces from Carl and Elke. Sally and Amber flanked them opposite. The outlaw took the barkeep's hands; they were petite, and velvet-soft – the perfect size for holding. She peered down at them.

"My God," said Tex. "You have such clean fingernails."

"Thanks? I scrub dishes all day."

While she was inspecting, Tex noticed a ring on Libby's middle finger. She was certain it hadn't been there yesterday, nor any day since the two of them had met. It was delicate, with a white gold finish, and a rose-cut sapphire set in the center.

"Your ring," she nodded. "That's new. Where'd you get it?"

Miss Folfax glowed with memory. "Señor Estevez gave it to me. Earlier this year, durin' Carnival. He delivered it to me in the cutest little heart-shaped box – he said it was a thank-you gift for helpin' him improve his penmanship. Which was an impossible task, I might add."

She whistled. "That must've cost him a pretty penny."

"Oh, no, he didn't buy it," she clarified. "He found it."

"While he was panning for gold?"

"No. Yuri – that's Bolbi's goat – dug it up and ate it durin' one of his habitual peregrinations. Sheen, um…removed it from the next day's leavings."

Tex was amazed. "Wait…so it's a poop ring?"

"It is not a poop ring!"

"Ehhh, it kinda sounds like it is."

Libby was indignant. "I'll have you know that this is the nicest piece of jewelry a man has ever given me."

"Okay. It still came out of a goat's caboose."

"You people are insufferable. And you wonder why I never wear it in public."

Tex shrugged. "I'm just pointing out the facts of the case, your Honor."

As the last of the couples joined the circle, Wendell reappeared, wielding his fey weapon. After a brief exchange with Nissa, he took the stage. The violin gleamed menacingly as he placed his bow upon the strings, and Tex closed her eyes, bracing herself. Conversation ceased. Someone cleared their throat; another person shuffled in place. The instrument took a deep breath, paused for effect, and sang.

Tex opened one eye. Curiously, the music was not as harrowing as she'd remembered. Where was the malevolence, the mockery? This melody sounded irreverent, like an inside joke between foes, or a saucy wink meant to shock a moralist.

It's not so bad, she thought. A bit off-kilter, sure, but circus freaks are people too.

The dancers took their first steps forward. "Wendell really needs to tune that thing," Miss Folfax muttered. A loose ringlet concealed the curve of her cheek.

As they strode forward again, Tex changed sides, shifting from left to right, and Libby crossed in front of her. The barkeep's face came back into view. Another train of dainty steps, and they shifted a second time, swinging back into their starting positions.

Like a flock of polite and stately vultures, the couples traveled clockwise in a circle, repeating this refrain. The recurrent pauses gave the dance a lilting, disjointed sort of feel – it was either painfully slow, or delightfully twee, depending on one's partner. In this respect, Tex was luckier than most. Darling little ringlet, curve of the cheek, darling ringlet, curve of the cheek. Checkered cloth swished between the gunslinger's legs.

"God, this is so nostalgic," Tex reminisced. "I remember doing the Varsouvienne with my friends…Lord, a decade ago, just before my 15th birthday."

Back before everything fell apart.

"I have fond memories of it too," said Libby. "We used to hold mixed-race dances at my church in Philadelphia. A few weeks after the war ended, we received some visitors – returnin' soldiers, young enough to make you cry. That night, I met a member of the 41st Regiment, and I danced the Schottische and the Varsouvienne with him. He was handsome as a dream in his blue coat; as you might imagine, I was completely besotted. I never saw him again after that. I always wondered what became of him."

They approached the first of several cross-armed turns, and Tex took a gander at the other pairs to make sure she was doing it right. Britney tripped, and Nick caught her; snickering ensued.

"I was surprised to find that the celebrations here were mixed, when I first got here," Libby continued. "Apparently, there was a bit of a stink about it early on, but the two richest men in town had ties to Sheen, and Ike, and Nick, and excludin' them would have been anathema. I hopped on that train as quickly as I could. That's how life works: befriend the right people, and let their money do the talkin' for you."

"Savvy," noted Tex. "I think you missed your calling as a politician. And a diplomat. And a detective."

"You ol' charmer, you," she smiled. "If we ladies are ever afforded the opportunity to run for public office, I'll contact you for a testimonial."

"Testimonial? Honey, I'll help you run your campaign. Just think: with your hard-earned cash and my ill-gotten gains, I could grease all the right palms."

She giggled. "I'm delighted to know that I'll have someone so unscrupulous on my payroll."

"Of course. I'm happy to assist with malfeasance of all types. You name it, I'll do it." Tex lowered her voice. "Just don't tell the Sheriff what we're up to."

"Spokes toward the hub!" called Nissa.

Libby and Tex turned to face one another, and all of the duos began moving inward, their leading arms extended toward the center-point. Bit by bit, the circle contracted.

"Where is that man, anyway?" asked Libby, glancing around. "I haven't seen him since he horked down supper at three times his usual speed."

"He left after we returned from our evening constitutional. There was some sort of issue with the horses – I didn't catch the details."

"Ugh. People need to stop runnin' to him every time there's a problem," she groused. "Hasn't he done enough? Let someone else handle it."

"Good luck telling him that."

They reached the center of the ring. Tex lifted her left arm, dipping Libby away from the locus. The other leaders did the same. From above, the crowd of dancers blossomed like a coneflower.

"Either way, you should go and find him when we're done," Libby encouraged. "Maybe he'd like to dance with you."

"Me?" Tex frowned as she straightened. "Why would he ever dance with me? You know what kind of woman I am. I'd besmirch his sterling reputation."

"That's not a very nice thing to say about yourself."

She tried to act casual as they reversed course. "It's true."

"So embrace the stigma, then. In my experience, men like to be besmirched. In fact, I'd say it ranks high on their list of favorite activities."

She affected a lofty indifference. "Your head is just full of fancies tonight, Miss Folfax."

The flock of stately vultures resumed its circling. Tex returned to her original position to find that Libby's ringlet had become entangled with her earring. She brushed it free.

"If Sheen were here, he'd agree with me," the barkeep argued.

"Is that supposed to sway me? He'd agree with anything you had to say."

"Only because he knows I'm right," she countered. "He might even offer to give you a lesson, just to get you started."

"Would that be an offer worth taking?"

"Oh, absolutely. The poor sod can't sing to save his life, but he's a fantastic dancer. Not just European styles either – Mexican, Cuban, Brazilian – I have no idea where he found the time to learn them all. And you should see the stuff he comes up with. Why, his penchant for rhythm is half the reason that I…" she left off.

"Go on," smirked Tex, as she hop-stepped along behind her. "It's half the reason that you what?"

"That I let him smooch me on occasion, despite his flawed lifestyle. If he'd clean himself up a little, I wouldn't stand a chance."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Does he leave muddy handprints on your bustle when you kiss?"

"Guerita. That's what laundry day is for."

The outlaw burst out laughing.

Look how lovely she is, the violin crooned. Give her anything, anything. Save her, and she'll save you.

The song swiftly frolicked through its final verses, and the Varsouvienne drew to a close. Libby curtsied to Tex, and the outlaw bowed from the waist and kissed her hand. They smiled at each other as a smattering of onlookers applauded politely.

"Fair lady, I thank you kindly for the dance," said Tex, "but I'm afraid I must depart. The coffee draughts are insisting I release them from confinement."

"Oof. You have my condolences – that outhouse is disgusting."

"Will you be all right while I'm gone?"

"Yeah. I think I'll dance with Ike for a while," she replied. "He's been awfully lonesome since his wife passed. He could use a little cheerin' up."

"I didn't realize Mr. Wilderman was a widower. That's a shame. His poor wife."

"Life is short…sometimes, brutally so. That's why it's so important to enjoy it while it lasts."

TEX: I kill people
LIBBY: Cool, let's make a list

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

- In 1864, General William Tecumseh Sherman led his troops on a scorched-earth campaign across Georgia. This March to the Sea, as it came to be known, ranged from Atlanta to Savannah, and was marked by its objective: to cripple the Confederacy's ability to wage war. In America, Sherman is rightly regarded as the father of Total Warfare, a tactical and psychological tool that would be used over and over again in the century to come. He was a keen military thinker; he cut telegraph lines to prevent intelligence reports from reaching his adversaries, and he was able to keep himself supplied in enemy territory via foraging and strategic pillaging. Everywhere he went, he wrought unpredictable destruction, freeing slaves, destroying infrastructure, and stealing anything that wasn't tied down. He made a point to target wealthy landowners, who he described in a missive as "hostile" when compared to "the poor or industrious." The advancing column attracted a growing throng of ex-slaves, many of whom greeted the federal troops as emancipators. Others simply wanted to burn shit down too. Sherman loathed war and was extremely strict about the sort of behavior he was willing to tolerate from the men under his command; while they occupied Atlanta, he made it known that anyone committing "unsoldier-like deeds" (sexual assault, kidnapping, murder) was to be summarily executed. Amusingly, after the governor and legislators were evacuated from the capitol, a group of wise-guys staged a mock legislative session in the abandoned building and voted Georgia back into the Union. The success of the operation led Henry Clay Work to write Marching Through Georgia in 1865. The song became immensely popular in the North (and on Reddit, 160 years later), but Sherman himself wound up hating it, in part because he didn't like to gloat, and in part because it was played at every single public appearance he attended.
- The 41st Regiment, AKA the 41st United States Colored Infantry Regiment, was a military unit that served in the Union Army. It was organized in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in the fall of 1864 and placed under the command of Colonel Llewellyn F. Haskell. Most of the enlisted men were African-American, but it also included native Hawaiians from the then-independent Kingdom of Hawai'i. The 41st Regiment engaged in the Siege of Petersburg and the Appomattox Campaign, and it was present at the unconditional surrender of Confederate General Robert E. Lee on April 9, 1865.
- I managed to track down an itemized list of dances from "the Opening Ball of the 1871 Season", which took place in Austin, Texas. Included on the roster were 18 different numbers, including the Quadrille, Polka Tremolo, Varsouvienne, Fling Schottische, Kiss Waltz, Camille, and more. Some, like the Quadrille, were group dances, performed by men and women standing in separate lines. The Varsouvienne (which has many variant spellings, including the Varsoviana, the Varsovienne, La Va, and more, plus nicknames like Put Your Little Foot), places the leading partner (usually the man) behind the following partner (usually the woman) in a promenade hold. I chose the Varsouvienne for Tex and Libby because of its ubiquity, and because it is extraordinarily twee. Originating in Warsaw in 1852, the dance and its associated melody became widely known across Europe, the Americas, and Australasia, where it morphed into a dizzying number of variations. It is one of the earliest ever sequence dances, and it contained a feature that was novel at the time: a built-in pause motif. The name comes from French, meaning "from Warsaw".
- With regard to mixed-race social functions, the sad fact of the matter is that things were actually better for African-Americans in 1875 (when this story takes place) than they would be in subsequent decades. President Ulysses S. Grant and his allies enacted legislation to enforce civil rights, such as the Ku Klux Klan Act and Civil Rights Act of 1875, but when Reconstruction ended prematurely in 1877, many of the political, social, and economic gains made by black people in the South were systematically eroded by the ruling elite. The Jim Crow era followed, and it took almost a century of activism to overturn the last of these repressive segregation laws.
- The first white woman to hold federal office in the United States was Jeannette Pickering Rankin, a pacifist and women's rights advocate, who in 1916 was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives as a Republican from the state of Montana (before the Civil Rights Era, the Republican party was the liberal/progressive party. They supported the abolition of slavery and universal suffrage. The Democrats were the conservative party, and they opposed these reforms. They switched platforms in the 1960s). Jeannette Rankin served again in 1940. To this day, she remains the only woman ever elected to Congress from the state of Montana. The first black woman to hold federal office was Shirley Anita Chisholm, who became a rep for New York in 1968. She led the expansion of food and nutrition programs for the poor and quickly rose up the ranks into Democratic party leadership. She was posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2015.

Vocab:
* Barking at a Knot - doing something useless
* Mazurka - a style of Polish folk dance that, alongside the Polka, became popular in the ballrooms and salons of Europe in the 19th century
* Carnival - the festive season that takes place in many Roman Catholic countries in the last days before Lent. Culminates in Mardi Gras
* Evening Constitutional - an outdoor walk, usually taken after dinner
* Coneflower - Echinacea