The Green Ladies: Part 4-News In Gideonville

Gideonville wasn’t half as grand it wanted to sound. It was a medium sized town, situated in the middle of nowhere like most towns past the Fringe Line were. Small cattle trails crisscrossed its roads, and a ranch or two spotted its borders. But for the most part it was just another town, nothing big and nothing small. But it was here that Hawthorn decided to rest. He parked his steed by the marshal’s office, dismounted and hitched his horse.

Dance collapsed to his knees, having been pulled by his hands for the last ten miles. Blood ran down his chafed wrists and sweat oiled his face. Hawthorn dismounted and let him have a draught from the canteen. The thief took the little bottle like it was made of gold. He went to his knees and drank until the canteen was empty.

“Don’t go nowhere,” Hawthorn said, tossing him another canteen.

The outlaw drank greedily. In the meantime, Hawthorn payed the sheriff a visit.

The sheriff himself wasn’t anything like the one back in North Crown. He was aged and weathered; his skin rough like sun-squelched leather. His sharp eyes looked Hawthorn down from top to bottom, sizing the bounty hunter up. He put down the set of papers in his hands and stood.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Hawthorn said, lighting a cigarette.

“What can I do you for?” the sheriff said, still looking Hawthorn over.

“I’ve got a fugitive I need you to corral for me. At least ‘til dawn.”

“What’s his name?” said the sheriff, tightening his belt.

“Jack Dance.”

The sheriff looked at him. “Jack Dance? The Jack Dance? The Highwayman of the Sycamore Trail?”

“Yeah.”

“The one that robbed that Clements train way back when?”

“Bull’s eye.”

“The one with the fifty-thousand-dollar haul on his head from Redemption?”

“The same.”

The sheriff shook his head and holstered his six-shooter. “I—I can do that. And who am I holding him for?”

“Me.”

“And your name?”

“Hawthorn.”

Again, that made the old sheriff pause. “Let me guess…The Hawthorn?”

“The one and only.”

“Should’ve known. Those eyes.” Then the sheriff laughed and went back to his chair. “Well, I’ll be stuffed like a turkey and call my daddy a greyskin. First the Green Ladies, and now the Hawthorn shows up with the Jack Dance on my porch step. Those are some hell of some omens.”

Now it was Hawthorn’s turn to be surprised. “The Green Ladies? Here?”

“As sure as I’m old and my knees ache. You didn’t see their floating garden or whatever coming into town?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, it’s got its blue anchor in the sand on the other end of town. Their Headmistress, Lillian, I think, had to set it there after she got in a spat with the mayor and the colonel in charge of the cavalry brigade here. Said they didn’t want no prim and proper harlot house poisoning the good folk of this town or the soldiers. She argued back she was a legitimate business, and all the accusations and such of her girls being harlots was poppycock. So, they made her set up shop on the outskirts.” The sheriff paused to scratch his white beard. “Funny. Now that I think about it, I saw the mayor heading in that direction this morning.”

“There’s a garrison stationed here?”

“Yeah. The ranchers have been getting raided by the Neotok. Damned savages nearly wiped out a whole herd of good steers last month.”

“Who’s the colonel in command?”

“Name’s Gordonson.”

Hawthorn knew that name. The sound of it brought a foul taste to the back of his mouth.

“Well, about time I see the criminal.” The old sheriff got up, his knees popping as he did so. “By the way, Hawthorn, name’s Rodham McGuire,” he said, extending his hand.

“Obliged,” Hawthorn said, and shook his hand.

The two went outside to find Dance on his knees and his head resting against the horse’s rump. His hair and face were drenched, and the two empty canteens lay on the dirt. He looked like all the life had been sucked clean from him. Hawthorn undid the rope and unlocked the shackles, then hauled the limp thief to his feet.

“Huh. He don’t look near as grand up close compared to his wanted posters,” Sheriff McGuire said.

“They rarely do,” Hawthorn said.