The Green Ladies: Part 7-Unwell Met

“You’re a savage, Hawthorn! A brutal, heartless, damned savage!”

“Been called worse,” Hawthorn said. “besides, you got a bath, didn’t you?”

Dance went on raving behind the iron bars for another five minutes before finally settling. “The nerve of you, making me cross that plain on my bare feet.”

“It’s what you get for killing my horse.” Hawthorn said.

“I killed…? You’re the one who blew that creature’s bloody brains out!”

“Because you went and fed it locoweed.” Hawthorn leaned forward and grabbed the iron bars. The ruby eyes of the snakes seemed to glow, and the fang in his ear was made sharper by the candlelight. “Look here, Dance. I ain’t as much a fan of this situation as you think. You’ve caused me enough trouble already. If you want to stay alive ‘til we get to Redemption, then you’d better start staying in line. Unless you want to catch the likes of Gordy’s Gang again.”

Dance crossed his arms and sat down on his cot. “Staying alive. What makes you think they’ll let me live when I get to Redemption?”

“I don’t know. Not my job to know. I just handle the delivery.”

Dance chuckled. “You’re nothing but a slave Hawthorn. To money. To greed. Just another snake in the dust.”

Hawthorn growled. “Listen Dance. you want to make something with the last weeks you have to spend on this good earth, then you’ll listen and you’ll listen straight. Only way I’m going to guarantee you get to Redemption safely is if I have an incentive. And I won’t have that if you keep trying to escape. Now, come morning’ we’re leaving Gideonville, and you’re takin’ me to wherever you hid what you pilfered from Redemption. And this time they’ll be no tricks, or the next thing that gets a

bullet in its skull won’t be a horse. Remember, I can still collect that prize with just your head in a sack. Savvy?”

Dance was too tired to argue any further, his rage having sapped what was left of his energy. He slumped to his cot and groaned. A moment later he breathed slowly. He was asleep. Hawthorn chuckled to himself. He’d get what he wanted from the thief in the morning. In the meantime, he needed to be alone with his own head.

The sheriff was snoring at his desk. Hawthorn decided to leave the two of them in their respective slumbers. He donned his hat and walked across the street to the Meriwether Saloon. He got to the swinging doors where his ears were filled with the usual shouts for rotgut and laments of bad card hands. Hawthorn took out his cigarette and killed it on the plank steps. He went inside.

Dealers were working hard and fast at shuffling cards while the players downed their whiskey and filled the air with tobacco smoke. The automaton bar tender, all prim and proper in his red and white striped apron and derby hat, nodded to Hawthorn as he took his seat at the table.

“What’ll it be?” the automaton said in its pre-programmed drawl, its glass plated electric-blue optic ports looking blandly at him.

“A shot of Jack’s Nine,” Hawthorn said, pointing to a tall bottle with the signature black and white label. The automaton’s wrist extended with a whir and he took the bottle from the shelf. He got a glass, quick as wind, and poured the hard drink all in one move.

Hawthorn put his money down. “Obliged.”

The automaton tipped his hat and took the money, then went back to wiping the bar. Hawthorn took the shot in one gulp. He let it burn as he thought of

the road ahead. Next town on the map was Chancellorsville, and from there it would be about a week’s ride to Redemption. He growled inwardly. That was a lot of time to put up with Dance. Even more, it was a long time to be out in the Wilds with such a big prize as the thief was. Sooner than later, the stench of what went down in the Golden Times would get in the wind. And he could think of plenty of hounds who’d leap at the scent.

Jericho James, that Gavrokan upstart Revik, Jorhan “The Baron” von Skade, Webley, Broker, that rainbow haired, loud dressed yahoo Micky Merry, Stroke, Montcalm, and a whole host of others. All good, all ruthless. And all competition. They’d catch the tracks of his trail soon if they hadn’t already. He called for another shot. Yeah. It’s going to be a long ride.

The bartender, clicking and shifting as it did, poured him another. Hawthorn downed it again and was just about to ask concerning lodging when the yelling from one table got a little louder than the rest. Hawthorn turned around.

A group of soldiers, cavalrymen by the long, gold-lined red bands along their grey uniforms, were howling and cussing the way soldiers do when they’d too much whiskey.

Hawthorn tried to speak over them when one of the saloon girls came over to the soldier’s table with a tray of fresh cooked steak. She had just finished putting the plates down when one of the soldiers, a good-for-nothing lieutenant, young and arrogant, grabbed the girl’s backside. “Hold on there!”

The girl grunted as the lieutenant hauled and pinned to her his lap. “Come on, lassie! Show us a little good time!” Then he forced her to bend over on his knees, drew up her skirt, and swatted her hard on her petticoats. The woman yelped and

started crying. The soldiers laughed.

Hawthorn grumbled. “Leave the bottle.” The bartender did so. Hawthorn took the Jack’s Nine in his hand and got up from the bar. He approached the soldier’s table and stood behind them.

“Such respectable conduct for soldiers,” he growled.

The soldiers just kept laughing. The lieutenant arched backward in his chair, guffawing all the way. “Damned be respectable conduct! We’ve been in this mudhole now for a month, and all the whores and whiskey is starting to taste stale! Besides, what business is it to you, Mister—?”

“Hawthorn.”

The other soldiers stopped laughing and looked at him, their eyes slowly widening and their skin growing paler once they realized who it was talking to them.

The lieutenant stopped laughing and wiped his face of its tears. “Hawthorn. Well, Mister Hawthorn you can just go and—“

“Uh, sir,” one of the soldiers said, pulling on his superior’s sleeve.

“What, now, Jameson?”

Jameson pointed. Suddenly, the lieutenant could see. He bolted upward and let the lady go. She wailed and whimpered as she hurried up the saloon steps.

The lieutenant couldn’t find words to fit his drunk tongue for a moment. “Hawthorn. Certainly, not the Hawthorn.”

“Certainly so.”

The other soldiers got up and made distance.

Hawthorn stepped up to the lieutenant and got right in his face. “I think you owe that lady there an apology.”

The lieutenant decided to straighten his spine and lift his chin. “And I say I don’t Mister Hawthorn.”

Hawthorn heard it then. The soft slide of metal against leather, the subtle click of a gun’s hammer.

“You’d better do it, boy,” Hawthorn said.

The gun was out of its holster now.

“And what’ll happen if I—“

Hawthorn smashed the bottle across the lieutenant’s face, and in the same motion drew his left pistol, spun, and fired. Jameson, the one who’d drawn his own gun, went to the saloon’s floor with a howl, his gun-hand all bloody. The lieutenant, meanwhile, went crashing into the game table and onto the floor, dragging the table, cards, chips, and glasses all with him.

“That’s what’ll happen,” Hawthorn growled. He looked at the bottle. “And such a waste of a good whiskey.”

All the laughter and music died. Everyone’s attention went to Hawthorn and the soldiers.

The others were angry now. The last two of the soldiers charged him. Hawthorn sidestepped one of them, let a bit of his foot out, and sent the soldier sprawling to the floor. The other took a swing at Hawthorn’s face. Hawthorn swept it aside and brought his own fist right under the soldier’s jaw. He went to the floor and didn’t get up. He heard the last soldier’s running footfalls coming up behind him.

Hawthorn sidestepped again, swung his fist out and caught the soldier in the neck. The soldier flipped backward and crashed back-first to the floor. Before he could get up, Hawthorn finished him with a kick across the face.

Hawthorn turned around. The lieutenant was on his feet again, with a gun in his hand. Shaking, he aimed it at Hawthorn. The lower half of his face was covered in blood from the jagged cut put there by the Jack’s Nine bottle.

“I’m going to…kill you…”

Hawthorn was annoyed. “Put it down, boy.”

The lieutenant kept aiming the gun, his finger beginning to squeeze the trigger. Hawthorn could feel everyone’s eyes on them. Even the automaton’s. Hawthorn stepped closer to the bleeding soldier.

“Put it down,” Hawthorn said.

The lieutenant stared Hawthorn in his red and green eyes, holding the gaze for a straight second before his finger stopped squeezing the trigger. The lieutenant let the gun clatter to the floor.

“Atta boy.” Hawthorn went over and yanked the boy lieutenant to his feet. He then slammed officer against the bar-top, shattering a couple shot glasses in the process. The boy looked at him, eyes-wide and still foggy from the liquor, but still fearful.

“Next time I see or hear you mistreating a lady while I’m still in town, I won’t go so easy on you. You hear me, greenhorn?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Good.”

A gunshot cracked the air. Hawthorn turned to see Sheriff McGuire standing with his gun aimed at the ceiling, its barrel smoking. Next to him stood a tall soldier with the eagle and star of a colonel on his feathered hat, all neat and pretty in his uniform. Four more armed soldiers flanked them, all armed with rifles.

“That’s enough, bounty hunter.”

Hawthorn gave the lieutenant one last glare and let him go. The lieutenant scrambled to the colonel’s side where the two started talking. A moment passed before the lieutenant left the colonel’s presence to collect his fallen and beaten buddies. Together, they all limped out the door.

McGuire spoke. “Dang damn it, Hawthorn. What were you doing in here fighting these fellas?”

“They were getting on my nerves.”

McGuire spoke again. “And that justifies you putting bullets in them?”

Hawthorn rolled another cigarette. “Be glad I didn’t kill them.”

The colonel stepped over to Hawthorn. His hair, long and obscenely blond, was flowing down in graciously perfect curls and his long golden mustache drooped down his chin. In every way, he looked the epitome of the Romantic and legendary rider and soldier so popularized, Hawthorn had seen, back East in the papers and tabloids. But Hawthorn knew better.

The colonel shook his head as he walked over to Hawthorn, golden tresses swinging back and forth over his face like a rag doll. His gloved hands behind his back, the glare in his eyes burning with contempt as he looked down his nose at Hawthorn, despite that they were the same height.

 “Pleasant to you make your acquaintance once again, Hawthorn,” the colonel said, an audible bite in his every syllable.

Hawthorn stuck the cigarette between his teeth and drew a match to its tip before answering. “Can’t say the same for you, Gordonson.”

Gordonson started coughing a little from the smoke. He wiped his mouth

and scowled.

“How’s the shoulder?” Hawthorn said.

“Not bad, since you shot it. You have any idea how much you embarrassed me that day?”

“Don’t feel too bad. It was a bit embarrassing for me too, especially since I much rather would have shot you in the head.”

The scowl deepened. “I didn’t come here to toss shit back and forth with you, Hawthorn.”

“That so?”

“You’ve hurt—hell—nearly killed my men today.”

“Sure did.”

“You’re going to answer for it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Gordonson slammed his boot to the planks. “I won’t tolerate this disrespect from you, bounty hunter!”

Hawthorn couldn’t be more disinterested in the colonel’s threats. That didn’t stop the colonel’s cotton-puffed face from turning a seething shade of red.

“Damn you, Hawthorn! I won’t accept this arrogance! You attacked and viciously maimed uniformed soldiers of the Republic!”

Hawthorn’s voice raised to a menacing growl. “Yeah. For abusing an innocent girl who did nothing but serve them steak.”

“Enough!”

Gordonson turned to McGuire. “I want this man in irons! My men will escort him to the fort’s brig, where he’ll stay until this matter is settled.” He gestured

for the soldiers to come forward.

McGuire nodded obediently, if not a little disappointedly. He walked up to Hawthorn with a set of shackles, his posture tense, like he expected Hawthorn to make a move.

“Your weapons,” the sheriff said.

Hawthorn looked from McGuire to Gordonson to the other soldiers to all the people still left in the saloon. His hands went to his guns. The soldiers brought their rifles to bear. He looked all four of them in the eyes. They were young, all of them. Young and nervous. He could see the shakiness in their eyes, their hands, their mouths, the sweat beading on their brows. They knew he was, knew what he could do with a gun and his hands. He briefly wondered if they had any family, any wives and kids, or were they still getting drunk and chasing hookers when they got the chance. Whatever. He could’ve killed them all, right then and there. But that would’ve been against his better judgment. Still, he could’ve done it.

He took out his pistols, turned them around in his hands, and handed them over to the sheriff by the barrels. The sheriff took the guns. Hawthorn gave over his knife too. One of the soldiers took that. McGuire proceeded to fasten and lock the shackles on Hawthorn’s wrists.

“There,” McGuire said. Then he looked up and whispered to Hawthorn. “You ain’t going to kill me after this all over, are you?”

Hawthorn smirked while his eyes sparkled. “Nah,” he whispered back.

“Get him out of here!” hollered Gordonson.

The four soldiers ushered Hawthorn out by the barrels of their rifles.