The horse and rider picked their way through the snow on the dirt street. It had been falling heavily for several hours, since just after midnight. A rare street lamp reflected off the large flakes in the air and on the ground, giving more light than must have been usual for this hour of the morning. The damp cold struck through to their bones.

He'd been right to leave the train and hire a horse. No train came into Dogtown last night; and possibly not tomorrow. If he'd waited til morning, the horse might not have made it, either. He was cold, tired and saddle-sore as he hadn't been in years. We used to do this all the time.

Magalia was the town's proper name, although it was only used on official papers and in certain circles. It was an old mining town, long since gone bust and just scraping along. James West had never been here before, only nearby, but the type of town was familiar to him. Ten years behind the cities; twenty on the wrong side of the tracks. This is definitely the wrong side of the tracks.

He had to find the livery, and then the hotel. The hotel would be at the other end of town, a few minutes away at most. But first, he wanted to find a particular building. Grady's. There it is. Just a name painted above the closed door. The small high windows were shuttered, but yellow light peeked through the cracks and around the door. He dismounted, hitched the horse, and approached. Music? A lively jig; fiddle and whistle. It ended and he heard quiet voices.

The door was locked. A gray-haired man opened it to his knock. "We're closed."

"May I come in anyway?" West tried to look friendly and unassuming. "I've just ridden in and I'd like to get warm for a minute."

Unimpressed, the man looked him and the horse over; then shrugged and stepped aside.

"Thank you." West removed his hat, knocking the wet snow off, and entered.

A short bar took up the room to his right. The wall behind held no artwork or mirror, only sturdy shelves of bottles and glasses. Across the room to his left sat two men in the corner near a stove; one old and holding the fiddle, one in his twenties and cradling a guitar. A decrepit upright piano stood nearby. The man at the door returned to them, sat and picked up a long whistle. They conferred briefly and started up again.

West sat down at a table near a radiator. After a minute, he reached to touch it; it was ice cold. The stove produced the only heat in the room. Well, it's warmer than outside. Noises came through the radiator pipes, tapping and clanging. The musicians played on softly with few pauses, sometimes changing tunes without a break.

Finally, a muffled belch and thump came from the cellar. Several moments later, the noise in the pipes changed to a gurgle and soft hiss. The men cheered quietly. "Maith thú, a chara!" There was an answering whoop from below. They struck up another tune and the fiddler began to sing softly, "Níl na lá, tá na la, níl na lá, tá ar maidin"

As the song went on, West could hear the clink of tools, then footsteps on stairs. Someone was in the back room now, and the sound of pots and dishes. "Buailim suas, buailim síos, buailim cleamhan ar bhean a leanna, cuirim giní óir ar a' mbord". She poked her head around the door, with a mischievous grin. "'S ná bí ag ól anseo ar maidin."

She saw West and made a face, but continued the song til the end. Of course she can sing. He stared openly. She was smaller than he expected. The room was too dim to be certain of her exact hair color, but he thought it was a reddish brown, twisted back in a braid stuffed down the back of her shirt. She wore baggy jeans, and a man's ragged tweed coat. Large dark eyes were familiar in a heavily smudged face. Not a beautiful face…but interesting.

She set a full mug of coffee down on the nearest table. "We're closed."

"I know. I just came in to get warm. I've been riding all night."

The whistle player stirred. "Fear rialtais."

'I ndáiríre?" It sounded sarcastic. She went on talking to them in English, ignoring West completely. "That part better come soon. I'm running out of ways to jury rig that boiler." She drank down half the coffee in one go and sat back, closing her eyes. "Wake me in five?"

"Dúisífidh." That must mean yes. She put her head down on the table, cradled on her arms. The fiddler began a slow air, and she snorted into her elbow. A lullaby. Her breathing slowly deepened and she slept.

In less than five minutes, they heard a spill of footsteps from above. West realized that the staircase to the top floor had been walled away from this room and now entered onto the kitchen. A young boy, perhaps six or seven years old, swung around the corner. He wore a nightshirt covered by a thick coat, and sockless shoes. "Miz Grady?" He stopped. "Oh."

"Mmph." She lifted her head and wiped her eyes and face, spreading the soot even more. "Thomas. The very man." A deep breath as she dragged herself back to alertness. "The heat's coming back. There's hot water on the stove; take a pitcher up to your parents. And tell your ma that since I've been up all night with a sick boiler, I won't need her at breakfast. But I'd dearly appreciate help at lunch, if she feels up to it."

"Yes, ma'am." A ruckus ensued in the back room. Then he appeared in the door again. "Porridge?"

"Up all night with a sick boiler? Whaddaya want, a five course meal?" She mocked his outrage, arms outstretched; then relented. "Porridge. And bacon and eggs and toast. You won't starve." She grinned at his relief, managing to look about six years old herself. "I'll start the bacon in a little while. Eggs and toast to order. Now, git."

"Can I have marmalade?"

"I don't know, Thomas. Is there some physical reason which would prevent you?"

He figured it out quickly. "May I have marmalade, Miss Grady?"

"Yes, Thomas, I think you may." Laughing, she made a sweeping motion. "Scoot."

The boy scooted upstairs with the pitcher. West stirred. "That sounds good."

She shrugged. "I hear they do a very nice breakfast at the hotel. You warm enough yet?"

"I'm getting there." The guitar player was packing up. "May I buy a whiskey?"

"Come back at ten, when we open. 'Night, Brian." A wave to the young man as he went out the front door. The old men stayed settled in by the stove.

"May I buy breakfast here?"

"I don't serve meals, except to the boarders." Losing patience, she cut him off. "No, we don't have any rooms available."

Nettled, West snapped back. "I'll pay you whiskey prices for a cup of coffee."

"You'll pay me nothing for a cup of coffee!" She matched him snap for snap, eyes blazing. "And then you'll leave!" She stormed into the kitchen and reappeared with the pot and a second mug. "Cream or sugar?"

"Just black." The mug hit the table in front of him and was filled. She refilled her own on the way back to the kitchen.

When she returned, he tried again. "I'm sorry. It's been a long night." He gave her his best disarming smile. "Good coffee."

She didn't smile back. "You know, pushy doesn't get any better just 'cause you slap a trowelful of charm on top of it."

That used to work better. Okay. He sipped scalding coffee. "You always dress like that?"

"Mister, I don't know if you've ever tried to fix a boiler in a skirt." She looked at him over the mug. "But let me assure you, it doesn't help the boiler and it does the skirt no good whatsoever."

"You sure?'

"Tell you what. Next time it breaks, I'll call you right over. I'm sure we can find something in your size." West laughed, as did the musicians. She didn't. "I'll put on girly clothes before ten. Wouldn't want to frighten the horses."

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to the next question. Well, pushy is as pushy does. "No girls here anymore?"

She didn't bother to pretend surprise or offense. "That goes back quite a ways. Nope, no girls. If that's what you're looking for, try Vickie's across the road. But she doesn't open til ten, either."

He could feel his eyes widen. "No, that's not what I'm looking for." All right, I get it. I push you, you push me. Fine. This was not going well.

She didn't bother to ask exactly what he was looking for, but just waited for him to finish his coffee. He took his time, but eventually it was gone. She held the door for him. "Go right two blocks, then right over the tracks and up the rise. You can't miss it."

"Where's the livery?"

"Nearby. The hotel should take care of it for you. "

He tipped his hat. "Thank you. And thanks for the coffee." He dug a silver dollar out of his pocket and flipped it inside, onto his table.

He was unhitching the horse when he felt something smack him in the back, right where the suspenders crossed. Startled, he spun round, reaching for his gun. The door slammed closed. There was an indentation in the snow at his feet; he holstered his gun and dug into it In the dim light, the silver dollar gleamed wetly in his hand.