Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho
October 1885
The stagecoach veered to one side, threatening to tip over and dump its passengers and baggage onto the dusty street, but at the last second the wheels righted themselves and the horses came to a stop. The wind whistled angrily around the vehicle, rocking it as if still trying to upend it. The door was flung open and the passengers exited as their bags were unceremoniously dumped alongside them.
"Wait! Wait! This is outrageous! That's it? I wish to formally register a complaint not only with you personally but with the company that runs this so-called express service out of Salt Lake! Do you hear me? I will not tolerate this kind of unprofessional behavior! I will not—"
The stagecoach veered again as it suddenly jumped with a burst of speed as the horses pulling it began to gallop down the road, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.
"Wait! Wait, you just can't run off like that willy-nilly! I want no I demand a full refund of my fare for this ridiculous lack of service and civility! What's more I demand to see the law in town to formally report the theft of my—" A coughing fit took the rest of his words and the man doubled over, clutching at his bag as the dust infused his lungs and momentarily took his tirade.
Only momentarily however. Doctor Rodney McKay could never be silenced for long.
"Mr. McKay? Mr. McKay, is that you?"
The woman's voice was sounding behind him. Rodney turned, straightening. The dust was collapsing back onto the dirt road. The sidewalk of slat boards was coated with it and offered little in the way of cleanliness. Nevertheless Rodney stepped upon it, if only to be out of the muck of the road itself. He watched a woman approaching quickly, black skirts clutched in both hands, a black bonnet askew on her head. He cleared his throat, tried to pat off the dust clinging to his suit. He did remember to remove his hat as she reached him. "Yes, I am Doctor McKay. Doctor," he repeated, as if she would forget it. "Do I know you, ma'am? Ah! You must be Mrs. Sumner, my correspondent." He smiled.
The woman smiled, reaching him. She tucked a stray brown strand of hair back into her wayward bonnet. "Yes. I am Mrs. Sumner, Mr, oh sorry! Doctor McKay. I am the one with whom you have been corresponding this past month. I am sorry I was late for your arrival. Are you all right?"
Rodney studied the woman in front of him. The black clothes denoting widow weeds, although she was only a little younger than he was. Her brown eyes were striking, solemn and concerned, the only beauty in an otherwise plain but pleasant face. "No, madam, in very fact I am not all right! We were robbed on our journey to this…place." He had wanted to say town, but the word seemed to be too grand for what was basically a way-stop for the stagecoaches and other travelers passing through on their way to California.
"Robbed, did you say? Are you all right, Mr, er Doctor McKay?"
"No, I am not…oh." He gentled his tone, seeing her concern. "I am fine. No physical harm came to me, but I do mourn the loss of my watch and my wallet. Luckily the ruffians had no interest in my scientific equipment." He lifted the case he held for emphasis then lowered it. "Now, if you would be so kind as to direct me to the law I will lodge a formal complaint and then seek lodgings in this—"
"This way." Moira Sumner began to lead him down the street.
"Excuse me? Is that not the sheriff's office?" Rodney was pointing across the street, but Moira was walking past the building he indicated.
"Yes, but he won't be there. He rarely is," she said. The derision in her tone was audible and obvious as she led Rodney down towards a saloon.
Rodney sighed, restored his hat to his head and followed after her. "I hate the frontier," he muttered.
The saloon was dark, dank, quiet and relatively uninhabited. In other words it was the perfect place to be for Sheriff John Sheppard. He slouched in a chair at the table, long legs propped up on another chair across from him. His hat was tipped low, shielding his face from view. His arms were folded across his chest, only adding more wrinkles to his brown shirt and vest. His long black duster trailed along the chair and to the wooden floor. A pair of dark pants were haphazardly tucked into his well-worn boots where silver spurs caught the flash of sunlight and glinted as the doors to the saloon were pushed wide open.
John scowled, resenting the intrusion. He reached out one hand to grab the glass in front of him and he drank the whiskey. It burned its way along his mouth, down his throat to his stomach. He licked his lips, set the glass back onto the table where it clinked against the half-empty bottle. The amber brown liquid gleamed briefly in the flare of sunlight then was doused as the saloon doors swung closed once more. Sunlight and shadow striped the floor. Striped the gun belt slung low on his hips and the Colt holstered here at his thigh.
He heard footsteps. Unfamiliar shoes, not boots, and the familiar quiet steps of a woman. The rustle of skirts near his legs confirmed his observations. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the dour black color of her clothing and knew who it was without having to raise his head. He waited, not moving, not acknowledging her or the stranger beside her. A smirk was forming on his lips as he deliberately irritated her.
Moira scowled, knowing full well he was very aware of being observed. "Sheriff Sheppard? If you have a moment there's been a robbery."
John slowly lifted his head to meet her gaze. He tilted back his hat to reveal his handsome, scruffy face. His bright green eyes held a mixture of emotions and his perfect lips were forming a half-smile. "Ma'am." He briefly inclined his head. Then suddenly he straightened in the chair, eying her companion with suspicion and curiosity. He was a greenhorn, a city slicker dressed in a three-piece navy and white suit, black shiny shoes and a ridiculous Bowler hat that John had the urge to shoot on sight. "A robbery, you say?"
"Yes!" Rodney stepped forward, thrusting out his hand in greeting. "Sheriff, the stagecoach was robbed just a few miles out of town on our way here! What's more, the ruffians were rude and the stagecoach driver himself is culpable in some way, I just know it! I am Doctor McKay, a renowned scientist who is here to fix your electrical telegraph among other things." He waited, waited until finally dropping his hand to his side. Puzzled.
John looked at Moira again, then back at Rodney. "I never heard of ya."
"I'm not surprised, being out here in the middle of nowhere and devoid of any scientific periodicals much less a public library or a…are you going to do something about the robbery? My watch and my wallet were stolen from me, at gunpoint, no less!"
"I'll look into it," John drawled.
"You'll look…you'll look…" Rodney began, anger blustering to the surface.
Moira touched his arm briefly. "Don't upset yourself, Doctor McKay. Things run much slower out here, I'm afraid, but the sheriff will look into it eventually. If he can ever get his behind off that chair and out of the saloon, that is. I think we would have better luck with the deputy. Now, let's get you to the hotel where you can recover and have a fine meal, all right?" She glared at the sheriff, turned and headed for the saloon doors.
"Excuse me, Sheriff…Sheppard, was it? I think you should attend to this crime with all alacrity! A group of criminals are on the prowl and will more than likely inflict their grievous demands on this town next! I assume you have a bank in this town? Or a store, at least, that will attract the likes of said criminals. Your citizens need to be protected! I have to say that Mrs. Sumner's opinion of you makes me concerned about your efficacy at enforcing the law."
John was amused. But he glowered and stood abruptly. He towered over the stranger by a few inches, but they seemed more imposing as his boots clomped on the wooden floor as he stepped round the table to see the case the man held onto tightly. "A scientist, huh? Well, Mr. McKay-"
"That's Doctor McKay," Rodney corrected in a small voice.
John ignored him. "I think you'd best be gettin' to that hotel and be about your business here in town. That way I can do mine."
"Fine." Rodney glanced at the saloon doors. Moira was standing there, waiting, her gaze locked on John. Her glare was pure ire. Rodney looked at John. He was looking at Moira, expression unreadable. "Um, she doesn't seem to like you very much, sheriff."
John met his gaze. "Yeah, you could say that."
"May I ask the reason why?"
"It's simple. I killed her husband."