Meryl stared, wide-eyed and terrified.
Delia stood ten yarz away, frizzy wisps of her long hair escaping from its braid to frame a face showing mixed fear and anger, in almost equal parts. Her whole body seemed to tremble slightly, but still she managed to hold the gun in steady hands, the barrel pointed squarely at Supposed-Vash.
At last, Meryl found her voice again.
"Delia," she called, trying desperately to keep her voice calm and even. "Go back inside."
"No!" said the girl, defiantly. She stood her ground. "Just 'cause the rest of this town is too chicken-shit to back you up doesn't mean we all ought to roll over for these jokers."
God, this isn't the time to think to prove yourself, girl!
Meryl didn't know what to do: tell Delia to put the gun down and assume Supposed-Vash's men wouldn't shoot an unarmed girl? They seemed ready enough to shoot Milly. Keep the gun, then, and risk remaining a threat the men might think to eliminate?
The muscles in Supposed-Vash's jaw were working madly and his men's eyes were wild, darting from Meryl to Delia and back again. Meryl could see they were all starting to panic, and panicked men do stupid things.
"Delia, please," Meryl whispered. There were just too many damn variables in the situation. Too many people, too many chances for everything to go wrong.
"No, she's right."
This new voice came from behind Meryl. Another woman's voice. Chancing a glance over her shoulder, Meryl recognized the woman bartender from the town's single saloon, still wearing her odd ensemble of lavender-trimmed red-brown dress and dirty white apron. The dark green stocking cap covering her long hair seemed to have been yanked on hastily and she was taking great panting breaths, the gun in her hands moving up and down in time with the rise and fall of her chest.
Meryl wondered where the gun had been, if the woman had to run to fetch it.
"We're not going to let you just walk away with everything we have," said the woman. "Drop everything, now, and—" she gestured at Milly "—let that poor girl up, and we'll let you leave. Just get the hell out of here!"
"You'll let me leave?" Supposed-Vash crowed. Meryl thought his laugh sounded a little forced.
"It sounds like a pretty good deal," the Idiot called. "Maybe you should take her up on it."
"You shut up!" shouted Supposed-Vash, baring his gritted teeth as he took a tighter grip on his own gun. "You think I'm gonna back down from a few little girls? And even if you do have a gun, I'm not—"
The man stopped suddenly, his mouth falling open as his eyebrows shot up in disbelief. At this point Meryl had lost all hope of getting the situation under control, one way or the other. She was trapped there, watching everything happen around her without any hope of affecting the outcome—at least, not for the better. So it was with a sinking feeling of despair that she turned to follow Supposed-Vash's gaze.
Her forehead ached, perhaps more than it ever had. The waiter from the café was pointing yet another gun at Supposed-Vash. He stepped directly in front of the Idiot, shielding him from the other man's aim. Meryl saw the look of shock on the Idiot's face an instant before he suddenly met her eye, mirroring her own desperate, useless, terror.
There was movement out of the corner of Meryl's eye and she glanced around. More people were stepping forward into the street now, two or three at a time, forming a circle around the scene. Guns were appearing everywhere: from holsters, jacket pockets, apron fronts. Supposed-Vash and his men were surrounded, staring down dozens of revolvers and the angry faces of the townsfolk wielding them. All barrels pointed in toward the center.
What was it Delia had said? Everyone in this town has a gun...
And here they all were.
Meryl wanted to cry.
It's a goddamn Mexican standoff.
Tension was so thick in the air she could hardly breathe. Any one man—or woman, or girl—could pull their trigger now and the whole town would go up like a powder keg. She could practically see Supposed-Vash sweating. All his men had gone pale, and the hatless man standing over Milly had actually started to tremble.
"You probably think you've won," Supposed-Vash said finally, sneering as he addressed the Idiot, over the waiter's shoulder. Meryl gasped as a quick slide backward of the pump on the massive gun he held made the end of the weapon flare out into five separate barrels, revealing what looked like a bazooka in the center. "Think again!" Supposed-Vash shouted triumphantly.
Meryl held her breath; it was a miracle no one had been startled into firing on the man. But from the faces Meryl could see around her, the townsfolk were all suddenly less confident, glancing sideways to each other and gripping the guns so tightly their knuckles went white.
Supposed-Vash was grinning, obviously thinking the balance of power had just shifted in his favor.
"You should save your aces for last!" he shrieked, high-pitched laughter burbling up uncontrollably from his throat. His loud maniacal giggling cut off sharply moments later and he gasped, his whole body stiffening as though every muscle had seized up.
For a few seconds Meryl didn't understand what was happening. Then she saw a man standing only iches behind Supposed-Vash—she recognized him as the Idiot's drunken friend from the night before—with the tip of his stubby index finger pressed to the back of the other man's neck.
What?
"Checkmate," said the man. For one ridiculous moment Meryl almost rolled her eyes at the mixed metaphors. "Drop the gun," the drunkard ordered, jabbing his finger still more forcefully against Supposed-Vash's neck.
The man's fingers went slack and the massive gun fell to the ground with a heavy clanking noise, rolling over once until it rested on its side.
"The rest of you, too," called the drunkard. At a sharp nod from their leader, Supposed-Vash's men all dropped their weapons. The hatless man standing over Milly backed away, and Milly leapt to her feet, scowling fiercely. Meryl could see her eye was already blackening from the blow she had taken to the face earlier. The younger woman bent down to scoop up her stun-gun in one hand and stepped toward the man who had struck her. He recoiled, alarmed, as Milly stood at her full height and glowered at him.
Then she kicked him, hard, in the shins.
Meryl actually laughed, relief flooding her as she finally realized it was all over. The man had squealed in surprise and pulled his knee up to his chest, clasping his hands over the injury. Vindictively, Meryl hoped the sharp leather toe of Milly's pointed boot had cut into the skin of his leg.
"It's alright now," the drunkard called to the surrounding townsfolk. Slowly people began lowering their weapons, and with each barrel that finally pointed safely at the ground Meryl felt her heart rate slow to normal. She let her own arms fall to her sides with a sigh, the derringers suddenly heavy as lead in her hands.
Supposed-Vash and his men raised their arms above their heads and Milly was already moving forward, using one foot to kick their guns away, out of their reach, as she kept her stun-gun trained on them all.
Meryl felt light-headed and nearly stumbled when she took a step forward. She recovered herself with a deep, shaking breath, and walked the several paces to where Delia stood. The girl's jaw was still set determinedly but her whole body seemed to be trembling. Meryl wondered if the danger of the situation had only now struck Delia, the adrenaline-fueled defiance failing her now that it was over. She still held the gun in both hands, and Meryl reached down to pluck it from her shaking fingers.
"You did well, Delia," Meryl said, gently. The girl finally looked up at Meryl's words. "That was very—" she faltered, trying not to blurt out stupid "—brave," she managed.
Then Karen appeared at Meryl's elbow, panicked and red in the face from running.
"Are you alright?" she demanded of Delia.
"I'm fine," the older girl assured her, though she was still a little pale.
"You'd damn well better be," Karen said. She reached high to slap her sister upside the back of the head, startling Delia into a squeak of pain.
"What was that for?" asked Delia, rubbing her head gingerly.
"Don't you ever do that again!" Karen threatened. "Running off half-cocked? Without me?"
"But 'Kay!" Delia protested. "I couldn't—"
"No excuses!" shouted Karen, looking fierce. Then, abruptly, she seized Delia around the middle and hugged her tightly. "You scared me," she mumbled into her sister's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," murmured Delia. She returned Karen's embrace and Meryl, uncomfortable as witness to such a private moment, left them to each other.
She approached where Milly was now ordering Supposed-Vash's men down to their knees while townsfolk went in search of rope to tie them up.
"Are you alright?" she asked Milly, quietly.
"I'm fine," the younger woman assured her, smiling, though she winced as the expression pulled at the bruising black eye. Milly touched it gently, grimacing.
You'd damn well better be.
"What should we do about them?" Milly asked, nodding toward Supposed-Vash and his men.
"I suppose we should lock them up—" Meryl stopped abruptly and cringed.
"But there's no jail," Milly and Meryl said, together, with a groan.
"Okay, okay, hold on," muttered Meryl, massaging her forehead, thinking hard. Her gaze fell on the brown convertible and inspiration struck. An evil sort of grin tugged at the corners of her mouth.
An hour later, all five men were tightly bound around the feet and torso, though the townsfolk didn't have enough rope to spare and had to scramble for other ideas. Meryl suggested they just leave the fifth man in Milly's stun-gun claw, but it was decided the biting metal jaws were too painful for even such a crook to be forced to endure, so instead he was wrapped up in some of the hotel's oldest, grungiest-looking bed sheets.
Then each man was hoisted into a seat in the convertible, the aging seatbelts even buckled-in to keep them all practically immobile and supremely uncomfortable. Meryl saw to it that Supposed-Vash was riding the middle of the back seat, squashed between the two largest of his own men. Milly was thoughtful enough to retrieve the large yellow umbrella from across the street and wedge it in between the rear seats—sprouting up from between Supposed-Vash's knees—to give all the captive men some shade from the high noon suns. Meryl thought this was rather kinder than they deserved, but said nothing.
Delia and Karen had been milling around watching the proceedings with great interest, but were glad when Meryl and Milly were finally done and they could all leave the scene behind. Delia still seemed a little shaken from the ordeal, but the younger of the sisters appeared to be back in her usual spirits.
"Well," said Karen, bracingly, as though it had been a perfectly ordinary morning. "Lunch?"
Meryl sent Milly and the girls on without her ("Save me a seat, I'll be right there,") and waited for decisions to be made about how many men should be standing guard over the convertible and who would ride a Thomas all the way to the next town to bring the law back for Supposed-Vash and his men.
After some mild disagreements between the remaining menfolk and a good deal of blustering from the mayor, Meryl was satisfied that all the loose ends were being tied up, and was glad she could wash her hands of the whole thing. She hurried to meet Milly and the two sisters at the café, but she only made it ten steps away from the convertible before she did an abrupt about-face and returned to the car. A moment's work had the hood popped and the distributor cap removed.
Just in case.
Meryl pocketed the cap and closed the hood, headed for the cafe. Again she walked a dozen or so paces from the convertible before turning around and retracing her steps. The men in the car had watched her double-back twice now and Meryl had the attention of all of five when she reached them again.
"Who are you, really?" she asked, addressing Supposed-Vash. "You're not the Humanoid Typhoon, he'd never be stupid enough to get caught like this." The man just scowled. "Why not tell me?" Meryl pressed. "You're going to jail regardless."
"Whore," spat the man, glaring at her through the red glasses. Then he leaned forward across the bald muscle-man sitting on his left and spat in Meryl's face. Or at least he tried to. A black-gloved hand shot out from nowhere and closed over the saliva projectile before it could reach Meryl. She had already stepped back automatically, flinching, and now she looked up to see the Idiot shaking his head as he looked down at the man.
"Tsk," said the Idiot, sighing. "That's no way to treat a lady." Quite unexpectedly, he punched the man across the face and Supposed-Vash's head lolled sideways until he lay still. The Idiot looked pointedly at the others in the car as though daring them to make any comment. They didn't.
The Idiot opened his fist and looked at the mess in his palm, crinkling his nose in distaste. He leaned forward slightly and wiped it discreetly on the unconscious man's shoulder. Grinning, he looked down at Meryl, who just stood staring, bemused, back up into his face.
"You are out of your goddamn mind," she told him finally, managing to find words. "You could have been killed back there."
The Idiot blinked at her and Meryl saw something more serious for a moment as he tilted his head contemplatively. "So could you."
But that didn't stop you.
The comment was implicit in his tone.
Slightly unnerved by his continued gaze, Meryl looked away and searched for something to break the strange moment. Her eyes settled on the trash can lid the Idiot still wore on his head.
"Take that stupid thing off," she ordered, glad of something else but those green eyes to focus on. He just grinned at her again. Meryl reached up to take the lid from its perch on the bristly ends of the Idiot's hair and had to take another step closer, standing almost toe-to-toe with him in order to catch hold of it. His smile faltered and his eyes went slightly wider as he stared down at her, now standing so near.
Meryl looked at him curiously as she stepped back with the trash can lid in hand, wondering what he had thought she was going to do. But then he was grinning again, rubbing the back of his neck and looking almost embarrassed. A little wary, Meryl frowned and turned away in search of the trash can missing a lid. She found it in an alley on the other side of the street and tossed the convertible's distributor cap in before replacing the lid the Idiot had commandeered.
When she returned to the street, two men were positioned on either side of the convertible, guns holstered but within reach in an instant, and the Idiot and his drunkard friend were wandering off (the latter now very clearly hung-over—how the hell had he even stayed standing long enough to pull off that stunt?).
She sighed, still puzzled at what she had seen in the Idiot's eyes, and walked to the café.