A massive sandstorm picked up within hours of leaving Warrens, and Meryl and Milly lost track of the Idiot—not that they were following him, of course. Without a proper heading, Meryl couldn't be sure they were on track to Orleans or not, but the sands weren't too thick for them to lose sight of the suns and for two days they traveled by Meryl's solar navigation.
The Thomas they had bought were of a sturdy breed that didn't seem to mind the sand that whipped around them and chapped the women's skin, and Meryl was thankful they never became finicky and demanded to turn back or find shelter (as some of her previous mounts would certainly have done). The women, on the other hand, needed to wrap themselves in extra layers of clothing to combat the sand beating against them, hooding their heads and covering their faces as much as possible.
On the third day the storm was so powerful the skies were almost dark and they were riding blind into the sand. The ground beneath the Thomas feet became rocky and Meryl decided she and Milly should dismount and walk the creatures for a time, for fear of another surprise rockslide as they had experienced in the past. Meryl also knew that there was a long descent into Orleans and hoped that this change in the terrain might be the start of it.
"Come on," Meryl shouted to Milly, trying to be heard over the rushing sands as she swung down from the Thomas saddle. "Let's walk a while." Meryl had taken only two steps when she tripped on something and fell forward, clutching at the Thomas reins for support but still landing hard on one hand. She crouched down on her knees and felt around for whatever she'd stumbled over, finding a roughly fashioned cross made of two planks of wood lashed together with rope so old it practically crumbled to dust in her hands.
"What is it, Ma'am?" asked Milly, at Meryl's shoulder.
Meryl hesitated, but she knew perfectly well what it was.
"I think it's a grave marker," she told Milly. At though cued by these words, the storm around them ceased very suddenly; the winds disappeared, pouring sand heavily over their heads as it dropped in waves from the sky. It was light again, and Meryl gasped loudly. The ground all around them was littered with these makeshift wooden crosses, all of them as old and decrepit as the one Meryl still held in both hands.
"My god," whispered Milly. The massive graveyard stretched on for hundreds of yarz, as far as they could see. Meryl could see the town of Orleans in the distance and wondered if these sad, wooden markers would lead them all the way there.
They stood in silence for a long time, trying to really comprehend what they were seeing.
Then Meryl swallowed hard and gripped the reins of her Thomas.
"Let's make this quick," she said, feeling uneasy as she stepped forward. Milly caught her elbow.
"We'll go around," said the younger woman. Meryl looked back in surprise.
"Milly, that could take days—"
"We'll. Go. Around," Milly growled through gritted teeth, squeezing Meryl's arm almost painfully. Her gaze out over the endless stretch of graves was fierce, something Meryl had never seen. When Milly turned, Meryl almost recoiled from the intensity of look the younger woman gave her.
"Of course," said Meryl, shaken. "Of course."
They made town by sunsrise the next morning, and to be honest Meryl was glad Milly had insisted on the detour. She didn't want to think about walking over the dead. It also gave her time to ponder what she had seen in Milly's eyes. This was the first time Meryl had ever seen the younger woman truly... what, exactly? Meryl couldn't name it. Milly had been upset before, but over more trivial issues. She'd never really been angry, either, just that same "upset." This hadn't been real anger either. It had been something much more intense; it was passion, and Meryl didn't know why.
The winds had picked up again as they reached Orleans proper and Meryl and Milly threw themselves into the first building they came across, unwrapping the cloth over their heads and faces enough to look around and see where they'd ended up.
The saloon.
Of course.
Meryl wanted to wail in misery. She so desperately wanted a bath, but the amiable barkeeper told her that the inn was at the opposite end of town. Meryl wasn't sure they could make it any farther through the storm, they were so exhausted, so she let Milly talk her into staying there until it died down again. Meryl did her best to just relax and catch her breath and drink the glass of whiskey that Milly pressed into her hand.
But the radio at the end of the bar kept repeating the storm warnings for the Orleans area and the whiskey just wasn't enough. Meryl's skin itched from the sand and her hair stuck up at odd angles from sweat and oil, and she couldn't stand it. She finished the last of her drink and walked across the room to the bar.
It took a moment for Meryl to catch the bartender's attention—a good chunk of the town's population was trapped in here, due the storm—but he smiled at her and made his way to her end of the bar.
"My friend and I have been traveling for days," Meryl began, her voice hoarse, but the bartender spoke over her, looking sympathetic.
"And you'd like to wash up?" he asked. Meryl's heart sunk. Clearly he'd been asked this favor before. She sighed and opened her mouth to thank him anyway, but the man spoke again. "I can get you a few dallons of good, clean water," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "It's not much, but it's enough to wash up your face and hands properly."
Meryl's insides practically melted. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'll tell my partner."
When Meryl returned to Milly to explain, the younger woman looked equally relieved. Milly pulled fresh clothes for each of them from the luggage they carried, and together they followed the bartender to the washroom in the back of the saloon.
The women were careful with the limited water supply, but each managed to get her face clean to her satisfaction, and Meryl was even able to rinse her hair with the dregs. Even over a dirty body, clean clothing was a blessing and Meryl was more comfortable and considerably calmer when they returned to the bustling noise of the saloon.
As they stepped out from the back room, Meryl and Milly both started in surprise at a female voice suddenly shrieking happily nearby.
"I won, I won!"
The cry came from a table near the bar that Meryl hadn't noticed earlier, but now she saw a young woman about Milly's age, much too well-dressed for a place like this. She was spreading a hand of cards out on the poker table in front of her, face-up. "I won again!" she said, clapping silk-gloved hands.
The man sitting across the table from her just groaned and leaned forward, rubbing his face with one hand before pushing his chair back and standing.
"You're leaving?" the girl asked, her expression changing from giddy to heartbroken in an instant.
"I can't afford any more of this," said the man, gruffly, pulling his hat down over his eyes to cast his face in shadow. Meryl thought he might be embarrassed to have lost to this girl.
"You've done very well, miss," said a man Meryl hadn't seen at first glance. He was in his late forties, at least, and just as well-dressed as the young woman. This man had to be her servant—butler, or chaperone perhaps?—and Meryl was fairly surprised that he had managed to escape her notice. "Perhaps we should go home?" the man suggested wearily, clearly hoping his charge would agree.
"But I'm on a winning streak!" she wailed, pouting. Meryl knew that no man, regardless of age, would argue with such a pout. Then the woman seemed to notice Meryl and Milly. "How about you two?" she asked hopefully.
"No," said Meryl, flatly. "Thank you," she added, not meaning to sound rude. She sent Milly on to their table and stayed at the bar to request another two glasses of whiskey. The bartender handed them over hurriedly, trying to fill a larger order to the man standing next to Meryl. The man turned suddenly, knocking Meryl sideways. She landed practically in another man's lap where he sat at the bar and he helped Meryl back to her feet as she blushed, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking over the man she'd accidentally bumped into. Even sitting down, Meryl could tell he was tall, his broad shoulders almost twice the width of hers. His hat was pulled down low over his eyes and his heavy black cloak was just as dust-worn as hers. And he practically radiated an atmosphere of quiet power and strength.
"It's alright," said the man, quietly, without looking at her.
Puzzled, Meryl returned to Milly just in time to hear another loud wail coming from the card table.
"Oh, not anybody?" cried the woman, her supply of willing opponents finally exhausted. Her voice grated on Meryl's nerves...
"I'll play."
The voice was deep and quiet, though it could be heard in every corner of the saloon—and Meryl recognized it.
"Wonderful!" said the woman, happily. Meryl could hear her shuffling the cards. "Hurry up, before my luck changes!"
"On one condition," said the low voice.
"Okay!" said the woman, excitedly. Meryl winced—she could think of plenty of things that the woman should not be agreeing to without knowing.
"We play for your life."
Meryl heard the unmistakable sound of a revolver's hammer pulled back into position. She spun where she sat, the fingers of her left hand gripping the back of her chair even as she reached for a derringer with the other. It was the man Meryl had fallen on, dressed all in black from his hat to his boots, standing at the bar while the terrified young woman stared up the barrel of his gun.
It went deathly silent in the saloon, save for the ceiling fan overhead. Meryl glanced up to see it was missing a blade, which unbalanced it and made it spin strangely, making repeated ker-clunk, ker-clunk noises with every rotation.
Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk...
Meryl held her breath.
Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk...
Someone on Meryl's left suddenly leapt to his feet, drawing a gun.
"Drop the—aaugh!"
There was a gunshot and the man dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder. A second man had moved to stand with the man in black, gun pointed menacingly at the saloon at large, scowling at all of them.
Meryl could feel Milly tense up next to her.
Wait, wait for all the players...
A third man, and a fourth, stood and moved toward the man in black, but no others appeared. Meryl and Milly shared a glance. There were easily twenty other men in the saloon, all now silent and still. Two dozen hostages were a hell of a lot to keep track of, and to keep in control, and in Meryl's experience such a situation never ended without bloodshed.
"You're all free to go," said the man in black. Meryl gaped at him. He pointed to the man laying bleeding on the floor, saying, "Get that man to a doctor. I only want the girl."
The men around Meryl didn't need telling twice, hurrying to their feet and stumbling over each other trying to get out the door. Two of the injured man's friends lifted him to his feet and carried him out of the saloon.
Milly stood, but Meryl hesitated.
"And the women," called one of the other men. Meryl turned to see a man with short-cropped brown hair pointing at her and Milly. Her heart seized in her chest for a moment but then she saw the man's face devoid of any cruelty, or hunger or lust. He regarded her with a more calculating gaze than anything else, and he turned to the man in black, saying, "Bargaining chips, if it comes to it."
After a moment, the man in black nodded.
Meryl's wrists were suddenly grabbed roughly from behind, held low at her back, and she reacted automatically, bending both elbows and thrusting her hands up along her spine, forcing her captor to release one of her arms. She turned, snaking her free hand up along and around the arm with which the man still held her, twisting her own arm to lever his elbow out the wrong way. He gasped in pain and surprise but still held her other hand tightly, so she pulled the man down, off-balance, with the arm she held trapped and brought her knee up hard into his face.
He dropped with a grunt and Meryl released him, but another arm seized her around the neck from behind, squeezing tightly and cutting off her air. Meryl's hands flew to the heavily muscled bicep at her throat, scratching at the bare skin with her fingernails as she realized she was completely unable to breathe.
"Enough!"
It was undoubtedly the man in black—Meryl knew his voice now—and whoever held Meryl dropped her immediately. She fell to the floor on all fours, breathing heavily. Before she could stand up again someone kicked her back down, flat to the floor, and Meryl felt a heavy boot press down between her shoulder blades, making it even more difficult to breathe. Then she felt cold metal jammed hard into the back of her neck and she froze, realizing someone was pressing the barrel of a gun against her skin.
"Jean, I said enough!" roared the man in black. The gun barrel disappeared and when hands hauled Meryl to her feet it was the man in black himself. He held her by the front of her tunic but was looking at the man who, evidently, had been standing on Meryl moments earlier. Messy black hair hung over the man's bloody face, and he held a gun in one hand. Then, more quietly, the man in black looked seriously to his man and asked, "Are you alright?"
"Bitch broke my nose," Jean spluttered, defiantly. The man in black stared him down and Jean looked away.
"Tie her up," ordered the man in black, handing Meryl off to another man as Jean scowled at her. Still just trying to breathe properly, Meryl didn't struggle while the man with short-cropped hair tied her hands tightly behind her back.
"Christ, we aren't going to hurt you," the man told Meryl, quietly. But Meryl watched Jean still staring angrily at her.
"I'm—sorry," Meryl managed between gasping breaths, realizing the absurdity of such an apology. "It's just—reflex." The man turned her around to face him, incredulous. She must have looked sincere, somehow, because he shook his head, asking, " 'The hell kinda life you lead, lady?"
You have no idea.
He half-carried her to where Milly and the butler were similarly bound, sitting against the base of the bar.
"Good god, miss," said the butler, white-faced, as Milly looked Meryl over carefully in silence. "Are you alright?"
"I've had worse," said Meryl, coughing. "You alright, Milly?"
"I'm fine," the younger woman said. "I tried to keep the bald one busy, but..."
"The headlock?" Meryl guessed. Milly nodded. "Thanks anyway." Then Meryl lowered her voice. "Stun-gun?"
Milly shook her head, then gestured toward the end of the bar with her shoulder. The massive weapon was leaning against the wall five yarz away. "You?" asked Milly. Meryl nodded, though she had no idea how the men had missed all her derringers in the scuffle.
Meryl noticed suddenly that the man in black still had one other man from the saloon held hostage, cowering on his knees in front of the five men. He looked terrified, his whole body shaking. Then the man in black pulled the captive up by the collar and shoved him roughly toward the door. He tripped and landed on his hands and knees, scrambling up to his feet again before running as fast as he could out of the saloon.
"Tell them!" bellowed the man in black, taking several steps toward the door, where the storm seemed to finally have lessened.
The last hostage was meant to relay demands, Meryl realized.
There was a gurgled scream of terror and Meryl shifted where she sat, catching sight of the well-dressed young woman from the poker table. She was tied up around the torso, hanging by her waist from the now-still ceiling fan, and she was choking out sobs around a cloth gag. The butler saw her and gasped in horror.
"Miss!" he shouted. "No!" The butler started making useless attempts to free himself and only fell sideways for his efforts. Milly kindly helped him back into an upright position with her knees and shoulder, speaking words Meryl couldn't hear, though she knew they would be meant to calm the man.
The man in black approached the young woman he held hostage and waited, standing tall and sure before her. The woman cried harder, breathing raggedly, but eventually calmed slightly, looking her captor straight in the eyes.
"We are not going to hurt you," he told her carefully, and for some reason, Meryl believed him. She would not have imagined this man as a kidnapper, had she met him under other circumstances. He seemed completely genuine to Meryl, too calm a man to upset easily enough to be forced into something so desperate. She couldn't understand what he was doing here...
"You are only the means to an end," the man in black went on. "And when the end comes, you'll leave here unharmed."
This puzzled Meryl as much as it seemed to confuse the other woman.
"Everyone just stay calm," called the man in black, turning away from the woman. His voice was loud enough to ring out through the whole saloon.
There was silence.
"Now what?" asked the short-haired man, pulling a chair out from a table. He turned it around and straddled it, his arms resting across the back of the chair.
"We wait," said the man in black, leaning against the bar next to where Meryl sat. His arms were crossed over his chest and his hat and face were tilted down toward the floor. Meryl wondered how his physical presence could fill the room as completely as his deep voice, even standing so calmly now. She looked over his men, who all seemed ready to wait, just as their leader bade them. How could he hold their allegiance so completely? How much had he offered them?
The bald man crossed to the windows to keep lookout, careful to stay hidden behind the frame. After a few minutes he gasped, surprised.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Someone's coming!"
"What?" asked the man in black, looking up suddenly. "I told them no one was to approach the building!"
Jean rushed to the other window and the two men smashed out panes of glass, pointing their guns through and opening fire.
"Wait—stop!" Meryl shouted over the shooting; what if it was just someone coming to negotiate? "Stop!"
The gunfire slowed and then silenced.
"What the hell?" cried the bald man in disbelief, staring out the window from his position behind the wall. "He made it through!"
"Get him in here," growled the man in black, striding forward.
Meryl squinted against the bright sunlight coming through the saloon door and felt her jaw drop as someone was hauled through it.
"Uh," said the Idiot, to four gun barrels thrust immediately into his face. "...Hello?"
Had they not been bound behind her, Meryl would have buried her face in her hands, trying not to cry.
It can only get worse from here...