Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
Part Sixty-Eight: Charles
10:15 AM, November 16th, 1899
Charles undid his girthy braid, letting the long jet-black locks flow freely over his shoulder, flitting peacefully in the mellow wind.
He was overlooking the reservation from atop a high knoll, drinking in the sights of tents folding, bandages redressing, and items being packed when they came for him.
Abigail wore a navy skirt and white shirt blemished with dark red spots from nursing the wounded. Her hair was bundled in a sloppy bun, but she wore it with a confidence that made it seem regal. Her cheek was still a faint purple where Dutch had slapped her. She pulled her leg up onto a protruding root, blowing an exasperated sigh before smiling cordially in a way that told him she wanted something. "Hey, Charles."
"Hey."
Molly was behind her, her posture slouched and demure. Her garb was her high-necked purple dress, with a darker mesh overlay draped on her skirt. A dead red leaf was caught in it. Over her shoulders sat her white shawl dotted with pink roses. Hanging above her cusped breasts was the gold and ruby necklace Dutch had stolen for her—the gold was paint and the gem was glass, of course.
"We got a problem here," Abigail said, tongue prodding the side of her cheek. "I… fuck… We need your help."
"With what?"
"With your favorite person in the world."
He groaned, knowing just by the vexed glare in her eye. Micah…
Abigail relayed it all to him, then, what Molly had told her only moments ago. The woman herself stood there still as a statue, doing everything she could not to cry as Abigail spoke, describing the affair, the deal with the Pinks, and finally, concluding by handing him the letter. Molly had omitted the part about assassinating Dutch and crippling John to Abigail, naturally, her head wasn't all straw.
He read through the wrinkled, pale paper twice, noting the barely veiled demands and threats. "So they want you to… 'kill Dutch in his sleep,' or else they'll kill Micah."
Molly nodded weakly, lips quivering. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to turn to."
"It's okay, girl," Abigail heartened, pulling her into a half-hug, "we're goin' to fix this."
Charles folded the letter, staring daggers at the Irishwoman. "How long has this been goin' on? You rattin' us out?"
"Not long," she lied. "We did it to get back at Dutch for hurtin' me. We tried to negotiate freedom for all of you guys, too, but… those bastards wouldn't hear it."
Her cracking voice did move the half-breed a mite, but the puzzle was assembling in his head and he couldn't stop it. "They knew about Lakay… and that boat…"
"Don't you dare!" Molly bellowed, trying to race uphill and slap him, but she tripped and rolled down to where she'd stood. Dirt streaked her pretty dress. "I liked Lenny! Do you think I would've… Fuck you, man! We didn't tell them a thing. Just met with them once or twice. Dutch had fuckin' beaten me to near death! Of course, I was angry."
"Why should I believe that?"
"Fuck you," she bemoaned, "dammit, I was in Lakay, why would I order them to burn the fuckin' place to the ground?"
Charles bit his tongue, he didn't have a response for that. He exhaled and threw up his hands. "Look… it doesn't matter. Nothin' can be done. Micah's gone—"
"He doesn't have to be," Abigail objected.
"Abigail—"
"He ain't dead, we know that. They squeezed Tacitus Kilgore outta him somehow. Cornwall's only been gone for half a day, so there's no way the Pinks have relocated yet. They're still in Annesburg, and there are only so many places they could be hiding him…"
Charles backed up until his foot felt the edge of the acclivity. He didn't like where they were leading him. "No, absolutely not. Y-you're leavin' in less than two hours."
Abigail wouldn't relent. "We can catch up with them. Besides, you ain't leavin' for days. We'll be back in plenty of time for you to go with the Wapitis."
"I am not taking part in a fuckin' suicide rescue mission for fuckin' Micah Bell! Have you forgotten who he is?"
"I haven't forgotten a thing," Abigail said calmly, pinching Molly's shoulder blade so she stayed silent. "It ain't personal, it's practical. Micah knows 'bout this reservation. He talks today, the Pinks'll be here tomorrow. We'll be gone, sure, but will you?"
Charles winced. He glanced down at the settlement. The Wapitis were packing up, but nearly fast enough to be gone within the week, let alone within the day. They were still mourning the dead, celebrating the years spent on the reservation, and the wounded were nowhere close to ready to travel.
"When you're gone, they'll have no reason to care about us." He said it boldly, but he knew it was a weak argument. If the agents asked where the gang was, and Charles told the truth, and they decided he was lying? There would be hell to pay.
Abigail groaned softly, leaving Molly and striding uphill until she was only a head shorter than Charles, glaring up at him with pale blue eyes. "I don't wanna sound entitled now, Charles, but you kinda owe us this."
He jolted back a bit, confused. "I don't owe you a thing. I'm not one of you anymore, remember?"
Abigail's blue orbs turned hard as glass. Her cheekbones slouched into a fervent scowl, and her nostrils flared. "My husband sold his leg for forty thousand dollars, and y'know what you did, Charles? You gave every single fuckin' cent of it away. Tossed it in the fuckin' wind. If the infection doesn't kill him, he'll never walk again. He can't wear a watch on his right hand because it's fuckin' gone. He sacrificed, and you made that sacrifice mean nothing. So now you're gonna sacrifice your fuckin' afternoon and help us with this." She spoke quickly and afterward paused with short bursts of breath. After another pause, she added, "Please?"
Charles gazed away, gritting his teeth. It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he was already convinced. "Why do you care so much about this, Abigail?" he asked, truly curious.
"Because we're friends," Molly hollered from further down the slope.
"Because," Abigail said, "a man and woman are in love and it ain't right for them to be torn apart because a' things they can't control."
She isn't talking about Molly, Charles realized, she's talkin' about herself. He suddenly felt a sharp stab of guilt, between the ribs, right in the heart. I hadn't thought about John. I'd… I'd just been so mad. Dutch used my people to get what he wanted and then kicked 'em to the curb. And… then I used his people to get what I wanted and kicked 'em to the curb.
He remembered them all at once. Mary-Beth, Tilly, Kieran, Javier, Jack, Sadie, Grimshaw, and hell, even Bill and Dutch. They weren't bad people, and they had nowhere to go. He'd given them nowhere to go.
"Okay," he whispered. "I'll help."
Molly crossed her arms with an expected frown. "Of course you'll help. Now, can we get going?"
"Thank you," Abigail's smile was small but warm. It vanished as she exhaled. "There's just one more pleasant person we need to talk to first."
She filled him in on their plan as they strolled down the hill to the gang's campsite. They were going to use dynamite, a lot of it. Create a distraction in one spot, then use it to blow Micah out of wherever he was stashed. Charles didn't object; asides from the fact that they had no idea where Micah was, or how many Pinks they were throwing themselves against, it was a fine plan.
Dutch sat on a faded gray stump, running his hands through a meager sum of greenbacks. Charles hung in the back of their trio as they approached, figuring he'd want to see him the least. Yet, Molly hung behind him, as if scared Dutch had spontaneously found out about the affair. With how furious he looked, it wouldn't have been too far-fetched.
"Hey, Dutch," Abigail greeted, "what are ya doin'?"
His eyebrows furrowed as he took in the sight of them. "Well, because our accountant is gone—thank you, Charles—I'm counting up all we got, tryin' to mentally calculate how long it'll get us, and because all our hard-earned money is gone—thank you, Charles—all we got is paltry scraps."
Abigail drilled her heel into the stony soil, knowing what she was about to say was a mistake. All the same, she said it. "Maybe this is a sign? Maybe we should do what Hosea said, y'know? Disband?"
There was hellfire in Dutch's eyes when he glowered at her. "Maybe you should tell me why you're pesterin' me, and then get the fuck outta my face."
She reeled him into the loop, explaining their plan to break Micah out—of course forgetting to include the part about the affair or the ratting to the Pinks.
"Why do you need me?" he asked, turning his attention back to counting. The bills were creased and dull, Charles noticed. He wondered how long ago they were minted.
"Dynamite," Abigail said. "Do you have any left from that wagon Charles and Uncle robbed?"
He twitched at the second name. Curious… "No," he said briskly. "There's nothing left. There ain't much of anything left." His head bobbed to the side, indicating it was now time for them to get the fuck out of his face.
Abigail kept on. "Do you know any fences where we can buy some?"
"Why are you doin' this to me," he said, exasperated. "Can't ya let sleepin' dogs lie? You know how it works: you fall behind, you're left behind."
"That wasn't the case with Lenny," she murmured.
Dutch snapped to his feet at once, tucking the green folds in his pocket. Afraid history was going to repeat itself, Charles stepped between them, but Dutch shoved him aside.
"Watch it, woman," he snarled, raising a finger. "One of these days, that mouth is gonna get you in a ruckus it can't blow itself out of."
"Oh fuck this!" she shouted, gyrating and storming off. "We'll break your shadow out without you!"
"What are we gonna do now?" Charles asked, following her with Molly, who had a hand gently on her shoulder, whispering compliments in Abigail's ear.
"I don't know," the woman said, "we'll figure—"
"Hey, wait!" Dutch hollered. Charles stopped, hearing the thud thud of the man getting closer, and lowered his hand to his holster. When he turned around, Dutch was staring at the dirt. "Abigail… I'm-I'm sorry… I—"
"I know," she groaned bitterly. "You're always sorry for something, Dutch. But that never stops you from doing it again, does it?"
He sighed again. "I'm tryin'. I am. Is it… is it… just you three goin'?"
"Yeah," Molly said, arm still around Abigail, nose in her hair, "just us."
"Good," Dutch entoned, relieved. "With John still in recovery, I couldn't spare anyone else. Look… I can't spare any money for y'all, but… there's a guy in Rhodes. A fence. You can't miss him, he's one of these squatters north of the town, Trelawny used to stay with 'em. They live in this collection of caravans. This guy… he knows a lot of people, so he's got a lot of stuff."
"Dynamite?" Abigail asked.
Dutch nodded. "Dynamite. I don't recall his prices bein' exceptionally low, but maybe you can work somethin' out. Like I said, I can't spare a cent for you."
Abigail smiled slightly. "I understand. And thank you, Dutch."
"Yeah, sure." As they turned to leave, he called out again. "And Abigail… I'm-I'm sorry… 'bout this." He traced his cheek where hers was bruised. Her grin fell, but she didn't answer; she only turned stone-cold and walked over to the horse stations.
Abigail wasn't an expert rider, but Taima III couldn't hold three people (and it wasn't as if Molly knew how to do much of anything, let alone ride), so she mounted up on John's horse, Knave of Hearts, and the triune set off. Molly rode with Abigail, clinging to her like a monkey to its mother, as though the confidence radiating off the pale-eyed woman could pass into her, along with her heat and scent.
Charles had heard of a man's lungs getting sick from another man's cigar smoke, but he doubted what Molly was doing would have the same effect.
"So, how are we gonna find him?" Molly asked as they cantered over the rickety bridge leading out of the reservation. "Once we have the dynamite?"
"Still… still workin' on that," Abigail chuckled nervously. "Way I see it, he's the most valuable lead they have, so they'll have a lot of people guarding him. Hopefully, we can just eyeball the building with the most Pinks and that'll be it."
"That's… that's good." Molly tightened her arms around Abigail's chest, a one-sided hug. "I'm so lucky to have a friend like you."
"Yeah, of course." Abigail patted her hands. "You'd do the same for me."
Not so sure about that, Charles thought. He wasn't sure where this newfound companionship between the two had sparked from. He felt as bad as the next person for what happened to Molly, but it wasn't like she had called Sadie a whore after Dutch slapped her around. He didn't think she was a cruel woman, just selfish at heart.
They galloped over a brook, into the woods of Cumberland Forest. Charles rode on the right, Abigail on the left. There was a swirling naked tree lolling over his side of the trail and when they passed it, a burly black bear stepped onto the beaten path, scaring the shit out of Charles. His horse screamed as he swerved around the creature, syncing at the same frequency to Molly's own screeches.
"Fuck!" she decried. "Did you see that fuckin' thing?!"
"Sshhh…" Charles whispered to Taima III, scratching her ears to soothe her from the spook.
"Don't 'shush' me," Molly demanded, ignorantly.
Charles didn't waste his breath objecting. "I ask again: are we sure this is worth it? For Micah."
"Of course it is," the Irishwoman insisted. "I love him."
Charles cleared his throat, knowing what he was about to say would fall on deaf ears. All the same, he continued. "Molly… I know him, more than you do, probably. I've done jobs with him, we did one together with Arthur in Orange Anvil. Afterward, Micah was… shall we be polite and say lonely? He was lonely, so we went to a brothel in town. It was a shabby establishment; carpenter musta been drunk cuz the roofing had as many black spots as a leopard. And it was raining too, so a shower poured down on me, on top of the mosquitoes leaking in through the roof. Then, in the middle of the night, he bangs on my door. 'Got a problem here, Tecumseh,' he said. He led me to his room, and it's dark; he's just got the one yellow candle lighting the way. At his door, I see all the rainwater leaking from under the crack. But when we get closer, I see it's more oily than water. And redder. He'd killed the whore during, stabbed her five fuckin' times in the chest."
"Jesus…" Abigail muttered.
"Yeah. Wanted me to help him dispose of the body, but we weren't gettin' her out of there—the hotel may have been a patchwork, but so was the rest of the town; the place was packed downstairs in the bar. We couldn't chance it, so we grabbed Arthur and hopped out a window. Horrible business." The road was straight, so he kept the horse trained forward and diverted his eyes towards Molly. It took a moment before she returned the favor with her shining green ones. "Molly… if you're lookin' for someone better than Dutch, I promise, Micah ain't it. We're all better off without him. I say we just turn around. I can probably convince the natives to move out a little earlier. By the time he squeals, and he will, I know the type, we'll all be gone."
Molly's green irises twinkled with consideration. Then they narrowed. "Are you… are you comparing me to a whore?"
Charles moaned. "Oh, God…"
"You are, ain't ya? You put me and her with Micah, you're directly likening us."
"Molly," Abigail said, saving Charles, "he ain't. I promise you. You got to stop takin' everything so personally."
"If you say so." She smiled as she spoke at Abigail, but her angry gaze was still fixed across from her.
A gust of wind struck them from the rear suddenly, flittering Charles' river of hair into his face. He spat it out, discovering that washing your hair to filter out the pine needles and broken brittle leaves was not the same as cleaning it. He tasted terrible.
As he flicked his head back, shaking the hair over his shoulders, he caught something in the distance. A dark silhouette behind them, but not too far. Rows of spiny, leafless trees bracketed the shape down the trail, swaying in the wind, yet it stayed frozen, poised in their direction. Watching them. Must be the black bear, Charles thought uncertainly. The aberration was four-legged, that was beyond a doubt, but a mast seemed to emerge from its center, like a rider…
Taima II? The idea of reuniting with his old horse excited Charles—he still had a recurring dream of his dead mother riding it, but that was only a stupid dream. In reality, he knew the horse was gone. What he was seeing now was only a trick of the light.
Still, he prodded Taima III faster, urging Abigail to catch up with him.
"So, how are you holdin' up?" Molly asked her friend as they cleared the holt, heading southeast into Lemoyne. "With John?"
That must be the first time I've seen her take an interest in someone else's problems, Charles decided. Go figure…
"One day at a time," she smiled wearily, as though Jack were there, as though she needed to appear strong. "To tell the truth, I don't know why I'm surprised. I mean… oh, never mind, you don't want to hear it."
"Yes, we do," Molly persisted, resting her chin on Abigail's shoulder. "Tell us, tell me how you're feeling."
"Please, it ain't worth—"
"Sshhhh. Abbieeee," Molly sang, "I really want to know. I really, really do."
"Abbie?" Charles murmured as Abigail scrunched her nose, sniffling.
"I just… I wonder if it's worth it sometimes, y'know? How many times I've spent by his side while he lay almost dead. First back at those damn mountains when he was cut up, and now this? Y'know?"
Molly smiled. "Oh, I know."
" A-and… y'know I've—you can't say a word of this to anyone, y'hear?"
"Of course," Molly said for Charles.
"I've… I've been rememberin' that time he left me. For a whole fuckin' year, and… I don't know, but that thought's just been comin' back to me for a while. Especially after Jack snuck out with Kieran and Sadie—"
"He did?" Charles queried.
"Yeah, you were too busy with the Wapitis to notice," Molly hissed, accentuating the last 's' sound. The guilty knife twisted over his heart.
"It don't matter," Abigail contended. "I ain't leavin' him, it was a dirty and stupid thought. It was a pair of foreskins bobbing together, that's all it was."
"Still…" Molly mused, "it'll be tough now, won't it? Poor, dear John won't be able to work or write or use a gun. Hell, he might not even be able to sit on a horse. And since you can't read… Man, it'll definitely be tough now."
Abigail's head crooked back to her passenger. "I don't know where you're drivin' at, Molly, but I don't like it. So stop."
She shrugged her shoulders innocently. "I'm not gettin' at nothin'. Just sayin' it'll be tough. You'll be leanin' on Dutch a lot more now. I mean, you have too, right? Can't exactly get a job as a cashier if ya can't count or read."
"I can count," Abigail insisted. "Just not if it's on a page. And not if it's too many numbers."
"Even so—"
"And I ain't leanin' on Dutch at all no more, if you have to know. The second we get Micah back, I'm taking off.
"What?" Charles and Molly spoke together, though her voice was impassioned and downright terrified.
"Yeah. I ain't stickin' around this nuthouse anymore. I'm gonna take after Swanson and Uncle—hit the bricks."
Molly was hysterical. "B-but, John's a cripple! You have a son, where are you gonna go?"
"Don't know. Don't care. That maniac is gonna get us all killed. He made John take a bullet for his dumb plan, and made Sean take one too for another. He's senseless, reckless, can't keep his fist in his pocket when it comes to us girls no more, and worst of all, he's too deluded to see it. I'm not going down with a sinking ship, I'm out."
"You can't leave me with him!" Molly cried, hugging Abigail until she'd strangled her shadow. "He'll hurt me again!"
"You don't have to stay either, Molly," Abigail coaxed. "Once Micah's out, you two can go wherever you want."
"With you?" Her frown was pouty and fat.
"Sure, Molly, if that's what you want."
Charles glanced down, dispassionately heeling his horse. "She, uh, she's got a good point, Abigail. Where will you go?"
"No clue. Well… one clue." Her pallid, sleep-deprived face turned to him with a timid simper. "Just hoping you'll offer."
He knew at once what she meant, what she'd been hinting at, and ultimately, what he would've probably given to her on his own accord with a little more time to consider. "You want to move with us to Canada?"
"Yeah… gotta get out of this fire Dutch started, might as well move somewhere cold. Figured we'd stand a better chance traveling with a larger group. Smaller chance of raiders." Her smile dissipated, and her cool blue eyes gleamed with apologeticness. "Charles… I know we ain't exactly popular with the natives no more, and if… if this puts you in a tight spot, then I get it if—"
"Sure, Abigail," he said without question. "Yeah, you can join us."
Her bruise flushed pink with the rest of her cheeks. "A-are you sure?"
"I just said I was."
"Can I come too?" Molly asked, fake golden necklace swinging over her breasts.
"You're… you're gonna take a lotta shit for this," Abigail warned.
"I know," he responded, simply.
"They won't like this."
"I'll make them like it," he decided, tossing her words back at her. "They owe me that much after what I've done for them."
"Can I come too?" Molly repeated, more irritated.
Charles winced. "Maybe, I don't know."
"What? But it was a definite yes for her!" Her raging, reddened face was a shade lighter than the knockoff ruby, but darker than her auburn hair.
"It's different."
"How so?"
"Because you're a package deal with Micah."
"She's a package deal with a comatose cripple and a little boy, how is that any better?"
Knave of Hearts whinnied, putting a silencer on the argument right before Abigail shot it dead when she called out, "Quiet! We're here."
Rhodes was roughly how he remembered it, albeit less war-torn from Sean and Micah's shootout with the Grays. The road that led in wasn't cement like Saint Denis, despite the close proximity, but a pathway of clayish sand that turned to smoke in the wind, irritating Charles' eyes. Two equestrians passed by, leering at the picture of two pretty white girls riding alongside a half-black man, who, let's be honest, in their eyes may have well have been full-blooded, he was dark enough. Charles remembered suddenly this was a Confederate town and found quite a few folks staring him down as they entered.
The one-story yellow train station slid into sight first, with the butcher across the street, braying something Charles couldn't hear while flinging rashers of wet pork onto his white slab, veined and running with pink juices. The town's founder stood proudly between the two, embroidered on a high pedestal, its iron body rusted with the years of decay that had taken the rest of the town. The cemetery and chapel sat to the east, the latter's stained glass windows glimmering with sunlight, and the former's chipping gravestones studded with soot.
Beyond that was where Dutch had directed them: a collection of caravans, packed tightly together to conserve space, forming allies between the many wagons so it was more of a city of caravans. There were homeless and drunks, and a one-legged homeless drunk (heh, perhaps John ten years from now, if he lived through the infection, of course). Half of everyone in the caravan city looked sick and rough-strewn, lying about in the shade in their tattered garbs, fanning themselves. The other half paced around, spitting heavy gobs on the ground, flashing their worn pistols brazenly in their belts.
It was not the kind of place to bring two premium horses and two premium women without any weapons or ways to defend themselves. They hitched their horses by the train station, trusting the statue of Sherman Rhodes to watch over them. Charles left the women, entering the less-than-trustworthy site of caravans by himself.
He was a big guy, and flashed his own Schofield brazenly in his holster as he pierced their ranks; no one tried to challenge him, though a scrawny kid darted behind him, wearing two pairs of socks to soften his paces, and tried picking Charles' pocket. He caught the urchin by the wrist and pitched him to the ground, warning him that the next time he saw his face, he'd be hung in the gallows by his damn socks.
Ironically, Charles had to rescind on that promise because after looping the city twice, asking more than one homeless drunk, he found the fence wasn't there.
"Where is he?" he asked the boy. "The fence."
It took a moment for him to catch up to speed on the guy he was looking for, especially with the way the guttersnipe talked.
"H-h-he," the kid stammered nervously, "h-he's o-over at the p-parlour h-house. 'W-wanna g-get as wet as w-w-woman on her w-wedding night,' I b-believe he said. Big Man Mike joined him. Sammy Schindler, too."
"Thanks." Charles didn't have any money, but he rooted inside his pocket, pulling a solid silver arrowhead Kiona had gifted him, and tossing it at the child. "You need that more than I do. Try three pairs of socks next time. Or try a different profession."
He marched over to Abigail and Molly, explaining the news. "We're lookin' for a guy named Randy Martin. He's a lanky guy, with a navy vest, white shirt, and big round glasses. Should be at the saloon."
Molly scoffed. "Sounds like Strauss. He did keep the money in a dynamite crate after all. Or I guess he used too, until you smashed the damn thing against his head and told him to piss off."
Charles ignored her comment with a certain difficulty, directing them forward. The girls moved in front of him, and he followed until something caught his eye, and he turned to face it head-on.
The sky was a creamy yellow, a pale gold, and down the path, where a clearing sat and one's back met the horizon, Charles squinted and saw the black bear that wasn't a black bear, a cloud of pink dust blowing at its shoulders, shrouding it while making its frozen stance stand out more in contrast to the moving scarlet fog.
He yanked out his binoculars briskly to score a peak, but when the thick lenses were flush against his eyes, the shape was gone.
"Charles," Abigail called, already aside the general store. "You coming?"
"Yeah." He caught up to them before the gunsmith, and they walked the rest of the distance together. Suspicious scowls studied him at every window they passed, at damn near every person. He'd never been so subconscious about the color of his skin before. One elderly woman gasped when his hand brushed against Abigail's, and nearly fainted—although that could have been the famously blistering November heat the month was known for.
As they strode onto the creaking green front porch of the two-story parlour house, Charles worried about pricing. Unless Abigail had a fat stack of greenbacks in her pocket, they weren't going to be afford a peep at the dynamite, let alone purchase. Which meant he'd either have to steal it, probably beating up the innocent fence (heh, oxymoron) in the process, or he'd have to be dumb enough to fall for Molly's counterfeit jeweled necklace. Or for a stick or two of TNT, she could go down on Randy's own stick, but that hadn't worked so well when Sadie asked, and he doubted it would work now.
The saloon must've been built by an Irishman because it would not quit with the jade coloring. Jade candlesticks holding triplets of flickering atmospheric candlelight, jade carpet stretching the length of the room, adorned with black hearts, and jade staircases winding upwards to the second floor where Rhodes townfolk shot up the pool table with their cues, blasting the balls across the green mesh fabric of the table with boisterous snaps.
The place was packed; every white-clothed tabletop had three chairs, and every round tabletop was fully occupied. The bar was a little less thick with chatter and heads, but not by much. The right side was dominated mainly by three men, the middle one a lanky fellow with a navy vest and circular glasses.
"That's him," Charles pointed out.
Mr. Martin had a few drinks in him, which hopefully wouldn't sour their plan too much; if he could balance a half-full glass of golden-brown whiskey atop his head, surely he could arrange a simple sale.
"Randy Martin?" Abigail asked, tapping the man on the shoulder from behind, prompting him to jerk and spill the contents of the shot glass as it fell from his scalp, bouncing off the green black-hearted carpeting.
"Bloody hell," he cursed, gyrating to face her. " What do you—oh…" His annoyed tone trailed off as he noticed the attractive brunette in front of him, smiling politely. Charles had been told (and knew from experience to be quite honest) that ugly women's looks were bolstered immensely by a few stiff drinks. He wondered if that same effect applied to pretty ones, even if the drunkard in question wore thick glasses to iron out the details.
"You are exquisite," Randy complimented to Abigail's breasts, an impressive feat due to the dried blood stains that would've been an instant turn-off for Charles. He offered his hand to her."I don't believe I've seen you 'round here before, darling. What's your name, Ms…"
"Myte," she answered, accepting his handshake.
"Lovely nam—"
"Dynamite." She broke their grip. "That's the only word you need out of me. We're customers." She pointed to Charles, who puffed out his chest, hoping that if Randy saw how imposing he was, he might get to work a mite faster. "We hear you can get us what we need."
"Who are these dames?" the man to Randy's left asked. "They cost anything?"
"I believe they want to pay me, Mike," the fence responded cooly, keeping his eyes on Abigail. He winked at her.
"Huh," Mike returned, "what kind of fucked up operation is—"
He noticed Charles then, and his posture shifted. It was evident why he was called Big Man Mike as soon as he stretched to his full height. His patchy gray cap was nestled a head above Charles, and his gloved fists curled two inches wide of Charles' own. His face was bedecked in pimples, and his nose was tipped red from excessive drinking.
"I know you," he said, eyes squinting.
"You that doctor that came 'round here?" the short, chubby man on Randy's right asked. Charles presumed he was Sammy Schindler, and he presumed right. "Sorry, they stole your wagon. Though, honestly, a man of your skin's particular shade ought to know better than flaunting a fancy suit 'round these parts—"
"He ain't a fuckin' doctor, Sammy," Big Man Mike growled. "He's one of them fucks that burned down our home."
"We have no idea what you're talkin' about," Abigail interjected, smiling sweetly in his face as she jumped between him and Charles. "I think you have the wrong guy. Bit too much beer, buddy. Here, have another round on us."
Before she could finish digging around her pockets to discover if she even had the scratch for such an enterprise, Mike shoved her aside.
"No, I don't. You were one of the guys who burned down Braithwaite Manor." Molly farted nervously, easing away from the conflict that was about to break out. "I was one of their ranchhands. Sammy was a gardener."
"Any relation?" Charles questioned, keeping as calm as he could. His fingers were growing oily with sweat.
"They treated us like family." Mike glowered down at Charles, his cherry-red clown nose sniffling with drunken snot.
Charles smirked. "I hope not too much, if the certain rumors about that family's bed are true."
"You motherfuc—"
"How about you sit down, Mikey," he suggested, gruffness leaking into his voice. "Or do you really want to die today over your goddamn inbred bosses?"
Big Man Mike sniggered. "Die? How? Hate to disappoint you, but I'm healthy as an ox. No TB here. What about you, Sammy?"
Schindler pulled his jacket behind his waist, revealing the revolver in the holster. "Oh, doctors say I'll live to be sixty, at least."
"Guys, let's just—" Abigail tried butting in before Mike gave her a matching slap on her other cheek, so now both sides would be even with blemishes.
The piano player upstairs had stopped. The whole saloon was staring at them now.
"So, now that we've established that my health is a non-issue," Mike continued, "I don't see how your previous comment can hold any bearing. Unless… you are implying what I think you're implying. And if that's so… I'll have to ask you to clarify. To avoid misunderstandings. But, I should warn you now, I don't handle threats well. They make me mad."
"Not a threat," Charles said. "It's a fact."
Molly was cowering in the corner; Abigail was panting on the ground; Randy was trying to signal the barkeep for another drink, but he was too focused on the skirmish in front of them.
"Hmm, a fact is it?" Big Man Mike giggled. "The first punch is going to shatter your cheekbone. Would you like it from the left side or the right?"
Charles didn't blink. "Surprise me."
It was actually an uppercut, aimed square in the center of his chest. Didn't matter. Charles dodged it and kicked Mike in the groin. That caused him to lean over enough for Charles to reach up, wrap an arm over his head to keep it taut, and punch him in the nose until the red spread to his chin, cascading down in dark streaks.
He shoved Mike around and against the bar, so his upper body drooped over it, vanishing under the counter. Charles drew his pistol as Sammy did. They aimed synchronistically.
"Put the gun down," Charles ordered.
"Shit… Mike, you good?" Sammy asked, not breaking gaze.
Mike's brown gloves drank up the blood. "Uh… fucker got me good…"
"Should I shoot him?" Sammy was shaking.
"You do that," Charles vowed, "and I'll kill you. And you won't kill me, so don't go thinkin' that'll be a fair tradeoff. It won't."
When Mike whipped around, he was holding a green wine bottle. Golden bubbles and dim glass exploded over his thick gray coat as he slammed the heel onto the bar. The bottle was razor-sharp from the shoulder up.
"Don't try it." Charles sheathed his hunting knife in his spare hand. "I can kill you both at once. Don't you dare try. We just want dynamite, no trouble."
"Fuck you," Big Man Mike replied. "I'll fuckin' kill you."
"When you slash that blade across my face, will you do the left side or the right?" he mocked.
"M-man," Sammy slurred, "I-I really want to live to be sixty."
"You still can. All you have to do is put the bottle down. I just need the fence and I'm gone." He pointed his knife at the man. "As long as you spend a little quality time with these lovely ladies, I'm sure you wouldn't mind comin' with me to talk a little business?"
"S-sure…" Randy cleared his throat. "Could I… could I change my pants first?"
"Not a problem." The knife went back to Mike. "What happens next is on you."
The froth from the wine fell to the floor in thick droplets. "Mrs. Braithwaite always treated me good…" he whispered.
"And she's dead now, Mike. And you will be too, unless you put the bottle down."
There was silence for a time. Then a loud banging of the parlour's front door barging ajar. Charles' sightline found an older man in uniform, star shining at his chest.
"What the hell is this?" the deputy asked. "What the hell is goin' on?"
The bottle bounced off the jade rug. "Nothin', sir. Made a bad bet is all. Wagered this fool couldn't shoot this bottle off of my head while drunk."
Charles smiled, lowering his gun as Sammy did. "Yeah… that's exactly what happened."
The deputy stepped closer, light from outside illuminating his silhouette. "That's just swell, but what I meant was: what the hell is a goddamn coon doin' in this fine establishment?"
"What…"
"Never thought I'd see the day. And a child rapist, no less."
"The fuck are—"
The strike came at Charles' head. He felt the blood swimming in his throat before he hit the ground. His vision grew hazy, but he made out Abigail and Molly rushing the lawman, clawing at him, punching him. He brought the butt of his shotgun down on the Irishwoman first. Another deputy stepped in, grabbing Abigail by her hair, holding her in place so the first one could drive his fist into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She fell onto her hands and knees, and the last thing Charles saw before he blacked out was her image fogging until she became a shadow.
A shadow in the shape of a bear.
That ended well. Even when he's been captured, Micah is still kicking up shitstorms.
If anyone was confused about Molly's letter being a veiled threat by Ross that Till and Bill were too thick to pick up on... yup, it was a threat. And now Molly's secret is out to Abigail and Charles. Hope that doesn't get back to Dutch...
Keep reading to find out if Charles really is a child rapist. And if that black bear has really been tracking them like a bloodhound.
One chapter left in Act III...