"Charles, I said it's shameful. Charles. Charles."
Charles held his paper up over his face for just a moment longer, giving his mustache time enough to cease its twitching. "What is shameful, Clara my love?"
"That boy, Charles. Over there. Just look at him."
Turning in his chair, Charles glanced across the aisle of their second-class car at the passenger his wife was indicating. Wrapped in a burgundy and blue army jacket three sizes too big, the boy was leaned against the window and staring at the contents of a small box he was holding up to the evening light.
Charles was preparing to turn back to Clara and perhaps suggest that the boy had found the coat when he noticed the epaulets: a silver embroidered hawk clutching a revolver in one hand and a bundle of funeral incense in the other. Below the hawk were two parallel silver bars. These were the epaulets of a special forces command sergeant. The boy may be an orphan and he may have only the one jacket for warmth, but he certainly had no business wearing such distinguished insignia. Not while Charles Abril had anything to say about it!
He nodded to his wife. He folded his newspaper and placed it gently on the empty seat beside his. Standing in the aisle of the gently swaying train, he straightened his vest. He tightened his tie. He pressed his reading glasses further up his nose to sit squarely on his face. He rolled down his sleeves and buttoned them about his wrists. This was a serious situation and he intended to approach it as such.
Charles moved down the aisle, taking pride that he didn't need to hold onto the seat backs as he did so. Arriving at the boy's seat, he cleared his throat. Either the boy didn't hear or Charles was being flatly ignored. The little thing was mesmerized by the object within the box. An object which was, as Charles was horrified to see, the Distinguished Silver Talon; a most distinguished medal of honor!
"Pardon me, young bo..."
Charles felt the blood drain from his face. And then he felt it drain from his body. Indeed, the warmth had drained from his entire being, leaving him as cold as a corpse buried beneath a frozen lake.
Turning his face up to make eye contact with Charles, he could see that it wasn't a boy at all - it was a girl. No. Not a girl. Girls have never seen what those eyes had seen. Those eyes didn't look at Charles; they judged him. And they found him lacking. With perfect and damnable clarity Charles saw the purple-black scar behind and below her right eye. He saw the gloved left hand holding the medal box had only three fingers. And he saw the gloved whole hand on her right side lay gently on what could only be an M1412 army issue revolver; the trademark weapon of the Silver Eagles special forces battalion.
"What do you want?"
Hat in hand, Charles returned to his seat a few minutes later.
"Well? Well, Charles? Did you set the boy straight, dear?"
"I bought her a beer."
Charles and Clara spent the rest of the evening enjoying a wonderfully animated conversation (in politely hushed tones, of course) speculating about the war above the peninsula and what this particular pistolera's story might be. When morning came, with the train only a few hours from their final stop in Mountain Home, the Abrils excitedly speculated about the disappearance of their mysterious war hero. Had the conductor moved her up to first class? Had she retreated to the bar car to drink to fallen friends?
Indeed, not knowing the fate of their pistolera heroine was just the icing on the cake for the Abrils. It would make fine storytelling fuel for every dinner party, garden party, and afternoon tea they would attend for the remainder of their years.
To be continued...
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