"Thanks, Sheriff. I think I owe you one." The pistolera cradled her cup of coffee and sipped gingerly. As the warmth rolled down into her belly she had to consciously resist the urge to close her eyes. There was no need to let the sheriff and his deputies know about her weakness.
"Well, it was my pleasure, miss. Trubor and his sister have been running up debts all around town. You saved me an awful lot of trouble bringing him in. All this rain we've been having has been making my knee irritable something fierce and I really wasn't looking forward to talking to that landlord of his. Refill?"
The sheriff was a man of considerable girth with a set of mutton chop sideburns that suffered the additional duty of making his face appear twice as wide as it really was. She noted that his uniform was immaculately pressed; his creases would have made her old commanding officer proud. As he poured fresh coffee into her cup, she glanced down at his boots to see herself looking back up from the reflection in the toe.
"I don't mean to pry, miss. But I couldn't help notice that revolver of yours. It's a fine example of the M1410 revolver. That's army issue, isn't it?"
"It sure is." She didn't bother correcting him on the model number. It was a common mistake and she didn't want to follow where that conversation would lead.
"Do you know the gamblers in town? I'm trying to find an albino that likes cards." The pistolera didn't even know that the question had been forming in her mind. She had just wanted to derail the conversation about her revolver and that's what came out.
"I... do... " The sheriff hesitated before fully dropping his weight into his chair. "You're talking about Henry Brinks. You don't have business with him, do you?"
"No. Just heard some stories and I was curious."
"Well, good. Henry's not the kind of man you want to get into business with. His grandfather owns the mines that'll provide ol' Trubor there with some honest work. Henry seems to think that his grandfather's money means he owns the town, too. Nothing but trouble, that one. Do us both a favor and steer clear of that one, will ya'?"
"Sure, sheriff. Will do." She studied the sheriff's face as she took a sip. His concern was genuine. And he might have even been a little concerned. He really did not want her path to intersect with the albino. "Well, I wouldn't want to accidentally bump into him. Are there any establishments in particular that I should avoid?"
"Everything south of the train station, really. But if you have to go down there, be especially careful to avoid a place called Spinning Irons. Henry and his friends call those walls home when they're in town."
Down the hill past the train station. That's where Emmie was headed when she got away. Was it coincidence?
Not that it mattered. The pistolera had ten pesos in hand for the capture of Trubor Lake. Her share wouldn't be quite enough for the storm lantern she wanted, but she could at least put down that deposit on the part for her arm.
She resolved to make a visit to the barber and call it a day. Her new homestead wasn't going to make itself ready for winter.
She cursed herself and her curiosity every single step of the way down to the station. She didn't need the money. She didn't owe the barber anything more than half the pesos in her pocket. Hell, she could just hand over the whole ten and be done with the thing once and for all. But she didn't. She really wanted to know where Emmie had gone. And, if she could find the woman, she would do her best to drag her to the jail where she belonged.
The buildings on the south side of the rails were, to the very last, considerably higher class than those on the northern side. The streets were in better condition, too. Clearly the monied folk of Mountain Home preferred to live a bit lower in the valley.
Spinning Irons turned out to be one of the most impressive establishments that the pistola had ever encountered. Three stories of detailed stonework, intricate wood work, and well maintained red and gold lacquer stood on a triangular plot of land in a busy intersection. Three sets of double doors stood open at the top of a dozen red wood steps.
As the pistolera watched from the far side of the street, a regular flow of well dressed and well heeled ladies and gentlemen flowed in and out. Neither Emmie nor the albino were evident, but then they wouldn't be. If she wanted to find either one, she'd have to go inside. She only hoped that her old duster would be fancy enough for her to buy a beer there.
As it turned out, she was briefly stopped at the door. What she couldn't see from the outside were the group of well dressed bouncers and toughs standing just inside. One of them mistook her for a child and was about to physically throw her right back out the door when he got a good look at her eyes. A tip-o-the-hat later, she was inside and looking around.
The first floor was almost entirely one big hall. Most of the floor was dominated by a fancy set of gambling tables; dice and cards mostly. In the back was a long bar staffed by three immaculately dressed bartenders with matching handlebar mustaches. The one on the left was mostly on his own. This early in the day, he was spending his time preparing glasses instead of serving patrons.
She had paid for an overpriced beer and was about to see what kind of information she might get out of him when she spotted Emmie. She had changed into a dress that was similar to what the cocktail girls were wearing under an expensive looking half-jacket.
The pistolera put her mostly full beer back on the bar and followed her. Emmie went up two flights of stairs before turning down a long hall of doors. Stopping in front of a door, Emmie reached into a pocket in her jacket and pulled out a key.
Once Emmie was inside, the pistolera moved out of her concealed position in the hall and approached the door. Leaning in, she listened. She couldn't make out the conversation, but there was clear talking and laughing going on. Whomever Emmie was in there with, it certainly wasn't some card cheat that she was trying to get her money back from.
She went back down to the bar to see if her beer was still there.
It wasn't, so she bought another. Before long she saw Emmie coming down the stairs, arm in arm with a pale man in a dark blue suit. They milled around the crowd before settling down at a table, the albino playing and Emmie fetching drinks for him.
The pistolera tipped back her bottle and headed out. There wasn't anything left she could do here. Emmie lake had made friends in high places. She was protected now.
On her way back to the barber's place she was passed by a wagon. In the bed of the wagon were two passengers slumped over a rail, chains from their wrists and ankles run through the rail to keep them from getting out on their own.
"Pistolera! I'll see you again next year, Pistolera! And if you see my sister, you can tell her that I'm going to see her first! You tell her, Pistolera!" Trubor continued shouting at her as the wagon went on down the road, but the sound of his rage was quickly lost in the crowd.
When she got to the barber's place, she didn't say anything to him or two the domino players. She stacked his money, all of it, on the counter and walked right back out. She'd lost a night's sleep and gained at least one new enemy. It was time to cut her losses and get back to work.
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