She Returns from War

THREE



The young girl looked up in confusion. Her mother stood over her, gently shaking her awake. The girl blinked sleep from her eyes. She smiled sleepily, but the hard look on her mother's face did not soften. Her mother's hair fell in black waves over her shoulders, its glossy sheen catching the soft light peeking through the door.

The girl sat up, confused and frightened. Her mother should be smiling. She always smiled in the morning while they were still warm, before they had to go out into the cold. She would always wake the girl with a smile and a piece of corn-meal bread. That day, her mother had no bread and no smile. She was serious and sad, and that made the girl afraid.

Sunlight filled the small room as the blanket covering the door was pulled to one side. The girl's father stepped up beside her mother and looked down. The girl held her breath, clutching at her blanket with small, strong fingers. She knew something was different. The faces her parents wore told her. But what could upset them? They were the biggest and smartest people she knew. Her father was a singer, a man of the spirits; he knew a lot and told her about things when she asked. Her mother was strong and kind and pretty, a source of comfort when the boys in the village told stories of monsters to scare her. Her mother didn't fear the witches they spoke of, so why was she afraid now?

"Come," her father said. "We must go."

"Where?" the girl asked.

"I do not know," her father said. Beside him, her mother was making a face like she was trying not to cry. It was enough to bring out the young girl's tears.

"Hush," her mother said. "No need for that. Be brave for us."

The girl sniffed back her tears and bit her lip. She could be brave like her mother. To show it, she lifted her arms, and her mother picked her up. The girl's father bent to retrieve the blanket, and the girl grabbed at it greedily. He smiled then, but he didn't look happy.

Stepping over to the entrance, he pulled the blanket aside and walked through. The girl's mother followed, carrying her securely. The girl kept one arm curled around her mother's neck and the other around her blanket as they left the warmth of their home and stepped into the cold winter air.

There were a lot of men outside. Some of them she knew, men from her tribe, but most of them were strangers. They wore funny clothes and had skin the color of the soft fur on a rabbit's belly. They carried metal sticks that they pointed at the people from her village. She saw her friend's mother throwing some corn cakes into a basket. Other women were wrapping clothes in blankets. Men loaded bundles onto fuzzy grey donkeys.

One of the new men came riding up on a horse. He yelled something that the girl didn't understand, and the other pale men began moving toward the villagers.

The girl felt her mother's arms squeeze her tightly. "He says we must leave now," her father said.

Victoria clasped her handbag in front of her, gloved fingers absently working their way back and forth over the top. Behind her, the city of Denver carried on its daily life with fervor. Horses clipped and clopped along the cobblestone streets, carrying riders or drawing carriages and buggies behind them. Around their massive hooves, dogs barked and scurried in motley packs. Mothers hung out of secondstory windows, calling to their children in the streets to wash up and be careful and don't forget to pick up an extra loaf of bread for their visiting cousins. In the distance, the harsh call of a locomotive echoed into the blue sky. Underscoring the other sounds was the steady patter of feet in shoes and feet in boots and feet in nothing at all.

The city had taken her by surprise when she'd first arrived. Arranging the train from New York had been a simple enough affair, and the coach had been comfortable despite James Townsend's warnings. She changed trains twice, once in Cincinnati and once in Kansas City, her luggage cared for by pairs of young bag boys who kept stealing glances at her as they worked. She gave them each a smile and a tip when they finished, their faces telling her that they would have just as easily taken a kiss in place of her money.

When the locomotive had finally pulled into Denver, she had stepped out of the train car and sucked in her breath. In the distance, marching beyond the quaint city skyline like an army of blue giants, a line of mountains glowered at her. Beneath their proud peaks, curving slopes of green and brown ended abruptly in jagged cliffs, sheared and cauterized like an amputee's limbs. They sprawled across the western horizon from end to end, fading into the haze hundreds of miles away. She had never seen anything so frightening or magnificent in her life.

Now the city hid them from sight, but she could feel them lurking somewhere beyond the quaint buildings. She imagined the ground beneath her feet suddenly losing its balance and tilting upward, sending her tumbling toward the mountains like a pebble on a drawbridge. The entire city would slide downward, the screams and crashes drowned out by the horrible rumbling of the earth as it came undone.

Victoria shook her head. She had to get a grip on herself. No use adding to her real worries with imagined ones. Taking a breath, she focused her gaze on the golden cross that crowned the church in front of her. It was modest, perhaps three yards tall, but had its own understated appeal. The gold shone brightly in the morning sun, throwing shafts of light on the buildings across the street. Beneath it, saints watched the world with solemn eyes, their windows set into walls of brown stone. Such a modest church might have suited a small town in England, but it seemed at home among the crude buildings that surrounded it.

She walked up to the front door and pulled. The slab of wood, richly stained, refused to budge. Planting her feet, she wrapped both hands around the handle and leaned back. A breath of incense swirled around her as the door finally opened.

Once inside, the darkness of the foyer blinded her for a moment. She stood still, breathing in the scents of tallow and incense and candle smoke while her eyes adjusted. Carpet the color of wine spread out beneath her feet. Ahead of her, an arch opened into the small sanctuary. She took a few tentative steps through it, careful not to let her feet make any noise on the carpet. The room beyond was still and dark, but the saints still watched her from their windows. Candles flickered like stars along the rows of pews and around the altar. At the far end, a crucifix hung from the ceiling, the savior watching over this house of saints. A purple sash hung down from his arms, adding an air of royalty to the man carved in eternal agony.

"Welcome, child," came a voice near the altar. "Please, come in."

A nun robed in black and white stepped down from the dais and stood at the end of the aisle, her hands clasped in front of her. Victoria crept toward her, a sudden shyness slowing her steps. Having been raised Protestant, she felt out of place in this church, as though her mere presence angered the faces in the windows. The nun's face was kind and wrinkled, and she focused on that. She even offered the older woman a smile as she came nearer.

"I am Sister Alice," the nun said.

"Victoria Dawes," Victoria replied, dropping a curtsey.

"You're from England?" Sister Alice asked.

Victoria nodded. "I've only just arrived in Denver. I'm from Oxford, originally."

"What brings you to the house of God?"

How to answer that? Victoria looked down at her hands for a moment, biting back the first answer that appeared on her tongue. Catholics and their pride. She swallowed before looking back up. "Well, I'm looking for someone, and I was instructed to begin my search here."

Confusion deepened Sister Alice's wrinkles. "A member of the clergy?"

"Not exactly," Victoria said, "although I believe this person has worked closely with the priesthood in years past. Her name is Cora Oglesby."

"Can't say I've heard of her," Sister Alice replied. "What work did she do?"

Doubt began creeping into Victoria's thoughts. Had James Townsend been mistaken? "Well," she said, "as I understand it, she is a sort of bounty hunter. One of those rough-and-tumble gunfighters that populate the American frontier."

"That's strange. I don't know what need the Church would have of a bounty hunter. You said she worked for our parish?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure." Victoria watched the nun's confusion with a sinking feeling. "I'm working on information I received from an Oxford scholar who claims to have worked with this woman in the past. I have very urgent business with her, and he advised me to ask the Catholic clergy to help me find her."

Sister Alice gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, child. Can't say I've ever heard of any bounty hunter working for the Church, especially not one who's a woman."

"Is there anyone you might ask?" Victoria said.

"Father Baez may know," Sister Alice said, "but he's probably still asleep."

"I know it's terribly rude to ask, but could you see if he would speak with me?" Victoria unconsciously twisted her fingers together. "It really is dreadfully important."

Sister Alice looked off to her right for a moment. Victoria could almost see the scales balancing in the nun's head as she weighed the request. If Sister Alice refused to help her, Victoria would chain herself to one of the pews until this Father Baez appeared. If he couldn't help her, she would just have to move on to the next city.

"Well," Sister Alice said, turning back to her, "I don't normally like to bother him, but since you've come all this way, I suppose I can go check on him. Don't expect much, though."

"Thank you so much," Victoria said.

The nun nodded. "Have yourself a seat," she said, pointing to a pew. "I'll be back soon."

Victoria sat, the wood creaking slightly under her. Sister Alice disappeared through a door on one side of the altar, her habit vanishing into the shadows beyond.

Leaning back into the pew, Victoria folded her hands in her lap. She tried to imagine what her father or mother would say if they found her in such a place, waiting to hear whether or not a Catholic priest knew where to find an American bounty hunter. She shook her head and smiled. It really did sound absurd, and that she was traveling alone made it all the more so.

Still, she had reason to believe she could follow through with what she'd started. After all, she'd managed the trip across the Atlantic with little difficulty. It had taken the Jewel of Scotland just over two weeks to make the passage. Victoria spent much of her time aboard in her cabin, searching histories from her father's collection for any references to black shucks. When her eyes grew tired, she would venture above deck to watch the ocean swell beneath the ship. Spring storms blossomed on the horizon, dark and menacing, but the Jewel slid by them without incident.

When she'd made port in New York City, she gave the immigrations office slight pause. They were unused to a woman traveling alone, but in the end they'd waved her through. One of their officers had pointed her in the direction of the rail station, and she'd easily found a coach to take her through the maze of streets. Grand Central Station had been grand indeed, and the endless press of bodies took her breath away. Once she'd regained her head, she found a train bound for Denver and bought herself a ticket. Indeed, the hardest part of her journey had been adjusting to the coarse way Americans had of speaking.

Echoing footsteps pulled her back into the present. Looking up, she saw Sister Alice emerge from the doorway. A man entered with her, clutching her arm in one hand and the head of a cane in the other. Victoria rose to her feet as they approached.

"Victoria Dawes," Sister Alice said, "may I present Father Emmanuel Baez."

"The honor is mine," Victoria said, extending her hand.

The priest released his hold on Sister Alice's arm and kissed the young woman's hand. Drawing himself up as straight as he could, he looked at her and smiled. "A pleasure, my dear."

Sister Alice guided him to the pew and helped him to sit. Victoria took a seat nearby, careful to maintain what she considered a respectful distance. The priest leaned back against the pew, his white hair and beard seeming to shine above his robes. He looked at her again, and she could see a spark in his dark eyes. "Now, then," he said, "Sister Alice tells me you have some business with me."

"Yes," Victoria said. "I don't want to waste your time, so I'll come straight to it. I'm looking for a woman named Cora Oglesby."

Father Baez's eyes went wide, and he drew in a deep breath. "There's a name I haven't heard in years." He smiled then, a thin line beneath his beard.

"So you know of her?"

"Of course." The priest cleared his throat and sat upright. "She and I have a history. Not a very happy one, but a good one."

"Do you know where I might find her?" Victoria asked.

Father Baez started to answer, then paused. "Might I ask why you want to find her?"

"I have urgent business with her," Victoria answered, trying to sound as harmless as she could.

The priest considered that, then turned to Sister Alice. "Would you excuse us for a moment, sister?" Taken aback, the nun stood to her feet, nodded, and stalked across the dais. Once she disappeared through the side door, Father Baez turned back to Victoria. "Cora Oglesby deals in some very dark business, young lady. I pray you'll forgive my reluctance, but not everyone who knows about her has benevolent intentions."

"I understand," Victoria said. "It's precisely her dealings in those dark matters that caused me to seek her out. I need her help, you see."

The white eyebrows twitched. "Oh?" Victoria nodded and looked down, unsure if she should elaborate. Father Baez gently touched her hand. "You don't need to worry about telling me, child. We priests are used to keeping secrets," he said, eyes twinkling.

Victoria smiled. Her tale was outlandish, she knew, but if this priest really did know this Cora Oglesby, perhaps he wouldn't be a stranger to outlandish tales. She recounted her encounter with the black shucks on the road, the death of her parents, and her meeting with James Townsend. A tremor crept into her voice as she spoke. She'd only told the story in its entirety once before, and hearing herself say it aloud again drove the reality and horror of it that much closer to her heart.

When she finished, Father Baez nodded, stroking his beard with one age-spotted hand. Victoria watched him, keeping her hands still with no small effort. "Well," he said at length, "it does certainly sound like Cora's kind of job."

Victoria's breath left her lungs in a rush. "So you'll help me, then?"

He nodded. "I'll tell you what I know, but I'm afraid I haven't heard from her in a good while. Nearly four years, I think."

"Any information at all would be wonderful," she said, her eyes alight.

"Cora can be a difficult woman to find," Father Baez said, "so remember that as you search for her. When I knew her, she was never content to stay in one place for long, but certain events may have calmed her spirit a little."

"What events?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he replied. "A shepherd must keep the secrets of his sheep." When she nodded, he continued. "Before she left Denver, Cora told me that she planned to use her most recent bounty prize to open a printer's shop."

Victoria was dumbfounded. "A print shop? What would a woman like her want with a print shop?"

"Maybe age has slowed her down like it has me," Father Baez said. "You should count yourself lucky if it has."

"Why? Is she dangerous?"

"The Cora I remember could shoot the ears off a squirrel from fifty feet away, but she never turned her guns on anyone without reason as far as I know. She may be wild, but she's not a murderer or a train robber. Still," he added, looking at her with the same twinkle in his eye, "I wouldn't suggest making her angry."

The earth shimmered beneath the desert sun, submerging the horizon in pulsing, hazy waves. Victoria smiled to herself as she watched the miles roll by outside the window. She had come prepared to face the legendary heat of the American West. Reaching down beneath her seat, she patted her parasol with a gloved hand, reassuring herself that it was ready for her. One could never be too cautious when entering such extreme climates, after all.

Much like the mountains of Denver, the vast emptiness of the desert was alien to her eyes. Minute upon minute, hour upon hour, the trained sped across the sun-baked land, and still it did not end. She had been surprised to see anything at all growing out of the ground here, yet plant life carpeted much of the surrounding land. True, the shrubs seemed barely able to cling to life, their leaves a mottled yellow-brown or missing altogether, but still they persisted. Friendly cacti reared their heads above the scrub brush to wave at her with one or two arms as they kept watch over the endless miles.

The door at the front of her passenger car opened, drawing her attention from the window. A man in a dark blue uniform and matching hat stepped through the doorway.

"Next stop, Albuquerque. Albuquerque, next stop," he announced. "Tickets will be checked at the station for those continuing on to San Francisco." Task complete, he marched down the aisle toward the next car.

Victoria stretched her arms skyward and groaned. She wasn't used to this much travel at one time, and her muscles ached from the uncomfortable seats. Around her, the other passengers stirred themselves out of the stupor that had blanketed them for the last two hundred miles. Hushed conversations sprang up like whispers of wind in withered branches, murmuring about luggage and next steps. Victoria pulled her own small valise out from beneath her seat, wrapping her fingers around the handle of her parasol. When she disembarked, the luggage boys would help her carry the larger trunks to a nearby hotel.

Her fingers trembled with anticipation. She had very nearly reached the end of her westward journey. Father Baez's advice led her south, to the wilderness of Santa Fe. When she arrived, the priest there, a Father Perez, had told her to board a train for Albuquerque as soon as he heard her say the name Cora Oglesby. The huntress had set off for the frontier town not long after arriving in Santa Fe four years before, and Father Perez seemed certain that she was still there.

The car trembled as the train pulled into the Albuquerque station. Through the windows, she could hear the shrill voice of the train's whistle crying out that they had arrived. Conversations in the car grew louder as the passengers began moving toward the exit. A few remained in their seats, staring out the windows or watching the others shuffle past. Victoria waited for the gaggle to pass before standing. Valise in hand, she made for the door, eyes fixed on the glowing swath of sunlight spilling through it.

A blast of hot air greeted her as she stepped out of the car and onto the station platform. The glare was blinding. She quickly unfolded her parasol, blinking as it rose to block out the sun. Groups of passengers stood on the platform, talking among themselves while waiting for their luggage. Next to her, three men in pressed suits discussed the possibilities for expanding their business into this wild, untamed land. Their voices clipped along excitedly as ideas flew between them. She knew the language well enough; it brought back memories of her father and his many meetings. A lump swelled in her throat at the thought. Despite her sorrow, Victoria's lips curled upward in a small smile. Were it not for his ambition, she would not be standing where she was. His fortune had enabled her to cross oceans and continents.

The platform shook beneath her. Luggage boys were unloading the freight car, tossing bags and suitcases out into the sun. Already the crowd of passengers pressed in around the growing pile, searching through it for their belongings. Victoria watched them from beneath her parasol. Once the bustle subsided, she would ask one of the bag boys to help her along to the nearest hotel, promising a smile and a tip for his efforts. As she watched the crowd thin, she wondered idly just what sort of accommodations a town like this had to offer. A glance over the haphazard group of buildings standing nearest the station seemed to promise that they wouldn't be much. No matter. She wouldn't be here long. If all went well, she and the Oglesby woman would be leaving on the next day's train.

The sun drifted lazily toward the western horizon, drawing shades of deep blue and violet into the sky. Drops of sweat stood out on Victoria's forehead as she stood in front of the sand-blasted building. The streets of Albuquerque had not yet relinquished the afternoon heat, and the people wandering them moved like plague sufferers and smelled worse. She had seldom been surrounded by such an overpowering cloud of human stink. Even in the street, the stench of sweat, spit, and animals pressed up against her. It put her on edge; she could almost feel it crawling up her legs and under the neckline of her dress. How any woman, even one as uncouth as Cora Oglesby, could stand living in such a miasma confounded her.

More confusing, however, were the words painted on the sign that hung above the door in front of her. In bold black letters, it proclaimed the name of the establishment: Ben's Print Shop. Although Victoria had never seen a printing press, she knew right away that this particular building had never set ink to a page. The men passing through the batwing doors couldn't possibly be literate. They peered at the world from beneath wide-brimmed hats, their eyes bleary from sun and liquor. Many wore guns in low-slung holsters that dangled from their belts, the leather cracked and faded. She had never seen so many guns in one place, and that men such as these carried them made her uneasy. What if they decided to turn them on her? As a young girl, she'd heard stories of holdups and shoot-outs in the American West, but she'd only half-believed them. Now, in the presence of men who looked as though they might re-enact such stories at the prompting of a single booze-soaked thought, she suddenly felt very alone. The memory of James Townsend's round, kindly face sprang to her mind's eye, and she fervently wished she had taken his advice and brought along an escort.

No, she told herself. She could handle herself. Cora Oglesby made a home for herself among such men. Surely Victoria could brave them for a day or two.

As if on cue, a scraggly-looking man tumbled through the batwing doors and into the street. Victoria backed up a few paces, startled. Before the man could pull himself together, an empty bottle sailed through the door, shattering on the packed earth only a few feet from his head. A voice from inside cracked like an old whip as it shouted curses at the man. Victoria could only watch as the man picked himself up and shambled off down the street. As he disappeared into the general bustle in the street, a grim satisfaction welled up inside her. Although the voice from the door sounded as old and tough as a rusted iron cog, there was no mistaking that it belonged to a woman.

The other passersby didn't give the commotion a second glance, but Victoria could feel them gawking at her when she turned her back. Worse, she couldn't exactly blame them. Choosing from among her finer traveling dresses to wear in such a rustic place practically begged for unwanted attention. The sight of the blue ruffles and bright white collar must have seemed the height of silliness to those walking about in such drab colors, but she would feel even sillier if she went back to her room to change. Better to see this through before she lost her nerve.

Squaring her shoulders, Victoria stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and through the batwing doors. Inside, a cloud of blue smoke drifted along the ceiling, constantly fed by the cigars, cigarettes, and pipes of the men gathered around card games. A bar ran the length of the wall to her left. Bottles of liquor gleamed under the light of the kerosene lamps lining the walls. Against the far corner, a man in a bowler hat and suspenders plinked at an upright piano, occasionally stumbling upon something that resembled a melody.

A hush fell over the room as the doors swung shut behind her. Heads turned and chairs scraped along the floor as the men took in the sight of her. Their eyes were cold and probing. She could feel them exploring every inch of her body, lingering on the swells of her hips and chest. Her tongue darted across her lips. "Good day, gentlemen."

"Wrong door, sweetheart," came a voice.

"Brothel's across the way," said another, getting a laugh from the rest.

"If you're taking customers, there's a storeroom in the back."

Victoria's cheeks flushed a deep red. Her eyes dropped to the floorboards.

"Aw, see, you all went and made her color up." The voice was the one she'd heard out in the street. "That ain't no way to treat a lady of the night, now is it?"

Another laugh rolled around the room. Indignation began to boil beneath Victoria's humiliation. It rose inside her until she found the courage to look toward the speaker, blue eyes sparking with anger.

The object of her rage sat at one of the tables, surrounded by four men. Unlike her companions, she hadn't turned her chair to face the young woman when she entered. Her attention was focused on the cards sprouting from her right hand like a greasy bouquet. The woman's other hand held an empty shot glass in a loose fist, her index finger toying with the rim.

The silence in the room showed no sign of ending, so Victoria took a step toward the woman. "I beg your pardon," she said.

"You don't look like you need to beg for anything," the woman replied, turning to face her. Age and sun had folded the skin of her face into itself like sheets on a well-made bed. Her hair was the color of a photograph: black and white and grey. A single streak of white ran from the edge of her hairline into the long braid that ended halfway down her back. Dark eyes glimmered at her as the woman broke into a grin. "I reckon every man here could beg you for a year's pay and you'd still have enough to buy us all a round."

"I am not a prostitute."

The woman snorted. "Sure you ain't. Just because you only spread your legs for one rich feller don't make you any less a bawd. How many times you rut with him afore he bought you that fancy dress?"

Victoria's blue eyes narrowed, her cheeks fading from red to white. "None. Not that it's any of your concern, but I am not and have never been married, so I am no man's whore."

"Well, you ain't wearing that fancy getup for nothing. I'm more than a mite curious what would bring such a proper lady into the Print Shop if she ain't looking to ply her trade. You just get a hankering for some of my famous whiskey, or is you here on other business?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," Victoria said, her back as straight as a flagpole. "I happen to be looking for someone."

"Among this lot?" The woman's laugh was as coarse as the stubble on the men's faces. "I don't reckon we got anything you'd be after, young missie. Now, you got something some of these boys here'd be after, though, so I'd watch your back if I was you."

Victoria refused to let their eyes bother her. "I was instructed to come here. By a priest."

Another laugh. "Sounds like you got yourself mixed in with the wrong church. Ain't no priest in his right mind would tell a pretty thing like you to come down where pretty things wither and rot if they ain't trampled on first. Maybe he was aiming to make a warning out of your tale when it's through."

"His name," Victoria said after a pause, "was Father Baez."

For the first time, the woman's face grew still. In the silence that followed, Victoria smiled to herself. This woman was Cora Oglesby; no doubt about it. What's more, she'd taken the huntress off-guard.

Cora swallowed. "Well, ain't that interesting."

"It is," Victoria replied.

"Who might you be looking for?"

The young woman leaned forward slightly. "A woman he once knew. Something of a bounty hunter, I understand."

A few of the men around her laughed, but Cora's face was stone. "What makes him think she's here?"

"Such a woman would truly be a rarity," Victoria said. "There aren't too many like her, even here in the American West. Really, I might have just as easily found my way here without his help."

"It would have gone better for you if you had," Cora said. "I don't expect your woman takes kindly to being hunted. If she's got that big a reputation, mayhap she'd set on you just for having the gall to track her down."

Victoria tried to snuff out the spark of fear that Cora's words had ignited. "That would be quite impolite of her. It isn't as though I've come this far just for a chance to kill her."

Cora nodded. "There's a smart girl." She set her cards face down on the table. "I'm out this round, boys. Gonna have me a chat with our new friend. Just holler at Eli if your throats start getting dry."

Her chair skidded backward as she stood to her feet. Cora Oglesby was not tall, perhaps only an inch or two taller than Victoria. Buckskin trousers and a faded flannel shirt hung from her frame, accented by a bandana tied around her neck. Her boots thumped across the floor, and she motioned for Victoria to follow her. Steeling her nerves, Victoria trailed Cora through a door in the rear wall of the saloon.

"Hold the door a minute," Cora said. The old huntress pulled a book of matches from her shirt pocket. Striking one against the wall, she lit a lamp hanging from the ceiling. Yellow light filled the room, illuminating stacks of wooden crates and barrels. Turning back to her visitor, Cora nodded. Victoria pulled the door closed, muffling the voices of the saloon's patrons.

"Now, then." Cora folded her arms and leaned against a stack of crates. This close, Victoria could see a line of thin white scars on the other woman's cheek. "I ain't the type to toss around words when they don't need tossing. You mind telling me why you saw fit to pester poor old Father Baez just so you could get your mitts on me?"

"I have a favor to ask of you," Victoria said. She paused, waiting for the woman's harsh laugh, but it never came.

"You going to come out with it, or can I get back to my game?"

The young woman took a deep breath. "I need your help hunting a group of creatures."

"Awful long way to come just to find a big game hunter," Cora said. "Ain't you English folk got enough of your own hunters? Why bother me about it?"

"Big game hunters couldn't help me with these sorts of creatures," Victoria replied.

Cora raised an eyebrow. "What are you getting at?"

"I'm told you are skilled at killing beasts of a...supernatural nature."

"Father Baez tell you that?"

"No," Victoria said. "I first heard your name from a friend of my father's. He is a scholar at Oxford-"

Before she could finish, Cora's lips pulled back in a grin. Unlike her earlier laughter, this smile seemed born of fondness. "Well, I'll be damned. Your daddy was a friend of old King George?"

"King George?" Victoria's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"That's what I called him," Cora said. "Easier on the tongue and all. Ain't nobody got the time to spit out all of James Townsend. Besides, he sure carried himself like he was royalty, so I thought it fit."

Despite her apprehension, Victoria felt herself smile. "I suppose he could give that impression. I don't know him well, but he is a very well-educated man. He identified the creatures I spoke of and suggested I seek you out to assist me in subduing them."

"Did he, now?" Cora leaned back. "We did have ourselves a time back in Leadville. Shot up a whole mess of vampires and a wendigo besides. Even old King George stuck himself a few suckers with that cross of his. Never did kill a one of them, though."

"He didn't?" Victoria asked. "He told me he had firsthand experience in such dealings."

"In a way, I guess that's true," Cora said. "Like I said, he was there for a lot of the scrapes we got into, both in town and up at the mine, but I had to do most of the work my own self. You Brits ain't worth half a shake when doing needs done."

Victoria squared her shoulders at the older woman. "I'll thank you not to judge all of my countrymen by the actions of one."

"You're welcome, then," Cora said, "but that don't change the facts none."

Victoria pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She wasn't sure if this woman was being deliberately obtuse or if she just wasn't that bright. Most likely both. It was time to try a different approach. "I'm not disputing the fact that you are more than capable. Had I thought James could have helped me himself, I wouldn't have traveled these long miles to seek you out." Only half a lie.

"Good to know George ain't taken leave of his sense." Cora shifted her weight toward the door. "We done now?"

"Will you help me?"

Cora's smile exposed the gap between her front teeth. "And here I thought Brits was at least good for their brains. Ain't you figured it out yet?"

Victoria hesitated. She heard the answer in Cora's tone, but she had to ask. "What?"

"My hunting days are over."

For a moment, Victoria could only stand there blinking. Cora watched her, the smile never leaving her face. Victoria knew she had to say something, something that would change this old woman's mind before it was too late. The silence hung between them as the sounds of the saloon filtered through the door, voices and laughter and the meandering melody of the piano. Victoria's mouth felt full of cotton.

Cora's boots thumped against the floorboards. She stepped over to the door and reached out her hand to open it. Victoria moved without thinking, grabbing her wrist. "Wait."

The hunter's brown eyes snapped up. "Take your pretty little hands off me," Cora said, her tone flat.

Victoria's grip tightened. "Help me."

Cora's other hand cracked across her face. The force of the blow knocked her backward into a crate. Cradling her stinging cheek, Victoria blinked back tears. She turned her head and looked at the other woman, accusation in her blue eyes.

Cora matched her gaze evenly. "I mean what I say," she said. "Don't you ever touch me, and I ain't helping you with no monster hunt. My hunting days is through."

"So you're a coward, then?" Victoria asked, rage overwhelming her sense. "You're just a drunken old fool who strikes other women who come to her begging for help." She stood to her full height, removing her hand from her face. Her cheek blazed bright red. "I came to you across countless miles, crossing an ocean and half a continent because I heard the stories of you. I heard the legends of your bravery and your heroism, and I believed them. I believed that I would find a holy warrior when I reached this place, a heroine who would help me avenge the deaths of my parents." Victoria's voice grew quieter as she spoke, her words sliding a stone lid over her hopes as her father's brothers had slid stone lids over her parents. "I suppose I was the fool, a naive girl still believing in fairy tales. If nothing else, I gained wisdom on this journey. A poor consolation, but with only cowards and old men left to me, I should be grateful to have learned it while I am still young."

The hunter listened to her tirade, her face blank. When Victoria finished, Cora took a deep breath and looked down at her boots. The white streak in her hair shone softly in the light. Victoria stood still, surprised at herself for what she had just said. Father Baez's warnings popped back into her head, and she swallowed. Her speech may very well get her shot by this woman. To die in the storeroom of an American saloon wasn't how she pictured her end, but maybe she should have seen it coming when she stepped off the train in this miserable little town.

"What's your name, girl?" Cora's voice was quiet.

"Victoria Dawes."

"Well, Victoria Dawes," she said, eyes glinting, "consider yourself lucky. Ain't nobody in this town gets to call me a coward to my face without getting themselves a right fine licking. What I gave you was a tender little kiss compared to what I've given some." Cora shifted her weight, leaning toward the young woman to drive her point home. "You try it again, it ain't going to matter none that you is a woman, fancy or otherwise. You ain't the first woman I've whipped, and you ain't going to be the last.

"Now, you're as green as any grease-licked city sprout could be, so that's why I'm letting you off so easy like. Not so easy as some would have, maybe, but a lot more easier than most others. This here is rough country, and the sooner you skedaddle on back to England, the better. You came out here looking for heroes. Well, there ain't no heroes. Not here, not anywhere. I reckon I'm the nicest old coot you're like to meet out here. Half the men in the other room would have taken your womanly charms without a second thought had they come across you in some back alley. The other half maybe ain't that bad, but they sure ain't above taking a fine lady's finery, neither. I'm plumb amazed you ain't had yourself a run-in with such folk yet."

"Father always said I was lucky," Victoria said with a small smile.

Cora nodded. "Your daddy sounds like he left the second part out, the part where he says you ain't all that bright. Ain't you fancy people got bodyguards and such to keep you from doing fool things? What got it into your head that you could just march on out here with nothing but your own self?"

Victoria raised her chin. "I am not a coward. My parents are dead, and I am the only one who cares to see them avenged."

"Revenge's a right fine thing," Cora said, "but all you're like to find out here is your own death. You got anyone cares enough back home to come hunt down the bastard that does you in?" Victoria shook her head. "Well, then, all the more reason to call off before that happens."

"Where am I to go?" Victoria asked. "Where can I turn now?"

"Turn back home," Cora said. "Surely there's somebody in that big fancy country of yours as could help you out."

"No," Victoria replied, her hands curling into fists. "Your friend's colleagues refuse to associate with women in such matters, and I don't know of anyone else who might help. Most wouldn't even believe the story if I told it to them."

Cora brushed her hands on her trousers. "Sounds to me like you is out of luck, then. Best get on with your life and make your parents happy that way."

"I can't. I refuse. I swore to them over their graves that I would avenge them. I can't very well return emptyhanded."

"Well, you ain't returning no other way unless you find yourself a hero someplace else."

Tears sprang again to Victoria's eyes, and she hated herself for them. "It would seem to be an empty hope, wouldn't it? If all American heroes are like you, I might have simply checked the corner pub in Oxford and spared myself the trouble."

"I reckon," Cora said, nodding. "Like I said, ain't no heroes nowhere. Just folk like you and folk like me."

"Why would James send me to you, then?" Victoria asked. "He certainly believes you to be a hero of sorts."

"George ain't too keen on certain things," Cora said. "Knows a fair bit about some such, but couldn't find his sense if somebody nailed it to his boot. Spent too much time with his nose in a book, like another sorry lump I could name." Her eyes softened for a moment, seeming to stare through the wall. Before Victoria could speak, Cora stirred herself, her eyes refocusing on her visitor. "You want heroes, young missie, you'd best stop by the local boneyard. The only heroes is the ones who don't make it back."

"What does that make you, then?"

"Just an old drunk," Cora said.

"And your combat prowess?"

"Luck and a quick draw."

Desperate, Victoria reached for her last option. "Surely even an old lucky drunk understands and respects the value of money."

Cora barked a laugh. "I reckon I do. Why else would I gotten myself such a fine establishment?"

"You're the proprietor?"

"You bet your pretty little parasol," Cora said. "The Print Shop keeps me well enough to drink away half her profits. The boys out there couldn't bluff to save their own mommas, so they give me some extra whether they plan to or not."

"I'm not talking about poker winnings," Victoria said. "My parents left me a great estate. All you need do is name your price, and it's yours."

Cora shook her head. "You just ain't getting me. I ain't interested in your money or your vengeance. My hunting days is done, and I aim to keep my bones sitting in this saloon until the good Lord sees fit to take me on up to kingdom come. My price is peace and quiet."

With that, Cora opened the door and walked back into the saloon. Victoria heard her chair scrape against the floor as she reclaimed her seat at the table. The young woman leaned against a crate, her legs suddenly unable to hold her up. What was she going to do now? Her last hope was gone, crushed beneath Cora Oglesby's boot like a withered rose. She could gather the remains and continue on, but what good would it do? She had failed her parents again, a final debacle so spectacular it had dragged her halfway around the world. If her relatives ever discovered the true purpose of her trip to America, her humiliation would never end. She might at least continue on to San Francisco so she could say she simply wished to see the great American cities.

Victoria swallowed against the lump in her throat, but it continued to float there, threatening to choke her with her own despair. She fought for composure. Showing any weakness to the ruffians in the next room would be an open invitation for them to attack her. They may not do it here in the open, but they would mark her as an easy target. Cora Oglesby wouldn't protect her. The police, if there were any here, might not be able to save her. England and the Oxford constables were a very long way away.

She had to get out of Albuquerque. Coming here had been a mistake, but hopefully it wouldn't be her last. Trains ran regularly from the station, so she might be able to catch one in the morning. To San Francisco, or perhaps back to Santa Fe. Maybe she could stop by Denver to speak with Father Baez again. If he knew of Cora Oglesby, he might know of other hunters as well. Cora couldn't have been the only one the Catholic churches of America relied on to hunt down demons and monsters when they had need. If that failed, she could return to Oxford and demand that James Townsend's fraternity of scholars hear her plea. They might refuse to help her, but surely there was a decent man or two among them that might point her in the direction of another mercenary.

Her despair subdued for the moment, she took a deep breath to steady herself. Extinguishing the lamp, she crept out of the storeroom. The men largely ignored her, any memory of the earlier scene erased by the endless flow of cards and whiskey. A few saw her emerge and tossed a wink or a lech her way as they shuffled plastic chips around their tables. Victoria managed to catch Cora Oglesby's eye. The old hunter lifted her fingers to her brow as if tipping a hat that was no longer there. Victoria responded with a single, silent nod before slipping out through the batwing doors.

Standing on the sidewalk, Victoria took a moment to fill her lungs. The air was hot, dry, and dusty, but at least it didn't smell of whiskey and smoke. Behind her, she heard Cora's rasping shout as she called somebody out for cheating. It was almost sad, Victoria mused as she began walking back to her hotel. Here was a woman who could still do some good in the world, a veteran of wars few even knew existed, letting herself waste away in a small desert town. That both James Townsend and Father Baez thought so highly of her spoke of her skill and tenacity in the work she did for them. Why, then, would she suddenly decide to stop? Not age, surely. Cora Oglesby's days as a young woman were long past, but she still had some power in her; the dull ache in Victoria's cheek was proof enough of that.

A hot wind kicked up, sending dust flying in swirling clouds through the streets. Victoria winced against the grit blowing into her face. Peering through one half-open eye, she watched the other people on the street pulling down hats and pulling up bandanas. Unrefined though they were, the citizens of Albuquerque were well-suited to life here, much more so than she was. All she could do was flinch and duck, her eyes watering as bits of sand slid through her defenses. Grains nuzzled into her bodice and whipped around her ankles, itching more fiercely with every step she took. She picked up her pace, thinking only of a hot bath and a warm bed.

Victoria stared out the window, seeing more of her reflection than the town below. A few lights lay at anchor in the sea of darkness outside, lamps and lanterns lit by the townsfolk against the night. Moonlight filled the street with its bluish light. She marveled at the power of it. Even a town as rough and rustic as this could be beautiful at night, bathed in soft luminescence and blanketed by an endless field of stars.

A sudden impulse to immerse herself in such beauty took hold of her, and she picked up her overcoat from where it lay on the bed. Wrapping it around herself, she eased the door open and stepped out into the hall. Her bare feet padded down the hotel's rear steps. She stepped out into the night through a side door, the planks rough beneath her feet. Cool air kissed her face and ran its fingers through her hair, making her shiver. At night, the smells of the city faded, and the air beneath them was almost sweet. Her blue eyes glittered as she stared up at the stars. She never knew there could be so many.

Victoria smiled to herself, half in wonder at the night and half in wonder at herself. How could she feel so peaceful and safe here, in the middle of a lawless frontier town? Why did she decide to leave the safety of her room in only her dressing gown and overcoat? Maybe some of the wildness of this place was creeping into her blood, making her do things that seemed outright mad.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog began barking. Victoria turned her head toward the sound, peering down the empty street after it. Once or twice, she heard the cries of another animal, high-pitched and wild. They echoed in the night air like the cries of witches gleefully planning mischief. She shivered again and pulled her overcoat closed.

A shadow darted across the road in front of her, and she started. It paused, turning its head to look at her. Pointed ears stood erect above dark, intelligent eyes. A bushy tail sloped downward from its back, hovering just above the street. It looked like the foxes her father loved to hunt on holidays, but its coat was the same greyish hue as the ground beneath it rather than the fiery red of her father's game. The animal regarded her for a moment before losing interest and padding around the hotel's side and out of sight.

Rubbing her hands on her arms, she took a deep breath and blinked. Time to head back up to her room. She needed a good night's sleep if she was to begin her journey again in the morning. A twinge of sadness and anger twisted inside her. If only Cora had been willing to help her, she could be returning in triumph instead of defeat. Traveling with the woman would have been tiresome, though, so perhaps it wasn't entirely a shame. She smiled to herself and turned back toward the door.

The dark figure of a man blocked her way.

Victoria cried out and stumbled backward. The figure's hand shot out like a striking snake, grabbing her wrist. It jerked her back to her feet and pulled her against the man's chest. Blue eyes burned like molten sapphires in a face obscured by shadow. Victoria could see a feral hunger in their depths. Her mind dissolved, evaporating in an explosion of primal terror. She struck at those eyes with clawed fingers, raking cold flesh above and below them, but they never blinked. Their icy glow remained fixed on her as she beat against the figure's head and chest. She could feel the flesh and bone beneath the man's clothing, but her blows did not so much as knock him off-balance.

The grip on her wrist tightened as cold fingers twisted. She cried out again, contorting in pain and falling to her knees. Her assailant's strength was incredible. Pinning her arm behind her, he forced her downward with a knee planted between her shoulder blades. Splinters scraped against her cheeks, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears seeped around her eyelids. She could feel the man above her, his weight holding her to the ground, and she prepared herself for the filthy, probing touch of his fingers on her legs.

It never came.

She forced one eye open, rolling it this way and that, trying to see the figure. He loomed beyond her sight, the bogeyman from her childhood fears made flesh. Her eye looked up and down the street, hoping to see something, another person she might cry out to for help. Instead, her gaze fell on a small lupine shape in the street. The fox watched her with the same intelligent curiosity, its head cocked slightly to the side. Its grey coat seemed to swell and grow as she looked at it, filling her vision until she was drowning in a silvery sea. Then it faded to black.