Her screams chase me as I shove out the rear exit. When my lungs get a gulp of fresh air, I drop to my knees, panting. I could cry in relief. I could sing.
I glance over my shoulder. No one’s followed me. There ain’t nothing in the hall but flames and smoke. She’s gonna burn to a charred crisp in there—like those poor souls Rose murdered in the coach, like the card-playing townsfolk he shot just earlier. And she don’t deserve it. None of ’em did. Only difference is, unlike the others, she ain’t dead yet.
I heave upright, still coughing, and glance round. Blankets hang on a line behind the building to my right, flapping on the evening’s warm breeze. There’s barrels on the back porch too.
Please have water, I think, racing to ’em. Please.
I yank one of the blankets free and knock my hip into the barrels till one sloshes in response. I pull the plug and sniff. Not alcohol, that’s for sure. Hell, there ain’t a smell, period. I shove it over and roll it back to the saloon.
The flames are devouring the rear entrance now too. It’s an inferno. She’s prolly already dead.
But you can’t leave her trapped in there. You can’t, you worthless coward.
I toss the journal aside, to a place where it’ll be safe from the flames. Then I drench a corner of the blanket with water, hold it over my mouth, and shove the barrel forward. After fighting to get it over the doorway’s lip, I roll it down the hall and to the cellar. My lungs start heaving again in protest, my eyes burning. Every instinct in my body’s screaming for me to leave, to turn round and run, but I kick the barrel over, letting the water pour into the stairwell. I drop the blanket, let it become a sopping mess. Then I smack at as many flames in the cellar doorway as I can. They muffle and hiss beneath the material. Smoke fills the air as the water kills most of the flames on the stairs themselves. My hands ache from the heat even with the blanket protecting them. My legs feel like they’re blistering.
“Hello?” I shout through the clouds of gray.
Nothing.
“Hey, you still alive in there?”
And then . . . a cough.
I take a step into the stairwell, and the wood groans. I spot her slouched on the steps, barely conscious from all the smoke. I grab her at the wrist and sling her arm behind my neck, then wrap the blanket round the both of us. Before the stairs can give way beneath our weight, I heave her outta the cellar stairwell and down the hall.
My knees give out when we’re a few feet from the saloon, and we both tumble forward. She lands face-down in the dirt, not moving. My dress is burning, the white material singed black at the hem. I slap at it with the blanket, muffling out the flames, then pull up the folds of the dress to check the damage. My skin’s hot and red, but it ain’t blistered. My boots’ve spared me a second time.
“You all right?” I says, checking on the Apache girl.
She coughs and hacks and coughs some more. The palms of her hands are blistered white, prolly from when she tried to reenter the saloon through that burning cellar door. She looks up at me. Her eyes are still wide, but there ain’t so much fear and desperation in them no more. No, now it’s a look of shock, of astonishment.
The thunder of cracking wood brings me to my feet. The Tiger’s roof is failing, starting to buckle. The Coltons might still be in there. I take a step toward the saloon, and that’s when a section of the roof folds in, showering down flame and beams. I stumble away, the dress heavy with water and nearly tripping me. Goddamn ten-pound dress! I draw my knife from my boot and hack at the skirt, cutting the material free. It were half burned and ruined anyway. Evelyn weren’t getting back something she could wear.
Evelyn.
My head jerks toward the parlor.
We were supposed to regroup there if’n something went wrong. That was the plan. If’n the Coltons are still in the Tiger, there ain’t nothing I can do for ’em now. It was dumb enough going back in the one time.
I kick the discarded section of dress aside and snatch up Pa’s journal.
I can still hear the Apache coughing up a fit as I round the corner.
Even on the main street, the scene’s crazed.
Smoke is billowing wild. People are running round, screaming for aid. Decent-looking folk wearing nightclothes are spilling from their homes to help, rolling barrels of reserved water nearer to battle the flames. It’s good they’re on hand, them barrels. The fire’s already starting to flirt with the neighboring buildings, and in a town made of wood, the whole strip’s fixing to go up like a book of matches.
I burst into the parlor, and Evelyn stops cold where she’d been pacing. Her eyes linger on the state of my dress, then my hair, which has all but come free from the pins and is hanging round my face in sweaty tendrils.
“Where is everybody?” I says, noting the empty state of the parlor—bare couches, deserted bar, quiet piano. Not even the other girls remain.
“Helping with the fire.”
“And the Coltons?”
“They ain’t back yet.”
“They ain’t . . . They . . .”
I can’t bring myself to say much else. I don’t know what it means, but it sure ain’t good. This is my fault. The Coltons missing. The town burning. All those innocent folks caught in the Riders’ crossfire.
I grab the half-shredded skirt of Evelyn’s dress and take the stairs two at a time. I gotta go back for the boys, but I know I ain’t gonna get much done in this ridiculous dress.
“What happened?” Evelyn calls after me.
I race on without answering. When I burst into her room, Mutt bares his teeth.
“Yeah, it ain’t like I fancy you, neither,” I tell him.
I strip outta the dress and undo the blasted corset, throw my trousers on fast as I can. When I can’t find my flannel in the messy room, I fish an undershirt from Evelyn’s dresser, then grab my pistol belt. Before I got it fastened on proper, footsteps come pounding my way. The door bangs open.
“Jesus!” I snap, flustered. “Didn’t nobody ever tell you to knock?” When I spin round, I find the Coltons standing there. Jesse’s got soot on his cheeks and singes in his shirt and a black eye he didn’t have before the Tiger. Will ain’t looking much prettier, with a nasty gash on his forehead.
“See now, aren’t you glad you were worried?” Jesse says to his brother. “Smart-mouthed and ungrateful and not even bothered to see we ain’t dead.”
“That ain’t true. You just startled me,” I says. “I was ’bout to go back looking for you.”
“Ain’t no bother,” Jesse says, and whistles quick for Mutt. “You ready? We gotta ride.”
“We’re leaving?” I spot my flannel on a drying rack near the window; Evelyn must’ve washed it for me. “What ’bout Rose?” I ask, tugging it on. “Did either of you get a shot at him?”
“Missed my chance while the roof came down and I’s dodging bullets,” Jesse says real dry-like.
“But what if he’s still in town? I could get him. I nearly got him earlier.”