Dead Iron

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Rose Small stood and stared long after the wolf had turned and run. She knew it was the bounty hunter, Cedar Hunt. Could tell from his eyes, could tell from the living things, trees and such, whispering to her that he was not the animal he seemed to be. That he was a man hidden in plain sight.

She’d never seen anything like it, and didn’t deny it rattled her to her bones. She knew she should go home, sneak back into her room beneath the notice of her pa and ma, as she had so many restless nights in the past. They ought to be asleep by now. Rose turned and took no more than three steps down the street when she saw a group of six men, rowdy and drunk, rambling her way.

And at the head of them all, swigging off a bottle of whiskey he’d likely annexed, was Henry Dunken.

Rose slipped into the shadows, pressing her back against the blacksmith’s shop. The smell of ash and metal calmed her, the feel of the familiar shop soothing. She carefully, quietly dropped into her apron the bits of metal—springs, nails, bolts—she’d been gathering. Rose Small put her hand around her gun instead.

The men were yelling now—arguing. Rose winced at their language. They were arguing over which woman who worked the brothel did her job the best.

Rose held her breath as they drew nearer. If she was quiet, they might just walk past her. But something, maybe just plain bad luck, turned Henry Dunken’s gaze her way. He stopped cold in the middle of the street, then started over toward her, his pack of friends following behind him.

“Well, well, well,” he said, each word slurring into the other. “Look who’s out wandering the night without an escort. Little Rose Small.”

Rose pushed off the wall and started walking. The gun had one shot only. She couldn’t take them all down. The kind of men Henry Dunken ran with wouldn’t let one gunshot stop them. From doing most anything.

Rose went through her options methodically, but with amazing speed. Fear did that to her—slowed down the outside world, and gave her plenty of time to sort options, discard, and choose. Not the blacksmith’s shop. Even though she could turn herself around and get in there before they caught her, and even though almost every inch of the shop was covered in something that would make a good weapon, it was still one against six. They’d pin her, beat her, and then they’d do things she’d only heard whispered in the lowest tones, by people like Sheriff Wilke.

Yelling for help wouldn’t do anything. The sheriff and any other decent soul wouldn’t hear her, tucked up in houses, far off on farms.

Not running. It was too far to run to her house—or the mercantile. They’d outpace her. She had no horse. No chance reasoning with them.

That meant she’d have to bluff.

Rose turned quick on her heel and headed for the blacksmith’s back door. She knew it was locked. Knew Mr. and Mrs. Gregor must be sleeping. But she doubted either of them was sleeping deeply since the disappearance of Elbert. There was a chance they might hear her.

The men behind her laughed and picked up their pace, boots thumping the hard-packed dirt like a ragged army on the march, aiming to run her down.

Rose’s hands shook and her pulse quickened. She reached the blacksmith’s door and knocked and knocked. She was already doubting her decision. Tucked up this tight against the house, Henry Dunken would hold her down and do anything he could think of to her.

She’d grown up with him. She knew what kind of mean he got when drunk.

Well, she knew where she’d be aiming her gun first. She turned.

“I’ll say good night to you now, Henry Dunken,” she said firmly, with no hint of fear in her voice. “And you and your friends will be on your way.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Rosie, posie, crazy Rosie.” His voice was singsong sweet. “I think you and I are going to dance off the night.”

Rose pulled the derringer out of her apron and pointed it straight at his head. “You think wrong.”

One thing she could say about the men. Even drunk, they recognized a gun when it was pointed at them.

“That little pepperbox ain’t gonna do you no good, little Rosie,” Henry Dunken said. “Only got yourself one bullet there. And there’s six of us.”

“Then I suppose I’ll need to prioritize who, exactly, I despise the most.” Rose held the gun level with Henry Dunken’s head. “Why, I do believe that is you, Mr. Dunken. And once this shot goes off, Mr. Gregor will be out here faster than your boys can run.”

“Think that old mule can get here faster than the boys can shoot?” Henry asked.

The door behind Rose clacked with the heavy slide of a bolt being unfastened and a key turning.

“Don’t think we need to find that out, now, do we?” she said.

The door opened and the big form of Mr. Gregor loomed up behind her.

“What’s all the racket about?” Mr. Gregor stepped forward. Rose moved to one side to let the big man pass her. Mr. Gregor’s hair was stuck up at odd angles. He had on his trousers over his long johns, suspenders snapped in place, and his boots untied, but no shirt or coat. They must have gotten him out of bed.

Mr. Gregor carried a shotgun. He quickly assessed the situation, noting with a grimace the gun that Rose hastily stowed back in her apron.

“Henry Dunken,” Mr. Gregor said. “I don’t care what fire you’re full of tonight, but you and your boys will take your shenanigans away from my doorstep and my property, or I will bring Sheriff Wilke into this.”

“Why, of course, Mr. Gregor,” Henry said with a smile. “Didn’t mean to rouse you. I was just seeing Miss Small back to her home, like her folks told me to. Miss Small?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Dunken,” Rose said to his outright lie. “I’ll find my own way home.”

“Can’t have a lady like you out wandering.” Henry Dunken gave Mr. Gregor a tolerant look. “You know how she gets sometimes.” He tapped his forehead. “Poor thing.”

Rose clenched her teeth to keep from telling Henry Dunken just what he could do with his false pity. But Mr. Gregor saw right through Henry’s words.

“Go on your way,” Mr. Gregor said. “I’ll see that Miss Small gets home.”

Henry’s smile disappeared. He looked from Mr. Gregor to Rose Small, back to Mr. Gregor. Rose kept her hand on her gun, and her chin high.

One of Henry’s boys slapped him on the shoulder, breaking the tension. “Come on, now, Henry. She’s gonna be fine.”

Henry wiped his face with one hand and positioned his smile back into place. “I reckon that’s true, now, isn’t it? Good night, Mr. Gregor. Good night, Miss Small.”

He turned about and sauntered off, the ruffians crowding around him like dogs in a pack. Rose forced her fingers to let go of the gun, her knuckles stiff and sore from holding on to it so tightly.

“Mr. Gregor, I’m so sorry,” she began.

“Rose Small,” he rumbled. “If I were your daddy, I’d give you a proper talking-to. What in the devil got into you to be out on the street this late at night?”

Rose normally wouldn’t stand that kind of talk from anyone. But she reckoned Mr. Gregor was more of a father to her than her own father had been. So she told him the truth. “I was restless. Needed some fresh air. I went to stand on the porch, is all. Then I noticed a bit of metal in the street.” She dug in her apron for the proof of it, fished out a nail. “I didn’t want to leave it to waste.”

Mr. Gregor took a deep enough breath, his chest rose up a good six inches. When he let it out, his words were worn down, soft. “I don’t know what gets into that head of yours, Rose.” He started walking and Rose followed along.

“You’re old enough to be a man’s wife now, and yet you still do these things.” He shook his head. “Just because people in this town think you’re wild, doesn’t mean you should give them more reason to talk.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, Rose Small. You’re too old for this now. It’s time you pull your eyes down out of the stars and start thinking about getting married, raising a family of your own. And it’s time you stop walking out at night alone. These streets aren’t safe. Not for a lady. Not for anyone.” He glanced down to see if she understood.

“What if I don’t want to raise a family? Don’t want to be married?”

They were halfway to her house now, the moon slipping behind clouds, darkness growing thicker.

“What else would a woman want for?”

“To make things. Devise things. Maybe fly an airship to China and back.” She paused, then, “I have dreams, Mr. Gregor. Of making a difference in this world. I can’t think of living any other way.”

Mr. Gregor was silent for the rest of the walk. Rose didn’t know what he was thinking, and didn’t have the courage to ask.

Once they made it to her doorstep, he finally spoke. “Dreams can be dangerous things, Rose Small.”

“Reckon the whole world is filled with dangerous things, Mr. Gregor,” she replied. “Can’t imagine dreams should be any different. But thank you for your kind words. They haven’t fallen on deaf ears.”

He nodded and nodded, looking relieved she’d admitted as much.

Then Rose Small let herself into her parents’ home, locking the door, and the night, behind her.