Blood and Iron Ch. 01

James head tipped slowly forward, as much acknowledgement as agreement. "Can't trust nobody, Alice. Every man's a liar. I ain't no different."

She snorted, frustrated and low. A quiet breath before her voice surged forth again, thick and sharp with righteous spite. "Well, that may be. But you ain't gettin' away with it, either. You got to pay for your lies, for what you done to ma and me." A fractional hesitation in her voice, swiftly pushed aside. "We ain't but two weeks from Anavio, if we travel quick. Once we get there, once you pay your respects...you're gettin' a bullet in the heart."

She spoke with a tone almost sneering, taunting, trying to provoke a response, a defense, anything but this even-tempered detachment. But James just stared up silent into the clear night sky, at complex constellations shining down on them. The empty skillet set aside in the sand. No words spoken, until at last Alice rose again scowling and tense to her feet, pulling another bundle from her saddlebags. "I ain't got a second bedroll," she warned, "So you best just make yourself comfortable in the sand. And if you're carryin' any notion of sneakin' off in the night, you better forget it. I got the ears of an injun, and I ain't half afraid to have your execution early if you give me reason. Understand?"

"Plain enough," he granted with a shrug, settling down upon the soil. Watching her still from the corner of his eye as she laid out the bedroll, took off her duster for use as a makeshift pillow. The shape of her body better visible beneath in blue jeans and a dust-stained yellow shirt, wiry and athletic but unmistakably feminine. The curve of her waist flaring gently outwards to slim, sculpted hips, her bosom modestly evident at her chest, flush and firm with the ripeness of youth. Hair dark again in the gloom of night, the color of bloody earth...it must have been cut once very short indeed, for even at just a few inches it was ragged and rumpled, a chaotic mess with her hat removed. And yet not unattractive, despite that. He couldn't quite put words to the allure of her appearance, a look bold and unconcerned, so unlike the painted ladies of the bar or the bordello. The beauty of function, like the black iron of a locomotive screaming past under steam, or the glittering steel of a cocked revolver, dangerous and enchanting. She made a sight, dress or not, long hair or not. If he weren't her father...

The thought snapped him back to reality, a silent seething inside as he rolled over onto his back, staring up into the uncaring skies. As if all the other shit he'd done weren't enough...her father. So hard to believe that this was real, that she'd tracked him down. That this skilled and reckless woman was the same smiling girl he'd once helped create, that he'd once tried to raise, a lifetime ago. He'd near forgotten. Tried to forget, to let drift away the memory of muddy green eyes and rosewood pigtails, to bury it all beneath cheap liquor and cigarettes. An endless string of poker games and flophouse bunks chained across the West, to cover up his great mistake. He'd never thought there was any danger to it greater than that of memory, that he'd ever have to worry about a vengeful hand reaching forth from the life he'd left behind. His daughter's hand. Maybe there was poetry in that.

The fire was guttering, a slow, cool breeze blowing across the plain. James laid his hands folded across his chest, settling deeper into the sand for warmth. Feeling suddenly cold and tired. How many years, how many regrets and poor decisions for it to come to this? Sleep was a luxury, a welcome escape. Maybe soon it'd be for good.

----

"Do you think he'll be back tomorrow?"

Night on the ranch, a small candle in the middle of the room providing the only illumination. Shadows long and fuzzy on the floor and walls, wavering like reeds in the wind. Her mother's face was pinched with poorly-hidden tension, hands busily engaged with darning one of her worn socks. She didn't look up as she spoke, but her voice carried a note of upset that echoed uncomfortably in Alice's ear. "How many times are yeh plannin' to ask me that, milis?"

"I 'unno." She shifted uneasily in the rough wooden chair, her knees pulled up to her chest. A little toy horse, roughly whittled, clutched in her hand like a protective charm; her thumb stroked minutely at its tiny head as she gazed into the shifting flame of the candle. "What do you think he's doing?"

Her mother exhaled slow and frustrated before responding. "I've got no more notion now than I did yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that." Her tones tight and faintly remonstrative, tinged with a note of bitterness that left Alice silent for some time, holding the little wooden horse closer to her face as though it might whisper an answer to her worries. The wind outside blowing forceful, whistling around and partially through the simple, three-room house.

"Maybe he's caught some bad guys," Alice eventually offered up, "An' he's...he's got'm tied up to find out where their secret hideout is, you know, before he goes in to stop the leader." He'd done so before, she knew - the vision of it clear and shining in her mind. Her pa standing tall and heroic over his defeated foe, scaring him just enough so he could find out where the real threat was hiding. Even in her present state, the thought was enough to curve a little smile on her lips.

Her mother's, meanwhile, pursed disapprovingly. But she didn't outright contradict, just spoke flat and severe. "Maybe."

"So maybe another week then, if that's what he's doing," Alice pressed hopefully, wrapping her arms around her knees. "For him to get back here. Or just a few days, even."

"Alice..." Her mother spoke as warning, and then slipped into silence for long moments as he tongue worked to find the proper words. "Maybe you oughtn't worry so much about when papa's coming back." Her voice struggled to be soothing and remonstrating all at once.

"Why not?" It was not quite an honest question - suspicion lurked dark in her mind of what her mother meant, possibilities too terrible to face, to think about. Tightness in her throat, the clawing of a child's terror, quick and all-consuming.

"Well..." She hesitated cautiously. "It's a dangerous world out there, milis. And your papa...he's told you how he deals with dangerous men. There's a chance, you have to think, that maybe..." Her daughter's eyes on her were wide and staring, pleading for her not to say the word - she faltered, stumbled into euphemism. "Maybe he's not coming back."

So slight a sugar-coating did little to soften the idea - even at her tender age, Alice knew well enough the suggestion of the words, and fought desperately against them. "He ain't dead!" Her voice wavering around the sudden lump in her throat, refusing utterly the notion.

"Alice..." Quiet, the sock laying folded in her lap.

"He ain't!" Urgent insistence, as the rasp of emotion crowded in her voice, the heat of tears pushed at the corners of her eyes. "Ain't nobody that could kill pa! The things he done...twenty men together couldn't beat him!"

Her mother's hand touched wearily to her brow. "Alice, your pa ain't really..." Trailing off, as she looked at the tearful terror in the young girl's eyes, the red of misery on her cheeks. A breath. Then, gamely, "Well, maybe they couldn't. But listen, milis. It might be a real long time before he comes back, understand? He's probably out doing something real important, real big."

"Yeah," she agreed with a sniffle, hugging her knees close to her chest.

"So you're going to need t'be a big girl. Can't spend every minute worryin' where he is, when he's coming back." She stared seriously at Alice across the table. "We both got plenty chores to handle, especially now. Can't do'm right if we're cryin', can we?"

"I ain't cryin'," Alice protested feebly, swiftly bringing up her hands to wipe clear the wetness from her eyes. Trying to swallow the lump of rawness still aching in her throat.

"Course yeh ain't," her mother agreed softly. "Like your pa says, you're a strong girl. Strong enough to get by even if he's not around. Even if he's gone for a real long while. Right?"

Her chin still quivered, but she pressed her lips firmly together, her eyebrows dropping low and serious as she nodded. Sniffing deep, trying to regain her composure - just the lightest quaver as she asked, "But he could be back tomorrow." Her eyes quietly pleading in her mother's features. "Couldn't he?"

Slow to answer, looking back. But finally she nodded as well, trying vainly for a tone of mildness, of possibility. "Aye. He might."

"Yeah." Alice affirmed it to herself, almost whispering. Wanting so badly to believe it as she shut her eyes, laid her head forlornly down upon her knees. He had to come home. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon...soon he'd be there again, sweeping her up giddily into the air like she weighed nothing at all. Smiling at her with that little whiskery smile that always made her laugh. Telling her about his latest adventure, how he maybe saved somebody important from wild bandits...soon.

A scent tickled in her nose, rich and bitter, a cool breeze blowing on her skin. Her eyes fluttered slowly open to stare into the lightening blue of dawn, scattered through with wispy clouds of white. The dream, the memory hanging heavy in her consciousness...until a quiet clatter and scrape of metal sent alarm surging through her mind. She kipped up swiftly to her feet, snatching along the way her revolver from its resting place beside her - and found herself pointing it at James, stirring her small cooking pot above a rebuilt and crackling fire.

He glanced over dispassionately, seeming to take no notice of the weapon in her hand. "Mornin'."

Sleep still itched in her eyes, alongside a sudden flustered irritation at being caught off-guard. She fairly snarled back, "And what the hell d'you think you're doin'?" The gun still pointed in his direction, vague and threatening.

"Makin' coffee," he answered off-handedly. "Ain't far from ready, reckon just another minute or two...you got quite a little kitchen in this bag of yours."

A few moments more she glared, breathing roughly through her nose...until finally a self-conscious sense of absurdity grabbed hold of her, and she reluctantly dropped her gun into its holster. Stepped towards the fire, suspicion still sharp in her tone. "If you was up long enough to go rootin' around in my bag, how come you didn't just take off?"

"Well, now," a bit of dry humor took hold of his tongue. "With them injun ears of yours, I figured you could tell the difference between makin' coffee and tryin' to escape. Didn't want to risk gettin' a bullet in the back."

She snorted at that...but gave no other answer, embarassment pulsing warm at the back of her skull. Just settled gingerly instead down beside the fire to wait, as the thick, almost acrid scent of the ground beans filled the air. True to his word, it was scarcely a minute later that he was able to pour a serving of harsh black coffee into the wooden mug she kept for just that purpose, its insides stained dark from a multitude of prior mornings. Faint surprise, too, and an ambivalent touch of gratitude as he passed this first cup to her. "Here. Seein' how it's yours, I figure I oughtn't get the first crack."

"Thanks." She answered gruffly, blowing briefly on the still-scalding liquid before she dared take her first sip. Trying to keep herself from reacting to the bitterness of it, still conscious of his eyes. Almost successful, too. Just the slightest wince with that first taste - faint amusement tugged at the corner of her father's lips, but he said nothing. She didn't quite finish the cup before handing it back. "Enough for me. Go on'n have your fill. Even a prisoner deserves coffee, I reckon."

"Much obliged." He nodded casually, watching with quiet interest as she rose once more to her feet, pulling on her heavy boots over thick woolen socks that might be charitably described as 'unclean.' One eyebrow lifting curiously as she ambled over towards the edge of the camp, away from the road.

"I mean to practice my aim." She spoke the explanation curtly, after a moment taken to breathe in deep the cool air of early morning. "You try to run off while I'm distracted, and...well, I figure I made things clear enough." Behind the cup of coffee, a faint, sardonic smile twitched on his lips...he gestured back, an errant wave, but gave no other answer. Just looked on as she trod further off the trail and into the deeper brush, right hand at rest on the wooden handle of her revolver.

It was an old habit, at least when she had the bullets to spare. Her gaze roaming across the gently waving flora, searching for a good set of targets. Cactus was the best. Stayed mostly still, and it was plain to see how close you got. Flowering shrubs, when she felt ambitious. Wasn't easy, nicking a blossom clear from its branch, but when she succeeded, when she could watch the little tufts of red or white or yellow drift down to the earth...there was a sense of pride in it, a smirking satisfaction of accomplishment. Always had been. Before it was flowers, it was bottles, or old cans stuck on a fence at twenty paces. When she was just a little girl, playing with her father's gun...

The memory swam back to her, strong and inescapable, as her hand curved around the smoothly polished handle. It had been an older weapon. Old even then, roughly made of cheap iron, but maintained with care through the years. So heavy when she first held it, gripped carefully with both hands - her pa had had to help her keep it steady. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see it. Almost feel him there, crouched behind her, her back braced upon his chest as his larger hand encompassed hers. His breath warm on her ear as he spoke. "Now, you wanna take your time here, line up your shot real careful. That little notch above the barrel, you hold it so it goes right over the can."

She frowned then, a childish petulance in her voice. "But if I take my time, the bad guys'll get me." Pointing out the obvious.

Her father's gentle chuckle thrilled into her ears. "Got that right, little rose." A smile welling up from deep inside at the name - she loved it when he called her that. Said she was his favorite flower, her hair like the bloom of the prettiest rose he'd ever seen... "In a real shootout, you ain't got hardly any chance at all to line up your shots - got to do things on instinct. But right now, we're just learnin' the basics."

"But I wanna learn how to be a gunslinger for real." She nudged back against him, her tone carrying a bit of a pout.

"Ain't you eager," he laughed again, softly. "Don't you worry. I'm sure one day you'll be the fastest gun in the West. But you gotta start with the simple things first. Same way I learned, when I was just a little older than you." She made a quiet noise of grudging acceptance, and his voice dropped back to the firm tones of instruction. "So just line up them notches with the can. If your target's real far away, you might have to worry about the bullet fallin' a little on the way there...but for somethin' this close, that ain't a concern."

Alice instinctively closed one eye as she peered down the sights of the revolver, lifting it up and to the left until they sat wavering over the bent and rusted can propped up on the fence. "What now? Pull the trigger?" A little smile still tingling on her lips at the pleasant warmth of him there behind her. At being taught to shoot by her pa, the biggest hero in the whole United States, probably.

"Just about," he agreed with a tone faintly cautioning. "But you gotta make sure you ain't jerkin' the gun around as you do it, else you'll just shoot wild. That means keepin' your hand steady, pullin' with just that one finger there. When you're just startin' out, it also helps if-"

"James!" The cry cut sharp and disapproving through the moment's quiet; glancing over, Alice saw her mother standing just outside the door in a light blue dress, hands planted firmly on her hips, her emerald eyes blazing with an anger barely restrained.

Behind her, he briefly sniffed, shook his head faintly dismissive. Quiet reassurance in her ear. "Gimmie a minute here, little rose, all right?" He was already pulling away when she murmured back agreement, gently taking the gun from her hands while rising to his feet. Leaving her with a silent sense of almost loneliness as he followed her mother into the house.

She didn't really try to eavesdrop. It wasn't hard to hear them through the drafty wooden door. Her mother's voice snapping archly, "What in the devil are you thinkin', puttin' a gun into her hands? She's just a child!"

"Hell, Molly," he returned mildly. "She's almost seven. I wasn't much older myself when my own pa taught me how to handle a gun."

"Oh, and you turned out just fine, did yeh?" She hissed back.

Quiet at that, an awkward silence that Alice didn't quite understand. Finally broken, as James spoke again, low and logical. "Anyhow, ain't like it's my idea. She's been askin' for weeks for me to teach her to shoot."

"Only because yeh keep fillin her precious head with those fool stories," she replied hotly. "It ain't right. She's just a little girl - she oughtn't be thinkin' so much about guns and shootouts and all this other nonsense. She'll grow up queer."

"Come on now, Molly," he answered, quietly cajoling. "That ain't reasonable. Hell, it'll be good for her. World's a dangerous place, and it ain't gonna be much softer for her just on account she's a woman. Plenty women..." His voice dropped lower, and Alice edged a few steps closer to the door, straining to hear. "I seen plenty women suffer when maybe they didn't have to, if they was carryin' iron of their own. If they knew how to use it. Don't want my little girl to be one of'm."

A brief silence ensued, just long enough for a vigorous shake of the head. Then her mother's voice returned. "That ain't the way a god-fearin' woman lives." A steely bite of accusation sounding in her tone. "And just 'cause I ain't given yeh a son, that's no reason to go tryin' to turn her into one. I ain't forgotten how you wanted a boy."

Outside, Alice felt her throat clutch tight, her heartbeat hasten with sudden, shocked concern. She'd never heard this before - he hadn't wanted a girl? Hadn't wanted her?

But James just laughed in response, careless and easy. Amused at the suggestion. "You're talkin' nonsense, Molly. Maybe when you was just with child, I was hopin' for a boy, sure. But that don't mean I ain't glad I got her." A moment's quiet, as his voice infinitesimally deepened, roughened. "I love that girl. Wouldn't trade her for nothin' on God's green earth, I promise you that." A relieved smile sweeping up from deep inside her at this answer, curling small and blissful on her lips as it washed clean her momentary worries. Satisfaction deep and warm inside.

Her mother continued, of course, high and argumentative. "Well, if yeh love her, then yeh oughtn't to put her in danger by stickin' a gun in her hand. She'll get herself hurt like that, or killed, one way or another."

James fired back, firmer. "Enough, Molly. She wants to learn, and I aim to teach her. And I ain't gonna hear no more argument about it." A snort, near laughter. "You'll thank me later, anyhow, when we got two hands to scare off rustlers 'stead of just one."

Footsteps started towards the door; Alice had to swiftly scurry back so that it didn't look like she'd been listening in. Glancing over her shoulder as the iron hinges squealed, as James stepped out into the golden light of mid-afternoon, his brown eyes sparkling cheerfully to catch on her there amidst the knee-high scrabble of weeds and switchgrass. A look proud and tender and affectionate. And as she caught his eye, the tingling tide of happiness that rose up inside her was so great she had to shyly look away, cast down her gaze to the dusty ground as the smile she felt in her heart stretched out upon her lips, teeth flashing brilliant in the sunlight.