At the Rusty Gear...

Genevieve Moulin

Genevieve Moulin

The Gypsy
Claudia sank into a chair with a quiet groan, crumpling into poof of emerald satin and black tulle that threatened to swallow her. She propped her boots on the table, dropped her head back and closed her eyes. Her feet were tired. Her back ached. She thought the muscles in her face might never relax out of the forced smile she'd coaxed them into all night. Without opening her eyes, she reached back and pulled the pins from her hair, letting the long, black curls tumble over her shoulders. From upstairs came a dramatic moan followed by the sound of a headboard rhythmically meeting the wall. Claudia quirked an eyebrow up.There are worse ways to make a living, she thought, than dancing and peddling drinks.


"Tom?" she called. "Gin, please."

Tom whirred to life behind the bar. It was nice having an automaton bartender; it meant she didn't have to make conversation or worry about being shooed out of the saloon at the end of a long night. She could sit in the quiet (or relative quiet at least, she thought smirking toward the ceiling and the exuberant activities apparently taking place upstairs) and think. Outside the sounds of boots crunching across the dusty road and the clop of horses' hooves had faded away, leaving only the faint rustling of the breeze over barren ground and weathered wood. Claudia thought of the late-night sounds of her past life, that nearly-but-not-quite-forgotten life back East, and how different the whispering of green leaves in an oak tree sounded from the hiss of the wind here. How beauty and bounty had concealed the ominous there while the harsh landscape of the West offered freedom. How...

"Your gin, madame."


Claudia opened one eye, then the other and sat up. Tom stood over her, all gleaming brass and new leather, with her drink placed smartly on a small silver tray. The Rusty Gear's new, modern bartender might threaten to eclipse her own fame, she thought wryly. "Thanks, Tom," she said, taking the glass he offered.


"And a note, madame."
 


Claudia sighed and took the envelope that had gone unnoticed next to her drink. She was accustomed to love letters, desperate proposals, offers to ride off into the sunset, pleas for just one night. But these were usually scrawled on a wrinkled, dirty scrap of paper, whatever could be found in the rough world of prospecting camps. Tonight's letter was something altogether different. The envelope was smooth, heavy and crisp. Pristine. Something that belonged on a mahogany desk back East, not passed from the bartender to a saloon girl in a dusty frontier town. It was addressed simply in a plain, even hand to The Fairy of the Rusty Gear, a title she'd garnered based on her small stature (though her regular patrons would warn that though she may be compact, she was certainly fierce). The letter inside contained just a single word:


HELP


She looked up, brow wrinkled, as the door to the saloon swung open.
 
The figure that stumbled in was dressed head to toe in black. Black boots, black trousers, black vest, black shirt - all under a long black coat that billowed in the chill breeze that followed the figure through the door. A wide-brimmed black hat partially obscured a pale face, drawn tight in a pained grimace and glistening with sweat. 


He grabbed the back of a nearby chair and leaned heavily upon it, his other hand pressed tight to his side. Dark blood stained his hand and trickled between his fingers to spatter on the wooden floor.


His dark gaze swept the room, taking in the automaton bartender and a small, slight woman dressed in the gaudy finery of a dancehall lady.


"Water," he murmured before his legs gave out and he took a knee on the saloon bar floor.
 
Claudia's hand went automatically to the small revolver tucked into her garter. She was no fool--anyone stumbling into a closed saloon in the darkest hour of the night in this lonely, wind-swept place was unlikely to be possessed of a noble purpose. She jumped to her feet, shivering (from the unexpectedly cold breeze or from the dark appearance of the late-night visitor, she couldn't say), and raised her chin, squaring all five feet of height at this most unwelcome visitor.


"We're cl--"


But the black-clad man mumbled a request for water before promptly collapsing at the bar, bleeding profusely onto the scrubbed floor. Claudia rolled her eyes and nodded at Tom to fulfill the order before busying herself searching for rags to bind the wound. She surreptitiously slipped the strange letter into her bodice; one mystery was enough for the moment.


Just a quiet night, she thought. Just one damned quiet night.


"So d'ya try to steal the horse or get the horse stolen from you? 'Cause Lord knows you're not the first to drag in here in such a state. But mind you get yourself shot earlier next time or have them do the job properly. I work late, but that doesn't stop the sun coming up early. I don't need bleeding horse thieves keeping me out any later."

She knelt beside him, firmly taking his arm. He was losing an alarming amount of blood, and what she could see of his face was rapidly going from stark white to deathly gray.

"Can you stand? We need to find somewhere for you to lie down."
 
The clattering of the Campbell Auto-Carriage finally came to a stop and the long hiss of steam releasing from the boiler was punctuated by two crisp dings from the cabin bell. The split-flap sign at the front of the cabin spun for a moment and then spelled out COPPERHEAD, AZ one letter at a time. With one final chime, the Auto-Carriage door cranked open and there were three sharp clanks as the short ladder descended to the dirt street. Marcus Bishop grabbed his valise case and stepped out of the Auto-Carriage to take his first look at the town.


It was much the same as many of the other settlements that dotted Arizona. The largest building in town was the white-walled church but it was nearly eclipsed by the gaudily painted and lit saloon which was undoubtedly the town's true heart. This late at night, all the stores were closed and most honest folk had retired to their small homes. Marcus squared his brown bowler hat on his head and headed towards the saloon. The Rusty Gear had developed more than a bit of a reputation in the past few years and he kept his hand near the heavy Preston auto-revolver on his belt as he pushed through the doors.


The garish electric lights of the salon made his cream suit and duster fairly glow and the light danced from the gold on his belt buckle and the silver and pearl of his Preston's grip. Marcus cut a striking figure standing in the saloon's doorway. His mustache was oiled and curled to perfect points and his angular features were marred only by a clean, straight scar across his left cheek, cutting down away from his eye. Marcus swept his dark eyes across the saloon, taking in the bleeding, half collapsed ranch hand and the saloon girl who was just rising from helping him and his expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Aside from those two and the White & Castle model-TOM service automaton the rest of the large saloon was empty. Marcus's expensive brown leather boots clicked smartly against a the scuffed wood of the floor as he approached the bar.


The TOM was wheeling its way around the end of the bar with a copper pitcher of water. Marcus put a hand out as it whirred past and the automaton dutifully stopped and turned its glassy gaze towards him. "Sir," its voice clattered from its voice box, "I am currently assisting another client. I will be with you in just a moment."


Marcus reached into his coat and produced a heavy leather billfold. From inside he produced a heavy card with a picture and writing on the top and series of holes punched out of the bottom. The picture was a black and white photo of a sullen looking young man with a horseshoe shaped brand cutting through his hairline on his right scalp. Below the picture was written:


WANTED:
​


BILLY ROOK & any ACCOMPLICES
​


for the CRIMES of MURDER and THEFT
​


REWARD for CAPTURE
​


$7,500
​


 
​


Marcus fed the card into the slot on the TOM unit's chest and waited while the Babbage engine inside read the instructions spelled out in those punched out holes.


After a moment, the TOM spoke again, "Billy Rook and three members of his gang were last in the Rusty Gear on Thursday April 15 of this year. I have no further information regarding their present whereabouts."


"Much obliged, Tom," Marcus said as he pulled the card from the automaton. After a moment of internal clicking and whirring the TOM resumed its course towards the kneeling man with its pitcher of water. Marcus paid neither of them any mind and instead approached the salon girl with a measured deliberate stride. He gave a perfunctory tip of his hat and held the wanted bill out for her to see.


"Ma'am, would you, by any chance, happen to know where I could find Billy Rook or any of his crew?"
 
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Claudia was not having this. She was not having any of it.


"CHRIST ALMIGHTY!" she shouted at the smartly dressed dandy waving a paper in front of her face. "Do you not see I'm trying to save a man's life here? It's the middle of the bloody night! We're CLOSED, for fuck's sake. So you can either bring your damn paper back tomorrow when a girl might have time to consider what she may or may not know or you can roll up your fancy sleeves and give her a hand instead of watching a man bleed to death on your expensive shoes!"


She threw a cloth at his chest before standing up and jerking her chin in the direction of the injured man.

"We need to get him upstairs into a bed. He's a big guy. You're a big guy. I'm just a dainty little flower. So get to it."
 
He cracked open an eye and looked up at the dandy fellow standing over him and the saloon gal. He grabbed one of the rags that the woman had provided, pressed it hard to his side, sucked in a painful breath, and forced himself to his feet with a grunt.


"I'm not incapacitated quite yet," he said through clenched teeth, "Now, if you don't mind, that water please."


He fumbled his coat open, revealing a set of bandoliers across his chest slung with a number of pouches, vials, what appeared to be several types of ammunition, and a few other odds and ends including a silver bell. A Colt Navy revolver hung at his hip. He popped one of the vials out of its holster and thumbed the cap off, dumping several pellets into his mouth before taking the pitcher from the automaton and washing them down with a long draught straight from the copper vessel.


Too late he remembered his manners and swept his hat off his head. His hair was pulled back in a long tail that flowed down his back in russet waves. He was clean-shaven and slender with pointed features and dark eyes that were almost black.


"My apologies for the trouble," he told the woman, his voice now more measured and surprisingly soft, "Upstairs, you said? I think I'll manage on my own. I wouldn't want to mar this fine gentleman's suit, after all."
 
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Marcus's eyes narrowed as he watched the man stagger to his feet and took in the assortment of vials, pouches, and bullets on his chest, not to mention the fighting iron at his hip.


Not a farm hand then.


Marcus's eyes darted to the prodigious amount of blood the man had lost and frowned in suspicion at how quickly he seemed to be recovering. Marcus almost stopped the man, but if his suspicions were correct, the lead bullets in his Preston wouldn't do much good. Instead, Marcus withdrew a slender metal tube from the same pocket that held his billfold and produced a handkerchief that smelt strongly of garlic. He dabbed the handkerchief around his throat and replaced it in its tube without a word.


The man turned away and began making his way towards the stairs and Marcus watched him go with a deepening frown. He turned to the small woman with the temper but didn't suppose she'd be much inclined to talk to him. Instead he took his valise case and set it down at the foot of the bar.


"Tom, I don't suppose you could tell me the name of that gentleman? And I'll be needing a room until my business in your lovely town is concluded."
 
"If it's a room you want, you'll need a key."


She hefted a tray of wet but clean beer mugs onto one hand as she pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen. Her steps were short but sure as she went behind the bar, passing the tray off to TOM before wiping her hands on her skirts. 


She was small and slight, though still a head above her favorite late-stay saloon gal. And though she moved with confidence, where was also a certain awkwardness about her. It was as though her shoes were too loose, or her skirts too long. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, secured by two thin metal rods but coming loose after a long day, and she kept having to flick the hair out of her eyes as she moved.


She came to a stop in front of an old beaten cash register. The cause of damage became apparent when she slammed her fist onto the top of the machine, popping the front open with an overly cheery ding! After a moment of digging, she produced a large ring of tagged keys.


"The names' Tinka. Welcome to the Rusty Gear."
 
His nose wrinkled at the smell of garlic on the man's handkerchief, but he kept his expression neutral until he had turned away.


So, this dandy knows his business, he thought with a smirk, or at least he thinks he does.


He heard the fellow ask the TOM unit for his name, but he was fairly certain the automaton wouldn't have it. Fairly.


Another woman appeared from the kitchen as he began to climb the stairs, saying something about keys. He grabbed one from her with only a slight shake to his hand and headed for the stairs again. He supposed he should have paid her, but he was more focused on putting one foot in front of the other at the moment. He could take care of it later.


Damn his pride. Now was not the time for bravado or one-upmanship. There was no guarantee that the thing that had put those three ugly gashes in his side hadn't followed him, though he had tried to be careful.


On the other hand, it was likely better not to get these folk involved. Best to stitch himself up, rest for an hour or so, and then be off. The pills seemed to be kicking in, at least, and that and determination were all that got him to the top of the stairs.


One of the rooms seemed... otherwise occupied, then he remembered to check the tag on his key. Room number nine. He staggered down the hall until he found the right door, leaning against the rough wood as he shimmied the key into the old lock. Once in the room with the door safely closed behind him he began to shuck his coat and belts. With a hiss he peeled his vest and shirt off and began to dig in his pouches for a needle.
 
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Thank God for Tinka, Claudia thought, watching as her friend fiddled with keys for the two strangers. She threw her hands in the air and shot Tinka a look that said, "Can you believe this?" One who'll likely bleed to death by morning and another who's likely to be a pain in my ass until he gets what he wants. An evil smirk spread across her lips at the thought of the cream-suited fop meeting Billy Rook in the dark though. To be sure, there was no love lost between Claudia and Rook. Still, that's a fight she'd bet on, and Claudia was not a gambling sort of woman.
 


She took her seat again and folded her arms across her chest, considering the two strangers. Strange in every sense of the word. You got all sorts in a town like Copperhead, and they all ended up in the Rusty Gear sooner or later. Even the religious ones, the ones who don't hold with this kind of establishment. Eventually the loneliness gets the better of them, and the company of a good drink and a "tainted" woman is better than no company at all. After a few years out here, Claudia prided herself on being able to read a man from twenty paces. But something about these two unsettled her.

For one thing, that was no gunshot wound the man in black was nursing. Her leading questions about horse thievery had been intended to illicit some sort of a clue, but to no avail. Those gashes had been inflicted by a creature though, and not any thing the likes of which she'd seen in these parts. And while a couple of bandoliers were nothing to raise an eyebrow at, vials and pills and pouches weren't the usual contents one would expect.

Then there was the dandy. Now it was no shock to find Rook was a wanted man. Most likely wanted in multiple states and maybe by a foreign government or two besides. But this was no bounty hunter. Not a sheriff. Not even--she'd stake her sequins on it--a federal agent. She'd also caught a knowing look cast from Shiny-Shoes over to Nearly-Dead, a look that said he recognized more about that situation than he was willing to let on.

Two mystery men turn up on the doorstep in the dark of the night right behind a letter pleading for help. And Claudia stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.

"Tinka," she said, allowing her gaze to follow the injured man up the stairs as she spoke. He wasn't unattractive, that one. Probably a good thing Liza was already occupied for the evening; she'd eat him alive. Claudia shook her head and turned back to the waitress. "Could you take a look at Edgar tomorrow? His purr's gone all squeaky again, and that gear on his back leg is sticking."

 
 
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"Thank you kindly, Miss Tinka." Marcus said as the woman with the messy hair offered him a key. "How much do I owe for the night?"


She named a figure that didn't seem too larcenous and out came the fine leather bill fold again. Marcus pulled out a stack of new Union bills so crisp you could practically still smell the minting press on them and laid them casually on the well-lacquered wood of the bar.


"I trust paper money is accepted in your establishment? I can pay in something heavier if you prefer." There was smugness in his tone, to be sure, but something else as well. His fingers hovered just above the money as though he might snap it back up at a moment's notice, and his eyes seemed to search Tinka's face for some reaction or hesitation.


After a moment he gave an almost imperceptible nod and left the money where it sat, waiting for Tinka to take it or not.


He turned to the side with an air of utter unconcern and produced a fancy pipe and leaf pouch from somewhere inside his coat. There was the sulfurous flair of a match and then the rich scent of some manner of expensive spiced tobacco began to swirl about him like a cloud. He puffed and stared absently at the smear of blood on the floor while he waited for his key. As he returned his leaf pouch from whence it came his coat opened enough to reveal the red ribbon pinned to his vest.


A red ribbon with a stitched white flower, fastened with a sharp wooden pin.


Neither woman could miss the significance of that ribbon, not with how often Alexander Campbell, genius inventor and the so called "Duke of Arizona" had been appearing in the papers and teletypes of late. Not with all the swirling rumors that he was surely going to run for governor on the strength of his fortune and popularity among the temperance movements in the state.


Apparently, the well dressed dandy with the fancy pistol and the very fat wallet was a member of the Anti-Sanguinist League.
 
Tinka kept her face neutral as she swept the bills into her hand and counted out them, though there was a smile in her voice as she glanced at Claudia. "Bring him by before we open tomorrow, 'round the back, as usual. If I can ever get my hands on a decent spinner wheel, I'll be happy to fix him up proper too." She slid the cash into a slot in the drawer with a deliberate carefulness, "But those are getting outdated now, what with those new compact record drums." 


She pulled a key out labeled '12' in spidery handwriting,"As for your rather messy friend in the black up there, if he skips out on his bill, I'm putting him on your tab." she flashed her friend a sharp smile, her freckled face looking a little less tired for it, but it vanished back into a careful mask to neutrality as she turned to her latest patron "Here's your key, mister. You can order up breakfast in the mornings but the bar don't open til lunch." Her gaze flicked to her...guest... as she slammed the cash register shut and dropped the room key unceremoniously onto the top of the bar, "Though next time maybe come a lil earlier, like when we're open."
 
Claudia snorted.


"You know I don't have friends," she said with a wink. "These two are on their own."


She turned a cold, appraising eye on the man in the cream suit. Anti-Sanguinist, she thought. Might have known.


The sight of his badge, and particularly the way he flashed it ostentatiously at them, making sure they knew just who he was--and perhaps more importantly, whose protection he was under--turned her stomach. They hadn't seen much of his type out here, but with the growth of the movement it was only a matter of time. Claudia struggled to keep her face unreadable, her disgust and anger rising. This changed things. This changed a good number of things. If the ASL was looking for Billy Rook, someone would have to warn him. Claudia may have hated the very ground Rook trod, but no one deserved what would become of him if he stood as one of the Accused. And even their stranger in black...did he know?

Claudia chewed her tongue and cut her eyes over at Tinka, who had just slammed a room key onto the bar. She'd fled West from this same kind of fanaticism. (Well, that...among other things, came the unbidden thought.) Different names. Different victims. But it was all the same. Copperhead had seemed a haven. They got all sorts here. But with Campbell's star rising and the likes of this henchman crawling about she feared for their future. She'd have to be careful, would need to hold her temper. No easy feat.

She propped her black boots back up with a sharp click of the heels on the worn tabletop, sweeping back her short petticoat to reveal ankle and a good bit of leg besides. She crossed her right leg over the left, just so there could be no missing the three tiny red droplets embroidered onto her silk stockings, just above the line of her boot.

She'd never been good at being careful, after all.
 
Once, when Tinka was very young, she saw a train jump it's tracks. It was a blind turn, and a tree had fallen from a previous storm. Men were already trying to move it, the old rotten thing strapped to two Wainright Steam Stallions. She could hear the gears grinding as the mechanical beasts heaved against their restraints. Their chest-grates were open, attendants feeding them coals as they burned, hot and alive. 


As wonderful as the Stallions were, the trains' gears could spin faster. And they did. The train took the corner hard, screaming along the tracks and into the tree. And the men. The world had tilted and rolled, settling sideways as, like dominoes, the train and its cars twisted down into the peat and mud. Somewhere nearby she could hear screaming. Maybe it was the wet, dying coals from a stallion. Maybe it was a person.


Right now, Tinka was staring down another train. This one was carrying a lot more money, and Claudia had just stomped right into his tracks. She took a deep breath and levelled a tired stare at her friend.


"Right. Well. With that all squared away, anything else I can do for you folks?" 
 
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Marcus's expression curdled a bit as he noticed the red drops on the barfly's stocking. Cream may have been a lovely color for his suit but it didn't do much for his complexion. He snatched the room key with a bit more force than was necessary and then stood looking as though he was deciding whether or not to say something.


His eyes darted to the TOM unit. Most of them were equipped to handle trouble in their establishments. This one didn't appear to have any sort of firearm, but there was little doubt that it could forcibly remove him from the premises if he didn't stay on his best behavior. Of course, he had a little something in his case that would quickly make the automaton a non-issue...


These... women are not why I am here, he reminded himself, I need to find Billy Rook before he gets out of the state. Someone else can close this whorehouse down later.


He gave Tinka a brusque nod and then favored Claudia with a look that wasn't quite a sneer. "You ladies have a good night. I do appreciate your hospitality."


The man began to slowly make his way towards the stairs and then paused at the foot with his hand on the banister. "Do let me know if either of you should happen to remember when last you saw Mr. Rook or heard about his whereabouts. There is quite a generous reward for his capture, after all."


He cast one more look over the interior of the saloon. "I dare say, your establishment could do with the money."


Now he was definitely smirking. The only sound in the bar was the heavy click of his boots on the stairs as he began to climb towards his room.
 
The look from Tinka was the only thing that kept Claudia in her seat. She was a dear friend, her only true friend West of the Mississippi unless you counted an obsolete mechanical cat held together with a hope, a prayer and Tinka's screwdriver. And Tinka had stood between her and the consequences of her temper more than once. She took a deep breath, resolved not to take his bait...


But she couldn't just let it go.


"Sleep well," she called to the man's back as he ascended the stairs. "Don't let the...ah...local bedbugs bite."


She strode over to the bar to meet Tinka's withering look.


"That trout-faced, dandy-ass, son-of-a-bitch thinks he can ride in here and look down his pasty nose at everyone and everything. Christ, I'd like to-"


And though there were any number of creative ways Claudia would have liked to exsanguinate their visitor--and none of them the ones that were likely crossing his mind at the moment--Tinka's silent stare brought her up short. Instead she dropped the letter onto the bar.


"What do you make of that?" she whispered.
 
Tinka gave a wry smile at her friends' outburst. She wasn't too concerned with the city boy's attitude. The saloons TOM was set up with some aftermarket parts to help with disgruntled clients, and woe to anyone who made her wake up the Big Boss of the place, Uncle Buck.


No, what bothered her was what the rich snitch was there for. He was out for blood, and with the kind of money he was flashing, he could pay off most anyone in town into talking. Or into staying quiet. She'd keep an eye on him, she decided, and let Claudia spread the word to anyone who needed to be told.


Speaking of her friend...


"Your life just gets more n more exciting by the minute, doesn't it?" Tinka flicked the letter back across the bar. "Fancy stuff for a distress call. Not even signed."


Tinka grinned and rounded the bar, taking up on a stool next to her friend. She watched pensively as TOM puttered out on the floor with a mop for the slowly drying bloodstain Mr. Black had left behind. The silence lingered for a while, until Tinka broke it with a sigh. 


"Well, whoever is it, they must not need help very fast. No address or...well, much of anything t'go off of. And it sure ain't from Billy," she snickered, "Though from the sound of it, he might be needin' some too, soon enough." She patted her friend on the shoulder, "But don't you go do anything...you-like. Not at least until after I've seen to your Edgar." She plopped off her stool, "Tomorrow- well, later this morning anyways, y'hear?" She jerked her head towards the back of the saloon.


While most of the wait-staff and other employees of the Rusty Gear had homes of their own, Tinka, what with the dubious honor of being the owners niece, lived more or less on-site in what was left of an old wooden row house behind the primary building. Half was missing, the wall shored up by a welded metal wall and clever brick work, but it was home enough for her. She even had her own mail box, an ornate T. W. welded carefully on the side.


"You know where to find me." She gave her friend a final mock-glare, "You stay smart tonight, and maybe I'll see you when the suns' up."
 
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He grit his teeth as needle bit into flesh again and he pulled taut the thread that knit together the last bit of open wound on his side. He tied it off and cut the strings with his knife before stowing the needle back in its small wooden tube. Another little glass vial came out of its holster, this one filled with a clear liquid, and he dribbled the contents liberally over his wounds. He grunted a bit at the stinging sensation as it bubbled and foamed, but it was over quickly enough. He wiped the foam away with the cleaner edge of the cloth he'd been given and collapsed back in the bed, the rag tumbling from his hand to the floor.


He'd done all he could; all that was left now was to rest and hope he'd avoided infection. The exhaustion he had fended off was coming back with a vengeance, and as darkness closed in the edges of his vision he wondered if he would even wake up again.


At this point, though, did it really matter?
 
Claudia gave her friend a good-natured eye roll and reached out to squeeze her hand.

"All right, all right. I'll try to be more like you and less like me...at least until the sun comes up."

She slid off her chair and stretched both arms overhead, feeling the tension of a long night's work coupled with the rigidity of danger in every muscle. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and headed out into the night. The heat of the day had long since faded away into a clear and cleansing chill. Claudia's breath came in slow puffs of cloud as she walked the deserted road home. She did well at the Rusty Gear, well enough to own her own two-room clapboard house, whitewashed with flower boxes under the windows. She'd never been good at keeping things alive, so like her clockwork feline companion the flowers adorning her front windows were made of sterner stuff. The blooms of brass and copper were Tinka's handiwork after seeing the sad state of the dead geraniums Claudia watered in vain once every couple of weeks.

Claudia breathed in the cold desert air and looked to the sky. The vastness embodied by millions of pinpricks of light had always reminded her of her hard-won freedom, and she thanked the universe on every walk home for the strength to live a life that was wholly her own. But the visitor with the fine suit and absurd mustache posed a palpable threat to that freedom. And as perilous as the situation felt for her, she knew there were others in far more danger than she. So though she'd promised TInka she wouldn't do anything rash until morning, Claudia rushed to her small desk and took out her calling cards. She almost never used them. A town like Copperhead didn't stand much on formalities, and certainly no one expected a dance hall girl to observe the minutiae of etiquette. But having a box of engraved cards at the ready was one of those old-life habits she couldn't break. She counted out half a dozen cards and quickly doodled a cluster of three droplets on the back of each one. Edgar clunked up beside her, his gears grinding. If he wouldn't make such a racket she could have him do the job, but having her clockwork cat found tomorrow morning gear-locked with a warning card in his mouth was not exactly going to help the situation. So out she went again, slipping cards under the doors of those who needed to take heed immediately.


By the time she reached her front door again, the sun was already peeking rosy and bright over the horizon. She'd have to worry about Billy Rook tomorrow--well, later today. Getting a message to him wouldn't be so simple. Claudia fell face first into her bed, not even bothering to unlace her corset. The last thing she heard before drifting off into exhausted oblivion was Edgar's merow-clunk as he leapt into bed beside her.
 
Uncle Buck was a fair man, and since Tinka closed, her next shift wasn't until lunch. Which was nice. It meant Tinka could sleep in, have a nice relaxing morning, and maybe shake off some of the previous nights' weirdness. Assuming she didn't have other plans. And she had so many other plans.


And so, Tinka was up with the sun, poking her small stove back to life to take the final bite of the nights' chill out of the air. Her house was oddly laid out, due to the missing half of the building, but Tinka made do just fine. With half the second floor missing, the remainder was more of a loft than a bedroom, but Tinka slept there anyways. The bottom floor was a mess of parts and cogs, save for a clear path from one end of the room to the other, and even then Tinka had to climb over a chunk of engine to get to the loft-ladder. Two bedsheets hung from the ceiling to curtain off her washtub (used for both clothes and herself), and a large workmans desk took up most of the far wall. The rest of the room was filled with shipping boxes, tipped on their sides and stacked haphazardly into bookshelves. Some held books, some held tools, and some held various things that clicked and whirred whenever Tinka set to messing with them. A large something stood tall and imposing by her stove, covered with a sheet, and several automaton parts held residence in chairs and flopped across the floor. One more or less complete-looking unit, clearly an older version of the TOM that worked the bar, sat posed like a french girl on an upturned box.


Claudia would be bringing Edgar in soon, and she had promised the Thompson boys she'd see to their wind up train set. That, at least, would be an easy fix. Tinka was certain it was just a jammed cog, but wouldn't know for sure until she popped it open. As warmth leeched into her home, she set to work. Her work clothes of choice were a pair of boys shorts (a bit short on her, but they fit everything else just fine) and a mens' farm shirt, tied at the waist. Both were smeared with grease and goo, and completely inappropriate for any female of any occupation to wear. Ever. But that was just fine by Tinka. She sat down hard at her worktable, an old thing frankensteined out of different mechanics tables. Her legs folded neatly underneath her and she hunched forward, her body falling into the familiar position with ease. With a sigh, she popped the side of the small train open, and set to it.
 
Marcus may not have managed early to bed, but he was naturally early to rise. He didn't much trouble himself with the question of whether that made him wise.


Before the sun was fully heaved over the horizon he was up, washed in cold water from the cracked basin in his room, and buttoning up a fresh starched shirt from his suitcase. He'd have to have his shirts laundered if he could find someone in this town he trusted not to ruin them. He glanced out the window overlooking the main drag of the town. The view didn't make him optimistic.


Before he closed his suitcase he cast a look over the three identical items which he believed were going to make his task in this benighted town quite a bit easier. Three brass plates with a very particular series of holes punched in them. More important than the holes was the glass tube of nitric acid at the bottom. They were White & Castle Master Keys, and when inserted into the punch card slot of an automaton the vial would break and the acid would dissolve two brass safeguard pins that normally kept the factory command routines locked off. The command on the punch card would then overwrite all other instructions for the automaton and make it completely loyal to owner of the Master Key.


It would also overwrite the very strict rules that kept automatons from intentionally killing people.


So for instance, the bar's TOM unit could be made to follow Marcus's instructions. Or perhaps, the two White and Castle Mechanical Deputies in storage at the Copperhead Sheriff's station... That should keep any rabble well in line, should things turn unpleasant in his search for Billy Rook. Marcus allowed himself a thin smile as he snapped his case closed. Master Keys were completely illegal for a civilian to have, of course, but such technicalities had a way of evaporating when Mr. Campbell wanted them to. Between the Master Keys and the wanted card in his bill fold, he should have everything he needed to turn Billy Rook out from wherever the rotten thief was hiding.


For a moment Marcus wondered what Mr. Campbell wanted with a lowly bandit like Rook but he quickly dismissed the question. Mr. Campbell's business was his concern, Marcus Bishop had not gotten where he was by prying into Mr. Campbell's affairs. He had gotten to where he was by doing what was asked of him with speed and efficiency. He certainly didn't expect a pack of Vampire loving whores to prove much impediment to his work. Perhaps once he turned up Billy Rook he could take come time to... educate the barfly about how gravely misplaced her sympathies were... Another thin smile passed over his face at the thought.


Working for Mr. Campbell certainly had its perks.


He grabbed his case and headed downstairs to see if the Sheriff had gotten Mr. Campbell's telegram.
 
Wan sunlight shouldered past the dusky green curtains that hung over the window to rudely slap the dark stranger in the face. His eyelids flickered open and he gazed blearily around the room for a moment before he bolted upright in the bed. He grabbed his side with a grimace and a pained grunt; too fast, he'd sat up too fast. Where the hell was he? How had he gotten there? He took a few breaths and tried to brush away the cobwebs that were hanging in his mind.


Right. The ghoul.


It was a damn powerful thing, and smart, far more intelligent than any other ghoul he'd ever come across. He still couldn't believe he had let it get the drop on him. Sloppy. He'd had no choice but to hop on his Higgs Gearsteed and run with his tail between his legs. Then he had stumbled upon this town, this bar... A woman. There had been a woman, a saloon girl, gin and emerald, and a dandy in a fancy suit, garlic and cream. There had been someone else, too- a waitress, beer and machine oil. He'd gotten a key from her, and he still owed her for the room.


He looked out the window. The sun was climbing and changing hue from fiery orange to burnished gold as its light washed down the main street of the town. Damn. He'd stay'd far longer than he had intended. He carefully picked himself up out of bed and smoothed the covers. He hadn't even bothered to sleep beneath them. Wincing, he took a moment to examine and probe at his injuries. They were still red and angry, but the cuts didn't seem septic, at least not yet.


The shirt and vest were going to need to be replaced. His bandoliers and holsters all seemed to be fine, though he appeared to have lost his case. Well, shit. He could always make more stakes, but the alchemical kit was going to be hard to replace, not to mention all of the reagents he'd collected.


He heard someone stirring elsewhere in the building. One of the girls? Or that man who had strolled in not long after he'd made his own messy entrance? Something about that fellow didn't sit right, and the stranger frowned. He cleaned the blood off his clothes the best that he could and strapped on his gear. Maybe it was a good thing he had slept in. Maybe there was a reason he was supposed to be in that bar today. His dark eye flicked to the window to take in the cloudless sky before he turned and left the room.


It seemed there was a storm coming.
 
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Claudia had long ago discovered the joys of heavy curtains for a girl who worked nights. Unfortunately even heavy curtains don't do much good when you forget to close them, so Claudia woke still drowsy, grumbling at the sun, with whale bones cutting into her side after only a couple hours of deep but unrestful sleep. Just as well, she thought grudgingly, it's likely to be a busy day. She stumbled bleary-eyed to the dormant stove in the corner, unlacing last night's corset as she went, toes curling away from the cold floorboards. She added a shovel of coal to the nearly-dead embers and blew on her hands as she waited for some warmth to return to the small room. Once the temperature had risen high enough to avoid hypothermia, Claudia splashed her face with orange blossom scented water from the bone-white basin on her dresser and pinned her curls into a respectable updo. From the heavy but slightly scuffed wardrobe she chose a dress with a skirt of wide navy and cream stripes and a matching navy bustle. The bodice buttoned up the front with real ivory buttons, each one carved with the image of a tiny oak tree. The neckline was modest, though the slim fit of the dress showed her figure to utmost advantage. Claudia always turned out during the day like a proper lady. Well, as far as she was concerned she was a proper lady. She just happened to be a lady who made her own way in the world and did a damn fine job of it besides. Taking a lace parasol in one hand and cradling Edgar in the other, she set off for TInka's.


There was never any point in knocking on Tinka's door. Between the clang of metal, the hiss of steam, the occasional expletive and the more-frequent-than-one-might-hope explosions, you could wait all day for her to hear. Besides, they maintained an open-door policy between them. Claudia picked her way carefully through the detritus of half-assembled machinery to where TInka sat absorbed in the inner workings of a toy train. She placed Edgar gently on the bench next to her friend, and he responded with a prrrr-squeee. She signed and patted his head. The newer SteamKat models were sleek and sophisticated, you almost couldn't tell they were clockwork. But Edgar had belonged to her sister, and she'd have Tinka patch him together until he just wouldn't patch any more.


"I sent warnings to the ones who need to know," Claudia said. She noticed TInka's side-eyed glance but continued without acknowledging it. "And I guess I'm going to have to ride out to Billy's. 'Course he won't be too happy to see me, considering I shot him last time."
 
Sheriff Milton seemed surprised to see Marcus so early in the morning. Marcus got the impression that if he were anyone else the Sheriff would have turned him away. Instead, the portly man with the graying hair stiffly ushered Marcus into his office and set about prodding the coals to life. Barely concealing a yawn, the sheriff offered Marcus a cup of coffee which Marcus, of course, declined. The sheriff retreated behind his desk with his own cup and did a poor job of hiding his anxiety.


Marcus let the silence stretch on until the sheriff began to fidget. Just as Sheriff Milton opened his mouth to speak, Marcus cut him off with a brusque question.


"I assume you received a telegram yesterday."


Milton gave a hurried nod, "Yes, yes, I- ah- I have it right here." He pulled the yellow card from his desk and proferred it with a half-apologetic wave. Marcus didn't bother to look at it.


"Is there going to be any problem with my work here in your town."


"No, not as such..." The sheriff sweated a bit, "I was hoping you could tell me-"


"You understand who I represent, don't you Sheriff?"


The Sheriff licked his lips and his eyes darted to the Anti-Sanguinist League pin on Marcus's lapel. Marcus smirked, of course he knew. "Y-yes... Of course, Mr. Bishop. I assure you that we are only happy to help Mr. Campbell with whatever he nee-"


"What Mr. Campbell needs," Marcus cut in once more, "is exactly what is spelled out in that telegram."


The sheriff swallowed and sweat began to prick his brow. Marcus narrowed his eyes as he continued, "The telegram says 'All possible aid.' Is there going to be a problem with you rendering me 'all possible aid,' Sheriff?"


Milton sat up straighter with a jolt at the question. "No, sir. No problem at all. We're for Mr. Campbell all the way in this town."


Marcus favored him with another deadpan stare. After a beat longer than neccesary he simply murmered, "I'm sure."


Milton mopped at his brow and seemed eager to change the subject, "What, specifically, can I do for you Mr. Bishop?"


"I'm looking for Billy Rook. I understand there is a warrant out for his arrest."


"Oh there is, and we've tried, sir. We know where he likes to hole up, but we never can catch him. The Marshall service even tried to find him with an autogyro but couldn't turn up his trail. I had three men and two of the automated deputies scope out his place for near a month and we never saw a hint of him. He's just too slippery."


Marcus gave a sympathetic nod, "Of course Sheriff, I understand your frustration. I'd appreciate if you could tell me where he goes to ground. I have a particular talent for finding people."


"Someone's got to be tipping him off, I have my suspicions of who, but we never can tell how."


"Perhaps that is something I can look into as well, once my other business is concluded, of course."


"Yes," Milton mopped his brow again, "of course..."


Sheriff Milton gave Marcus instructions for how to find the old mine camp where Billy Rook could supposedly be found and Marcus satisfied himself that he could find the way. He even graciously accepted Sheriff Milton's offer of a horse, but declined the offer of men to accompany him. The sheriff seemed relieved to think that he would be rid of Marcus easily when Marcus spoke up.


"One more thing, Sheriff."


"Yes, Mr. Bishop?"


"I'll need to see your deputy automatons."


"The deputies... but why-?"


"That's not going to be a problem, is it Sheriff?"


Sheriff Milton glanced again at Marcus's pin and swallowed hard. "No, Mr Bishop, no problem at all."
 
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"Aw, Claud, who wouldn't be just thrilled to see you?" Tinka smirked, sitting up and stretching out. Her spine gave a few alarming pops as she settled back into her seat, brushing aside the guts of the toy train, "Somebody shoved fairy floss into every dang crevice this thing has." She sighed in a long suffering sort of way and wiped her fingers on her shirt.


"At least somebody around here loves their mech, though. Isn't that right Edgar?" She cooed,  scooping the mechanical feline onto cleanest part of the work bench, "Did your mama treat you right since last time? I bet she did, she loves you so!" Deft fingers slid down, the pads of her index finger finding the small catch at the base of what would be a living cats' jawbone, right below the ear. Most people would power down anything before working on it like this; there were just too many things moving around in there, waiting to snag an inattentive finger. As was usual, Tinka was still not most people.


With a hiss, Edgar's face clicked open, the dome of his skull popping up around the ears as the jaw separated into two parts, each swinging to their respective sides as the bottom of the neck plate slid down. Tinka swiped at some oil on her nose absently before diving in.


"So, I guess this is the part where I offer you a ride, but, eh, I'm fresh out of horses." She glanced towards the stove, "Well, suitable ones, anyways. What poor soul are you going to swindle a ride off of this time?"
 
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