Chrysa staggered along the raised streets, mud heavy with excrement and rain forming a heavy quagmire beneath. From time to time her shoes would catch on a broken slat, sending her reeling. Once she fell, but most times she threw her arms against the wooden walls of the surrounding buildings to balance herself. The rain fell down between the eaves still also, the heavy layers of her clothes weighing her down further. She felt as if she were in a dream, the mist rising up and the putrid scent half-lost in the hazy quality of her vision. Her head throbbed, limbs shivering as she followed the music. Occasionally the sound of a fiddle joined the tinny sounds of a tack piano, clapping hands and stomping feet seeming cheery and out of place in her miserable wandering.
Stumbling again, she fell forward, hands rising to catch herself. One missed the wall and sliced against an uneven plaster corner, sending her reeling to the ground with a splash. Shivering, she picked herself up and dragged her soaked skirts so that she could huddle under the awning of one of the shops in the high street. A candle burned in the upstairs window, and she shrank further under the dark alcove to avoid detection. Loitering was bad for business. Well, that or she might be mistaken for one of Essie Pratt's girls from the cat house just outside of town. They often spent nights strolling around the shadows of the small mining town's several saloons.
Feeling a little braver as she caught her breath, Chrysa ventured toward the trough by where the general store's owner liked to display some of his produce when the weather was good. Not like now, in the rainy season when the wind whipped around corners and pierced even the thick coats most of the residents and cattle hands in for their entertainment wore. She scrubbed at her hands and face, doing her best to treat the stains in her clothes. Things had gone so wrong after they had arrived at Little Hatchett. She had never imagined when her father had accepted a position as a teacher what life in these towns might be like. They had not suspected the wilder way of life with which these savages were familiar. "Hard men in a hard land." Her father had quoted a touch flippantly, not knowing what he had signed himself for either.
So they had arrived, her father's medical expertise making him an attractive alternative to the town's dentist in a pinch in addition to his charge to prepare those students with the aptitude for university. It was quite a catch, and the sheriff was keen to see his ex-soldiering friend settled in the fresh air of the West.
Still frozen through, she found her way back to the steps of the general store and eased herself down into the doorway at the top step, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the cold. It was little use. She was hot and cold by turns, somehow sweating despite being a block of ice. The lights from across the street still swam blearily with the music that drew her towards the warmth. She had sworn, though, that she would never go into such places. Dens of iniquity, as her mother called them, were not a place one went for help. Still, resting her heavy head against the railing of the steps Chrysa found herself wondering if she would make it to morning. Her fingers fell to a red stain at her side that had not come quite clean and she winced as her fingers shook. Surely they would send her to her grandmother. There was nothing left here. Her vision clouded even further with tears as her eyes rolled back and she collapsed with a soft cry.
***
He almost missed the sound, mind buzzing pleasantly with drink and music. Unlike the other hands who had come in from the cattle holdings between Little Hatchett and Garner he had a mind to remain sober. Nearly. Dropping a few coins into the jar and clapping the pianist on the shoulder, he grinned as the man nodded appreciatively. The cold air was bracing, and he laughed at one of the dog-faced hands who looped his arm around one of Essie's girls with a whoop and a wave. Dipping a splinter of wood into the lantern at the door, he lit a cigarette from his kit and took a long drag. As the smoke swirled out on the air, he saw something shift in the shadows across the street.
Glancing around, he found himself alone and quickly shook out the flame from the splinter, flicking it into the trough as he slid his fingers around the gun holstered at his hip and crept nearer. In the faint glow that reached through the rain, he found a woman sprawled across the general store stairs. He looked around, but saw no one else nearby. Rolling her over, he bent near to sniff for alcohol on her breath. Nothing. He dipped his fingers to her throat for a pulse and found one. Grabbing her wrist, he tried to right her, but she slumped down again. Too out of it to walk. Sighing, he bent and threw her over his shoulder. She yelped and groaned, fingers weakly digging into the back of his shoulder as he ran back across the street and into the saloon shouting for the dentist.
The man was too far in his cup to be much help, blinking in confusion as the man tried to give over his charge. With a tap on his shoulder, the bartender's wife took pity on him and led him to a little alcove beyond the kitchen where they sometimes kept part-time help in busy times. He deposited her there and rung his hat awkwardly as the woman began buzzing around her new charge. She sent him to fetch hot water and a dress. The first was easy, the second required the help of the woman's daughter, who seemed tickled as he carried the garment back down to her mother.
"Will she be alright?" He asked the barkeeper's wife, who looked at him pityingly again before shooing him back through the kitchens and waving at her husband to give him a drink. He'd best leave it to her now, she told him. The dentist could have a look the next day when he'd sobered.
